Movieland. (1950)

All my studio would have to do to make me happy would be to ask me to sport a beard in a picture. Think of the things I could do in the time I’d save on shaving. clock, while you watch the control room for your cue out of the comer of your eye. Thirty short minutes later it’s over — until next week. And that, as they say, is my Sunday. Not exactly minute by minute, but the high spots. Maybe there are some fan club youngsters waiting outside, looking for autographs. Or there’s a brief get-to¬ gether with the CBS publicity man, per¬ haps some fast photographs to pose for. Maybe I drive back to the house, pick up Mike and the two of us go over to Res¬ taurant Row on La Cienega for a leisure¬ ly dinner. Or we whip up some ham and eggs or broil a steak at home, sit around, talk theatre or just relax. Or I try to catch up on some of my neglected read¬ ing. Then bed around 11 — and those alarm clocks again. Because the next day is Monday — and that means six more full days at the studio. Sure, the weekly routine will vary some, naturally. If it’s summer, and I'm living at the beach (I usually rent a cottage there) I may manage a quick swim in the ocean before breakfast and the drive into town. If it’s a Sunday, and my broadcast day, I might even squeeze in a quick hour or so of horseback riding. I’ve finally gotten around to it, after some trepidation — and it’s not bad. Not bad at all. When I’m not living at the beach, I may take a hike in the hills around my house, which are unbelievably wild and rustic, though only five minutes away from Sunset Boulevard, the Strip and the Schwabadero. There are coyotes up there and even an occasional deer, believe it or not, and at night the mountains surround you, all dark and mysterious. Does all that sound hectic? To me it is — and then again it isn’t. Somebody once asked me, “Just how do you budget your time, what with your picture work, your radio show, wardrobe fittings, inter¬ views, portrait sittings, your social life, location trips and all? When do you relax?” Well, I’m relaxing all the time. Or I try to. I’m relaxing right now, telling you this story. And picture work, or acting (maybe it’s the ham in me) is very gratifying. I won’t say it’s fun, because that sounds corny, and it’s not always true, either. Sometimes it can be pretty dull, like any job. But it’s what I like, what I’m fitted for, what I’d rather do than anything else. Before the cameras or the mircophone you’re keyed up, tense, excited. It’s always like that when you’re working in an interesting picture like, say, “Red Canyon,” or the last one I made, “Illegal Entry.” It can be tough, too, like the days we spent out at Cama¬ rillo Airport, about an hour away from Hollywood, locationing for “Illegal Entry.” It was cold there, and windy (it was during the famous, if you’ll pardon the expression, January freeze) and it meant getting up mighty early. For me, anyway. It meant driving out to that airport, shooting the outdoor stuff, then back to the studio, then back again to that bleak and windy airport. There was almost a week of it, and it was a little rugged. Or it can be really hectic, this business of matching up your picture work and radio work, and making it all mesh. Like the time we were locationing up at Kanab, Utah, some 700 or so miles from Hollywood. That was for “Red Canyon.” We’d shoot till about 6 o’clock on Satur¬ day evening, then I’d take off for Holly¬ wood and my Sunday radio show. Because Kanab is way back in the hinterland, and miles from a railroad station (the scenery’s magnificent, by the way) , it meant driving in a car about three hours — and fast — then flagging down the City of Los Angeles Stream¬ liner at a tiny water stop, riding all night, arriving in Hollywood some time in the morning, rushing down to CBS, script readings, rehearsals and then the broadcast. And then home, after a quick dinner, and a very early bedtime. Be¬ cause about dawn I had to be at the airport to pick up a specially-chartered plane that would bring me back to Kanab and work again, early Monday morning. I’m puffing now, just thinking about it. I did that Kanab-to-Hollywood-toKanab routine for about two months. I guess it didn’t hurt me, because I’m still here to tell about it. I even got so my chest expanded a notch or two, thinking of that specially-chartered plane they had there waiting for me every Monday. I thought that was great stuff. But once I was sure I was a dead pigeon so far as my Sam Spade show was concerned. We had gotten away from Kanab a little later than usual that Saturday night, and I sat in the car chewing my nails for three hours, feeling sure we’d never make that Streamliner. Then, just as we pulled into that little water stop, a train (I was certain it was mine) flashed by at 70 miles an hour. I could just see somebody else playing Sam Spade that Sunday night, because there were no other train connections. But the station agent explained that the train I had seen was still another Streamliner, run¬ ning about an hour late, and my train, which was also late, hadn’t come in yet. Well, I sat in that gloomy station until 4:30 that morning, counting every nick, every carved initial, every splinter in that hickory bench (it must have been hick¬ ory; nothing else could be so hard) and feeling mighty sorry for myself. There wasn’t a magazine around, or a news¬ paper. I couldn’t even buy a coke. All I found to read was a 12-months-old time¬ table. The dialogue in it was terrible! I’d doze off, dream, jerk awake, walk out¬ side, stare at the tracks, come back and doze some more. They weren’t really dreams; they were nightmares, all mixed up with leering microphones, non-stop Streamliners, station agents who didn’t wake me in time, and visions of Duff trying to hold back the hands of the CBS studio clock. That, let me tell you, was really hectic. But the train finally came, and I hopped on it, arrived in Hollywood and did my broadcast. On time, too. Only I couldn’t at first figure out why everybody on the show kept calling me The Thin Man, in¬ stead of Sam Spade. I must have lost 20 pounds. Naturally, the hectic life of Howard Duff isn’t always as hectic as that. It couldn’t be. But most of the time it’s frenzied enough. I guess perhaps I worked harder in the Army than I do now, when I was writing and producing radio shows. I’d still like to do some writing, not professionally, but for my own pleasure. Only who has the time? It’s those two alarm clocks again. On the set or between pictures there’s no chance. You’re either studying your script or pos¬ ing for still pictures; talking to a maga¬ zine writer or a newspaper columnist for an interview; going over to wardrobe for fittings; coming back for a couple of days of retakes — or doing Sam Spade! Sometimes I wish I could drop off for a fast forty winks between camera setups, like Burt Lancaster or George Brent, but I haven’t mastered that knack yet. Nights there are friends coming over, or maybe a chess game, if I can find someone who wants to play; trying out some new rec¬ ords; catching up with some of the new books; answering fan mail. Maybe a pre¬ view or two, or a small intimate party. Maybe a date or two each week with Ava Gardner — good friend and swell person — but just friendly dates. No romance. Really. As for late hours — well, how can you keep late hours, when you work a sevenday week? I’d just be sleepy the next day, and that’s not good. One of these days I’m hoping to be able to tape-record my radio show in advance — say do three or four at a time, then coast for a couple of weeks. And one of these days, too, I want to get back to the stage again — for a little while, anyway. Meanwhile, I’m counting on another good summer at the beach, with Mike Meshikow and a few other close friends. There’ll be swimming, swimming and more swimming. No cooking — not much, anyway. I’ll have my same huge icebox — the one that puzzled everybody so last 70