How I Got to Call the Shots
An interview with esteemed
screenwriter/director Burt Kennedy
Burt Kennedy with John Wayne on the set of War
Wagon (1967) |
By Jeremy Arnold
In 1956, a
78-minute western called Seven Men From Now, starring an
aging Randolph Scott and directed by Budd Boetticher, became a
surprise hit.
Six more collaborations followed over
the next four years, revitalizing Scott’s career and securing
Boetticher’s place in film history. These spare little movies are
now considered to be among the finest westerns ever made.
Certainly the presence of Boetticher,
Scott, and several young actors (including Lee Marvin, James Coburn,
Richard Boone, and Claude Akins) as superb villains helped make
these pictures classics, but most of them also started with the
taut, lean scripts of Burt Kennedy.
Kennedy’s deceptively simple stories
contained complex themes of morality where the good guy wasn’t
necessarily all good and the bad guy was certainly never all bad.
The scripts were genuinely witty, exciting and humorous. Born into a
family of performers (his parents led an act called "The
Dancing Kennedys"), Kennedy later was highly decorated as a
cavalry officer in World War II. After the war, he wrote for radio
and found stunt work in Hollywood, notably on The Three
Musketeers (1948). John Wayne hired him to write a TV series
that was never produced, but he was impressed enough to keep Kennedy
on to write Seven Men From Now. (Unavailable for 40 years,
Seven Men is currently being restored by the UCLA Film and
Television Archive. Coincidentally, an Arnold Schwarzeneggar remake
is also in the works.)
Having formed a quick friendship with
Boetticher, Kennedy followed Seven Men with four more scripts
for the series—The Tall T, Ride Lonesome, Comanche Station,
and Buchanan Rides Alone (uncredited)—among other projects,
before launching his own directing career in 1961. Over the next
decade he wrote and directed many more westerns and western
comedies, sometimes with success (Support Your Local Sheriff!,
The War Wagon), sometimes not so much (Welcome To Hard Times,
Dirty Dingus Magee), but nearly always with his trademark humor
and witty dialogue.
John Ford talked with Kennedy in
“Action!” |
That humor developed into one of
Kennedy’s most consistent traits as a writer and director. Some of
his 1960s western comedies, like Mail Order Bride (starring a
hilarious Buddy Ebsen) and The Rounders (a sleeper hit in
1965), succeed primarily because of their amiable tones, much like
Howard Hawks’ work of the same period.
Burt Kennedy lives alone in a large
house in a comfortable San Fernando Valley suburb. When he and his
dogs ushered me through his living room, it was hard not to linger
over the many awards and memorabilia from his Hollywood and army
careers. (He was a cavalry officer in World War II.)
And when we entered the rec room to sit
at his bar for the interview, it was impossible. The room is crammed
with dozens of posters, framed letters, script pages, and photos of
his famous pals.
Like many film pros of his generation,
Kennedy resists discussing his work analytically. His comments are a
lot like his dialogue for a Randolph Scott picture—quick and
lean—and he’s much more eager to talk about his latest film, a
short called Comanche, than about any work of the past. But
when prodded, Kennedy opens up to reveal some pearls of insight into
his career and the writing process.
Jeremy Arnold (MM): Seven Men From
Now was a writing assignment for John Wayne’s company, Batjac.
What did they give you to start with?
Burt Kennedy (BK): Nothing. I had a
title, and they just put me in a room with a legal pad and a pencil,
and six weeks later I had written Seven Men From Now. Batjac
had a 10-picture deal with Warner Brothers, of which they had two
scripts left, including mine. They sent both over to Warner, and on
mine they put "First Draft"—making excuses for it—but
Warner fell in love with it. He wanted Duke to do it, but Duke was
doing The Searchers. Wayne always said to me after Seven
Men, "I should cut my throat—I should’ve done that
picture!"
MM: Describe your first meeting
with Budd Boetticher.
BK: He was at lunch with the
Duke and he had read just part of the script. He said to Duke,
"I want to do this picture, it’s a great script." And
Duke said, "How do you know? You’ve only read 10 pages!"
Budd said, "That’s all I have to know. I want to meet this
writer." So Duke introduced us—I was sitting right there!
MM: That must have felt pretty
good to hear.
BK: Yeah, that was a big step
for me, to know that finally someone was going to do the picture. I
didn’t have a career. And I had known about Budd’s work from
[his] bullfight pictures.
MM: What made Boetticher such a
perfect director for your scripts?
BK: Well, he, too, liked action
as opposed to dialogue. He’s just a great action director. He
thinks visually—in everything he does.
MM: Comanche Station
opens with a very long, wordless sequence. Was that a conscious
visual experiment on your part as the writer?
BK: A picture I directed, Young
Billy Young, opens that way, too. That’s not by design; it
just happened. If you can do it visually it’s always better. And
it’s actually easier to write that way. I don’t overwrite, but
the more detail I go into in describing [a setting], the easier it
is for me to visualize what happens there. It comes to life.
MM: How important a
consideration is landscape to a writer of westerns?
Stuart Whitman and Randolph Scott in Seven
Men From Now (1956) |
BK: My theory has always been to
write a real small story against a big background.
MM: Did you have the unique
landscape of Lone Pine, California, in mind for Seven Men From
Now?
BK: No, I’d never heard of it.
MM: Did you ever visit the sets
there?
BK: On Seven Men I was
there all the time, and on The Tall T I was up there a bit. I
learned a lot on Seven Men. I went from the very beginning,
looking for locations with Budd. I was also there to kind of protect
the words. I remember once I heard Lee Marvin saying "seven men
from now…" right in the camera, and I thought, "wait a
minute!"
MM: A little too obvious! I take
it that wasn’t in the script?
BK: (laughing) No. But luckily
Budd and I had a [good] rapport… He listened. In Seven Men,
after Randy shoots Lee Marvin, [Budd] had Randy put his gun away and
sit down—Randy had really hated to kill this guy—and I told
Budd, Randy wouldn’t even pay attention about putting his gun
away, he’d just sit down on this rock with the gun in his hand.
Little things, but they make a lot of difference. The director has
an awful lot on his mind—he can’t always see the little things.
It happens to me all the time.
MM: Each character in the Scott
westerns has a clear, differing stake in the story, and you pit one
against another in every possible combination.
BK: Trek pictures are like that.
And in those days we didn’t have any money [for] big action
sequences, so we had to do talk, we had to play scenes.
MM: They also revolve around
issues of pride and loneliness. Why did those themes interest you
personally?
BK: I think they went together
in the old west. I liked the loner—and I always thought that one
secret of a good western, with the exception maybe of High Noon, is
that the story’s problem is not the leading man’s problem. The
leading man should be able to walk away at any point, but he chooses
not to, and that’s what makes him a hero.
MM: Your hero and villain always
respect each other even though they know they will ultimately have
to shoot it out, which they are constantly telling each other.
BK: There was one thing I did in
The Tall T that I think maybe one critic picked up on. At the
very end, when Dick Boone’s walking away, he says, "You
wouldn’t shoot me in the back, I’m going to get on my horse and
ride out of here." And Randy says, "Don’t do it,
Frank." That’s the first time he called him by his first name
or any name. It was a very important line. One line can make a lot
of difference.
In fact—and this shows how
interesting one line can be—when I wrote the final script on White
Hunter, Black Heart, I wrote one line in that picture that made
it big. In the book, and in 13 scripts they had, the director
character [in the story, based on John Huston] never changed. Even
at the end after he was responsible for the killing of the native
and some of the elephants, he never said he was sorry. So I wrote a
line where after the native is killed, the Huston character comes
back and says to the writer, "You were right, the ending is all
wrong." In other words, the ending of this and the ending of
the picture is all wrong. And when I wrote that, I said now
they’ll make the movie. And they did.
MM: Is good dialogue in itself
enough to make a picture good?
BK: Well, I think Neil Simon has
proven that over and over. His whole style is dialogue-driven, too
much actually, but he’s sure been successful.
MM: The Tall T is based
on an Elmore Leonard story. Did you meet him while you were adapting
it?
BK: No, not during the movie.
But he loved it—he always mentions that 3:10 to Yuma and The
Tall T were his favorites.
MM: Were Six Black Horses
and Yellowstone Kelly originally meant to be part of the
Randolph Scott series? The stories and dialogue are quite similar.
BK: No, but they were the same
kind of pictures. I haven’t seen Six Black Horses in years.
I wrote it for Dick Widmark and I was going to direct it at
Universal, but there was a clause in my contract that let them buy
me out as director, which they did as soon as I finished the script.
They made it with Audie Murphy. It wasn’t bad, as I remember.
Yellowstone Kelly I wrote for
John Ford and John Wayne. Ford loved it and sent it to Duke, who was
doing a terrible picture called The Barbarian and the Geisha. About
six weeks later Ford called him up and said, "What’d you
think of the western?" And Duke said, "What western?"
Ford got mad, thought Wayne was giving him the brush, and in place
of that he did The Horse Soldiers.
MM: That must have been
disappointing.
BK: It was really disappointing
when you went from John Ford and John Wayne to Gordy Douglas and
Clint Walker! And of course about five million dollars came out of
the budget. I knew Gordy very well. I liked him, but his pacing on Yellowstone
Kelly was atrocious.
MM: How was your experience
directing your first picture, The Canadians?
BK: I didn’t know what I was
doing. I remember the first shot had like 400 horses in it, and I
got the shot and the cameraman said, "What do we do now?"
And I thought, "You mean I gotta do more?" So that’s the
reason I went into television. I went and did Combat! and Lawman to
find out physically how you shoot pictures. And when I got that
behind me, I could go ahead and do movies.
MM: I thought the chemistry
between Glenn Ford and Henry Fonda in The Rounders was very
strong. Was the set always as relaxed and easy-going as the movie
itself?
BK: Yes, my sets always are, I
must say. And The Rounders was the most fun and satisfying
picture to do—it was a long time getting it made. You have to
create an atmosphere on the set where everyone can do his best job
and not worry about failure. Once in a while you have to put your
foot down. One thing Wayne taught me, and John Ford taught me, was
how to chew ass… you know, really get mad at somebody. And I do it
by design—I’ll pick out the guy and really give it to him. Yul
Brynner used to tell me, "Burt, when you’re mad, don’t ever
say anything. Wait ’til you’re not mad at all and then you can
remember everything you want to say!"
MM: What are the challenges in
writing western comedies?
BK: Western comedies are really
a tightrope. I try to make the western part of it as real as I can,
but I made a picture called Dirty Dingus Magee, with Frank
Sinatra and George Kennedy, and it didn’t work because everyone
was crazy. You’ve got to have one person in the picture who’s
completely straight—like Jim Garner in Support Your Local Sheriff!
He didn’t think he was funny at all.
I ran it for him the first time and he
said "Burt, I’m really disappointed in this," and I
said, "Jim, this is the best picture you’ve ever been in or
probably ever will be in." Everybody was crazy but him, and
that’s the reason it worked.
MM: The Money Trap was a
rare departure into urban drama. How did it come about?
BK: Glenn Ford was stuck to do
it at Metro, and since The Rounders had been such a success,
he came to me and asked me to do it. It really was a money
trap—they offered me a lot of money and I did it!
MM: Welcome To Hard Times is
unusual in many respects. Its setting is about as desolate as any
western ever made, and Aldo Ray’s nameless villain doesn’t speak
a word for the entire picture, yet he’s terrifying.
BK: I read the first chapter of
the Doctorow book and I said, if there’s nothing else in the book
this will make a good picture.
MM: What attracted you to it?
BK: In the first scene in the
picture, the bad guy comes into the saloon, and the bartender says
to Henry Fonda, "You gotta get rid of him," and Fonda
says, "If I go over there, he’ll kill me." I liked
that—finally a guy who didn’t strap on his guns and run to get
the bad guy. He was honest, a realist, a complete anti-hero. The
movie was way ahead of its time.
Doctorow really hates the picture. He
goes out of his way even today to say, "Get the hammer out for Welcome
To Hard Times!"
MM: In the ’70s and ’80s you
directed lots of TV movies.
BK: I used to call them
"Mortgages of the Week!" You know, you have to stay in the
game.
MM: Are there any pictures you
regret not doing?
BK: Cat Ballou. They brought it
to me, and I turned it down because I didn’t think it was funny!
MM: What is your approach to the
writing process?
BK: Hemingway said, and I picked
up on it years ago, "Write four pages a day, and figure out
what you’re going to do tomorrow, then you can sleep
tonight." You don’t have to stay on that thing you come up
with—you can throw it away in the morning—but if you can do four
pages a day and figure out where you’re going the next day, you
can really do a lot of movies.
MM: How long does it typically
take you to finish a script?
BK: Probably six weeks, if it
all goes right.
MM: Do you do a lot of
outlining?
BK: Mostly I start with a couple
of characters and the opening and find out where it’s going, and
let the characters take it. It works for me.
MM: Do you prefer directing your
own scripts over someone else’s?
BK: I like doing originals
because the worst part about adaptations is facing the original
author when you’re through! But you fall into a trap of doing your
own scripts, because you think what’s on paper doesn’t have to
be improved. If you have a weak script from someone else, you’re
always trying to make it better. Which reminds me, I saw Magnolia
yesterday. Very strange movie. It was like amateur night in Dixie,
some guy who was allowed to ramble and scream and holler.
MM: Do you prefer directing over
writing?
BK: Yeah, because writing is so
tough. You don’t lose sleep over directing.
You do over writing.
MM: The great stars you’ve
directed—Mitchum, Fonda, Wayne, Brynner—were all seasoned pros
when you worked with them. Did that make them easier or harder to
direct?
BK: Easier, by far. They were
very secure in themselves. They didn’t have any [ego] problems.
Never. Especially Fonda. He was the best actor I ever worked with.
He loved direction. The way you get through to those guys is with a
sense of humor—because if you take them seriously, you’re in
trouble. You could get to Wayne easily by just telling him he was
awful in a scene—he’d fall apart!
MM: What do you want from an
actor you’re directing?
BK: Professionalism.
MM: What don’t you want?
BK: Guys who just kid around and
don’t help the other actors. You know, the big thing in acting is
you listen. Fonda said you go beyond that—the real secret is
listening and hearing it for the first time. That’s real acting.
MM: Will westerns ever be truly
popular again, aside from the occasional Unforgiven?
BK: No. Some guy gets very big
and says, "I want to do a western," and then they make it
because of the guy. That’s the reason they do it with Clint.
MM: Why have westerns faded in
the public appetite?
BK: Because of the tempo of a
western—the attention span [it requires]. We’ve educated
audiences to see things blowing up. In the old days we used to do
stories—though we still get some good pictures across every year,
three or four of them.
MM: What are you working on now?
BK: I just finished this
half-hour picture, Comanche. I shot it on Super-16 with a
good cast—Kris Kristofferson, Wilford Brimley, Ethan Wayne, Angie
Dickinson. It’s the story of the horse that was the lone survivor
of the 7th Cavalry at the Little Big Horn. He was wounded there
seven times, but he became the prized pet of the 7th Cavalry. Nobody
was allowed to ride him, and he roamed around Fort Riley for about
10 years until he died. It’s a very touching story.
MM: What’s your take on the
current squabble between the Writers’ and Directors’ Guilds on
possessory credits?
BK: The day that the writers can
say who gets the "a film by" credit will never happen.
Years ago I wrote this advice to writers: get good, and then you can
get anything you want. It’s all about ego—they should quit
worrying about their ego and worry more about what they’re doing.
You write something that’s great and you’re gonna be able to
call shots. And if you don’t, you’re not. Simple as that.
The thing is, a bad writer will write
reams. Good writers won’t write at all—because they know
what’s good and what isn’t!
MM: And the good stuff is hard
to come by?
BK: You better believe it! MM
© MovieMaker Magazine