The Making of Some Like It Hot Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  Part I - The Project

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part II - The People

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part III - The Preproduction

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part IV - The Production

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part V - The Problems

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Part VI - The Previews

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Part VII - The Press

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Part VIII - The Public

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  NOTES

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  INDEX

  Photo Insert

  This book is printed on acid-free paper.

  Copyright © 2009 by Tony Curtis. All rights reserved

  Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Photo insert page 1, United Artists/Photofest; page 7 bottom, Photofest. All other photos in text and insert courtesy of Tony Curtis.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Curtis, Tony.

  The making of “Some like it hot” : my memories of Marilyn Monroe and the classic American movie / Tony Curtis with Mark A. Vieira. p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  eISBN : 978-0-470-56119-5

  1. Some like it hot (Motion picture) 2. Monroe, Marilyn, 1926-1962. I. Vieira, Mark A., 1950- II. Title.

  PN1997.S63328C76 2010

  791.43’72—dc22

  2009028772

  To Marilyn, Jack, and Billy—I wish you were here

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Tony wishes to acknowledge and thank the following:• My wife, Jill, who has the patience and love of a saint. She encouraged me to do this book, and I couldn’t and wouldn’t do any of this without her. I love her dearly.

  • Everyone who worked on Some Like It Hot. Films are collaborative projects. Everyone involved is instrumental in making a film into a work of art. These folks did that and more. They made it one of the best loved in history.

  • Billy Wilder, whose genius changed my life. And his loving and beautiful wife, Audrey, who supported Billy in so many ways and allowed his talent to thrive.

  • Mark A. Vieira, who stepped into this project with the most gusto I’ve seen in a long time. He took control, did massive amounts of research to help my failing memory, and was a joy to work with. He worked his one typing finger to the bone, met the tight schedule we gave him, and told one hell of a story.

  • Alan Nevins, whom I’ve come to admire and enjoy immensely. He conjured the idea for this book while we laughed together backstage at The Bonnie Hunt Show. I love his spirit and his guidance, and now I understand why he came so highly recommended by my Hollywood peers. He’s my agent and my friend. Thank you, handsome!

  And last, but not least, all the girls in Sweet Sue’s band. You know who you are and why I am thanking you. All my love to each and every one of you!

  Mark wishes to acknowledge and thank the following:• The following institutions, archives, and individuals: Dorinda Hartmann, assistant archivist at the Wisconsin Center for Film and Theater Research at the Wisconsin Historical Society; Ned Comstock of the Cinematic Arts Library of the University of Southern California; and Barbara Hall of the Margaret Herrick Library at the Fairbanks Center for Motion Picture Study.

  • Research assistants Karie Bible and Jonathan Quiej.

  • Research helpers and consultants Preston Ahearn, Jack Allen, Dan Auiler, Alison Castle, Paul Diamond, Warren G. Harris, Anthony Mattero, Mike Thomas, and George Zeno.

  • Manuscript reviewers Howard Mandelbaum, Rex McGee, Harvey Stewart, P. R. Tooke, and George Zeno.

  • My literary agent, Alan Nevins, of Renaissance Literary Agency, for his ongoing work on my behalf. I thank Stephen S. Power and Ellen Wright of John Wiley & Sons.

  • Tony Curtis and Jill Curtis for inviting me to collaborate on the story of a lifetime.

  • My parents. It was in a theater in East Oakland that my brother Guy and I saw the coming attractions for Some Like It Hot. Because we had signed the Legion of Decency pledge, my father told us, “Look at the Exit sign!” (And not at M.M.’s nude soufflé.) Thirty years later, I watched the film with my parents on public television. It was worth waiting for. I trust that they would approve of my involvement in this naughty project.

  Introduction

  My name is Tony Curtis. You know me. I’m an actor. I’ve made eighty-eight motion pictures. Some of them are fun. Some are great. Some are classics. I enjoy traveling to festivals and conventions with my lovely wife, Jill. We go to these events and I talk about my pictures. I sit at tables and sign autographs for fans. A lot of them are young people. They weren’t born when I made those pictures. That’s what’s great about movies. They survive. If I’d been on Broadway in 1958 instead of in Hollywood, who would see my work now? But they do, whether it’s in a theater o
r on cable TV or on DVD. Do you know the picture they ask me about the most? Some Like It Hot.

  This movie is a classic, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s in its own category. It’s become part of our culture. Look at the American Film Institute—it’s given Some Like It Hot these ratings:#22 Greatest Movie of All Time

  #14 of the 100 Greatest Movies

  #1 Funniest Movie

  Some people say that Some Like It Hot is the funniest movie ever made. I don’t know. All I know is that it gave me a chance to work with four comic geniuses: I. A. L. Diamond, Jack Lemmon, Billy Wilder, and Marilyn Monroe. It gave me a chance to improve my craft.

  I’d had some success already, but I had an ego. I wanted more. I wanted to be an outstanding movie actor. Some Like It Hot was my chance to show the world what I could do. I played three characters. I had scenes that encompassed action, light comedy, slapstick, and sex. When the movie came out, I felt I’d achieved something. So did Hollywood. After that, I was a major player. I was given roles that both accommodated my talent and stretched it. I’ll always be grateful to Some Like It Hot. It has a special significance for me. It has a unique place in film history.

  I’ve written about the making of Some Like It Hot in my previous books. I’ve shared anecdotes about it. Because of the limitations of space, I didn’t really get into the story as fully as I would have liked. I had some amazing experiences making it. I have a story to tell. It’s almost like the traditional three-act play: intrigue, irony, suspense, comedy, sex. Yeah, lots of that. And unforgettable characters. Saying things that have become legend. Things I hear as clearly now as when I first heard them:

  “You’re the handsomest kid in this town.”

  “I laughed so hard that I fell off the couch!”

  “The audience, the people, they’ll walk out in droves. It’ll be a disaster.”

  “Let’s go to the ladies room.”

  “Where’s that bourbon?”

  “I have never met anyone as utterly mean as Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

  Yes, there’s a story to be told, with sights, sounds, words, and feelings. And I’m the one to tell it, even fifty years later. Why not fifty years later? I’ve learned a lot about life. I see these events from a different perspective. And although I’ve had my share of health problems in recent years, I remember Some Like It Hot clearly. I want to tell the story of its making as fully and vividly as possible. I don’t believe this has been done. I know it hasn’t been done by someone who was there. I can relate it like a story, from beginning to end. And to be sure that I’ve got all the details right, I’ve done some homework. I’ve checked my facts and dates in books and archives and with helpful friends. What you’re reading is the definitive account of the making of Some Like It Hot. I’m taking you there, month by month, week by week, day by day.

  Okay. Where do we start? Hollywood, 1958. But first, to put things in context, I’ll tell you where I was born: New York, 1925. My father was a tailor . . .

  Part I

  The Project

  1

  In 1958 I was the happiest of fellows. I was turning thirty-three. I’d been in Hollywood for ten years. I’d done five hit movies in a row, quality titles like Kings Go Forth. Each one was a success, both critical and commercial. I was getting reviewed for my acting, not for my looks. Because of my track record, I was at the point where I could choose a project and choose a director.

  I’d been married to Janet Leigh for seven years. She was also a star. We were the Golden Couple, the most glamorous, happily married young stars in Hollywood. We had a beautiful two-year-old daughter named Kelly. We were expecting another child. Each year we were becoming more successful. Both of us. Janet had started at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer in 1947. She’d become a star almost overnight. I’d started at Universal in 1948. By 1950 I’d made the transition from contract player to star. I married Janet in 1951. By 1953 we were celebrities. In 1956 we formed our own company, Curtleigh Productions. We coproduced Sweet Smell of Success, The Vikings, and The Defiant Ones. These pictures gave me opportunities as an actor that I’d never have had under contract at Universal.

  This was Hollywood in the late 1950s. Actors were tired of being slaves to studios, so they flexed their muscles and became producers. The same thing was happening with directors. This brings me to Billy Wilder. He’d written and directed pictures like Double Indemnity, Sunset Boulevard, and Sabrina, but he was still beholden to studio bosses. He wanted creative freedom, and he wanted more money. He’d made a lot of hits for Paramount. Were they grateful?

  Billy had just finished Stalag 17, a film about a World War II prison camp. Its dialogue was being dubbed for release in Germany. Billy had no love for that country. He’d left it in 1933 to avoid persecution. His mother and two other relatives had died in the Holocaust. He’d made both A Foreign Affair and Stalag 17 to comment on that. What did Paramount do? To pacify German exhibitors, it changed a German spy in Stalag 17 to a Polish spy. Billy demanded a change and an apology. He got neither. He didn’t even get the courtesy of a reply. He’d been with Paramount since 1937. He’d made something like ten hits for those fools. So he turned his back on them and found a better way to make pictures.

  In May 1954, Billy signed with Allied Artists. People shook their heads and wondered why he’d go to a low-class outfit like that when he had deals with Warner Bros. and Twentieth Century-Fox. I remember Allied Artists was way out there on the unfashionable stretch of Sunset. (The Allied Lot is now KCET-TV, public television; and the neighborhood is Silver Lake, which is quite fashionable.) Allied had been Monogram Pictures, part of what we called Poverty Row. They made cheap pictures there. Universal didn’t exactly make great art, but its movies were masterpieces compared to what came out of Allied Artists: Texas Bad Man, The Weak and the Wicked, Killer Leopard. You get the idea. So did its vice-president. His name was Harold Mirisch. He’d made a fortune in the Midwest, but not by producing movies. He’d made his bundle with the Theater Candy Company, supplying sweets to concession stands. Now he was in Hollywood, and he thought Allied Artists could do something better than a killer leopard. So he signed three big-time directors: John Huston, who’d done The African Queen; William Wyler, who’d done Roman Holiday; and Billy Wilder.

  Billy’s first picture with Allied was Love in the Afternoon. It starred Audrey Hepburn and Gary Cooper. Some people complained that Gary was too old to play opposite Audrey, but the picture did okay, except that Allied was short of financing, so it got nervous and sold the foreign distribution rights. As a result, Love in the Afternoon wasn’t as big as it should have been. Billy did his next picture, Witness for the Prosecution, elsewhere. This one was a hit. Harold Mirisch didn’t want to lose Billy, so he offered him what nobody else could: Freedom. Creative freedom. And profit, lots of it, from a profit-sharing setup. But this wasn’t possible under the roof of Allied Artists, where Attack of the Crab Monsters was the thing.

  In August 1957, Harold Mirisch formed a company with his two brothers. Harold became president, Walter became production chief, and Marvin became vice president and secretary-treasurer. The Mirisch Company set up shop at the Samuel Goldwyn studio in Hollywood. Mirisch wasn’t a studio, though. It was an independent producing company. The idea was to avoid the pitfalls of studio overhead. It didn’t have expensive acreage or a large staff. Whatever it needed, it could rent, including offices at Goldwyn. A filmmaker could get a better deal with Mirisch than with a studio.

  Billy Wilder signed a two-picture deal with the Mirisch Company. It gave him approval of story, script, casting, direction, the right of final cut—and 25 percent of net profits. Even with the less-than-perfect performance of Love in the Afternoon, Billy Wilder was one of the world’s most successful movie directors. I mean, who else was there? Alfred Hitchcock. Howard Hawks. John Ford. But those guys came from the days of silent pictures. Billy was relatively young. I think he was about fifty, but my God he didn’t look it. He
was wiry. Energetic. I don’t think I ever saw him stand still. Not a guy given to repose. Always moving. Like his pictures.

  In 1957, the Mirisch Company signed a twelve-picture deal to release through United Artists—UA. That was another comeback story. When I arrived in Hollywood, UA was on the rocks. Mary Pickford and Charles Chaplin owned it, but they couldn’t get along so they weren’t producing. They were just releasing and distributing. They had some quality releases—Champion, D.O.A., Home of the Brave—but most of the films they handled were programmers, cheap movies made to fill the lower half of double bills. They were losing millions every year. In 1951, Pickford and Chaplin sold UA to two lawyers, Robert S. Benjamin and Arthur B. Krim. These guys saw the big studios staggering under their own weight, losing their theaters to court orders, and scared of television. The moment was there. Benjamin and Krim offered an alternative to independents. No overhead. Great distribution. And profit shares anywhere from 30 to 75 percent.

  By 1957, UA had transformed the Hollywood landscape. More than a quarter of that year’s releases were independent productions, including two of Billy Wilder’s three movies. And two of mine. There’s a point to all this history. What happened to me in 1958 couldn’t have happened five years earlier, when I was doing only what Universal told me to. I would never have gotten the offer from Billy Wilder.

  2

  It was a fine day in autumn 1957. You know the kind—just after the rain. No smog. The trees turning. The San Gabriel Mountains, cool and blue in the distance. I was cruising through Beverly Hills in the car that my agent, Lew Wasserman, had gotten me, a silver Rolls-Royce convertible with black interior. It was one of those what-do-I-do days. Things weren’t all that pleasant at home, so I thought I’d go out and buy a new pair of shoes. Nothing like self-indulgence when you’re vaguely dissatisfied. I parked just below Wilshire, made sure to smile at people who recognized me, and started looking for the shoe store.