Rock himself was excited.
This time he was really climbing up in class, working with one of the screen's
great directors and with a topflight cast headed by Elizabeth Taylor and
the brilliant newcomer James Dean. The only part that Rock wasn't
thrilled about was Dean. He was the new kid on the block, hailed
as the next Brando after East of Eden. Dean was a Method actor
out of the Actors Studio. Rock's only training was with Sophie Rosenstein
at Universal.
Rock had known Jimmy Dean
slightly. Three years before, Dean had played a bit part in Has
Anybody Seen My Gal? in which Rock starred with Piper Laurie.
Rock knew that he and Elizabeth Taylor had the major roles in Giant,
but Dean as the flamboyant wildcatter Jett Rink could divert attention
to himself. It was the first time in Rock's career that he had faced
a threat from another actor, and he was disturbed by it.
ROCK FINISHED HIS WORK in Never Say Goodbye and left immediately
for Charlottesville, Virginia, to film the first locations for Giant.
He telephoned me with glowing reports of the lush pastures, the white
rail fences, the beautiful thoroughbred horses, the stately houses.
"Even the motel where I'm staying looks like a colonial mansion," he said.
I missed Rock terribly when
he was in Virginia and I stayed home almost every night waiting for his
call. He was so excited about filming Giant, and I enjoyed
hearing about everything that was going on. Sometimes I would close
my eyes and try to imagine the Virginia countryside. Rock was very
happy during this time. He knew this was his big break.
But things were different
when he moved to the major locations at Marfa, Texas. He hated the
heat and the dust. He hated his accommodations and the location food.
Most of all, he hated James Dean. He thought Dean was a poseur and
a malingerer. And Rock was convinced that George Stevens was spending
more time with Dean so that Dean could steal the picture.
Rock introduced me to other members of the cast: Mercedes McCambridge, Chill Wills, Jane Withers, Sal Mineo, Carroll Baker, Fran Bennett. Also James Dean. He was small and exceedingly shy. He gave me a weak handshake and then disappeared. All of us went into dinner in the hotel dining room. A catering service from Hollywood prepared the meals, and they were first-class, which, I learned, was the only way George Stevens operated. Most of the company went to bed early, because shooting began early and the days were long.
I slept late the next morning, still exhausted from the train ride. The commissary crew served me breakfast-they were open all day to accommodate crew members. I walked out and into the hot Texas morning and saw James Dean spinning a lariat on the sidewalk. He started with a small loop, then spun and spun until he had a large loop.
"Mornin', ma'am," he said
in his Texas drawl. Dean, like all the Giant actors, had been
trained in the accent by Bob Hinkle, an ex-rodeo star who spoke pure Texan.
"Like to try this?" Dean
asked.
"Yup," I answered, trying
to match his accent.
He put the rope in my hands,
then stood behind me and held my arms so I could follow his movements.
We had a lot of laughs over my attempts. Finally he put his arm around
my shoulders and said, "Well, little lady, let's go to the commissary and
have some of that Texas chili."
It was a bit soon after
breakfast, but I was willing to give it a try. As we were entering
the dining room, I overheard Jane Withers tell a companion, "I can't understand
what Rock is going to do with her here." I didn't get the import
of her remark until later.
Dean and I conversed during
lunch-I just had some chili, which was very, very hot-and we talked about
mundane matters. He was not the kind of person you could get close
to, and that was the only time I spent alone with him. He was the
loner of the Giant company. When he wasn't working on the
set, he drove his jeep into the desert and shot jackrabbits. It seemed
senseless to me, killing all those harmless animals. But Dean arrived
back in Marfa in the evening with a Jeep full. He even went into
the desert at night, shone a spotlight on the rabbits to "freeze" them,
then shot them.
JAMES DEAN was the main subject
of Rock's complaints. Rock was sharing a house with Dean and Chili
Wills, and Rock grumbled that his costar was a slob.
"Stevens is throwing the
picture to Dean, I know he is," Rock complained. "Dammit, he spends
all his time talking to Dean, and he hardly tells me a thing."
"Maybe he has more confidence
in you," I said consolingly, "and he figures Dean needs more direction.
After all this is only Jimmy's third picture. You've done more than
thirty."
"I need as much direction
as he does. I've never worked with someone of Stevens's caliber before.
I've worked with hacks, mostly. Stevens is giving Dean all the closeups.
I'm left out in the cold."
Rock seemed very insecure
to me. He let Henry take care of everything. I couldn't understand
why he didn't assume any personal responsibility-my mother had always taught
us to make our own decisions.
Nothing I said could assuage
Rock's jealousy of Jimmy Dean. Rock was angry that he had to work
so hard at acting while it came easily to Dean. He resented the fact
that visiting press concentrated on Dean as the new sensation in films.
He was upset because teenagers visiting the set squealed when Dean came
in view. Rock's resentment turned into active hatred. Rock
was determined to be well prepared, and he came to my room after dinner
to practice his lines for the following day. I read the dialogue
of Elizabeth Taylor and James Dean while Rock delivered his own lines.
"Would you like to visit
the location tomorrow?" he asked.
"Sure," I said.
"Wear something cool.
It's gonna be hotter'n hell out there."
I wore a black-and-white
cotton dress, which was perfect, and sandals, which were not. With
all the dirt and insects, I should have had boots. We drove for miles
and miles over the flat plain, devoid of anything but fences. Then
in the distance I could see, rising out of the flatness like a vision,
the big Victorian mansion that George Stevens had built in the middle of
nowhere.
George Stevens, dressed
in cowboy hat, plaid shirt, and jeans, welcomed me to the set. I
was amazed that he would go out of his way to do that, since he was managing
a couple hundred people on a complex location. But that was the kind
of man he was, warm and thoughtful.
As soon as we got out of
the car, Rock started taking movies of me. Just before starting Giant,
he
had bought a Bolex movie camera, and he was like a kid with a new
toy. He took reels and reels of film, of me talking to the actors,
of sunrises and sunsets, of dust blowing. The camera became an obsession
with him.
Remembering our lariat spinning,
I gave James Dean a cordial "How are you today?" He gave the front
of his Stetson a pull, gazed over my shoulder, and mumbled, "Mornin', ma'am,
good to see ya." Then he ambled away. He never even looked
at me, but that was the way he talked to everybody.
Elizabeth Taylor and I chatted
cordially, but it was apparent her mind was on others matters too.
She soon gave all her attention to the hairdresser, the makeup man, the
script clerk. These were the people she has spent most of her life
with, her other family. She had little interest in anyone who wasn't
in the movie business, like me. Naturally I felt resentful, but I
was learning that actors didn't behave like other people.
Before I left Hollywood,
someone had whispered to me that Rock and Elizabeth were having an affair.
Elizabeth's husband, Michael Wilding, had stayed in California, and she
found herself on a faraway location with two extremely attractive leading
men. She seemed intrigued by the quirky charm of James Dean, but
his remoteness precluded romance. What about Rock? He devoted
much attention to Elizabeth. They were almost childish with each
other, talking a kind of baby talk and playing pranks like throwing water
at each other. Knowing how jealous Rock was of Dean, it wouldn't
have surprised me if Rock had made a play for Elizabeth, hoping to maintain
his balance of power in the Giant company. When I saw Rock
and Elizabeth together, I understood the reason for Jane Wither's crack
after I had arrived.
Was I jealous? Not
really. I realized that no normal male could resist the fabulous
charms of Elizabeth Taylor. I had no claim on Rock, no reason to
be possessive. If there had been an affair, I doubted that it would
last. I was content that Rock had, with his passionate welcome to
Texas, demonstrated his feelings toward me.
I enjoyed watching Rock
work, but the heat and sand were almost too much for me. I managed
to survive the day only be consuming gallons of iced tea. On the
drive back to Marfa, I mentioned that I'd like to visit Mexico, which I
had never seen. Rock arranged for Dennis Hopper to drive me across
the border, and we had a wonderful time poking around the shops and cantinas.
Rock had given me money to buy silver things for his new home, and I found
a pair of candlesticks that were stunning.
Five days after I arrived
in Marfa, location filming was completed, and the company packed up for
the return to Hollywood. Most of the company traveled by train, and
Rock and I occupied a compartment. He left only for meals.
Most of the time he watched the passing desert scene, or he complained.
"Damnit, this is getting
to be Jimmy Dean's picture," he ranted. "They're all trying to screw
me."
No amount of reassurance
would change his sour mood. When I walked through the train to watch
the poker games or chat with members of the crew, Rock objected.
He didn't want me to mingle with the rest of the company. We did
manage some lovemaking, my first on a train. It was wonderful.
SHORTLY AFTER WE RETURNED from Texas, Rock called me from the studio,
which was something he rarely did.
"Elizabeth wants us to come
to dinner tonight," he said.
"Both of us?"
"Of course. She said,
'Bring that nice Phyllis with you.' "
"But what do I wear?"
"She said to dress very
casual."
I left the office early
and went to my apartment to pick out a pair of summer slacks and a silk
blouse, then I drove to Rock's house. I arrived as he was returning
from Warner Brothers. He changed clothes and we rode west on Sunset
Boulevard to Benedict Canyon, then climbed Tower Road.
Rock and I stepped inside
the gate and entered a Hawaiian paradise. The azure pool was surrounded
by lush tropical foliage and spotlighted in pastel shades. Michael
Wilding greeted us at the door. He was a mild-mannered man in slacks
and a short-sleeved summer shirt, with a scarf tied neatly around his neck
in the manner of English actors. He led us inside to an elegantly
furnished living room and asked our preference in drinks.
During the next hour we
drank and talked and waited for Elizabeth. The two young Wilding
sons, Michael and Christopher, did not appear, but several small, fluffy
dogs ran around the room. Finally, Elizabeth made her entrance.
Dress informally, she had said. She herself wore a lavander evening
gown with several pounds of jewelry. The maid served us dinner on
trays, and it was a cordial, get-acquainted evening that ended early because
both Elizabeth and Rock had early calls.
A week later, I suggested
to Rock that he invite Elizabeth and Michael to dinner. There were
no servants to help entertain, but I had faith in my own ability as a cook,
and I figured the Wildings would simply have to accept us on our own terms.
I put a pork roast on the
barbeque and prepared two vegetables and a savory salad. Both the
Wildings raved over the meal, and Elizabeth said, "I can't believe you
can cook!" Obviously she had never boiled an egg in her life.
Universal, always eager to please its major star, had sent Rock a case
of vintage French wine, and we managed to consume several bottles.
Rock was feeling mellow
by the end of dinner and, I believed, a bit proud that I made such a hit
with the meal. "Michael and Elizabeth," he said happily, "you haven't
tasted anything until you've tried Phyllis's chocolate souffle. Phyllis,
you gotta make 'em your chocolate souffle."
The Wildings added cheers
of assent, and I invited Elizabeth into the kitchen for a cooking lesson.
She watched me combine all the ingredients, then we both sat on the kitchen
floor while I beat the mixture endlessly. The baking process took
an hour, during which I insisted that everyone tiptoe so the souffle wouldn't
fall.
The evening ended at two
in the morning amid great feelings of camaraderie. I worried about
how Elizabeth and Rock were going to report for work in the morning.
As I expected, Rock awoke with a monstrous hangover and threw up a couple
of times. I prepared him a Bromo Seltzer and he left woozily for
the studio. Nothing, not even a world-class hangover, could prevent
Rock from going to work.
SEPTEMBER 30, 1955
An important date, for two
reasons. For one, it was the day I moved into Rock's house.
Ever since he had bought the place, I had spent several nights a week there.
But the Fairfax Avenue apartment was still my home, a symbol, I suppose,
of my independence. Rock kept urging me to share the house with him-"It's
lonely when you're not here," he said.
My friend from MCA, Ray
Stricklyn, had moved to Hollywood for an acting career and needed a place
to stay. "I'll sublet my apartment to you," I said.
The decision was made.
I was moving my clothes into Rock's house that morning when I heard the
telephone ring. Rock answered it. I heard him say a few words
and hang up. Then I could hear him sobbing.
Rushing into the living
room, I saw his grief-stricken face. I had never seen him so sorrowful
before, and it frightened me.
"What's the matter honey?"
I said. "Is it your mother?"
"No. James Dean."
He started to cry, and I put my arms around him.
"What happened?" I asked.
"He's dead. Smashed
up his Porsche near Salinas."
Now his big frame was convulsing
in sobs, and I struggled to hold him. I asked him why the news shattered
him.
"Because I wanted him to
die."
"But why would you want
anyone to die?"
"Because I hated him.
I was jealous of him because I was afraid he was stealing the picture from
me. I've wished him dead ever since we were in Texas. And now
he's gone!"
It was days before Rock
overcame his black depression. I tried everything I could to break
him through to him. I reasoned with him, I argued that he had nothing
to blame himself for. It had been an accident, that's all, a brutal
accident. Rock couldn't be reached. He was overcome by guilt
and shame, almost as though he himself had killed James Dean.
I felt lonely, shut out
from his innermost feelings. Frightened, too, because his mood was
so unrelenting. What kind of love did we have, anyway, if I was unable
to comfort him?