Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M Part 4

Cut! Hold it right there. "The relationship between 2E and Paul as presently described is unacceptably blunt," Shurlock wrote. "In this regard, we call your attention to the following unacceptable details: she has begun very gently to unb.u.t.ton his shirt...[and she very gently] pushes him away from her and toward the bed."

There was more. Later, after the off-screen event takes place, Holly is on the fire escape, looking in at them through the window. From her point of view, we see "Paul is asleep in bed. In the single light from the bed lamp we can see that he is smiling benignly in his sleep." That too had to go. So did the following seemingly harmless piece of business: "2E, dressed for the street, is coming out of the bathroom. She moves about the room, straightening up. Emptying ashtrays and clearing away gla.s.ses." Shurlock wasn't objecting to cigarettes and alcohol, but to the suggestion that 2E and Paul spent time time in the apartment before he fell asleep. With that bit of ligature, Shurlock knew that the audience could draw conclusions about the event preceding Paul's bedtime; without it-and without the adverb "benignly"-Holly would be watching nothing more precarious than a man asleep in his bed. in the apartment before he fell asleep. With that bit of ligature, Shurlock knew that the audience could draw conclusions about the event preceding Paul's bedtime; without it-and without the adverb "benignly"-Holly would be watching nothing more precarious than a man asleep in his bed.

Cuts of this sort continued in other forms throughout the script. They might have whitewashed their affair beyond all recognition and obscured the story entirely if it weren't for Jurow-Shepherd's secret weapon, waiting like a Trojan horse at the gates. Confronted with Shurlock's order to slash various indispensables-lines of Holly's like "Three hundred? She's very generous...is that by the hour?" and "I was just trying to let you know I understand. Not only that, I approve"-the producers could argue that, in the face of Capote's h.o.m.os.e.xual rendering of the narrator, it was essential they take certain pains to maintain the viewer's sense of Paul's "red-blooded" heteros.e.xuality. Otherwise, they would leave themselves vulnerable to s.e.xual deviance of another kind. Better that than that that. Shurlock, after all, had explicitly warned against it: "There should be no attempt," he wrote, "to give Mr. Smith [a character cut from the film] the mannerisms usually a.s.sociated with a h.o.m.os.e.xual." He'd fallen right into George's trap.

INT. MR. SMITH'S DOORWAY-(DAY) As Paul climbs the stairs, Mr. Smith, two flights above, opens his door and calls down.

MR. SMITHRoger? Is that you Roger?PAULNo, it's me...Paul...

As Paul comes up the stairs, Mr. Smith eyes him curiously. He's seen him somewhere before-but where?

PAULSorry to bother you, old man, but you see I used to live in this apartment...before you took it and I'd heard you've done such fabulous things with it that I...MR. SMITHYou're very kind, but I'm really just getting started...I haven't even put up the drapes...actually when you rang I thought you were someone else...PAULRoger?MR. SMITHYes. Actually, Roger's bringing bringing the drapes. the drapes.

With h.o.m.os.e.xuality explicitly off-limits, Axelrod's evocation of Paul would have to err on the side of hetero just to be safe. George used the opportunity to insinuate something bolder.

In the moment after Paul and Holly step into their brownstone (after they steal Halloween masks), they share a lingering, almost awkward silence. In George's draft, Holly is the first to speak. She says, "I just thought of something that neither of us has ever done. At least not together..." (s.e.x, naturellement naturellement.) But the line was cut, as was the decision to set it upstairs in Paul's apartment because, in Shurlock's words, "this story cannot handle an affair between Paul and Holly." Shurlock's summary of the final screenplay read, "Paul's novel, which has Holly for its heroine, is accepted and he and Holly celebrate. They end up spending the night together They end up spending the night together. Paul realizes he has fallen in love with Holly and breaks with 2E."

The battle over Paul and Holly's s.e.x life was a battle too crucial for George to lose, but by September 1960 it was all over. Shurlock had spoken: Paul and Holly would not be sleeping together.

Without s.e.x, George feared, Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's would come apart. His vision of a sophisticated high comedy, of a picture that said the truth about adults in and out of bed, would slop into a tawdry mess of phony urges. He'd be back to would come apart. His vision of a sophisticated high comedy, of a picture that said the truth about adults in and out of bed, would slop into a tawdry mess of phony urges. He'd be back to The Seven Year Itch The Seven Year Itch. Back to Bus Stop, Rock Hunter, Bus Stop, Rock Hunter, and all the rest. and all the rest.

That is, unless Jurow and Shepherd could cast the picture right. If the right actress-and it wasn't Marilyn-could find a way to lend this whitewashed Holly some subversive carnal knowledge, then he'd get away with it. They all would.

A LONG SHOT.

If Jurow and Shepherd were to go by Capote's description of Holly, they'd have to find a skinny girl with a "flat little bottom," "hair sleek and short as a young man's," and "a face beyond childhood, yet this side of belonging to a woman." And there was another consideration: the producers knew that as alluring as Capote's creation was, their Holly would have to be a whole lot gentler. That's the only way they could move this material through production.

Whomever they cast couldn't discharge s.e.x like Marilyn, nor could she be young and innocent without provoking cries of Lolita. Furthermore, as a "good" call girl-not the Elizabeth Taylor kind that gets killed off at the end of b.u.t.terfield 8 b.u.t.terfield 8-Holly couldn't be too seductive. Not alluring enough, however, and the character would have no call-girl credibility at all.

How to do it? Strike a middle: cast Holly just a little just a little against type. Find an actress who wasn't automatically a.s.sociated with s.e.x. Then make her s.e.xy. against type. Find an actress who wasn't automatically a.s.sociated with s.e.x. Then make her s.e.xy.

There were a few names. Jurow and Shepherd entertained the possibility of Shirley MacLaine, but she had already signed on to Two Loves Two Loves at MGM. There was some talk of Rosemary Clooney, and even Jane Fonda, but casting her at twenty-three would raise too many eyebrows. Then who would it be? In 1960, the biggest women at the box office were Doris Day, Elizabeth Taylor, Debbie Reynolds, and Sandra Dee. None were right. at MGM. There was some talk of Rosemary Clooney, and even Jane Fonda, but casting her at twenty-three would raise too many eyebrows. Then who would it be? In 1960, the biggest women at the box office were Doris Day, Elizabeth Taylor, Debbie Reynolds, and Sandra Dee. None were right.

It was a long shot, but they would go for Audrey Hepburn.

5.

LIKING IT.

1960.

GETTING TO FIRST BASE.

Of course, Marty Jurow knew Audrey Hepburn would never go for Holly. And yet it wasn't the rejection that was the hard part, it was making the offer. You couldn't just call up Audrey and offer her the part. You had to call Frings, her agent. Then you had to wait for him to call you back. If If he called you back. Then you had to convince him that it was worth presenting to Audrey, and you'd probably have to do it quickly before he got another call from a more notable producer with a more reasonable offer. Jurow would have been lucky to get that far, and in fact, most producers would have considered a minute of Frings's attention equal to an hour of anyone else's, but Marty aimed higher. He would cut out the middleman and go straight to Audrey herself. he called you back. Then you had to convince him that it was worth presenting to Audrey, and you'd probably have to do it quickly before he got another call from a more notable producer with a more reasonable offer. Jurow would have been lucky to get that far, and in fact, most producers would have considered a minute of Frings's attention equal to an hour of anyone else's, but Marty aimed higher. He would cut out the middleman and go straight to Audrey herself.

Tiffany's would be a delicate pitch, and Frings could mangle it in translation. He could fail to summon compelling enthusiasm when the moment came, or what's worse, forget about it in the wake of other projects that took priority in his mind. And Jurow wasn't going to wait around for that. If Audrey was going to turn down would be a delicate pitch, and Frings could mangle it in translation. He could fail to summon compelling enthusiasm when the moment came, or what's worse, forget about it in the wake of other projects that took priority in his mind. And Jurow wasn't going to wait around for that. If Audrey was going to turn down Tiffany's, Tiffany's, she was going to have to turn him down in person. At least then he would know that they had tried everything. she was going to have to turn him down in person. At least then he would know that they had tried everything.

THE SEDUCTION.

"Mr. Frings is in a meeting right now, can I take a message?" "Mr. Frings is in with a client, he'll have to call you back." "Oh, h.e.l.lo, Mr. Jurow. Yes, I did give him your message. Can he reach you at the office?" "I'm sorry, Mr. Frings has gone to lunch." "Yes, he's still still at lunch, Mr. Jurow. Would you like to leave a message?" at lunch, Mr. Jurow. Would you like to leave a message?"

Finally, they spoke. It was Frings himself who told Jurow it wasn't going to happen, that his client would not be playing a call girl, and thanked him for his interest. But Jurow wouldn't leave it at that.

"Frings was pretty sure Audrey wouldn't do it," Shepherd said, "so he didn't want to bother her with the script, but I guess Marty caught him on a good day. Who knows? Marty could talk." With Frings's go-ahead, Jurow and George Axelrod went off to pitch Audrey in person. Jurow would present the case, and Axelrod, in the likely event that Audrey resisted, would be stationed to turn her around. As a writer, he was better positioned to defend the n.o.bler points of Holly's character, and if need be, he could even make accommodating changes right there on the spot.

Marty began his trip with a stopover in New York. He met Y. Frank Freeman and Barney Balaban, Paramount's top executives, at Dinty Moore's, a Broadway hangout with a honey of a bar. They knew where Marty was headed-and they let him know they weren't optimistic-but seeing him in person so eagerly explaining his angle made the whole venture seem to them more ridiculous than ever. What Jurow was endeavoring, they said, was a reckless expenditure of energy and resources. But Marty held out. "What if she said yes?" he asked. "What if we're all wrong?" Then he'd be a hero. He would be remembered as the one who did what Hitchc.o.c.k didn't have the guts to do: the one who got up, went over, and told Audrey exactly why she needed to do the movie.

With Axelrod at his side, Jurow flew to the south of France where Audrey had joined Mel, who was hard at work on a movie. There, for about a week, Jurow and Axelrod tried to persuade a very pregnant Audrey Hepburn that far from damaging her career, Holly would only expand it. But as expected, Audrey blocked their every move. She told them she wanted to be with her family. She wanted to stay at home and raise the baby. And anyway, Mel had made up his mind about Capote's book long ago. "Audrey's reluctance was wrapped up in Mel's feelings that she shouldn't take the part," Robert Wolders recalls. "Before either of them read the screenplay, when Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's was just a book, he had trepidations about her playing the part of the call girl, especially after he had heard that Marilyn had been up for consideration for the part. He didn't quite think it would be good for Audrey's image." was just a book, he had trepidations about her playing the part of the call girl, especially after he had heard that Marilyn had been up for consideration for the part. He didn't quite think it would be good for Audrey's image."

"Oh, Martin," Audrey said to Jurow. "You have a wonderful script"-pause-"but I can't play a hooker."

There were two ways to take that one. Either Jurow could insist that Audrey had underestimated herself as an actress, or-and here is why he brought Axelrod with him-he could suggest they entertain the possibility of certain small rewrites that downplay the hooker angle in favor of that other other side of Holly, the wholesome Tulip, Texas, side. He went for Texas. side of Holly, the wholesome Tulip, Texas, side. He went for Texas.

"We don't want to make a movie about a hooker," he a.s.sured her, "we want to make a movie about a dreamer of dreams."

To drive home his point, Jurow went so far as to suggest that if Audrey didn't see Holly as the c.o.c.keyed romantic she truly was, then maybe she was the wrong choice for the part after all.

That got her.

Okay, Audrey said, if she took the part-if-she couldn't play it as written. What about sugaring some of the innuendo in the script, like this whole collecting fifty dollars for the ladies' room business? Couldn't they change it to "Powder Room"?

Axelrod knew he hadn't flown across the world to say no to Audrey Hepburn, so he kept his mouth shut and let her work it out for herself. "She kept fighting to have the character softened," he said later, "making the actor's fatal mistake of thinking they are going to endear themselves to an audience by doing endearing things if the character is tough. Humphrey Bogart never made that mistake, and they loved him for his toughness. You should have loved Holly Golightly for her toughness..." Axelrod gave in, but he knew he had to; the moment Audrey asked for the change, it was as good as granted.

She said she'd think about it. Jurow and Axelrod thanked her and left.

GETTING TOGETHER.

Privately, Audrey was more direct. She told Frings the part frightened her, and not just because of what Holly did in the powder room, but because of what the role demanded of her as an actress. Were she to accept, Audrey knew that this time she couldn't trade in on charm alone, nor could she sing and dance the part away like she did in Funny Face Funny Face. She wondered if she could even express the blank look of integrity people said she mastered in The Nun's Story, The Nun's Story, a performance, she thought, that owed as much to Fred Zinnemann's clever cutting as it did to her "work." That wasn't acting, it was a magic trick. But playing Holly was a different thing entirely. Actually playing an extended drunk scene, getting into an absolute rage, and evincing a deep depression (the "mean reds," as the script said) were simply out of her range. a performance, she thought, that owed as much to Fred Zinnemann's clever cutting as it did to her "work." That wasn't acting, it was a magic trick. But playing Holly was a different thing entirely. Actually playing an extended drunk scene, getting into an absolute rage, and evincing a deep depression (the "mean reds," as the script said) were simply out of her range.

All this she poured into Frings, and Frings listened, nodding, yessing, and that's-true-Audreying, waiting until her excuses ran out before he began his speech. Holly isn't anti-Audrey, he explained, but the first step toward the new Audrey. The year 1960 was upon them.

Frings knew that if his client wanted to stay prescient, she would have to dip a toe in uncharted waters. If after accepting the role she wanted to a.s.sure the public that she was only playing playing a character, and that she wasn't to be confused with that wild girl up on the screen, then they would use the press to make it so. That might even make her seem more of an actress and earn her higher esteem with the critics. "Look at the transformation!" they would write. "Look how far she's come!" (Did he mention they were offering $750,000?) a character, and that she wasn't to be confused with that wild girl up on the screen, then they would use the press to make it so. That might even make her seem more of an actress and earn her higher esteem with the critics. "Look at the transformation!" they would write. "Look how far she's come!" (Did he mention they were offering $750,000?) Naturally, Frings continued, he would make sure she was well taken care of. They'd get director approval.

CHANGING PARTNERS.

At the moment, John Frankenheimer was going to direct Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's. A highly accomplished television director, Frankenheimer had his name on nearly thirty teleplays for Playhouse 90 Playhouse 90 by the time he got by the time he got Tiffany's Tiffany's. So stellar was his reputation, that when he was brought on, it didn't worry Jurow and Shepherd that he had directed only one theatrical feature (The Young Stranger in 1957). As a hot, young New York director-and a particularly resourceful one at that-he seemed a perfect fit for the material; hopped up like a kid, but st.u.r.dy as a pro. in 1957). As a hot, young New York director-and a particularly resourceful one at that-he seemed a perfect fit for the material; hopped up like a kid, but st.u.r.dy as a pro.

For three months, he and Axelrod worked on the script, casting and recasting the parts in their minds. In between discussions of their problematic second act, they came across a New Yorker New Yorker review of the Richard Condon novel review of the Richard Condon novel The Manchurian Candidate The Manchurian Candidate and agreed that it was everything the studios were afraid of-everything, in other words, they wanted to see in a movie. But first came and agreed that it was everything the studios were afraid of-everything, in other words, they wanted to see in a movie. But first came Tiffany's Tiffany's.

It was around that time that Frings called Jurow with his verdict. It came in the form of an ultimatum. "Audrey will do the picture," he said to him. "But not with Frankenheimer."

Frings's list of approved directors-A-list only-included Wyler, Wilder, Cukor, and Zinnemann, but no Frankenheimer. "Pressure was brought to bear," the director said, and "that was that." He was off the picture.

BEACHSIDE INTERLUDE.

Meanwhile, Truman Capote, vacationing with his lover Jack Dunphy along the Spanish Mediterranean, was apprised of Paramount's casting decision. They were way off the mark, he thought, but there was little he could do about it now. Privately he would scoff, feign apathy, or affect whatever pose earned him the most admiring glance, but now, with Audrey Hepburn in his midst, it was time to play the diplomat. The birth of Audrey's son Sean, on July 17, 1960, gave him the perfect opportunity.

Dearest Audrey,With two such parents, I'm sure it must be a most beautiful little boy, wicked-eyed but kindly natured. My life-long blessings on the three of youMay I say, too, how pleased I am that you are doing "B. at T." I have no opinion of the film script, never having had the opportunity to read it. But since Audrey and Holly are both such wonderful girls, I feel nothing can defeat either of them.I am spending the summer here (until the end of Oct.), and then going somewhere in Switzerland-the point being that I am working on a new book, and plan to stay abroad until I've finished it.Please give my love to Mel.Mille TendresseTruman Had he stayed abroad to write that new book, In Cold Blood, In Cold Blood, Truman would have been away for six straight years. Truman would have been away for six straight years.

MR. AUDREY HEPBURN.

At her home in Switzerland, surrounded by her husband and new, nine-pound baby boy, Audrey Hepburn could rest, at last, knowing she had achieved nothing short of her life's purpose. "With the baby I felt I had everything a wife could wish for," she said, years after she gave birth to Sean. "But it's not enough for a man. It was not enough for Mel. He couldn't live with himself just being Audrey Hepburn's husband."

He grew angry. "It's true that Mel was puritanical in his outlook," said Robert Wolders. "Audrey Wilder told me that after they made Love in the Afternoon, Love in the Afternoon, the cast was at a restaurant, and Audrey spilled something on her dress and said, 'Oh, s.h.i.t, I'm so sorry!' and Mel was so angry with her for using an expletive that he walked out. He just walked out." A woman shouldn't say such things. the cast was at a restaurant, and Audrey spilled something on her dress and said, 'Oh, s.h.i.t, I'm so sorry!' and Mel was so angry with her for using an expletive that he walked out. He just walked out." A woman shouldn't say such things.

AUDREY'S NEW MAN Back in Hollywood, every director on Frings's list was called, and every one was either uninterested or otherwise engaged. Billy Wilder was already into One One, Two Two, Three, Three, Joseph Mankie-wicz had just settled into the idea of doing Joseph Mankie-wicz had just settled into the idea of doing Cleopatra Cleopatra (G.o.d help him), and the others pa.s.sed outright, leaving Jurow, Shepherd, and Frings no choice but to enter the second rank of proven, but not yet prized directors. (G.o.d help him), and the others pa.s.sed outright, leaving Jurow, Shepherd, and Frings no choice but to enter the second rank of proven, but not yet prized directors.

That's when Shepherd suggested Blake Edwards, the director of, most recently, Operation Petticoat Operation Petticoat. Shepherd admitted the picture itself was nothing special-a frivolous maritime s.e.x comedy with a few standout slapstick moments-but it was one of the highest-grossing films Universal had ever had ($8 million), and what's more, it starred Cary Grant. Though he was, artistically speaking, a midlevel director in 1959, the fact that Edwards successfully managed Grant made him very attractive to Kurt Frings, who worried about Audrey Hepburn, who worried about Holly Golightly.

Though Roman Holiday Roman Holiday was almost a decade in the past, Audrey still very much relied on the firm hands of strong directors to help shape her natural personality into full, textured performances. But with more experience came, paradoxically, more insecurity, and each director found he had to work harder on Audrey than the last. "My mother was very Victorian," she said later in life, "and brought me up not to make a spectacle of myself." But had she gotten used to it? Was performing any easier? "It gets harder and harder," was her reply. "I really die a million deaths every time. My stomach turns over, my hands get clammy. I do suffer. I really do. I wasn't cut out to do this kind of thing, I really wasn't." was almost a decade in the past, Audrey still very much relied on the firm hands of strong directors to help shape her natural personality into full, textured performances. But with more experience came, paradoxically, more insecurity, and each director found he had to work harder on Audrey than the last. "My mother was very Victorian," she said later in life, "and brought me up not to make a spectacle of myself." But had she gotten used to it? Was performing any easier? "It gets harder and harder," was her reply. "I really die a million deaths every time. My stomach turns over, my hands get clammy. I do suffer. I really do. I wasn't cut out to do this kind of thing, I really wasn't."

By proving to Frings that he could handle a star of Cary Grant's magnitude, Blake Edwards earned himself the job of a lifetime. "It was really a big step up for Blake, a huge, huge step," said Patricia Snell, Edwards's wife at the time of Tiffany's Tiffany's. "It was like the beginning of a whole other world. They liked Operation Petticoat Operation Petticoat and the and the Peter Gunn Peter Gunn series on television, which he had created. That was really an amazing show at that time. Audrey saw it and the studio saw it and they thought that he might be the one to do this. But he was a young director and something of a risk. He had a new approach to everything. He had a new style." series on television, which he had created. That was really an amazing show at that time. Audrey saw it and the studio saw it and they thought that he might be the one to do this. But he was a young director and something of a risk. He had a new approach to everything. He had a new style."

Through the late fifties and early sixties, Peter Gunn Peter Gunn was the epitome of cool. Where most hard-boiled PIs were as burned out as the hoods they trailed, Gunn was an Ivy-league playboy closer to James Bond than Philip Marlowe and introduced network audiences to the next thing in soigne. With the aid of his cinematographers, Edwards developed a highly cinematic look for his show, complete with severe chiaroscuro (not the regular dull grays), eccentric angles, and disorienting camera moves. Adding to the hipness was Henry Mancini's chart-topping theme, which used modern jazz at a time when most TV was scored with a more formal orchestral sound. Jurow and Shepherd wanted that hip feeling for was the epitome of cool. Where most hard-boiled PIs were as burned out as the hoods they trailed, Gunn was an Ivy-league playboy closer to James Bond than Philip Marlowe and introduced network audiences to the next thing in soigne. With the aid of his cinematographers, Edwards developed a highly cinematic look for his show, complete with severe chiaroscuro (not the regular dull grays), eccentric angles, and disorienting camera moves. Adding to the hipness was Henry Mancini's chart-topping theme, which used modern jazz at a time when most TV was scored with a more formal orchestral sound. Jurow and Shepherd wanted that hip feeling for Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Blake was working on a picture called High Time High Time when they called in May of 1960. No matter what they told him, he knew they were taking a chance. when they called in May of 1960. No matter what they told him, he knew they were taking a chance.

BING CROSBY IN A DRESS.

Blake Edwards, a pipe lodged in his mouth, settled down in his director's chair stationed squarely behind the camera and took a long, slow look around the set.

What a mess. High Time, High Time, a moronic "teenage" comedy with Bing Crosby, was undoubtedly the most useless picture he'd ever made. What the h.e.l.l was the studio thinking? The scene they were setting up called for Bing to dance around in a pink taffeta hoopskirt, but that wasn't the problem (actually, it was the funniest thing in the picture); the problem was the story, the dialogue, the acting, dealing with Bing himself, and the inexorable reality that no matter what he did or how smart he was about it, there was no way Blake could clean up the mess. What do you do with a movie about a fifty-year-old widower who decides to go back to college, hang with jive talkers, pledge a frat, rally for the big game, and romance a French professor on the school hayride? All the world's whip pans, flashy dissolves, and state-of-the-art postproduction effects-if Blake used them (and he did)-would only make him look like a plastic surgeon cutting up a corpse. a moronic "teenage" comedy with Bing Crosby, was undoubtedly the most useless picture he'd ever made. What the h.e.l.l was the studio thinking? The scene they were setting up called for Bing to dance around in a pink taffeta hoopskirt, but that wasn't the problem (actually, it was the funniest thing in the picture); the problem was the story, the dialogue, the acting, dealing with Bing himself, and the inexorable reality that no matter what he did or how smart he was about it, there was no way Blake could clean up the mess. What do you do with a movie about a fifty-year-old widower who decides to go back to college, hang with jive talkers, pledge a frat, rally for the big game, and romance a French professor on the school hayride? All the world's whip pans, flashy dissolves, and state-of-the-art postproduction effects-if Blake used them (and he did)-would only make him look like a plastic surgeon cutting up a corpse.

Okay, so he wasn't yet Billy Wilder, but why did he say yes to this s.h.i.t? Right: he was making money. But that was about all he was making.

High Time was proof positive that the industry was panicked about the new generation. Who were these kids? They had s.e.x, they did drugs, and like everyone else, they went to the movies. But what did they want to see? In 1960, no one in Hollywood had a clue: the year's top films were was proof positive that the industry was panicked about the new generation. Who were these kids? They had s.e.x, they did drugs, and like everyone else, they went to the movies. But what did they want to see? In 1960, no one in Hollywood had a clue: the year's top films were Swiss Family Robinson Swiss Family Robinson and and Psycho Psycho. Meanwhile, the success of foreign films by Bergman, Fellini, and-if you wore a beret-Antonioni were challenging the home court advantage. Should the studios get artier too? Ordinarily, getting young people to the movies was a cinch for Hollywood because kids wanted to see what their parents saw. Way back when, families used to go to the movies together together. That's what Mickey Rooney was for. Shirley Temple, Depression-era ant.i.toxin, was a box-office queen from 1934 to 1939. But this strange generation of youngsters-"teenagers" they were called-was impossible to pin down.

High Time was one of Fox's attempts to bridge the widening generation gap. They cast rock 'n' roll sensation Fabian, circulated posters heralding Tuesday Weld "the new teenage crush," and dropped Crosby in for the folks. With the right combination of antic revelry and a new Mancini tune for Bing (he sings, "love, like youth, is wasted on the young"), was one of Fox's attempts to bridge the widening generation gap. They cast rock 'n' roll sensation Fabian, circulated posters heralding Tuesday Weld "the new teenage crush," and dropped Crosby in for the folks. With the right combination of antic revelry and a new Mancini tune for Bing (he sings, "love, like youth, is wasted on the young"), High Time High Time would be a film families could enjoy together. But what teenager wants to go to the movies with his mom? would be a film families could enjoy together. But what teenager wants to go to the movies with his mom?

Blake didn't have an answer. He just went to work and thought about Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's. He agreed with Axelrod that departing from Capote's novel was a wise choice, if for no other reason than he thought a faithful adaptation would frighten people. "It was too cynical," he said of the book. "You touched on subjects that I believe people would be afraid to dramatize-the h.o.m.os.e.xual influence of the leading man, [and] the s.e.xual relationships of Holly that were so amoral."

Edwards was right, in a way. People would be afraid of a faithful adaptation. But one look around him and Blake could see that, with Hollywood in the middle of an ident.i.ty crisis, filmmakers, if they were smart about it, could push all kinds of moral and artistic envelopes. Look at what Hitchc.o.c.k did in Psycho Psycho. Killing off Janet Leigh in the first half hour? Making us empathize with Norman Bates, a perverted, matricidal, part-time taxidermist? Maybe Hollywood was saying bad guys weren't so bad anymore-maybe a lot of things weren't really so bad anymore. Like Natalie Wood in Splendor in the Gra.s.s, Splendor in the Gra.s.s, who wants to have s.e.x with her boyfriend who wants to have s.e.x with her boyfriend before they're even married before they're even married-or engaged-and right there in the backseat of car. But rather than think her loose, we think maybe she's right to act "wrong": DEANIE LOOMIS (NATALIE WOOD): Mom, is it so terrible to have those feelings about a boy?MRS. LOOMIS (AUDREY CHRISTIE): No nice girl does.DEANIE: Doesn't she?MRS. LOOMIS: No nice girl.DEANIE: But Mom, didn't-didn't you ever, well, I mean didn't you ever feel that way about Dad?MRS. LOOMIS: Your father never laid a hand on me until we were married. And then I-I just gave in because a wife has to. A woman doesn't enjoy those things the way a man does. She just lets her husband come near her in order to have children.

Blake Edwards was still a year away from seeing Splendor in the Gra.s.s, Splendor in the Gra.s.s, but he had seen but he had seen The Apartment, The Apartment, that year's winner for Best Picture. Billy Wilder's story of the white-collar schlemiel who falls for a suicidal girl was everything midcentury-American cinema was not, and proved that it wasn't safe for the romantic comedy to be just cute any longer. Now it had to be truthful, too. "With that film we became grownups," critic Judith Crist said. "This was not an age of innocence anymore. Suddenly we had the ability to come edging out in the open with s.e.x. It was getting to be the sixties." You could see it on the screen and you could hear it on the radio. that year's winner for Best Picture. Billy Wilder's story of the white-collar schlemiel who falls for a suicidal girl was everything midcentury-American cinema was not, and proved that it wasn't safe for the romantic comedy to be just cute any longer. Now it had to be truthful, too. "With that film we became grownups," critic Judith Crist said. "This was not an age of innocence anymore. Suddenly we had the ability to come edging out in the open with s.e.x. It was getting to be the sixties." You could see it on the screen and you could hear it on the radio.

JAZZ.

By this time, Henry Mancini was fluent in the unspoken language of Blake Edwards. They had been regular collaborators for several years, and now that Mancini had signed on to score High Time, High Time, he split his days between the recording stage and Blake's set. he split his days between the recording stage and Blake's set.

"Hey, Hank," said Blake one day during High Time High Time. "It looks like Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's is going to go ahead at Paramount. We've got a meeting with Jurow and Shepherd-they already know you're the one I want." is going to go ahead at Paramount. We've got a meeting with Jurow and Shepherd-they already know you're the one I want."

Mancini read the script in preparation for the meeting. At just about every page turn, he saw opportunities for the sort of jazzy sound he was becoming known for. Blake was right to see that Hank Mancini and Holly had nonconformist cool in common: she with her hepcats, and he with his swingin' big band sound. By 1960, Mancini had already moved away from the more traditional symphonic approach of his predecessors. Of course, there had always been jazz in movies, but it was generally back-alley bra.s.s drenched in rotten s.e.x. It was never pop like Mancini was pop. It was never fun.

One musical pa.s.sage in Axelrod's script-which included lyrics Axelrod lifted directly from the book-caught Mancini's attention.

The CAMERA PULLS BACK and we see Paul typing furiously. He is about halfway down a page. A stack of completed pages rests proudly at his elbow. His concentration is intense. He is, for example, totally unaware of a SOUND that drifts lazily up through his open window. It is Holly, SINGING and ACCOMPANYING herself on the guitar. The song is a plaintive prairie melody, the words of which seem to be: "Don't wanna live, don't wanna die, just wanna go a-travelin' through the pastures of the sky."

Mancini, should he get the job, would have to supply the music. But there was a problem. When Mancini met with Marty Rackin, Paramount's head of production, Mancini could see that the executive was clearly uninterested in hearing his ideas. He had a totally different kind of songwriter in mind for Tiffany's, Tiffany's, one who wrote in the elegant Broadway style. This was to be a New York picture, he said, and Holly was very much a Manhattan girl, so she'd sing a cosmopolitan tune. What Alexrod had written in the script was just filler. Rackin wanted something hip that placed Holly squarely in the in-crowd. Mancini, he said, wasn't that songwriter. He'd just supply the score. Not the song. one who wrote in the elegant Broadway style. This was to be a New York picture, he said, and Holly was very much a Manhattan girl, so she'd sing a cosmopolitan tune. What Alexrod had written in the script was just filler. Rackin wanted something hip that placed Holly squarely in the in-crowd. Mancini, he said, wasn't that songwriter. He'd just supply the score. Not the song.

The meeting was over.

CASTING.

Blake Edwards did not want George Peppard in his movie. What about Tony Curtis? he asked the studio. What about Steve McQueen? Tony Curtis wanted the part, and having been cast in three of Blake's previous pictures, he thought his chances were good-but he didn't make it. Mel Ferrer, he was told, didn't want his wife playing opposite him ("Who knows why?" Shepherd said. "That was just the way Mel was."). So Tony was out, as was Steve McQueen, who was still contracted to CBS's Wanted: Dead or Alive. Wanted: Dead or Alive. Thus the name George Peppard was thrown in once again. Trying to keep an open mind, Blake went with Jurow and Shepherd to see Peppard in Thus the name George Peppard was thrown in once again. Trying to keep an open mind, Blake went with Jurow and Shepherd to see Peppard in Home from the Hill, Home from the Hill, and from the moment the actor first appeared on the screen, Blake knew he had been right all along. "After coming out of the film," Edwards remembers, "I dropped to my knees on the sidewalk to the producers and begged them not to cast him." But it was two against one. Peppard was in. and from the moment the actor first appeared on the screen, Blake knew he had been right all along. "After coming out of the film," Edwards remembers, "I dropped to my knees on the sidewalk to the producers and begged them not to cast him." But it was two against one. Peppard was in.

Virginia Mayo read for the part of 2E and performed satisfactorily, but she was turned down. By her own admission, she was not right to play a wealthy New York socialite. That's when Shepherd's wife, Judy, suggested they consider Patricia Neal instead. Blake loved the idea. Though she hadn't appeared in films since Kazan's A Face in the Crowd A Face in the Crowd three years prior, Neal was, as far as Edwards was concerned, the intuitive choice. With her high-toned cheekbones, cabaret swagger, and that throaty purr, Neal was what you'd call born to play it. There was, however, one condition: Neal would have to dye her hair red so as to stand apart from the dark-haired Audrey. Fine, she said, great (though she couldn't wait to dye it back). Neal signed the contract in September. They didn't even test her for the part. three years prior, Neal was, as far as Edwards was concerned, the intuitive choice. With her high-toned cheekbones, cabaret swagger, and that throaty purr, Neal was what you'd call born to play it. There was, however, one condition: Neal would have to dye her hair red so as to stand apart from the dark-haired Audrey. Fine, she said, great (though she couldn't wait to dye it back). Neal signed the contract in September. They didn't even test her for the part.

As for Jose da Silva Pereira, Holly's Brazilian suitor, it was unlikely Blake could do any better than the Marquis Jose Luis Cabeza de Vaca de Vilallonga. He had come recommended by Audrey and Mel who had spotted him two years earlier, inveigling Jeanne Moreau in The Lovers, The Lovers, but Vilallonga-as he would be listed in the opening t.i.tles-did not begin his career as an actor. He was a writer, and a scandalous one at that. In 1954, after an attempt at journalism and an aborted stint of horse breeding, Vilallonga offended the Spanish military censor with the publication of his novel but Vilallonga-as he would be listed in the opening t.i.tles-did not begin his career as an actor. He was a writer, and a scandalous one at that. In 1954, after an attempt at journalism and an aborted stint of horse breeding, Vilallonga offended the Spanish military censor with the publication of his novel The Ramblas End in the Sea The Ramblas End in the Sea and was promptly exiled. (Paramount publicity ate it up. They wrote, "He received word from Spain that he was to be sentenced for 178 years in prison for his repeated attacks on the Franco dictatorship.") Vilallonga spent his exile as a part-time foreign correspondent and occasional actor, dabbling in small parts in France and West Germany until he was spotted by Hollywood and offered a contract. He turned it down, but years later, at Audrey's request, he agreed to do and was promptly exiled. (Paramount publicity ate it up. They wrote, "He received word from Spain that he was to be sentenced for 178 years in prison for his repeated attacks on the Franco dictatorship.") Vilallonga spent his exile as a part-time foreign correspondent and occasional actor, dabbling in small parts in France and West Germany until he was spotted by Hollywood and offered a contract. He turned it down, but years later, at Audrey's request, he agreed to do Tiffany's Tiffany's. It would be his first Hollywood movie.

"Casting Buddy Ebsen as Doc Golightly was due to Blake," said Patricia Snell. "We all thought the idea was off the wall, that he was too old, but Blake said, 'No, he'll be perfect.' And he was." Throughout his career, Edwards's eye for latent talent would produce many brilliant feats of casting, but few were as unforeseen, and indeed impactful as his feeling for Buddy Ebsen. Beginning in the mid-1930s, Ebsen had made a name for himself as a song and dance man, twinkling alongside the likes of Eleanor Powell and in Broadway Melody of 1938, Broadway Melody of 1938, a young Judy Garland. Then, in the 1940s, he practically disappeared: a contract dispute at MGM and World War II service in the U.S. Coast Guard all but removed him from the picture business. When he finally returned, Ebsen found himself in midlevel parts in B-westerns with t.i.tles like a young Judy Garland. Then, in the 1940s, he practically disappeared: a contract dispute at MGM and World War II service in the U.S. Coast Guard all but removed him from the picture business. When he finally returned, Ebsen found himself in midlevel parts in B-westerns with t.i.tles like Silver City Bonanza Silver City Bonanza and and Thunder in G.o.d's Country Thunder in G.o.d's Country. It wasn't John Ford; it was work. From there it was TV until the lightbulb went off over Blake Edwards's head in the summer of 1960. There was no question as to Buddy's strength as a performer, but could he act? Really Really act? Blake put his money on "Yes." He called Ebsen out of the blue and told him that if he took the part, he would bet him a case of champagne he'd be nominated for an Oscar. act? Blake put his money on "Yes." He called Ebsen out of the blue and told him that if he took the part, he would bet him a case of champagne he'd be nominated for an Oscar.

Less of a gamble was the casting of Holly's cat, or rather, cats. Since cats, unlike dogs, seldom perform more than one trick at a time, more than a dozen were required for the film. Said trainer Frank Inn, "I have a sitting cat, a going cat, a meowing cat, a throwing cat-and so on, each one a specialist, and all the same color, you'll notice." All twelve cats were practically identical-"thug-faced," as Truman described them in the novel, with "yellowish pirate-eyes"-but only one would get star billing. On October 8, the production held an open cat-call at New York's Hotel Commodore, at which twenty-five orange-furred hopefuls appeared freshly preened and plucked. After an arduous round of auditions and callbacks, the twelve-pound Orangey, belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Albert Murphy of Hollis, Queens, was named the winner. "He's a real New York type cat," Inn declared, "just what we want. In no time at all I'm going to make a Method, or Lee Strasberg type, cat out of him."

YUNIOSHI.

Late in the year, papers announced that the part of Mr. Yunioshi, Holly's upstairs neighbor, had been given to the renowned j.a.panese comic Ohayo Arigatou. Though he had never worked in pictures, Mr. Arigatou (they said) was possibly the funniest foreign comedian since the great Cantinflas and had gotten the part by reciting "Casey at the Bat" in compound fractured English. In December of 1960, a Paramount press release confirmed that Arigatou had leased his family's geisha house, whose name translated to "Have Happy Time Here Boy," and soon thereafter, Arigatou was spotted at the World Series, rooting for Pittsburgh from the bleachers, where, sadly, he had lost every cent of his advance. He cabled Jurow and Shepherd: "I BROKE WIRE 36000 QUICK." Thankfully, at 360 yen to the dollar, the request was only for $100. The producers paid it posthaste. Despite the reimburs.e.m.e.nt, Arigatou called Paramount collect with the news that he would not be coming to work.

"No work yet," he said. "Study part. I Methodist actor-Lee Stla.s.sburg Methodist actor. Take time. No hully.

"Meantime, build theater in Yokohama. Put name in rights: Ohayo Arigatou, in Bleakfast at Tiffany's, Bleakfast at Tiffany's, with Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard. with Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard.

"You want to hear me say 'Clasey at Bat'? Now? Say good. I baseball fan, gleat actor. I go now. You tell bosses I come when leady, not before, got to start new theater, put name Arigatou in rights."

Jurow and Shepherd were in trouble. Because Arigatou had refused to be in Hollywood for his makeup tests and English lessons, the production had stalled-for how long it was impossible to say-leaving the producers no choice but to appease the Asian Cantinflas. They would honor his demands for a bigger part. At Arigatou's request, Axelrod wrote in a j.a.panese sword dance complete with exploding fire crackers. And that did it. At long last, Arigatou appeared in Holly wood.

Well, kind of. In Tiffany's Tiffany's final, and most controversial preproduction publicity coup, it was announced that a "sneaky" reporter (fictionalized by publicity) had nudged his way onto the set to get a look, once and for all, at the j.a.panese comic genius Paramount had been waiting for. Imagine the reporter's surprise when he discovered that all along, since the very beginning, Arigatou had been none other than Mickey Rooney himself! final, and most controversial preproduction publicity coup, it was announced that a "sneaky" reporter (fictionalized by publicity) had nudged his way onto the set to get a look, once and for all, at the j.a.panese comic genius Paramount had been waiting for. Imagine the reporter's surprise when he discovered that all along, since the very beginning, Arigatou had been none other than Mickey Rooney himself!

Of course, no one really "discovered" anything. There never was an Arigatou in the first place. The whole thing was just a bit of eye-grabbing hogwash, a hoax cooked up by studio salesmen to arouse curiosity in the unsuspecting readers of the world. And they were prepared for something of a backlash (though they had no idea how offended the offended would be). To appease their potentially uneasy j.a.panese audience in the wake of the Rooney-reveal, Paramount issued conciliatory press releases confirming that Mrs. Katsuma Mukaeda, wife of the cultural information director of the j.a.panese Chamber of Commerce in Los Angeles, was to act as Rooney's coach and the film's technical adviser.

Considering she was up against the long-standing antic rapport of Rooney and Edwards, it's easy to understand why Mrs. Mukaeda had little influence on the portrayal of Arigatou. More than just former roommates, Blake and Mickey had been longtime collaborators, comedians with vaudeville DNA. Artistically, they were a Venn diagram with considerable overlap, like a couple of swells hocking a side-by-side act from Fresno to the Great White Way. Mrs. Mukaeda had no chance.

THE SOUND OF TULIP.

Henry Mancini, meanwhile, was despondent. It was true that his talents as a songwriter were unproven, but based on the success of "The Peter Gunn Theme," Mancini knew he was up to the task. Lyrics or no lyrics, Broadway or Texas, a tune is a tune, and he could write them. So what if his name didn't mean standards? This was an opportunity he wasn't ready to pa.s.s up. Writing scores for the movies had never been the most lucrative aspect of composing for Hollywood, but attaching one's name to a song, which might go on to numerous recordings and return substantial royalties, was another matter entirely.

Hank called his agent. He told him he wanted to negotiate, to go back in there and raise a little h.e.l.l. Mancini expected to hear knuckles cracking in preparation, but all he heard was silence. Though cautious, his agent's point was a good one. From Capote to Audrey to Blake, all was in place for a major motion picture. Take what you got, he told his client, and don't go around looking ungrateful. Still, that didn't cut it. Far from settling him, the promise Hank's agent saw in Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's only encouraged Mancini that he was right to push for the song. Rather than go back to Rackin himself (Mancini was humble to the point of being shy), he applied to Blake, and respectfully asked him, as a friend, to go see Shepherd and Jurow instead. If they heard what he came up with and liked it, then great, they'd put it in the movie and trust that Rackin would come around; if not, not. All it would cost them was time. Blake obliged, and to Mancini's great delight, so did the producers. "Marty and I believed the song absolutely should not have been about New York City," Shepherd said. "It was about this girl from Tulip, Texas, and needed to sound like it." only encouraged Mancini that he was right to push for the song. Rather than go back to Rackin himself (Mancini was humble to the point of being shy), he applied to Blake, and respectfully asked him, as a friend, to go see Shepherd and Jurow instead. If they heard what he came up with and liked it, then great, they'd put it in the movie and trust that Rackin would come around; if not, not. All it would cost them was time. Blake obliged, and to Mancini's great delight, so did the producers. "Marty and I believed the song absolutely should not have been about New York City," Shepherd said. "It was about this girl from Tulip, Texas, and needed to sound like it."

Here was Hank's shot. He'd write for Audrey. He'd write directly into her range.

HUBERT DE GIVENCHY UNDRESSES EDITH HEAD.