Gigi

Among the cluster of city-less suburbs that bear the generic name of Hollywood is a town of well-to-do squalor, gas stations, and oil derricks called Culver City. Amid the polluted opulence is a small street where rises an imposing white-stoned edifice, mounted at the top of two dozen, building-wide steps, still not old enough to be creviced by use. It is the executive office building of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and it stands next to a mortuary. At the far right end of the first floor corridor is a door that once led to crowded sound sets, busy recording studios, a commissary, lusciously-filled dressing rooms, the Mississippi River, a town in the old West, a street corner in Paris, the jungles of Africa, locomotives, chariots, steamboats, and all the other paraphernalia known as “the lot.”

MGM was called “The Home of the Stars” and indeed it was. It has always been a paradox to me that as the population increases, the number of stars decreases, not only on the screen and on the stage, but everywhere. Today we have fewer than ever. The last star we had in politics was Kennedy. Nixon was a featured player who tried to steal the show. Johnson was an understudy who almost closed it. Carter, as far as I can tell, is either a character actor or an actor of character.

In 1949, when I first went to Hollywood, through that door came, among others, Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly, Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, and June Allyson, on their way to the offices of Arthur Freed, the producer who had taken the studio by the hand and guided it through the bustles and breeches of operetta into the modern world of screen musicals.

MGM had, for years, been the home of Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy, the powdered wig, the rousing men’s chorus, and the fluttering eyelid. Warner Brothers, on the other hand, specialized in the Busby Berkeley backstage story. Those were the films where a Broadway stage would cover half an acre, a scene on a city street would be as long as a city street, a field of tulips would be a field of tulips, and when the chorus sang “By a Waterfall,” by God they were by a waterfall. They were something like the stage direction in one of Ring Lardner’s one act plays which said: the curtain is lowered for two weeks to denote the passing of two weeks. Paramount had Crosby, and RKO contented itself with the Astaire-Rogers pictures—and never did more grace, charm, gaiety, and elegance light up the screen.

When Oklahoma began the new era of musicals on Broadway, Arthur was turning over a new leaf in Hollywood. The list of people he brought to MGM, mainly from Broadway, was endless, but the principal ones were Gene Kelly and Vincente Minnelli who, singularly and together, were the most innovative and moving forces in the changing screen-musical. Vincente Minnelli’s Meet Me in St. Louis was a step from the past into the present, and Gene Kelly charged the screen with the electricity of his own style of choreography. Arthur, incidentally, also persuaded Fred Astaire to leave his horses and return to films. I once asked Fred what made him decide to come out of retirement, and he replied: “Arthur offered me a picture.” Among the films he did for Arthur were The Barkleys of Broadway, Easter Parade, Royal Wedding, and The Band Wagon.

Arthur was a strange and touching man; filled with contradictions, idiosyncracies, and surprises. By any standard, he was an original. An inveterate collector of any and all objets d’art, every time he went away he returned home with one more suitcase than when he had left, but the contents remained a mystery. As he came through the door, the order went out that the suitcase was not to be unpacked by anyone but himself. But during the ten years that I worked with him he never once got around to opening one of them. They remained like chests of pirate treasure in the attic. He also liked cheese, which he used to bring home frequently and place in the frigidaire with a small banner flying from a toothpick that said “His.” It was against the law of the house for anyone to mouse “His” cheese. But his major avocation was orchids. Several miles from his house in Beverly Hills he owned one of the largest orchid farms in the world and his reputation was international.

Socially he was a shy and private man who eschewed the “Hollywood party” and never attended premieres. When he was not at home of an evening, he invariably could be found at Lee and Ira Gershwin’s, playing billiards with Ira or laughing at Oscar Levant’s endless stream of witticisms. If I also were there, as I usually was when I was in town, the next day Arthur would have forgotten and he would spend the first hour of the morning telling me everything that I had heard Oscar say the night before.

He was a hero-worshipper of talent and if you were one of the fortunate ones whom he respected, his loyalty knew no bounds. He also had the ability to bring out the best in you when you were working; but you had to mete out your ideas with discretion so as not to overwhelm him and at times make him feel your ideas were his. On one occasion Richard Brooks was writing and directing a film for Arthur at the same time as I was working on a script. If either of us had an esoteric notion about whom to cast in a certain role, if it were for Dick’s film, Dick would tell it to me, I would suggest it to Arthur and Arthur would then suggest it to Dick. When it was for my film, we went through the same exercise in reverse.

He had begun his career as a lyric writer, being the lyric half of Brown and Freed. During the thirties, each studio had a resident songwriting team—or teams. Warner Brothers had Dubin and Warren, Paramount had Robbins and Rainger and Gordon and Revel, and MGM had Brown and Freed. From time to time, Harold Arlen, Johnny Mercer, Jerome Kern, Dorothy Fields, Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, Rodgers and Hart, and George and Ira Gershwin would also contribute their services to a project they found to their liking. Usually, any picture that involved Fred Astaire was one they found to their liking.

Brown and Freed produced an endless number of song hits, their most famous being “Singin’ in the Rain,” and they had written the score for the first great musical film ever made, Broadway Melody. When Nacio Brown retired, Louis B. Mayer, the Caesar of MGM, thought Arthur had the makings of a producer. So did Arthur. And how right they both were.

At MGM, unlike the other studios, the role of the producer was all important. Mr. Mayer believed (he was always called Mr. Mayer, except by a handful of executive intimates) the order of importance in the making of any film was first, the producer; second, the writer; third, the star; and fourth, the director. His theory was that if a producer had the right script with the right cast, any good director could convert it to film.

This is the way the system worked. The studio would purchase a book or a play or a short story and the producers would assemble to listen to a “reader” recite a synopsis of it. (This technique was primarily for saving time. Most producers, to my best knowledge, could read.) If one of the producers was stimulated by what he heard, he would clutch it to his bosom and it would become his, all his. If, however, it was greeted by a collective yawn, it would be filed under O for Oblivion, where it would remain for ever and ever, Amen. Occasionally, as one would expect, the producing body would commit a major goof. Lillie Messinger, Mr. Mayer’s favorite teacher and roving assistant, tried devilishly hard to interest the producing muses in a manuscript she had just read called Gone with the Wind, but it was the general consensus that civil war pictures were out and it was not even worth purchasing. For some reason, Mr. Mayer’s son-in-law, David O. Selznick, later bought it and did rather well with it.

The one exception to this general method of operation was Arthur Freed. Except for the occasions where he would ask the studio to purchase a Broadway musical for him such as On the Town and Brigadoon, he almost always created his projects from scratch. My own experience was typical. Arthur suggested to me that I come to California for ten weeks, not to work on any particular project, but just to hang around. While I was there steeping myself in the atmosphere, perhaps an idea for a film would develop. If at the end of ten weeks none did, I would return home and so be it. During the first three weeks I was there, Arthur told me he was looking for an idea for Fred Astaire. We began to discuss the days when Fred’s partner was his famous sister, Adele. Out of it came the idea of doing a film about a famous brother and sister dance team engaged to perform in London at the time of the royal wedding. And so I went to work. Originally his sister was to be June Allyson, but one day at lunch Arthur, in his own inimitable fashion, mentioned en passant that he had just discovered June was pregnant and obviously in no condition to dance with Fred. About two-thirds through the writing, he mentioned in the corridor one day that Judy Garland was going to play it. I was jubilant. But it was never mentioned again. After I had finished and gone back to New York, he called me again and told me Jane Powell was going to play it. And she did.

Although Burton Lane wrote some spiffy songs and Fred danced in a way that made all superlatives inadequate, my contribution left me in such a state of cringe that I could barely straighten up. Even the one creative moment I liked had nothing to do with me consciously. One night I dreamed that Fred was dancing up the wall, all across the ceiling and down the other wall. I mentioned it to Arthur at lunch the following day and lo, in the film Fred danced up one wall, across the ceiling and down the other wall.

After Royal Wedding I did the screenplay for An American in Paris, which became the first musical film to win the Academy Award, also netting an Oscar for me. (I know I mentioned it before, but this is my book.)

I then signed a three-picture contract with Arthur, the first of which was Brigadoon, starring Gene Kelly and directed by Vincente. It was a picture that should have been made on location in Scotland and was done in the studio. It was a singing show that tried to become a dancing show, and it had an all-American cast which should have been all-Scottish. It was one of those ventures that occur so often where we all knew we were going down the wrong road but no one could stop. I have always believed that only genuinely talented people can create something that is genuinely bad. As Jean Giradoux once said: “Only the mediocre are always at their best.”

After Brigadoon it was all downhill. Burton Lane and I wrote a musical film based on Huckleberry Finn, in which Danny Kaye and Gene Kelly were to play the Duke and the Dauphin, and again Vincente was to direct. Unfortunately, shortly before production began the United States Government, in order to enable American companies abroad to encourage American personnel to move to god-forsaken corners of the world, make a change in the tax law, whereby any American working for an American company overseas who stayed out of the country for a minimum of eighteen months would not be obliged to pay any income tax. Off to Europe went the cream of American stars in pursuit of tax-free loot. Two weeks after Huckleberry Finn began shooting, Gene Kelly, with the studio’s permission, took a flying leap into the loophole and Huckleberry Finn was closed down forever.

But I still owed Arthur one more film.

When My Fair Lady was trying-out in Philadelphia, he flew in from California to see it and mentioned the possibility of doing a musical film based on Colette’s famous novella, Gigi. He, of course, understood that it was hardly the time for me to think about anything other than what I was doing, but I promised that after the dust settled I would be in touch.

My Fair Lady opened in New York in March. By August, relaxation was causing me to lose sleep and I could no longer continue trying to think about nothing. So I flew to California to keep my promised date. It had been almost two years since I had been there and I was astounded and saddened by the change. The huge, white-stoned building seemed more like a hospital and the mortuary next door far less coincidental. The studio was now being run by a polite, soft-spoken gentleman named Benny Thau who had been with MGM for a couple of decades, knew a great deal about the motion picture business, and had become president by not inflicting his knowledge on those less wise, but louder. I was told that he was only to occupy his present position temporarily. I was not certain whether it meant he was temporary or the position was temporary.

The terminal atmosphere was not unique to MGM. It was industry-wide. Somewhere in the early fifties, the movie going habit of forty million Americans had been broken and the crunch was on. The only thing that had not changed was Arthur’s enthusiasm.

Rereading Colette’s story, I noticed an occasional mention of Gaston’s uncle, Honore Lachailles. It occurred to me that perhaps I could develop Uncle Honore into a role that might be suitable for Maurice Chevalier. I felt that a musical personality, such as Chevalier, was essential to the film: there had to be someone whose singing would be expected. The other characters could sing, but they were not singing roles. Both Arthur and Vincente, who was going to direct the film, were in complete agreement.

One of the reasons that musical films have all but disappeared from the screen is because there are no more great entertainers who can set the film’s musical style. One never had to explain why Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly danced, or why Judy Garland or Bing Crosby sang. The fact of their presence automatically meant “a musical.” When a stage musical is converted to the screen, the audience is similarly preconditioned. They have usually heard the score and are prepared. But to try to do a musical with legitimate performers whose singing voices are dubbed and who have no reputation in the musical field presents an insoluble problem. Motion pictures are a realistic medium. Musicals are an unrealistic form of expression. It is the performers not the writers who create the atmosphere required to make that form of expression acceptable. As of this writing, there are only two film stars in the world today who can make the unrealistic form of a musical seem realistic. They are Barbra Streisand and Liza Minnelli. But two is not enough to create a trend. If there is ever to be a revival of the musical film, it will have to wait until such time as there is an explosion of performing talent who will make it possible.

The other reason I wanted Maurice Chevalier was a personal one. He had been an idol of mine ever since every little breeze started whispering Louise. In fact, he was one of four stars whom I had always worshipped: Fred Astaire, Katharine Hepburn, and James Cagney being the others. When I entered the theatre and later films, I was determined that somehow, some day, I would work with all four of them. At the time of Gigi, only 25 percent of my ambition had been realized: I had worked with Fred. Ten years later I did Coco with Katharine Hepburn on the stage. James Cagney has retired, and so I will have to wait for another lifetime. But here, thought I, was a chance to work with Chevalier.

But who would compose the music? Naturally, I desperately wanted to do it with Fritz, but Fritz had always refused to involve himself with a motion picture. Nothing but the theatre was of any interest to him. Nevertheless, on the small chance that he, too, was tired of relaxing I cabled him. He was, to my surprise, at the chemin-de-fer table at the Palm Beach Casino, Cannes. I received a very quick reply: no.

Fritz and I had always had a policy that no matter what either of us was offered, and no matter how unlikely the project, we would always inform the other before refusing. Once, David Selznick called me about doing Gone with the Wind as a stage musical. I could not imagine it as a theatre piece, much less see how music and lyrics could enhance what was already there. But I cabled Fritz (chemin-de-fer table, Palm Beach Casino, Cannes). Two days later I received an answer which he must have dictated because it was written in his accent. It said: “Vind not funny. Love Fritz.”

On another occasion I was approached on our combined behalf to create a musical out of the story of the Trapp Family Singers. (Later The Sound of Music by Rodgers and Hammerstein.) Again I cabled Fritz (chemin-de-fer table, Palm Beach Casino, Cannes). Two days later I received his reply which read: “Dear boy, what do you want me to write—yodel music? Love Fritz.”

Arthur was as disappointed as I that Fritz had refused, but I owed him a picture and at that point in the planning I thought there would be no more than four songs. Reluctantly I would have to do them with someone else. So I agreed, on two conditions: the first was that if I created a part that warranted it, every effort would be made to get Maurice Chevalier; and the second, that Cecil Beaton would be asked to design the sets and costumes. Arthur agreed.

I returned to New York and sometime during the autumn completed the first draft of the screenplay. There are a few aspects of motion picture writing that used to appeal to me: one, they are easier because scenes can go anywhere and are not hemmed in by the limitations of the theatre; two, it is less lonely. Once you have embarked on a venture, there are always lots of people to talk to and be with. When you finish a song, you play it for the producer and the director—and sometimes the star—and if they approve, in a way the reviews are in.

Upon completing the first draft, I returned to California for two or three weeks of meetings with Arthur and Vincente. It is impossible to describe a story conference with Arthur. Although he knew perfectly well what he liked and did not like, what he wanted and did not want, his method of conveying it was so circuitous that the mind grew vertiginous with non sequiturs and it took patience, respect, and maniacal determination to ferret out nuggets of information.

Sample:

AJL (to Freed): Did you read the script?

FREED: Yup. I think . . . I spoke to Oscar yesterday. [Hammerstein]

AJL: Do you think the part is big enough for Chevalier?

FREED: I thought you were going to be at Ira’s last night? [Gershwin]

AJL: I couldn’t make it.

FREED: Oscar was in a great mood. [Levant] He has a new doctor.

AJL: About Maurice . . . [Chevalier]

FREED: Are you going tonight? [Gershwins]

AJL: Yes.

FREED: I can’t make it. That Englishman is staying with them. [Solly Zuckerman]

AJL: Solly Zuckerman?

FREED: I want to buy Say It with Music. Christ knows [The Son of God] what he will want for it. [Irving Berlin] He got $600,000 for There’s No Business Like Show Business and all he did was complain about the taxes.

AJL: I remember. I was there.

FREED: Adolph [Green] said: “Irving, why don’t you spread it out? Take a dollar a year for 600,000 years.”

AJL: I remember. I was there. What about the script? [Gigi]

FREED: Do you want to do it? [Say It with Music]

AJL: You have it. [Gigi]

FREED: McKenna wants to talk to you. [Kenneth MacKenna, head of the story department.]

AJL: What about?

FREED: Don’t pay any attention to him.

AJL: Didn’t he like it?

FREED: How about some lunch? I’ve got some ideas about Maxim’s. [Restaurant in Paris. Scene in the picture.]

EXIT from office and pass secretary.

SECRETARY: Mr. Freed, did you see the cable I left on your desk?

FREED: (Nodding) Tell Benny [Thau] I want to see him after lunch.

Cut to:

Freed table in MGM commissary. Freed and AJL sit down and study the menu. An agent approaches with Romy Schneider.

AGENT: Arthur, I’d like you to meet Romy Schneider. She’s out here to make a picture.

(Freed does not hear and looks up at Romy Schneider)

FREED: I’ll have the cheese omelette.

Mistaken identity corrected. Romy Schneider and agent leave the table. Conversation during lunch about Oscar Levant, Haitian painting (Freed had a large collection), and orchids. Nothing said about Gigi. Lunch over.

FREED: (Rising from table) I’ll be back in my office in an hour. I got to see Benny about making a deal with Chevalier.

AJL: Chevalier?!

FREED: I got a cable from his agent this morning.

AJL: Does he want to do it?!

FREED: Jesus! Why not? It’s a great part for him. What do you think of Solly Zuckerman?

Frequently he would begin a sentence on, let us say, Wednesday and complete it on Friday. Yet this same man could look at me and say: “Stop trying to be different. You don’t have to be different to be good. To be good is different enough.”

As for Vincente, at his best—and his best was with Arthur—he was and is the finest director of musical films since Lubitsch, although their styles are totally dissimilar.

One of the first rules of screenwriting is never use the spoken word when an image can accomplish the same purpose. At that, Lubitsch was the master. Samson Raphaelson, the well-known playwright of the twenties and thirties and the author of The Jazz Singer and Accent on Youth among others, was one of Lubitsch’s favorite screenwriters. He told me, one day, about a script he had written for Lubitsch that began with a husband and wife closing the door of their apartment in the middle of an argument. The argument continued while they waited for the elevator. When the elevator arrived, they stepped in and because there were others in the elevator they held their tongues. The moment they were out on the street, the argument continued. The entire sequence took about three pages. Lubitsch read it, tore it out of the script, and this is what he did: the couple emerge from their apartment in total silence. They ring for the elevator in total silence. They enter the elevator. The elevator is empty. It stops at the floor below and a woman enters. And the man takes his hat off. Antagonism between husband and wife established. End of sequence.

Vincente’s genius lies in his faultless sense of style. He had been a set designer and a painter before becoming a director, and each frame of his films is a work of art. Often the realization of his vision could be maddening. He would spend hours during a shooting day arranging the flowers the way he wanted them, while the actors kept awake counting their overtime.

When Louis Jourdan arrives finally at the chorus of Gigi, he is sitting on a bench and behind him is a lake. After a few bars, a group of swans suddenly appear and glide across the water. When I first saw the dailies (formerly called the rushes), I was sitting in the projection room with Bill O’Brien, Arthur’s production manager. I gasped. “Bill,” I said, “where the hell did those swans come from?” “Shhh,” said Bill. “What do you mean, shh?” I replied. “I keep looking at the swans instead of Louis. How did they get there?” Said Bill, quietly, “Vincente put them there. In fact, he auditioned swans for four days.”

Vincente has a thorough knowledge of music, lyrics, comedy, and drama and there is no one who can photograph a musical number with as much skill and imagination. During the singing of Gigi, the camera wanders all over Paris, constantly refreshing the eye without ever interfering with the flow of the song. The night scene with Louis Jourdan pacing up and down in silhouette in front of a shimmering fountain and being shaken into a decision when a horse and carriage, also in silhouette, pull up short to avoid hitting him, is among the most memorable effects ever filmed and uniquely Minnelli.

I am devoted to him and love working with him. His gentleness, however, can be very deceptive. Frequently I would have a suggestion, he would listen appreciatively, nod, agree, thank me—and then shoot the scene exactly as he had intended. And invariably he was right. During An American in Paris, we very quickly developed a shorthand communication with each other. He spoke falteringly and often vaguely but in some manner that had nothing to do with logic, I always could feel what he meant more than I understood the words.

The finale of An American in Paris is an eighteen-minute ballet to Gershwin’s “An American in Paris.” He called me from California one day—I was home in New York—and tried to explain that he needed some kind of speech to lead into the ballet that would, in some way, relate the love story to Dufy, Toulouse-Lautrec, and all the other painters whose work inspired the scenic backgrounds of the ballet. “Nothing too long,” he reassured me. “Just a short speech. You know.” I did not know. “When do you need it?” I asked. Said Vincente: “Not right away. I’ll be home tonight. Could you phone it to me? We’re shooting it tomorrow.”

A short speech to sum up a two hour story that is at the same time an introduction to Dufy and Toulouse-Lautrec and a ballet? I knew he must have thought it possible or he would not have asked me, so I sat down and wrote what I thought he wanted. I phoned it to him that evening. “Perfect,” he said. “Thank you, Alan.” I have seen the picture many times and I am still not certain what the speech is saying. But Vincente said it was perfect and that was all that mattered, and no one to this day has ever said: “What on earth is that speech all about near the end of the film?”

Come November we still had no composer. I returned to New York determined to have one last whack at Fritz. I told him the least he could do was read the bloody script, and he admitted that sounded reasonable. To add a little seasoning, I said I felt it was essential that the score be written in Paris. It would not only be fun—and this is not an affectation—but unquestionably it was bound to help the atmosphere of the score to write it in the country in which the story takes place. Fritz took the script home with him and bright and early the next morning he telephoned to say he loved it and wanted to do it. I immediately got in touch with Arthur and he and Vincente were jubilant about Fritz’s change of heart.

In March, the second company of My Fair Lady opened in Rochester and immediately following, Fritz and I took off for Paris—but not without a moment of drama.

The plane was to leave at one o’clock in the afternoon. Fritz is fanatically punctual and we were to meet at the airport at twelve o’clock sharp. For the first and only time since I have known him, Fritz was almost forty-five minutes late. He apologized, but did not explain where he had been and I did not press the matter. Later I found out. The reason was most revealing of Fritz.

He had been with my accountant. Not his accountant, mine, checking the books. We jointly owned half the producing interest in My Fair Lady and these rights were held by our music publishing company. During the early days of our collaboration, he was most cavalier about money, the way one is when one does not have a great deal. Frequently he would give me his bridge or poker winnings to hold for him. But the moment the green stuff began to flood the banks, his entire attitude changed. He suddenly became extremely suspicious of everyone who worked for him or with him, primarily me, my accountant, and my lawyer. I was well aware of it, but it never bothered me because it had nothing to do with the rest of Fritz. I have always made it a policy never to judge anyone by his behavior with money and the opposite sex. Money and sex somehow dub in a different voice. Perhaps not to a psychiatrist, but I am a playwright-lyricist. That Saturday morning before we left for Paris, Fritz had made an appointment with my accountant, Israel Katz, to examine our books in order to reassure himself that all was in order, meaning, I suppose, that I had not been raiding the till. The examination took much longer than Fritz had planned, because not finding anything amiss, instead of allaying his suspicions it only increased them. Consequently, he almost missed the plane.

The incident is also revealing of Israel, who has been looking after my affairs (money, I mean) since 1954. Besides being a Merlin in the metaphysical world of the Internal Revenue Service, he is also one of the kindest and most human beings I have ever known. He is bilingual, speaking not only English but “taxasian”—a form of hieroglyphics devised by the corporate slaves who serve on the House and Senate Finance Committees to enable the rich to get richer, the poor, poorer, and to keep the public in a chronic state of confusion.

Israel, one of his assistants and I can be having a chat about my affairs, when suddenly he will turn to his assistant, address him in the language of “taxasian” and I might as well be in Outer Mongolia. His firm is a large one and the sun never sets on his clients. When I call to speak to him, having seen him the day before, he might be anywhere from Berlin to the “21” Club (one of his clients). But he has a profound respect and admiration for the creative person that is never tinged with paternalism. He understood Fritz. He was not the slightest bit upset and never bothered to mention the appointment to me because he did not wish to upset me. Almost a year later he asked me, with a chuckle, if Fritz had made the plane that day, and it was then he told me the whole story.

We arrived in Paris on one of those typical grey, Parisian days which songwriters have always chosen to ignore. From time to time one does see a few sunbeams dancing on “holiday tables under the trees,” but not often. One year I spent eight consecutive months in Paris and never saw the sun once. One notices it all the more because the buildings are low and there is no escaping the sky. It also rains a good deal in Paris, but the raincoats are terribly chic. Occasionally, there is a heat-wave and because of the high cost of electricity, there is no air-conditioning, except in a restaurant in the Plaza Athénée, the Relais Plaza, and Maxim’s. There was a heat-wave the spring that Fritz and I were there and people were fainting on the streets—and even in Paris there is no chic way to pass out.

We began working on Chevalier’s first song, “Thank Heaven for Little Girls.” I had given Fritz the title before we left New York. In order to establish the musical style, Chevalier plays the role of narrator or “raisoneur,” and in the first scene addresses the audience and introduces Paris, the period, the atmosphere, and Gigi. The style of a film must be established within the first few minutes, as it is in the opening sequences that the audience adjusts its emotional body temperature to the climate of the film.

Arthur had arranged for Fritz and me to visit Chevalier, who was appearing in a nightclub in a town called Le Zout on the Belgian coast. Easter came early that year and we decided to make the great trek over the holiday weekend.

In all the years I had spent in Europe, for some reason I had never been to Belgium, and it was the first time I witnessed at first hand that most lethal of God’s creatures, a Belgian behind the wheel. There were no requirements for a driver’s license in Belgium at that time. Anyone over fifteen who could see well enough to locate his automobile was allowed to drive. The chauffeur who drove us from Brussels to Ostend was the Blue Max of the limousine world. He could spot a pedestrian a half mile down the road and head for him like a guided missile. Fortunately, Belgian pedestrians are well trained in the art of fender-dodging and there are still lots of Belgians. After a long, harrowing journey, we arrived at Le Zout in time to see Maurice’s performance. He was as captivating and adroit as I had remembered him, and although seventy-two years of age, his energy and mobility seemed untouched by time. His one-man show lasted well over an hour.

We met him after the performance expecting him to be exhausted and intending only to pay our respects and make an appointment to see him the next day. Not at all. He showed not the slightest sign of fatigue and we had a long chat about the film. His enthusiasm was high and he could not wait to hear the first song. (Neither could we.) He discussed his age frankly, remarking that being seventy-two was not that bad considering the alternative. He also said something else that stuck in my mind. “At seventy-two,” he said, “I am too old for women, too old for that extra glass of wine, too old for sports. (He had started his life as a boxer and was always very athletic.) All I have left is the audience but I have found it is quite enough.” Months later his words returned to me and undoubtedly led me to the idea for “I’m Glad I’m Not Young Any More.”

The next day we found the Blue Max and heavily sedating ourselves for the trip, returned to Brussels and then Paris to continue working.

Two weeks after we had been there, I received a phone call from Arthur, saying that Audrey Hepburn was at the Hotel Raphael and would I call her, go to see her, and talk to her about playing Gigi. Audrey had originated the role on the stage. In fact it was the part that launched her career. I strongly doubted she would be interested in doing it again, but nevertheless I went and had a chat with her. She could not have been more gracious, but she did not want to do it again. I reported this to Arthur. He then told me that Leslie Caron was living in London with her husband, then Peter Hall (he is still Peter Hall but), and would I mind going there and talking to her. I did not mind, I told Arthur. It had been in the back of my mind that the ideal man to play Gaston was Dirk Bogarde, who also lived in London, and I would be able to see him at the same time.

Besides being a good friend, Dirk happens to be one of the best screen actors alive who, to this day, has never received, in this country at least, the recognition his talent deserves. Unfortunately, he bears the cross of good looks and all too often American critics find themselves incapable of believing depth and artistry can thrive behind a handsome face. A tortured life properly publicized will sometimes remove the stigma. A severe accident or a prolonged illness will also help. Suffering somehow assures them that he is not a photograph. If, by any chance, he is English and his accent is not laced with Cockney, then he is apt to be further handicapped. Any sign of education is regarded as a perversion of the truth. Generally speaking, the more an actor resembles a New York cab driver, and the more difficulty he has with the English language, the better his chances are of receiving critical praise. The attitude seems to be that the lowest common denominator and the most common denominator constitute reality.

In the theatre, give the gentlemen on the aisle a play riddled with profanity, ungrammatical sentences, and a fair amount of stuttering and mumbling, and the author will be extolled for his splendid ear for speech. The actor will also receive his share of acclaim for bringing real, honest to God life to the stage. The private lines of critics must be utterly fascinating.

The role of Gaston was not a simple one. It takes considerable style and skill to play a bored man and not be boring. Dirk, I knew, had and has all that skill and I also knew that he had, and I presume still has, a very serviceable singing voice. I had mentioned all this to Arthur and he gave me his blessing to try and interest him in the role. I saw Dirk and spent some time with him, and he reacted most favorably. He was under contract to J. Arthur Rank at the time, but he thought he would be able to obtain a release.

I then made an appointment with Leslie. She had been living in London ever since she had married Peter and I had not seen her since An American in Paris—when she came to Hollywood equipped with one of those adorable French accents that everyone is always so mad about. I was astonished to discover that she now sounded more English than the English, a disease that often afflicts Americans who move to London. I did not think the French were as susceptible. We had a rather tense meeting, not unfriendly, but definitely not relaxed. She asked me how I intended to interpret the role of Gigi. I was perplexed. “Why?” I asked. She explained that she understood Gigi thoroughly because she had played it that year on the stage in London. It came as a complete surprise to me. I asked her how it had been received. Unabashed, she told me it had been a failure. “Well,” said I, “I think you had better tell me how you interpreted it.” She did not. I explained it was my intention to concentrate dramatic attention as much on a girl becoming a woman as on a girl becoming a courtesan. She thought for a moment and said, “Oh!” Rather than exploring the “Oh!”, I thought I had better ask the pertinent question. “Are you available?” I enquired. “Yes,” she replied. “Good,” said I. “I’ll see you in Paris.”

Back I went to Paris and to work. I soon finished the lyric of “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” except for the few lines in the middle, professionally known as “the bridge” or “the release.” I had written pages and pages, but none of the versions seemed right. One evening Fritz was going out, as was his wont, and said that when he returned he would call and if I was still awake come up to see how I was doing. If I had gone to sleep I was to turn off the phone. He returned about six in the morning, as was his wont, and I was still up. I read him everything I had, which he liked enormously. I then told him what I had been going through with those damn middle lines. Said Fritz: “What are you trying to say, dear boy?” Said I, picking up a piece of paper I had written some twenty-four hours earlier: “I am trying to say something like this:

Those little eyes so helpless and appealing,

One day will flash

And send you crash-

Ing through the ceiling . . .”

Said Fritz: “What’s wrong with that?” I replied: “You can’t crash through the ceiling. You crash through the floor.” Said Fritz: “Who says so? It’s your lyric and if you want to crash through the ceiling, crash through the ceiling!” At six in the morning I was easily persuaded. And so I crashed through the ceiling.

It reminded me of a daydream I have often had about lyric writing that goes something like this. I am locked in a hotel room for three days working on a song. Suddenly the door opens and there stand all the members of my family and my closest friends. One of them says: “What have you been doing in here for three days?” I reply: “Writing.” One of them says: “What have you written?” I reply: “I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night, And still have begged for more.” They look at each other hopelessly, call the appropriate medical authorities and I am put away for the rest of my natural life.

With “Thank Heaven” out of the way, we went on to “I Remember It Well,” and when it was finished we telephoned Maurice at his house in Marne-la-Coquette, a small village just outside Paris which I later discovered he owned most of. We told him we had two songs to show him. He was delighted and made an appointment to come to see us the next day at three o’clock.

The following afternoon as the clock struck three there was a knock at the door. This I later found to be typical of him. Maurice was the infinite professional: always punctual, always courteous, always frank, always encouraging, always working harder than everyone else. He had no illusions about his vocal capabilities. He honestly believed—and he told me this himself—that God had given him a talent and that he owed it to himself and his Creator to take care of it to the best of his ability.

In the thirties, when he first arrived in Hollywood to appear in his first American film for some astronomical figure, he felt he had to make some sacrifice to pay for his good fortune. So he stopped smoking. He was also one of the most tightfisted gents in the history of the profession. There was a parking lot outside Paramount where, for ten cents in the meter, one could park all day. However, five blocks away there was another parking lot that only cost a nickel. I believe his salary was around $20,000 a week. His parking bill was five cents a day.

His house at Marne-la-Coquette was less of a residence than a museum of Chevalier memorabilia. There was no phase of his career that had not been photographed extensively, and the walls were like the pages of a photograph album. I am not too familiar with his early romantic life, but whoever the ladies were they were not prominently featured, except Mistinguette—who had discovered him and with whom he had a long affair. In the thirties, while his popularity in America and the rest of the world was in the ascendancy it was on the decline in France. The French detest any Frenchman who becomes a success outside of France. As Marcel Achard said to me one day: “In France they sometimes forgive you happiness, but never success.” During the war, like so many other French entertainers, he was forced to perform during the German occupation. The French, who have never quite forgiven the Allies for winning the war, like to pretend that only a handful of performers and very few others cooperated with the Germans. Anyone who has seen the film The Sorrow and the Pity knows what a lot of foie gras that is.

But Maurice bore the stigma of being pro-Nazi and was not allowed into America. For whatever reason, he later signed the Stockholm Peace Petition which was considered (and may have been) Communist inspired, and suddenly he was no longer a Nazi but a Communist. A short time afterwards, it dawned on the French and the Americans (who were being equally ridiculous at the time) that what Chevalier really was was an entertainer. So he eventually was allowed to return to New York where he did his one-man show to wild acclaim, and all was forgotten.

Despite his egomaniacal devotion to his work and his career he was not at all conceited, in fact quite the reverse. When we played him the two songs he listened politely, thanked us, and took the music and departed. Fritz and I had no idea if he liked them or not. The next morning he called and asked if he could come and see us again at three o’clock. I said to Fritz: “Oh, Christ! What’s wrong?”

As the clock struck three, in he came. “I love the songs so much,” he said, “that I worked on them all night long.” He turned to me. But he said, “Alan, would you sing the middle part of ‘Thank Heaven’ again for me? I like the way you phrase it better than the way I do.”

By no stretch of anyone’s imagination could I be termed a singer. I considered it a triumph when I did not sing in the key of F while Fritz was playing in the key of G. But the idea that Maurice Chevalier wanted to listen to me sing would have moved me to tears had it not seemed so absurd. We did the song again for him, he listened intently, again thanked us profusely and off he went into the grey, Paris afternoon.

Arthur and Vincente arrived towards the end of April. The plan had been to shoot some exteriors in and around Paris, but the bulk of the film was to be made at the studio. By then, Fritz and I had become convinced that the entire film should be made in Paris. For some unfathomable and marvellously mysterious reason, even if one is shooting an interior scene, if it is in its authentic setting something of the outside atmosphere creeps through the woodwork and on to the film. An American In Paris had been made at the studio, but the sets had been designed to give an artist’s impression of Paris. It had never been the intention to hoodwink the audience into believing it was actually Paris. But An American in Paris was anything but a French story: Gigi was. Paris was as much a character as Gaston and Gigi themselves. Vincente spontaneously agreed. So did Arthur, but he was worried about the cost of the studio. In the few months since I had been in Hollywood, the tide of accounts receivable had been rising to the point of panic, and if there had been any question in anyone’s mind that the Hollywood studio was about to join the lost continent of Atlantis, there was none now. Budgets were being slashed, pictures and contracts were being cancelled, and salaries squashed. In typical Hollywood fashion the first people to receive the pink slip were the secretaries, the parking attendants, the elevator men, the waitresses in the commissary, and the night-watchmen.

Nevertheless, Arthur was persuaded that location was essential to the film and somehow he was able to induce the studio into approving. Among the reasons for Arthur’s preeminence as a producer was his unshakeable faith in the people with whom he had selected to work, and his passionate determination to do everything in his power to create the conditions in which they would best function.

One night Fritz and a few of us were sitting in a bistro talking about him, when someone said: “I don’t understand Freed. Why do you all think he’s such a great producer?” Fritz looked at him and replied: “We’re all here, aren’t we?”

So the film would be made in Paris, but there could be no dawdling. Every day on location is prohibitively expensive. After trying in vain to persuade Yvonne Printemps to return to the screen to play Aunt Alicia, the retired courtesan, Vincente thought of Isabel Jeans who could not have been better. Eva Gabor would play Gaston’s mistress, Hermione Gingold, Gigi’s grandmother Mamita. Because of “I Remember It Well” it was vital that Mamita did not have a trace of sentimentality, and there was no danger of that with Hermione. But J. Arthur Rank became the face on my dartboard. He refused to release Dirk. Everyone was deeply disappointed, but no one as much as I. Only I, who knew him well and knew his voice, had been sitting at the typewriter seeing him and hearing him every time I wrote a speech for Gaston.

Arthur suggested Louis Jourdan, who certainly looked the part and was certainly French. But could he sing? Fortunately, he was in London and Arthur arranged for him to come to Paris and give us the opportunity to find out. To our delighted surprise he was not only extremely musical, but had a most charming voice. But could he play boredom without falling into the trap? Louis is a very serious fellow, usually more serious than the topic of conversation. He is not without humor, but his humor does not include a twinkle in his soul. The more time we spent together the more my anxiety grew. Finally I decided to play safe. I rewrote the boredom and made Gaston constantly angry that he was bored. To drive the point home, Fritz and I wrote a brisk, buoyant duet for him and Chevalier called “It’s a Bore.”

While Fritz and I were rummaging through our minds looking for words and music, Arthur, Vincente, and Cecil were rummaging through Paris looking for locations. Instead of the usual Eiffel Tower/Arc de Triomphe/sidewalk café view of the city, Vincente had decided that what he wanted to put on film was the green of Paris—the parks, the trees, the gardens. There were only two Parisian interiors of consequence indicated in the script: one was the Palais de Glace, where the very, very rich of the Belle Epoque used to go ice-skating; the other was Maxim’s. Fortunately, Maxim’s had not changed. Unfortunately, the Palais de Glace had. It had become as tattered a relic as the hotels on the boardwalk of Atlantic City. Despite the limitations of the budget, Vincente and Cecil somehow were able to restore it sufficiently to give an illusion of its former glory, and it became one of the loveliest sets in the film. As for Maxim’s, Arthur convinced its owners, Louis and Maggie Vaudable, to close the restaurant for five days so that the scenes in Maxim’s could actually be filmed there.

The song that was to be performed in Maxim’s was written to be sung in Gaston’s head. It is called “She’s Not Thinking of Me” and its intention was to prevent Gaston from looking foolish. Gaston’s mistress had made a rendezvous with her ice-skating lover for the following day, and it seemed to me vital that Gaston reveal enough sensitivity to be aware that hanky panky was afoot. It is a waltz and as I have mentioned before the interrhyming that is needed to make it sing is fiendish. I made reasonable progress, however, and after five days and nights it was completed, except for the last couplet. The couplet that ends the first chorus is:

Oh she’s shimmering with love!

Oh she’s simmering with love!

Oh she’s not thinking of me!

Try as I may, I could not find two similar lines with which to end the second chorus.

Four days passed and by now the open window began to look inviting. There was no emotional reason for it: I could not blame it on Mary Martin and Richard Halliday—I was simply stuck, that’s all.

During the first five days the technical entourage began to arrive from MGM: the set decorators, some of the camera crew, the sound technicians, and André Previn.

André had been conducting and arranging at MGM since he was sixteen and he had been selected by Arthur, with Fritz’s wholehearted endorsement, to wield the baton for Gigi. Now a celebrated conductor in his own right, André is one of the most gifted musicians I have ever encountered, one of the most amusing, and also one of the most mysterious. A graduate of the Paris Conservatoire at the age of eleven, he is not only a concert pianist but equally skilled as a jazz virtuoso. He is mysterious because when he is at the keyboard his facial expression never changes, and one has the feeling that someone else’s arms are reaching from behind him and doing the playing. His hands seem totally disassociated from his body. He also has the extraordinary ability to carry on a conversation, to which he is giving his complete attention, and compose music at the same time. Many years later I wrote a musical play with him, Coco, and one day we were sitting together discussing the kind of song required for a particular scene. As we talked, our conversation being punctuated from time to time with a non sequitur story or a bit of humor, André seemed to be doodling. Suddenly he rose from his chair and handed me the piece of paper containing the doodling. It was a complete piano part for a song which he had composed during our conversation. There would be no point to this story if it were a bad song, but it happened to be a very good one and became one of the highlights of the play.

I am always reluctant to hand in a lyric until I am as satisfied with it as I think I am able to be. Certainly, if there is a line missing I keep it to myself. While we were working on “Gigi,” there were many instances when I told Arthur of a lyric I was writing but would not show it to him. I did not realize that I was fanning the flame of curiosity of Arthur the ex-lyric writer. André later told me that during the second week of my agonizing over “She’s Not Thinking of Me,” Arthur came to him one midnight and surreptiously handed him a key. He told André in a hushed voice it was the key to my room. He knew I was not in and he wanted André to go up and steal the lyric. André refused to do it. “I can’t do that, Arthur,” he said. “If you want it, you steal it.” Arthur became furious and said to André: “It’s not my department. You’re in charge of the music.” But André was adamant. It was typical of Arthur that despite his frustration he never once asked me when the lyric would be finished.

On the ninth day I finally found the missing couplet. As I look at it now, it seems hardly worth the effort. It is:

She’s so ooh-la-la-la-la,

So untrue-la-la-la-la,

She is not thinking of me.

I passionately wish I could say that outside of “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly?”, “She’s Not Thinking of Me” took me longer to write than any other lyric. But it would not be “the vrai.” Six years later I sat down to do the lyric for “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.” After two weeks of the usual run-of-the-mill torture, I realized that if I were ever to finish the rest of the score and complete the play I had better move on. So I decided to allot the first three hours of every morning to working on that lyric and I did. Seven days a week. I finished it eight months later. During the eight-month period I wrote ninety-one complete lyrics and discarded them all. Several years ago a friend of mine who lives in Bar Harbor, Maine, in the summer wrote me a letter and told me that the minister at the local church had used the lyric as the text for his Sunday sermon. I wrote back and told him to tell the minister not to wait for the second chorus.

Arthur may have been patient with me, but no one was ever more so than Fritz, and for a composer it is the rarest of virtues. I once tried collaborating with Richard Rodgers, who had been spoiled by Larry Hart. Larry could write a lyric in the middle of a cocktail party while a band was playing. Dick could never even understand the time it often took Oscar Hammerstein. In fact he said to me one day: “Do you know what Oscar used to do? He would go to his farm in Bucks County and sometimes it would be three weeks before he would appear with a lyric. I never knew what he was doing down there. You know a lyric couldn’t possibly take three weeks.” I should have realized at once our collaboration was doomed. Ira Gershwin is another of the sweat and stew club. When he was writing the lyric for “Embraceable You,” he told me he got completely hung up on one line and finally, to escape the pressure, he took a room in a hotel where no one could find him. After a few days he finished the lyric. The missing line was: “Come to papa, Come to papa do.”

One of the great joys of working with Fritz was his understanding of my own creative process and not once, no matter how long the lyric may have taken, was he ever anything but sympathetic and encouraging. In Paris, the longer I took the better he liked it. It meant that he was free until I was finished, and he could devote his creative energy to the chemin-de-fer table and other more basic sports—all of which he infinitely preferred to composing. As he would leave the hotel, if someone from the picture asked where I was, Fritz would always reply: “The poor little boy. I have knocked him up!”

By the end of April Fritz and I had finished our musical blueprint: there were to be eight songs. By the beginning of July, five had been completed. The actual shooting was scheduled for the first of August, when “the little people of Paris” close up shop and depart for the beaches, mountains, and countryside that make France the most beautiful land in the world. For one month Paris is veritably empty, and therefore it is the ideal time to film. Of the remaining three songs, only one had to be finished by the time shooting began. Vincente and Arthur had decided that Gigi’s apartment would be constructed at the studio, and therefore two of the songs were not needed until the company returned from Paris in mid-September.

The missing song was the most important in the film, the title song “Gigi.” During the intervening three months Fritz and I had attempted it several times, without success. The melody Fritz eventually found, sometime in July, is one of the most rapturous he ever composed and it happened exactly in the way one always expects beauty to be born.

Paris was in full bloom. It was a clear, sunlit day, Sacre Coeur in the distance seemed like a creation of Turner against the soft blue sky, and I was sitting on the john. Fritz was at the piano in the living room, dressed in the Byronesque costume in which he always works—his baggy underwear. Suddenly an exquisite melody came wafting down the hall, causing me to drop my newspaper. “My God!”, I yelled. “That’s beautiful.” Leaping from my perch with my trousers still clinging to my ankles, I made my way to the living room like a man on tiny stilts. “Play that again,” I said. He did. I started to walk up and down with excitement and almost broke my jaw on the coffee table. Assuming that having fallen down I would get up, Fritz paid no mind and continued playing. Within an hour he had finished it—except for the last two lines. For once, the last two lines took the composer three days to write.

While I was in lyrical solitary confinement, Arthur and Vin cente were making the necessary preparations to begin shooting. After much searching, Jacques Bergerac was cast to play the skating instructor who is having an affair with Gaston’s mistress. Arrangements were made with the “petits functionaires” of the civil service to allow Vincente to film in the Bois de Boulogne. Although the French civil service does not run France, it does keep it running. During the fifties, before the reascendancy of de Gaulle, governments rose and governments fell with the swiftness of a soufflé—and with about as much substance; but the civil service remained above or beneath it all. Corrupt, but only slightly so, they kept the water flowing, the phones ringing, the trains running, and collected enough taxes to keep the country reasonably solvent. In France the latter is not an easy task because the French regard paying taxes as a character flaw. Hanging in the wardrobe of most French men is an outfit of rags known as tax clothes, which they wear whenever they are called before the collector to explain the difference between what they have paid and what they owe. It is also someone in the civil service from whom one rents a few acres of the Bois, which is accomplished not at a table but under it.

Also during this period “pre-recording” began. In a musical film all the songs are recorded with an orchestra before the filming begins, and an actor mouths to his own voice during the scene. In the case of Gigi, because it would have been impossible to orchestrate, pre-record, and be ready to shoot by August, the songs were pre-recorded with a piano only and the orchestrations were added in Hollywood after the filming had been completed. In order to achieve the proper balance, the actors were required to sing everything over again in Hollywood and synchronize each word frame by frame. In cinematic language this process is called “looping.” The dialogue of all outdoor scenes in any film almost always has to be looped because of interfering noise. In Italy, they shoot everything, be it exterior or interior, without any sound at all and all the dialogue is added later.

(When the film of My Fair Lady was made, pre-recording became an immense problem for Rex. He called me on the phone one day, his voice rising as it does when he is upset, and said: “Alan! Do you know what they want me to do? They want me to stand up in front of a bloody microphone and sing like a bloody singer. I can’t do that! I have to be on the stage. In make-up. With an audience. And frightened!” In the end they only pre-recorded the orchestra and he sang the songs during the scenes as they were being filmed.)

Fritz and I had arrived in Paris in mid-March with a first draft of the script, no songs and no cast, except for Maurice, no sets and no costumes. Four and a half months later a finished screenplay with six of the eight songs, a complete cast totally costumed went before the cameras. Not only went before the cameras, but with everyone exuberant and optimistic.

The night before the first day of shooting, Arthur gave a launching party upstairs at Maxim’s. Everyone in the cast was handed his script for the first time. I could not help but notice that only Maurice took his and immediately found a quiet corner and began to read it. Everyone else put his script aside and continued with the festivities. The next morning the only actor who called to tell me how much he liked the script was Maurice Chevalier.

The first few days’ shooting was in the renovated Palais de Glace. Filming begins at nine o’clock and those involved in the first scene of the day assemble at seven for costumes and make-up. At nine o’clock, Vincente began rehearsing the scene between Eva Gabor and Jacques Bergerac, as the assistant director decorated the hall with several dozen magnificently costumed skaters and patrons. But the cameras never turned. No filming began.

Unfortunately, no one had asked Jacques Bergerac if he knew how to skate. Because no one had asked him if he could, Jacques never asked if he had to. If they had or he had, they would have discovered that the closest Bergerac had ever been to ice was opening the frigidaire. In motion pictures you can dub a voice, but not a pair of legs, so a contraption was devised to keep him from falling on his face, the scene was photographed from the navel up and a two-page scene was cut to a few lines. Such are the hazards of art.

The following day Fritz and I left Paris and headed for California to write “I’m Glad I’m Not Young Any More” and “The Night They Invented Champagne,” the two songs to be filmed on the coast in September. On the way we stopped in London for a few hours to have lunch with Binkie Beaumont, to discuss the London production of My Fair Lady which was to open the following year. After lunch, I persuaded Fritz to allow me to make one stop on the way to the airport.

A few weeks earlier while we were in Paris, as I walked out of the hotel I saw the most extraordinary automobile I had ever beheld. I had never been, and am not now, a car buff, but this was something celestial. It was a convertible Rolls Royce. I had never seen one before and I later discovered it was the first of its kind Rolls had made. When we finished lunch with Binkie, we had about one hour to get to the airport to catch the plane. The stop I made was at the Rolls Royce showroom on Conduit Street. Rushing up to a tall, reserved, middle-aged salesman, I quickly asked him if he knew about that car I had seen in Paris. He did indeed know all about it. I said I wanted one. He said it would take a year to make. I told him that would be quite all right and could I please see the color chart. I immediately picked out a dark, royal blue with a beige hood. Fritz stared at me, dumbfounded. I was so enthusiastic I said to him: “You must get one, too.” Fritz replied: “What for? I don’t want one.” To which I answered: “Maybe you don’t now. But when I have one and you don’t, you’ll be sore as hell. Pick out a color!” By this time Fritz was as dazed as the salesman. He pointed to a battleship grey and I said to the salesman: “That’s it. The grey one for Mr. Loewe and the blue one for me. We have no more time to discuss details. We have to catch a plane. Louis Dreyfus (the co-owner of Chappell Music, our publisher) will be in touch with you tomorrow to confirm the order.” With that I grabbed Fritz by the arm, ran out of the showroom and off we went to the airport. The entire transaction had taken less than five minutes. When we arrived in California, I called Louis Dreyfus who thought the whole story was very amusing and said he would follow it up.

The story of the two Rolls Royces made the rounds and, as usual, became distorted. One day I picked up a newspaper where it was reported that we had bought two Rolls Royces in five minutes, and that when I reached for my checkbook, Fritz took out his and said: “I’ll get this. You paid for lunch.”!!

We later found out that the other salesmen in Conduit Street thought the man who had taken our order had suddenly gone crackers. Two wild Americans dashing in and buying two Rolls Royces in five minutes? It was a prank! When Louis Dreyfus confirmed the order, our salesman was promoted to manager.

The following May, two weeks after the opening of My Fair Lady at Drury Lane, the cars were ready for delivery. Fritz was not in London at the time, but I was. My plans were to proceed to Paris for a few weeks and then to Switzerland for the rest of the summer. Rolls suggested to me that I would be wise to hire a Rolls chauffeur to tend the car until it and I went to America.

A Rolls chauffeur, I was to discover, is not only thoroughly trained in the care and feeding of a Rolls, but also receives a special graduate course in snobbery. The chap assigned to me was named MacIntosh and he was an honor student in all departments. He was, without question, the most outrageous snob I have ever encountered. Sample: One day he told me that Prince Philip had seen the car just before it was delivered to me and had expressed a desire to have one. I replied that if he wanted one, I was certain he would get one. “Why should he?” said MacIntosh. “After all, before he married the Queen what was he? Nothing but a penniless Greek.”

A day or two after MacIntosh and I arrived in Paris, I had a date for lunch with Art Buchwald, who was then working on the Paris Herald. I was a moment or two late coming downstairs and I found Art standing outside admiring the car and discussing it with MacIntosh. He told me during lunch that he had asked MacIntosh if he might see the motor. “No,” said MacIntosh, “you cannot.” “Why not?” said Art. “Because,” said MacIntosh, “if I raise the bonnet (hood to us) someone might think there was something wrong with the car.” After lunch, Art and I got back into the car and I said to MacIntosh that Mr. Buchwald was most anxious to see the motor, that we both appreciated his strong feelings about raising the bonnet on a public street, and therefore, I suggested, we should go to a quiet spot in the Bois de Boulogne and while I stood guard, perhaps he would condescend to expose the engine. MacIntosh thought that was satisfactory and off we went to the Bois. We found a secluded spot and after I had cased the area and made certain there were no nurses with baby carriages in the vicinity, MacIntosh allowed Art to put his head in and look at the engine.

For the next two weeks, MacIntosh became one of Art’s favorite companions. He even extracted permission from him to write an article on the subject of Rollsmanship, without mentioning, of course, MacIntosh’s name. Before I left Paris, he and MacIntosh had a farewell chat and Art said: “MacIntosh. You and I have become pretty good friends, and I think you know you can trust me.” “Oh yes, sir,” said MacIntosh. “Then tell me something,” said Art, “and I promise it will go no further. In your opinion is Mr. Lerner worthy of a Rolls?” “Yes, indeed,” said MacIntosh. “Why?” asked Art. “Because,” replied MacIntosh, “he is so careless with it.”

In Hollywood, Fritz and I began working on the two missing songs. After we had been there for two weeks, the dailies began to arrive from Paris and we had a chance to see the progress of the filming. Besides Bergerac’s rubber legs, there had been one further disaster. It happened at Maxim’s. Among the splendors of its decor is a tinted glass roof. Vincente had arranged for a boom to be brought into the restaurant which would give him the height to shoot down on to the dance floor. One afternoon he got a little carried away and he and the boom went “crashing through the ceiling.” So I guess Fritz was right.

The dailies looked beautiful. The scenes in Maxim’s were shot with all of Vicente’s customary flare. He has a special fondness for rooms with mirrored walls and in Maxim’s he had a field day. There was only one disturbing omission: there were no close-ups of Louis singing “She’s Not Thinking of Me.” And how can an audience know a song is being sung in someone’s head if one cannot see the head? Facial expressions definitely demand a face. Without a close-up of Louis, all one heard was a disembodied voice which, for all anyone knew, could have been coming from the bandstand, and the whole scene made no sense at all. It was inconceivable that Vincente had overlooked it and we assumed the shots had simply not yet arrived. When Arthur returned, which he did about a week before the shooting in Paris was completed, we asked him about the missing close-ups. He was certain they had been made and were on their way. And so we waited patiently. But the next footage that arrived was only that of Leslie doing “Say a Prayer for Me Tonight.”

When the song had been dropped in New Haven, I was not sad to see it go. I never liked it. Fritz did. I told him I thought it sounded like a cello solo. He said it did sound like a cello solo, but a very nice cello solo. It would never have found its way into Gigi except Fritz, that dirty dog, played it one night for Arthur and Vincente when I was not around, and the following morning I was outvoted three to one.

Vincente decided that Leslie was to sing it to her cat. Leslie did not have a cat, but after extensive auditions Vincente found one to his liking. I do not know the sex of the poor beast, but it was soft, sweet, and gentle. Gentle, that is, until Leslie picked it up to sing to it. Pussy took an instant dislike to her and the moment Leslie’s hands touched it, it turned into the werewolf of Paris and began not only clawing at her face but, of much greater concern to Cecil, her dress. It was suggested they find another cat, but Vincente wanted that one and so onto the set came a bottle of phenobarbitol and poor pussy was drugged until it was a fur piece. When I heard about the incident I told Fritz it was not Leslie’s fault, it was because of the song. The cat obviously had good taste. (It pains me to admit it, but I was wrong: it was one of the most touching moments in the film.)

At the end of the first week in September, filming had been completed in Paris and the members of the company were given eight days off for traveling and relocating themselves in California. They were all grateful for the time and disappeared. All but Maurice. The day after shooting closed down, he flew to California and bright and early the following morning he called Fritz and me to begin work on “I’m Glad I’m Not Young Any More.” Naturally.

By mid-week all the dailies were in—but still no close-ups of Louis. It was bewildering. Somehow Vincente had forgotten to shoot them. Without them the scene in Maxim’s was beautiful but pointless, and Arthur was left with but one choice. After the expense of five days’ shooting in Maxim’s, plus the cost of repairing the ceiling, Maxim’s had to be rebuilt on the MGM lot to film Louis in close-up. But by the time the set was built and Vincente had finished shooting the scenes in Gigi’s apartment, he had no more time to give Gigi. He was obligated to return to Paris to begin The Reluctant Debutant starring none other than Rex Harrison. It could not be postponed as Rex had to be finished in time to go into rehearsal with My Fair Lady in London—which is the sort of coincidence that may delight the Hindu mind but drives the Occidental out of his. To shoot the close-ups of Louis, Arthur called in Charles (Chuck) Walters, a well-known director of MGM musicals who had directed Easter Parade for him. Chuck filmed that scene and later on “The Night They Invented Champagne.”

Because we were in Hollywood and had the luxury of time, both “Champagne” and “I’m Glad I’m Not Young Any More” were pre-recorded with orchestra. When Maurice did his, he asked me to come with him and sit in the control room. After the first take, I went out into the recording studio and congratulated him. I told him it was perfect. He said to me: “How was the accent?” I said: “I understood every word.” Maurice said: “That’s not what I mean. Was there enough?”

Leslie had recorded “The Parisians” and “Say a Prayer for Me Tonight” in Paris and joined Hermione and Louis in doing “Champagne” in Hollywood. Leslie is not only a superb dancer but a fine actress, and so it is not a criticism of her talent to say that her singing voice is not up to scratch, or, if you will, too much up to scratch. To put it bluntly, it was not a pretty noise. Unfortunately she did not hear it that way. In the land of the stars, the gift for auditory illusion is not uncommon. Some of the most discriminating and perceptive artists I know, Audrey Hepburn for example, can sit in a control room, listen to a sadly inadequate singing voice, and somewhere between the inner ear and the cortex convert it to Joan Sutherland. Leslie heard Edith Piaf. There was no question she had to be dubbed and Fritz and I mentioned it, somewhat vehemently I might add, to Arthur. Arthur was in complete agreement but like so many executives he was incapable of telling one of his stars something he or she did not wish to hear. André found a girl who sounded like Leslie and a recording date was made for her to dub the songs.

I was on the set the day before, talking to Leslie about something inconsequential, when she mentioned in passing that she would be busy all the following day recording. Mon Dieu! I thought. Arthur has not told her. Back I scurried to Arthur’s office.

AJL: Arthur! Did you tell Leslie we’re not going to use her voice?

FREED: I spoke to Oscar this morning. [Who cares?!]

AJL: Arthur, you’ve got to tell her. She’s going to turn up at the studio tomorrow morning and it’s going to be mayhem.

FREED: Don’t worry. Are you going to the Gershwins tonight?

AJL: Would you like me to tell her?

FREED: Tell who?

AJL: Tell Leslie she’s going to be dubbed.

FREED: I’ve bought the kids’ play. [The Bells Are Ringing by Adolph Green and Betty Comden]

AJL: She’s got to be told.

FREED: I’m going to use Judy. [Holliday]

AJL: What about Leslie?

FREED: She’s not right for the part. How about some lunch?

WE exit from his office and pass his secretary.

FREED (To Secretary): I’m going to have lunch and then I’m going down to the set.

(To AJL): Somebody better tell Leslie she’s not singing tomorrow.

Nobody told Leslie she was not singing tomorrow.

The following morning Marne Nixon, a talented singer with a chameleon voice, appeared at the studio to begin recording under André Previn’s supervision. Twenty minutes later Leslie Caron appeared at the studio to begin recording under André Previn’s supervision. It fell upon André to tell Leslie the news. She was furious and doubly so because she had not been forewarned. She immediately called Arthur. There was no escaping it this time. Arthur had to tell her the painful truth.

Back went Leslie into the studio. She was there, she told André, to supervise the recording and to make certain that every line would be sung with her intention and her motivation. By mid-afternoon, Marne Nixon was on the verge of hysteria and André halted the session out of concern for her health. By the following day the worst was over, and at sundown Marne under Leslie’s direction completed the dubbing.

“I’m surprised she took it so hard,” said Arthur.

Many years later I wrote and produced Paint Your Wagon for Paramount. Jean Seberg was the leading lady and she was required to sing one song. She had a nice voice—almost good enough, but not quite. Remembering the incident with Leslie, I immediately went to her and told her she would have to be dubbed. She was unhappy, of course, but she understood. I was again working with André Previn, only this time we were collaborating. Paint Your Wagon was originally a play that Fritz and I had written in 1951. Additional songs were needed for the film, but Fritz, long retired, was unwilling to undertake them. With Fritz’s approval, André agreed to do the few extra songs with me.

Who would sing for Jean Seberg was of special interest to him because it was one of his songs. One day he said to me: “You know, there’s a girl I used to work with years ago named Rita Gordon. I have no idea where she is or what’s happened to her, but as I remember, she sounded very much like Jean.” “Let’s try and find her,” I said. André called around to no avail. He finally checked with the Screen Actors Guild who had an address for her, but no telephone number. André decided to send her a telegram asking her to get in touch with him. He picked up the phone, asked for Western Union and began to dictate his message. “I want to send a telegram,” he said “to Rita Gordon.” He gave the address. There was a long pause, then the girl at Western Union said: “I’m Rita Gordon.” It was Rita Gordon. Unable to find work in her own field, she was now a Western Union operator. The following day she came in to see us: her voice was perfect. And Rita Gordon sang for Jean Seberg in Paint Your Wagon. Such are the miracles of art.

Gigi was finally finished in October and the next two months were spent orchestrating, recording, cutting, editing, putting in the titles, and all the other work that goes into the final print of a film. By the end of January (1958) it was ready for preview.

The first preview of any Hollywood film is called a “sneak” preview. I do not know how much the preview custom has changed in recent years, but at that time a theatre was selected in some small town within reasonable distance of Hollywood, preferably a theatre that was showing a film not too dissimilar to the picture being previewed. Quite obviously, an audience that arrives expecting to see “Godzilla” knocking over some miniature buildings is not the ideal audience to react to a film about the education of a young courtesan at the turn of the century.

Our preview took place in Santa Barbara before a substantially human audience. The heads of all the departments associated with the film were there, except Vincente who was in Paris, and the actors who had gone home. The picture was twenty minutes too long, the action was too slow, the music too creamy and ill-defined, and there must have been at least five minutes (in the theatre that can seem like five hours) of people walking up and down stairs. To Fritz and me it was a very far cry from all we had hoped for, far enough for us both to be desperate. As was the cus tom, the audience was asked to fill out cards in the lobby at the end of the film, which contained astute, psychologically disguised questions such as: What did you think of the film? How did you like Maurice Chevalier? Etcetera. The cards, on the whole, were quite good, which confounded Fritz and me, but did not change our opinion. We could tell that Arthur was as disappointed as we were. The ride home from Santa Barbara was not unlike the ride home from any funeral, and as I sat in the back of the car I suddenly realized for the first time the full implications of the demise of the motion picture studio.

In the halcyon days of Hollywood, stars were under long-term contracts. They were always there. If a picture were previewed and needed work, one could easily reassemble the cast and changes could be made. But with Gigi (and all pictures since) the cast was signed for a precise period of time. When that period of time expired, they departed to the four corners of the world to do other films. In other words, once the film was shown, changes could only be made in the laboratory—by the editor, the sound department, the music department, and all the others involved in the technical production. But no changes of dramatic substance were possible.

Fritz and I, following our usual habit whenever there was trouble, did very little talking that night, got a good night’s sleep, arose early in the morning, ordered breakfast and four pots of coffee, opened up the cigarettes, and began the dual assault on our lungs and the problem. There was no doubt the pitter-patter of little feet running up and down stairs had to go. But we felt that some scenes not only needed cutting, but rewriting. There was no doubt that “I Remember It Well” did not come off at all and had to be reshot. There was no doubt in Fritz’s mind that the orchestrations were far too lush and Hollywooden and did not have the sharp, brilliant tone of a smaller orchestra—something that sounded more like the theatre than motion pictures. The orchestrations could be done again. But what about the scenes? Where were the actors? Could they come back? Could we re-shoot? How much would it cost?

Over to MGM we went. We found Arthur trying to be optimistic, probably to keep our spirits up, but obviously as depressed as we were. There was little disagreement between us what had to be done. Arthur had even totted up the bill and the repairs came to $330,000, which was 10 percent of the budget. In no way did he believe the studio would cough up one more dime. But he made an appointment for all of us to meet with Benny Thau at noon.

Fritz and I went out for a walk to decide on some plan of action. We had no financial stake in the film: we had both been paid a salary. But we were determined that the picture not be released the way it was. We finally decided on a strategy.

CUT to Mr. Thau’s Office.

CAST: Benny Thau, Arthur, Fritz, and AJL.

We read off the list of artistic ills and Arthur mentioned the figure required to cure them. Mr. Thau did not say no, but the way he did not say yes meant no. It was time for the pre-arranged strategy. Fritz and I spoke up—not in unison, of course, but in alternate sentences. We said: “Benny, we would like to buy 10 percent of Gigi for $300,000.” Arthur was astounded. So was Benny. He thought for a long moment and finally made a decision. His decision was to call Mr. Joe Vogel in New York, the head of the company, and let him make the decision. Mr. Vogel said he would come to the coast to discuss the matter, but first he wished to see a preview himself.

While awaiting his arrival, fifteen minutes or so were cut and we had another preview with Mr. Vogel present. The picture was obviously better, but to Fritz and me still not good. But Mr. Vogel liked it, and everyone else was pleased with the improvements. Fritz and I were fearful that our little group was about to fall into one of those traps we knew so well from the theatre. When something is bad and gets better, one begins to think it is now good, when all it is is less bad.

The next day we met with Mr. Vogel and told him of our continuing concern and repeated our offer. He told us that it was against studio policy to allow outside financial participation and that, furthermore, he did not think any reshooting was necessary. The picture was good and it was to be released as it was. Fritz and I disagreed and asked if we could continue the discussion after lunch.

Out on to the MGM lot we went again. What to do? Finally, I asked Fritz if he were willing to gamble on a grand gesture. The key word here was gamble, something Fritz could never resist.

CUT to Mr. Vogel’s office—after lunch.

CAST: Joe Vogel, Benny Thau, Arthur, Fritz, and AJL

“Joe,” I said. “Fritz and I would like to buy the print of Gigi for $3 million.” “I beg your pardon?” said Vogel. Fritz repeated it. “We would like to buy this, what-do-you-call-it? . . .” “Print,” I said. “Yes,” said Fritz. “This print for $3 million.”

Vogel, Thau, and Arthur turned to stone. During this petrified silence I think it only fair to mention that Fritz and I did not have $3 million, did not know where we would get three million dollars, and if Joe Vogel agreed, had no idea what in God’s name we were going to do. When Vogel at last spoke up, he asked if he, Mr. Thau, and Arthur could be excused for a few moments to confer. Fritz and I graciously agreed and exited.

CUT to men’s room.

FRITZ: (At the washstand, following nervous relief) Dear boy, where the fuck are we going to get $3 million?

AJL: We don’t know. Don’t you remember?

FRITZ: Don’t remind me.

AJL: What about Bill Paley?

FRITZ: Bill Paley?! Put $3 million in a picture which isn’t very good? My boy, he’s not an idiot. Who would make such an offer?

AJL: We just did.

FRITZ: That’s because we don’t have $3 million. Bill Paley has. That’s a big difference.

Washing up continues in troubled silence.

CUT to Mr. Vogel’s office—five minutes later.

(Same cast)

Joe Vogel spoke immediately. I do not remember his actual words, but I do remember the essence of what he said and it was this: he was deeply impressed by our sincerity and faith in the film. He was also deeply impressed with the success of My Fair Lady. And if we both felt as strongly as we did, the studio had no alternative but to put up the necessary $300,000.

CUT to Men’s room—for further relief.

Fade out.

Maurice was in Paris. Hermione was in New York. Leslie was in London. And Louis, Arthur, Fritz, and I were in California. Maurice and Hermione returned and “I Remember It Well” was reshot by Chuck Walters against a rather badly painted sunset drop, which did not matter at all and which proved again that the close-up, not scenery, is motion pictures’ greatest individual contribution to the dramatic arts.

Two key scenes in Gigi’s house, which involved Hermione, Louis, and Leslie were rewritten, sharpened, and trimmed, and when Leslie arrived from London Chuck Walters reshot them.

Fritz went over all the orchestrations with André from the lion’s roar at the very beginning to the final frame before “The End.” André was in total agreement with Fritz’s concept of a small orchestra, and the entire film was re-orchestrated.

The picture was gone over inch by inch in the projection room and every unnecessary line or visual effect was deleted: and the ice-skating scene in the Palais de Glace was vastly improved by finding other angles that had not been used. For that kind of painstaking work I have never known anyone with better judgment or a more unerring eye than Arthur Freed. It was here that he was at his most creative and most positive.

Several weeks later the picture was ready to be previewed again. It was a memorable evening. By the grace of God, all the steps we had taken had been in the right direction. The reaction of the audience dramatically changed from appreciation to affection. The studio still passed out those demented cards in the lobby, but it was not necessary to read them. We had all been a part of their spontaneous involvement. We had seen them with tears in their eyes at the moment there should have been tears in their eyes. And we had heard their applause at the end.

Being relative neophytes, Fritz and I had no idea what the universal reaction would be. All we could say to each other was that it was at long last Gigi.

Gigi opened in New York in the spring of 1958. It had been decided to treat it more as a theatrical event than a motion picture. Consequently it did not open in a motion picture theatre but a theatre theatre, the Royale, with reserved seats only.

I was not present: I was in London preparing for the opening of My Fair Lady at Drury Lane. The first review I saw was published two days before the film opened. It was in Time magazine and it was dreadful. Fritz was in New York, still in an oxygen tent, and when I read it I wished I were there with him. Fortunately it was the last bad review the film received. The New York press embraced it warmly and Gigi began its long and happy life.

From the late winter to the early spring of every year, it is award time in the motion picture industry. Among the most prominent are the Screenwriters Guild, which gives an award for the best dramatic screenplay, the best comedy, and the best musical screenplay; the Directors Guild which gives an award for the best direction; the Foreign Press Association which gives a series of awards (known as the Golden Globe because it is a golden globe) for excellence in almost every branch of motion picture production; and in New York, the New York Film Critics vote on the best film, the best acting, and the best direction.

Finally, with the first blush of spring, the voice of the Oscar is heard in the land.

Officially its donor is the Motion Picture Academy, and it is the most widely known of any accolade bestowed in any country upon any branch of the performing arts. Besides the artistic recognition, the fame of the Academy Award is such that it has been estimated it adds a minimum of $1 million to the gross revenue of the winning film.

The Oscar season begins about six to eight weeks before the fateful night with the announcement of the nominations. The announcement is immediately followed by a series of advertisements that appear in the two Hollywood trade papers, Daily Variety and the Hollywood Reports, in which the studios of each nominee or nominees congratulate him or them. This is followed by another series of advertisements in which the producers of the various films congratulate the actors, directors, creators, and technicians who have been nominated. Following that comes another set of advertisements in which the nominated actors, directors, creators, and technicians thank the studios for the opportunities they have been given. In the final series, the various recording companies who have released the soundtrack albums and the music publishers congratulate the composers who have been nominated—and the composers and lyric writers then thank the studios and the producers. Simultaneously with the well-advertised congratulations and gratitude, the Directors Guild, which has its own theatre, shows on successive nights every film that has figured in any of the various nominations. Press agents work overtime, scheduling interviews with the newspapers for their nominated clients and arranging personal appearances on radio and television. Behind the scenes, friends of nominees call other friends to solicit their votes, and each studio which has anyone nominated lets it be known that it expects every man on the lot to do his duty.

Despite all this huckstering, the ballot is a secret one and no one knows who votes for whom, much less who is the winner. When the envelopes, sealed by the accounting firm of Price Waterhouse, are opened on Academy Award Night, there is no one connected with the motion picture industry who knows the names contained therein.

It is bromidically simple to be cynical about all the shenanigans leading up to the awards—if one is not among those competing. But for those who have been nominated, cynicism is only a form of self-protection that wears thinner and thinner as The Big Night approaches, and disappears completely when the hour arrives and one enters the arena.

The nominations for the Best Picture of 1958 that were announced in the closing days of winter 1959 were Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Auntie Mame, The Defiant Ones, Separate Tables, and Gigi. Besides the nomination for Best Picture, Gigi also was nominated in eight other categories: for Direction, Costume Design, Editing, Scoring, Best Song, “Gigi,” and Best Screenplay and Best Sound. Oddly enough, not one actor was nominated.

On the night of April 6, the Academy Awards took place at the RKO Pantages Theatre. During the day all the nominees were assembled at the theatre and given minute instructions about how to reach the stage, where the microphone would be placed and on which side of the stage to exit. We then all returned to our respective dwellings to slip into the black tie and shimmering gown. Fritz and I were staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel and there is no sense in pretending that I was not excited. I was. Fritz, however, because of his recent coronary, was determined to stay calm and somehow he managed to do so, assisted either by something given him by his doctor or something given him by the bartender.

We returned to the theatre at the appointed hour. The streets were lined with fans, the Klieg lights were shining from across the street, and for all the world it could have been one of those famous Hollywood openings about which one used to read in the twenties and thirties. The ceremony was being televised by NBC and inside the theatre its cameras lined the walls. We made our way to our seats, which happened to be in the second row. To my great delight, André was sitting on the other side of me. Finally the lights dimmed, the overture began, and I started preparing myself to be a good loser. Fritz had decided to be a very old and wise man that night and said very little, but at the last moment he, André and I quietly wished each other good luck.

After the usual fanfare, the speeches of welcome by the master of ceremonies and the president of the Academy, and the expected monologue by a comedian, the evening settled down to business. One by one the envelopes were opened, and in the categories for which Gigi had been nominated, one by one the winner was Gigi. After the first three, one can feel a sweep in the making and despite all my efforts to remain detached and pessimistic, I could feel my metabolism begin to change, my hands grow colder and the rest of my body warmer.

It has always been the custom for every winner to thank everyone from the head of the studio to his uncle Julius in Pittsburgh. I made up my mind that if I were included in the landslide the best way I could thank the Academy was to spare them that endless list, say my thank you in one sentence and get off. When my name came up for the Best Screenplay (based on material from another medium, as opposed to Best Original Screenplay), I did just that. A few moments later when Gigi was announced for the Best Song, back I went and simply added an “again” to whatever I had said before. I could have taken more time, however, because Fritz, still playing old and wise, came up the steps very, very slowly, and when I heard what he said I could have crowned him with the Oscar. Said Fritz, after a long historic pause: “I want to thank you all from the bottom of my somewhat damaged heart.”

We had been told to exit stage right, meaning audience left, and I had done so a few minutes earlier. I was so rattled by his acceptance speech, however, that I began to exit in the wrong direction and had to be pulled back and re-aimed. Fortunately, the prickle left my skin when Vincente won for best direction and my teeth stopped aching when I heard the name Gigi announced for the Best Picture. As if nine Academy Awards were not enough, Maurice Chevalier was given a Special Award for all the joy he had brought to the screen during his lifetime. Gigi won ten Oscars, the largest number ever received by any film in the thirty-one years of Academy Award History.

It was also the first time in the thirty-one years of Academy Award history that the singer (Tony Martin) chosen to sing the winning song forgot the lyrics. To the vast viewing audience, the second half of the best lyric of the year went: “Gigi, la-la-la-la-do-do-do-do, la-la-la la-do-do-do-do, la-la-la-la, Oh Gigi, la-la-la” etc.

It was very avant garde.

By 1958 the war babies were barely reaching the age of puberty, and the days of instant art and the broken eardrum had still not descended upon the land. Melody and the English language had not yet been outlawed and a cast album could still find favor in the public marketplace. The soundtrack of Gigi soon rose to number one and remained among the top three best-selling albums for over a year. Its total sale to date is somewhere north of two million albums. The title song survived the adolescent, gorilla warfare of rock and roll and remains to this day among the fifty most played songs in the world. It is worth noting, incidentally, that a goodly number of the permanent members of that honored list are not, as one might expect, of recent vintage, but were written by such composers as Gershwin, Rodgers, Berlin, and Porter.

As for the financial fate of the film itself, it cost a little over $3 million to make and as of this writing has returned to the studio something in the vicinity of $16 million. But before one leans against the wall to keep one’s balance as the vision of a $13 million profit swims before the eyes, allow me quickly to correct this altogether reasonable assumption.

A finished film is called “the negative.” Why it is called the negative I do not know. It is obviously not a negative, but a developed print. However, we humans seem to enjoy the dim view. We prefer to “descend” from the ape rather than “ascend.” The cost of the negative is multiplied by 250 percent to cover the costs of advertis ing, prints, and distribution, and this figure becomes the official studio cost of the film. In other words if the negative of Gigi cost $3 million it would be multiplied by 2.5 and the studio would record Gigi in its books as costing $7.5 million.

How, you may ask, does the studio arrive at this fascinating figure? After all, no matter how much the film may have cost, the advertising rates are stable: so much per line; so much per half page or full page. The factory that manufactures duplicates of the negative charges the same per foot if there are two people on the film or two hundred thousand.

And what exactly are distribution costs? Well, let us say a motion picture company has an office in Chicago, whose business it is to supervise the advertising of the picture in that area and keep a watchful eye on the way it is presented in the local theatres. The people in the office must be paid. The landlord will insist upon his rent. The telephone company will not permit the use of its services without remuneration. All of that is part of the cost of distribution in the Chicago area. All well and good, yes? Ah, but suppose the film company has five films to be distributed in the Chicago area. Is the cost of the office divided by five, with each film donating a fifth? No, no, no, no. The cost is multiplied by five because each film is charged with the entire cost of the office. Well then, you say, where goeth the extra four salaries, four rents, etcetera? Into whose pocket do they fall? The answer to that and all other baffling questions concerning advertising, printing distribution can only be found in the I Ching Division of the motion picture company’s accounting department. I say the answers can be found, not that they will be found. The accounting departments of motion picture companies are the moors of high finance, the quicksand of profit.

The purpose, however, is simplistically clear. It is to reduce the profit—on paper, that is—thereby trimming the taxes and reducing to the shadiest possible minimum the money that is owed to those who have percentage of the film. In the case of Gigi, Arthur had a percentage.

Today, every star, well-known director, and frequently the author of the book or play on which the film is based, have participating interests. So one can see the incalculable benefit it is to a motion picture company to have a well-trained corps of bandits in the bookkeeping department. Warner Brothers, for instance, purchased the film rights to Camelot and Fritz and I own a percentage of the profits. The financial statement included the usual fee for prints, advertising, and distribution, but because there was still a possibility the film might somehow emerge from the red, there appeared on the statement of the cost of the negative an additional item. It said: Miscellaneous—$2 million. The studio adds 25 percent to the cost of each film for the use of its facilities. So the $2 million became $2.5 million. When it was multiplied by 2.5 it became $6.25 million. Ergo, no profits for Fritz and Alan.

Ah, Willie Sutton! Ah, Bernie Cornfield! Had you only known that there is a place in this world where your genius would be appreciated! Where your unique gifts could thrive with complete immunity—in the bright sunlight of respectability—without fear of penalty, punishment, or prison!

Arthur Freed produced one more musical, The Bells Are Ringing. Closing his eyes to the crumbling reality around him, he continued planning and dreaming as some men must. But time and change are invincible foes. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the home of the stars and the fountainhead of screen musicals, passed to different management who auctioned off every costume, portable artifact, and memento, and within a few years all that remained of its once royal past was the roar of the celluloid lion, occasionally heard on a film made for television or one whose destiny it would be.

MGM was not alone. The legendary Hollywood studio slipped into history. The backlot of Twentieth Century Fox became a housing development for high rise office buildings. RKO was sold to Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz for television production. All the great sound stages, recording studios, and scenic facilities of all the studios were ignominiously reduced to the mass manufacture of living room entertainment. Even the Hollywood gossip columnist died from malnutrition.

For so many years the most derogatory critical epithet that could be hurled at a film was to call it “Hollywood.” It still happens, but to do so today is like joining a protest march against Pompeii.

I entered the Hollywood scene shortly before its demise, but I saw enough to make me wish it were still there. I wish there still were talent scouts combing the country in search of a pretty face or a handsome profile to bring to Hollywood, train and educate, give continuity to a career until one day a new name might appear above the title of a film. I cannot find it in my heart to despise glamor. I cannot forget a day when I was having lunch with Arthur Freed in the vast MGM commissary. It was filled with cowboys, Roman soldiers, ladies in hoop skirts, and technicians from all departments. Arthur’s table was against the farthest wall and I was sitting with my back to the distant door. Suddenly, for a reason I cannot explain or identify, an impulse compelled me to turn around and look toward the entrance. Clark Gable had just walked in.

Arthur died in the spring of 1973. It was a small funeral. Not many of the old unit were there. He had wanted desperately to produce the film version of My Fair Lady, but the studio, or what was left of it, was in no position to undertake it. There is no doubt in my mind it would have been a far better film had it been an Arthur Freed production.