Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M Part 6

An uncharacteristically pleasant off-camera moment between Patricia Neal and George Peppard.

[image]

Edwards, Audrey, and her terrier Famous, outside Holly's brownstone on East Seventy-first.

[image]

Someone brought in a little table set with breakfast, and she was told to sit down beside it. The long cigarette holder they kept on a prop table was brought over to her. She thanked them, and a bulb flashed. "Audrey, turn back over your shoulder!" How much more of this? "Yes, like that." "Now pick up the Danis.h.!.+" "Good! Fabulous!" She was good at being fabulous.

THE DIAMOND IN THE SKY.

Director of photography Franz Planer surveyed the interior. Scattered around Tiffany's he counted a number of genuine store clerks, as well as an equal number of professional extras dropped in to appease the union. They all walked slowly so as not to trip on one of the heavy, interlocking cables curled on the floor like giant strands of black spaghetti. The gaffer did his best to hide them under carpets and behind cabinets, but a certain amount of protrusion was inevitable.

It was impossible to foresee all that could go wrong. There was weather, illness, second thoughts, and at least a dozen egos to contend with. When one of these elements came into contact with another, something had to give. That forfeit-a piece of scenery, a shard of light-which had most likely been the product of some high-paid specialist's labor and ingenuity, would take a toll on their spirit. It could even disenfranchise them from the production altogether.

But Planer could roll with the punches. He had been shooting since the early years of the century-over a hundred and fifty films by the time he got to Tiffany's Tiffany's-but he got the job because he was beyond question the world authority on how to light Audrey Hepburn. Roman Holiday, The Nun's Story, Roman Holiday, The Nun's Story, and and The Unforgiven The Unforgiven were all his, though, ironically, he took pains to avoid working with major stars. Planer didn't want to be typecast a glamour photographer. He favored instead more of a poetic realism, one that, as were all his, though, ironically, he took pains to avoid working with major stars. Planer didn't want to be typecast a glamour photographer. He favored instead more of a poetic realism, one that, as Tiffany's Tiffany's opening shots attest, combined doc.u.mentary and stylization in gentle, veiled proportions. He was an empirical artist, a hybrid physicist and painter, and his Oscar nominations for opening shots attest, combined doc.u.mentary and stylization in gentle, veiled proportions. He was an empirical artist, a hybrid physicist and painter, and his Oscar nominations for Roman Holiday Roman Holiday and and The Nun's Story The Nun's Story only further the point: Planer could balance romance and reality. He could shoot the soundstages and the streets. only further the point: Planer could balance romance and reality. He could shoot the soundstages and the streets.

Because the sun itself looked bluish on Technicolor film, Planer had Tiffany's windows and revolving gla.s.s doors gilded in yellow filters and directed his gaffer to direct his electricians to set up thirty-two spotlights with yellowish gels throughout the interior. As always, he was fighting time, natural light, fire code regulations, as well as the restrictions placed on him by the location. It made setting up the shot-deciding exactly where those thirty-two spotlights were to stand, the precise angle at which they were to be turned, and the intensity of the light-a matter of epic complexity. And it took time. A long time. The room's natural brightness altered as the hours pa.s.sed, and with the change in ambient light came the necessary renegotiations, which required more conversation, manpower, and ultimately time. While they figured out their next move, the earth continued to rotate, and the light changed again.

The pressures were enormous. Aesthetics aside, if the shot looked wrong, if it was too dark or too bright or too red, everything that went into it would be undone. All people would see was the error, and it would be Planer's error, and then what would they do? Reshoot? But did they have time? How much were they over budget? Planer would ask Blake who would ask Shepherd who'd ask Jurow who turned to Marty Rackin who conferred with Frank Freeman who asked to see the rushes and have the plan for reshoots explained to him so he could a.s.sess the financial consequences before he made his decision. If in the end the executives said no, Franz Planer would be furious. The shot! What about the shot? He'd turn to Blake. Was everyone against him? No, Blake would a.s.sure him. Everyone was against everyone.

ACTION!.

Audrey was barely cognizant of the bustle around her. Blake and Planer were in the corner pointing at the ceiling, Shepherd was glad-handing Walter Hoving, and armed guards numbering into the dozens were stationed throughout the store, keeping their eyes on the extras (and the jewels). But Audrey's uneasiness, which had mounted steadily through the publicity shoot, had only grown in these moments before they shot her first scene inside the store. With several faulty run-throughs of the first scene behind them (Audrey had been stifled by the hurried pace of the dialogue), Blake finally called quiet. He could have continued rehearsing until he felt she was absolutely ready, but the day had been long already and he didn't want to wear her out. Now was the right time. They would try it for the camera. Just the wide shots, though. The close-ups would be shot weeks later, on the soundstage at Paramount.

Blake asked Audrey if she was ready to go. She said she was. The trick, as Edwards was beginning to realize, was to catch her at just the right moment-after she warmed to it and before diminis.h.i.+ng returns. Blake had to find that sweet spot and harness it.

Audrey stubbed out her cigarette and took her place beside George Peppard. She didn't know him well, but already she could tell he thought more of himself than she did of him. Someone must have told him he was the star of the picture.

"Quiet!"

Audrey braced herself, concentrating.

All was silent.

Blake called action. She began, "Isn't it wonderful..." when a scream came from off camera.

Audrey, Blake, and the two dozen others looked up.

"Cut!"

Planer was on the floor. An untethered length of cable had dealt him a 220-volt shock. In the end he would be fine, but the shock sent a booming ripple through the entire set. Repairs, insurance, and the standard legalities would mean further delays, which would mean more stress for everyone from the production a.s.sistants to Audrey Hepburn.

After everything settled down, Blake weighed his options. It was getting late, they still had a Park Avenue location ahead of them, and he had a headache. What time was it? An unconscious weighing of the producers' money against the actors' emotion split his headache in two. He would have to keep everyone happy until he got the all clear. Now his headache had a headache. Audrey lit a cigarette.

"Okay, everybody," announced the a.s.sistant director, "here we go again..."

Cigarette extinguished. The wardrobe supervisor brushed a fleck from Audrey's orange coat. A makeup girl appeared out of nowhere and lunged at her face with a brush.

"Take your places, please..."

Audrey got up from her chair. The girl followed her as she rose, dabbing at her cheeks all the way to her mark beside Peppard.

"Thank you, everyone everyone..."

"Ready?" Beat. "Roll camera..."

The camera operator threw a switch. "Camera rolling..."

The soundman, his eye on the dials, waited until the camera was running up to ninety feet a minute. "Speed!"

The loader dropped a slate in front of the lens. "Scene 126, take 3," he murmured, clapped his board, and ducked out of the shot.

"...And..."

There was a pause. Blake surveyed the location and the actors and leaned forward in his chair.

"...Action!"

Audrey and George started walking.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she said to him. "Do you see what I mean how nothing bad could've happened-"

"Cut-reset-one more time, please!"

Something had happened. Sliding in and out those interlocking diamond displays couldn't be easy for the camera operator, especially with the weight of millions of dollars of jewelry hanging over his head. They tried it again.

Upwards of ten takes later, Blake had the scene where he wanted it.

"Lunchtime everyone! Thank you!"

Cue the journalists: "It's true we've left s.e.x ambiguous in the script," said Audrey, who had hardly a moment to herself since dawn. "Too many people think of Holly as a tramp, when actually she's just putting on an act for shock effect, because she's very young. Besides, I know Truman Capote very well, and much of what is good and delicate about his writing is his elusiveness."

"When the cast is right," remarked Edwards to the New York Times, New York Times, "and the script as brilliant as this one is, I just go on the set and do what comes naturally. Axelrod followed the novel, but he added a plot, a love story, for commercial reasons-I don't mean for money, but for audience approval. And even Capote is happy about the script. He wrote the producer that we should watch the two-foot cigarette holder and not come too close to "and the script as brilliant as this one is, I just go on the set and do what comes naturally. Axelrod followed the novel, but he added a plot, a love story, for commercial reasons-I don't mean for money, but for audience approval. And even Capote is happy about the script. He wrote the producer that we should watch the two-foot cigarette holder and not come too close to Auntie Mame, Auntie Mame, but he thought we had Holly right, and that was the main thing. I couldn't agree more." but he thought we had Holly right, and that was the main thing. I couldn't agree more."

Truman was not happy about the script, and he never came to the set. He was still in Europe, traveling with Jack.

LUNCH.

"At about 12:00 that first day we broke for lunch," recalls Shepherd. "Then we went across town to Park Avenue to shoot the scene in front of the fountain. By then, it was late enough in the day that crowds had gathered to watch the shooting. The weather was gorgeous, the scene was going great, and about 2:30, Blake said, 'That's it! Wrap!' And I said, 'Wait a minute! What are you talking about? We still have all day!' I was young, back then, and I wanted to be a hero at Paramount, so I pulled Blake aside and told him to keep shooting. Well, Blake was so p.i.s.sed off that a producer would say that to him in front of the whole crew. He was so so mad, but I was sticking to my guns. When we got back to the hotel, my wife said, 'Blake wants to see you.' I said, 'Well, let him come and see mad, but I was sticking to my guns. When we got back to the hotel, my wife said, 'Blake wants to see you.' I said, 'Well, let him come and see me me!' Anyway, he came down to the room and was obviously very upset. I said, 'Want me to order anything?' He said, 'Just coffee.' So I ordered coffee and then he started lambasting me. 'd.i.c.k,' he said, 'I know when an actor has done enough for the day. They've been shooting since three in the f.u.c.king morning.' And then he said, 'Never do that again in front of the whole crew.' As he's saying this, I'm pouring the coffee and listening to him, and Blake starts to laugh. I have no idea what he's laughing at until I look down and see I've poured the whole pot of coffee all over the table. That's how nervous I was!"

NEW YORK.

The next week was spent location shooting throughout Manhattan. There was the exterior of Holly's brownstone at 169 East Seventy-first, between Third and Lexington avenues. There was the scene between Doc and Paul outside the bandsh.e.l.l in Central Park; the exterior of the Women's House of Detention on Tenth Street; the steps of the New York Public Library on Forty-second and Fifth; and the miscellaneous places that would provide the ellipses in the "Things We've Never Done" montage.

L.A.

And that was it for New York. Just one week and they were all relocated to Los Angeles. The rest of the film would be shot at Paramount.

Audrey reportedly arrived with thirty-six pieces of luggage and reunited with Mel and baby Sean. They moved into a house on Coldwater Canyon and began to live as a family once again. Audrey plunged into knitting.

GEORGE PEPPARD, IN METHOD AND MADNESS.

When asked if she was a Method actress, Audrey responded, "Of course, all actors have a 'method' in order to be even vaguely professional. Mine is concentration-no, first instinct, then concentration." At a time when "Method acting" was printed with quotes, graduates of New York's Actors Studio were viewed by the old guard as narcissistic acolytes of a system that had turned them from just plain actors into two-bit amateur psychologists. Many of them fell in love with their new rock-star status and jumped on the bandwagon without the skill to stay aboard, but others, like Brando and Montgomery Clift, were powerful enough to transcend the bad-image problem, and with the help of what became the next wave in realism, even reverse it.

Alas, the actor George Peppard was not among them. He belonged to the Method in att.i.tude only, and on the set of Breakfast at Tiffany's, Breakfast at Tiffany's, everyone-including George himself-paid the price for it. Where Audrey aimed to please, George aimed to p.r.o.nounce. Where she took direction, he resisted. "I must say there wasn't a human being that Audrey Hepburn didn't have a kind word for," reports Shepherd, "except George Peppard. She didn't like him at all. She thought he was pompous." When she wasn't around, he referred to her as "the Happy Nun." everyone-including George himself-paid the price for it. Where Audrey aimed to please, George aimed to p.r.o.nounce. Where she took direction, he resisted. "I must say there wasn't a human being that Audrey Hepburn didn't have a kind word for," reports Shepherd, "except George Peppard. She didn't like him at all. She thought he was pompous." When she wasn't around, he referred to her as "the Happy Nun."

By the time Edwards's company reached Los Angeles, Peppard's working style had become so bold, and his confidence so firm, that the cast, and even his director, had begun to turn away from him. Even Jurow developed a grudge against Peppard for casting himself as the film's star. But none had it harder than Patricia Neal. "I had done scenes with George at the Actors Studio," she said, "had a very good time, and I adored him, but years later, when I got Breakfast at Tiffany's, Breakfast at Tiffany's, something happened. I was thrilled when I heard we were going to be in it together, but it wasn't long until I saw that since I last saw him he had grown so cold and conceited." George's new way of working perhaps accounted for the change, instilling in him his character's animus toward 2E. When misapplied, the Method has been known to foul up off-screen relations in the name of "I something happened. I was thrilled when I heard we were going to be in it together, but it wasn't long until I saw that since I last saw him he had grown so cold and conceited." George's new way of working perhaps accounted for the change, instilling in him his character's animus toward 2E. When misapplied, the Method has been known to foul up off-screen relations in the name of "I am am my character," which would help somewhat to explain Peppard's new demeanor, but his att.i.tude didn't end there. A certain amount of friction came from script disputes, which according to Neal were a part of Peppard's campaign to la.s.so the spotlight. "He didn't want my character to make his character look bad," she remembers. "My character was dominant, you know, and before George got to the script, I had a really excellent part, but he didn't want that, so he fought to have my dialogue cut, cut, cut. Much of it he actually managed to get cut because Blake had no choice but to give in, but luckily he didn't get away with all of it." my character," which would help somewhat to explain Peppard's new demeanor, but his att.i.tude didn't end there. A certain amount of friction came from script disputes, which according to Neal were a part of Peppard's campaign to la.s.so the spotlight. "He didn't want my character to make his character look bad," she remembers. "My character was dominant, you know, and before George got to the script, I had a really excellent part, but he didn't want that, so he fought to have my dialogue cut, cut, cut. Much of it he actually managed to get cut because Blake had no choice but to give in, but luckily he didn't get away with all of it."

Apparently, Peppard felt his nascent star status granted him certain behind-camera benefits unavailable to other, regular actors. Years after their divorce, Elizabeth Ashley would refine the point in her book. "George was never one of those actors who believes his job is to take the money, hit the mark and say the lines and let it go at that," she wrote. "He felt that as an above the t.i.tle star he had the responsibility to use his muscle and power to try and make it better, and that has never stopped in him. He was unrelenting about it, to the point where a lot of directors and executives came to feel he was a pain in the a.s.s."

It's true that Patricia Neal's character was fuller in the shooting script than in the final cut, but exactly how responsible George Peppard was in the thinning of 2E is anyone's guess. Scenes and parts of scenes can be excised for any number of reasons, and while senseless ego is often one of them, it doesn't fully explain what goes on behind closed doors. At the end of the day, what Blake cut of 2E, he cut for the sake of his production. Whether it looked like defeat, improvement, or compromise undoubtedly varied with what (i.e., who) got slashed, but as the director of a major motion picture with major conflicting allegiances, Edwards's reasoning was always multidetermined. He was as much an on-set regulator as a behind-camera storyteller. When, for instance, Neal suggested that they might play a scene with Peppard sitting on her lap-an interesting suggestion, appropriately condescending to the actor's character-Peppard recoiled in absolute horror. He said he he would never do anything like that. Yes, interjected Neal, but would would never do anything like that. Yes, interjected Neal, but would Paul Paul?

"On one occasion," said Patricia Neal, "Blake and George almost had a fistfight. We were trying to block a scene and George wanted to change everything that Blake had planned, and George got so terrible that Blake almost hit him. I got them to stop, but I think George got his way. I hated him from that moment on." Ultimately for Edwards, handling Peppard was easier-and more complicated-than it looked to cast and crew. "I liked George," he mused, "he was such a ham, so vulnerable really. He was an ex-Marine and all that stuff, and I'd tease him unmercifully. And he'd try and tease me back but didn't have the wit for it. As a consequence, I always thought he was a p.i.s.s-poor actor."

United by a common struggle, Patricia Neal and her director developed a strong working relations.h.i.+p. "I loved Blake," she said. "We got along splendidly splendidly. He had a fabulous sense of humor. Once I did something wrong and he wanted to torture me, and he made me do it again, and again, and again, and again, but he was so funny about it, I practically forgot I was being tortured. That was a gorgeous man, a delicious man. He'd take me home for dinner with his children and his wife and we all had just a marvelous time. I can't tell you how much fun he was-great fun-and a beautiful director, too." fun-and a beautiful director, too."

The bond between Patricia Neal, her husband-the author Roald Dahl-and the Edwardses was not available to Peppard, presumably marginalizing him even further. "I think the problem with George," offers Patricia Snell, "was that he came to the film thinking that everyone thought him really terrific. Soon people discovered that he had no social grist with things. He was difficult. He didn't always seem to try hard enough. And Roald didn't like him either. That kind of colored a lot for Pat Neal." Mysteriously, news of Peppard's alienation made its way to the press. Met with accusations of stubbornness, "forgetting his lines, ignoring appointments, and pa.s.sing up old friends," the actor explained himself to a reporter from Screen Stories Screen Stories. "My whole world fell apart in one day," he confessed. "First, the couple who had been running our house for several years announced they were divorcing, and quit. Then, my six-year-old son came down with the measles, and quarantine laws barred me from going home to Chula Vista. I dislike living in Hollywood, so checking into a local hotel every night had me running around in crazy circles."

AUDREY & MEL & BLAKE & AUDREY.

In the evening, after the day's shooting had ended, Edwards was accustomed to rehearsing Audrey for the next morning's scenes. Ideally, run-throughs would give her the confidence to make spontaneous but informed choices before the camera, when her anxiety was at its highest. Her instincts, Edwards observed, were impeccable, and each evening's rehearsal would end upbeat, on a note of mutual understanding. In New York, the process went smoothly-Audrey would come to the set the next day ready to apply what they had arrived at the evening before-but ever since they got to Los Angeles, Blake noticed that their headway wasn't carrying over into the shoot.

Between one day and the next, Audrey was changing her mind-or, more likely, having it changed for her. She had not the confidence (or the bad manners) to revoke Edwards's notes on her own, suggesting to Blake that Mel was counterdirecting her at home. Of course, there was no way for Edwards to be certain that Mel was staging a subtle mutiny, but he had his suspicions. Like most everyone else on Tiffany's, Tiffany's, Blake saw what the press didn't: the Ferrers as they truly were. Blake saw what the press didn't: the Ferrers as they truly were.

Mel was not shy about openly reprimanding Audrey. They all saw it. Some thought that he even enjoyed it. Jurow overheard the critical remarks Mel made about his wife's clothing and demeanor the few times he'd appear on the set to take her to lunch. "He was very tricky with her, you know," Patricia Neal recalls. "He wanted her to do things as properly as she could, and boy she did! He invited us to supper once after shooting, and we had our drinks, had our supper, and then left left. She had her bedtime and he wanted her sticking to it."

One evening after the day's shoot, at a j.a.panese restaurant with various members of the cast and crew, Audrey made the mistake of putting her elbows on the table. Mel was seated next to her, and when he saw this, he picked up a fork, slipped its p.r.o.ngs under her elbows, and said-in a voice loud enough for all to hear-"Ladies do not put their elbows on the table." It was the sort of oppressively awkward moment that can only be met with silence. Audrey was stricken, and the table, mortified. Nothing was said. She simply removed her elbows and put her hands in her lap.

Audrey seemed to have a bottomless reserve of the benefit of the doubt, and the more she gave to Mel, the less she had for herself. But she wanted the marriage to work. So if he said it was right, then it probably was. That meant that if she saw it another way, or felt differently, she was probably wrong. Of course it wasn't always like this. Once upon a time she didn't have to work so hard at love. Having a family was enough. Well, now she had it, and Mel had given it to her. So why was there a problem? Was she not satisfied to be satisfied? Maybe Mel was not the only one at fault for what was happening. Maybe she had pushed him to it. But couldn't that mean he pushed her to push him?

Audrey's willing selflessness depleted her, and her neediness kept her coming back. It was a bad combination, especially when it was paired with its exact opposite: a narcissistic man who only took, got hooked on taking, and took some more.

Blake sensed a needy side to her and attributed it to a kind of daughterly instinct. She was long without a father, he reasoned, and Mel fit the bill. The trouble was, he fit it too well and she needed it too much. "I don't know whether her men had a lasting effect on her career," Blake said many years later, "but I'm quite sure they had a lasting effect on her personal life. She put up with terrible things. I don't think she had the fun she was capable of having."

Edwards knew that the only way he could help Audrey overcome the wide gap she perceived between her true self and Holly Golightly would be to persuade her to go only to him, not her husband, for direction. She'd have to trust Blake, and him alone. If she couldn't manage that, she'd have to have faith in him instead. But that faith would be impossible to maintain if after hours, Mel continued to fill her mind with new ideas-even if they were good ones-about her performance. So Edwards gave Audrey an ultimatum. Either choose him, or find another director.

Audrey got it instantly. From there on out, she and Blake were in perfect sync. As the shoot progressed, Blake found he didn't need to hold his hand out to her anymore. She was doing it on her own. Buddy Ebsen saw it up close. "No two takes are identical," he would write of Audrey's working style. "The 'nowness' of one minute ago is gone forever and can only be played back-never duplicated. In one's delivery the timing varies by split seconds, or the weight of the word switches by audible milliseconds." Rehearsing with Edwards gave her conviction and the permission to use it. "You know," she said, "I've had very little experience, really, and I have no technique for doing things I'm unsuited to. I have to operate entirely on instinct. It was Blake Edwards who finally persuaded me [to become Holly]. He at least is perfectly cast as a director, and I discovered his approach emphasizes the same sort of spontaneity as my own." Audrey was truly maturing on the set of Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's. She was gaining control.

It was a new feeling, one Audrey had never known as an actress. On Roman Holiday, Roman Holiday, Wyler simply didn't direct her that way. The closest he came to shaping a performance was calling out "let's do it again." And he did-over and over. Billy Wilder was a better communicator, but he was abrupt and allowed no room for experimentation. His lines had to be read as written, with a certain inflection, and he shot until he got it. Then there was Fred Zinnemann, who directed Audrey in Wyler simply didn't direct her that way. The closest he came to shaping a performance was calling out "let's do it again." And he did-over and over. Billy Wilder was a better communicator, but he was abrupt and allowed no room for experimentation. His lines had to be read as written, with a certain inflection, and he shot until he got it. Then there was Fred Zinnemann, who directed Audrey in The Nun's Story, The Nun's Story, her greatest performance to date-and one built largely in the editing room. Of course, Audrey gave him his material, but it was Zinnemann who created her character's elaborate texture of thought and feeling. Strategically placed point of view and reaction shots did the trick. It was a triumph of implication, of cinematic finesse. But she and Blake worked her greatest performance to date-and one built largely in the editing room. Of course, Audrey gave him his material, but it was Zinnemann who created her character's elaborate texture of thought and feeling. Strategically placed point of view and reaction shots did the trick. It was a triumph of implication, of cinematic finesse. But she and Blake worked together together to make the performance. Holly, in effect, was their offspring. to make the performance. Holly, in effect, was their offspring.

The seamless synchronicity that held Blake and Audrey together could have led one to wonder if their relations.h.i.+p had progressed beyond the professional. "I can a.s.sure you that there wasn't any of that," Robert Wolders said. "During the making of Tiffany's, Tiffany's, Audrey's marriage to Mel was quite intact. I'm quite definite about that." However, when asked point-blank if there was any kind of romance between himself and Audrey on the set, Blake responded with characteristic gallantry. "In those days," he answered, "everyone fell in love with Audrey." Audrey's marriage to Mel was quite intact. I'm quite definite about that." However, when asked point-blank if there was any kind of romance between himself and Audrey on the set, Blake responded with characteristic gallantry. "In those days," he answered, "everyone fell in love with Audrey."

THROWING A PARTY TO SHOOT A PARTY.

When she arrived at Paramount's Stage 9 in early November of 1960, Audrey was drawn into a party that had been in full swing for days.

For all of the verbal refinery Axelrod gilded into the script, Blake maintained that Breakfast at Tiffany's, Breakfast at Tiffany's, if it were to satisfy the second half of the hybrid genre "romantic comedy," would have to have bigger laughs, and more of them. That's how Mickey Rooney-for better or for worse-got Mr. Yunios.h.i.+, and that's why Blake decided to turn Holly's swingin' c.o.c.ktail party into an all-out slapstick extravaganza. if it were to satisfy the second half of the hybrid genre "romantic comedy," would have to have bigger laughs, and more of them. That's how Mickey Rooney-for better or for worse-got Mr. Yunios.h.i.+, and that's why Blake decided to turn Holly's swingin' c.o.c.ktail party into an all-out slapstick extravaganza.

"The general party was only indicated [in the screenplay ]," Blake recalls, "and I had to improvise it on the set and I had a good time doing it. I asked the casting office to hire only actors-no extras. I said that there must be a lot of unemployed actors around-not important names, not the usual background faces that you see in films. I wanted real actors because I didn't know who I was going to give things to and I wanted to be sure that they could handle it." Convincing the studio to pay actors upwards of $125 a day when extras charge a great deal less was not an easy sell for Blake, but luckily he came out on top. Edwards got the go-ahead from the moneymen, and with the bulk of production behind him, prepped and shot one of the most expensive party scenes to date. It took him the better part of November 2 to November 9 to get what he wanted, but it would last only thirteen minutes on film.

First to arrive on the scene was ch.o.r.eographer Miriam Nelson. Blake had summoned Miriam (or "Minimum," as he called her) to help him fit into place the precarious human puzzle that lay ahead. To make this thing fun and frenzied was one thing, and Blake had the gag muscle to do that on his own, but to make it frenetic and legible required the hand of someone who specialized in physical control. As Blake's ch.o.r.eographer on Bring Your Smile Along, He Laughed Last, Bring Your Smile Along, He Laughed Last, and and High Time, High Time, Minimum was just that someone, and in those early days of planning, she was also an extra pair of eyes and ears. "Blake wanted to dream up some crazy things to do at the party," she said. "I think he wanted somebody to come and play, someone to try things with. That's when he was discovering all sorts of things to do, like putting the telephone in a suitcase, and having Marty Balsam kissing a girl in the shower, and all that other wild stuff. Because I was a ch.o.r.eographer, I helped him with some of the staging. There were no dance numbers, but we discussed stuff like who should go where and when. It looks crazy when you watch it, but these actors had to hit their marks, and be in the right position for the dialogue to play. So that's what we did, right there on the stage before we shot. Blake worked like that, you know. Very spontaneous. Very collaborative. He thrives in the company of collaborators. One idea turns into the next and before you know it you're in the movie." Minimum was just that someone, and in those early days of planning, she was also an extra pair of eyes and ears. "Blake wanted to dream up some crazy things to do at the party," she said. "I think he wanted somebody to come and play, someone to try things with. That's when he was discovering all sorts of things to do, like putting the telephone in a suitcase, and having Marty Balsam kissing a girl in the shower, and all that other wild stuff. Because I was a ch.o.r.eographer, I helped him with some of the staging. There were no dance numbers, but we discussed stuff like who should go where and when. It looks crazy when you watch it, but these actors had to hit their marks, and be in the right position for the dialogue to play. So that's what we did, right there on the stage before we shot. Blake worked like that, you know. Very spontaneous. Very collaborative. He thrives in the company of collaborators. One idea turns into the next and before you know it you're in the movie."

That's how it went for Nelson. "After we finished working that day Blake said, 'Well, you oughta be in the party scene...' So the next day, he gave me an entrance, and then he teamed me up with Michael Quinn, who he asked to wear an eye patch, and he said, 'Go in and have an argument.' Halfway through the argument, he said to the fella, 'Lift your eye patch and just keep arguing.' So we did, and neither one of us knew what the h.e.l.l we were saying. We were just making it up as we went along." And like any real party, people got tired, but rather than fight it, Blake used it. "When we were shooting," Nelson remembers, "I had on my own gold brocade suit, and matching gold shoes. After a while, those shoes began to hurt me, so in between takes, I would take them off and just hold them. Blake saw this and said, 'What's the matter with your feet?' I said, 'Well, these shoes hurt.' He said, 'Then don't put them back on. This is that kind of a party. Just carry your shoes.' So that's what I did the rest of the scene. I kept ripping up my hose so they had to keep replacing them."

Blake had thrown a party to shoot a party, so that out of accident-or you might say, out of reality-he could glean from the mini story arcs that were occurring naturally all around him. Like Miriam Nelson, actress Fay McKenzie was given one of her own. She said, "Blake came up to me and said, 'Hmmm...What am I going to do with you, Fay?' And he was thinking, and thinking, and then he said, 'I know! Fay, you're always laughing. I'm going to put you in front of a mirror and you can laugh your head off!' So then we shot the scene, I returned to being an extra in the background, and a few days later, I said to Blake, 'Hey, she could have a crying jag, you know.' He said, 'Do it.' That's how that happened." Unbeknownst to McKenzie, Blake had gone to great lengths to make her laugh. Beside him at the camera, he had stationed actor Stanley Adams, who was wearing one of the combustible hats worn in a previous scene by Helen Spring (Holly accidentally lights it aflame; a turned-over gla.s.s puts it out). When McKenzie was ready to go, Blake called action, cued the fire on Adams's head, and Fay-as she was told to-burst out laughing. Asked about this practical joke years later, Fay replied, "Blake didn't know this about me, but I am terribly, terribly nearsighted. I had no idea that he was trying to do anything to make me laugh."

Joyce Meadows, who dances through the party in a white dress, had her bit foisted upon her. "At one point during the shoot, George Peppard reached out and pinched my b.u.t.t and I let out a huge scream-a real real scream. That surprised me! Blake didn't tell me what was going to happen, so of course he must have told George on the sly. But I don't know if he told George to pinch me specifically, or just anyone. That's the way it was. You never knew when something was going to happen." "It went like that for the rest of the week," Faye McKenzie said. "Blake would just kind of walk around on the set and you could see him thinking up shtick that he was going to do. Of course, the scene was written by George Axelrod, but everything in it was scream. That surprised me! Blake didn't tell me what was going to happen, so of course he must have told George on the sly. But I don't know if he told George to pinch me specifically, or just anyone. That's the way it was. You never knew when something was going to happen." "It went like that for the rest of the week," Faye McKenzie said. "Blake would just kind of walk around on the set and you could see him thinking up shtick that he was going to do. Of course, the scene was written by George Axelrod, but everything in it was pure pure Blake Edwards." Blake Edwards."

And what's a Blake Edwards party without a face-first pratfall? Such was the task of actress Dorothy Whitney, who as Mag Wildwood, was told to fall directly past the lens without lifting her arms from her side. ("Timber!") Not an easy directive for even the most gifted physical comedian, this piece of clowning was murder on Dorothy Whitney, who all but crumpled under the pressure to get it right and do it fast. Kip King, who played the liquor delivery boy, saw everything that happened to her. "Blake had tremendous difficulty in getting Dorothy to fall. That also was really, really, really, difficult for us to watch because we saw her so scared, and he was relentless with her. She would say, 'I can't do it, I can't do it.' Her reflexes wouldn't allow her to fall onto the mattress, but Blake needed that shot, and time was running out, and he went on and on until he got it. 'Okay,' he would say to her. 'Relax. Just relax. Now let's do it again.' I think it was upwards of thirteen takes. It was embarra.s.sing for all of us to watch. He was losing his patience and began to look almost punitive. This was a different Blake. People were so stunned they didn't talk about it afterwards."

For the next seven days, Blake led his partiers through 140 gallons of tea and ginger ale, in addition to cold cuts, dips, and sandwiches, over sixty cartons of cigarettes, and over $20,000 worth of production costs later, at last he had the party he wanted. "People were everywhere," said Joyce Meadows. "Blake had planted us in practically every room throughout the set and signaled us with his hand when and where to move about. He would say, 'Okay everybody, when the music goes on, I want this group of people to cross into here and mingle with this group over here.' But as far as our personal movements were concerned, that was up to us. He didn't give the party people specific notes, but at the beginning he said, 'You're all a regular part of Holly's life. This is not a down-home party, but a typical Golightly party, so don't let anything surprise you. No matter what happens stay in your characters and stay in the scene.' From there, he gave his notes to the first A.D. who'd say stuff like, 'You guys are doing great. Just keep up the conversation. Let's do it again.' You know, A.D. stuff. Blake had to save most of his energy for the dialogue scenes. You could tell that the actors were very precious to him. He would talk to them very privately and, it seemed to me, very intimately. You saw him talking to Audrey and Peppard and Marty Balsam, but you never heard heard him say anything. When he'd walk up to them, he'd put his arm around them and he'd take them to one side of the room and talk." him say anything. When he'd walk up to them, he'd put his arm around them and he'd take them to one side of the room and talk."

"Blake makes everyone feel wonderful and appreciated," Fay McKenzie said, "and has goofy things happening on the set. He wanted us to just have a good time, really. A lot of times that doesn't work, but he managed to do it. His sets were like parties, so it's no wonder that he's so good at writing and directing parties in the movies." If this was going to look like a real party, then it had to evolve like a real party, and that meant bringing in a bee smoker-used by beekeepers to calm the bees-to enhance the smoky ambiance to a suitably thick end-of-evening cloud. On the last day of the shoot, Edwards replaced the ginger ale with champagne. But be warned: The trick to playing drunk, he told his cast, was to play the scene with the intention of seeming sober.

Audrey, though, drank very little. The alcohol would soften her focus, and focus is what she needed to keep up with Blake. Wearing a beehive hairdo piled high and streaked blond with peroxide, she worked as fast as she could, digesting the director's notes with startling fluency. Edwards would a.s.sign her a move, line, or a gesture, and she would apply it right away, in a single take. Between setups, while Blake disappeared for his twenty-minute miracle naps or health food lunches, she could be seen reminiscing to a cl.u.s.ter of attentive players. Audrey was viewed by some as distant-in these cases, probably just taking a moment to herself before the scene-but as countless have testified, the generosity she showed to her costars was bottomless. "Everybody loved Audrey," recalls Miriam Nelson. "She was so sweet and una.s.suming and nice to everybody. Some stars go to their dressing rooms between takes, but she didn't. I remember a group of us had gathered around her while they were relighting the scene, and she told us about the blitz in London. And she also told us that her mother always wanted her to have an extra pair of white gloves in case the gloves she was wearing got dirty. I remember that."

"Everything you have read, heard, or wished to be true about Audrey Hepburn," said Richard Shepherd, "doesn't come close to how wonderful she was. There's not a human being on earth that was kinder, more gentle, more caring, more giving, brighter, and more modest than Audrey. She was just an extraordinary, extraordinary person. Everyone should know that."

When she wasn't on camera, Audrey might be spotted in her little elevated on-set trailer, watching the production from above. "It was like a little box two feet up in the air," remembers Kip King. "It had a bed and a few cabinets. I talked to her standing at the door of the dressing room, two feet below her. I was doing stand-up at the time and was trying to get her to laugh. She would smile and was always very kind. I think if she was Snow White, I was one of the dwarves. You know what I'm saying? There were human beings and there was Audrey Hepburn." Joyce Meadows would also hang around beneath the trailer. "When Blake yelled cut," she said, "the second A.D. walked over to the tall ladder beside me and yelled up, 'Audrey! Get your b.u.t.t down here! You're in the next scene!' And there she was, watching the whole thing from her trailer. 'Ahhhhh!' she screamed. 'That's right. That's me, isn't it?' I looked up and here comes this woman who looked like a toothpick dressed in black coming down the ladder to join the crowd. One thing about Audrey: she had none of that star stuff. You didn't have to say 'Miss Hepburn.' And Blake was just as sweet. At the very end of the shoot, when I was all through, I walked out the stage door, and Blake rushed up and said, 'Joyce Meadows.' I turned around and he said, 'Thank you for making it a beautiful party.' I said, 'Thank you, sir.' I was surprised he even knew my name."

"The party scene was such a smash," said McKenzie, "Blake and my husband [screenwriter Tom Waldman] decided it might be a good idea to do a whole movie like that. That's how the movie The Party The Party came about." came about."

Here in the party scene was an opulent sweep of visual humor. All the surprises, gags, stunts, and reversals that had beckoned to Edwards from the silent films he adored were splayed out in kooky munificence, advancing one after the next like toys on a conveyor belt. But unlike the slapstick of Edwards's masters, Mack Sennett and Leo McCarey (directors of The Keystone Cops and Laurel and Hardy), Blake's revisionist spin had a satirical edge. Each punch line-from the eye patch, to the phone in the suitcase, to the couple in the shower-was pointedly drawn from Holly's central theme; that the way things appear is not always the way things are. For as Holly's agent, O. J. Berman says, "She's a phony. But she's a real real phony." More than simply jokes, Edwards's party gags implicate all those present in the charade, gently mocking everyone too hip, drunk, or fas.h.i.+onably blase to notice what is made obvious to Paul Varjak-that these nuts may be glamorous, but they don't have a clue. It's the cosmopolitan facade cut down to size, and in Edwards's comedic terms, it's sophisticated slapstick. phony." More than simply jokes, Edwards's party gags implicate all those present in the charade, gently mocking everyone too hip, drunk, or fas.h.i.+onably blase to notice what is made obvious to Paul Varjak-that these nuts may be glamorous, but they don't have a clue. It's the cosmopolitan facade cut down to size, and in Edwards's comedic terms, it's sophisticated slapstick.

No one is less conscious of it than Holly Golightly, who lights a hat on fire, but notices nothing. Nor does she notice the empty frivolity of the life she leads, her true feelings about coupledom, or the man who wants so badly to love her. These are the thematic cornerstones of Edwards's Breakfast at Tiffany's; Breakfast at Tiffany's; Capote's Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's, Breakfast at Tiffany's, by contrast, takes as its central preoccupation Holly's never-ending search for belonging. That's what Tiffany's is to her, and significantly, she never gets inside. But that is most certainly not the case with Blake Edwards's picture. In the movie, the director's personal interest in phoniness forms the basis of by contrast, takes as its central preoccupation Holly's never-ending search for belonging. That's what Tiffany's is to her, and significantly, she never gets inside. But that is most certainly not the case with Blake Edwards's picture. In the movie, the director's personal interest in phoniness forms the basis of this this Holly's story, which, because it is a romantic comedy, will resolve in love. But before it can end happily, all of the many lies, betrayals, and masks (literal and figurative) must be stripped away. So how to end it? What if all the glamour and society elan of the picture's first half came down to, say, a dark and rainy alley? Or if the image of the cage with which Edwards began the party scene was somehow...inverted... Holly's story, which, because it is a romantic comedy, will resolve in love. But before it can end happily, all of the many lies, betrayals, and masks (literal and figurative) must be stripped away. So how to end it? What if all the glamour and society elan of the picture's first half came down to, say, a dark and rainy alley? Or if the image of the cage with which Edwards began the party scene was somehow...inverted...

THE END.

But Axelrod's ending called for nothing of the sort. What's more, the scene wasn't really that dramatic. It didn't crescendo. It didn't sweep you up. It just ended: EXT. STREET-(DAY) Paul stands watching the departing car. The rain has stopped now and patches of blue are beginning to show between the clouds. At the corner the limousine stops for a light. Suddenly the door opens and Holly jumps out. She is running back toward him across the wet sidewalk. In a moment they are in each other's arms. Then she pulls away.

HOLLYCome on, darling. We've got to find Cat...

Together they dash up the block and into an alley in the direction Cat had gone.

HOLLY(Calling)You cat! Where are you? Cat! Cat! Cat!(To Paul)We have have to find him...I thought we just met by the river one day...that we were both independents...but I was wrong...we do belong to each other. He was to find him...I thought we just met by the river one day...that we were both independents...but I was wrong...we do belong to each other. He was mine mine! Here Cat, Cat, Cat! Where are you?

Then they see him, sitting quietly on the top of a garbage can. She runs to him and gathers him in her arms.

HOLLY(To Paul, after a moment)Oh, darling...(But there are no words for it)PAULThat's okay.