Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M Part 3

Was Capote fazed? Hardly. He was too busy sunning himself in the spot-and limelights.

THE REAL HOLLY GOLIGHTLY.

After the publication of Breakfast at Tiffany's, Breakfast at Tiffany's, modish women all over New York began to announce-some with evidence and others without-that modish women all over New York began to announce-some with evidence and others without-that they they were Capote's real-life inspiration for Holly. Thus began what Truman called "The Holly Golightly Sweepstakes." were Capote's real-life inspiration for Holly. Thus began what Truman called "The Holly Golightly Sweepstakes."

Just about everyone, it seemed, had biographical ties to the novel, but no claim was nuttier, or less factual, than that of the twice-divorced former Greenwich Village bookstore owner Bonnie Golightly. She sued Capote for $800,000, charging him with libel and invasion of privacy, claiming that Truman shaped Holly from facts about her life he picked up from "mutual friends." "Besides a broad Southern accent acquired from her Tennessee upbringing," noted a February 9, 1958, item in Time, Time, "Bonnie Golightly points to some other evidence. Like Capote's Holly, she lived in a brownstone on Manhattan's fas.h.i.+onable East Side, with a bar around the corner on Lexington. Like Holly, she is an avid amateur folk singer with many theatrical and offbeat friends. Like Holly, Bonnie says: 'I just love cats. The cat thing corresponds, and all the hair-was.h.i.+ng and a lot of little things. .h.i.ther and yon.' One bit of Hollyana to which Bonnie makes no claim: 'I've never, absolutely never, had a Lesbian roommate.'" "Bonnie Golightly points to some other evidence. Like Capote's Holly, she lived in a brownstone on Manhattan's fas.h.i.+onable East Side, with a bar around the corner on Lexington. Like Holly, she is an avid amateur folk singer with many theatrical and offbeat friends. Like Holly, Bonnie says: 'I just love cats. The cat thing corresponds, and all the hair-was.h.i.+ng and a lot of little things. .h.i.ther and yon.' One bit of Hollyana to which Bonnie makes no claim: 'I've never, absolutely never, had a Lesbian roommate.'"

Upon learning of Miss Golightly's claim, author James Michener wrote a letter to Random House in Truman's defense. "The suit brought by the young woman in New York is patently false," he wrote, "because I happen to know without question that Truman patterned Holly Golightly after a wonderful young woman from Montana...." When Michener showed Truman the letter, Capote instructed him to burn it immediately. "I've been afraid she's going to sue, too!" he cried.

Michener had met the woman in question, a "stunning would-be starlet-singer-actress-raconteur from the mines of Montana," through Leonard Lyons, columnist for the New York Post, New York Post, when she had been hanging out with him and Truman in the fast and wild pre- when she had been hanging out with him and Truman in the fast and wild pre-Tiffany's days. "She had a minimum talent," Michener recalled, "a maximum beauty, and the rowdy sense of humor. Also, she was six feet, two inches tall, half a head taller than I, a head and a half taller than Truman." days. "She had a minimum talent," Michener recalled, "a maximum beauty, and the rowdy sense of humor. Also, she was six feet, two inches tall, half a head taller than I, a head and a half taller than Truman."

In the end, neither woman sued; Bonnie was ridiculed back to reality and the Montana-made starlet rode it out only as far as she could. Thanks to her newfound notoriety, the actress transferred some of Holly's aura to herself (which Holly, ironically, had borrowed from her), spun in the sun for her mayfly moment, and then, like Truman's mother, up and disappeared. But was she, or any of the other women who stepped forward, the real real Holly Golightly? When the question was posed to the book's author, he answered a simple no. "The real Holly Golightly," he said, with a portentous pause, "was a girl exactly like the girl in Holly Golightly? When the question was posed to the book's author, he answered a simple no. "The real Holly Golightly," he said, with a portentous pause, "was a girl exactly like the girl in Breakfast at Tiffany's, Breakfast at Tiffany's, with the single exception that in the book she comes from Texas, whereas the real Holly was a German refugee who arrived in New York at the beginning of the War, when she was seventeen years old. Very few people were aware of this, however, because she spoke English without any trace of an accent. She had an apartment in the brownstone where I lived and we became great friends. Everything I wrote about her is literally true-not about her friends.h.i.+p with a gangster called Sally Tomato and all that, but everything about her personality and her approach to life, even the most apparently preposterous parts of the book. For instance, do you remember, in the beginning, where a man comes into a bar with photographs of an African wood carving of a girl's head he had found in the jungle and the girl could only be Holly? Well, my real-life Holly did disappear into Portuguese Africa and was never heard from again. But after the war, a man named John La Touche, a well-known song lyricist and writer, traveled to the Belgian Congo to make a doc.u.mentary film: and in a jungle village he discovered this wooden head carving of Holly. It's all the evidence of her existence that remains." with the single exception that in the book she comes from Texas, whereas the real Holly was a German refugee who arrived in New York at the beginning of the War, when she was seventeen years old. Very few people were aware of this, however, because she spoke English without any trace of an accent. She had an apartment in the brownstone where I lived and we became great friends. Everything I wrote about her is literally true-not about her friends.h.i.+p with a gangster called Sally Tomato and all that, but everything about her personality and her approach to life, even the most apparently preposterous parts of the book. For instance, do you remember, in the beginning, where a man comes into a bar with photographs of an African wood carving of a girl's head he had found in the jungle and the girl could only be Holly? Well, my real-life Holly did disappear into Portuguese Africa and was never heard from again. But after the war, a man named John La Touche, a well-known song lyricist and writer, traveled to the Belgian Congo to make a doc.u.mentary film: and in a jungle village he discovered this wooden head carving of Holly. It's all the evidence of her existence that remains."

"Truman mentioned such a woman to me too," remembers Gerald Clarke, Capote's biographer. "But in the version I heard she was Swiss. He even gave me her name. I could never find any of his friends who remembered her, however. Did she exist? Probably. But was she Holly Golightly? I doubt it. If she did exist, I suspect she was just one of the many." Indeed there were many, and as Clarke has witnessed, new ones keep popping up all the time. "A few months ago," he said, "a reporter from Newsday Newsday called me. She was writing an obituary of a woman who had told her family that called me. She was writing an obituary of a woman who had told her family that she she was the model for Holly. I had never heard of the woman, but the reporter told me that she was the right age, had been a model, knew Truman, and so on. There were lots of women like that in those days, and my guess is that Holly owed something to any number of them." was the model for Holly. I had never heard of the woman, but the reporter told me that she was the right age, had been a model, knew Truman, and so on. There were lots of women like that in those days, and my guess is that Holly owed something to any number of them."

At that time, there were few girls in fifties literature quite like her. Though it may not seem so at first glance, lurking beneath Holly's hedonism, a kind of uptown beatnik is crying to get out. She may not wear berets or play the bongo, but she speaks in "hep"s and "crazy"s, cares not a thing for domestic propriety, and like a girl out of Kerouac, is h.e.l.l-bent on freedom. But not just in terms of ubiquity, of going lightly. It was the American sleepwalk that Holly-and her Beat brethren-were running from. In fact, the term "beatnik," coined by journalist Herb Caen only months before the publication of Breakfast at Tiffany's, Breakfast at Tiffany's, pinned the suffix "nik" to "beat" after the Russian satellite pinned the suffix "nik" to "beat" after the Russian satellite Sputnik I Sputnik I. What could be more anti-American than that? Not that Holly was a polemicist; she'd never get on a soap-box to argue for anything other than having a good old time. But in her reckless love of individuality, whether she knows it or not, Holly rustles with the fervor of the next generation.

It would be three years until Truman's creation shook loose the complacencies of Babe Paleys across America-and it would take the film for it to happen-but until then, the Holly of the novel would be viewed as a salacious other-not a normal person, but one of the world's weirdos, one of them them. In 1961, Audrey Hepburn, the good girl princess, would change all that. With the movie of Breakfast at Tiffany's, Breakfast at Tiffany's, she'd bring Holly home. she'd bring Holly home.

4.

TOUCHING IT.

1958-1960.

JUROW AND SHEPHERD MAKE THEIR MOVE.

Midway into production on The Hanging Tree, The Hanging Tree, Jurow-Shepherd's first movie, Marty Jurow was handed the reader report on Jurow-Shepherd's first movie, Marty Jurow was handed the reader report on Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's. The book was still in galleys, so there was no sales record yet, but even a fool could see it wasn't the kind of story that screamed box-office success. "Well-written, off-beat, amusing," the coverage said. "But it is unfortunately too similar to Isherwood's work [Goodbye to Berlin], dramatized as I Am a Camera I Am a Camera. The type of character is the same. Only the incidents and chronology are different, and in any event this is more of a character sketch than a story. NOT RECOMMENDED."

But Jurow was curious. So was Shepherd. "We thought there could be a feature there," he said, "because the story of how a girl comes from Tulip, Texas, and gets involved with a guy in New York was at its heart a love story and could even become a marketable romantic comedy. It has an opening act in that sense, and ultimately had a potential conclusion if they got together, but we weren't sure. There were problems." Maybe somewhere there was a movie in it. Maybe.

Jurow called Capote's agent, Audrey Wood, to set up a meeting with Truman in New York. Wood let Jurow know there were already a few offers on the table, but Marty couldn't be so sure. Was that a bluff? Was she bulls.h.i.+tting him? Probably not. Even outside of literary circles, the name Capote had serious cachet; his talent had earned him prestige, and his flamboyance made him into a star. In Hollywood, that combination made Tiffany's Tiffany's highbrow plunder, and it would earn the one who got the rights a sizable chunk of clout. As Jurow knew, that made highbrow plunder, and it would earn the one who got the rights a sizable chunk of clout. As Jurow knew, that made Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's a good investment, even if they ended up never making a movie out of it. Just having it in their possession would be a victory. a good investment, even if they ended up never making a movie out of it. Just having it in their possession would be a victory.

Jurow got on a plane to New York as soon as he could. The trick was to see Capote in person, and waste no time in doing it. Who knew how many executives Truman had already met with or how much they had offered him? Or was it already over? At the very moment Marty took his seat in first cla.s.s, Truman could have been dangling his pen over someone else's dotted line.

Jurow knew he could handle the negotiation. Though his production company did not yet have the swagger of other, older production outfits, or a fat wad of box-office receipts to flash around like a VIP pa.s.s, they did have one very formidable lure: both Marty Jurow and Richard Shepherd were seriously connected. "I had a good relations.h.i.+p with Audrey Wood since we had met at MCA," Shepherd explained, "and I don't mind saying that Marty and I had represented some very important, very bankable clients from the days when we were agents. Audrey knew that and Truman did too." Should Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's get that far into preproduction, Jurow-Shepherd was only a rotary call away from the biggest names in town. get that far into preproduction, Jurow-Shepherd was only a rotary call away from the biggest names in town.

And if that didn't hook Truman, they had other lures. Shepherd said, "The fact that Marty and I were developing Tennessee Williams's Orpheus Descending Orpheus Descending [which became [which became The Fugitive Kind The Fugitive Kind], and were willing to go with Anna Magnani, who Tennessee wanted, as opposed to Ingrid Bergman, who wanted to do it with [producer] Sam Spiegel and who would be better for the studio, meant a lot to Tennessee, I'm sure, and I think it's probably why he ended up selling us the rights to his play. My guess is that even though we hadn't produced a lot of movies, Audrey Wood looked upon us as producers who would remain respectful to her writers."

As the senior, more experienced member of the team, Jurow was chosen to go to New York. He had since proven he knew how to be clean in the boardrooms, and if need be, dirty when it counted. Nothing for him was without precedent-or so he might have told himself as his plane took off from LAX-but he had never sat across the table from the bulldog Truman Capote.

Of course, he had heard the stories. He knew that Capote had New York society at his feet, that Bill Paley called him Tru-Heart (others called him the Tiny Terror), and that somehow, by charm, wit, or genius, when it came to seduction, he was an absolute pro. Who would set the terms of the deal was anyone's guess, but Jurow, as he told Shepherd before the flight, had committed himself to winning the property. He would be the one doing the seducing.

Best, he thought, to steer clear of story discussions. Writers wanted promises about the adaptation, and promises Jurow couldn't make. He could, however, promise to remain "faithful." That one was always up for interpretation. If it came to it, Jurow decided, he would sincerely pledge his commitment to what was written. He would a.s.sure Capote that he and Shepherd wanted only to be loyal to his ideas about Tiffany's, Tiffany's, with, of course, the single ( with, of course, the single (ahem) caveat that there are certain very minor things that work on the page that just don't work on the screen. Surely Truman, as an occasional screenwriter, understood that. Jurow knew the way to get what he wanted was to keep the other guy sure he he was getting what he wanted. If he was a writer, that meant letting him talk and talk. They'll deny it between their gulps of booze, but all writers love nothing more than the sound of their own voice. They crave the spotlight, and Capote more than most. Just look at the way he posed for photographers. Deep down, the guy was nothing but s...o...b..z, and n.o.body could play that game better than Marty Jurow. was getting what he wanted. If he was a writer, that meant letting him talk and talk. They'll deny it between their gulps of booze, but all writers love nothing more than the sound of their own voice. They crave the spotlight, and Capote more than most. Just look at the way he posed for photographers. Deep down, the guy was nothing but s...o...b..z, and n.o.body could play that game better than Marty Jurow.

They were to meet at the Colony Restaurant on Madison and Sixty-first. Marty got there early, gave his name to the maitre d' and was led to a corner of the room designated for Mr. Capote. The table, Marty discovered, had its own telephone, a select coterie of personal waiters, and as one of them revealed, a private stash of wine reserved just for Truman. Just then, a nasally chirrup shot out from across the room. Marty looked up. There was the leprechaun Truman Capote, bouncing ahead, extending a grin to his admirers, and catching air kisses thrown at him from all ends of the restaurant. Yes, Marty thought, he was looking at a picture of pure s...o...b..z, an entrance staged and costumed to Truman's exacting perfection. If you could measure a man's ego by the length of his scarf, then this one had no end. He had been right to come to New York.

Over the next several hours, as Truman's eyes radared the premises for socialites and celebrities, Marty Jurow listened to the little man's monologue on who he saw and who saw him, and about Marilyn Monroe, that sweet dear baby, who was sent down to earth to make married men crazy and, according to Truman, play Holly Golightly. Here Marty turned on his practiced smile and tried to change the subject. But Truman held on. He told Jurow how he had known Marilyn for something like ten years, that he had met her around the time of her first speaking role, and that they were very fond of each other. Beneath all that s.e.x and glamour, Truman said, Marilyn had something touching about her, something simple. She would be perfect for the role of Holly. ("Don't you think, Mr. Jurow?") She was Truman's first choice.

He and Marilyn were very close, Truman continued, which would make things a lot easier. They were always seen together at El Morocco, either canoodling in a corner or, of all ridiculous things, dancing. So as not to tower over him, Marilyn would kick off her little shoes and twirl around in her bare feet. "It's true!" Truman said, laughing. "It's true!"

Marty listened (incredulous), nodding his head, and when he could, inserted a few words of carefully chosen praise about the book. It wasn't easy to keep Truman on subject, but Marty made his pitch when the time came, pledging his-and Richard Shepherd's-loyalty to what was written, dropping choice details from the coverage he had reviewed in the cab over. Truman listened, beaming at the morsels of praise he ingested between chews. As Marty went on, it became clear to him that he had Capote right where he wanted him. For the moment.

"You know, of course," Truman said, "that I want to play the male lead."

Marty took a breath. If he stalled for a moment to figure out if Truman was joking, he could buy enought time to calculate his next move. All he needed to see was the slightest tremor turn up at the corner of Capote's mouth. Then Jurow would know that he needed to laugh. But there was no tremor, only silence. Marty was on his own.

"Truman," he said, erring on the side of flattery, "the role just isn't good enough for you."

Truman said nothing.

Marty waited. He'd have to fill the silence.

"All eyes will be on Holly Golightly," he added, "through every frame of this picture. The male lead is just a pair of shoulders for Holly to lean on. You deserve something more dynamic, more colorful."

Did that work? In the hush that followed, Jurow had no way of telling. If Capote smelled the bulls.h.i.+t-and G.o.d knows it was getting thicker by the second-it would all be over.

"You're right," Truman said. "I deserve something more dynamic."

The next day, with Paramount's approval, Marty closed the deal for $65,000.

MARILYN.

On the plane back to Los Angeles, Marty found himself seated next to Marilyn Monroe. At that time, only months away from the release of Some Like It Hot, Some Like It Hot, Marilyn had achieved breathtaking fame, and a level of s.e.xual and commercial desirability few other Americans had (or ever would). She had heard all about Marilyn had achieved breathtaking fame, and a level of s.e.xual and commercial desirability few other Americans had (or ever would). She had heard all about Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's from Milton Greene, her photographer-c.u.m-producer-c.u.m-partner-c.u.m-confidant, and though she had not read the book, she was interested in playing Holly. It was something Marilyn said she'd have to discuss with Paula Strasberg, her personal acting coach and, along with Greene, career adviser. She said she'd talk it over with them, but what she really meant was she'd have to get their permission. She was, as Truman said, very much the little child under all that creamy come-hither; weary enough to know human iniquity, but too timid to defend herself against it. "I've never had a home," she once confessed to Truman. "Not a real one with all my own furniture." There was more than a little Golightly in that. from Milton Greene, her photographer-c.u.m-producer-c.u.m-partner-c.u.m-confidant, and though she had not read the book, she was interested in playing Holly. It was something Marilyn said she'd have to discuss with Paula Strasberg, her personal acting coach and, along with Greene, career adviser. She said she'd talk it over with them, but what she really meant was she'd have to get their permission. She was, as Truman said, very much the little child under all that creamy come-hither; weary enough to know human iniquity, but too timid to defend herself against it. "I've never had a home," she once confessed to Truman. "Not a real one with all my own furniture." There was more than a little Golightly in that.

But Jurow wasn't convinced Marilyn was right for Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's. Holly had to be sharp and tough, and as anyone who saw Marilyin could sense, she was about as tough as a tulip. It was difficult to imagine a personality like that living like Holly, all on her own in the big city.

And there were the very practical facts of film production to consider. Marty knew that Marilyn was notoriously irresponsible, and to a producer, that meant expensive. He'd heard stories about her on The Seven Year Itch The Seven Year Itch. Wilder said dealing with her was a kind of h.e.l.l, like pulling teeth. His picture fell nine days behind schedule (at $80,000 a day), and not just because of Marilyn's chronic lateness, but because of her strange, almost pathological block against remembering dialogue (she might require up to forty or fifty takes to complete a single line). "It's not that she was mean," Billy said. "It's just that she had no sense of time, nor conscience that three hundred people had been waiting hours for her." Jurow didn't want that on his hands; and yet, he knew Marilyn could sell tickets. So maybe she'd bring in more than she'd cost them. Wilder thought she was worth it, but with a big proviso: she couldn't always. .h.i.t the right notes. One minute she had the precision timing of Judy Holliday, and the next she was mugging like crazy.

Days later, Jurow got a phone call. It was Paula Strasberg. "Marilyn Monroe will not play a lady of the evening," she told him. Case closed.

Maybe. "I remember it this way," Shepherd said. "We both knew Marilyn was interested, but neither of us really saw her in the part. Because she was at one time a client of mine, I was the one who had to call her and tell her we were going to go with someone else. It was beyond question one of the hardest calls I've ever had to make. But she took it fine. 'Okay,' she said. And that was it."

Before they could consider any other actresses, Jurow and Shepherd needed a great script, something so good that every doubt an actress would have about the raciness of the project would be washed away the moment she started reading. But before the script could be great it had to be good, and considering the difficulty of the adaptation, just converting Capote's novel into movie terms-a story with three acts, relatable protagonists, and a concrete romance-would be a challenge for any screenwriter, no matter how experienced.

In January of 1959, Jurow and Shepherd set out to find one.

THE GAG WRITER.

Since the day his wife gave him the novel, well before he got the news of Capote's deal with Jurow-Shepherd, George Axelrod had been dying to adapt Tiffany's Tiffany's. The book had all the elements he was drawn to: wit, a progressive sensibility, and sophistication up the wazoo. Just about everything Hollywood thought George wasn't.

Like most other successful actors, directors, and writers in pictures, Axelrod was typecast by his success and unable to break free. Executives considered George capable of writing his particular kind of movie-the lowbrow The Seven Year Itch The Seven Year Itch kind-and nothing else. He had cornered the market, and now the market was cornering him. kind-and nothing else. He had cornered the market, and now the market was cornering him.

It's a testament to his enthusiasm that he went ahead anyway and pitched the idea to Fox. That's when George found out that Jurow-Shepherd had beaten him to it. From there he went directly to Paramount, eager and hopeful that if the book had already been optioned, he might be able to finagle himself into the job. But Jurow and Shepherd flat out turned him down. Not uptown enough, they said. Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's was going to be a cla.s.s picture, not a yuck job. was going to be a cla.s.s picture, not a yuck job.

If they were making a comedy with Jayne Mansfield or Marilyn Monroe, then, yes, they'd get George, but that wasn't what they wanted for Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's. Worse than that, as a screenwriter he was a real liability. After The Seven Year Itch, The Seven Year Itch, the name Axelrod was such a red flag to the protectors of the Production Code that putting his byline on a script about a call girl might just shut down their production for good. So, no: Jurow-Shepherd needed to tread lightly, which is why they were after as genteel and well mannered a writer as they could get. George Axelrod was not that writer. the name Axelrod was such a red flag to the protectors of the Production Code that putting his byline on a script about a call girl might just shut down their production for good. So, no: Jurow-Shepherd needed to tread lightly, which is why they were after as genteel and well mannered a writer as they could get. George Axelrod was not that writer.

THE SERIOUS WRITER.

They went with Sumner Locke Elliott. He was what they meant by a serious writer. The producers contracted him to fly out to L.A. for a week's worth of story conferences, from which he would produce a sixty-page dramatic outline. If they deemed the outline satisfactory, Elliott would proceed into the screenplay; if not, the contract stipulated the deal would be finished without any future commitments. In Hollywood parlance, it was called a cutoff. Elliott signed.

THE GAG MAN GAGGED.

Axelrod called Capote. They had only met a couple of times.

"Truman," George said, "they won't use me. They don't think I'm serious enough."

"Well, bulls.h.i.+t," Truman said. "They don't know how to do it, you you know how to do it." know how to do it."

But Capote's hands were tied. He told Axelrod that he was not at all involved in the film's adaptation or production-that he had sold the option on the novel and that was that. And in any case, he was trying to write a book about the ma.s.sacre of a Kansas wheat farming family. It was very unlike him, yes, but he couldn't resist the appeal of inventing a whole new type of literature, and he had reason to believe it would be his masterpiece.

George was right back where he started.

THE SERIOUS WRITER GAGGED.

Until now, Sumner Locke Elliott had been a novelist, playwright, and a prolific TV writer with almost three dozen credits to his name. But in ten steady years of working in the business, he had never seen one of his feature scripts produced. That may have been tough on the writer, but it was all right by Shepherd and Jurow, who lowered their payment accordingly. From their perspective, the fact that Elliott was a gay, New Yorkbased writer only sweetened the deal and hinted at the possibility of cultivating that certain Capote something. At least in theory.

Upon receiving Elliott's treatment in April 1959, a distressed Richard Shepherd wrote a memo to Paramount studio chief, Y. Frank Freeman, including the following: Suffice to say we are all immensely disappointed in Elliott's efforts. Disregarding its length and its peculiar physical format, we are most disturbed by its episodic, disjointed, fluffy and even ephemeral tone. Elliott, to our way of thinking, has seriously failed to capture the warmth, the zest, the humor, the beauty and, more important, the basic heart and honesty that is Holly Golightly. The young man he has written is petty and unattractive in character, borders on the effeminate, which we all detest, and as is the case with Holly and the whole piece, is almost totally devoid of the humor and contemporary flavor that is absolutely vital for this picture.Most important, however, a dramatically sound story line sound story line and point of view is either non-existent or certainly not clear. Capote's book provides a marvelously wonderful character study of a fascinating girl, surrounded by almost equally interesting people and locale. and point of view is either non-existent or certainly not clear. Capote's book provides a marvelously wonderful character study of a fascinating girl, surrounded by almost equally interesting people and locale.Our task has been and continues to be one of converting this character study into a clear-cut clear-cut dramatic dramatic story story line line with an even clearer audience with an even clearer audience point of view point of view.We spent considerable time and effort in story conferences with Elliott with the primary objective of making certain that the dramatic line and point of view in his treatment would be clear. Somehow, as is so unfortunately often the case, the result did not equal the expectations.All of us are convinced that we are correct in a.s.suming that the boy and girl get together at the end of our story, that Holly's problem, which is the princ.i.p.al one, is in some way resolved through the understanding, love and strength of the boy. This requires a completely different kind of male character than has been given to us by Elliott and a far more solid construction of the dramatic elements of the piece.We therefore are of the singular opinion that a different man should be put on the job. One with infinitely more experience in dramatic construction, with a contemporary understanding of these people to say nothing of an appreciation for comedy that is not so perfumed. Our gamble on Elliott in the hopes of getting a proper script on the more economical basis did not pay off. There is some consolation, however, in the fact that we protected ourselves with a proper cut-off period.

Elliott was off the movie, leaving Jurow and Shepherd with no script and one h.e.l.l of a tough adaptation.

THE PITCH.

Only days later, George got a call from his agent, Swifty Lazar. Elliott was out, he said. They thought his script lacked pizzazz, not to mention a clear story line, and Jurow-Shepherd was looking for a replacement. The production company was anxious to move forward, he said, and fast. Was George still interested?

Was George still interested?

Yes, he was still interested.

Hold on, Swifty said. It wasn't that easy. It wasn't in the bag. Jurow and Shepherd, the agent explained, were now looking at some very experienced, very "respectable" writers. Their new list included some of the most accomplished in the business: Betty Comden and Adolph Green (Singin' in the Rain), Charles Lederer (His Girl Friday, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes Gentlemen Prefer Blondes), Samuel Taylor (Sabrina, Vertigo Vertigo), Julius Epstein (Casablanca), Ernest Lehman (Sabrina, Sweet Smell of Success Sweet Smell of Success), the redoubtable Kanins (Adam's Rib), and of course, George Axelrod (b.o.o.bs and b.o.o.bs). The writer they hired would bypa.s.s treatment and go directly to screenplay, meaning if he or she could pitch Jurow and Shepherd an idea they liked-a romantic comedy-with a clear-cut dramatic story line and less effeminate male lead, then, for the right price, the gig was theirs. All George had to do was figure out the right angle, go in for a meeting, and knock 'em dead. Swifty hung up.

Axelrod was almost ready. He had been thinking about Tiffany's Tiffany's for so long, and knew the trick was to make the picture more of a traditional romance, structurally speaking. To do it, he'd have to invent a stronger conflict, some impediment to the love story, which the lovers had to overcome to be together. Otherwise, the movie would be over in one scene; they'd meet, get coupled, and that would be it. So what would keep these two mutually attracted people apart? If Axelrod couldn't answer that, his story would go the way of Elliott's, and it would be back to b.o.o.bs for him. for so long, and knew the trick was to make the picture more of a traditional romance, structurally speaking. To do it, he'd have to invent a stronger conflict, some impediment to the love story, which the lovers had to overcome to be together. Otherwise, the movie would be over in one scene; they'd meet, get coupled, and that would be it. So what would keep these two mutually attracted people apart? If Axelrod couldn't answer that, his story would go the way of Elliott's, and it would be back to b.o.o.bs for him.

If Axelrod were writing for Doris Day and Rock Hudson the problem of finding the conflict would come ready-made. The guy wants to get the girl into bed and she wants to stay out of it-until they get married. And when they finally do, the movie ends. But in Holly Golightly, who isn't guarding her virginity like it's Fort Knox, Axelrod had to grapple with a heroine who was anathema to the genre. If only he could lick the conflict, he could easily be at the forefront of a new kind of romantic comedy. Not one about 1950s people who shrink from s.e.x before marriage, but one about modern people who embrace it.

Axelrod would have to flip the paradigm. Where Doris Day struggled with abstinence, Holly would struggle with promiscuity. Thus commitment, not desire, would be at the heart of Holly's conflict-that much Axelrod could bring over from the novel-but what then would prevent the newly heteros.e.xual male from running away with her? If she slept with everyone, why wouldn't she sleep with him? The most obvious answer was the one right in front of George: the same thing that prevents her her from running away with from running away with him him. He's a gigolo, too. That's That's it. And he can't afford to pay for a night with her, and she can't afford to pay for a night with him, and when they do finally get into bed together after he's just slept with his sugar mama, he's just too tired to make a move. Ergo they just lie there. So their conflict? Leaving a steady life of fiscal security for one of love. Going from being "owned" to being free. Making the late fifties into the early sixties. it. And he can't afford to pay for a night with her, and she can't afford to pay for a night with him, and when they do finally get into bed together after he's just slept with his sugar mama, he's just too tired to make a move. Ergo they just lie there. So their conflict? Leaving a steady life of fiscal security for one of love. Going from being "owned" to being free. Making the late fifties into the early sixties.

It was three o'clock in the morning when George Axelrod turned to Joan in bed and said, "I've got it! I know how to do Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's as a movie!" as a movie!"

At last, Axelrod would pitch a s.e.x comedy with with s.e.x. It probably wasn't something that Paramount would be immediately comfortable with, but if Jurow wanted uptown, this was it: a contemporary romantic comedy for the modern generation. s.e.x. It probably wasn't something that Paramount would be immediately comfortable with, but if Jurow wanted uptown, this was it: a contemporary romantic comedy for the modern generation.

AUDREY'S RETREAT On May 20, 1959, just weeks after Audrey's thirtieth birthday, the Ferrers announced they were expecting once again. But tragically, while shooting The Unforgiven The Unforgiven in Mexico that June, Audrey miscarried a second time. The emotional burden, she said, was unbearable, the worst of her life. "I blamed G.o.d," she said. "I blamed [director] John Huston. I was a bundle of anger and recrimination. I couldn't understand why I couldn't have children. Mel and I were so much in love." in Mexico that June, Audrey miscarried a second time. The emotional burden, she said, was unbearable, the worst of her life. "I blamed G.o.d," she said. "I blamed [director] John Huston. I was a bundle of anger and recrimination. I couldn't understand why I couldn't have children. Mel and I were so much in love."

She retreated to her home in Lucerne, and with the encouragement of her physicians, began to consider returning to work. Most scripts, however, didn't appeal to her. Despite protestations from her agent, former boxer Kurt Frings, Audrey turned down the (quite prestigious) leading parts in both West Side Story West Side Story and and Cleopatra Cleopatra. Only No Bail for the Judge, No Bail for the Judge, the film Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k announced would be his next, piqued her interest. But she had reservations about the material. The role of Elizabeth-a British barrister who sets out alone to acquit her father of murdering a prost.i.tute-was quite blatantly at odds with her traditional persona, which, in the years since the film Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k announced would be his next, piqued her interest. But she had reservations about the material. The role of Elizabeth-a British barrister who sets out alone to acquit her father of murdering a prost.i.tute-was quite blatantly at odds with her traditional persona, which, in the years since Sabrina, Sabrina, had maintained its conservative stance. had maintained its conservative stance.

Audrey was still very much the party-less party-line girl. In 1956, aiming to take on a "serious" part as a dramatic actress, she played Natasha in the woefully stilted War and Peace, War and Peace, which earned her good reviews, but did nothing to her status quo. which earned her good reviews, but did nothing to her status quo. Funny Face, Funny Face, released in 1957, pointed her in the right direction, as did Billy Wilder's released in 1957, pointed her in the right direction, as did Billy Wilder's Love in the Afternoon, Love in the Afternoon, released the same year. But both films paired Audrey with considerably older men (Fred Astaire and Gary Cooper, respectively), which kept her star securely hitched to the idea of adolescent love-wors.h.i.+p and romantic fantasy, and the boat went unrocked. As Sister Luke in released the same year. But both films paired Audrey with considerably older men (Fred Astaire and Gary Cooper, respectively), which kept her star securely hitched to the idea of adolescent love-wors.h.i.+p and romantic fantasy, and the boat went unrocked. As Sister Luke in The Nun's Story, The Nun's Story, Audrey did battle once again with the opposing forces of duty and desire, and for a time, it looked like rebellion. But she can't have her church and eat it too. "How can I be a good nun," she asks, "if I can't get the Congo out of my blood?" Like Princess Ann of Audrey did battle once again with the opposing forces of duty and desire, and for a time, it looked like rebellion. But she can't have her church and eat it too. "How can I be a good nun," she asks, "if I can't get the Congo out of my blood?" Like Princess Ann of Roman Holiday, Roman Holiday, Sister Luke must divest herself of one in order to have the other. "I think I've been struggling all these years, Reverend Mother," she says, n.o.bly. "In the beginning, each struggle seemed different than the one before it. Then they began to repeat, and I saw they all had the same core: obedience without question, without inner murmuring. Perfect obedience as Christ practiced it, as I no longer can." The urge to resist ethical mandates is there, and is indeed compelling, but Audrey's conviction to reverse them is not. Sister Luke must divest herself of one in order to have the other. "I think I've been struggling all these years, Reverend Mother," she says, n.o.bly. "In the beginning, each struggle seemed different than the one before it. Then they began to repeat, and I saw they all had the same core: obedience without question, without inner murmuring. Perfect obedience as Christ practiced it, as I no longer can." The urge to resist ethical mandates is there, and is indeed compelling, but Audrey's conviction to reverse them is not. Green Mansions Green Mansions followed in 1959, and a year later, she played the denim-skirted Rachel Zachary in John Huston's western followed in 1959, and a year later, she played the denim-skirted Rachel Zachary in John Huston's western The Unforgiven The Unforgiven. The spirit of her individuality remained problematic in each.

All the more reason, Frings advised Audrey, to expand her repertoire. Taking No Bail for the Judge, No Bail for the Judge, he said, would allow her to grow in new, darker, more challenging directions; and with the added benefit of working for Mr. Hitchc.o.c.k, she wouldn't have to worry as much about public approval. They understood his name meant quality, no matter how perverse his films. he said, would allow her to grow in new, darker, more challenging directions; and with the added benefit of working for Mr. Hitchc.o.c.k, she wouldn't have to worry as much about public approval. They understood his name meant quality, no matter how perverse his films.

Audrey saw Frings's point and agreed to the picture. But after signing the contract, she learned that Hitchc.o.c.k and writer Samuel Taylor had added a new scene, what looked alarmingly like a rape scene, and Audrey wanted out of the picture. In a cleverly timed announcement, she made public-only seven months after her miscarriage-the news of yet another pregnancy. This time, Audrey said to the press, nothing, not even Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k, would endanger her baby. Children were "indispensable for a woman's life and happiness." Films were far from her mind.

"I'm told the pregnancy transported her," her son Sean said, looking back. "All she wanted was to be a mother and have a family. Here it was and she wasn't going to let anything stop it." Robert Wolders agreed. "She loved family more than her career," he said. "That was far more important to her than movies."

ROMANTIC COMEDY.

After hearing George Axelrod's pitch, Marty Jurow made it clear to Paramount that he was not interested in vetting other writers. George was it.

Hours later, Shepherd cabled Swifty in Europe for the price on Axelrod (Joan Axelrod said, "They offered him Rhode Island and a piece of the gross"), and in a week-this was vintage Swifty-the papers were signed. George would write a first draft screenplay in fifteen weeks, followed by two weeks of consultations with Jurow and Shepherd, four weeks of revisions, and then two additional weeks of consultations on the rewrites followed finally by three weeks for second revisions. For all this-a combined total of twenty-six weeks of work-he would receive $100,000.

Now all George had to do was write the d.a.m.n thing. Plied with long cigars and a few vodkas (neat and chilled), he put some kind of an outline down on paper, and in the loosest possible form. Too many details at this stage could kill the energy he needed to save for the screenplay itself. In the meantime, he'd turn those scene ideas into scenes, scribble them down on notepad paper, cut away the slack, and then, when he got the feeling he had something good, something that couldn't be said better, he'd transfer them to his Olivetti, which stood proudly on his desk beside his favorite photograph-a shot of him and Marilyn on the set of Bus Stop Bus Stop squeezing the h.e.l.l out of each other. squeezing the h.e.l.l out of each other.

He took out Capote's brittle edge and replaced it with soft-focus pluck. Out went the b.i.t.c.hy exchanges between Holly and Mag Wildwood. Out went her illegitimate pregnancy and miscarriage. Out went the scene when she saves the narrator from a rogue horse and out went her flight to Brazil with Jose and eventual disappearance in Africa. Anything of the know-how and resilience Capote instilled in his heroine was now out of step with the new Holly, who Axelrod was turning, quite deliberately, into a c.o.c.keyed dreamer a la Princess Ann in Roman Holiday Roman Holiday and Sabrina in and Sabrina in Sabrina Sabrina. Playing up the Tulip, Texas, girl was a good move, strategically speaking; not only did it cater to Audrey's screen personality, but as a discretionary precaution, it also would help the audience forget that their lead was turning tricks in her spare time. Better a bunny rabbit, George thought, than a shark.

He added a scene in which Holly and Paul (formerly the narrator, or "Fred") try to get a Cracker Jack ring engraved at Tiffany's. In its subtle satire and whimsy, the scene represents the kind of high comedy Axelrod wanted in the script (it remained his favorite scene in the picture). In utilitarian terms, the scene develops the embryonic love story, tightening the emotional connection between Holly and Paul. We see they've formed a conspiratorial bond crucial to the translation of Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's from one kind of story to another-character study to romantic comedy, h.o.m.os.e.xual to heteros.e.xual, platonic to erotic. from one kind of story to another-character study to romantic comedy, h.o.m.os.e.xual to heteros.e.xual, platonic to erotic.

Axelrod finished the script in July of 1959. He two-finger typed the whole thing.

A month later, Jurow-Shepherd submitted it to the Production Code Administration for review. "Most s.e.x comedies involve men cheating on their wives," George said about his script. "Well, I'm striking a blow against the double standard." Exactly how hard he struck, and whether or not the blow was acceptable in the first place, was now under the jurisdiction of a man with the deskbound name of Geoffrey Shurlock-Hollywood's new moral watchdog.

A LITTLE MORE THIGH.

Since his appointment in 1954, Shurlock followed a slow but intentioned process of moral realignment in Hollywood, instigating the Production Code's first major rewrite in the twenty years since its inception. The new Code was less a symptom of a new loosening in America's values than it was-like all changes in Hollywood practice-about the bottom line: selling tickets. In the 1950s, Hollywood was in the midst of an industry-wide panic over the threat of TV, and tried every trick in the book (CinemaScope, 3-D, AromaRama) to lure people from the comfort of their living rooms. An increase in moral lat.i.tude was one such trick, and with the ascension of Geoffrey Shurlock-a man in the business of doing business-producers and directors with an eye on a dollar and a hand up a thigh saw an opportunity to force the door. Push too hard, however, and one loses his picture's popular appeal. Alexrod knew this. After the debacle of The Seven Year Itch, The Seven Year Itch, he knew the idea was finesse, to push without looking like you're pus.h.i.+ng. he knew the idea was finesse, to push without looking like you're pus.h.i.+ng.

DOING IT FOR MONEY.

It was a game of red-tape limbo, but by this time, Axelrod was something of a pro. He preemptively b.o.o.by-trapped the script, overemphasizing Paul's s.e.xual activity in a bait-and-switch effort to reroute Shurlock away from Holly. (Richard Shepherd had seen this move before: "I knew certain writers who would specifically try to lead the Code offices astray by putting something in there that they knew was going to be too hot, just to lead them off the scent.") There were a few Golightly morsels calling out to be nixed (Chapter 1," Shurlock wrote, "Holly should be wearing a full slip rather than a half-slip and bra.s.siere" later, she must specify that her marriage to Doc had not ended in divorce, but had been annulled; annulled; and her scenes of undressing must be "handled with extreme care to avoid an attempt to exploit any partial or semi-nudity"), but these were relatively minor in comparison to Paul's provisions, which Shurlock outlined with exacting care and detail. and her scenes of undressing must be "handled with extreme care to avoid an attempt to exploit any partial or semi-nudity"), but these were relatively minor in comparison to Paul's provisions, which Shurlock outlined with exacting care and detail.

One scene in particular-eventually cut from the finished film-stood out from the rest. Intended to follow the brief exchange between Holly, Paul, and a new character-called 2E, her apartment number-outside their brownstone, the dubious scene lays out Paul and 2E's s.e.xual arrangement quite clearly, and it reveals in the process an aspect of Paul's backstory taken directly from Axelrod's own. "I couldn't bear the idea of you...prost.i.tuting yourself...sitting in a little cage in Hollywood," 2E says, "writing movies that would make us both cringe when we saw them later.... Let me be your Hollywood, Paul...your own personal, tender, loving Hollywood...."

PAULAnd what do you get out of it?2ESatisfaction, darling. Just satisfaction. And maybe the feeling of pride, when the book is finally done, of seeing the dedication page that says: 'For 2E, Without whom...'

During this, she has very gently begun to unb.u.t.ton his s.h.i.+rt.

PAULAnd that's all?2EWell, almost...

She draws him to her and kisses him. When they break she very gently pushes him away from her and toward the bed.

2EIt's not so bad, is it? Really?PAULI suppose there are tougher ways to earn a living...2E(softly) You bet bet there are, darling. You just bet there are. there are, darling. You just bet there are.

She begins to unb.u.t.ton her blouse.