The screen writer (Apr-Oct 1948)

by Milton Krims + + standing at a window watching two cars drive slowly by, two R.C.M.P. cars as I later discovered. At precisely 9 :30, a third car pulled up in front of the house and Igor Gouzenko hurried across the curb. Within a few minutes, we were seated opposite each other and I was asking questions. We spoke this way for several days . . . and each night he was taken away and each morning he was returned. And finally when I had exhausted ever}' possible line of questioning, I knew I had my story. And I knew Igor Gouzenko must be a hero. On my last day in Canada, I had an interview with Prime Minister MacKenzie King. We talked for a long time about Igor Gouzenko and Soviet espionage in Canada. In fairness to him and the Canadian government, I must say that I was advised on this, my last day, that we could expect no cooperation from official Canada in the making of this picture. Thus ended the first phase. ' I 'HE second phase began on my -* return to Hollywood. I had a book full of notes, photostats of documents, transcripts of trials, about nine huge books of newspaper clippings, photographs of all the people involved, detailed drawings of the interior of the Soviet embassy . . . and an idea for the story. Mr. Siegel and I discussed the idea, then presented it verbally — and vaguely — to Mr. Zanuck. Since time was pressing, Mr. Zanuck agreed to let me go right into screenplay. It was not an easy screenplay to write. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. Sometimes it's even cornier. And sometimes there is the temptation to improve on truth, to create more action, more melodrama. I fought against this temptation . . . and the producers helped for I needed only to say some story suggestion violated the truth to have it immediately discarded. Even though I be accused of the cardinal sin of producer back-patting I must mention the patience, encouragement and help given me by Sol Siegel during this trying period. Finally the script was ready to go. The third phase began with the assignment of a director, William Wellman. Almost immediately, Wellman, Cameraman Charles Clark, Unit Manager Bob Snody, Art Director Chick Kirk and I took off for Canada to pick the locations. Since I had already been over the ground, I was able to show them everything in one day. That same night, Mr. Wellman and I left for New York. In one da}' we interviewed some thirty actors, chose a number to be tested of whom three eventually played principal parts in the picture. That night we left New York to be in Hollywood the next morning. It seemed to me I had hardly gotten my bags unpacked when I was once again on my way back to Canada, this time for the actual shooting. Here I must confess to an untruth in the picture: Gouzenko's pilgrimage through the governmental and newspaper offices with the stolen documents actually took place in the hottest summer. But when we arrived in Ottawa it was snowing. We decided it wouldn't make an}' difference, especially since it was a hot story anyhow. Two weeks in Ottawa — where I learned to hate children in light sweaters eating ice cream cones while I was shaking with cold under a weird assortment of borrowed woolens — two weeks and we were back in Hollywood. Some weeks later two things happened simultaneously: I finally thawed out and the picture was finished. HPHEN began the last phase, the -* cutting. And here, too, I was part of every screening and conference with Mr. Zanuck, Mr. Siegel and the others. I must admit strange and unexpected things happened to the film we had shot. This Darryl Zanuck is a demon with shears. But eventually the mangled strips of film were pasted together, the wildness faded from the cutter's eyes and even I began to rediscover the sweet forgetfulness of sleep. And so at last The Iron Curtain was ready for release. The rest is an old story by now. This is rather late in the da}' to say the purpose of this article is to review the writer's part in a unique project. There are some who will think it unique that a writer should have been so close to production from inception to completion. To my mind, it is the only proper way to make motion pictures. Only when writer, producer and director blend their varied talents into an enthusiastic and understanding collaboration will we begin to achieve the potential of this great medium of expression. Conversely, when each attempts to dominate the other, either out of fear or ego, we will continue to propagate mediocrity. I do not contend that The Iron Curtain is a perfect example of a great motion picture; far from it. I should hate to list my personal dis (Continued on Page 32) The Screen Writer, September, 19 + 8 15