moment arrived! I was summoned to the office of the head of the studio and its founder, the almighty Colonel Stanley Gold. My secretary cleaned some spots off my shirt and borrowed a necktie and jacket for me.
The opulence of Gold’s office was staggering. The array of “yes” men seemed like something out of a really bad movie. Gold had earned his rank during the war when patriotic fever swept the town.
“Find out what rank they gave Zanuck and Jack Warner.”
Thus, Colonel Gold.
“Hell of a piece of work, Zadok. We’d like you to carry on with a second-draft screenplay.”
Bingo! I was counting the money. Val! We’re rich!
“Cut this thing down to two pounds,” Gold continued, pointing to the screenplay. On cue laughter broke out, led by von Dortann.
Stanley Gold was in a folksy mood, retelling a story to me about how his family ran a butcher shop in Chicago and how they cheated their “colored” customers by putting their thumb on the scale when they weighed the meat. More laughter.
He cleared his throat and the entourage leaped to its collective feet. The audience with his eminence was over.
“It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Colonel,” I said, “but the next time you buy one of my books, keep your fucking thumb off the scale.”
Everyone turned a pale shade of green in unison, while the Colonel mulled that one over. He finally decided it was funny and burst into laughter, at which time the ten others present also burst into laughter.
I HAD A strange, wild, and unique situation working for me at Pacific. For a number of years after the war, many military films had been uncomplimentary to the services. From Here to Eternity, The Caine Mutiny, and a number of others stuck in the craw of the Defense Department. It all came to a boil when Metro did a picture called Take the High Ground. The Defense Department found it too anti-Army and stopped all further cooperation with the studios.
Unless the Army, Navy, Marines, and Air Force provided masses of men, guns, tanks, ships, planes, and equipment, the cost of the big war film was too much for the studios to bear.
Thus far Pacific Studios had been clean and everyone was keeping an eye on Of Men in Battle. I was sent back to Washington to go over the script with the Marine Corps and take out the objectionable parts.
The Corps didn’t find a hell of a lot wrong. At the end of an easy week, I was ushered into the commandant’s office. It was down to PFC Zadok and a four-star general.
“My first duty is to the Corps, sir,” I told him. “If the studio gets out of line, I’ll let you know immediately.”
The Marines had benefited greatly from the novel. I was one of theirs and they trusted me. I returned to Pacific with a golden club to hold over the Colonel’s head.
At one point the studio tried to deviate from my screenplay by secretly putting on another writer. I walked out of the studio, leaving a two-word letter on my desk; namely, “I quit.” The next day I was implored to return. The Corps had expressed its displeasure.
“We feel that it is in everyone’s best interest to keep Zadok on through the filming.”
What the hell. The Corps was allowing Pacific to have eight cameras film their maneuvers and landing on Vieques Island in the Caribbean.
Colonel Gold got the message. I don’t know whether von Dortann had hired another writer on his own volition or on orders from the studio. I do know he was removed from the film and I suddenly functioned as a part-time producer, in on everything from casting to the final cut. That’s the way it goes in this town. When you fly, you fly.
While the picture was being filmed, the studio pulled out several shelved screenplays for me to putter around with. Two dead projects were revived and one of them made it to the cameras and gained me a reputation as a script doctor.
Then came my ultimate coup. I was working late in one of the cutting rooms with the Colonel and we both got blasted and
The opulence of Gold’s office was staggering. The array of “yes” men seemed like something out of a really bad movie. Gold had earned his rank during the war when patriotic fever swept the town.
“Find out what rank they gave Zanuck and Jack Warner.”
Thus, Colonel Gold.
“Hell of a piece of work, Zadok. We’d like you to carry on with a second-draft screenplay.”
Bingo! I was counting the money. Val! We’re rich!
“Cut this thing down to two pounds,” Gold continued, pointing to the screenplay. On cue laughter broke out, led by von Dortann.
Stanley Gold was in a folksy mood, retelling a story to me about how his family ran a butcher shop in Chicago and how they cheated their “colored” customers by putting their thumb on the scale when they weighed the meat. More laughter.
He cleared his throat and the entourage leaped to its collective feet. The audience with his eminence was over.
“It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Colonel,” I said, “but the next time you buy one of my books, keep your fucking thumb off the scale.”
Everyone turned a pale shade of green in unison, while the Colonel mulled that one over. He finally decided it was funny and burst into laughter, at which time the ten others present also burst into laughter.
I HAD A strange, wild, and unique situation working for me at Pacific. For a number of years after the war, many military films had been uncomplimentary to the services. From Here to Eternity, The Caine Mutiny, and a number of others stuck in the craw of the Defense Department. It all came to a boil when Metro did a picture called Take the High Ground. The Defense Department found it too anti-Army and stopped all further cooperation with the studios.
Unless the Army, Navy, Marines, and Air Force provided masses of men, guns, tanks, ships, planes, and equipment, the cost of the big war film was too much for the studios to bear.
Thus far Pacific Studios had been clean and everyone was keeping an eye on Of Men in Battle. I was sent back to Washington to go over the script with the Marine Corps and take out the objectionable parts.
The Corps didn’t find a hell of a lot wrong. At the end of an easy week, I was ushered into the commandant’s office. It was down to PFC Zadok and a four-star general.
“My first duty is to the Corps, sir,” I told him. “If the studio gets out of line, I’ll let you know immediately.”
The Marines had benefited greatly from the novel. I was one of theirs and they trusted me. I returned to Pacific with a golden club to hold over the Colonel’s head.
At one point the studio tried to deviate from my screenplay by secretly putting on another writer. I walked out of the studio, leaving a two-word letter on my desk; namely, “I quit.” The next day I was implored to return. The Corps had expressed its displeasure.
“We feel that it is in everyone’s best interest to keep Zadok on through the filming.”
What the hell. The Corps was allowing Pacific to have eight cameras film their maneuvers and landing on Vieques Island in the Caribbean.
Colonel Gold got the message. I don’t know whether von Dortann had hired another writer on his own volition or on orders from the studio. I do know he was removed from the film and I suddenly functioned as a part-time producer, in on everything from casting to the final cut. That’s the way it goes in this town. When you fly, you fly.
While the picture was being filmed, the studio pulled out several shelved screenplays for me to putter around with. Two dead projects were revived and one of them made it to the cameras and gained me a reputation as a script doctor.
Then came my ultimate coup. I was working late in one of the cutting rooms with the Colonel and we both got blasted and
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