Acting Had Nothing to Do With It

Ken Hughes, director of such films as “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” and “Cromwell,” has been semiretired since directing 1978’s “Sextette.” To mark the film’s re-release last week on Rhino Video, Hughes reminisces about the challenges of directing the great Mae West, in what would be her final film role.

*

It was 4 in the morning when the phone in my London apartment rang and a voice from 8,000 miles away asked, “How would you like to come to Hollywood and direct a movie with Mae West?”

The next morning I was on a plane for Los Angeles, and soon I was having dinner with the producers--two young kids in their 20s. The money was in place, they had booked two stages at (where else?) Paramount Studios, they had a great script by Herb Baker--but they didn’t have a director.

One small fact had, it seemed, been overlooked: Mae West had director approval.

Not that there was any shortage of volunteers; she had already turned down a string of Hollywood veterans. “These are old guys,” was her explanation. “And not only that, they are just not couth.”

The honor fell to me, and to quote her own words: “The guy is a gentleman.” Whether that was because of my British accent, or because I came through a door that said so, has never been made clear.

I had a few secret suppers with Mae in exclusive Hollywood restaurants, and as far as I could see she wasn’t in a wheelchair, she didn’t walk with a stick, all her marbles seemed to be in place. Most important, we liked each other.

*

Filming commences about two weeks later in a Paramount sound stage designed to look like the magnificent bridal suite of London’s most exclusive hotel. The double doors swing open, revealing Miss West in all her legendary glory and one of Edith Head’s most sensational creations.

Right on time the good lady does her slow-motion shuffle onto the set, trailing 50 yards of white chiffon behind her.

“I got here as soon as I could,” she says. “I didn’t want to find you’d started without me.”

I take her gently by the arm: “Let’s just walk through it, shall we?”

“You’re the boss, sweetheart.”

I lead her forward. The doors open. “This is the first time we see you in the show. . . . You make the big entrance. . . . You mosey through the doors and hit this mark. This is where you meet Big Jim.”

Big Jim appears in his dude ranch outfit and Stetson.

BIG JIM: Hiya, Mae, long time no see.

MAE WEST: The guy needs a haircut.

ME: Hairdressing!

HAIRDRESSER: Yes, sir?

ME: Take the gentleman upstairs and give him a haircut.

HAIRDRESSER: Yes, sir!

(I exert a slight pressure on Miss West’s arm.)

ME: Now we mosey over to the bar and we fix Big Jim a drink.

MAE WEST: Which one is Big Jim?

ME: The guy who just went off for a haircut.

(That’s the rehearsal. The take is something else.)

CAMERA: Camera running. Mark it!

CLAPPERS: Scene 1, Take 1.

ME: Action!

(The big double doors swing open.)

BIG JIM: Hiya, Mae, long time no see.

(The stage waits for Mae to make her move.)

ME: Make your move, Mae.

MAE WEST: Where d’you want me to go?

ME: Cut!

Lunch break comes as a merciful relief. I put out a call for sandbags.

As the crew reassembles, some changes have been made. The floor is now outlined in white painted lines, like Highway 101. At strategic points en route, there are piles of sandbags, each accompanied by an assistant. I don’t even try to explain it to Miss West.

CAMERA: Camera rolling.

CLAPPER BOY: Scene 1, Take 12.

ME: Action.

(The big double doors open.)

BIG JIM: Hiya, Mae, long time no see.

ME: Go, Mae. Follow the white line.

(Trailing 50 yards of white chiffon behind her, Mae shuffles forward in her inimitable slow Boston one-step until her feet hit the first sandbag, which stops her abruptly.)

ME: Give him the line, Mae.

MAE WEST: Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?

(During this, the assistant near her grabs her ankles and turns her bodily toward the white line.)

ME: Follow the white line, Mae.

(Mae follows the white line to her next mark. She reaches the bar and fixes Big Jim a drink. By this time, he is a sweating mass of terror.)

MAE WEST: What brings you into this neck of the woods?

(Poor Big Jim has no idea what he is doing in this or any other neck of the woods.)

BIG JIM (mumbling helplessly): I, er . . . er . . . er.

I don’t have to say “Cut.” Big Jim has the dignity and good sense to make a graceful exit.

The final shot in the scene should be a piece of cake. All Mae has to do is to come out of the bridal suite into the corridor, turn right, mosey 15 feet to the elevator, press the button and then step inside, throw a parting line to Big Jim, “An’ I don’t want to find you here when I get back,” and press the button. The elevator doors would close and the shot would be in the can.

On the first take, she emerges from the suite and turns . . . left.

On Take 2, she emerges from the bridal suite, turns right and moseys down the corridor trailing yards of chiffon . . . grandly shuffling past the elevator and off the set.

Through the next several takes she makes it into the elevator but forgets to turn around, so her parting shot at Big Jim is played to the back of the elevator.

The take numbers mount. Behind the camera people are laying bets. Somewhere I hear a voice announce: “Take 74!”

I can’t believe it. Fifty, maybe; 60 working with drunks or animals--but 74? All eyes are on Mae. The silence is so profound you could hear an option drop.

I call action. She makes her exit from the suite and turns right. I hold my breath. She moseys serenely along the passage and, approaching the elevator, presses the button. The doors open. Stepping into the elevator, she turns for her final line: “An’ I don’t want to see you here when I get back!”

She even manages a little chuckle of her own invention, as the elevator doors close on cue.

There is a momentary hush, then a rousing cheer from the entire crew. The scene is in the can! The stage bell rings; the big doors open and sunlight streams into the set.

An assistant yells, “It’s a wrap!” and is greeted with more cheers.

My assistant shakes his head and repeats over and over, “Seventy-four takes! Jesus!”

Miss West’s bodyguard appears. “The limo’s outside.”

“She’s in wardrobe.”

He heads off to wardrobe. A harassed woman enters by another door. “I just left wardrobe,” she says. “She’s not there.”

“Did you try hairdressing?”

“They’ve gone home.”

“Where the hell is she?”

My assistant and I spring to our feet at the same instant and run through the big doors and onto the next stage.

“It’s not possible,” I yell as we race through the bridal suite and out into the corridor and come to a screeching halt in front of the closed doors of the elevator.

“On this movie, anything’s possible,” he answers.

“Open the door!”

“I don’t want to open the door.”

I grab the door and pull it aside.

“How was that one?” Mae asks.

“It was great, Mae, great!”

“You wanna go again?”

“No, Mae . . . not ever again.”

She chuckles as she steps out of the elevator and moseys off down the corridor: “One-Take Mae they called me back in the old days!”

If the soundproof booth from which I directed the rest of the movie isn’t in the Smithsonian, it should be.

This strange device had all the appearance of an old telephone booth on wheels festooned with radio antennas, speakers and all manner of electronic wizardry. Inside was a battery of amplifiers, headphones and other gadgetry.

The soundman explained, “This knob opens up a direct line to the camera operator. This control enables you to speak to the floor over speakers mounted in the roof. This control is a direct line to Mae West’s right ear. You can talk to her at any time and only she can hear you. These phones pick up the dialogue on the floor--you have total control of the entire floor.”

I figured I might do better with a pair of riding breeches and a megaphone, but what the hell.

With my headphones on, a battery of cue lights flashing and a row of controls facing me, the result was something as follows:

BIG JIM: There must have been a lot of men in your life, Mae.

(Mae, who has no idea what her response is, waits a beat as I feed her the line in my much practiced impersonation of the famous lady.)

ME: It ain’t the men in my life that counts, it’s the life in my men.

MAE WEST: It ain’t the men in my life that counts, it’s the life in my men.

BIG JIM: Goodness, Mae, you must have had a helluva time.

ME: Goodness has nothing to do with it.

MAE WEST: Goodness has nothing to do with it.

Some of the technical problems were that the other actors could often hear Mae’s lines when her earphones were too loud; this led to all manner of confusion. Actors found themselves answering me before they answered Mae West.

All in all, it was a glorious failure, but somehow we emerged triumphant, substantiating that adage that “the show must go on.”

May God bless Mae West, who died Nov. 22, 1980, at age 87. She was one of the great artists of the cinema. I am proud to have met her and to have worked with her. May she never be forgotten.