Documentary Now (2015) s02e06 Episode Script
Mr. Runner Up: My Life as an Oscar Bridesmaid, Part 1
1 Good evening.
I'm Helen Mirren, and you're watching "Documentary Now!" season 51.
His films are the stuff of Hollywood legend, but until he consented to this documentary, few knew the inner life of Hollywood producer Jerry Wallach and the obsession that fueled and plagued his career.
Well, it's all laid bare in the Hollywood exposé, "Mr.
Runner Up: My Life as an Oscar Bridesmaid.
" Everybody has a great Jerry Wallach story.
Everybody.
The only person in Hollywood who doesn't have a great Jerry Wallach story is Jerry Wallach, because his are all lies.
In fact, if you can keep Jerry Wallach as far away from this documentary as possible, you might actually have something close to the truth.
In 1939, Tootie Hayes was nominated for best screenplay at the Academy Awards.
Tootie did what any nominee does: He bought the tux, the most expensive shoes.
He bought his wife a Don Loper gown, and hired a limousine to boot.
Great story short, Tootie lost to the writer of a little film called "Mr.
Smith Goes to Washington.
" As Tootie and his wife left the auditorium, a producer named Art Lange said, "Cheer up, Tootie.
It's an honor just to be nominated.
" Tootie Hayes broke his fucking windpipe, and when Tootie's wife tried to stop the fight, he shoved her, and she fell down some stairs.
I love that story, because just as there's only one bride at a wedding, there's only one winner who could bring home Oscar gold.
Every other nominee is just a bridesmaid in a rented dress hoping someday Oscar will propose.
Tootie's wife was okay, though.
Banged up, but, you know, she's all right.
I grew up in Pollock Beach, Brooklyn in the 1930s.
Pop owned a store that sold a jar of olives.
Mom stirred a big pot of laundry with a wooden spoon.
I played stickball, did pyro stuff.
Everything was Norman Rockwell.
But bad luck don't follow statutory laws.
It'll slam you hard before you're 18.
The Magenta Fever outbreak hit kids in Brooklyn hard.
What started with a cough landed me near death in the hospital.
I lived.
I was lucky, save for one thing: I went bald.
You had to look close, but I was a bald guy.
I was five years old, and I was a bald guy.
It sunk my self confidence all the way to the mezzanine level.
But my father didn't let me sulk.
No.
He took me to Broadway Bill Pearl, the finest hairpiece maker in Manhattan, and he said, "Fix the kid.
" He taught me that any problem can be solved, and solved convincingly.
Pop died of a heart attack a week later.
He was 35.
It was his time.
As a bald kid with a dead dad, movies became my refuge.
I'd sit back in those cheap velvet seats and forget all about my stupid little life.
The projector rolled, and suddenly I could be anyone: A swashbuckler banging swords with Robin Hood, or maybe some Apache Indian chasing after old John Wayne, or a beautiful young virgin being seduced by Dracula.
But I'll never forget the movie that captured my imagination most of all.
The theater went dark, and the title appeared: Walt Disney's "Snow White.
" Everything is in tune and it's spring The beautiful voice of Adriana Caselotti filled the theater.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
Every seat was filled: Main floor, loge, and balcony.
At 25 cents a seat, 3,500 seats, we're talking $875 for one screening, minimum.
And that's not counting concessions.
3,500 people spending at least a nickel on popcorn at least and you're looking at $1,000 gross.
And that's for one showing.
There were 15 showings a day.
We're talking real money.
And Caselotti was a no-name, so Walt probably paid her scale.
I knew from that day that I wanted to make movies.
I went to college, but I have absolutely no stories from that time.
But I'll never forget the day I arrived in Hollywood.
I saw a posting for mail room jobs at the William Morris Agency.
Only trouble was about 600 lugs my age saw the same posting.
I was on line for three hours.
I almost gave up, but then who did I see pulling up fast in a '51 Cadillac? Mr.
Burt Lancaster.
Burt was a major star and a big client for William Morris I had to do something.
So I used what life gave me.
I think quick.
I do the only thing I can think of is I take my hairpiece off and I throw it under the car.
You didn't.
I did.
No, no.
I took the toupee and I threw it under his car, and I let the waterworks go, you know? I said, "Y-y-you ran over m-m-my dog, m-mister.
" Did you get the job? Will you let me finish the fucking story? I got the job.
I started the next day, my foot in the door of lighty Los Angeles.
It was time to hustle, and hustle I did, rising and rising.
I signed the biggest names in Hollywood, and none of them read their contracts.
I got a commission on their salaries, a producer fee on their films, plus a realtor fee on all their homes.
This practice was legal for about six years.
It was a golden era.
By 1965, I was the top agent at William Morris, and I lived in style at my beautiful home, Villa Caselotti, named after the voice of Snow White, who got paid scale.
It was an Italian oasis tucked away in the flats near LAX airport: Just me and the eucalyptus and constant planes.
Then, one day, my life changed with a phone call.
It was Bob Goodwin, president of Pinnacle Pictures.
Wallach, it's Bob.
I want you to know I'm resigning.
That's too bad, Bob, but why call me? I don't work at your company, and isn't that more of a Human Resources thing? No.
You don't get it, Wallach.
I want you to run the studio.
The studio, the studio, the studio Run a movie studio? My dream since childhood.
Sometimes, when life runs at you, it's to throw you a bear hug.
But sometimes it's to hit you in the balls so hard your teeth click and you puke on your shoes.
I took the job.
I was now a major player, respected by everyone.
"Jerry Wallach" meant one thing: Success.
I remember it was 1971, and we were in Beverly Hills, and it was Jack Warner's party for Alfred Hitchcock, and the whole town turned out all the name people of the day.
I went in the coatroom, and Jerry was in there, and he was going through the coats.
Like, people's pockets.
I never told anyone that.
Pinnacle Pictures was a small fry compared to the other big hamburger studios.
Pinnacle had hits in the '30s like the kids' series, "The Scrapyard Gang.
" - Apples! - Apples! Get your apples! - Apples! - Apples! Get your apples! Hey, mister, do you want to buy an apple? Certainly not.
And if I see you on this sidewalk again, I shall call the police.
Now, see My Hey! That's a real bat! Hey! But by 1964, Pinnacle was near dead and starting to evacuate its own bowels.
And when I say stuff like that, I'm speaking figuratively.
From 1955 to 1964, Pinnacle only produced educational films on drunk driving.
When driving drunk, always remember: One eye may see better than both eyes.
Keep one eye shut to drive drunk with gusto! I needed to get the studio's finances back in the black.
Only two things in business are recession-proof: Comedy and fantastic tennis shoes.
Comedy was our ticket to hits.
First, we needed stars: Lemmon, Martin, Lewis.
Pinnacle couldn't afford them.
Then it hit me: I was looking for American stars when the biggest talent I'd ever seen was right across the ocean.
Enzo Entolini, the Italian Chaplin, the biggest star in Italy, and the only true genius I've ever known.
The first time I saw his work, I knew that this goofball had it.
Enzo wasn't just a talent.
He was a survivor.
His father died when he was three.
His mother suffered from deep depression and heart trouble.
The village doctor told Enzo he had to make his mother laugh to lift her spirits, but not too hard, or she could die.
At an early age, Enzo learned how to do B to B- level comedy: Just enough to make his mother chuckle, but no more.
Mediocre impressions of Jimmy Cagney, a puppet thing where Enzo would ask the puppet what day of the week it was, and it would tell him.
He rode a razor's edge of humor no one else could.
From jealous husbands and horny wives to eating cigarettes and falling off ladders.
He pioneered a new film movement, Italian sexy neorealism.
I had to have Enzo Entolini under contract for Pinnacle.
Fortunately for me, Enzo was free, living in London after landing in hot water in Italy for comments his 12-year-old wife made in the press about the church.
I got on the next plane to London.
Enzo and me got along better than 7-Up and Seagram's.
No one ever made me laugh harder.
From that first night onward, a friendship was formed.
I called him El Guapo, and he called me racist.
I teamed Enzo up with radio and TV star Ed Brulay.
Brulay was an alcoholic and a closet case living dangerously on the edge of discovery, but their on-screen chemistry was only a little deniable.
Enzo and Brulay made three of the biggest comedies of 1964 and 1965.
In that same year, I decided to take one of the biggest gambles of my young career.
An epic could make or break a studio.
Bible pictures were big.
The Bible is the original comic book: Fake stories to please rabid, violent fans.
And if you get it wrong, they'll kill you at one of their conventions.
In 1959, Jack Warner had bought the rights to the entire Bible.
It was a big-dick move from the thickest python in Hollywood's pants.
What he didn't own were the rights to the other fringe gospels, rejected by the Council of Nicea in 325 AD.
The Gospel of Thomas, The Gospel of Simon all stories of Jesus's life that were considered blasphemous, and therefore up for grabs.
I called the lawyer who controlled the rights to The Gospel of Lewis and cut a deal.
It told the story of Jesus of Nazareth, and his friend from growing up, Lewis.
When Jesus starts hanging out with the apostles, it's difficult for Lewis, because the friend groups don't really mesh.
Lon Barr and Preston Fontaine star.
So, Jesus, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about.
Now, don't get me wrong.
I'm having a great time.
But the apostles they worship you as the son of God, yet scorn me.
Lewis, my friend from growing up, look not what they say or do.
Those men like you.
They said so.
They said "We like Lewis.
" We treated the material with the utmost respect.
It was a story of the son of God and a friendship caper.
Lads? Lads.
You know what's great about all of us? We're all from Jerusalem, and we're all good friends.
Then choose, Nazarene! Choose out of all of us: Who's your best friend? Anyway, anyway, like I was telling you before, I had these two big baskets, right? It had a score by Miklós Rózsa, and a cast of over 10,000 extras for an outdoor market scene that we ended up cutting.
It was the biggest budget in Pinnacle's history, and it paid off.
"Friend of the Son of Man" was one of the last great road-show pictures, playing across the country for over two years.
But the critics savaged us.
Pauline Kael and Renata Adler, AKA Spinster and No Thanks, not only ripped apart the film, but singled me out and printed my address.
After all this work, I was still a joke in Hollywood.
Pinnacle was flush with cash, but we were strapped for respect.
I knew one thing could put us on top, and that was Mr.
Gold himself.
The Oscar.
The Academy Award.
I made a bet with Jerry that "Friend of the Son of Man" would not recoup.
If I won the bet, he had to spend one night in the haunted mausoleum of Lupe Vélez.
If he won, I had to wear a bandana around my neck every day for 50 years.
And here we are.
Prior to 1945, the Academy Awards had been a small affair, a chicken dinner at a hotel banquet room that we shared with some L.
Ron Hubbard thing.
It ran only 45 minutes.
But over the years, the Oscars had grown into an event like the great Roman games where gladiators beat the shit out of each other for money or whatever.
Pinnacle needed an Oscar-winning film, and I would do everything in my power to make it happen.
You've heard of Captain Moby Dick and Mr.
Whale well, my whale was a 13.
5-inch, 8.
5-pound golden Adonis, and I'd spend the rest of my life trying to lure that son of a bitch into my net.
And it was enormously hard to be married to such a person when all he wanted was Yes.
We were married from 1965 to 1967.
Did he not mention that? I I can't with him! I just can't.
I'm Helen Mirren, and you're watching "Documentary Now!" season 51.
His films are the stuff of Hollywood legend, but until he consented to this documentary, few knew the inner life of Hollywood producer Jerry Wallach and the obsession that fueled and plagued his career.
Well, it's all laid bare in the Hollywood exposé, "Mr.
Runner Up: My Life as an Oscar Bridesmaid.
" Everybody has a great Jerry Wallach story.
Everybody.
The only person in Hollywood who doesn't have a great Jerry Wallach story is Jerry Wallach, because his are all lies.
In fact, if you can keep Jerry Wallach as far away from this documentary as possible, you might actually have something close to the truth.
In 1939, Tootie Hayes was nominated for best screenplay at the Academy Awards.
Tootie did what any nominee does: He bought the tux, the most expensive shoes.
He bought his wife a Don Loper gown, and hired a limousine to boot.
Great story short, Tootie lost to the writer of a little film called "Mr.
Smith Goes to Washington.
" As Tootie and his wife left the auditorium, a producer named Art Lange said, "Cheer up, Tootie.
It's an honor just to be nominated.
" Tootie Hayes broke his fucking windpipe, and when Tootie's wife tried to stop the fight, he shoved her, and she fell down some stairs.
I love that story, because just as there's only one bride at a wedding, there's only one winner who could bring home Oscar gold.
Every other nominee is just a bridesmaid in a rented dress hoping someday Oscar will propose.
Tootie's wife was okay, though.
Banged up, but, you know, she's all right.
I grew up in Pollock Beach, Brooklyn in the 1930s.
Pop owned a store that sold a jar of olives.
Mom stirred a big pot of laundry with a wooden spoon.
I played stickball, did pyro stuff.
Everything was Norman Rockwell.
But bad luck don't follow statutory laws.
It'll slam you hard before you're 18.
The Magenta Fever outbreak hit kids in Brooklyn hard.
What started with a cough landed me near death in the hospital.
I lived.
I was lucky, save for one thing: I went bald.
You had to look close, but I was a bald guy.
I was five years old, and I was a bald guy.
It sunk my self confidence all the way to the mezzanine level.
But my father didn't let me sulk.
No.
He took me to Broadway Bill Pearl, the finest hairpiece maker in Manhattan, and he said, "Fix the kid.
" He taught me that any problem can be solved, and solved convincingly.
Pop died of a heart attack a week later.
He was 35.
It was his time.
As a bald kid with a dead dad, movies became my refuge.
I'd sit back in those cheap velvet seats and forget all about my stupid little life.
The projector rolled, and suddenly I could be anyone: A swashbuckler banging swords with Robin Hood, or maybe some Apache Indian chasing after old John Wayne, or a beautiful young virgin being seduced by Dracula.
But I'll never forget the movie that captured my imagination most of all.
The theater went dark, and the title appeared: Walt Disney's "Snow White.
" Everything is in tune and it's spring The beautiful voice of Adriana Caselotti filled the theater.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
Every seat was filled: Main floor, loge, and balcony.
At 25 cents a seat, 3,500 seats, we're talking $875 for one screening, minimum.
And that's not counting concessions.
3,500 people spending at least a nickel on popcorn at least and you're looking at $1,000 gross.
And that's for one showing.
There were 15 showings a day.
We're talking real money.
And Caselotti was a no-name, so Walt probably paid her scale.
I knew from that day that I wanted to make movies.
I went to college, but I have absolutely no stories from that time.
But I'll never forget the day I arrived in Hollywood.
I saw a posting for mail room jobs at the William Morris Agency.
Only trouble was about 600 lugs my age saw the same posting.
I was on line for three hours.
I almost gave up, but then who did I see pulling up fast in a '51 Cadillac? Mr.
Burt Lancaster.
Burt was a major star and a big client for William Morris I had to do something.
So I used what life gave me.
I think quick.
I do the only thing I can think of is I take my hairpiece off and I throw it under the car.
You didn't.
I did.
No, no.
I took the toupee and I threw it under his car, and I let the waterworks go, you know? I said, "Y-y-you ran over m-m-my dog, m-mister.
" Did you get the job? Will you let me finish the fucking story? I got the job.
I started the next day, my foot in the door of lighty Los Angeles.
It was time to hustle, and hustle I did, rising and rising.
I signed the biggest names in Hollywood, and none of them read their contracts.
I got a commission on their salaries, a producer fee on their films, plus a realtor fee on all their homes.
This practice was legal for about six years.
It was a golden era.
By 1965, I was the top agent at William Morris, and I lived in style at my beautiful home, Villa Caselotti, named after the voice of Snow White, who got paid scale.
It was an Italian oasis tucked away in the flats near LAX airport: Just me and the eucalyptus and constant planes.
Then, one day, my life changed with a phone call.
It was Bob Goodwin, president of Pinnacle Pictures.
Wallach, it's Bob.
I want you to know I'm resigning.
That's too bad, Bob, but why call me? I don't work at your company, and isn't that more of a Human Resources thing? No.
You don't get it, Wallach.
I want you to run the studio.
The studio, the studio, the studio Run a movie studio? My dream since childhood.
Sometimes, when life runs at you, it's to throw you a bear hug.
But sometimes it's to hit you in the balls so hard your teeth click and you puke on your shoes.
I took the job.
I was now a major player, respected by everyone.
"Jerry Wallach" meant one thing: Success.
I remember it was 1971, and we were in Beverly Hills, and it was Jack Warner's party for Alfred Hitchcock, and the whole town turned out all the name people of the day.
I went in the coatroom, and Jerry was in there, and he was going through the coats.
Like, people's pockets.
I never told anyone that.
Pinnacle Pictures was a small fry compared to the other big hamburger studios.
Pinnacle had hits in the '30s like the kids' series, "The Scrapyard Gang.
" - Apples! - Apples! Get your apples! - Apples! - Apples! Get your apples! Hey, mister, do you want to buy an apple? Certainly not.
And if I see you on this sidewalk again, I shall call the police.
Now, see My Hey! That's a real bat! Hey! But by 1964, Pinnacle was near dead and starting to evacuate its own bowels.
And when I say stuff like that, I'm speaking figuratively.
From 1955 to 1964, Pinnacle only produced educational films on drunk driving.
When driving drunk, always remember: One eye may see better than both eyes.
Keep one eye shut to drive drunk with gusto! I needed to get the studio's finances back in the black.
Only two things in business are recession-proof: Comedy and fantastic tennis shoes.
Comedy was our ticket to hits.
First, we needed stars: Lemmon, Martin, Lewis.
Pinnacle couldn't afford them.
Then it hit me: I was looking for American stars when the biggest talent I'd ever seen was right across the ocean.
Enzo Entolini, the Italian Chaplin, the biggest star in Italy, and the only true genius I've ever known.
The first time I saw his work, I knew that this goofball had it.
Enzo wasn't just a talent.
He was a survivor.
His father died when he was three.
His mother suffered from deep depression and heart trouble.
The village doctor told Enzo he had to make his mother laugh to lift her spirits, but not too hard, or she could die.
At an early age, Enzo learned how to do B to B- level comedy: Just enough to make his mother chuckle, but no more.
Mediocre impressions of Jimmy Cagney, a puppet thing where Enzo would ask the puppet what day of the week it was, and it would tell him.
He rode a razor's edge of humor no one else could.
From jealous husbands and horny wives to eating cigarettes and falling off ladders.
He pioneered a new film movement, Italian sexy neorealism.
I had to have Enzo Entolini under contract for Pinnacle.
Fortunately for me, Enzo was free, living in London after landing in hot water in Italy for comments his 12-year-old wife made in the press about the church.
I got on the next plane to London.
Enzo and me got along better than 7-Up and Seagram's.
No one ever made me laugh harder.
From that first night onward, a friendship was formed.
I called him El Guapo, and he called me racist.
I teamed Enzo up with radio and TV star Ed Brulay.
Brulay was an alcoholic and a closet case living dangerously on the edge of discovery, but their on-screen chemistry was only a little deniable.
Enzo and Brulay made three of the biggest comedies of 1964 and 1965.
In that same year, I decided to take one of the biggest gambles of my young career.
An epic could make or break a studio.
Bible pictures were big.
The Bible is the original comic book: Fake stories to please rabid, violent fans.
And if you get it wrong, they'll kill you at one of their conventions.
In 1959, Jack Warner had bought the rights to the entire Bible.
It was a big-dick move from the thickest python in Hollywood's pants.
What he didn't own were the rights to the other fringe gospels, rejected by the Council of Nicea in 325 AD.
The Gospel of Thomas, The Gospel of Simon all stories of Jesus's life that were considered blasphemous, and therefore up for grabs.
I called the lawyer who controlled the rights to The Gospel of Lewis and cut a deal.
It told the story of Jesus of Nazareth, and his friend from growing up, Lewis.
When Jesus starts hanging out with the apostles, it's difficult for Lewis, because the friend groups don't really mesh.
Lon Barr and Preston Fontaine star.
So, Jesus, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about.
Now, don't get me wrong.
I'm having a great time.
But the apostles they worship you as the son of God, yet scorn me.
Lewis, my friend from growing up, look not what they say or do.
Those men like you.
They said so.
They said "We like Lewis.
" We treated the material with the utmost respect.
It was a story of the son of God and a friendship caper.
Lads? Lads.
You know what's great about all of us? We're all from Jerusalem, and we're all good friends.
Then choose, Nazarene! Choose out of all of us: Who's your best friend? Anyway, anyway, like I was telling you before, I had these two big baskets, right? It had a score by Miklós Rózsa, and a cast of over 10,000 extras for an outdoor market scene that we ended up cutting.
It was the biggest budget in Pinnacle's history, and it paid off.
"Friend of the Son of Man" was one of the last great road-show pictures, playing across the country for over two years.
But the critics savaged us.
Pauline Kael and Renata Adler, AKA Spinster and No Thanks, not only ripped apart the film, but singled me out and printed my address.
After all this work, I was still a joke in Hollywood.
Pinnacle was flush with cash, but we were strapped for respect.
I knew one thing could put us on top, and that was Mr.
Gold himself.
The Oscar.
The Academy Award.
I made a bet with Jerry that "Friend of the Son of Man" would not recoup.
If I won the bet, he had to spend one night in the haunted mausoleum of Lupe Vélez.
If he won, I had to wear a bandana around my neck every day for 50 years.
And here we are.
Prior to 1945, the Academy Awards had been a small affair, a chicken dinner at a hotel banquet room that we shared with some L.
Ron Hubbard thing.
It ran only 45 minutes.
But over the years, the Oscars had grown into an event like the great Roman games where gladiators beat the shit out of each other for money or whatever.
Pinnacle needed an Oscar-winning film, and I would do everything in my power to make it happen.
You've heard of Captain Moby Dick and Mr.
Whale well, my whale was a 13.
5-inch, 8.
5-pound golden Adonis, and I'd spend the rest of my life trying to lure that son of a bitch into my net.
And it was enormously hard to be married to such a person when all he wanted was Yes.
We were married from 1965 to 1967.
Did he not mention that? I I can't with him! I just can't.