Living With Miss G (27 page)

The men recognized her, and when she chose to Miss G could spread
charm like warm cream. They left smiling after two cognacs.
Peron had all the characteristics of Mussolini. From his balcony he liked
rehearsing speeches he would never make anywhere else. We interrupted him
with crowd noises. Two girls shouting can produce a very anti-dictator sound.
I guess you could say we didn’t get on and were most objectionable. I
guess the Dictator was pleased when Miss G decided to move to London several
years later.

The Night of the Iguana
was without any doubt the happiest film that Miss
G and I ever worked on, and arguably her best-ever movie role. I remember
John Huston, with his usual air of baby innocence, said “It’s an interesting
experience. I have plunked these people down together and they have to live
their parts for twenty four hours a day. It’s not like getting up in the morning
and driving to MGM studios.” What John did not say was the difference
between them was like the difference between catching a bus and landing on the
moon.

John Huston had discovered Puerto Vallarta back in the early fifties, long
before anybody else in the movie business did. In those days only one unpaved
road connected it from the sea back into the hinterland—a road that was
impassable in the rainy season. At that time Puerto Vallarta was a fishing village
with a population of under two thousand with the usual collection of not-overcared for shacks and houses, clustered around a church, and scattered along a
beautiful sandy shoreline.

By the time Miss G and I arrived at Puerto Vallarta the predatory package
tour trade had found it but hardly exploited it at all, and it was certainly not the
boom resort it is today.

In his long career John Huston had often abandoned the static Hollywood
studios, believing that, for all the brilliant designers and prop men and
technicians, a dimension of reality was always an immense gain. John believed
in finding a good story and shooting it against its own authentic background, no
matter how far away that location might be or what dangers or discomforts it
might entail. For one of his most memorable films he roped in Katharine
Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart and transported them to the swamps of Africa
for
The African Queen
. For
The Roots of Heaven
, he inveigled Juliette Greco
into a similar African environment and left poor Juliette suffering from recurring
bouts of malaria for years afterwards.

With movies John reckoned you took your chances and hopefully survived.
At times I thought he was as nutty as a fruit cake, but he did have one overriding
and excellent idea. He thought that he, in particular, and everyone attached to
the production should actually enjoy making a movie. Other Hollywood moguls,
producers, directors and distributors went gray or bald, had nervous break
downs or heart attacks, and lay awake nights working out costs, percentages,
and box office returns. John, like Arthur Hitchcock, simply said it was only a
movie.

Even so, John Huston’s sense of humor bordered on the macabre. Two or
three days before shooting was scheduled to start, we were all asked to attend a
small ceremony out at the filming location in Mismaloya, where John would
make a brief announcement.

Present on this occasion were Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor, Deborah
Kerr, Sue Lyon, Miss G and Ray Stark. They sat in chairs around a large
conference table. They should have known from the grins on the faces of various
technicians nearby that John was up to his tricks.

John arrived, carrying six neat little wooden boxes. Silently and gravely he
handed one to each of his stars, plus Ray Stark, the movie’s producer. With
giggles of anticipation the ladies opened their gifts while Richard and Ray were
more wary.

In each box, snug in its velvet lining, lay a small gold-plated derringer
revolver. Set beside it in separate slots were five gold-plated bullets. The
singular difference between these and other bullets was not only that they were
gold-plated, but each of them was inscribed with a single name–the name of a
co-star, Liz Taylor, or Ray Stark (no recipient had a bullet with his or her own
name). The implications were obvious. If you fell out with any of your fellow
artists, you could load up with the bullet bearing his or her name and carry out a
ritual execution. John Huston smiled down at everyone, then, without saying a
word, turned and left.

There was nothing fake about the revolvers or bullets, except that the
powder was removed. A short puzzled silence occurred, and Miss G broke the
strained atmosphere with a terse comment, “Why wasn’t there a bullet with John
Huston’s name on it, too? We could have all opened fire on him at the same
time.”

The gimmick achieved lasting world publicity. Ray Stark, even with his
own name inscribed as one of the possible targets, wandered around cooing with
pleasure. Ray, medium-sized with blonde hair and blue eyes and a serene
attitude that cloaked a shrewd determination, could not believe their luck. Ten
million dollars’ worth of free publicity even before we have shot a frame of
film! Ten million! No doubt John had thought about that too.

The joke did not occupy our attention for long. The physical difficulties of
getting to and from our Mismaloya location were far more pressing. It was too
far removed from what civilization Puerto Vallarta could offer, so I don’t think
that John H. ever had any great hopes of getting his major stars to settle down
there, idyllic as it was. He had rented various houses in Puerto Vallarta for that
purpose. Elizabeth took over a huge red brick, three or four story house a block
from the beach with the name of Casa Kimberley. Gossip among the cameramen
suggested it was a site well-suited to Richard because that was the name of a
local gin. We always considered Richard Burton our expert in matters of booze.
Richard announced that his British version of the boilermaker—two large shots
of tequila, one shot of triple-sec, and one shot of fresh lime juice, stirred and
poured over finely crushed ice—was a well known remedy for many ailments in
those sometimes chilly islands and a life-reviving potion.

Miss G had flown in her Spanish helper and maid, so our household
consisted of Juanita, Miss G and me. Deborah and her husband Peter Viertel
were near neighbors. Deborah admitted that for the whole of the two months of
our stay she dreaded the journeys to Mismayola, except, as she put it in her
civilized English manner, “Coming back by sea after a long day’s work did
provide you a pleasant breath of fresh air.”

Miss G, who very often water-skied the whole way and then dove in and
swam ashore, adored the whole episode.
“Right, everyone,” cried the assistant director that first morning, waving
his sheaf of notes in the air. “Each day you’ll all be picked up from your houses
by jeep transport and taken to the beach of Los Muertos below Puerto Vallarta.
That means ‘beach of the dead,’ but don’t worry, boats will be allocated to take
you to Mismaloya, and no one will drown.”
“We hope” was my thought about that remark because it seemed that death
by drowning was a far greater hazard than a gold-plated bullet in the back.
Mismaloya lay ten miles west of Puerto Vallarta past a high mountainous
coastline indented with pretty beaches. Land transport along that coast had not
improved one bit since John Huston’s first arrival in the early fifties, and only
donkey trails connected Puerto Vallarta to Mismaloya. Although the pleasing
sight of those nimble-footed little creatures with their big furry ears and dewy
eyes picking their way over rocks and through mud, heavily laden with sacks of
supplies, has remained with me to this day, so have the memories of those daily
journeys by sea.
There was no harbor at Puerto Vallarta or at Mismaloya, only sandy
beaches. Everything had to be transported by boat. Previously Ray Stark and his
hard-working crews had done a fantastic job ferrying tons of movie equipment
and all the necessities of film life to Mismaloya.
During his early research for
The Night of the Iguana
, John H. had
contacted a young Mexican architect enthused by the real estate potential of this
beautiful coastline. He was endowed with the foresight that within a few years
Puerto Vallarta would emerge as one of Mexico’s most popular resorts and that
the influx of tourists would turn the sand of Mexico’s beaches into pure gold.
The architect agreed to build John’s entire film complex, including the
main set at Mismayola—the Hotel Costa Verde—with the understanding that it
would serve a dual purpose. John H. had imagined a native type location; wattlewalled thatched cottages and minimal furniture. The architect’s conception had
been that of a country club and apartment-type complex. He went ahead with
this idea, raising capital from investors and building apartments with red-tiled
roofs, balconies, and large assembly rooms.
Getting wind of the idea, Ray Stark, Seven Arts, and MGM began to look
at the costs with diminished enthusiasm, but an agreement was reached. Even
though the complex was still unfinished when we arrived, they had built enough
for our purposes, and we found the apartments with running water and outdoor
verandas or balconies with wide views over the cliffs and ocean much nicer than
the trailers normally used as dressing rooms.
Los Muertos Beach was a stretch of golden sand. Behind it facing out to
sea was a row of unpretentious bars and restaurants where you could sit under
the palms and enjoy a margarita. Nearby was what one might call the only
modern hotel in Puerto Vallarta–La Tropicana. Two hundred yards offshore
were assembled a small armada that would take us to and from Mismaloya; a
variety of small craft, launches, a speedboat, and a trawler. The question was
how did you get aboard them? The answer was seamanlike rough-and-ready.
You were paddled out by rowboat or dug-out canoe and hoisted or hauled
aboard. This required very unladylike maneuvers.
The big trawler carried most of the commuting personnel, but we big shots
got what you might call private vessels. Elizabeth and Richard inherited the
posh boat named
Taffy
, and, to Miss G’s delight, we were assigned the
speedboat crewed by a pair of local boys. Our speedboat ran flat out, and
nobody loved flat out more than those boat boys. They could reach Mismaloya
in fifteen minutes, even when towing Miss G as Neptune’s daughter behind us.
The same difficulties of getting ashore or back aboard existed at
Mismaloya, only the difficulties were even more pronounced. A rough stone
jetty had been constructed under the cliff, but on occasions with a big Pacific
swell, small boats, unless handled with considerable skill, could capsize and toss
both crew and passengers into the ocean. Ava solved that problem by usually
diving overboard and swimming ashore. “Strong as an ox that girl,” said
Deborah admiringly.
Mismaloya itself was a small cluster of thatched huts sitting at the western
end of this beautiful half-moon of golden sand at the side of a silver stream that
cut its own path through the sand and into the sea. About fifty Mexican-Indians
lived there—friendly, smiling people delighted by everything that went on.
Behind, rising steeply from the beach, was a hill with the Hotel Costa Verde
perched on top, and from there on everything rose steeply upwards to the vast
mountain ranges often hidden in the clouds.
The set designers had done a great job with the Hotel Costa Verde. With
wide patios, irregular stone steps, and a heavy tiled roof, it blended into the
green vegetation, bougainvillea and swaying palm trees. Tethered in the shade
was the large iguana which appeared in the picture. It looked as fierce as a small
dragon, but it was really a well-fed and contented creature, totally happy and
unaware of its starring role.
Our bar at Mismaloya, one hundred and thirty seven steps up from the
beach, should have been preserved for posterity. Only John Huston could have
masterminded it. Of course, he knew that besides himself he had many brave
boozers to contend with: Richard, Miss G, and Liz occasionally. Even Deborah
admitted that in the sultry heat, a glass of cold Mexican beer was very palatable.
There were many other members of the cast, plus the cameramen and
technicians, not to mention the ever-changing hordes of media men and women
who knew a good bar when they saw one. This was an exceptional bar because
all the drinks were free. Deborah observed Richard’s drinking and, even for
Richard, he was at it a bit hard. She said the only other film star she had worked
with who could match him was Bob Mitchum.
Miss G always swore that you had to pass through the bar to reach the set.
My observation told me that after climbing all those steps, Miss G went through
the bar to have a quick one for revival purposes before reaching the set. Many
people felt that way.
Besides the bar, there was a dining hall with kitchen equipped to feed one
hundred and fifty people at a single sitting, as well as a big hall for dances or
parties, plus the usual cutting and editing rooms.
In a nutshell, Mismaloya was a paradise of serenity and peace, a vast
contrast to life back in Puerto Vallarta. Activity filled the air for practically
twenty-four hours out of every day. There was animal noise—honking donkeys,
squealing pigs, clucking chickens, barking dogs. Human noise—old wooden
carts groaning, heavy lorries grinding, motor scooters with unfurled mufflers,
radio sets and disc players turned up to hysteria pitch. Endless celebrations with
fireworks and fire-crackers caused you to think another revolution must have
broken out. And, of course, at the rhythmic heart of any Mexican gathering there
were the strident trumpets of the benevolent mariachi troubadours. When rushes
(that’s footage of scenes from the previous day) were shown in the small Puerto
Vallarta cinema to invited audiences, I’m inclined to think the entire population
of the town saw some parts of the film, according to the cheers and roars of
laughter aroused at the sight of local characters used in crowd scenes.
Only one sound really got to me—the confounded cockerels. Instead of
crowing like well-bred roosters heralding the break of day, these lunatic fowl
worked on some abysmal cycle of their own and screeched whenever they felt
like it.
There were compensations. Night came, and it got cooler, the air balmier,
the cicadas shrill, but romantically authentic with the sky clear and star-filled.
You got used to the noise in the daytime, almost learned to love it, but the nights
were beautiful. It was such a change from one’s normal mode of life as to be
almost unbelievable.
The history of events that got us to this terrain was quite interesting. Miss
G’s first encounter with John Huston could not be called propitious. In fact, it
was calamitous. The two of them met in the early forties, between Miss G’s
divorce from Mickey Rooney and her marriage to Artie Shaw. A young married
couple, friends of Miss G’s, included her in an invitation to have dinner with
John over the mountains at his ranch in the San Fernando Valley. They
commiserated that poor John was so lonely out there all by himself. John H. was
a great host. Solid drinks were served before dinner, during dinner and after
dinner. Everybody got sloshed. So much so that in the laughing small hours, it
was decided for everyone’s safety they would spend the night there and drive
back to Los Angeles the next morning.
In her allotted bedroom, Miss G had just removed her shoes prior to
undressing when, surprise, surprise, the door opened and John slid through.
From the smirk on that long priestly face, it was clear that he had not entered to
say prayers. Clearly he expected female consolation to cure his lonely blues.
Miss G decided she was not part of that scenario. With a quick sidestep,
Miss G was out through the door and running. On bare feet she was one hell of a
good runner. John H. was no slouch, and he pounded after her. Seeing them in
the moonlight after two hectic and evasive circuits through the trees and shrubs
must have seemed a strange phantasmagoria. Miss G was not amused. Only one
avenue of escape was left. Fully clothed, she dove into the swimming pool. John
skidded to a halt on the brink, regained his balance, roared with laughter and
went off to fix himself another drink.
Miss G, dripping and furious, grabbed a towel, banged on the doors and
hauled her friends out of bed, screaming, “Back to Hollywood, now!” Miss G in
full torrent of rage was splendid. Dawn was breaking as they crossed the
mountains with the young couple still murmuring explanations about poor John
being so lonely.
“Poor John,” Miss G shrieked between yells of laughter at the recollection.
Three days later John up and married Evelyn Keyes.
Odd thing though, you’d never have guessed in the years that followed that
not only would John become one of the most important influences in Miss G’s
life but one of her greatest friends. However, at the time, she could have killed
the old goat.
In his autobiography John admits, “I had met Ava when Tony Veiller and I
were working on the script of Hemingway’s
The Killers
. As I watched her on
the set I was intrigued. I sensed a basic fundamental thing about her, an
earthiness bordering on the roughneck, even though she was at pains to conceal
it. Sometime later, I met her again and tried to make a conquest. I was
completely unsuccessful. No midnight swims, no weekends, no Huston.”
It was sixteen years before they met again. We were living in Madrid. The
phone rang, I picked it up, and a voice with the lilt of the Irish—after all, John
H. had been master of the hunt in Galway and changed his passport from
American to Irish citizen during that period—said,
“This is John Huston. Could I have a word perhaps with Ava Gardner?”
I turned to Miss G and said, “John Huston.”
She said, “God Almighty!” We were not doing much at the time, and I
think she had adored John from the moment she met him. She had forgiven his
first mistake of assuming that pretty divorced ladies were legitimate prey, of not
knowing that southern ladies needed to be courted. Miss G picked up the phone
and said “Hello, Mr. Huston.”
With his usual adroitness John made no mention of their first meeting.
“Ava darling”, he said in a voice that could charm the birds off the trees and the
fish out of the stream, “I’m a stranger in these parts, but I’ve got my producer
friend Ray Stark here with me, and we’ve got hold of a Tennessee Williams play
with a part that might interest you. We wondered if you might like to join us for
dinner and a few drinks, and perhaps we could knock the town about a bit.
We’re staying at the Hilton.” She agreed.
Suspicions disappeared. Miss G was always a pushover for a few drinks
and a night on anybody’s town. Besides, since that first encounter John had
made some very fine films with some great actors.
During that week-long entrapment in Madrid John H. courted Miss G with
dinners, wine and flamenco shows at Miss G’s favorite night spots. John,
pleading old age, left the party around midnight, giving the usual advice for the
two youngsters to go on enjoying themselves. Miss G had every intention of
doing that, and Ray Stark did his best to entertain her until dawn broke.
John H came out of it looking fresh as a daisy, having Miss G under
contract for eight weeks’ work in Mexico for a fee of four hundred thousand
dollars. Poor Ray, after endless hangovers and little or no sleep, was ashen and
hollow-eyed but still tried to look as if it had all been worthwhile. Miss G, as
usual, never went to bed much before dawn and then slept from dawn until
about three in the afternoon, so she looked radiant. The long journey into
The
Night of the Iguana
had begun.
The essential plot of the movie was summed up by someone in a special
edition of
Life
magazine in on December 20, 1963: “Sue Lyon as the teenager
lusts after him; Deborah Kerr as a tender artist saves him; and Ava, as the
triumphant slattern, gets him.” The him being poor persecuted Richard Burton,
playing the part of an Episcopalian priest dismissed from his post for
drunkenness and sexual involvement with teenage girls. One could testify that
Richard had been training for this part all his life.
Abandoned, haunted by his sins, brought close to madness by his religious
mania and reduced to near beachcomber status, The Reverend Shannon has
finally landed a job as tourist guide to a busload of spinster-eyed schoolmarms
from Blowing Rock, Texas—a group of ladies from the Bible Belt with vigilante
consciences. If Shannon does succumb to the temptations of strong drink or
virgin girls he will certainly be reported, lose his job and sink forever into
despair and obscurity. Can he be saved? With pretty, nubile, teenaged Sue Lyon,
a passenger who singles out Shannon as her potential seducer, it seems unlikely.