I called Dino that evening. "Dino, we've got the biggest star we could ever possibly have!"
?
"Yeah!
Who? Who?"
?
"James
Cagney, Dino!"
?
There
was a long pause on the line.
?
"Okay,
okay, I'm busy right now! Call me tomorrow," Dino said and hung up.
?
The
next morning, my phone rang early. It was Dino.
?
"Milos,
guess what! We've got just what we need! We've got our superstar!"
?
I
got scared that Dino had given away one of the roles to some aging European
has-been.
?
"Who,
Dino?" I said, bracing myself.
?
"James
Cagney, Milos! You can't ask for a bigger name than that!" Apparently Dino
had never heard of James Cagney, and he'd taken the time between our two
conversations to find out. But he was speaking in earnest now, and he
immediately launched into his spiel for the European distributors, which I
found touching.
?
The
next thing I had to do was convince Dino that James didn't have to sign
anything if he didn't want to sign anything. Dino finally agreed, but I never
dared tell him that I had given my word to James that he had until two days
before his first appearance on the set to withdraw from the project.
?
After
that, problems began to pile up. No insurance company would insure Cagney. His
scenes were scheduled to be shot on a soundstage in London, and then I found
out that James wouldn't go near a plane.
?
Luckily,
I had a sage ally in Marge. "Milos," she told me, "I don't know
what other roles you've got in that picture, but if you were to cast one of
James's old pals and they had to go to London with him . . ."
?
I
immediately cast Pat O'Brien, a great actor himself, as Harry K. Thaw's lawyer.
I even gave the role of Mrs. Thaw to Mrs. O'Brien.
?
When
James arrived in London, the first thing he asked me was, "You didn't
forget our agreement, did you, Milos?"
?
"No,
James, you've got until two days before."
?
"Just
checking."
?
I
had to have a double for James anyway because he wasn't able to march the way I
heeded the police chief to march in one scene, and I'd made sure that the
double was also a good actor, so I knew I could use him if James got cold feet.
?
He
didn't, and when the camera started rolling, this sick old man whose body was
raked with pain and whose memory had been failing suddenly became a tough
police chief. James would finish his takes and I'd try to send him of to his
dressing room for some rest because now the camera was to be trained on Kenneth
McMillan, the other actor in the scene.
?
"I'll
read your lines for him, James, go lie down."
?
He
wouldn't hear of it. "I think it will help my pal here if I stay," he
said, nodding to Kenneth.
?
His
performance was out of all proportion to his infirmities, and Marge had been
absolutely right. Working again made James years younger. When I first met him,
he was a man who had put this vale of tears behind him and wasn't looking back
at anything. Now he started to tell stories again. He came to my farm for
Thanksgiving dinners and Misha came, too, because James liked his dancing and
felt good around him. James even watched his old films with us, something he
hadn't done in decades, and he reminisced about the making of them, and
everyone was moved, but we all tried to hide the emotion.
?
James
lived for another five years. When he died, I was one of the pallbearers, along
with Misha, Ralph Bellamy, and Floyd Patterson. I never did look at the great
man when he lay in his coffin. Again, I just couldn't. But I will never forget
the power and simplicity of his genius, of which I'd caught the last gleaming,
and always remember how Mandy Patinkin tried picking James's brain one day,
asking him what he had learned about acting by making all those wonderful
films.
?
Cagney
squinted at him with amusement, then shrugged his shoulders: "Acting?
Nothing to it. You just plant your feet on the ground, look the other actor in
the eye, and tell the truth."
?
Milos
Forman, "Turnaround: A Memoir" (1993)
