John Wayne _ The Man Behind the Myth - Michael Munn [167]
January 1974, took the day off work from ABC-EMI Cinemas where I was a bored press officer, and headed for Heathrow. I took with me a black-and-white 8 x 10 still of John Wayne, tucked in a manila envelope, which I knew I had no chance of getting signed.
A considerable crowd of fans along with the press had gathered at terminal three to greet John Wayne. I mingled in with various officials at customs, wearing an ABC-EMI identity pass which a print company I knew had kindly produced for me.
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Somebody announced, “His plane’s just touched down.” The press, the crowd, and I sort of surged forward with nowhere to go, simply because there was a buzz of real excitement all about. Finally, through customs, came the Duke, suitably wearing a white ten-gallon hat.
He called out “Howdy,” and handed out cards on which he’d written, “Good Luck—John Wayne.” “I wrote them out on the plane coming over,” he said. “I figured I ought to have them ready just in case.”
As he removed his hat, his toupee looked in need of a quick brush up and his personal hairdresser immediately moved in to smooth it down. Wayne simply kept him at bay and said, “What the hell’s the point of that? They’ve already got their pictures. Jeez, by now I reckon the public can accept any defects I got. I’m not a young man anymore.”
That was certainly true. In the flesh, he looked older than his sixty-six years. The face was craggy, the body a little bloated, and the eyes seemed watery. But it did not diminish the man’s exceptional charisma.
I pushed my way forward, announced, “Mike Munn, EMI,” and shook him by the hand. It was a huge paw of a hand. He smiled, hardly looked at me as others pressed in for a handshake too, and he moved on. I’d met John Wayne. The Duke. And I’d shaken his hand.
I was only twenty at the time and, as you can tell, deeply in awe of this living legend.
His PR man, who was called Max, led the way, finding him a chair to sit in—he almost seemed too big for it—and there he held court to answer questions from the British press. When that was over, he rose and walked outside to a waiting Daimler with the press, the fans, me, and the various PR men in hot pursuit. Somehow I managed to get to the car before he got in, and allowing myself the luxury of just being a young fan in the presence of Hollywood greatness, I told him, “The Alamo is one of my favorite films, Mr. Wayne.”
He grinned, turned back to the reporters, and told them, “It’s damn good to see the young people like me.”
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Bros. were determined to get as much PR mileage out of him as possible and arranged a huge press junket at Grosvenor House in London that same day. I arrived at the Grosvenor to find it packed with reporters and photographers, all seemingly just as excited as I was, awaiting the arrival of John Wayne.
Finally, the moment came when Wayne, accompanied by Max, walked in, and he was immediately ambushed by photographers.
“John! Over here!” “Look this way, Duke!” “Smile this way, Mr.
Wayne!” “Duke, how about that famous grin?”
He handled it all with aplomb. “Fire that thing!” he said, looking at one camera. He turned to another; “Fire that thing!” He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
Max, and several other official bodies, including Eddie Patman, director of publicity for Warner Bros., formed a posse around him as the mass of reporters moved in on him with their questions, most of which he’d answered a hundred times before like, “How did you get the nickname Duke?” and “Who invented the name John Wayne?”
Some reporters opted to ask about politics, picking on the fact that he had been an avid supporter of President Nixon and had supported America’s involvement in the Vietnam War.