Sunday, April 20, 2014

#4. Plates, stories, and "The Last American Hero"


#4.  License plates, stories, and "The Last American Hero."

Hollywood talking license plates I have known.  One of my faves was on a vintage Caddy convertible, maybe a '57 or '58, driven up and down Laurel Canyon by a tall, elegant woman in her 30s.  The plate read "I DON'T."

Another was on an ancient but immaculate Rolls Royce.  Its plate: WANKER.  This is blighty talk for masturbator.  I don't think you can get this one any longer.

On the back of well-known editor Tina Hirsch's car: "IN SYNCH."

Frank Zappa lived at the top of Laurel Canyon and drove a BMW sedan.  It's plate: "YO MAMMA."

And speaking of mammas, a Toyota van driven by a mother on her way to school with five kids.  Her plate: "BUT MOM."

Troubadour nightclub owner Doug Weston used to park his lowered '46 two toned brown Chevrolet out in front of his club.  Its plate: "CHEBBY."  This is probably outski, too.

Another was some car from down in Boy's Town.  It said "SWALLO."  Next case.

And this on a director's little Mercedes coupe: "IQ 180."  Really, dude?

 This on a Rocky wannabe:  "YO ADRIAD."  I love the fact that he got the second hard 'd' in her name to mirror the boxer's plugged busted nose pronunciation.

Finally, my favorite plate story: mine.

For years on my Caddy Seville I had "C F KANE" for Charles Foster Kane, Orson Welles' greatest hit.  One night on my way home from an evening of light debauchery, I pulled up at the stop light at Olympic and LaBrea.  I was right next to a white Corvette, license plate "ROSEBUD!"  I went ape, blowing my horn, trying to point to our license plates, bouncing around, rolling down my window.  The guy -- stricken -- took one look at me and as the light changed, he floored it, laying rubber for half a block.  It was the last ol' Charlie ever saw of his Corvetted Susan Alexander.

But I still have that plate, now adorning a birdhouse.  Along with my "TECTOR" and "LYLE" plates: the Gorch brothers, Ben Johnson and Warren Oates from "The Wild Bunch."  I am looking out at that birdhouse right now.

Yep, I love talking plates.  But also "reader boards"

This one from a western North Carolina gas station.  "My boss told me to change this sign.  So I did."

And years ago, from a strip club in Hollywood called, I believe, The Black Pussycat.  "Stripping tonight -- The Rat Pack starring Peeler Lawford, Fran Sinatra, and Sami Davis, Jr."  I missed that particular night.  But I'm guessing they did it 'their way.'

****

Now, for extra credit, a few stories about fame.  The first one.

Producer Elmo Williams had just finished post production on his career-capping dream movie for 20th Century Fox.  It was called "Tora, Tora, Tora" about the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor in 1941.  Chock-a-block with stars, its multi-million dollar cost was well displayed on the screen; explosions galore, it was state of the art historical re-creation back in the day.  Elmo had been a film editor for years, won the Oscar for "High Noon," a brilliant cutting job by any measure, so this movie moved.

Elmo convinced the Fox brass to premiere the film in his little hometown of Lone Wolf, Oklahoma.  He'd left his family years before, right out of high school, to make his way in show biz, leaving the rest of his siblings back on the ranch.  But Elmo loved his roots and was anxious to go home again, this time in glory.  It's an old story.

So the arrangements were made, airline tickets issued, per diem checks cut, Lone Wolf's single hotel was booked out, car services contacted -- the Hollywood movie circus was on the road.

On opening night, cast crew and executives pulled up in the limos, searchlights carving the sky, this is what it said on the movie theatre marquee: "20th Century Fox Presents the world premiere of 'Tora, Tora, Tora,'

           PRODUCED BY SKEETER WILLIAMS' BROTHER!

The second one.

Years ago the brilliant character actor Jack Warden was sleeping off a vicious hangover in the Malibu Sheriff's station.  He was shaken awake by a bushy-tailed young cell mate.  "Hey!  Wake up!  Are you Jack Warden the actor?"  Yeah.  I'm Jack Warden.  "Do you know the actress Peggy Ann Garner?"  Well, I know who she is, I know her work.  "Yeah?!" the kid said.  "I fucked her maid!"

Third.

My recently departed buddy Warren Miller and I knew this local named Nate.  He was a good actor (you'd know his face) and a really nice guy but an inveterate name-dropper.  One morning at Pupi's, Warren busted him on it.  Nate just laughed.  "Jesus, you think I'm bad, you should hear Pauly Newman!"  From that day forward we called him 'Natey.'

****

I needn't have worried about the "Last American Hero" producers-slash-writers when I walked into the Fox offices that day.  I figured that if I was already in trouble, I'd just call my new buddy Gene Kelly and we'd dance our way out of it.

Turned out Cutts and Roberts (unlike me) were actual grown ups and beyond the pain.  They had a movie to make.  I turned in my rough first draft and was handed an airline ticket and some cash.  Since the cast and crew had been hired, we were already travel booked and on our way to the stock car tracks of North Carolina.

Wait a minute.  North Carolina?!  I was from North Carolina.  Couldn't we go to Paris or London or someplace I'd never been?  No.  Turns out one of the reasons they'd hired me was I was an actual hillbilly homeboy.  Yeah, great.  Kudzu, red clay, brutal humidity, and fried pork rinds.  The state bird is a ten pound mosquito.

When we got to Charlotte, most of the cast and some of the crew went to the huge hotel bar to drink and celebrate.  I hadn't yet begun my wonderful, grim dance with alcohol for a few years (in Paris no less, you'll read about it later), so I took my suitcase and went up to my room.  Having nothing to do, I set  up my typewriter and went to work.

I had no idea how much time passed but all of a sudden it was deep night outside.  I heard Jeff Bridges and his best bud, Gary Busey coming down the hall, singing.  Director Monty Johnson was right behind them.  I heard him say goodnight to them in his deep baritone radio voice and then, he knocked at my door.  I let him in.  "Where were you, Chow Puppy?"  I pointed to a stack of pages next to my typewriter.

He picked them up, scanning quickly from scene to speech to scene.  "Jesus...Jesus... Jesus...JESUS!  I was quaking when I dared look at him.  But he was smiling.  Big.  "I think we're gonna be all right.  Go to bed, pup.  Call's at 6am."

This was my first day on a big go-picture.  I thought it'd always be like this.  Yeah, right.

The next day, I went out to the location with the company.  And discovered as so many have found out, that being on a set without a set-type job is stunningly boring.

Everyone is running around doing a million different jobs that you can't ascertain any sliver of, bullhorns, telephone pagers, dollies, lights, sound men and mikes and booms and after a few minutes of just being, you realize you are always in someone's way.  Where can I go, what am I doing?  This is so boring.  Get me outta here!

The next day, we developed a pattern that was to last nearly all the movie.

They would shoot all day. When Monty the director got back to the hotel, he'd give me a shot list and a schedule for the next day and tell me what need to be written, re-written, or cut.  Then, the typing troll worked all night.

Early in the morning, I would slide the new pages under Monty's door.

He'd read them over breakfast, give them to the company secretary who would re-type them at about 200 w.p.m on what was then called, I believe, a stencil.  They would crank the new pages onto 3-hole-punch various colored paper chucka chucka chucka into script form, staple them up, and send them out to the locations on a motorcycle to pass out.

As the glorious North Carolina sun rose behind curtains, the vampire screenwriter would be hitting the shower on his way to bed.  

Our last days were in Bristol for the short track Grand National stock car races.  That's what they called NASCAR back then.  The day before, with me looking on at Monty's invitation, they had just shot a solo scene of Jeff (as Junior Jackson), homesick and lonely, going into one of those Record Your Own Voice booths to send to his Momma back home.  This was a scene I had either invented or stolen from Arthur Miller's "The Misfits" and Jeff knocked it out of the park.  I even saw a few quick wipe-away-tears.  I mean, besides my own.

So happy as a clam, I was in bed the next day, shoveling quarters into the mattress-vibrating Magic Fingers and opening and closing the radio-controlled blackout window shades.  Open, closed.  Open, closed.  All while I sang some Beach Boys tune in Magic Finger vibrato, quivering and wavy.  I couldn't get over all this high tech wonderment.

My room phone rang.  My agent, Mike Medavoy!  Jungle-drum word was getting back to Hollywood that I had done a quick and pretty decent job on "The Last American Hero."  Mike had gotten a call from a producer named Eli,  a former Oscar winner back-when, more recently on thinner times.  Eli had just optioned Pete Townsend's Who rock opera "Tommy" and needed a rock and roll-loving screenwriter and -- What?!

The first thing would be to fly to London to meet with manager Chris Stamp (actor Terrance's brother) and The Who, all first class of course and -- What?!

You still love rock and roll, don't you?  Yes!  You haven't cut your pony tail have you?  No!  Is this a job you'd like to try?  Getting it made may be a long shot but I can get you twice your price (called 'quote').

That deaf dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean pinbaaaallll!  WHERE DO I SIGN?!

Stay tuned for London adventures and more general notes on the screenplay.

Friday, April 18, 2014

#3. A Drugstore girl at Warner Bros.


#3.  A Drugstore girl at Warner Bros.
                    
I should have known.  The day I became a Warner Bros Drugstore Girl, there was a major earthquake.

Earlier that morning, I had gone up to Hillcrest Country Club to drop off a script for some producer long forgotten.  This was back in '71; dressed in my hipster cowboy drag, I tooled up to the palatial clubhouse in my 1942 Ford woody wagon (license plate Fordy 2), double parked right in front, jumped out with the package and stopped dead.

There, not ten feet away, getting out of a limo was George Burns -- cigar and all -- with Jack Benny.  Pathetically, I believe my jaw was actually hanging open.  Burns looked from my pony tail to my woody and back.  "Not only do you look like your mother... but you're driving her car."  Jack Benny howled with laughter and they went in for breakfast.  I just stood there, amazed.  A total radio kid, I had been listening to Burns & Allen since that woody right there rolled off the assembly line in Detroit.  I couldn't wait to call my mother and tell her.

But first I had to meet Jim Frawley at our new office.   It was driving up Highland that I encountered my first riding earthquake: it was like momentarily rollerskating on a blanket of squirrels.  On my way to the Rexall drugstore right across from Warners.

The story was that, back in the Thirties and Forties, these sweet little suites, owned by the studio, had been set up right across the street so the executives and favored friends could take meetings with the gorgeous young starlets therein.  Meetings of all types.  And purposes.  Get it, get it?  Hubba hubba.

The chosen starlets were known, back in the day, as Drugstore Girls.  Way, way before the Me, Too Movement, yet t'was ever thus.  Ronan Farrow's mom Mia wasn't even born when the "drug store" first opened.

Down the hall from us was John Wayne's production company, Batjac.  I was sure I'd see Duke daily and once he found out about my famous friendship with Bill Faulkner, we would become best budds.  Hell, hadn't I already proved my admiration for genius over wrong-headed politics with John Milius?

But all I ever saw was Wayne's oldest son Michael trudging up the stairs and, twice, someone who looked like John Ireland, Cherry Valance from down Val Verde way out of the hallowed "Red River."  Later I heard that Ireland was so, um, graciously endowed, he was often referred to as just "Tripod."  It's not only Hollywood, I thought, there is a hierarchy to everything.  You never know where you'll get your valuable lessons.

Jim Frawley had just finished a film about Southern California tennis hustlers called, weirdly, "The Christian Licorice Store."  I think it was from some song.  And since it was a high profile small picture with Beau Bridges (then the big star in that talented family) and Gilbert Roland (say what?), the studio was inclined toward Jim.  So, both on a small payroll, us drugstore girls toiled away at our period military school insurrection epic.

Since I had been in the military and had attended a boy's prep school for four agonizing years of beatings, work-lists, betrayals, digging out stumps, and tear-stained letters home, I had some of the necessary gear to unpack this story.

But mostly what I learned in this year, thank God, was how to be -- how to live, how to survive and even thrive in the so-called adult world of show-biz.  Because I knew absolutely nothing.

Jim taught me how to and when to tip -- lots and often -- how to "take" a meeting, and how to accept script notes from well-meaning idiots (I wish I'd listened deeper to this one).

He taught me which jobs were bogus and which were worthwhile, which producers and executives were all bullshit and bluster and which could deliver true-north when they had to.  And which were sometimes both.

He taught me how to bring really good wine from Greenblatt's if you were invited to someone's house for dinner.  And how to surreptitiously pick up a restaurant check sometimes, even from rich stars and producers (which stood me in good stead years later with Jane Fonda and Ted Turner).

He taught me how to use an agent, a business manager, and a lawyer.  He taught me how to play pinball and then, when he got a new four-player pinball machine, he gave me the 'old' one!  By example, he showed me how to be generous.

Jim showed me how access to all sorts of rumors and information could be found through secretaries (now called assistants); remembering their names, treating them with the respect that comes from knowing they worked harder than you, longer than you, were better looking than you, took more shit than you...all for a tenth of the money.  In other words, they actually worked for a living.  Besides, it was easy to be nice to them once you found out how great they were.  Jim taught me tons.

The name of our military school script was "The Corps."  God, we loved it.  And although we both got paid as part of a studio development deal, it was never made.  The closer we got, the farther away it went; one of show biz's prime koans.

But apparently the script read well enough to get me a job at 20th Century Fox.  I was going to rewrite "The Last American Hero," a 'go' North Carolina stock car picture from white suit Tom Wolfe's "Esquire" piece to be directed by Lamont Johnson and starring Jeff Bridges, early on his rise to becoming the big star in that family.

****

My first day at Fox, walking down the wide carpeted hall (there must be a million soft walking miles of carpeted halls in that town), I bumped into the legendary dancer/director Gene Kelly on his way out.  I stopped.  Wowee wow, it's Gene Kelly!  He stopped.  Who is this hippy kid in my hall?

"Mr. Kelly, at the UCLA film school we used have these film orgies; you know, we'd run movies for days," Instantly, I was in full careening motormouth.

"The first one was for three days, the second one was nothing but trailers for 24 straight hours and I was the student/projectionist -- Jeez, I thought my fingers would fall off and I still got maybe carbon arc poisoning, like I'm gonna die for the movies  -- the big one was seven days, around the clock and we ran 'Singing in the Rain' five straight times!"

Will no one rid me of this meddlesome kid?  No!

"Mr. Kelly, we all thought 'Singing in the Rain' was AND IS the musical 'Citizen Kane.'"

Finally silence.  Then, he smiled and it grew to one of those cheek-bending thousand watt jobs that found his key light every time.  His teeth had teeth.  "Why, yes it is, isn't it?"  With that he spun around, his Burberry raincoat floating out behind him like Superman's cape and disappeared down the stairs.

This became one of my first major lessons: It's virtually impossible to praise anyone in Hollywood too much.  As embarrassing as it gets -- both ways -- sorrowfully, we are all bottomless wells of need.

When I walked into Monty Johnson's office I was in some kind of American in Paris dream.  Right up to the moment I met the former writers on the stock car picture.  "Chow Puppy, this is John.  And Bill," said Monty in his signature deep voice.  The two fired writers on the movie I was to replace were, in fact, also the producers!

Oh oh.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

#2. My first days at Warner Bros.

#2.  My first days at Warner Bros.

They were magic.

I spent them just walking around -- sound stages -- speeding golf carts  -- silent tinted-window Rolls Royces -- people in costumes -- secret quiet gardens -- feral cats darting through the weeds on the Camelot castle back lot.  Here, kitty kitty.

My new home, I thought.  This is me, I'm really here, walking on sunlight, somehow I got in the door, God I love this.

Can I have more, sir?

I was told I had William Faulkner's old office in the Writers' Building!  And since we were now almost buddies, I began referring to him as 'Bill.'  Hey, we were just alike; two American men from the South, both writers, both named Bill, both employed by Warners, both award winners.  He had the Nobel Prize for Literature and I had a 2nd place ribbon for the stake-and-water-race at Arizona's Little Outfit Summer Camp when I was nine.

Then, in the middle of this glory and happiness, a realization dropped the bottom out of my stomach.  It was like suddenly being an architect, never having gone to architecture school, never seeing blueprints, even a drawing-board.  You'd been hired because once you had driven past a house and then said a few mildly clever things about it in a ten minute meeting.

Oh shit, what do I do now?  I had no idea of what a script actually was.  I'd never even seen one.

So I asked Richard Moyer, the story department guy who'd helped hire me, for some examples.  I thought I would read one, then screen the movie that sprang from it.

The first one they could lay their hands on was "Jubal," a weird western with Rod Steiger.  I read.  I watched.  I still didn't get it.  So I asked the studio if I could keep doing it.  Sure, they said.  The screenings would cost my project $15.00 a piece; cheap enough.   So every afternoon after lunch in the commissary (where, unfortunately I discovered empty calories of dining movie stars and the deep fried Monte Christo sandwich), it was movies, Movies, MOVIES!

Old UCLA pal Rob Reiner was there with Phil Mishkin with a writing/producing deal before "All in the Family" and directing gigs stratosphered him, and they were often in attendance.  This is where I learned that a writer will do almost anything to Not Write.  Especially when watching movies is concerned.

Eventually, the studio brass heard about the afternoon gatherings; Chow Puppy's hillbilly salons.  The crowds were getting bigger and we were starting to bring popcorn and soft drinks and talk back to the screen in familiar scenes.  I think the old projectionists finally ratted us out.

After a few months of this (and no pages), management told me the aggregate costs of the screenings were over a thousand bucks. What?!  Apparently they hadn't said "fifteen" they'd said "fifty."  Also around this time, I realized I was spending more time arranging a lunch date than I was thinking about my Clay Allison western.  It was becoming a social event.

Up on the second floor of the Writers Building were me, Jerry Lewis, Walter Hill, David Giler, and John Milius.  Lewis, the great comic and director was a taciturn, shuffling ghost.  We learned much later he was constantly on pain meds from one of his early Dean Martin prat falls.  Walter Hill was prolific, spare, a former 2nd assistant director who once had dated my ex-wife.  Giler was raised in show business, an extremely charming, bright and very funny guy.  But to me, Milius was the most interesting.  And perplexing.

John was from the USC film school, a double-wide surfer, an NRA gun nut (if he didn't know Ted Nugent, he should have), a Libertarian conservative, with a ready broad smile under perpetually scowling eyebrows.  I think the most truck he had with me was his amazement that a long hair, bearded Pinko dog like me had once been fire direction control for 81mm mortars in the Marine Corps.  And had stood General "Chesty" Puller's last inspection.

John used to pad around the halls with Ginger, his German Shorthair Pointer hunting dog.  He had done a significant rewrite on surprise smash "Dirty Harry" and another page one rewrite on "Crow Killer" (released as "Jeremiah Johnson"), so he was a legitimate big deal.  If he could button-hole you in the hall or men's room, he would tell you a scene he was working on, looking into your face carefully to judge its worth, its power.  When he saw the first signs of MEGO (mine eyes glaze over), he knew he had to work it more and better.  Finally, he would dictate the scene to his assistant...until they had a whole script.  She would type it, he would read it once, and that was it for the first draft.

When John had delivered "Dirty Harry 2" to Clint Eastwood, the other writers in the halls had already heard many of the best scenes, acted out by John.  So we knew what he had was great.  I was totally in awe of the guy.  As barf-o-rama as I thought his politics were; John Milius was a writing mammy jamma!  

As John watched Eastwood read his script, his face began to fall.  Eastwood was smiling, sometimes even laughing as he crossed out line after brilliant line.  Finally, John worked up the nerve to speak. Clint, what're you doing?  These lines are great!

"I know, John.  I know.  But I don't look good talking.  I look good killing people." 

****

It was about this time, I packed up my Warner Bros. office, took the C. Puppy sign outside my door (still got it), and moved home for a while.  If I was ever going to get a grip on this, I needed quiet, my cats, no lunch distractions; nothing but me and Clay Allison. 

The day I first got fifteen pages was one of the best of my life.  I mean, they weren't all good but they were pages...and I got 'em!  This was still my only script, the time of wandering in the story's desert, half blind and frantic with fear and excitement.  I had no idea about structure; these were the days before mass script writing teachers Robert McKee,  William Froug, Syd Field, or their like.

So -- having no idea of a goal -- naturally I redoubled my efforts.  I emptied my lifetime pockets of good lines, God-I-wish-I'd-saids, cool things I'd heard about if not actually seen, and the revised stuff from great movies that I ransacked like a Pict.

Then I handed it in to Warners.  And heard nothing.  Then, nothing.  And finally, even more nothing. But my hard-charging agent had gotten me another job at Warners, a story about a military school insurrection, with director Jim Frawley, so I figured they must've seen something they kind of liked.

A few days later I was in an elevator in my agents building.  Two agents I didn't know were laughing, pounding a script they were sharing.  One would quote a line and laugh.  Listen, listen to this, Ben... and he'd read a line.  Then, one of them actually said the four sweetest words a writer can hear. "This shit is great!"

Only seconds before, gob-smacked, I had realized the script they were reading was mine: "Clay Allison, Down By The River."  The elevator stopped, they got off, and I nearly wept with relief.  I thought, you know, maybe I can do this for a little while.

****

SOME NOTES ON SCREENPLAYS

Long before you see the movie in your local theatre -- before the studios fly to Hartford, Connecticut to, you know,  'borrow' the money from the insurance companies -- before they hire the actors, build the sets, get the cinematographer, the sound guys, the costumes -- before the publicists, the special effects -- before the dolly grips, the best boys (you always wanted to know what they were, I still don't know) -- before the juggernaut of production actually starts -- there has to be a script.

Ideally for me, it was always 117 pages, in which you will find the characters, where they are, what they say, how they are dressed, who they like, who they don't, what they are hiding, what they are doing, what they want, what keeps them from this need, and how they can overcome it.  In short, the story.

Everything.

The screenplay is so important that, Akira Kurosawa one of the greatest directors who ever lived, said that a bad director with a great script could make a good movie.  But a great director with a bad script could only come up with, at best, a mediocre one.   So we love Akira Tokyo Dude!

Millions of people will see a movie yet only a few hundred will ever see the actual script.  But, believe me, this is where it all starts.  It's right there in the Holy Bible: IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE WORD.  I mean, who're you gonna believe, me and God or some fancy pants director or star on Jimmy Kimmel who said he did it all?

People understand this in a lot of different ways -- here's mine (courtesy of Jean Luc Goddard) in kind of a cartoon manner.

A man.  Well, you have to start someplace.

A woman.  Now, we're getting better.  So many stories have these two elements; love stories, thrillers, family dramas.  But on its own, still not enough.

A gun.  Now, we're talking.  We have just placed a classic and deadly item between the first two elements that can suddenly give us the start of a story.  And story is what movies are all about.  The same is true with plays, novels, TV, opera, our justice system, even religion.  A story that we can enter for a while and come out the other end, changed.  What kind of gun, whose is it, what happens to it?  Who gets their hands on it and who uses it?  And for what?  

Now, we are back to the three basic character questions of all drama: What am I doing, what do I need, what’s in my way?

See, drama is fueled by conflict, by contention, by general bad-assery.

There's not going to be much drama in a story about Billy Graham, Mother Theresa, and St. Francis. But if you introduce a true wild card, the elements of a story start to jell.  In your life, you want good people, gentle, kind, patient, and normal.  In drama, things have to seem normal.  But true normalcy is the death blow to narrative.  The metaphor for this is a peaceful day, small town, an average family, and sweet music.  Then the doorbell rings.

There on the front porch stands Andrew Ward (yes, his real name).

Until he escaped, Mr. Ward was in jail for stabbing his 12-year-old brother to death and is now being hunted for (and I am not making this up) the murder of his Maricopa County cell-mate who was beaten, stabbed in the eyes with a golf pencil, had his throat cut with a plastic playing card, his head smeared with peanut butter, with a plastic bag jammed down his throat.

Yeah, things get different real fast when ol' Andy shows up.  So invite him in.

Drama thrives on hate, jealousy, rage, bitterness, suspicion, and psychotic behavior of all stripe.  The worse it gets, the more yummy it is.  However, when it becomes too awful, to keep it from being comedic, sometimes you have to go back and hide some of these elements.  Which will fuel-inject the deep horror even more.  It's like the butterball turkey you're secretly loading with X-lax.  This will make for a shorter but much more interesting Thanksgiving dinner.

Put the sociopaths (real and imagined) in your life to work...by sending them straight to your screenplay.  You will never be sorry. 

                                     ****

That's all for now.  But stay tuned for chapter three of the Chow Puppy's Hollywood adventures.  We will discover the tiny studio/suites above the Rexall across the street from Warner Bros and How I became a Drugstore Girl.  How I learned everything from a guy who won his Emmy directing The Monkees.  My afternoon encounter at 20th Century Fox with Gene Kelly.  Also more notes on the screenplay (cause you gotta dance with the one what brung ya).  And some stories about fame.  You don't want to miss the one about Jack Warden and Peggy Ann Garner.

Who?