Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1945)

Mr. Cooper takes a subtle bit of ribbing from bis friend, Mr. Johnson, the noted author NTIL Gary Cooper came along, nobody in Hollywood had ever thought of a tall producer. The very notion had the ring of a paradox, like a gloomy fat girl, or a comedian who smokes cigarettes. Production talent in the movies seemed to come in indirect ratio to a man’s height, and there was indeed a time, some years ago, when the heads of all the major studios in town could have assembled and shaken hands under a bridge table. Once, in those days, in a studio where the practice obviously was carried to extremes, Joel Sayre was outlining a story to a producer when suddenly, galvanized by ohe of Mr. Sayre’s improvisations, the little fellow jumped from his chair and, to Mr. Sayre’s astonishment, apparently disappeared from the face of the earth. Mr. Sayre had to lean over the desk to find his man pacing excitedly up and down around the level of the second drawer. Mr. Sayre believes this to be one of the few instances on record of a man’s being shorter on his feet than when he was seated. But time and suffering have, of course, mellowed the town, and this prejudice against inches has gradually waned. Today there are producers functioning even in the top brackets who can scarcely be distinguished from natural men. But even these must lift up their eyes when Producer Gary Cooper enters the room, for he was from the very start the biggest man in his new field. The duties of a producer, long or short, are the same. He must find a story likely to be of interest to at least half the people in the United States. He must manage its conversation into a screen play which tells that story without wasting time about it. He must cast this screen play with actors and actresses or reasonable facsimiles. He must engage a director, a cameraman and a small army of technical experts. And, too, no great harm is done if he can also show a little dough. Mr. Cooper’s choice of a story was a good-humored and exciting Western novel by Alan LeMay, whose title for the screen became “Along Came Jones.” (Every two or three years the smell of the purple sage gets into Mr. Cooper’s nostrils and nothing will do but he must break out his old boots and saddle and gallop down the short cut to head ’em off at Eagle Pass, so this choice could scarcely be described as unexpected.) And in the natural course of events he had flashed his greenbacks and signed up Loretta Young, a Western-type leading lady, among her other accomplishments; BiU Demarest, a local rough diamond, and Dan Duryea, a villain from ’way back, to enact the anecdote, and Stuart Heisler to direct it. So far, it was a breeze. In fact, the only problem at all during these preparations, the selection of a male star to play the part of Melody Jones and snuggle up to Miss Young in the last ten feet of film, was quickly resolved through an unexpected and happy inspiration. The script called for a very tall, handsome, outdoor type, with a quiet, forceful personality and an ability to ride and make love convincingly, and elaborate plans for a nationwide search for such an actor had hardly been drawn up when somebody in the company (Mr. Cooper) pointed out that the producer himself came pretty near fitting that description — a neat and hugely satisfactory solution to what threatened at first to be a long, tedious and expensive operation. It is ideas like this that mark the alert, onhis-toes type of producer. But it was when production actually reached the stages, with gun and camera shooting simultaneously, that Mr. Cooper really showed his mettle, and under the most trying of circumstances. Ordinarily a producer’s chief problem, once his project is in work, is to conceal his dismay, ignorance, chagrin, horror, bewilderment, astonish rpent, indecision, despair, uncertainty and general all-around helplessness in the face of the darndest succession of situations that could possibly arise in the life of an honest, respectable. Godfearing, businessman. Many producers manage this with a cigar, that most insouciant of hand-props, but Mr. Cooper, a cigarette smoker, hadn’t even this pathetic device to wave around confidently, and even the most loyal of his associates shook their heads sadly when they reflected on his defenselessness— until that first acid test. That day the designer brought Mr. Cooper his sketches for Miss Young’s wardrobe, a series of garments suited to a simple ranch maid. A man of few words — of none, if he can get away with it — Mr. Cooper was about to initial the drawings when he remembered the obligations of his new role. “How much?” he asked. “They’ll average $175 apiece,” the designer replied. After some thought: “Supposed to be cheap store dresses, aren’t they?” “Yes, sir.” “Kind that cost about $7.50?” “Yes, sir.” “Then why don’t we just go (Continued on page 96) Along come comments — the author, Nunnally Johnson, gives star-executive Gary Cooper some deadpan kidding 39