I went back to my office and wrote a story describing every heart-warming detail of James Dean’s behavior. “They’ve brought out from New York another dirty-shirttail actor. If this is the kind of talent they’re importing, they can send it right back so far as I’m concerned.”
When an invitation came to see the preview of East of Eden, nobody could have dragged me there. But I heard next day from Clifton Webb, whose judgment I respect: “Last night I saw one of the most extraordinary performances of my life. Get the studio to run that movie over for you. You’ll be crazy about this boy Jimmy Dean.”
“I’ve seen him,” I said coldly.
“Forget it—I read your piece. Just watch him in this picture.”
Warners’ cagey answer to my call was to pretend East of Eden had been dismantled and was already in the cutting room for further editing. I telephoned Elia Kazan: “I’m sorry I missed the preview. I hear Jimmy Dean is electrifying as Cal Trask—”
“When would you like to see it?” Kazan said instantly.
“Today.”
“Name the time, and I’ll have it run for you.”
In the projection room I sat spellbound. I couldn’t remember ever having seen a young man with such power, so many facets of expression, so much sheer invention as this actor. I telephoned Jack Warner. “I’d like to talk with your Mr. Dean. He may not want to do an interview with me. If he doesn’t, I shan’t hold it against him. But I’d love to have him come over to my house.”
Within minutes his reaction was passed back to me: “He’ll be delighted.” A day or so later he rang my doorbell, spic and span in black pants and black leather jacket, though his hair was tousled and he wore a pair of heavy boots that a deep-sea diver wouldn’t have sneezed at. He carried a silver St. Genesius medal that Liz Taylor had given him, holding it while we talked.