New Writing

In 1959, I was working with a stunt crew while they were filming "The Unforgiven."  John Huston, a brilliant director, consummate drinker, and sometime brawler, took a swing at me.  I'd said something that must have sounded a bit out of line, though I don't remember what it was.  Whether he was kidding around or serious, I'll never know.  But, I caught his fist with my hand within inches of my face and he was definitely surprised.  Shocked. 

After a minute, he said, "You work for me?"

"Yessir, Mister Huston."

"That's a damned good trick.  Where'd you pick it up?"

"Just now, sir.  Right here."

He laughed.  It was a profound laughter, up from the depth of his gut.

He said, "What's your name, young man?"

"Jesse.  Jesse Thomas."

"Well, Jesse, we're going to use that trick on film." 

Of course, people say things like that all the time in the business and you never count on anything that isn't in writing.  Even then, and especially in Hollywood, only a lawyer with the mind of a pit bull and the heart of a lion can help you out when someone inconveniently changes their mind.  Besides, John Huston had been drinking that night and only God could tell you whether he was blind or merely cheerful.  He hid his afflictions well.  I never counted it as a promise, figured he'd forgotten the next morning that Jesse Thomas even existed.  Sure enough, it never came up on that film.

About a year later, he saw me again while they were filming "The Misfits" in Nevada.  Again, I was working the stunt crew.  Huston passed me by in the early morning, noticed me standing around with some wranglers, and stopped.

"Young man, you look familiar.  What's your name?"

"Jesse, sir."

He took a swing at my face with his left.  Before I could grab his fist, he pulled back and as neat as any man ever countered, swung at by belt buckle with his right.  He didn't connect, but stood back and laughed.  Almost bent completely over in a fit of laughing, then coughing, he was so happy with himself.  Man had a great laugh.

"You thought I forgot, didn't you?"

Deadpan, I said, "Forgot what, Mister Huston?"

He didn't expect that, laughed again.

"Son, you'll go far.  We're gonna use you and that little trick of yours, Jesse."

He never did, though. 

There was a scene in a bar, where Marilyn Monroe's character in the movie won a bet with a paddleball.  She starts hitting the ball sideways, swinging her hips in the effort.  One of the cowboys in the crowd starts patting her behind in rhythm to her swing and there is very nearly a fight. 

Well, there was supposed to have been a fight, with everybody getting into it.  We even rehearsed the scene.  Eli Wallach was supposed to take a swing at my chin.  I grab his hand, then turn around and wallop him.  Somebody, one of the actors didn't like it, thought it was too cliché, so it never went to film.  The whole fight scene was dropped.

The Misfits was just about the best picture I ever worked.  Odd thing, though.  I was on the payroll all the way up to the wrap, but you won't see any part of me in the film, not even as a stand in.  I wound up working with some wranglers out in scenes out in the desert, where they catch the mustangs.  Otherwise, I stood around the set like it was a government job.  Which was okay with me.  The heat was miserable, the hours long, and there were more takes than anyone thought was necessary.  When I say anyone, I mean the people I spoke to, which were grips, electricians, stunt guys, and others.  Takes an entire army of invisibles to make a film, a movie, and most of them you'll never see.  They can make or break a film, but they don't have creative input.  They do, however, have opinions.

There was a lot of gossip that circulated around the making of The Misfits, especially about Marilyn Monroe, and in its day, the film garnered very little acclaim.  All the principals had something to say about it, but as for my opinion ...

Forget that Marilyn was a goddamn goddess with a major d&a problem.  Forget about the delays and the bullshit about Strasberg and Arthur Miller.  Forget about her damn nervous breakdown in the middle of production.  She was the backbone of that film. 

The scene that I remember most is where Marilyn runs away into the desert, turns back around, screams at Clark Gable, Montgomery Clift, and old Eli Wallach, screams like a banshee, calling them dead men.  She reaches down with her hands right past her heart and into her soul.  She pulls out this scream of words, the kind of scream you'd take for a Gypsy curse calling from smoke at the burning stake.

Made my hair stand on end.

I remember thinking, "Shit, Academy Award."

What do I know ...

Yeah, I guess I fell in love with Marilyn, just like everybody, everybody.  She was the essence of something, vulnerability, maybe, and some indefinable or unutterable other thing.  You felt responsible.  Hell, she was your little sister, your dream, your sainted whore, your mother and your ultimate desire.  You wanted to just gather her up in your arms and rescue her, take her away from all that crap.  You were the only one who knew her, the only one who could ever save her.  No one else could possibly understand her like you did.

But, what then?  If you had her, what the hell were you going to do with her?  And wasn't that the point?  And wasn't that what killed her?

In 1958 the Pope declared Saint Claire the patron saint of television.  Don't ask me why.  Khruschev came to power that year, and Nabakov's book "Lolita" was published in the US.  It's also the year Billy "Miami" Coulter committed professional suicide.  I was there when it happened and I tell this because it marked something of a change in my life as well.

These are the things I remember.

On Saturday, I met Billy in the Village for lunch at a place called "The Purple Cukes."  By day, it was a restaurant, served the best lasagna in the civilized world.  At night, it was a place that served more drinks than food, where people like Billy convened for social reasons, hence the name, which was a kind of in-joke for gay men, most of whom were thoroughly stashed in the closet back then, for fear of losing their day jobs. 

Billy, who everyone called Miami back then, was sitting in a booth with a man he introduced to me as "Ramon, a Spaniard."

"Ramon, meet Jesse.  Jesse?  Ramon."

He leaned against Ramon and whispered loud enough for me to hear, "Oh, Ramon, Jesse's not at all like me, but is, for all practical purposes, straight as straight can be here ... in America, that is, a reg'lar Jack Armstrong, all-American boy."

Billy sighed, blinked twice and said to me, "Isn't Ramon beautiful?  But like you, he too prefers boobs on all his sexual partners."

"Billy, for Chrissakes."  I said.  I was from Iowa.  I'm still from Iowa.

"Don't worry, Jesse, I'll be good.  Besides, this is business.  Did you read the play?"

"Yes, I did.  It's ..."

"Brilliant." Billy said, "I should know.  I wrote it.  Will you take the part of Manny?"

"In a heartbeat.  Anybody would die for a role like that.  When do we start?"

"Easy, boy, easy.  We'll meet with the money man today.  Art runs on money, you know.  We're all whores of one kind or another."

I looked around.  The Purple Cukes was hardly a proper place to wine and dine a producer.

"Here?"

"No.  After lunch, we go to my place.  Ramon, here, has consented to play Gonzales."

"So, who plays ..."

"Lucille?"

I nodded.

Billy smiled and said, "I wrote that part for Gwen Thomas.  Do you know her?"

"But, Billy, Gwen would never ..."

"She won't work with you, I know that.  Just kidding.  I've heard the story, you naughty, naughty boy.  Don't worry, I found a woman who's perfect for the part of Lucille, name of Angela Pierce.  She literally is Lucille.  You don't know her.  She's a singer, but she's a natural, has the most perfect accent for Lucille, what I call ‘high Loosianne' and sooo airy, breathy is the word, I believe, like Marilyn Monroe with a taste for Proust and a fever ..."

Ramon had said not a word, but when he did, his English came off with a curious British inflection, "Jesse, yes, I recognize you now, you're the fellow who does the pushups in that Bromstein play ... off-Broadway.  Brilliant vehicle, that.  The play is not that good, I hear, but you got wonderful reviews.  What a fantastic idea.  Who would have thought of pushups as a way for an actor to ..."

I cut him off.  "Show closes tomorrow."

"Oh."  He picked up his coffee cup, sipped twice, and put it back.  "Sorry to hear that."

We went to Billy's place after lunch, a massive apartment in the West 50's, beautifully furnished in what was called ‘modern,' the height of fashion, blonde and Swedish.  I believed he owned the building, though, in retrospect, perhaps not.  I doubt that Billy would have relied so much on someone else to produce his plays if he was as wealthy as everyone thought.  Nonetheless, Billy came from money.  His father owned land in Florida adjacent to the strip in Miami, the city where Billy was born and raised, hence the nickname.

The money man we met was Benjamin Stone, who had not yet moved to Hollywood, but produced some of the better plays and musicals on Broadway.  There was a vacuum out west in those days, due to long standing vacancies created by McCarthy inspired blacklists.  It eventually sucked quite a few big names out there from New York, but people were still shy of taking the risk.  Stone took a few people with him when he made the move.  Everybody knew he would and tried to remain in his favor.

After the introductions, Stone waved a hand as if to assume command.

He lifted the script he'd brought and flipped through the pages with his thumb as he spoke.  "Billy ... loved the play.  We're all really excited about it.  You've got a real hit here.  Pure drama.  Hits you like a two by four and then cuts your heart out for good measure." 

Billy smiled.  "So when do we start?  I think we should try to ..."

Stone waved his hand again.  "Hold on, Billy, two things we wanna change first.  Nothing big, but they are deal breakers.  We gotta have ‘em before we can commit."

I was wondering who Stone referred to when he said "we."  Like I said, I was from Iowa.  Billy turned his head to the side as though surprised by conditions. 

He said, "Two things?"

"First, the setting.  Instead of Deep South, I think maybe you should do a rewrite, set it in the Mid-West, Kansas maybe."

Billy looked shocked.  "What?"

Stone waved his hand again.  "Shouldn't be that difficult, really.  And your by-line, Miami Coulter.  I think you should use your given name, not your nickname, and use Billy, not William.  This play's a hit and when we ..."

Billy interrupted.  "What's wrong with Miami?  I've been called Miami for as long as I ..."

Stone waved his hand.  "Perceptions, Billy.  The reasons should be obvious, I mean, your play's set in the Deep South, your nickname's on the script, Miami? ... Come on ... Put it all together, it sounds like you're trying to emulate Tennessee Williams to a point where any fool can connect the dots ... that diminishes the play ... plus, add in the fact that, like him, you're ..."

"Queer?"

Stone shook his head, waved his hand.  "Well, that's not the word I would ..."

"As a three goddamn dollar bill.  Yes, darling, I am.  So what?  I'm a queer.  You're a Jew.  Everybody's something."

Stone went silent.  The meeting went south.

Billy leaned forward in his chair.  "Tennessee Williams is a god.  Why wouldn't I want to emulate Tennessee Williams?  But I'm not ... and anyone with half a mind and minimal education could tell the difference.  And what's any of that got to do with this play?  My play?  This whole story breathes the Deep South.  You want Kansas?  They don't grow cotton in Kansas, do they? And even if they did, I don't know shit about Kansas.  What's more ..."

Billy paused.  He was truly angry and the words began to resemble his mood, ugly.  "What's more, Mister Stone, it's Saturday.  Shouldn't you be in shul, Mister Stone?  Or is it Stein?" 

Stone's eyes narrowed.  Without waving his hand, Stone quietly said, "What are you trying to say, Mister Coulter?"

Billy stood and with the most pronounced southern accent I ever heard him intone, said, "I'm not tryin' ... Stein ... I'm sayin', an' what I'm saying is that I think you want too much ... and for what?  The money?  I can find money, sir, and I don't need to go to the goddamned Jews to get it.  Perceptions, my ass!  In fact, kiss my ass!"

I could not believe he said that.  Billy wasn't like that.  I don't know where it came from.  It all happened so quickly that I was literally shocked by how fast it went bad.  I'd never heard Billy talk like that before, ever.  I tried to intervene, but it had gone too far.  It was over.

Stone left without saying another word.

Billy told us it was okay, that he'd find the money, but he never got his play produced.  That's when everyone deduced that Billy didn't have the money they thought he had, when he didn't back his own play.  It was kind of like blood in the water is to the fishes when people see your true vulnerability.  Nobody would touch his play after Stone got to talking about Billy around town.  In fact, from what I heard, people started dropping Billy from every sort of inclusion.  He more or less disappeared. 

Ramon got a job as a waiter in a restaurant in Spanish Harlem and met Fidel Castro when the Cuban, replete with beard, cigar, fatigues, and combat boots came to New York to speak at the UN. 

I ended up driving a cab for a few months and, curiously, wound up taking Ben Stone to the airport when he made his first trip out to Hollywood.

Billy tried to get into pictures writing screenplays, but was shut out as surely as if he'd been blacklisted.  Ramon wound up moving to Havana where he became some kind of cultural minister for the Revolution, got married to an actress down there, and they had eight children, all girls, pretty little Communists, one of whom is now Stateside, a young woman named Esmeralda, if you can believe that, getting star roles in Indie films.

Me? 

Well, when I picked him up in the cab in front of Sardi's, Stone recognized me from the play I'd done off-Broadway.  He said, "I know you.  You're the pushup guy." 

He also remembered me as one of the two actors present when Billy Coulter went off on him.  When he mentioned that and said something nasty about Billy, I agreed with him.  I even bad-mouthed Billy myself, called him "a limp-wristed Nazi."  I told Stone that it was hard to get parts in New York just then, that I was thinking of taking a trip out to Hollywood.  He wrote a number down on a card, gave it to me, and said to use his name as a reference.  Three weeks later, I was on a movie set in California and I've been working steady ever since.  Well, not ever since.  I've more or less retired, but steady work made that possible.

In 1997, Billy Coulter died of AIDS in a very bad hotel in Fresno, what they used to call an SRO, single-room-occupancy, the kind of place where retired priests and alcoholics go to die.  He might have been broke for all I know, Billy.  I saw the place.  It was really bad.  I went to his funeral and it was the Who's Who of Village ex-pats, Broadway has-beens, and Hollywood hangers-on in Southern California.  There's quite a few.  Big club.  Might surprise you.  A lot of those people knew Billy, liked him, called him a friend, said it was a shame that a gifted man like that never lived up to the promise he demonstrated back in New York.  I doubt, though, that if any one of those people ever had the chance to do so, they would have given him a break.  The man was brilliant, for certain, but that's no guarantee of a payday, is it?  Everybody wants a payday. 

They call it art, but in the end?  It's all about the payday.

Life is hard.

In 1958, Billy was a good friend to me, willing to give me a lead role in his magnus opus, a play that both of us knew could have been, would have been a big hit.  Do I feel bad about what I said about him to Ben Stone that day in the cab?  Of course.  Would I take it back?  What I said?  If I had it all to do over again?  Sure. 

Sure, I would.

Yeah, right ...

I hitched a ride to New York City in 1957 so I could get real acting classes at a real acting school.  It was hardly the premier school and the founder was no Strasberg, but it was in the Village, which made it good enough for the likes of us, kids really, still bright around the edges of the iris and healthy as winter wheat in late December in Ohio.  Or, autumn corn over in Iowa, where I was raised on a farm and grew up in a rage for something I could never define, a lust for things my father would deny to his grave. 

‘Acting studio,' they called it.  Acting.  The word describes so many variations of the oldest themes in the human race, like a shaman in a wolf-skin, dancing wolf-like, scaring little kids.  An actor is just that.  Our incantations are our lines.  We can become something else, someone else, live somewhere else for a season in our minds.  Actors.  We truly matter for a season, in our minds if nowhere else.

Had you seen Gwendolyn in 1957, you'd say nothing.  What could you say?  It was the tail end of an age of reticence, and if you couldn't say anything nice about the way someone looked, you simply didn't say anything. 

In 1959, however, following the opening production of a play called "Somatic Fever," you knew Gwendolyn had changed both her name and her looks.  Thereafter known as Gwen Thomas and/or "Gwen the Divine," she had emerged from her cocoon, brilliant, beautiful, ‘bodaciously' so as Ernie Gould would say.  And he did.  Gwen became his personal project, receptor of his most complimentory Ernie-isms.  Oh, and everyone listened to Ernie, either through his column in the Times, or in person, when he deigned to mingle and pontificate from his oracle's booth at Sardi's.  If he tilted his head, rooms went silent, even the lustrous denizens of Broadway's elite would listen, especially them. 

When Gwen turned her head and held his hand, well, the rumor was that she saved the man's life, resurrected him from a certain and gruesome descent into chemical dependency.  Not that Ernie would ever admit it.  No, his version of the story was, "I came.  I saw.  I made her."  That's another story, though, the butterfly story of Gwen Thomas, one in which I was not cast.  I just watched, like everyone else.

In 1957, long before Ernie ever gushed over Gwen, I knew Gwendolyn Neuhauser.  We were close for a time.  I'd like to say that I recognized the spark in her, the candle hidden beneath a bushel basket, burning with the white heat of genius.  That would be a lie.  I saw another thing entirely, a muted quality that any functioning man would feel, maybe something in the way a woman sits, the way she smells, the way the corners of her mouth punctuate every gesture.  Oh yes, some of that, all of it, but also the way she reacted to me.

Maybe that was her genius, ultimately, that even while the butterfly slept, before she emerged in all her glory, you felt drawn to that cocoon, the crust that held the fire in stasis.  Or is that too much like verbal surfing?  Sometimes, I get carried away.  I'm an actor for Chrissakes, and not such a good one, or was.

Truth is, without the makeup, she looked plain.

Vanilla.

But even vanilla tastes sweet.  Not that I knew how Gwendolyn tasted.  I wished, I wanted, but never even ...  Oh, I had my chance, but lost the momentum.  Otherwise ... 

Yeah, otherwise. 

"I cudda be a contenduh!"  Story of my life.

I can tell you when it happened, the very moment, the off-putting moment when I lost Gwendolyn.  We were in class at the studio, doing a scene from "Summer and Smoke" where I played John to her Alma.  I hurt her.  Grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm.  It was one of those fits you get when you're really into a character, despite the fact that it was a class, improvisational, and done on a blank stage in jeans and sneakers. 

It frightened her.  I frightened her.

I had one big part off-Broadway after we graduated, a scene in a forgettable play where I'm this guy who wears muscle shirts and always does calisthenics when he talks.  Did two hundred push-ups onstage in that scene, followed by fifty sit-ups, and still delivered my lines without ever missing a beat.  It was rough.  Thankfully, the play only ran three weeks, but I was noticed, got a nod, went to work as a stunt guy in LA because of it.  I was there for a while doing stunts, then got some real parts, even did scenes in all those Frankie and Annette beach blanket bombs.  Maybe you saw me.  I kept busy.  Westerns, television, b-lists.  People liked the way I worked and never tripped up, never stood out, the perfect human backdrop, portable, malleable.

Gwendolyn stayed in New York.  She did Broadway to every accolade imaginable for two decades after I left, but eventually tried and couldn't make the transition to films.  Finally, she married Gould, moved to Connecticut.  Ernie died a long time ago, but left her some serious money.  She moved down to Florida, bought a house in Boca and another in Key West.  I saw her last week in Key West.  Knew she was there, so I looked, asked around.  When I saw her, she was alone, walking three yippy little chow dogs on the sidewalk, one on a leash, two in a stroller she pushed slowly, like a walker.  She called all the dogs by name as she walked, talked to all three of them as though they were little people. 

She looks old, now, really old.  Not that I don't, but not like that.

I might have known Gwendolyn Neuhauser intimately, but I was just a nobody to Gwen Thomas and knew better than try and stop her, say "Hi." 

Not that I would.