How high up did you go on the political ladder to get men, as you say, on your payroll?
Just as high as I could go. They wouldn’t always take it. Tom Dewey turned me down once. You remember him? They called him ‘the little man on the wedding cake,’ because he had a funny mustache and that’s what he looked like. He was governor of New York State, and then he ran for President in 1948. That’s where the Luce people really fell on their ass, putting him on the cover of their magazine and saying, ‘The next President of the United States crosses Niagara Falls,’ or whatever he was doing. He should have taken my money, it might have helped him.
I’d given some money to Harry Truman as well, because I liked him and I had a hunch he’d win. I gave it to him personally. He was stumping out in Los Angles and I went to the Biltmore Hotel with Neil McCarthy, my attorney, and told Neil to give it to him. There’s a sequel to this, but I’ll save it for later. Anyway, Neil came back to the lobby, where I was waiting in a corner behind a potted palm, and said there had been several people in the room and he’d just handed Truman the envelope.
And I said, ‘Jesus Christ, my name’s not on the envelope, and he may not have known who you were, that you were my attorney.’ I mean he may have known Neil was my attorney, but not necessarily have known that Neil was handing him my money.
So I ran right upstairs and got Truman into a corner and said, ‘That envelope the guy gave you – the cash inside it is mine. It’s from me to you.’ I stressed that.
I thought you said you tried to give it to Thomas E. Dewey. Wasn’t Dewey running against Truman in that election?
Of course. I figured I’d better play it safe, so, later on, probably a month before the election, I sent Noah to the guy who was running Dewey’s campaign, Harold Talbot, and told Noah to give him $25,000, which is what I’d put in the envelope for Truman.
Talbot turned it down, and he was very insulting to boot. Dewey must have found out that I’d given the money to Truman also, and Dewey thought he was a shoo-in by then and he didn’t want to be obligated to me, especially since it was Eastern money that was backing him, and they hated my guts.
Dewey lost the election. Served him right.
This was my money we contributed, which meant it came out of Toolco. It was illegal for a corporation to donate funds to a candidate or an officeholder, but it wasn’t illegal for a foreign corporation to donate. Our money flowed through subsidiaries in Toronto and the Bahamas which had exactly enough cash flow to pay the bills for the various congressmen and governors and mayors and vice-presidents I had on the payroll.
Did you just contribute to campaigns, or did you keep paying them when they were in office?
Mostly before they got into office. Sometimes afterward. I didn’t start the system of political contributions. I was just doing it to create good will, which I needed a lot more than most businessmen. I often gave some of these guys free flights, in some cases private planes, when they were stumping. And I’d hate to tell you how many hundred-dollar-a-plate dinners I paid for, and bar bills, and hookers. I think after a while I got the reputation of being an easy touch. The list of people was very long.
They got the bill, of course, either at the time of their election or later on. The bill came to Richard Nixon. But I’ll tell that story in its time and place.
I had my troubles with RKO – couldn’t get the damn thing off the ground. I took an axe to the fat, lopped that off and got it down to a backbone staff. This was in the first years I had it, 1948 up through 1951.
I shot my mouth off a little too much at first, said we were going to make forty pictures a year. But we only made about fifteen or twenty a year in the first few years – I was in Ethiopia then and later in Mexico and, as always, I overburdened myself with work. I put Noah in as Chairman of the Board, but he didn’t understand the movie business and he made a total mess of it. I wanted to do another picture with Jane Russell, because everybody associated Jane Russell with me as a result of The Outlaw, and I figured we were a winning combination.
Overall, the studio was losing money, but I can’t break it down for you picture by picture. I do remember we had trouble with Jet Pilot, took a lot of cutting and dubbing and cost us $4 million. And we took a bath on that Bergman-Rossellini thing, Stromboli. I did that one personally – I went out of my way to do it. I did two pictures with Ingrid Bergman. Walter Wanger talked me into the first one, Joan of Arc. Wanger had gotten booted out of MGM and I picked him up right away, and just about that time I had a vision that Ingrid Bergman was the finest actress in the world, and box-office besides.
I put them together, Walter and Ingrid, and they made Joan of Arc, and in the midst of it, or just about when they finished shooting, it all came out about Ingrid and Rossellini and the illegitimate kid.
This was 1950 or thereabouts, and the world was not quite as much of an open sexual circus as it is today. People still blabbed about morality. I said to myself, ‘Well, that kills Joan of Arc.’ But I got talked into one of the worst mistakes you can make – I threw good money after bad. Rossellini wanted to make Stromboli with Bergman, and somehow I figured out that if we were absolutely blatant about it, if we had Ingrid in a very adult film made by her lover and the father of her illegitimate kid, we’d have a smash.
I made Stromboli and I lost my shirt on it, or at least my left cufflink, in a manner of speaking, and then I said, ‘Okay, release Joan of Arc,’ which also fell on its ass.
At this point the studio was losing about five million a year. I let Noah watch the bookkeeping. I finally decided that I’d made a mistake and the movie business was just taking up too much of my time. It represented no more than ten to fifteen percent of my holdings, and Noah pointed out I was spending 85% of my time running it.
That’s not to say that I was physically there at the studio. In fact, I was never there. Not once. Oh yeah, once, early on, I put on a suit and a wig and took the guided tour, just so that I’d know the physical layout of the place. I had my office over at the Goldwyn Studios and if I wanted anything done, I got on the pipe and told the man running that particular section what I had in mind. And once I flew over the lot and saw what condition it was in, and I said, ‘Paint it.’ Other than that, I never once visited it except on the guided tour.
But I kept in touch with things. I had my men working there who reported to me directly. I’ve always run things at a distance and I’ve been criticized for that all my life, and unfairly. It always seems to me that you can get a much better perspective if you’re not up to your neck in the daily crap that’s going on around a place. If you stand a little bit aloof, let the thoughts and information come to you, then you can see better than the men who are buried up to their armpits in the action.
To give a perfect example of what I mean, I wrote a memo when we were doing another Jane Russell picture. I treated Jane like a problem in aeronautical design, and I’m not talking about the bra I designed for her in The Outlaw, I’m talking about another picture. It was Macao, a film I made for RKO about that place off the China coast. I wrote a memorandum to a man named Tevlin who was in charge of Jane’s breasts.