John Wayne _ The Man Behind the Myth - Michael Munn [1]
My affection grew when I met Wayne. I spent several days on the set of his only British film, Brannigan, which was filmed in London in the summer of 1974. The first day was spent largely in his trailer—just me and the Duke—talking about his life and work, and he also wanted to know all about me.
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He took a liking to me, partly because I simply wanted to know everything I could learn about the filmmaking business he loved so much. My ambition in those days was to write and direct films. I think too he was impressed by my knowledge of his career and he patiently answered the countless questions I put to him. I knew that Wayne knew as much about moviemaking as anyone, but he said,
“Kid, you’re talking to the wrong fella. You wanna speak to
[Howard] Hawks, or [Raoul] Walsh, or [Henry] Hathaway. It’s a goddamn shame you didn’t get the chance to speak to Pappy.” I knew that when he spoke of “Pappy”—sometimes he called him
“Coach”—he meant John Ford who had died the previous year.
He also listened while I made observations about his work, both positive and negative. Not once was he patronizing. He asked—or maybe he told— Brannigan’s director Douglas Hickox that I should be allowed to spend several days on the set of the film to observe the process of filmmaking. That way, I got to know Wayne better than I ever dreamed was possible.
Another reason for my affection was the fact that we shed a few tears together. That’s not the kind of experience you can have and remain unaffected.
Being with John Wayne was a bit like being in a John Wayne film, because what you see on screen is pretty much what you get in real life. When I told him, “You somehow feel like you’re an old friend to me,” he said, “That’s how I hope young people— and older people—think of me. When you come to see a picture of mine, I want you to know that I’m not going to do anything that will make you uncomfortable. I want you to know that you won’t be disappointed in me. You may not like every film, and I’ve certainly made some stinkers, but it’s important to me that my fans will always come back because they know I won’t be mean, I won’t be small, and like an old friend, I won’t let them down.”
During the days I spent on the set, I tried not to make a nuisance of myself by being in Wayne’s face all the time. Every time he passed by me, he said, “Hi, kid, how ya doing?” and every day he made the effort to talk to me over a cup of coffee. He made me feel I was his friend. He’d ask me what I thought of the latest scene. I actually knew a bit about moviemaking because I’d worked with 21184_ch00.i-xiv.qxd 12/18/03 1:41 PM Page xi FOREWORD
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John Huston a bit, and I’d give my honest opinion. When a scene was being shot in Piccadilly Circus in which a red letter box (or
“mailbox,” if you’re American) was used, I told Wayne that a letter box would not be located on a pedestrian island the way it was for the scene. He listened attentively with his arms crossed, and said,
“You’re right. But we’ve got to show the American audience London landmarks they recognize, or they won’t believe it’s London. And there was nowhere else to put the damn thing.”
No matter what I said, he never put me down. Occasionally he said, “That’s a damn good idea, kid. I’ll talk to Hickox.” I’ve no idea if any suggestions I made were actually used. But he somehow managed to make me feel important. How could I not feel affection for him?
Curiously, the idea to write this book partly came from Wayne back in 1974. I was already thinking of trying my hand at journalism, having been in film publicity since 1969 (which was the year Bob Hope told me that I was so nosy, I ought to be a reporter). I was always asking questions of everyone in the business, and I had learned a very valuable lesson early on from my boss at Cinerama, where I began working in the film industry in 1969 as a messenger boy. He told me to