"It's not about the movies"
"some
like it hot" (1959), directed by billy wilder
The headlines screamed off the morning edition of “Variety.” Curtis quip sidelineS steamy scene. Sultry star storms off stage.
I knew exactly what this referred to, the trouble-laden, producer’s nightmare, “Some Like it Hot,” that had begun shooting last August and was now pushing up against the planned March release date.
Norma Jean was at it again. Between forgetting her lines and forgetting how to get to the sound stage, the production was now woefully behind schedule. Poor Billy Wilder was pulling out whatever remaining hairs he still had.
I knew I had to step in.
I jumped into my new Edsel (What a car! It’s destined to be a classic!) and headed down to the UA lot.
After a quick palm-greasing, Earl, the guard, waved me through the front gate and I found my way to Billy’s set. It was a ghost town. I scanned the whole sound stage and finally spotted one of the grips in the middle of a smoke.
“What’s going on here, Junior?” I asked.
“Who wants ta’ know, lady?”
“Jessica Atwater wants to know, smart guy.”
“Listen, lady, I don’t know nuthin’. The last thing I seen was that blonde dame, what’s ‘er name?...”
“Marilyn Monroe?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. She and this guy were layin' out on that couch over there just goin’ to town makin' the mouth music, you know what I mean? And all of a sudden, she hauls off and lands a haymaker right on the beezer. He jumps up, grabs his schnozz and runs off to find the croaker, screaming, ‘My nose! Not my nose!’”
I slipped the kid with the Raymond Chandler vocabulary a five spot and headed out in search of Billy Wilder.
I found him sitting in the back of the paddy wagon on the set of the Mickey Rooney clunker, “The Last Mile.” His head was buried in his hands.
“Things going sour on ya’, Pixie?” I said.
He looked up, “Jess, you old word jockey. Nobody’s called me that in years! What are you doing here?”
“I saw the Variety headline and I figured there was a pretty good story behind it.”
“Forget it,” he said, “Your readers would never believe it.”
“I’m listening.”
He buried his face in his hands, “Forty seven takes, Jess! It took her forty seven takes to get out the line, “It’s me, Sugar,” with all the words in the correct order. And if that wasn’t bad enough it took fifty nine takes for her to say, “Where’s the whisky?” Fifty nine takes! I actually had to paste the line out of site of the camera and just have her read it. I swear, Jess, sometimes it seems like I’ll be working on this film until the turn of the century.”
“You’re not the first director to say that, you know.”
“I know. I know. Josh Logan warned me. After hearing about his experience on “Bus Stop,” I vowed never to fall into that trap. It wasn’t my idea to use Monroe. My first choice was Mitzi Gaynor.”
“Mitzi who?”
“Nevermind. I’d better get back to the set and see if I can salvage the day. It all depends on whether or not the prima donna will even leave her dressing room to grace us with her presence.”
“Wait, Billy,” I say, grabbing his arm. At least tell me what the big blowup was between her and Curtis.”
“Oh, that,” he smiles wickedly, “during their makeout scene on the yacht, Tony broke character and made the remark that kissing Monroe was like kissing Hitler. I’ll tell ya’, it was worth the brouhaha that followed just to see the look on her face. Hitler! Jeeze!”
“Thanks for the scoop, Billy.”
“You know, Jess,” he said shaking his head, “I feel like we are in mid-flight and there is a nut on the plane. By the way, don’t print that.”
With that he shambled off in the direction of the troubled sound stage. I made a note to feature his “nut on the plane” remark in my next column.
As I was walking to my car, I ran across my old friend Joe E. Brown. He looked like he was in a bit of a funk, wandering around talking to himself.
“Hey, Joe,” I called out, “Wadda' ya know, wadda' ya say?”
“Oh, hi, Jess. I’m in a real tizzy. I have the last line in Billy’s film...if it ever gets finished, that is,” he moaned.
“That’s great, Joe! That means that people are going to walk out of the theater with your words in their heads. What a coup!”
“That’s just it. There is no written line. Wilder wants me to ad lib it! Can you believe that? It will probably be most important line in my career and it’s up to me to come up with it off the cuff.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine, Joe,” I said, already wishing that I just ducked him before he saw me.
“How, Jess? How am I going to do ‘just fine’? I don’t have a spontaneous bone in my body. I’ve never even had an original thought in my life. I can’t ad lib!”
Rapidly, growing tired of his whining, I turned to my car, tossing my last words back over my shoulder, “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Joe. Nobody’s perfect.”