Merian C. Cooper's King Kong (2 page)

It was in meeting members of his family that I discovered firsthand the Cooper quality of relentless decency and warmth. My association began in 1976, with Cooper's widow, the gracious Dorothy Jordan, at her home on Coronado Island near San Diego, where the couple had retired. I was early in my career as a manuscript curator at the Special Collections department at Brigham Young University. In the ensuing decade, during which Cooper's papers were donated to BYU in 1986, I also enjoyed getting to know their son, U.S. Air Force Colonel Richard M. Cooper. He patiently entertained the countless questions thrown at him as I wound my way through over fifty cartons of correspondence, passports, scrapbooks, photographs, and memorabilia accumulated by Richard's father and seen by no one else.

I must admit to being more than guarded when I heard of a modern adaptation of the original King Kong story. My immediate reaction was to conjure up horrific images of the makeover of the Kong story by movie producer Dino De Laurentiis in the mid 1970s. Leave well enough alone was my unspoken plea. What made me even consider reading this new version was that the request came from Colonel Cooper himself. A subsequent weekend immersed in the typescript erased any concerns I had about heresy, blasphemy, or crassly commercial exploitation of Merian C. Cooper's original story by Mr. DeVito and Mr. Strickland. After years of being immersed in Cooper's own papers, I emerged from reading the manuscript feeling at home.

The authors' single-minded determination to remain faithful to Cooper's original story has resulted in what is, to me, a seamless tale that authentically derives from the spirit of Cooper's fertile imagination. What they have done is to flesh out the story that Kong devotees so protectively revere, and yet allow the reader to create an authentic theater-of-the-mind experience, not unlike that of old time radio. DeVito and Strickland convincingly invoke the senses into the voyage of
The Wanderer
to Skull Island and back: the pelting rain, the pungent smell of the jungle, the strained muscles, sweat, and sinews of Carl Denham and Jack Driscoll on the chase for Ann Darrow in peril, the heat and dampness of the tropical isle, and even the acrid aroma of Kong crashing through groves of jungle flora. Of particular interest are their credible embellishments on Cooper's original story, covering the time between the capture of Kong on Skull Island and his exhibition on Broadway, as well as what transpires from Kong's escape and the havoc wreaked in midtown Manhattan until his ascent of the Empire State Building, Ann Darrow in hand.

Venerated stories that have become cultural legends are both formidable in their longevity and, at the same time, highly vulnerable and fragile. Their strength comes from endurance in the culture; their fragility becomes exposed by attempts to alter them. DeVito and Strickland have taken a story—for generations familiar and for decades beloved—and have given it a fresh retelling. They have done their job so convincingly that they reinforce King Kong as myth without disturbing its core time-honored elements. As with Cooper himself, the authors have deftly blended the old with the new in a story that is well within the confines of the term “Faithful.” “It's alive!” cried Dr. Henry Frankenstein in the movie about
his
creation that has also become a cultural legend. In the case of
Merian C. Cooper's King Kong,
Cooper's creation is, indeed not only alive … but alive and well.

—James V. D'Arc
Curator, Merian C. Cooper Papers
Brigham Young University

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Joe and Brad would like to thank the family of Merian C. Cooper, Randy Merritt, Barbara Strickland, Danny Baror, and our editor, Keith Kahla.

1

HOBOKEN WATERFRONT
DECEMBER 3, 1932

John Weston peered anxiously ahead from the backseat of the creeping taxi. Even in the obscuring twilight, and behind the lightly floating veil of snow, the
Wanderer
was clearly no more than a humble tramp freighter. Weston shook his head. He had imagined a ship of lean grace, all sharply curving contours, straining to embark on a great adventure.

“Sure we're in the right place?” Weston asked the cabdriver.

“Where you told me, pal. Pier four.”

The cabbie found a place to park in the shadowed lee of a warehouse. Weston sat for a moment looking through the side window, still not sure. The down-at-heels support of the Hoboken pier certainly matched the rusty tub moored to it. With others of her kind, the
Wanderer
blended into the nondescript background of the unpretentious old town, camouflaged into anonymity. Beyond her, visible in the far distance, twinkled the bright Saturday-evening lights on the Manhattan side of the river. “Lord, I'd never have called that a seagoing craft,” Weston muttered. “Don't knock the flag down yet. I want to make sure this is the right place.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Weston opened the door and lumbered out of the taxi with the short-winded dignity of a fat fifty-year-old man. He saw movement in the shadows next to the warehouse, and then an old watchman stepped out into the light, his head tilted quizzically, his red nose nearly glowing. “Help you?”

Weston pointed. “Yes, Cap. That the moving-picture ship?”

The red nose bobbed up and down in a nod. Weston ducked back into the taxi, read the meter, and handed over the fare from Forty-second Street and Broadway. “Wait here. I won't be long.”

“Suit yourself. I ain't gonna pick up nobody in this neighborhood.”

Weston shut the cab door and huddled deeper into his topcoat. The watchman switched on a flashlight as Weston scuffed through the light fall of snow. “You another one goin' on this crazy voyage?” the old man asked as Weston neared the foot of the gangway.

Weston stopped in his tracks and gave the watchman a sharp, suspicious look. “Crazy? What's crazy about it?”

The old man shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

“Is it the ship?” Weston demanded. “I expected something a little more modern than this.”

“This is it, all right,” the watchman said, rubbing his nose. “And the
Wanderer
's better than she looks. Engines are sound. They'll push her along at a steady fourteen knots, come hell or high water. Hull's in stronger shape than it seems from here. 'Course they say she's had a lot of work done belowdecks, bulkheads ripped out, some kind of steel tank or something put in—I dunno. She'll do, though. Naw, the crazy part is—well, to start with, it's the fellow that's hired her.”

The cold was making Weston's ears tingle, but he hunched his head down and said, “You mean Denham?”

“That's him. Fellow that if he wants a picture of a lion, he walks right up to the critter and tells it to look pleasant! If that ain't crazy, what is?”

Weston chuckled. “Yeah, he's a tough egg, all right. But why are you saying the
voyage
is crazy?”

The watchman took a step closer, and Weston caught the scent of bourbon on his breath. “Just is, that's why. You ask anybody on the docks. Let me tell you, there's some mighty smart fellows around here, even if they ain't got such high-and-mighty jobs, and everybody around the docks says it's crazy. They got stuff stowed aboard that vessel I don't believe yet, even if I did see it go aboard with my own two eyes. And take the crew! Old Englehorn's hired on extra hands, three times as many as he needs to sail the ship. Take shoehorns to squeeze 'em all aboard!”

He shook his head, his aromatic breath pluming out on the snowy air. Before he could start again, a man's voice called down from the deck of the
Wanderer
: “Hey, on the gangway there! What do you want?”

“First mate,” the old watchman said in a low voice. “Driscoll, his name is.”

Looking up, Weston saw a figure at the low rail amidships, outlined in light streaming from a cabin astern and higher up. “What do you want?” the figure repeated in a booming voice.

“Want to come aboard, Mr. Driscoll,” Weston yelled back, and he started to climb the wet, slippery gangway cautiously. “Your boss is expecting me.”

“You must be Weston, then,” the younger man said. “Come on aboard. Watch your step there.”

The climb was treacherous and steep, but Weston made it, then stepped onto the deck and got his first clear look at Driscoll. He was a tall young man, strongly built, with reckless eyes and a firm mouth. He held out his hand and Weston shook it, feeling an immediate liking for the young fellow. “Jack Driscoll,” the first mate said.

“Broadway's one and only John Weston. The ace of theatrical agents.” Weston was puffing a little from the climb, and he grinned. “Even if my wind isn't what it used to be.”

“Come aft,” Driscoll said. “Denham's wild to hear from you. Have you found the girl?”

In the darkness, Weston's cheer evaporated. He made a wry face but said nothing as he followed Driscoll's swinging stride aft, then up a short ladder to the lighted cabin. Weston blinked in the strong light. In contrast to the rusty sides of the ship, the cabin was spick-and-span, furnished with the Spartan simplicity of seagoing vessels. No decorations, apart from a pipe rack on one wall, a small mirror on the other, and a rack hung with a pea jacket, a civilian overcoat, and a couple of hats. For the rest, four chairs, an oblong map table, an open crate containing black iron spheres smaller than grapefruit but larger than oranges, and a brightly polished brass cuspidor. Two men stood in the cabin, both of them looking expectantly at Weston.

“Visitor, Captain,” Driscoll said to one of the men, of no more than middle height. He had a heavy brown mustache touched with gray, and held in his hand a battered old briar pipe. The man was in vest and shirtsleeves, but wore a captain's uniform cap, along with an air of command. The captain's sharp eyes acknowledged Driscoll's introduction, but he didn't speak as he tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and applied a match to it. Puffing, he stepped aside, leaving the stage clear for his companion.

Weston knew this man: Carl Denham, a well-tailored, well-groomed fellow of thirty-five, looking as if he might belong behind a stockbroker's desk—though Weston had to admit he had never met anyone on Wall Street with Denham's air of solid power, of indomitable will. Denham's bright brown eyes, shining with an unquenchable zest for life, flashed at Weston, and in an impatient voice, the film director snapped, “Weston! About time. I was just about to go ashore to ring you up.”

Weston's feet were feeling damp and cold from the snow. “If I'd known that, I would've waited in my office.”

Denham grinned. “Well, now you're here, shake hands with the skipper. Captain Englehorn, this is John Weston of Broadway.”

Englehorn exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke, then extended a hard, rough hand. He didn't say a word, but as soon as Weston had shaken his hand, Englehorn stooped to drag the crate of iron spheres aside to make room at the table for Weston.

“Sit down, sit down,” Denham said, sinking into the chair opposite Weston's, but lightly, as if ready to spring up any moment. “I take it you've met the first mate here, Jack Driscoll.”

“We've met,” Weston said, with a smile at Driscoll, who grinned and nodded his agreement.

Denham hardly waited for the answer. “These two are a pair like you've never met on Broadway, old man. Both were with me on my last trip, and I'll tell you right now, if they weren't going along this time, I'd think twice before I started.”

Weston took off his hat and set it on the table. Under Denham's intense gaze, he shifted uncomfortably but did not reply. For a moment a silence stretched out, with Denham looking him quizzically in the face. Then Denham leaned forward and said, “Where's the girl, Weston?”

With a sigh, Weston met Denham's gaze. “Haven't got one.”

“What!” Denham leaped up from his chair and struck the table hard with the flat of his hand. “Look here, Weston, Actors' Equity and the Hays Office have warned off every actress I've tried to hire, and every agent but you has backed away. You're my last hope. Look, you know I'm square—”

Weston waved a gloved hand. “Denham, everyone knows you're square. But they also know how reckless you are. And you haven't inspired confidence in this picture by being so secretive.”

“That's the truth!” Englehorn said around the stem of his pipe.

“Absolutely,” agreed Driscoll, his arms crossed. “Denham hasn't told me or the skipper where the old ship is heading. We're under sealed orders, and whoever heard of that when the trip's just to shoot a movie?”

Weston spread his hands, palms up. “There you are. Look, Denham, think of my reputation. I can't ask a young, pretty girl to go on a job like this without even telling her what to expect.”

“How about a homely one?” Denham asked with a grin. He waved off Weston's protest. “No, skip it. What do you suppose she has to expect?”

Weston felt his face growing warm with irritation. “All I could tell her would be that she's going on a ship for nobody knows how long to some spot that you won't name, the only woman on a ship full of tough mugs—” He broke off, noticing the stares of Englehorn and Driscoll. Weston coughed. “Of course, I mean the crew.”

Denham was pacing restlessly. He paused and smacked his hand down on the table again. “Weston, I'm going on the biggest shoot of my life, and I have to have a girl to put in this picture!”

“You never had an actress in any of your other films,” Weston objected. “Not even an actor, for that matter. Why do you need one this time?”

“Not because I want to have one!” Denham paused in his pacing. “It's the public, that's why. The public wants a pretty woman's face. According to them, adventure's as dull as dishwater, there's no romance in it, unless every so often up pops a face to launch a thousand ships. Or is it saps?”