Screenland (Jan–Jun 1948)

Peggy Cummins greets Tyrone Power on fact, they looked a little too eager. They had a big pot boiling. Mr. Briskin took one look at the setup and said, "Let's get out of here!" It began to look as if we weren't going to film a picture about Africa, after all. Then we decided the answer was to be properly guarded by the Mexican militia. Now I don't know whether you've seen the Mexican militia. In the big cities, they are trained, modern, and efficient. But in the outlying districts it's another story, for the army bought up all the old Italian uniforms, and they aren't exactly tailor-made. Maybe a soldier is size sixteen, but he has to wear a size forty uniform— there are no size sixteens. They have old guns, and they don't know what end to use. You think they are pointing the gun at you and they almost shoot themselves. We felt about as safe with them as we did without them. Anyway, we landed on the island. The natives were still beating their drums, but the army offered our gifts. Things looked a lot more friendly. Even the malaria flies were friendly. They got in our brown makeup and got lost and you couldn't get them out. We'd get hot and thirsty and ask for a glass of water. A native boy would bring around a sheepskin, and the water was so dirty it would be brown. We finally got set up and were in the middle of a very tense scene when our director, Robert Florey, decided that everyone was too hot, tired and disgusted to finish the scene — so he just stopped work. The moment we did, all the natives looked at us suspiciously. I said to Florey, "You don't know these people as well as I do. Don't look mad. Everybody keep smiling!" So, despite the heat, the flies, the thick pancake makeup, we kept on smiling. We were very, very nice. I sang Calypso songs for them. We did everything but turn cartwheejs. At five o'clock our boats hadn't come for us yet. Florey asked, "How long do we have to keep laughing?" I took a look at the chief, who didn't look happy. "I don't know," I said, "but keep it going." Finally, when we got ready to leave, the king informed us he wanted money —$3,500 worth of pesos, $700 American money — the next day. That's very cheap for location, so the next morning we brought the money over. But he wanted 62 Escape" set during his stopover in England. the bright new silver pesos that the President of Mexico had just put out. Seven hundred dollars in either American or Mexican silver would have required practically a steamer to bring over, and we had a time explaining he could trade in the pesos for the new silver. Finally, we finished shooting on the island. At last, we were back in Acapulco. Though things weren't exactly like home, and despite our bad luck with cabbages and kings, we had fun. When we returned to the hotel after work, we'd sometimes sit around in our makeup. This character I was portraying, Benji, had long hair and a little moustache and spoke with a dialect. Every now and then a group of tourists would come through and eye me with interest. Sometimes the group would include a beautiful blonde, and since we hadn't seen a blonde for weeks, we would perk up. One day a girl from Chicago came sauntering over. She came up to Johnny Weissmuller and me and said, "You're making a picture here, aren't you?" Johnny pointed at me, "Him no speak English!" "He doesn't?" she asked, just a shade doubtfully. "Well, who are you then?' Johnny expanded, "Buster Crabbe," he said. "Oh," she beamed. "I just knew I recognized you!" So Johnny started beating on his chest and giving the Tarzan yell, and everyone froze to startled silence. You could hear that yell for six blocks. But Johnny felt like relieving the monotony. It was the only way we could have fun. The days went on and on; everybody got sick with something. We had a wonderful time. Everyone should go on jungle location. But we did have our laughs, and some of them were on me. There's one scene in the picture where I have to joust. When they nailed a little two-by-threefoot platform to the prow of my canoe, I explained carefully that I couldn't swim. They gave me this pole, and instead of it being made of bamboo so it would be light, they had made it out of lead or something. It had taken five guys to carry it to me, but the director kept yelling for me to handle it with dexterity and ease, anyway. With a thing like that to upset my balance, I wasn't reassured when I noticed black fins passing. SCREENLAND I asked one of the Mexicans, "Any sharks in this water?" "No, senor," he said politely. "Well, then, what are those black fins?" "Don't worry, senor," the boy assured me courteously. "Sharks do not see so good." This did not cheer me up, because I knew that pole was going to upset my balance and I was going to fall in the water and I couldn't swim. Well, I fell. You never saw anyone swim so fast in your life. I got out of there. When I lifted myself out of the water, the crew kidded me. They had put a shark's fin on a wire for atmosphere — but they hadn't told me. This island was more or less jinxed. Once, we were marooned for thirty-six hours during a hurricane. It was impossible to get a boat ashore. Although Brenda Joyce and Johnny Weismuller were the stars, they fared no better than the rest of us. We had a few packages of cigarettes, which were doled out meticulously. We had a dozen nickel chocolate bars, and we divided them in equal parts. We told Johnny he didn't need his two ounces because he was bigger and stronger than the rest of us. Johnny said, "Don't give me that routine, brother. There's more of me to feed!" We laughed and clowned a lot to keep our spirits up, but a hurricane is no joke. With a tree, a rock, a bush for shelter, it was no laughing matter. And, in case you've never realized it, thirty-six hours can be a long, long time. All the time we were on location, it was a nice feeling to realize that Johnny Weissmuller was no drug store hero. Those muscles aren't padded. Those agile stunts aren't performed by doubles: One day we had cause to be very happy about this particular fact. We were out about two miles when the ship's motor suddenly went dead. In those remote waters, you just don't sight ships every three minutes like Fifth Avenue buses. We knew it might be days before anyone would sail close enough to us to see our predicament. Brenda Joyce and Linda Christians looked hopefully at Robert Florey, but he was no mechanic. As for me, I was willing enough to take the motor apart — for the heck of it — but I was reasonably certain the attempt would wind up the same way it had when, as a child, I had gleefully removed all the parts of an uncle's favorite watch. It never ran again. Just about then, I saw Johnny sizing up the shore line. It was two miles distant, but that wasn't what was worrying an athlete like Johnny. It was those little black fins in the water. It was that full-size octopus we had seen the day before. Johnny clowned it up, but we were frankly worried. "I guess the only thing to do is to swim for it," he said. "You stay here like good children while I go for help." He didn't have to warn us. Nothing short of starvation could have budged us from that boat. The water was deceptively clear and inviting, but we figured that clearness would help a shark's vision quite a bit. So we sat stolidly in our little boat under the broiling sun.