The Inside Game Christopher Knopf (bio) Just east of Beverly Hills, on the north side of Santa Monica Boulevard, was a tailor shop. I say was. Whether it’s still there today, I’ve no idea, but during the ‘fifties and ‘sixties it was a Mecca for screen and TV writers. The tailor was Manny Dwork. And Manny loved writers. So much so the entire second floor of this two-story fading, yellow stucco building was a warren of offices reserved exclusively for writers of screen and TV for rentals hard to find anywhere else in town. Writers would come and go, sometimes for months, sometimes for years, yet forever returning, it seemed; some renowned, others not, but all sharing a bond and collegiality. There was Emmy-winner Phil Sharp (All in the Family); Oscar-nominees Nate Monaster (That Touch of Mink with Cary Grant and Doris Day), Arthur Ross (Brubaker with Robert Redford), and Walter Newman (Cat Ballou with Jane Fonda and Lee Marvin, Ace in the Hole with Kirk Douglas, and Man with the Golden Arm with Frank Sinatra). Walter was one of two gurus in my life, Oscar-nominee Millard Kaufman (Bad Day at Black Rock) was the other. And there Walter was in my office door telling me of an assignment he couldn’t take, but was mine if I wanted—he’d sold me to producers. Robert Mitchum playing a simple man who comes to unwanted prominence in the Irish rebellion, etc. Mitchum, at this time in the early ‘sixties, was about as hot as Hollywood offered, shooting one film, a Western, with two more in the can awaiting release. Did I want to write a screenplay for him? After thirteen years of B and C movies, and some admittedly decent television, [End Page 425] I would now be elevated into the rarefied realm of Chayefsky, Trumbo, Wilder and Brackett. This was it! My time had come! I hurriedly broke down the story and met the producer, Raymond Stross, for dinner that night. Stross was every cliché Budd Schulberg ever invented. An Englishman, there were the gaudy clothes, Cuban cigar, the beautiful hooker. Charlie Feldman’s hooker, he proudly told me. There was also the hugely seductive smile, and the enthusiastic bobbing head, and “Yes! Yes!” to everything I told him I wanted to do. Except he wasn’t listening. And he was sweating. Some things in life are pretty clear signs. Like a temperature of 103. Or Raymond Stross sweating. But I was only thirty something, and still pretty green. So I met him, as agreed, on Mitchum’s set at MGM the following day as the morning shooting wrapped for lunch, and Mitchum, looking macho as hell in Levis, hogleg, and Stetson, lunged toward us. And past us. And into his trailer, slamming the door in our faces. Stross beamed. “Isn’t he capital?” And disappeared inside. And just as quickly came out again. Came out doesn’t quite capture it. Was ejaculated seems more the word. Eight o’clock tonight at Mitchum’s office, he told me, still that grin. Mitchum’s office was on the Sunset Strip. Outside it was a hall. There I sat listening to angry voices inside. At nine o’clock the door flew open and Tay Garnett, one very prominent, red-faced director (The Postman Always Rings Twice), stormed past me and out. I was beginning to get a message. But what? At ten o’clock Stross struck his beaming, sweating face out and summoned me inside. A half dozen people were in the room. Stross. And Riva, Mitchum’s statuesque executive secretary who this night had one responsibility: keep Mitchum’s glass filled. There were the three obligatory suits from the William Morris Agency, led by the respected Phil Kellog, all looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. [End Page 426] And there was Mitchum. He hadn’t changed from the set, was still in costume. He sat mid-room in his power chair, slouched on the small of his back, legs stretched out before him, Stetson slanted down completely hiding his face, drink hanging down at his side. He made no move to look...