Documentary Now! (2015–…): Season 2, Episode 6 - Mr. Runner Up: My Life as an Oscar Bridesmaid, Part 1 - full transcript

Good evening. I'm Helen Mirren,

and you're watching
"Documentary Now!"

season 51.

His films are
the stuff of Hollywood legend,

but until he consented
to this documentary,

few knew the inner life
of Hollywood producer

Jerry Wallach

and the obsession that fueled
and plagued his career.

Well, it's all laid bare
in the Hollywood exposé,

"Mr. Runner Up:
My Life as an Oscar Bridesmaid."

Everybody has
a great Jerry Wallach story.



Everybody.
The only person in Hollywood

who doesn't have
a great Jerry Wallach story

is Jerry Wallach,

because his are all lies.

In fact, if you can keep
Jerry Wallach

as far away from this
documentary as possible,

you might actually have
something close to the truth.

In 1939, Tootie Hayes was
nominated for best screenplay

at the Academy Awards.

Tootie did
what any nominee does:

He bought the tux,
the most expensive shoes.

He bought his wife
a Don Loper gown,

and hired a limousine to boot.

Great story short,
Tootie lost to the writer



of a little film called
"Mr. Smith Goes to Washington."

As Tootie and his wife left
the auditorium,

a producer named Art Lange said,

"Cheer up, Tootie. It's
an honor just to be nominated."

Tootie Hayes broke his windpipe,

and when Tootie's wife tried
to stop the fight,

he shoved her,
and she fell down some stairs.

I love that story,

because just as there's
only one bride at a wedding,

there's only one winner

who could bring home Oscar gold.

Every other nominee is
just a bridesmaid

in a rented dress

hoping someday
Oscar will propose.

Tootie's wife was okay, though.

Banged up, but, you know,

she's all right.

I grew up in Pollock Beach,
Brooklyn in the 1930s.

Pop owned a store
that sold a jar of olives.

Mom stirred a big pot
of laundry with a wooden spoon.

I played stickball,
did pyro stuff.

Everything was Norman Rockwell.

But bad luck don't follow
statutory laws.

It'll slam you hard
before you're 18.

The Magenta Fever outbreak
hit kids in Brooklyn hard.

What started with a cough
landed me

near death in the hospital.

I lived. I was lucky,
save for one thing:

I went bald.

You had to look close,
but I was a bald guy.

I was five years old,

and I was a bald guy.

It sunk my self confidence

all the way
to the mezzanine level.

But my father didn't let me
sulk.

No. He took me
to Broadway Bill Pearl,

the finest hairpiece maker
in Manhattan,

and he said, "Fix the kid."

He taught me that any problem
can be solved,

and solved convincingly.

Pop died of a heart attack
a week later.

He was 35.

It was his time.

As a bald kid with a dead dad,

movies became my refuge.

I'd sit back
in those cheap velvet seats

and forget all about
my stupid little life.

The projector rolled,
and suddenly I could be anyone:

A swashbuckler banging swords
with Robin Hood,

or maybe some Apache Indian
chasing after old John Wayne,

or a beautiful young virgin
being seduced by Dracula.

But I'll never forget the movie

that captured my imagination
most of all.

The theater went dark,
and the title appeared:

Walt Disney's "Snow White."

♪ Everything is in tune
and it's spring ♪

The beautiful voice
of Adriana Caselotti

filled the theater.

I couldn't believe
what I was seeing.

Every seat was filled:

Main floor, loge, and balcony.

At 25 cents a seat, 3,500 seats,

we're talking $875
for one screening, minimum.

And that's not counting
concessions.

3,500 people spending
at least a nickel on popcorn...

at least... and you're looking
at $1,000 gross.

And that's for one showing.

There were 15 showings a day.

We're talking real money.

And Caselotti was a no-name,

so Walt probably paid her scale.

I knew from that day
that I wanted to make movies.

I went to college,

but I have absolutely
no stories from that time.

But I'll never forget the day
I arrived in Hollywood.

I saw a posting
for mail room jobs

at the William Morris Agency.

Only trouble was about 600 lugs
my age saw the same posting.

I was on line for three hours.

I almost gave up,
but then who did I see

pulling up fast
in a '51 Cadillac?

Mr. Burt Lancaster.

Burt was a major star

and a big client
for William Morris

I had to do something.

So I used what life gave me.

I think quick. I do the only
thing I can think of

is I take my hairpiece off
and I throw it under the car.

You didn't.

I did. No, no.

I took the toupee and I threw it
under his car,

and I let the waterworks go,
you know?

I said, "Y-y-you ran over
m-m-my dog, m-mister."

Did you get the job?

Will you let me finish
the story?

I got the job.

I started the next day,

my foot in the door
of lighty Los Angeles.

It was time to hustle,
and hustle I did,

rising and rising.

♪ She's my little lady ♪

♪ She's my little girl ♪

♪ And she don't say maybe ♪

♪ She's my coconut ♪

I signed the biggest names
in Hollywood,

and none of them read
their contracts.

I got a commission
on their salaries,

a producer fee on their films,

plus a realtor fee
on all their homes.

This practice was legal
for about six years.

It was a golden era.

By 1965, I was the top agent
at William Morris,

and I lived in style
at my beautiful home,

Villa Caselotti,

named after the voice
of Snow White,

who got paid scale.

It was an Italian oasis
tucked away

in the fiats near LAX airport:

Just me and the eucalyptus

and constant planes.

♪ She's my coconut ♪

Then, one day, my life
changed with a phone call.

It was Bob Goodwin,
president of Pinnacle Pictures.

Wallach, it's Bob.

I want you to know
I'm resigning.

That's too bad, Bob,
but why call me?

I don't work at your company,
and isn't that

more of a Human Resources thing?

No. You don't get it, Wallach.

I want you to run the studio.

The studio,
the studio, the studio...

Run a movie studio?

My dream since childhood.

Sometimes,
when life runs at you,

it's to throw you a bear hug.

But sometimes it's to hit you
in the balls

so hard your teeth click

and you puke on your shoes.

I took the job.

I was now a major player,

respected by everyone.

"Jerry Wallach" meant one thing:

Success.

I remember it was 1971,

and we were in Beverly Hills,

and it was Jack Warner's party
for Alfred Hitchcock,

and the whole town turned out...

all the name people of the day.

I went in the coatroom,
and Jerry was in there,

and he was going
through the coats.

Like, people's pockets.

I never told anyone that.

Pinnacle Pictures was
a small fry

compared to the other
big hamburger studios.

Pinnacle had hits in the '30s

like the kids' series,
"The Scrapyard Gang."

- Apples!
- Apples! Get your apples!

- Apples!
- Apples! Get your apples!

Hey, mister,
do you want to buy an apple?

Certainly not.

And if I see you
on this sidewalk again,

I shall call the police.

Ah, eat ink.

Now, see... oh!

Ow! My... doh!

Hey! That's a real bat! Hey!

But by 1964,
Pinnacle was near dead

and starting to evacuate
its own bowels.

And when I say stuff like that,
I'm speaking figuratively.

From 1955 to 1964,

Pinnacle only produced
educational films

on drunk driving.

When driving drunk,
always remember:

One eye may see better
than both eyes.

Keep one eye shut

to drive drunk with gusto!

I needed to get the studio's
finances back in the black.

Only two things in business
are recession-proof:

Comedy
and fantastic tennis shoes.

Comedy was our ticket to hits.

First, we needed stars:

Lemmon, Martin, Lewis.

Pinnacle couldn't afford them.

Then it hit me:

I was looking for American stars

when the biggest talent
I'd ever seen

was right across the ocean.

Enzo Entolini,

the Italian Chaplin,

the biggest star in Italy,

and the only true genius
I've ever known.

The first time I saw his work,

I knew that this goofball
had it.

Enzo wasn't just a talent.
He was a survivor.

His father died
when he was three.

His mother suffered
from deep depression

and heart trouble.

The village doctor told Enzo

he had to make his mother laugh
to lift her spirits,

but not too hard,
or she could die.

At an early age, Enzo learned
how to do B to B-level comedy:

Just enough to make his mother
chuckle,

but no more.

Mediocre impressions
of Jimmy Cagney,

a puppet thing where Enzo would
ask the puppet

what day of the week it was,

and it would tell him.

He rode a razor's edge
of humor no one else could.

From jealous husbands
and horny wives

to eating cigarettes
and falling off ladders.

He pioneered
a new film movement,

Italian sexy neorealism.

Ooh!

I had to have Enzo Entolini
under contract for Pinnacle.

Fortunately for me,
Enzo was free,

living in London after landing
in hot water in Italy

for comments his 12-year-old
wife made in the press

about the church.

I got on the next plane
to London.

Enzo and me got along better

than 7-Up and Seagram's.

No one ever made me laugh
harder.

From that first night onward,
a friendship was formed.

I called him El Guapo,

and he called me racist.

I teamed Enzo up with radio
and TV star Ed Brulay.

Brulay was an alcoholic
and a closet case

living dangerously
on the edge of discovery,

but their on-screen chemistry
was only a little deniable.

Enzo and Brulay made three
of the biggest comedies

of 1964 and 1965.

In that same year, I decided

to take one of the biggest
gambles of my young career.

An epic could make or break
a studio.

Bible pictures were big.

The Bible is
the original comic book:

Fake stories to please rabid,
violent fans.

And if you get it wrong,

they'll kill you
at one of their conventions.

In 1959, Jack Warner had
bought the rights

to the entire Bible.

It was a big-dick move

from the thickest python
in Hollywood's pants.

What he didn't own
were the rights

to the other fringe gospels,

rejected by the Council of Nicea

in 325 AD.

The Gospel of Thomas,
The Gospel of Simon...

all stories of Jesus's life

that were considered
blasphemous,

and therefore up for grabs.

I called the lawyer
who controlled the rights

to The Gospel of Lewis

and cut a deal.

It told the story
of Jesus of Nazareth,

and his friend from growing up,
Lewis.

When Jesus starts hanging out
with the apostles,

it's difficult for Lewis,

because the friend groups
don't really mesh.

Lon Barr
and Preston Fontaine star.

So, Jesus, there's something
I've been meaning

to talk to you about.

- Hmm?
- Now, don't get me wrong.

I'm having a great time.

But the apostles...

they worship you
as the son of God,

yet scorn me.

Lewis, my friend
from growing up,

look not what they say or do.

Those men like you.

They said so. They said...

"We like Lewis."

We treated the material
with the utmost respect.

It was a story of the son of God

and a friendship caper.

Lads? Lads.

You know what's great
about all of us?

We're all from Jerusalem,

and we're all good friends, huh?

Then choose, Nazarene!

Choose out of all of us:

Who's your best friend?

Anyway, anyway,

like I was telling you before,

I had these two big baskets,
right?

It had a score by Miklós Rózsa,

and a cast of over 10,000 extras

for an outdoor market scene
that we ended up cutting.

It was the biggest budget
in Pinnacle's history,

and it paid off.

"Friend of the Son of Man"
was one of the last

great road-show pictures,

playing across the country
for over two years.

But the critics savaged us.

Pauline Kael and Renata Adler,

AKA Spinster and No Thanks,

not only ripped apart the film,
but singled me out

and printed my address.

After all this work,

I was still a joke in Hollywood.

Pinnacle was flush with cash,

but we were strapped
for respect.

I knew one thing could
put us on top,

and that was Mr. Gold himself.

The Oscar. The Academy Award.

I made a bet with Jerry

that "Friend of the Son of Man"

would not recoup.

If I won the bet,
he had to spend one night

in the haunted mausoleum
of Lupe Vélez.

If he won, I had to wear
a bandana around my neck

every day for 50 years.

And here we are.

Prior to 1945,

the Academy Awards had been
a small affair,

a chicken dinner
at a hotel banquet room

that we shared
with some L. Ron Hubbard thing.

It ran only 45 minutes.

But over the years,
the Oscars had grown

into an event
like the great Roman games

where gladiators
beat the shit out of each other

for money or whatever.

Pinnacle needed
an Oscar-winning film,

and I would do everything
in my power to make it happen.

You've heard of.

Captain Moby Dick
and Mr. Whale...

well, my whale was a 13.5-inch,

8.5-pound golden Adonis,

and I'd spend
the rest of my life

trying to lure that
son of a bitch into my net.

And it was enormously hard
to be married to such a person

when all he wanted was...

Yes.

We were married
from 1965 to 1967.

Did he not mention that?

I... I can't with him!
I just can't.