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While making Mission Impossible, Tom Cruise and Robert Towne drove the two-and-a-half hours from LA to visit him for the day, pouring through not only the literal scrapbooks he possessed, but the even more fascinating one contained within his razor sharp mind, of which Budd Boetticher was still in full command right up until his death at the age of 85 late in the evening of November 29, 2001.
Quentin Tarantino struck up an awkward student/mentor fan/hero friendship with him after Budd had cleared 75. Sergio Leone told Budd he stole everything from him. And it was no less than Peter Bogdanovich who first mentioned my name to him which, coupled with Budd’s friendship with Dennis Bartok (Head Programmer for the American Cinematheque), led to my series of meetings with Budd, beginning this past June, to discuss writing a film about an outrageous seven-year chapter in his life. Upon his death, terms like “legendary,” “maverick,” “larger than life” and “a master” were used to define him. His films were described as “classic,” “brilliant,” “remarkable” and “quiet poetry”. So who was Budd Boetticher and why don’t more of you know his name?
The legend of Budd Boetticher, which seemed to surprise Budd more than anyone, rests largely on six westerns he made with Randolph Scott in the late 1950s. Seven Men From Now, The Tall T, Decision at Sundown, Buchanon Rides Alone, Ride Lonesome and Comanche Station. Except for Decision at Sundown, all were written in whole, or in part, by Burt Kennedy. The unmentioned Westbound, which fits right in the middle of the chronology, was also not written by Kennedy and largely considered not up to par with the rest. Not one is longer than 78 minutes. That’s right, one hour and 18 minutes. Their economy is only one of the reasons why every director, writer and producer reading this should rush to their video store and explore the true depth of humanity that Budd communicated within these films. Watching the various incarnations of Scott’s existential enigmatic loner gunman, Leone’s comment makes complete sense. The films were finely detailed, yet fast-moving chamber-dramas-on-the-range that seemed to effortlessly convey basic truths about human nature, violence, love and manhood. As Bartok told the Los Angeles Times, the films are “a combination of quiet poetry, gallows humor, bitter violence and these really surprisingly dynamic and even attractive villains.”
Budd is also extremely well-regarded for his breakthrough film, the autobiographical Bullfighter and the Lady (1951). Produced by John Wayne, it utilized a blonde, hunky, and surprisingly effective Robert Stack as a spoiled American who discovers his manhood—complete with all its flaws and strengths—when he takes an unexpected life turn and trains to be a matador in Mexico under the tutelage of the memorable Gilbert Roland. Beautifully shot in black and white on location, the film was cut down without Budd’s approval by John Ford, who loved the film but was convinced it was too long. Budd’s restored cut premiered decades later to great acclaim.
As far as Budd was concerned, Seven Men From Now was the masterwork of the Scott westerns. A UCLA-restored version was screened this past Labor Day at The Egyptian Theatre in Hollywood as part of the annual Cinecon Film Festival. Budd arrived with two canes and his signature toothy smile that was often so wide it nearly forced his eyes shut. His frailty was the result of a degenerative back condition that had been exacerbated with age and a fall off a horse in recent years. Budd told me his back problems began early in life when he trained to be a matador in Mexico right after leaving Ohio State University, where he boxed and played football. While in the bullring, he was gored 18-inches up the rectum. I use “rectum” because, in my short treatment about a chapter in Budd’s life, I had used the word “butt” and he scolded me for it. Budd considered my word choice vulgar and when I asked for an alternative, he suggested “rectum.” It’s now in the treatment. He didn’t mind foul language in films, as long as it was used to make a point, not overused so as to deplete the impact.
In his final years, Budd braved a series of excruciating hip and back operations and lived in a state of chronic pain. Oral painkillers just barely curbed the ache, but did more damage to his appetite. When I met Budd, 30 pounds underweight and in constant discomfort, he insisted, “This isn’t me. You haven’t met Budd Boetticher.” Regardless, I journeyed three times down to the home Budd shared with Mary, his stunning wife of 30 years, to discuss adapting his seven-year Mexican odyssey into screenplay form. Together with Mary, Budd had completed a pass at the screenplay, but Bogdanovich, who directed my original screenplay, The Cat’s Meow, (see Dec., 2001 Hands-on Pages at www.moviemaker.com—ed.) had suggested bringing me on as a collaborator since Budd was perhaps too close to the subject. Hell, he was the subject.
Budd details the saga in his lively autobiography, When in Disgrace. Essentially, after spending the 1950s establishing himself as a solid craftsman of what were then termed “B” pictures, Budd was on the brink of crossing over to “A” pictures (John Wayne himself wanted Budd to direct his 1961 starring vehicle, The Comancheros). Instead, he chose to go down to Mexico to finish a docudrama he was making about the comeback of famed Spanish-born matador, and Budd’s longtime friend, Carlos Arruza. A planned six months in Mexico turned into seven years. In that time Budd finished the picture, but ended his marriage to actress Debra Paget, lost most of his money, had a brutal jail stint on trumped up charges that were later dismissed, and was even taken to an insane asylum against his will. Arruza drove his white station wagon through the front windows of the asylum and rescued Budd, bringing him to his home to recuperate. The final tragedy came when Arruza himself perished in a car accident in 1966 while Budd was in the editing room in Mexico. It was a drive which Budd himself had been invited to join, but had declined.
When Budd returned to Hollywood, it was a very different town from the one he had left behind. Once run by suits producing Ben Hur, it was now governed by hippies making Easy Rider. His completed docudrama Arruza premiered in 1971 to strong reviews but never received a wide release. In 1970, his original script for Two Mules for Sister Sara was re-written to Budd’s disgust, diminishing his credit to “story by”. He had no fond words for the end results of Don Seigel and Clint Eastwood’s collaboration. Despite his desire to direct again, his last picture was 1971’s A Time for Dying, starring Audie Murphy. In the early 1970s, Budd left Hollywood for the hills of San Diego County where he and Mary raised Portuguese Lusitanos and Spanish Andalusians and put on annual horse shows including demonstrations of rejoneo, the art of bullfighting from horseback. But he had no dearth of film projects he wished to direct. Only his recent ailments made him grasp—at age 85—that perhaps he should give the directing reigns to someone else on his next project. He hoped his mad tale of seven years in Mexico would be next. I still hope so.
I only knew Budd for six months. We met three times and spent hours on the phone together. He gave me a photo inscribed “To my new and already dear friend-pal Steve.” I cherish it, as I do my brief time knowing Budd Boetticher. An American Original. (see interview with Budd in MM # 27; also Burt Kennedy int. in MM #38-ed.)
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So what exactly is the cult of Pauline Kael all about? Since many of you were about 10 in 1991 when she stepped down from her 22-year gig as full-time reviewer for The New Yorker, you might not be able to process the surplus of obituaries and appreciations for a mere film critic. By comparison, when Gene Siskel passed away after being on the air with dual-action-thumbing-partner Roger Ebert for almost 25 influential years, the media was not nearly so attentive. And aside from these two, obits for film critics are usually in that fine print reserved for normal folk.
Kael was an exceptional writer and a passionate lover of movies. She wanted to tell you what she thought and used her giddy love of words to express it. She didn’t care whom she offended, including friends, moviemakers and her employers. In 1965, McCall’s fired her after she thoroughly trashed The Sound of Music, a perceived reader favorite.
She was not only well educated about the history of film, but history in general. She utilized her encyclopedic brain cells in her boundlessly inventive prose, yet loathed pretentious “art” and “message” films just as much as she detested blatantly commercial fare. Compare this with the oft-quoted Jeff Craig’s Sixty Second Preview (“Spy Game is a great spy movie with megawatt star power!”) or any number of today’s movie reviewers who were promoted from assistant food critic with little knowledge of film pre-E.T. (Spielberg’s or the TV show, take your pick).
Despite her wit and intelligence, her criticism wasn’t distancing. You could picture her with a large tub of popcorn. While we all scoff openly at moments in movies at home in front of our VCRs, she was known to scoff openly in packed movie theatres, with moviemakers and/or executives mere seats away. At heart, her reviews felt like she was any one of us... if we could write as well or knew as much.
Even with all this, her elevated status is also a result of her place in time. She was at the top of her game from the mid-1960s through the 1980s. She covered film in an unprecedented era of director creative control and adult-themed films, and followed it through the 1980s descent into kiddie merchandising and opening-weekend-is-God. Moviemakers sought her approval, film critics imitated her, studios courted her and audiences followed her. Her published collections of reviews and essays are a more valuable history lesson on ’70s Cinema than Peter Biskind’s Easy Riders, Raging Bulls—and just as much nasty fun.
One can only hope that Parkinson’s disease didn’t prevent her from getting a huge laugh this summer from Columbia Pictures’ embarrassing fabrication of “David Manning, Ridgefield Press” on reviews of A Knight’s Tale and The Animal. Perhaps by eulogizing both the pinnacle of Kael and the nadir of Manning in the same year, film criticism will find a way to rise from the ashes. I’m sure Pauline Kael isn’t holding her breath. MM