When I arrived in America somewhat over 30 years ago to make Rebecca, my first English picture in America, I found myself a minor figure in a vast film industry made up of entrepreneurs who headed the studios, and I became involved in the making of a picture under the producer system.
In those days the individual producer was the man who made the pictures. He was king. The director, the writers, actors, designers, and the like were all subject to his taste and approval. His method usually was to buy, or be handed by the studio head, material for a project. His first job was to “cast” the writer and proceed to put the story into a working script. He would then look around and eventually choose a director. Sometimes, in a major studio, the director would be under contract and therefore assigned at the request of the producer. The same applied to stars and the lesser players. He would then choose what he thought would be the right cameraman for the picture. If the star was an important woman he would choose a “woman’s photographer” (in those days many cameramen owed their high salaries to the fact that they were able to photograph a slightly blemished star’s face and produce something worthy of an illustration on a chocolate-box cover).
My producer at this time was David Selznick, one of the biggest names in the industry, and one of the few important independent producers. It was a matter of luck for me, I suppose, that my English reputation had preceded me, because in my case I found the rules were broken a little. I was permitted to participate in the preparation of the script. This was considerate and flattering, except for one thing—the hours. I have a dim recollection of trying to keep awake at 3 A.M. in the producer’s summerhouse, while attempting to construct a script with the help of the famous playwright, Robert Sherwood. Naturally Selznick dominated the scene—pacing up and down, apparently oblivious to those around him who were nodding off—he did not even notice that the long, lanky Mr. Sherwood, having imbibed somewhat, was trying unsuccessfully to sail a small boat in the swimming pool. By dawn, of course, nothing much had been accomplished, but that was the producer’s way.
I remember, in later years, sitting in Romanoff’s restaurant having dinner with Ben Hecht when he said to me: “Don’t you think we ought to be going? We have to meet Selznick at your house at midnight.” It was now 11:30. I replied, “Don’t worry, Ben, he won’t be there until half-past three.” But Ben insisted we go, and ultimately Selznick turned up. I was 15 minutes wrong. He arrived at 3:15. Kicking off his shoes, he immediately started to pace the room in his stockinged feet. The entire conference lasted 20 minutes.
Now started the actual filming of Rebecca. After I had rehearsed the first scene and was ready to shoot, the script clerk hurried up to me and whispered in my ear. I turned with astonishment. “Yes,” she repeated, “I have to notify Mr. Selznick because he always insists on seeing every scene rehearsed before it is shot.” So we all sat around until he arrived on the set. I thought I was very gracious at the time because, with an airy wave of my hand, I gestured towards the set and the artists and said, “It’s all yours, David” and proceeded to walk away. He came after me. “No, no,” he said apologetically. “I just wanted to see a run-through.” Again I waved my arm. “Go ahead.” We rehearsed the scene and I felt all the while that I had an éminence grise whispering in my ear. “Don’t you think, &c., &c.?” The details were minor. Because of my polite hints, I had very few visits after that. In addition, it was my good fortune that he was extremely busy completing Gone With the Wind.
Another important producer’s instruction was that during the shooting of the picture no retakes of any kind should be attempted, whether these were necessary because of photography or perhaps some inadequately played scene or even something as essential as scratches on the film. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was to be retaken.
“Why not?” I asked.
“It may not be in the picture.” It was explained to me that when the producer had the completely shot material he would then start on what to him was the most important function of all—the reconstruction, the editing, the rewriting, if necessary, the recasting of some minor roles. This was a function in which the director did not play any part whatsoever. As it turned out, in the case of Rebecca there was a certain amount of rewriting and two weeks of retakes—the bulk of which were required because of the telescoping of certain passages in the story line.
I should add, however, that this whole process took place after only the first sneak preview. I was astonished that within a mere two weeks of the finish of shooting, temporary titles and temporary music were put on and this rough assembly was sneaked to the public. It was successful enough for Selznick to remark, “I think we have a hit.” Nevertheless, this made no difference to the process of reshooting that had to be performed.
I think the most flattering remark I ever heard said about me by Selznick was, “he’s the only director that I’d ever trust a picture with.”
Today, with the coming of the international film, this whole way of making pictures is impossible. The components of a picture leave as soon as production is finished. For example, in my last picture, Topaz, I used artists from Sweden, Denmark, Germany, France, Italy, and the United States. What happened when the picture was finished? All the artists disappeared back to their own countries and were very soon engaged in other pictures. No retakes afterwards, no recasting. In other words, the film has to be completely designed on paper first.
The famous producer of the thirties, Irving Thalberg, has been quoted as saying in a recent biography that films are not made, they are remade. (Even Selznick once said to me of Thalberg: “He’s great with a finished picture.”) I wonder how Thalberg would fare today? Are we missing some other stimulus that went with those earlier days—the great movie mogul, for example? Only a few days ago, I read in the Wall Street Journal a complaint by a stockbroker deploring a multi-million dollar loss by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. What, he asked, could one expect of the company’s future when its head was a distiller and its second-in-command a food merchant? Yet this great industry was started by glove salesmen, furriers, scrap-iron merchants, all of whom came into this growing business with surging enthusiasms for the medium.
What has taken their place? Because today the industry shows us a very different picture. What has emerged in the past 10 years is known as the package deal. It would seem that anyone can be a producer, provided he is able to purchase a property, interest a star, and “put it together.”
He could take this package to a studio and, if they were sufficiently interested, secure the financial backing. These producers could be either the agent of the star, the lawyer, the brother-in-law, or even the wife. After all, we drink instant coffee today, eat instant mashed potatoes, why should not we have instant producers? And so we have entered the hit-and-miss era of picture-making.
Naturally the main survivors are the purely creative people: producers-directors, writer-directors, producer-writers, and so on.
We are told that the audience today is fickle, and does not know what it wants to see. Perhaps it is our present-day system that is fickle, and does not know what it wants to make. Naturally, new talent must be encourged, but who is to encourage them in the future of the craft of the cinema for world entertainment?
“In the Hall of Mogul Kings” was originally published in the London Times, June 23, 1969, 33.