A Third Face: My Tale of Writing, Fighting and Filmmaking Read online

  Still shy of my thirteenth birthday, I'd shoehorned my way into the heart of the newspaper world. Out of school at 2:3o p.m., I was to report to the Journal by three o'clock, then work until the paper was put to bed. Sometimes I didn't finish until midnight. Many nights I ended up sleeping under a reporter's desk and showing up at school the next morning wearing the same clothes as the day before. My mother was very upset when this happened.

  "Sammy, look at you!" she'd say, eyeing my soiled pants and dirty shirt when I finally got home. "Is this what you really want to do?"

  "This is all I want to do, Mama!"

  To this day, I don't give a good goddamn where I sleep or what I'm wearing as long as I'm involved with a project I love. Oh boy, how I loved working at the journal! It was an incredible adventure for a kid like me, hungry to find out about the world. Sitting in a classroom at school, a book on my desk and the teacher droning on and on about a math formula on the blackboard, my eyes would be staring out the window, my mind still in the newsroom at the Journal. I couldn't wait to rush out of class and back to my job as copyboy.

  On Park Row, surrounded by adults in the high-energy pursuit of news, I was growing up fast, mostly learning about the darker side of humanity. There was a mother lode of information to gather and organize every single day, but what really sold newspapers was violence, sex, and scandal. There were exceptions. Big trials, labor strife, filibusters, sunken treasure, daring exploits, and political upheaval might make front-page news. The death of a famous, powerful, or beloved person played well too.

  Charles Dana, illustrious editor of the New York Sun, had set the standard for American reporters: "When a dog bites a man, that is not news, because it happens so often. But if a man bites a dog, that is news." Reporters were a special breed-part bloodhound, part charmer, part wordsmith-working feverishly to get their stories not only to scoop other papers but to best their fellow reporters as well. I was in awe of them.

  Editors were different creatures altogether, omnipotent, wizened, steady. They were in charge of the entire look and tone of the paper. With a flick of their red pencils, they designated stories as front-page leads, slotting in big photos and screaming headlines. With another red mark, stories were relegated to page two, or even farther back to lesser consequence. The ghost of Horace Greeley, founder of the New York Tribune, must have been watching over editors. They had to make tough choices every day under impossible time restraints. As deadlines approached, you could cut the tension in the air with a knife.

  "When exactly was the sonofabitch murdered?" an editor yelled at a reporter on the phone. "Two days ago? We need a witness. Find one! Yes, NOW! Any witness will do! Yeah, right away! We're going to press in one hour, goddamnit!"

  At the bottom of the newspaper's hierarchy, copyboys came and went. I stuck. My age, enthusiasm, and quick legs made an impression. In no time, editors and reporters knew me and appreciated my speed and tenacity.

  "Sammy, take this copy to the sports desk!"

  "Sammy, run this up to the linotypes!"

  "Sammy, get me the proofs from the press room!"

  I was also the kid in charge of bringing up cases of bootleg beer stored down in the cellar. They served the stuff when athletes came by to visit the sports writers. There were the greatest baseball players in the world, guys like Tris Speaker, Roger Hornsby, and Babe Ruth, hanging out in our offices, chatting, cracking jokes, and sharing drinks with Ring Lardner, Damon Runyon, William Farnsworth, and Grantland Rice. I couldn't believe how lucky I was to be a small part of it.

  During summer vacation, I was moved to the day shift. After months and months of jumping copy, beer, or anything else that required fast feet, I was assigned to the paper's morgue, down in the basement, where stories and photos were clipped and filed. I loved the treasure trove down there. Reporters needed facts for today's paper based on already-published articles. I'd dig for the information in the dusty files. In those days, memory was in a person's mind, not in his computer's electronic chip.

  "Sammy," asked an editor, "when did Chapman rob that bank in Jersey City?",

  "July twenty-second."

  "What time of the day?"

  "Eleven forty-five in the morning. Just as the manager was going to lunch with his wife."

  "Check it out and get me an illustration."

  "Yes sir."

  My all consuming ambition was to be a reporter-a crime reporterwith my own byline. You jumped copy or worked in the morgue until your name came tip for any kind of promotion. They might even give you a crack at reporting if you were old enough. Just fourteen and the youngest copyboy on the paper, I felt there was an eternity of waiting before I'd ever get a chance to advance. The chasm between copyboy and reporter seemed wider than the Grand Canyon. But damned if I was going to wait! I was going to make reporter any way I had to. One day, maybe I'd become a fire-breathing city editor. For Chrissakes, why not even editor in chief of my own paper?

  My immediate goal was to meet the Journal's legendary editor in chief, Arthur Brisbane, in the flesh. Brisbane was like the pope. His Grand Eminence had never once set foot in the newsroom, though he cast a long shadow across every desk in the place. I'd heard a helluva lot of stories about Brisbane, how he'd built circulation, how he'd used the largest type in the business for banner headlines, how his column "Today" was the talk of the country, how he was the highest-paid newspaperman in the world. Brisbane's name was pronounced with the utmost respect everywhere on Park Row, yet I'd never so much as laid eyes on the great man. It seemed to me that nobody had ever seen Brisbane except the top editors.

  Henry Hudson, one of the journal's veteran telegraphers, caught me one day hanging around the entrance to the men's room. I was hoping to get a glimpse of Brisbane when he came to take a piss. Old Hudson smiled and explained that the editor in chief had his own toilet. Did I really think the boss would use those rolls of newsprint for towels like us ordinary mortals? Brisbane even had his own private entrance to the Journal building.

  Then one day I was in Mulcahy's office and heard him tell one of the oldest copyboys to report to Brisbane's office for a temporary jumping job. I followed the eighteen-year-old out and saw him go into the can to wash up and comb his hair. I saw my chance and took it. I ran down the hallway on the seventh floor through a gauntlet of forbidding wall signs: "Stop!" "Private Corridor!" "Don't Disturb!" "No Entry." I ran into the office marked "Editor in Chief" and found myself in an immense, quiet-as-atomb waiting room. Two secretaries were working at rolltop desks. There were stacks of newspapers and magazines everywhere. Stately bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling. The room and the secretaries seemed unchanged since Hearst had launched the paper a couple of decades earlier. One of the ladies eyed me silently.

  "Mulcahy sent me," I said, lying through my teeth.

  She picked up a telephone, said a few words into the receiver, then pointed to a carved mahogany door. I walked up to the sacred portal, opened it, and went in as if I were entering a temple. There he was sitting behind a big desk, the great Arthur Brisbane himself, the disciple of Joseph Pulitzer, the brains behind Hearst! He was tall and strong-looking, impeccably dressed, with an immense forehead. Though sixty-two years old that day, he moved like an athlete in his twenties. Brisbane was even more impressive than I'd imagined. Speechless, I stared at him as if he were a creature from another planet.

  "Are you from editorial?" Brisbane said.

  "Yes sir."

  He tossed me a briefcase. "On the corner of Duane Street, parked on the left side of the police station, there's a Lincoln. The driver's name is George. He's wearing a red sweater. Take my briefcase to him and wait for me in the car."

  "Yes sir." I paused momentarily, waiting for any additional instructions.

  "What's your name?" asked Brisbane.

  "Samuel Fuller," I said. "Everyone calls me Sammy."

  "All right, Samuel. Get going."

  I hurried out, ran down the hallway past the elevator, and fle
w down the stone staircase. There wasn't a soul on it, but many had rushed along those steps before me. We worked for a common purpose, that of publishing news day in and day out for a big city paper. The place smelled of history. I loved that aroma.

  It would've been impossible to miss the big Lincoln on Duane. Brisbane came down a few minutes later and got in beside me in the backseat. The car pulled out, and we shot through the busy streets to his next appointment. He proofed some copy, signed it "AB," and told me to hustle it back to editorial. I slipped the pages inside my jacket, jumped out of the Lincoln at an intersection in midtown, hopped on a subway, then ran back to William Street and up to the seventh floor as fast as lightning.

  As soon as Mulcahy found out about my stunt, he told me he was going to fire me. I'd pulled a fast one and deserved to be fired. I hadn't lied to Brisbane, but I hadn't told him the truth, either. Sure I was from editorial, except I wasn't next in line on the copyboys' roster. When Brisbane learned what had happened, he told Mulcahy he wanted to see me again.

  I rushed down the corridor to Brisbane's office. The old secretaries waved me through. Brisbane stood up when I walked in. He was stern with me but admired my pluck. Then he said the magic words: "From now on, Samuel, you are going to be my personal copyboy," adding his signature line, "Don't let it go to your head."

  Holy mackerel, I was cock of the walk! In the months to come, I'd see a lot of Brisbane's Lincoln. Outside some grand hotel, office building, or restaurant, I'd meet up with George and get in the backseat. Soon Brisbane would appear on his way out of a meeting or luncheon. On the wide, leather-covered seat was Brisbane's dictaphone, with a fresh wax cylinder on the drum. He'd push a button on the machine and the cylinder would begin to spin. Brisbane would put his mouth up to the device's microphone and dictate an editorial. When he'd finished it, he'd give me the cylinder and tell me to run it down to the Journal. He'd give me a silver dollar as I was getting out of the car.

  "Take a cab, Samuel, not the subway. You may keep the change."

  "Yes sir."

  "Don't let it go to your head."

  This was big league to me, and I'd make every second count. I was completely enamored with Brisbane. I had no idea how long I'd be his personal copyboy, but I was going to be the best one he ever had. As soon as the Lincoln pulled away, I hailed a taxi. Full of pride and purpose, I jumped inside and said one word: Journal!"

  That's all you needed to say to a New York cab driver in those days. Everybody knew the journal was on Park Row. I rushed the wax cylinder to Brisbane's secretary, who slipped it into another dictaphone to transcribe his words on her typewriter. I rushed the text to the linotypes. I ran the proof down to editorial. Corrections were made. Then back to the press room for another proof and final corrections. That was "Today," Arthur Brisbane's famous editorial, a column that went out to every Hearst paper across the country.

  As serious-minded as he was, Brisbane could be playful too. One day on the street outside the Journal, he bet me two bits he could beat me in a foot race to the Brooklyn Bridge. He'd even carry his briefcase to handicap himself. We ran up Park Row, the tall editor in chief and the little copyboy. Hell, that must have been quite a sight! I ran my legs off, but Brisbane beat me. I handed him a quarter, but he gave it back to me. Then he took me to Max's Busy Bee for hamburgers and milkshakes. Their hamburgers were swimming in gravy and cost four cents. Milkshakes were seven cents. With an egg, ten cents.

  One day, Brisbane wrote down an address on Riverside Drive and handed it to me.

  "This is where I'll be tonight," he said. "Bring me the proofs as soon as they're ready, Samuel."

  "Yes sir."

  With the "Today" proofs and a Winsor McCay cartoon in hand, I set off for Riverside Drive. The place turned out to be Hearst's Manhattan pied-a-terre, a magnificent apartment that looked out over the Hudson River. Brisbane met Hearst there regularly for strategy sessions. I'd deliver proofs or pick up dictaphone cylinders from a butler who answered the door tip there.

  On one of my visits to Hearst's Riverside apartment, the butler had orders to have me wait inside. I was told to stay in the living room with the magnificent divans and impressive shelves chock-full of books. I stood near the big glass window, enjoying the glorious view of the Jersey cliffs across the Hudson. Brisbane came out of an office with some executives. One of them was a tall, heavyset man with oblique eyebrows and very sad eyes. When he talked, he made birdlike noises. His voice sounded like a sharp little whistle. There was nothing pompous about him except for his very expensive-looking dark suit. That was my first encounter with William Randolph Hearst. You'd have never guessed that he was the most powerful newspaper publisher in the world. Not only was Hearst unassuming, but, as the other men continued their discussion, Hearst kept turning to Brisbane, asking, "What do you think, Arthur?"

  Whatever Brisbane advised Hearst on the subject at hand was accepted as a final decision. The Hearst I saw was a far cry from the blustery, tyrannical character of Charles Foster Kane, whom Orson Welles created for Citizen Kane, based on Hearst's life. I loved the way Welles's movie underscored a major conflict in the newspaper world of my era, a conflict in which Arthur Brisbane had played a central role.

  Hearst took over his father's San Francisco Examiner in 1887, then acquired the New York Morning Journal in 1895. In 1896, he launched the Evening Journal and built circulation with sensational reportage, color comics, and muckraking features, otherwise known as "yellow journalism." That led to a circulation war with Joseph Pulitzer's New York World. Fierce competition between the old and new schools of journalism was an essential subplot in Citizen Kane.

  In reality, Brisbane tipped the balance in Hearst's favor. Brisbane had been managing editor at the World, an intellectually superior newspaper to the journal. Hearst spent enormous amounts of money on making the Journal more graphic, more exciting, flashier than any paper in the world. He needed one more element: the greatest editor in chief in journalism. He convinced Brisbane to leave Pulitzer and come to work at the Journal, in 1897.

  Brisbane gave Hearst journalistic credibility, paving the way for the Journal to get the creme de la creme of newspapermen. In the big party scene in Citizen Kane, celebrating the paper's mounting circulation, Kane announces the hiring of the best journalists money can buy from his chief competitor. That was pretty much what Hearst accomplished, once Brisbane came aboard. I just can't imagine Hearst doing a song and dance with a line of chorus girls, like Kane in the movie!

  Brisbane had become unhappy at the World, very often in conflict with Pulitzer, who'd gone blind at the end of his career and lived on his yacht, Liberty, docked somewhere on the Riviera. Nevertheless Pulitzer was still the boss. He was idolized on Park Row, his integrity, legend. One felt safe reading the World. Every sentence in the paper was based on verified facts. Pulitzer had a lifelong aversion to any kind of sensationalism.

  Like so many other immigrants to this country, Joseph Pulitzer came from Europe on a ship that was bound for Ellis Island in 1864. Having no papers, and afraid that he'd be sent back by immigration authorities, Pulitzer jumped ship in New York's harbor. He swam for miles until he was picked up by a military patrol boat. Not being able to speak one word of English, Pulitzer got his first job in this country cleaning donkey stalls for the First New York Cavalry during the American Civil War. From those humble beginnings, he rose to be the most respected newspaper publisher in the country. There's a helluva story somebody should make into a movie!

  After seven years of working for Pulitzer, Brisbane was fed up. Hearst exploited the rift between the two journalistic giants. At the Journal, Brisbane would enjoy not only more freedom to express his opinions in frontpage editorials but the biggest salary of any editor in the country as well.

  In 1952, I got an opportunity to make a film about the origins of American journalism and the passion for a free press. Park Row was the only film I'd ever produce with my own dough. But I had to make it, if for no other reason
than to pay homage to the memories of my youth on that street I loved. To this day, I feel a tremendous debt of gratitude to the dedicated journalists who created and sustained Park Row, who were so essential to nay education, who engraved their virtues on my mind. See, Citizen Kane was about empire building, not journalism. I wanted to make a little black-and-white movie about the colorful lives of those early reporters and editors who were the backbone of New York newspapers.

  The one thing about Citizen Kane that irked me was the way Welles handled Marion Davies, portrayed harshly as Susan Alexander in the movie. I'd seen Marion Davies on several occasions at Hearst's apartment. Contrary to Kane's empty-headed Susan, Marion was smart, charming, and funny. She was always very sweet to me. Hearst treated her deferentially at all times, and she seemed, even to my teenage eyes, very much in love with him. I remember going to see her movies at the Cosmopolitan, a theater on Fifty-seventh Street near Columbus Circle that Hearst had bought so that MGM would show films with Marion Davies.

  Contrary to Hearst, who ran unsuccessfully for governor of New York and president, Brisbane had no political ambitions. Neither was he interested in becoming a tycoon. Working as an editor was his life. He came from an illustrious family. His father, Albert, had been one of the first socialists in the United States and had founded the Fabian Society together with George Bernard Shaw.' A respected adviser to leaders in many fields, Brisbane's views cut a wide swath in the twenties. While I rode around in the front seat of the big Lincoln, I'd turn and watch him discussing complex issues in the backseat with the likes of Bernard Baruch, Charles Schwab, and J. P. Morgan. My greatest pleasure was when I got to ride alone with Brisbane. Then I could bombard him with an avalanche of my adolescent questions. He was very patient with my rampant curiosity and always had a response, encouraging me to be inquisitive.

  "Who invented the dictaphone?" I asked.

  The sober front page of 'the r9o6 World that covered the sensational killing of Stanford White, architect of the Washington Arch, in Washington Square Park, and the first Madison Square Garden.