HOLLYWOOD: CHAPTER 23
(The Making of Born Yesterday)
Written by Garson Kanin
(Excerpt from the book "Hollywood", published in 1974)
"And the winner is---"
We all waited for the voice on the radio to continue. Suddenly Einstein's incomprehensible theory of relativity became crystal clear. It was only taking a few seconds for Brod Crawford to open the envelope. He would then read the name of the winner. Those few seconds seemed like an hour to some and like a year to others, depending upon their involvement in the results.
It was 1951, and the annual ritual sponsored by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences had not yet become the present-day television spectacular which is viewed world-wide, they say, by over 600 million people. The event had progressed from the first modest hotel banquet to a ceremony that was being broadcast for only the tenth time.
As it happened, many of the nominees as well as other interested parties were in New York. Among them José Ferrer, nominated for his performance in Cyrano; Gloria Swanson for Sunset Boulevard; Judy Holliday for Born Yesterday.
Ferrer and Miss Swanson were acting together on Broadway in a revival of Twentieth Century. Other nominees who were in New York were Celeste Holm, Sam Jaffe, Thelma Ritter and George Cukor. José Ferrer decided to give an after-theatre party in New York at La Zambra Café. Most of his fellow nominees attended.
In Hollywood the presentations were being made at the RKO Pantages Theatre. In New York about 300 people were gathered listening to the results on an amplified radio. When José Ferrer was announced as the winner, the little crowd went wild. The ABC radio network cut in from Hollywood to pick up his acceptance speech. It was packed with emotion, since Ferrer had been under a cloud of suspicion as a result of having been subpoenaed by the House Un-American Activities Committee.
He said, "This means more to me than an honor to an actor. I consider it a vote of confidence and an act of faith and, believe me, I'll not let you down."
In Hollywood, Helen Hayes officially accepted the Oscar for him.
..."And the winner is---"
The words were frozen in the smoky air.
During the pause, I looked across the room and watched Judy. She appeared to be remarkably calm. Did she care? Beside her sat Gloria Swanson, smiling a professional smile. Was it confidence or merely nerves? She leaned toward Judy and whispered something in her ear. Judy nodded.
Later, I asked Judy about that whisper. She told me that Miss Swanson had said, softly, "One of us is about to be very happy."
As the pause stretched out, I reflected upon the curious set of circumstances that had brought Judy to this time and place.
I had written Born Yesterday in London during the war for my friend Jean Arthur. When she eventually read it, she was not enthusiastic about the play, and even less enthusiastic about the idea of herself in the leading role.
I made the mistake of talking her into it. Rehearsals were almost immediately fraught with difficulties and compromise. Jean had been a movie star for some years and had become accustomed to playing carefully tailored roles. She had become highly adept at projecting her enormously attractive personality, but less skilled in creating a character. It was soon clear that we were going to get, not Jean Arthur as "Billie Dawn," but "Billie Dawn" as Jean Arthur.
I decided under pressure from the management, to settle for this condition. Commercial considerations outweighed artistic ones. But Jean grew increasingly restive. An actress playing a part for which she does not feel suited is as uncomfortable as one wearing a badly fitted dress. Still, we struggled our way through rehearsals, hoping---as theatre people are wont to do---that it would all come right on the night.
It almost did. The first tryout performance in New Haven was half-triumphant. It looked as if there was a show in there somewhere. I expected Jean would be, along with the rest of us, sufficiently encouraged to work toward the fulfillment of the promise.
Instead, she wrote me a note asking to be replaced as soon as possible and insisting that five important lines and two vital scenes be omitted from the next performance. Trouble.
The producer was Max Gordon, a strong manager of the old school, who was not prepared to give it all up without a fight. He used all of his considerable wiles to keep Jean Arthur from resigning. Changes were made. Some for the better, some not. By the time we opened in Boston, we had neither gained nor lost ground.
The on-stage and off-stage tensions began to affect Jean's health. She missed performances.
Friends came up to see the play in Boston and agreed that it was that most tantalizing of theatre products---a Could Be.
After two rocky weeks, we moved to Philadelphia for a scheduled Tuesday-night opening. Jean did not appear at the Monday rehearsal and on Tuesday morning, Max Gordon and I were summoned to her suite at the Hotel Warwick and were told by Dr. Barborka, who had flown in from Chicago, that in his considered medical opinion Jean Arthur could neither open that night nor play the Philadelphia engagement.
"What's the matter with her?" asked Max.
"Nervous exhaustion," said the doctor.
"Me, too," said Max. "Have you got something you can give me for it?"
The doctor explained that Jean was under sedation and that he planned to take her back to Chicago, where he would have her admitted to Passavant Hospital for an indefinite period of time. Clearly, there was nothing more to say. We left.
The question: was there anything to do?
..."And the winner is---"
From the time Jean asked to be replaced, I had begun to consider other actresses. Three prospects turned me down without consideration. Two others had come to New Haven, and one to Boston, and all had declined.
Max Gordon sent for his general manager, Ben Boyar, and began to discuss the agonizing details of closing.
"Don't worry," Max said to me. "We'll put it together again and we'll do it. Don't worry."
The more he said, "Don't worry," the more I worried. Shows that close out of town seldom reopen.
I began again going over the list of possibilities, wondering if any of them were worth a second try. I recalled that during a rehearsal in New Haven, I had mentioned something about my difficulties to Mainbocher, who had designed Jean's clothes. He was anxious to change one of the dresses and I had to inform him that there was a possibility Jean would not continue.
"Do you know Judy Holliday?" asked Main.
"From The Revuers?" I asked. "Sure, she's very good."
"What about her?" he asked.
"Well' she's terrific, Main, but not for this."
"Oh," he said. "I saw her in a bit last season in Kiss Them for Me. One scene. She played a San Francisco tart. Superlative."
"I didn't see that," I said.
"Pity," said Main.
I had long respected Mainbocher's theatre acumen. So, on the way from Boston to Philadelphia, I had stopped in New York and met with Judy Holliday and her agent, Belle Chodorov.
Judy, teamed with Betty Comden and Adolph Green and Alvin Hammer (and sometimes Leonard Bernstein at the piano), had made an impact on the New York cabaret scene. Judy was a standout; pert, versatile, comical, talented. But as we talked that Sunday afternoon in New York, she did not look anything like the girl I had in mind. Rattled and dispirited, I was making the common mistake of looking for a type rather than an actress.
Max and Ben were still discussing the closing. The economics of storing the scenery as against abandoning it was the topic.
"Listen," I said suddenly. "Let's try Judy Holliday."
"Who?" asked Max.
"Judy Holliday," I said.
"What are you talking about?" said Max impatiently. "Who? That fat Jewish girl from The Revuers? No. Like Dick Rodgers said one time at an audition, 'This show is by Jews and for Jews, but it can't be with Jews!'"
"She's not so fat," I said. "And, come to think of it, not so Jewish. But she's funny and a hell of a good actress."
"How do you know? She's never done anything in the theatre."
I repeated Mainbocher's account. Max had seen her in that play.
He nodded and said, "She was damn good. But I don't know. For this, a big part like this, a star part?"
Economics again. Ben Boyar sagely pointed out that it would, in fact, cost no more to play out the Philadelphia stand than it would to close.
..."And the winner is---"
Judy Holliday came down to Philadelphia late that afternoon. We had arranged for a room for her at the hotel. She had neither seen the play or read it. I gave her a copy of the script and she went up to her room and read it. Two hours later, we met. She nodded her head, tentatively.
"The only thing is," she said, "when?"
"Whenever you're ready," I said.
"Saturday night," said Max.
Judy looked thunderstruck.
"I couldn't! she said.
"Saturday night," said Max.
Judy shook her head in terror.
"Let's go to work," I said, "and then we'll see."
"Saturday night," said Max.
I hustled Judy out of the room, took her upstairs to her room, and said, "Leave it to me. First, the words. That's the main thing. Learn the words. If there's anything we can do to help---a stage manager or anything like that, let me know."
"Okay," said Judy. "By the way. It's a good play."
The next three days were unreal. We hardly ever left the Locust Street Theatre. The rest of the company was all that one could hope for: helpful, cooperative, and warm. Mainbocher arrived and redid the clothes. Paul Schmidt of Elizabeth Arden's came down and, late one night, in Judy's bathroom, changed her hair from what it was to the unique reddish-blonde that was to remain her trademark for years to come.
From the first day, almost the first hour, it was plain that we were in luck. Judy was creating a character before our eyes.
There were, however, two disconcerting matters. First, Judy kept insisting that she could not possibly open on Saturday night. Second, there was no way to avoid seeing the long, long queue lined up at the box office. Generally this is a joyous sight but in this case it was not. The action was topsy-turvy, upside down, a nightmare. The tickets were being handed in and the money was being handed back!
I was appalled, but Max said, "Don't worry. We've got a great show. We're going to have. I wish that kid would lose some weight."
"Don't worry," I said. "She's losing about a pound an hour."
"Good," said Max.
"And I'm losing about two pounds an hour."
"Don't worry," said Max.
He was not being merely willful about insisting upon opening Saturday night. He knew that in the circumstances a Monday-night opening would draw a small house. Free passes would prove nothing. People who get in for nothing generally believe that that is what it is worth. Max knew that on Saturday night we could get a full house, the play would go better, look better, and, in fact, be better.
We opened on Saturday night. Judy had rehearsed less than four days, as opposed to the customary four weeks. She gave a near-perfect performance. The show was an instantaneous success and was not to play to an empty seat for the next three years.
Harry Cohn, that hard-headed, single-minded original, responded to the show personally (I wonder if he ever realized that the leading male role, Harry Brock, had been named after him?) and he wanted it.
The trouble was, he and I were not speaking at the time. I had informed his New York representative that although the play was for sale, it was not for sale to Harry Cohn.
"You mean that?" he asked.
"I certainly do," I said, and adding gratuitously, "Not for a million bucks."
This conversation was duly reported to Harry Cohn. Two months later he acquired the film rights to Born Yesterday---for a million bucks.
He is reported to have said to his staff, "I'll show you how we'll make a bum outa this guy!"
When the time came to make the picture, he accepted my suggestion of George Cukor as director, but that was all. He wanted me to write the screenplay "as a labor of love." When I refused, he engaged other screenwriters to do the job, paying them twice what I had asked, but winning his point. I was later to work out the screenplay with George Cukor for nothing. Or was it "a labor of love"?
My suggestion that he do the picture with the excellent New York company, or at least with Judy Holliday and Paul Douglas, was ridiculed.
"What's the matter with you?" said Cohn. "I've got Broderick Crawford here under contract. He just got an Oscar for All the King's Men. And he's perfect for the part."
"Yes, but not as good as Paul Douglas."
"No? Then how come you offered it first to Crawford and he turned you down?"
He had me there.
"And the girl. Yours? For the stage, all right, but for the screen, I've got Rita Hayworth under contract. I've got Lucille Ball. Maybe I'll go for Alice Faye or Barbara Stanwyck. I mean, Jesus, this is no B picture here. I paid a lot of money for it. In fact, too much."
No amount of persuasion was effective.
We began the long and complex strategy of building up a part in Adam's Rib, which my wife and I were writing for Tracy and Hepburn at Metro. The idea was to have Judy play it as a sort of screen test which Cohn had refused to make for Born Yesterday.
The strategy succeeded with the help of Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, and George Cukor.
Judy scored decisively in Adam's Rib. Cohn, to his credit, recognized her quality and signed her to repeat her stage role in the film.
..."And the winner is---Judy Holliday for Born Yesterday!"
Gloria Swanson blanched, recovered at once, leaned over, embraced Judy Holliday, and kissed her.
Judy was truly astonished. She had not expected to win.
In Hollywood Ethel Barrymore accepted Judy's Oscar. At La Zambra Café in New York the excitement was so intense that the ABC crew failed to make the necessary connections and although Judy made a touching little speech, it was neither broadcast nor heard by more than a few people at her table.
Thus through the quiet defection of one star and the fading brilliance of another, a new star was indeed born. Judy Holliday went on to make a string of successes: The Marrying Kind, It Should Happen To You, The Solid Gold Cadillac (in which she was at last reunited with Paul Douglas), and Bells Are Ringing.
She was an unlikely type for movie stardom but made it through dedicated use of extraordinary talent. Her death in 1965 at the age of forty-two deprived the screen of one of its most uniquely gifted artists.
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