I Am Spartacus! Read online

  “Kirk, boychick, it doesn’t have to be a big part. A couple of scenes will be enough to get rid of one of my commitments to Universal.”

  I knew Tony hated working at Universal. Spartacus would put him one step closer to getting out of his contract.

  “I started at Universal when I was nothing and they still treat me like nothing.” Tony’s voice was filled with anger.

  I understood. The same thing happened to me when I started in the business with producer Hal Wallis. When I refused to sign a seven-picture contract extension with him, he threatened to drop me. I said, “Fuck you. Then drop me!” I pulled the thorn out of my own side.

  “Tony, I can’t think of any part that would be right for you.”

  There was a small, but crucial, role: that of another slave who tries to kill Spartacus, in order to spare him from being crucified by the Romans. But that role was intended for an older, stronger man; someone more equal in size and stature, who would make a more convincing opponent in hand-to-hand combat. That wasn’t Tony Curtis.

  “Let me think about it and I’ll get back to you.” I hung up the phone. Tony seemed so down—I wanted to do something for him. I dialed Eddie at home.

  “How’s the writing coming?” It was now a running gag between us. Every time Eddie Lewis told someone he was writing Spartacus, it embarrassed him. He wasn’t an actor but he had to do a lot of acting.

  We both knew it was necessary; the blacklist was still a real threat. The revelation of Dalton Trumbo’s involvement with Spartacus could shut down the entire picture. So Eddie continued to play the producer-turned-writer, a charade he hated.

  “Tony Curtis just called me. He wants to be in the picture.”

  “Jesus, maybe he could play Varinia!” Tony had just done drag with Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe in the new Billy Wilder movie, Some Like It Hot.

  “What do you think, Kirk? The accent would work perfectly. She’d be a slave girl from the Bronx.” Eddie was still laughing.

  “Hey, I’m serious. He wants in. It doesn’t need to be a big part, just a couple of scenes. What can we find for him?”

  Eddie was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, the laughter was gone from his voice. “I think it’s a lousy idea, Kirk. But he’s your friend. I’ll call Dalton and get him working on something for Tony.”

  “Thanks.” Eddie was right. I was letting Tony play on our friendship. But it was my decision and I’d made it.

  “Okay, Kirk, I’ll see you tomorrow at the office. Oh wait, there’s one more thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Dalton keeps asking me about Nixon. What should I tell him?”

  A few months earlier, I was surprised to get an invitation to a private event in Washington, D.C., with Vice President Richard Nixon. He was running for president to succeed Eisenhower, so I assumed he was trying to find some support in Hollywood. Maybe he thought my friendship with John Wayne would make me sympathetic to him. I wasn’t really interested in politics, but I accepted the invitation anyway.

  When Dalton Trumbo heard about it, he was tremendously excited. With the election just two years away, he thought Nixon would be looking for ways to moderate his image as a virulent anti-Communist. (Years later, after he became president, Nixon flew to Beijing and met with Mao Tse-tung. People said, “Only Nixon could go to China.”)

  Dalton figured Nixon might be receptive to a pitch from me about ending the blacklist. Signing it “Sam,” Dalton wrote an eloquent letter, giving me ammunition for our possible meeting. It read, in part:

  Eleven years later, I doubt that there are five members of the Communist party in all of Hollywood. Most blacklistees have been out of the party for years. Some of them have become conservatives, some have become democrats, and some have maintained a generally socialist point of view. But to the last man they cannot in conscience admit the right of any legislative committee to judge their loyalty. Beyond this, they view a forced confession of former guilt or stupidity as no different in principle from the public confessions that have characterized Russian justice, or the brainwashing that is charged to the Chinese. For this reason, and this reason only, scores of them have kept silent and suffered the consequences. I do think there are very, very strong arguments against the blacklist . . . and I have taken the liberty of setting down a few notes, in a style which I hope is cool enough and detached enough that they might be left in the possession of Mr. N[ixon] without compromising the person [Kirk] who turned them over to him.

  The event was subsequently postponed, but Dalton kept bringing Nixon up with me. He had watched then-Congressman Nixon sit silently during the House Un-American Activities Committee, while J. Parnell Thomas was banging his gavel and issuing contempt citations. Dalton believed that Nixon was never really comfortable with the witch hunts.

  I was skeptical. Nixon would have the credibility to say it was time to end the blacklist, but would he have the guts?

  Ending the call, I said to Eddie, “Let ‘Sam’ know that I’m still working on getting in to see Nixon.”

  I did make a trip to the East Coast before the end of the year, but it wasn’t to see Nixon. It was a trip I didn’t want to make. Ever.

  The week before Thanksgiving, my mother called me. This was strange. My birthday wasn’t until next month. She wanted to know when I was coming to see her next. That was even less like her. She never pressed me to come visit. Then it hit me.

  When my plane landed in Albany, New York, a limousine was waiting to take me to the assisted-care home where my mother was living. It was her idea to move there. Initially, I’d been against it.

  Later, I realized that it was difficult living with my sister Fritzi and her two kids. Whenever Fritzi went out, Ma ended up taking care of the kids. It had become too much for her.

  I arrived at the home. A female supervisor was waiting for me.

  “I’m so glad you came, Mr. Douglas. We’re moving your mother to the hospital tomorrow.”

  She escorted me to Ma’s room. I looked at the door; her name, “Bryna,” was printed on it.

  She opened it a crack and peered in. “She’s asleep. Don’t stay long.” I went in, closing the door behind me.

  I pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. Her arm hung loosely over the bed. I took her hand, held it gently, and listened to my mother’s labored breathing. I looked around the room. There was the big television set I had given her. It made Ma very popular in the house. Everyone wanted to visit her and watch their TV shows. My eyes drifted to the dresser and I couldn’t help but smile; there was a half-empty bottle of scotch. Ma never drank in her whole life, but a year ago, the doctor recommended she take a shot of whiskey every day to stimulate her heart. Ma got to like that remedy, and I’m sure she’d sneak a second shot in.

  On the table, I saw two very familiar objects—two candlesticks that my mother had brought from Russia. They must be more than a hundred years old, made of pewter that was shined endlessly. Of course, tomorrow, Friday, was the Sabbath. My mother was ready to light the candles and say the prayer. I was awakened from these reveries by the weak voice of my mother.

  “Issur?”

  “Hello, Ma, it’s me.”

  “My big-shot son.”

  “Oh, Ma, you always say that. But I like it.”

  “Az men ruft on dayn nomen, es tsitert di gantse erd.”

  “Ma, the whole world does not tremble when they say my name.”

  Whenever my mother got emotional, she always spoke Yiddish.

  “They know your name too. Remember when we drove the limousine to Times Square?” When The Vikings opened, I took her to see the huge BRYNA PRESENTS sign covering the block.

  “Yes, I remember. I remember,” she said. The memory brought a small light to her tired eyes. She started coughing. There was a glass of water on the bedside table. I held it to her lips. She took a sip.

  “Ma, I started a new picture.”

  “What picture?”

  “Spartacus. A man c
alled Spartacus.”

  “Sparti-kus. A good man?”

  “Oh yes, Ma. Very good.”

  “Action?”

  “Lots of action.”

  “Do you get hurt?”

  “No, Ma, I don’t get hurt. But at the end I do get crucified.”

  “Huh?” She looked confused.

  I smiled, reassuringly. Taking her hand, I said, “It all ends happily.”

  Would she ever be able to see it? I was fighting back tears. I saw the kind face of the young girl who came from Belarus, married a cruel husband, and had seven children. Her last wish was to not be buried next to Pa. How she must have suffered.

  Suddenly, her hand became limp. Her eyes closed. Had she stopped breathing?

  I was terrified. “Ma! Ma!”

  Her eyes opened, and she looked up at my terrified face. She took her hand from mine and extended her index finger. Where was she pointing? I turned around. I couldn’t believe it. She was pointing at the whiskey bottle.

  I looked down at my mother. Now she was smiling.

  Director Anthony Mann rehearses the cast.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “If we punished every commander who made a fool of himself . . . we wouldn’t have anyone left above the rank of centurion.”

  —Laurence Olivier as Marcus Crassus

  THE ALARM CLOCK WENT OFF at 6:00 a.m. Damn. I slammed it hard and thought of grabbing another hour of sleep. No way. There was too much to do. I looked over at Anne, burrowed under the covers. Now that we had two small children, sleep was precious to her. Fortunately, she slept through most of my now-daily predawn departures for the set.

  It was Thursday, January 15, 1959. Since coming back from my mother’s funeral, I’d hurled myself headlong into preproduction on Spartacus. In less than two weeks, shooting would start in Death Valley, California.

  Larry Olivier was due on the lot that day for his costume fitting as the regal General Crassus. I was being fitted for my various Spartacus outfits—the slave rags and the rebel leader’s battle garb. We were scheduled to have lunch together after our camera tests.

  This would also be Tony Mann’s first meeting with Olivier. I knew he was nervous about directing the legendary Sir Laurence. Who wouldn’t be? Ten years earlier Olivier won the Oscar for Hamlet, having directed himself in the part. Tony knew that Olivier originally wanted to direct this picture too. That certainly wouldn’t help his confidence level in dealing with Larry, not to mention Laughton and Ustinov, who were themselves accomplished actor-directors.

  I drove over the Cahuenga Pass to the Universal lot. The sun was just coming up over the vast San Fernando Valley hillside where the studio’s many soundstages were scattered like giant aluminum and cement bunkers.

  True to his word, Lew Wasserman had just purchased all that acreage for the impressive sum of $11.25 million. Milton Rackmil made the announcement, welcoming his new “partners” at MCA, but assuring the world that the studio itself would still be run by him. Lew stood off to the side of the press conference, saying nothing. He knew that Rackmil’s days were already numbered, even if Milton did not.

  Our small army of camera operators, electricians, set decorators, makeup artists, prop men, wardrobe women, grips, gaffers, and gofers was swarming over the lot that Lew bought. They already numbered well over a hundred people and that figure was growing steadily. And we hadn’t shot a single frame of film.

  When I got to my dressing room, I was drawn instantly into the vortex of frenzied activity that engulfed Spartacus. As both executive producer and star, the buck (and with this film, there would be a lot of them—the budget was now up to $5 million and still climbing) stopped with me.

  Even in my makeup chair, a constant stream of people threw questions at me.

  Alexander Golitzen, the art director, brought over a genuine Roman medallion he’d received from Naples and also showed me the replica that studio artists had made from it. Did it look accurate?

  A messenger arrived with the latest version of the script, along with a note from “Sam Jackson.” When could he expect to hear from me with my comments?

  The phone on the left side of my chair rang. Ed Muhl, Universal’s production chief, was on the line with his daily call about the rapidly escalating budget.

  While I was talking to Muhl, the other phone rang. It was Technicolor, the company we were using for its new Technirama color process. It still had some bugs in it and the head of the company was on the line to apologize.

  “Hang on, Ed,” I said to Muhl. I grabbed the other phone. “Listen, we’ve announced that we’re shooting Spartacus in Technirama. You don’t want to make a liar out of me, do you?” I gave the phone back to the production assistant, and Muhl was still waiting patiently on the line.

  “Jesus, Ed,” I continued, right where I’d left off. “We’ve been through all this. The Vikings came in over budget too, and UA got it all back in spades. They’re making money hand over fist on that picture. You’ve got to trust me on this. All right. Yes. Thanks, I will. Good-bye.”

  While this chaos was happening all around me, bronze makeup was being applied to my face, arms, and bare torso for the camera test that Kirk Douglas, actor, was scheduled to have at 10:00 a.m.

  It was a typical day at the office.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee from the large thermos that was always by my chair as Eddie Lewis came into the dressing room. He clicked his heels and gave me a Nazi salute. “Heil Spartacus.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I heard you were talking to Sabina in German.”

  “Not anymore. She’s got to work harder on her English. But I like her.”

  As I sipped my coffee, Eddie filled up a mug of his own. “I didn’t know you speak German.”

  “Yeah, French too, and a little Italian. What did you think I was doing when I made those pictures in Europe?”

  He grinned. “I won’t answer that.”

  “Don’t you speak any languages?”

  “Yeah, Yiddish.” Eddie chuckled and sipped his coffee.

  “Sit down, Eddie. I want to tell you something.” Eddie looked at me curiously for a moment, but he complied. He grabbed a chair and pulled it over toward mine. I said to the young production assistant, “Can you give us a minute?” The boy left.

  I turned back to Eddie. “Listen, I know how much of a schmuck you feel playing the fake writer.”

  “I hate it.” He was emphatic.

  “But I want you to know how much I appreciate it, and it won’t be for much longer.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.” I stood up. “Let’s go to the set.”

  I strode toward the set for my camera test. Eddie walked along with me. “Sabina’s doing a photo shoot today for Life magazine,” he said.

  Our selection of this unknown German girl to star in a major American motion picture had already made Sabina Bethman a huge celebrity back in her own country. Now the Hollywood press corps was discovering her too.

  “That will be great publicity for the picture,” I said, as Eddie raced to keep up with me. “Are we good with the rest of the cast?”

  “We’ve got John Gavin for Caesar. He’s a good-looking kid; I think you’ll like him. And we nailed down Nina Foch, John Ireland, Joanna Barnes, John Hoyt, Herbert Lom, and your old buddy John Dall for those other open parts.”

  “What about Woody?” Woody Strode was a decathlon star at UCLA and one of the first players to break the color barrier in the NFL. Now an actor, he was my top choice to play Draba, the Ethiopian slave who is paired with Spartacus in a fight to the death.

  “I think we’ve got him too,” gasped Eddie, out of breath from our on-the-run casting meeting. We’d arrived at the set.

  I just woke up from a nap and reread these last few pages. Setting them down on paper was tiring. Writing about myself almost fifty-three years ago is a strange experience. I’m learning a lot about the man I was back then; I’m not sure I like him very much. Burt
Lancaster once introduced me at a dinner by saying, “Kirk would be the first person to tell you he’s a difficult man to work with. I would be the second.” I laughed. The truth didn’t hurt.

  I haven’t been that guy in many years, the man Dalton Trumbo described as “running so fast in such tight circles that he collided with his own spoor.”

  At ninety-five, I don’t have a need to prove anything to myself anymore. Time is so precious. It’s the only thing you can’t get back. Instead of rushing so fast through life, I move at a far more measured pace. Age and circumstance—a stroke, a helicopter crash, knee surgery, and a pacemaker—have all slowed me down. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t race around like I did when I was making Spartacus.

  I won’t lie and tell you that I like getting older. I don’t. What I do like is what my age allows me to see. My stroke taught me a lot. I discovered the magic of silence. It talked to me. When I was first recovering, I sat in my room and listened with my eyes shut. When I opened them, I always saw Anne standing there—beautiful.

  Now I take time every day to walk in my garden, admiring the roses—God’s creation. When I was younger, busier, I never really saw the subtle color of roses. How could I have missed that for so many years?

  After lunch with Olivier, I finally made a painful phone call that I’d been avoiding—I had to tell Gene Tierney she wouldn’t be playing Varinia. This was a particularly difficult call to make.

  It was very hard to tell her she didn’t get the part. And it wasn’t easy for her to hear—maybe because she was afraid this meant her career might really be over.

  Eddie Lewis walked in as I was saying good-bye to Gene. He knew by the expression on my face that it hadn’t been an easy call.

  “How’d she take it?”

  I just shook my head slowly.

  Eddie roused me from my melancholy by swiftly changing the subject.

  “Hey, did you know that Tony Mann took Ustinov over to Dalton’s house to meet him?”

  “Yeah, I heard that from Larry at lunch today. He was a little peeved that Peter was let in on the secret of ‘Sam Jackson’ before he was.”