He arrived in Hollywood with a hole in the knee of his only pair of pants, and a large-sized chip on his shoulder. Though there were stories of such generosity as tipping a New York shoeshine boy with a five-dollar bill “because I felt sorry for him,” he appeared to resent spending money, even a dime. If he could get an agent or reporter to buy him a dinner, a drink, or even a cup of coffee, he was in a good mood for hours. He refused to load himself down with a house, swimming pool, convertible, fancy wardrobe, or any such items which the “cultural boneyard” usually regards as the accompaniments to a soaring career.
Producers, if they can, cultivate extravagance on the part of the stars. They see to it that their puppets stagger under piles of possessions and towering stacks of bills. Studios will lend money so it seems easy to buy the house with the swimming pool at $200,000. The debt becomes a sword to dangle over the star’s head if he shows signs of resentment about making a particular picture. Arguments about “artistic integrity” are as effective as paper darts against a studio that holds the mortgage.
To his credit, in more ways than one, Marlon was in no danger on that score. “Just because the big shots were nice to me,” he told a reporter, “I saw no reason to overlook what they did to others and to ignore the fact that they morally behave with the hostility of ants at picnics.”
He is turning the picnic tables with a vengeance on the “ants.” Their one-sided admiration of Brando (they used to call him “the best actor in the world” on weekdays and a “genius” on Sundays) got chipped when Twentieth Century-Fox cast him in a stinker called The Egyptian. He objected, but they imagined they had soothed him and went ahead building sets, making costumes, signing other players. When the first day of shooting arrived, Brando did not. Instead, his New York psychoanalyst sent a telegram: BRANDO VERY SICK.
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Breaking a contract is a refined art, which skillful performers conduct with the finesse of brain surgeons. A classic case is provided by Jerry Lewis after he broke with Dean Martin when they were under contract to make three more pictures for Hal Wallis.
Wallis had the legal right to have them complete the contract, no matter what carnage would have resulted. Martin and Lewis’ agents, the Music Corporation of America, talked to him but they got nowhere. Attorneys tried to argue with him, but Wallis is, among other things, a stubborn man. It took a press agent to recall the time-tested formula.
“You call Mr. Wallis,” the agent told Jerry, “and invite him to lunch at the Hillcrest Country Club. Sit him down and say: ‘Have you ever had a picture that began, Scene one, take eighty-five?’ Tell him that you’re ready to devote six months of your life to his next Martin and Lewis picture; that you understand his problem, so you’ve reserved a suite at Mount Sinai Hospital for him as your guest. Because you know he’s going to get a coronary from the aggravation that’s coming to him.”
The press agent continued: “Also tell Wallis: ‘You know my own medical history. I only pray to God we don’t get in the middle of this thing before I have to take to my bed again.’”
Jerry took Hal Wallis to lunch at Hillcrest and said his piece. Wallis heard him out, then conceded: “I get your point. I’ll start with you alone in a new picture next month.” No further movie with Dean Martin was discussed.