I Am Spartacus! Page 14

  Frank was going to produce and direct it. He had never directed a film before, so this was a personally important project to him.

  But his decision to pick a fight with groups like the American Legion and the Legion of Decency, as well as with powerful columnists like Hedda Hopper and Walter Winchell, was a very dangerous one.

  I had quietly left a pass for Dalton at the Universal studio gate. Otto Preminger simply confirmed Trumbo’s screen credit during a print interview. Sinatra was confronting the blacklist head-on, guns blazing.

  With Spartacus in the final stages of postproduction, Frank’s public fight would likely generate criticism of our film too. We would be in theaters first, several months before Exodus, and well before Private Slovik even started shooting.

  The news broke about Sinatra hiring Maltz on Sunday, March 20, 1960, six months before the release of Spartacus. Anne and I were staying at our house in Palm Springs. Frank was our neighbor down there, but he was in Florida performing at what he called one of his “saloon gigs.”

  Trumbo thought the whole Sinatra/Maltz thing was a terrible idea. He called me to say so. “Kirk, Sinatra is your friend. You have to tell him not to do this. The politics are extremely risky—and not just for Spartacus or Exodus.”

  “Dalton, the first thing you need to understand about Frank is that you can’t tell him anything. He does whatever he wants.”

  Trumbo ignored me as if I hadn’t spoken and continued, “You have to explain to Sinatra that not only is this bad for breaking the blacklist, it’s bad for the country. He’s very identified with Kennedy. Nixon will use this against him. Forget about movies—the whole election could be hanging in the balance.”

  By now, I was used to taking Dalton’s emotional exhortations with a boulder of salt, but he was making a valid point. Frank was linked closely with JFK—he’d even recorded a special Kennedy-themed version of “High Hopes” as the official campaign song.

  Frank didn’t care. In fact, he doubled down. He took out a full-page ad in Daily Variety:

  I spoke to many screenwriters, but it was not until I talked to Albert Maltz that I found a writer who saw the screenplay in exactly the terms I wanted . . . I would also like to comment on the attacks from certain quarters on Senator John Kennedy by connecting him with my decision on employing a screenwriter. This type of partisan politics is hitting below the belt. I make movies. I do not ask the advice of Senator Kennedy on whom I should hire. Senator Kennedy does not ask me how he should vote in the Senate.

  I called him on the phone. “Francis, you know I love you,” I began. “But please, go slowly. Think very carefully about what you’re doing here.”

  “Kirkela, I’ve thought about all of it. Very carefully! I hate these goddamned right-wing bastards. I’ve hated the American Legion since I was a kid—biggest bunch of hypocrites in the country. They act like they own the flag and the rest of us are not good enough to shine their shoes.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but they’re organized and they can cause a lot of trouble. They’ve got seventeen thousand chapters and they’ve already got Universal spooked about all of them protesting Spartacus.”

  “Fuck ’em!” Frank shouted. “When I’m through with them, they’ll know they’ve run into the goddamnedest buzz saw they ever saw.”

  “So what does Kennedy say?”

  Frank paused. “I haven’t heard from Jack, but the Old Man called me. The Wisconsin primary is next week and it looks like they’ve got Humphrey beat there. But they’re worried about West Virginia next month.”

  Over the next few weeks, the anti-Sinatra drumbeat, particularly from the Hearst papers, grew louder and louder. The New York Daily Mirror blasted Frank: “What kind of thinking motivates Frank Sinatra in hiring an unrepentant enemy of this country who has never done anything to remove himself from the Communist camp?”

  The New York Journal American editorialized: “Dump Maltz and get yourself a true American writer.”

  Sinatra dug in his heels and fought back. When General Motors, which was sponsoring three of his television specials, threatened to pull out, he told his people, “There will be other specials.”

  But the die was finally cast on Tuesday, April 5. John Kennedy did win the Wisconsin primary, but by a smaller margin than anticipated. The “Old Man”—JFK’s father, Ambassador Joseph P. Kennedy—had seen enough. He called Sinatra and said, simply, it’s either “Maltz or us.”

  Frank took out another ad in Variety. It read:

  In view of the reaction of my family, my friends and the American public, I have instructed my attorneys to make a settlement with Albert Maltz. I had thought that the major consideration was whether or not the script would be in the best interests of the United States. My conversations with Maltz indicated that he has an affirmative, pro-American approach to the story. But the American public has indicated it feels the morality of hiring Maltz is the more crucial matter, and I will accept this majority opinion.

  I went over to Frank’s house in Palm Springs the day after that ad ran. I’d never seen him more dejected.

  “Kirkela, they went after my kids. They called my kids ‘Commie lovers.’ My kids, Kirk. I can handle myself, but when they go after your kids . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “I’m sorry, Frank.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  Suddenly, his body language changed completely. His cobalt eyes, flashing like lasers, locked on me.

  “You listen to me. They’re going to try to do this to you too. Count on it. You can’t let them win. Somebody has got to kick ’em in the balls until they stay down.”

  I just stared at him. I knew he was right. They were going to go after both me and Spartacus. They already had Sinatra’s scalp. Why would they stop now?

  As soon as he finished speaking, Frank’s posture changed again. He seemed to shrink back, right in front of me. I felt bad for the guy.

  “It wasn’t me, Kirkela. I couldn’t fight ’em.” He put his arm around my shoulder and led me to the bar. “Maybe you can do it, Spartacus.”

  In May, I left for Mexico to shoot The Last Sunset with Rock Hudson. Dalton had finished the script. It wasn’t his best work. I was right; Exodus had more of his attention.

  While I was out of the country, opposition to Spartacus was mounting.

  “Will Communists regain their former foothold in the American motion picture industry?” thundered the American Legion magazine.

  In June, only weeks before John Kennedy officially became the Democratic nominee for president, the organization sent this warning to its seventeen thousand posts around the country, encouraging patriotic war veterans to protest Spartacus because of Trumbo’s involvement:

  Dalton Trumbo has been and still is unacceptable for employment in the Motion Picture Industry under the terms of the Waldorf Declaration. Kirk Douglas has openly employed Dalton Trumbo as a Script Writer in connection with the forthcoming film “Spartacus.”

  Universal was getting extremely nervous. Their final investment in Spartacus now exceeded $12 million, and all of it was on the line. Dalton summed it up bluntly: “If the film fails, neither I nor any other blacklisted writer will ever work again.”

  Bryna’s contract with Universal had allowed us to make the picture, but after the first press screening—scheduled for July 26—the studio had the “final cut” before distributing it. This meant the executives could, if they chose, eviscerate the picture.

  In one of the most painful episodes of my entire career as an actor or producer—before or since—I watched helplessly as Universal decided to remove much of the film’s potentially controversial content. Without my approval, Universal made forty-two cuts to the film. As Eddie Muhl later admitted, they were “for content, not for length.”

  Gone was the “snails and oysters” scene.

  Gone was “suggestive” language like “sweet, sweet belly” and “It’s a waste of money training eunuchs.” But they did let me say “I never had a woman”—Spa
rtacus wasn’t a eunuch.

  Gone was Charles Laughton’s actual suicide scene—only the suggestion of it now remained in the film.

  Gone was Bill Raisch’s severed arm. This was especially galling given that I had taken such care to protect him from injury when we shot it.

  And when their butchers were through cutting, we were down to just two “damns” and a single “damnation.”

  But it wasn’t just sex, violence, and language they were after. Even more cowardly and reprehensible was what they were really doing in that editing room.

  Having capitulated publicly on the use of Dalton Trumbo’s name (the Writers Guild even gave them formal approval, making it that much harder for them to renege), Universal was now even more concerned about the political message of the film.

  The bulk of the cuts they ordered were designed to reduce Spartacus’ historical significance. Their tortured rationale was that if this rebel slave even appeared to have a chance at overthrowing the Roman Empire, anti-Communist critics would say that this was all part of Trumbo’s hidden message designed to foment revolution in America. I’m not kidding.

  “Large Spartacus,” the warrior who fought for the fundamental principle that every man should be free to determine his own destiny—the same principle, by the way, on which America was founded—was reduced to, at best, “Medium Spartacus.”

  Although he was still depicted as more than just a runaway slave concerned only with his own safety, any hint that he might have been leading a successful revolution was removed from the film. His many victories over the Roman legions were cut out. Much of the extra footage we’d shot in Spain to depict those early victories was eliminated.

  Even the simple device of showing those battles on a map, using a narrator to describe Spartacus’ military successes, was deemed unacceptable by the studio.

  Only the climactic battle, where Spartacus is defeated by Crassus, was allowed to remain in the picture.

  This was Eddie Muhl’s plan all along. Let Bryna make the film and let him use his executive power to make it “safe” for Universal to release.

  Which they finally did on October 6, 1960, at the DeMille Theatre in New York City. I was more nervous then than at any other time in my life, except during the births of my sons. The crowd was enormous and enthusiastic. So were the first reviews:

  “ALL HAIL SPARTACUS! IT IS IN THE SAME

  GIANT CLASS AS ‘BEN-HUR’ . . . AND SUPERIOR

  IN WIT, CHARACTERIZATIONS AND ROMANCE!”

  —NEW YORK POST

  “SPARKS SEEM TO FLY FROM THE

  SCREEN! THE STORY IS THRILLING,

  FILLED WITH ACTION!”

  —DAILY NEWS (NEW YORK)

  “TREMENDOUS IS THE ONLY WORD

  FOR IT! EYE-POPPING . . . RARE

  DRAMATIC INTIMACY!”

  —DAILY MIRROR (NEW YORK)

  Two weeks later we held the Hollywood premiere at the Pantages Theater. Anne took charge, organizing the entire evening as a benefit for the Women’s Guild of Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. Not only did she get the studios (who were used to free tickets) to pay for their $100 seats, she got them to kick in an extra contribution directly to the charity.

  ANNE: “Hi, Lew, how are you?”

  WASSERMAN: “Get to the point. What do you need?”

  ANNE: “I need you to take ten tickets to the premiere and MCA to make a separate contribution to Cedars of Lebanon Hospital.”

  WASSERMAN: “Done. Good-bye.”

  In one night, she raised more than $100,000 for the hospital’s free bed program. She was Spartacus.

  When the film ended, the tuxedoed men and bejeweled women were escorted from their seats by usherettes in slave costumes (the irony, sad to say, was lost on most of the guests) to an after party at the Beverly Hilton Hotel.

  Bob Hope, not exactly a political radical, was the master of ceremonies. He had a lot of fun skewering me: “This is the best picture Kirk Douglas has made since he grew his other ear . . . I thought Kirk was much braver in this one than in The Vikings—eight million dollars braver!”

  Throughout the night, there were no more than ten pickets, including one man named “Uncle Sam” who was in striped red, white, and blue trousers. In other words, the American Legion had bullied and blustered, but ultimately they were just bluffing.

  “Honey,” I said, after we took one last spin around the dance floor at 2:30 a.m., “let’s go home. I’m tired. And the next time I tell you that I want to make a big costume epic, will you please just shoot me?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Kirk, if you ever make another one of these, I will leave you.”

  “If you leave me,” I said, kissing her lightly on the lips, “I’m going with you.”

  The blacklist is broken.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “For years, your family and mine have been members of the Equestrian Order and the Patrician Party. Servants and rulers of Rome. Why have you left us for Gracchus and the mob?”

  —Laurence Olivier as Marcus Crassus

  DURING THE FIRST WEEK OF February 1961, Paul B. “Red” Fay was living alone. Newly appointed as the undersecretary of the navy, Fay was staying at the Army-Navy Club while waiting for his family to join him in Washington, D.C.

  The phone rang on Wednesday morning, February 1. The receptionist buzzed him. Nervously, she said, “Mr. Fay, I have the president for you.”

  “Grand Old Lovable,” boomed the Boston-accented voice, using the nickname he’d given Fay when they served together on a PT boat during World War II. “How would you like to see Spartacus on Friday night with the president of the United States?”

  “Mr. President,” said Fay, “I’m with you all the way.”

  “All right,” said Kennedy. “It’s playing at the Warner Theatre. Get a couple of good seats for Friday night, but don’t let anyone know who they are for. If there is a crowd out there to greet us, I’m going to have your top secret clearance removed. Be over here at seven p.m. for a quick dinner.”

  “Here” was the White House.

  The black Lincoln limousine pulled up in front of D.C.’s historic Warner Theatre shortly after 8:00 p.m. on a stormy Friday night. In giant letters, the theater’s marquee read:

  SPARTACUS!

  Starring Kirk Douglas, Laurence Olivier, Jean Simmons, Charles Laughton, Peter Ustinov, John Gavin,

  and Tony Curtis

  Although the trip was only four short blocks from the White House, the persistent snow combined with sleet made for treacherous driving on the icy streets.

  There were still a few American Legion protesters shivering outside the theater on that cold Friday night, but the blizzard-like conditions made it impossible for them to see inside the car. When it came to a stop, four Secret Service men jumped out onto the snow-covered sidewalk, one of them holding the door open for its two remaining passengers.

  First out of the car was Red Fay. Although his body was buried under layers of warm clothing, Fay’s face stung painfully as he was struck by a blast of the frigid night air.

  Following immediately behind him, and shoving Fay quickly toward the warm lobby of the waiting theater, was John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

  Exactly two weeks earlier, in weather just as cold, he had taken the oath of office as the thirty-fifth president of the United States, vowing “to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

  The president grimaced briefly when he saw the theater manager and his assistant standing on the street waiting for them. But it wasn’t Fay’s fault. The Secret Service must have contacted the theater on its own.

  As the manager escorted them through the empty lobby, the president said, “We don’t want to disturb the audience. Can’t we just go right down to our seats without any commotion?”

  “That’s all right, Mr. President. We’ve stopped the film for you. It’s only been on for a few minutes. We’ll start it again when you and Mr. Fay are seated.”

  JFK winced again, but m
anaged to say, “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.” This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted.

  The doors opened and the four Secret Service men filed in ahead of Kennedy and Fay, blocking the audience from seeing their faces by the light from the lobby. The theater itself was still completely dark, yet the sound of rhythmic clapping began as soon as the president started walking down the aisle.

  “Amazing,” whispered Red Fay. “They’re even applauding for you in the dark.”

  “That’s not for me, Grand Old Lovable,” replied the president. “They want the film turned back on. C’mon, let’s sit down.”

  The manager directed them to their two seats in the center of the theater, eight rows from the back. The rest of the aisle was completely empty, as were all the rows behind them. The Secret Service had seen to that.

  The clapping was growing louder. There was hooting and whistling and a few catcalls. “We want our money back,” one man shouted.

  “You’re right, Redhead, that is for me,” the president said with a grin as they sat down.

  The four agents settled in directly behind them, and as if by some hidden cue, the film immediately started running again—but it had been rewound back to the beginning. There were groans and some additional catcalls from the audience, but the theater quickly grew quiet as Alex North’s magnificent score once more filled the room.

  During the opening titles, the president spotted someone familiar sitting directly in front of him—Orville Freeman, the secretary of agriculture, along with his wife. Tapping him lightly on the shoulder, he leaned forward and asked, “Haven’t the leaders of the New Frontier got anything better to do with their time than spend it going to the movies?”

  Freeman, a former governor of Minnesota who had experience answering tough questions, responded without hesitation, “I wanted to be immediately available on a moment’s notice if the president wanted me.” Kennedy laughed, and then they all turned their attention to the screen.