Zebra’s Rock and Me
Behind the Scenes of Ice Station Zebra
By
Copyright © 2011 by William Byron Hillman
Publisher: SpectroMedia Publishing at Smashwords
All rights reserved. No part of this book in any manner, in whole or in part, in English or in any other language, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission of the copyright owner. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic edition, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number is on file
ISBN 10: 0-9706234-1-0
ISBN 13: 978-0-9706234-1-6
Illustrations: William Byron Hillman
Photographs supplied by Martin Flaherty
Chapter 5 First Day on the Set
Chapter 7 Lunches with Rock and 60 Men
Chapter 10 Watching the Director
Chapter 11 Times with Ernie Borgnine
Chapter 12 Working with the Producer
Chapter 13 Working On Night Shots
Chapter 14 Rock and the Flat Tires
Chapter 15 Rock said Don't Thank Me
The Story Synopsis and Photo info
Agents Phone Call
On this particular day, it all started out like any other in the life of a young actor. Before leaving the house, you always check with your agent to see, if by chance, a miracle of unbelievable proportions happened overnight and there was an actual interview to go on.
No such luck, it was my day job as usual. Rumors spread that work in Hollywood was picking up and some of my fellow actors were suddenly going on lots of interviews. Hope eternal was alive and well so I kept my spirits high just in case my time snuck up on me.
The day ended like all the others before it, or so it appeared. I wasn’t home ten minutes when the phone rang.
“Bill?” It was the raspy voice of my agent Stella and there was no way you didn’t know who the caller was. She was a forty-year plus smoker with one of the best smoker-voices in the world. A few entertainers have the gift of an unmistakable voice, and Stella had worked hard to acquire a similar utterance, only hers wasn’t a blessing as it was earned by smoking thousands of cigarettes over many years.
“Hi Stella,” I said. She called only when there was reasoning to scold me for being late for an interview or to ask for a favor. Since I hadn’t been on an interview in weeks, it had to be the other choice – she wanted something. At times I accepted the fact she had all but given up on me and kept me around because of my witty tongue and argumentative attitude. Actors have a tendency to be pessimists and/or superstitious. In short expect nothing, and use whatever comes along to the best of your ability. “What’s up, Stella?”
“I just now secured an interview for you on one of the hottest films of the year.” She sounded weird, out of breath, and I was speechless. “Are you still there, Bill?”
“I am. What’s the film?” Every time I got a call like this excitement raced through me, as if this was my one defining moment that would surely change my life.
“Never mind, just be on time.” She snapped.
“When is the interview?” I wasn’t going to let her spoil it for me.
“Tomorrow at eleven. I know you’re busy and all but do you think you can make an eleven o’clock appointment without being late?”
“I can,” I said quickly.
“What I mean, Bill, is can you be there early?”
“Sure,” I mumbled trying to think why she’d want me to arrive early. Her voice did one of those strange out-of-this-world fade-outs, while my mind tried effortlessly to jump-start the rest of my body. “Where am I going?”
“MGM,” Stella was short and all business.
“Open casting call?” I asked.
“No. You have an appointment to meet the director, John Sturges. The man is known for his punctuality, and he loathes those who show up late. When you drive up to the guard gate, tell the guard you’re there to meet with John Sturges, and he’ll show you where to park.” Then she got so excited she started to have one of her coughing spells. I waited until the coughing subsided.
“Are you alright, Stella?”
“I want you to listen to me, Bill,” she forced out in-between gasping for air and expelling awful raspy coughs, “Don’t over dress, don’t be late, and comb your hair.”
“I always comb my hair,” I blurted out.
“No, you don’t. And don’t take pictures or anything else with you. They are expecting a professional, so be one and call me when you’ve finished.”
She hung up and I just stared at the receiver. If Stella had a sense of humor I’d of thought the call was a joke, but she lost her humor twenty years earlier. There were only a few studios in town and MGM was one of the busiest. John Sturges was a big-time director with a string of hit films to his credit, and I had an appointment to see him personally. Why would he take the time to meet with me? I not only hadn’t arrived yet, I was the ultimate nobody, an actor with a handful of day-player parts and little to show for it.
When my wife asked me what was wrong, I knew I was wearing my concern out on the sleeve of my shirt and that wasn’t a good thing. I told her about the appointment and what Stella had said, and she jumped up and got all excited for me. She never got excited. She was used to my getting passed over or losing out to shorter guys. I forgot how many times I had been told about the height thing and watched that potential float away without so much as a brief interview. Inside I couldn’t help to hope this wasn’t like all the other appointments I attended only to be sent away without getting a chance to show my talent. My wife was pregnant and often suffered through one of those hormone things pregnant women seemed to get a lot of; you know the ones that create anger and frustration? I was about to dismiss her excitement when she pointed out that MGM had announced earlier in the day that they were about to start eight different films and John Sturges was directing the biggest one.
Waiting
Los Angeles traffic can be tricky. The planned trip may only be fifteen or twenty miles, and that could take anywhere from thirty minutes to two hours depending on many things like accidents, fog, smog, closures, highway repairs and a whole lot of people all going in the same direction at the exact moment of your journey. To guarantee timeliness, you left early, arrived with plenty of time and waited.
I left with a two-hour window only to discover no traffic or delays. I arrived at the studio an hour and a half early. I bought a copy of the Hollywood trade papers and settled back/ I read them cover to cover several times and was totally caught up with the daily gossip. A half hour before my interview time, I drove onto the MGM studio lot. I pulled up to the gate and smiled up at a frowning, unsympathetic face. The guard had the appearance of a long-term employee who had seen everything and heard all the stories one could concoct.
“What can I do for you?” The guard asked in a monotone voice that would scare any child into a lifetime of constant nightmares.
“I have a meeting with John Sturges.” I spit out without hesitation.
“Really?” The guard looked my car over as if it was rusting junk, but in reality, it was only a year old Mustang convertible. He studied my face for the longest second or two in history and then brought out his clipboard. “What’s your name?”
“Bill Hillman,” I answered. I knew right off he was going to give me a hard time, but I was prepared.
“Don’t see your name on the list, Bill,” the guard said sarcastically.
I glanced at my watch impatiently.
Perhaps you should look again,” I said, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel.
“Nope,” he said thumbing through several pages.
“I’m going to be late,” I snapped, “and both John and his producer hate it when someone gets hung up at the gate. “Maybe you should call them up and have them deal with it?”
The guard cut me a look, hesitated, and then caved in. He handed me the clipboard and pointed to a line where he had scribbled my name.
“Sign there,” and then he pointed off into the parking lot, “and park in the first row at the end.”
I signed on the line and handed the clipboard back to him. I drove off without waiting to hear more and parked where I had been told. The guard assumed I knew where I was going, but in truth I had no idea where I was headed. To my right was another gate where crew and actors checked in and passed through. That couldn’t be where I was supposed to go, and the only other building in sight was a larger-than-life three story white building with a curved stairway. The impressive turn-of-the-century building seemed to wrap itself around the entire studio entrance. I walked right into the building and found a receptionist. Thank God she was friendly. She smiled up at me, and I took a breath there would be no other delays.
“John Sturges office?” I asked while offering her my best smile in return.”
“Third floor. When you step off the elevator, just continue down the hallway to the end.
“Thank you,” I said and hustled off to the elevators. Hanging on the walls were posters of all the famous films MGM had produced over the years. I didn’t check them out for fear someone would stop and tell me the whole meeting was a joke.
The elevator took forever to reach the third floor. When the doors slid open, the hallway in front of me extended out longer than a football field. The walls were solid oak and most of the doors to the various production offices were closed. As I walked down the hallway I passed a few doors that were open and saw secretaries busy at their desks. A few glanced up and smiled at me, and then quickly returned to their task. I checked my watch and found I was still early. I had ten minutes to spare.
The moment I entered the office at the end of the hall a middle-aged secretary turned and stared at me. She didn’t say a word. I was, without a doubt, an unexpected visitor. Two large oak doors to my left were closed. Voices could be heard behind them. Besides the secretary’s desk and chair were two wooden chairs in the corner. No other tables, magazines or other furnishings were visible. I smiled, but she didn’t. She reminded me of an old school teacher who didn’t have a sense of humor. Her frown confirmed it.
“May I help you?” She asked.
“Yes, I’m here to see John Sturges.”
“The casting call has been canceled." Her tone was brisk and dismissive.
“Oh I’m not here for the casting call,” I said and maintained my smile.
“Really?” Her expression didn’t vary.
“No, I’m here to meet with Mr. Sturges.”
“Mmmm,” the secretary offered, and then she returned to her desk and resumed typing.
She didn’t tell me to sit, so I took one of the chairs and sat down. I glanced at my watch. It was five minutes to eleven. I was sure Mr. Sturges would be out any moment.
I waited.
An hour and a half later, the buzzer on the secretary’s desk sounded off. She got up and hustled through the closed doors, quickly pulled them shut behind her. A few moments later she returned and picked up the phone. She dialed and in hushed tones ordered lunch.
At one-fifteen, a tall handsome man entered the office. The secretary was on the phone, her back to both the man and me. He moved over and offered his hand to me.
“How you doing, I’m Rock Hudson.”
I stood and shook his hand. I was just a little taller, but our eyes connected, and he smiled. I had seen Rock Hudson in many films, but I never imagined meeting him, shaking his hand, or standing nearly toe-to-toe with such a magnetic personality. He was handsome, athletic, had a firm handshake and riveting eyes. For a guy with diarrhea of the mouth, I was momentarily tongue-tied. His open friendliness came across as if he were greeting an old buddy instead of one of the biggest stars in Hollywood.
“Bill Hillman,” I finally managed to get out.
“Good to meet you, Bill.”
The secretary hung up the phone and realized Rock Hudson had entered. She bounced to her feet in an awkward gesture, and gushed over to him.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hudson. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Did they start without me?” Rock Hudson asked her.
“They have been in a production meeting, but no. They haven’t started yet. In fact, they just ordered lunch and are expecting you. Please come with me.”
The secretary opened the large doors and held them open for Mr. Hudson. He followed behind her, turned to me and shook my hand again.
“It was nice meeting you, Bill,” he said before disappearing into the office behind the large doors. The men sitting around the room all looked out at me but said nothing. The secretary came out, closed the doors and returned to her desk. She glanced over at me.
“The casting director said the cattle call was canceled.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not here for the cattle call,” I said.
“Suit yourself. It’s going to be a while.” She went back to her typing chore and totally ignored me.
My stomach stopped begging for food at a little after three in the afternoon. I was grateful I didn’t consume a pot of coffee before coming as I was determined to wait as long as it took, and a restroom break was out of the question. I’d been to meetings where you get up for the fleeting visit to a bathroom only to return and find out everyone had left for the day. I’d never put myself in that position again, not this time, not ever.
At two-fifteen, two women dressed like Chef’s entered the office pushing a meal cart. The top shelf was a group of covered silver domes. Each one tossed out distinct odors that would make anyone who had just finished a five-course meal to invigorate their hunger all over again. It was cruel and unusual punishment. I hadn’t eaten anything in over eight hours. Basic mud pies warmed over would smell good to me. This wasn’t mud. It, whatever it was, was something quite special and cooked specifically for Rock Hudson. The second shelf of the cart carried plates, silverware, napkins, and cups that rattled recklessly against each other. The secretary once again raced to the large oak doors and flung them open. The Chef’s pushed the cart into the office and served lunch. The aroma drifted throughout the office, steak, chicken, coffee, and some noodle dish with a gravy sauce. I tried not to watch. My stomach became a constant reminder it was empty and was demanding to be fed. It would have to wait.
The secretary returned to her desk. When the Chef’s left the large doors remained open. The men inside enjoyed their lunch and proceeded with their meeting. Occasionally, they would look out at me, and then continue as if I didn’t exist.
The day became the longest of my life. Three became four and slowly, painfully, five rolled around. The secretary made several trips in and out of the meeting, and every time she returned, she reminded me of how fruitless my waiting had become.
“They’re not done,” she’d say, or “It’s going to be a long afternoon.”
I nodded politely and said nothing to irritate her any more than she already appeared to be.
One of the men in the meeting kept looking out at me. At one point, he took his glasses off, cleaned the lenses, and shook his head. When the secretary went into the room, this man would point out at me with total bewilderment written on his face. It was sad. I could feel his compassion, and yet he never once stood up and came out to ask me what I was doing there. None of the men in the room looked familiar except for Rock Hudson, and that made be suspicious. Perhaps John Sturges hadn’t arrived yet and thus the reason he was late for our meeting.
At six-thirty that man, the one who had been looking out at me finally stood up and walked out of the meeting. He looked at the secretary first, but all she did was shrug her shoulders and continued to type. The man stood in front of me for what seemed like an hour before sitting on the chair next to me.
“I have to ask you a question,” the man stated as if in immense pain.
“Okay,” I said quietly. I suddenly felt like they were going to throw me out.
“Why have you been sitting out here all day like this?” The man removed his glasses like it might give him a better view of me.
“I have an appointment.”
“Really?” His eyebrows rose and formed an incredible bush when joined together.
“Absolutely,” I confirmed, leaving little doubt.
“Who are you meeting?”
“John Sturges,” I answered.
“Oh, John Sturges,” he nodded and stared at the floor. “Do you happen to know who I am?” He asked as he raised his head to look me in the eye.
“No, sir, I haven’t had the pleasure of an introduction yet.” I studied his face. He was older, forties or maybe early fifties. His dark hair was combed straight back. His intense brown eyes seemed to look right through me.
“Who arranged this meeting?”
“My agent.” I was feeling strange. Something was wrong.
“And who might that be?” He waited, raising one eyebrow in anticipation.
“Stella, Stella Wanabaker. She told me I was expected at eleven sharp and to arrive early. She said Mr. Sturges hated it when someone was late for their appointment.”
“Did she?” He nodded and glanced at his watch. “Apparently John Sturges is a smidgen over seven and a half hours late. You’re sure he was expecting you?”
“Yes, sir I am. Stella, that’s my agent, would never send me on a wild goose chase.”
“No, I’m sure she’d never do such an awful thing to you.”
The Interview
The man stood up. Little doubt he was exasperated with me or with the situation. Either John Sturges had forgotten our appointment or never made it in the first place. The man seemed to pace without going anywhere and suddenly all the men that had been in the meeting joined us. The secretary watched but remained silent. She had a look, sort of the sarcastic kind that resembles amusement. The man ran his fingers through his hair when he glanced my way, which he did several times without speaking. I didn’t know whether to stand up and join them, run for my life or leap out the closest window. Finally the man turned back to me.
“So help me out here. This meeting was for what purpose?”
“An interview,” I said as I slowly stood up.
“Oh my God,” the man blurted out, “how tall are you?”
My heart sank. Once again I was about to be told I was too tall.
“Six feet five, sir.” I stiffened, making all the inches in my body rigid. I wasn’t going to be ashamed of my height again.
The man stepped back to have another look. He glanced at the other men and seemed to lock in on Rock Hudson’s reaction, which I couldn’t read. He turned back to me.
“Are you aware the open casting call was cancelled?”
“Yes, sir I am. I wasn’t part of that. My agent arranged for me to meet with the director in person, so I wasn’t involved in the cattle call.”
The man nodded again. Hollywood had lots of cattle calls, where every actor or actress in town showed up with their portfolio and lots of hope. I had an appointment.
“So you didn’t bring pictures and resumes?”
“I assumed Mr. Sturges knew about me or a meeting with him would’ve been all but impossible. I’m sure he’s really busy prepping his movie.”
“Yes, I guess that’s true. So, which of his films are you here for?”
Heat climbed up my legs, spread over my body like wet paint, and reached my face with a burning sensation the likes I had never felt. Stella didn’t tell me what the film was. For all I knew John Sturges was involved in several, and here I was making a fool out of myself. I took a deep breath and figured the honest approach was the only way.
“Stella didn’t tell me which film my interview was for.”
“Do you know who is staring in the film?”
“No I don’t,” I mumbled.
The man put out his hand. I shook it.
“My name is John Sturges,” the man said while looking me right in the eye. He smiled and shook his head at the same time.
“Bill Hillman,” I said while shaking his hand.
I looked at the other men standing behind him. The joke, if there was one, had managed to splash itself all over my body. It didn’t take a genius to figure out there was no interview. I was part of a cattle call that had been cancelled. Like a complete dope I sat there all day creating a first class ignoramus who would most likely become a studio laughingstock for years to come.
A small man with white hair stepped forward, looked me up and down and smiled. He wasn’t undressing me he was taking my body on a casting comparison.
“I don’t know, John,” the small man said. “He’s the right height.”
“You waited over seven hours to see me?” John Sturges said.
“I did.” The admittance sounded ridiculous when I heard someone else say it.
“Have you ever done that before?” John Sturges inquired.
I couldn’t suppress the laugh, nor could I hide my smile. “No,” I answered. It was all on me and I was prepared to deal with it.