The Making of Some Like It Hot by Tony Curtis

Author:Tony Curtis [Curtis, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780470561195
Publisher: John Wiley & Sons, Ltd.
Published: 2010-05-11T04:00:00+00:00

18

On Wednesday Marilyn and I shot the rest of the scene on the beach, including the part where Jack comes up and recognizes me. I loved the competition between our characters, rooted as it was in friendship and in the contrast of the guys’ personalities. The story was so well written and those characters were so well etched. I’ve often been asked if there was any competition between Jack and me.

I had a great time working with Jack. What a sweet guy. There was never any question of competition. Never. Some actors cheat their angles, pitch their voices, do anything to make themselves look good—at your expense. Not Jack. He never played the prima donna. It was always teamwork for him. He was extremely well educated and wonderfully bright, but he never waved that Harvard background in my face. He was articulate, but he didn’t spend hours telling anecdotes on the set while I was trying to get into character. He respected my process. And he had his, too. He was very critical of himself, as if he was never satisfied with what he did. Sometimes he would get so quiet. I wasn’t sure what was going on. Then he’d explode into character. It was extraordinary to see.

After Billy finished Jack’s shots, he worked on my close-ups. Then he called Marilyn back for hers. I watched for a while. Every so often I’d catch her looking at me and smiling. She was doing pretty well. Not too many mistakes. I started to feed her lines, and between takes we chatted. It was nice sitting there on the beach in the afternoon sun. She seemed relaxed. I looked behind me. Paula wasn’t there. I asked Marilyn how she liked the hotel. She was pleasant about it. Then she leaned forward and spoke to me in a lower tone of voice. “Come and see me tonight.”

That was it. Not a lot of dialogue. It wasn’t like “You’re so sweet. Why don’t we get together? What’s your room number?” That’s the way I thought it would sound. No. It was just “Come and see me tonight.”

I didn’t see her at dinner. I had the impression that she might have left. But there was no way I could find out without being obvious. I didn’t know her room number. And in those days when you were on location, where you were staying remained a secret. So I had to figure it out. And I did, or so I thought. The Hotel del Coronado was a hard place to find a room. The numbers were peculiar. There were some that were freshly painted or something. It was about ten o’clock when I went to look for her room. I went up to the floor where I figured she was staying. I looked up and down the hallway. I felt like I was in one of those silent pictures. I walked quietly up to the door. I think it was H43. I knocked on it. It opened.

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