by
Elia Kazan
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There are others whom the waves of thought and art in the forties, when they retreated, left stranded. Brando, like Welles neurotically overweight, and by some mysterious choice out of things, respecting no one and least of all his own profession and his incomparable gifts, hides on a dirt hill over the film colony or in Tahiti. There are others too, many of whom make fat livings by boosting commercial enterprises—you’ve seen them on TV. These men in their private moments still present themselves as rebels—like old actors coming back again and again to play a favorite role, the one in which they scored their great successes. But in their hearts, I believe, they know the unhappy truth, that they are now deep in the system they once loathed and attacked. Many of them are affluent, with a Mercedes or the assurance of a stretch limo and an obedient chauffeur at their command. They are all good men, men of the “movement,” as it was called, not the Communist movement but the surge of hope and confidence and determination that took over from the Great Depression, the anti-monopoly-capital movement, the common-man movement, the anti-colonialist movement of the thirties and forties. These were and are worthy causes, causes with which I am in sympathy, and, as much as the others, I hold on to the postures of those days and the dreams we once all had. But now, in the cold light of a cold morning, those dreams are troubled when they exist at all, and on the beach lie the remains of that other time.
My own opinion is that they do because the actors—whether by technique or by accident—gave you pieces of their lives, which is certainly the ultimate generosity of the artist, and they did it unabashed. You were the witness to a final intimacy. These artists spoke to your secret self, the one you hide. They offered you more than cleverness or technique: they gave you the genuine thing, the thing that hurt you as it thrilled you.
What made these distilled experiences awesome and unforgettable is that in these cases, a kind of fear is aroused—not in them but in you as you watch—a fear that may be the ultimate respect you, the viewer, can give in return. You find yourself unsure of what is going to happen next—or in the end. Will they last it out, will they come through? As in life, there are likely to be surprises that discomfort you. All leading men and women should have something unpredictable and dangerous about them. You should be anxious about what they might do; it could get out of hand. Didn’t Bogart have this? And Bette Davis? Will the leading man make love to his leading lady or will he strike her—Cagney. Who can plumb the mystery of Greta Garbo? She doesn’t yield, she doesn’t make friends; she’s not after your approval, not ever. Yes, there should be a persisting menace, even in heroes. They should be the opposite of housebroken, only partly tamed, not quite civilized. Immoderate.
READ this photograph with me. Here is a gathering of old friends who’ve been through a lot together and earned a rest. We’d just arrived at the Pinebrook Country Club, reassembled for another summer of work. Look closer: It’s probably hindsight, but I’d say that the passion that had once made us so open to Harold’s exhortations about what our theatre might be if we willed it and worked for it, that fever had cooled. We weren’t “hungry” anymore. For the most part, we seem calmer, maybe nicer, certainly more relaxed, ready to talk and laugh together, listen to music, play tennis, and party, even work reasonably well without quarreling. But is that what’s required to hold a group like this together? Isn’t an edge of fanaticism needed? Does that level of desperation and desire accrue to none but the young? It would seem so. Only men of genius, once past a certain age, look as if they’d kill for their work. As for the rest of mankind, what more to ask of life than to gather on a sunny June day and enjoy the company of good friends?
More than any writer I’ve known, Clifford needed to be needed to write. He was like a high-powered automobile with an uncertain self-starter; our need turned him on. Luther and I began to hound him to write us a play, and we jibed at Harold, who, despite his sorry state at Wanger’s, seemed comfortable since he was close to Stella and eating in expensive restaurants where headwaiters greeted him by name. I remember observing with puritanical disapproval that Harold had grown plump and taken to flashy neckties. In prosperity, I concluded, this is not the same man. I recall another conclusion I reached, that idealism is possible only in conditions of penury; it is a unique man, I made up my mind, who can sustain the fever of his dreams when he has money to eat regularly. Perhaps this was a hangover from my old Communist-days motto: “Only trust the working class.” The main objective I had during those weeks was to return Harold to hard times so he could again be his true self.
Constance was nineteen and had every charm given to youth. She was a dancer, with those legs, had been in the chorus of a couple of musicals. She wanted to be a dramatic actress and was working as an usher at the Belasco, to watch our performances. Years later, when it was over between us, she became a film actress, rather a favorite in Europe, sort of a star.
There was a devil’s battle going on in me. The moral code by which I’d been brought up made me feel guilty. But I found that what had been happening was thrilling, adventurous, and—the only word for it—educational. I’d never before yielded myself so entirely to my emotions. My life was no longer under control.
Several of the company members were married. Had they noticed? If so, did they disapprove of me? They knew Molly, of course, and I wondered what they’d say to her. But I didn’t care. I was where I wanted to be, out in the open with the girl, as if I had no responsibility to anyone else. Besides, here was England in the prime of the year! So celebrate! When it was all over, I realized that because of knowing this girl, I’d learned more about English street and village life, the ways of the common man, of the “proletariat” we used to talk about in the Party, than I could have learned in any other way from any other source. Diggie, whom I never saw, wrote to, or spoke with again, is my keenest memory of that English engagement. Isn’t it astonishing—I think so—that what I remember most keenly about my visit to London in 1938 is someone Molly would have called a tramp.
Was I trying again to break up my life?
They are the windows of the room where some twenty-five years ago I used to meet a girl I shan’t name. The past is across the street from the present; the distance between, slight. Directly under those three windows a sort of daybed was placed, and there—with the shutters closed—we used to come together. This young woman was unremarkable in every way except one. When she was making love, her face became an extraordinary high pink. That is what I remember about her most; she looked like one of Renoir’s models. That pink was the evidence of a most loving and generous nature. If you had met her on the street, you’d certainly have thought she was a proper, even a prim girl. And she was—except in the exercises of love. Then she became another creature.
Do I regret all that happened across my street twenty-five years ago? How could I, when I remember with such tender feelings that young woman and how intent and pink her face became?
Do I regret any of that which happened? Do I regret what has made this city so rich for me? How could I? Yes, I did hurt some people, several who were dear to me, particularly my first wife when I was least controlled and most driven. But have you tried getting through life without hurting anyone? What did you answer to that question? It can’t be done. Besides, how can you regret the memory of a human touch, a loving voice, a tender glance, a grateful body’s embrace, a time of devotion, the help you received and the help you gave?
That’s another kind of wealth, the wealth I prize most, the wealth of my experiences. I wouldn’t have missed any of it. Or the memories. What did the poet say? I loved them all in my own fashion—and I have no regrets. I wanted my album full.
Well, it is. How was I able to do it, and still live a “respectable” life?
The answer is—and here’s the bad part—duplicity. That’s the solution I arrived at in the suite below Al Capone’s in that South Michigan Avenue hotel almost fifty years ago. What I decided in that season in Chicago was to cut myself loose from the plague of guilt, from society’s approved restrictions and morality. Secretly, quietly, I scorned them and went my way, pulling out of life the pleasure and adventures I craved.
Has any society at any time solved the problem of the relation between the sexes honestly? Europeans tend to face the facts. French men and women take lovers and live happily with their legal mates. Mexicans have their casa chicas. No two people have the same desires or the same needs, and no single individual has the same ones at all periods of his or her life. Certainly novelty is part of it, why not admit that? An extensive sex life expands your knowledge. The album adds pages and each memory is a treasure. And a stimulus. Promiscuity for an artist is an education, a great source of confidence, and a spur to work. Ironically, it can also promote true marital fidelity. It’s healthier than licentious dreams and unrealized yearnings. And guilt. These lead to secret resentment and hatred; they sour a life.