Eli in the noose.

From THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND ME In My Anecdotage
by Eli Wallach

We arrived in Almeria that evening, a tiny town with one main street and no hotels. We were to spend the next two months here in a boardinghouse where each of us had a small room. Max Sloan, an Englishman, was the proprietor. "You'll get a good breakfast," he told me, "and we'll have a drink after you return from the shoot."
After a day of shooting, that drink always felt like a fresh glass of ice water after the desert."
The second day of shooting in Almeria, we picked up the scene where Tuco was being turned over to the sheriff to be hanged. Remembering Clint's warning about not showing off or doing dangerous stunts, I asked Leone if we could discuss this hanging scene.
"It is my understanding," I said to Leone, "that the special effects man has put a small charge of dynamite in the top of the noose around my neck. Am I correct?"
"Yes. Correct," Leone said.
"And then Clint, hidden in the barn at the edge of the square where I'm to be hanged, takes aim and shoots the noose around my neck. Correct?"
"Si, si," Leone said.
"I urge you to put some cotton in the horse's ears," I said.
"Why?" Leone asked. "I've never heard of that."
"In Hollywood they always put cotton in the horse's ears - to calm them," I lied. "Otherwise, when they heard the shot, they would take off."
Leone didn't buy it. "Don't worry," he said, then added in Italian. "Non c'e pericoloso." (There's nothing dangerous.) His use of Italian at this point indicated to me that he didn't give a damn whether it was dangerous or not. "Get on the horse," he ordered. "It's getting late."
I sat on the jittery horse, my hands tied behind my back, the noose tight around my neck. The heat was intense; the horse kept twitching the mosquitoes off his flanks. Most of the extras who were standing around to watch the hanging were English. They had all migrated to sunny southern Spain, where living costs were low and they could escape from rainy, foggy England.
The scene began with the sheriff unrolling a long document and intoning in a loud voice, "Wanted in fourteen counties of this state, the condemned is found guilty of the crimes of murder, armed robbery...inciting prostitution, kidnapping, extrotion...rape."
As the sheriff got to the final crimes on the list, I looked down at this poor little old English lady and growled at her. Leone called cut, ran up to me, and said, "Do that again."
"Do what?" I asked, literally at the end of my rope. "What in hell do you want me to do again?"
"Look at the lady and growl," he said, and demonstrated, "Grrr!"
I did as he asked; I scowled and snorted as the poor lady winced, and Leone stook beside the camera and applauded.
"Therefore," the sheriff continued, "according to the powers vested in us we sentence the accused here before us, Tuco Benedicto Pacifico Juan Maria Ramirez and any other aliases he has, to hang by the neck till dead. May God have mercy on his soul. Proceed!"
The sheriff raised his whip. Just then Eastwood shouldered his rifle, aimed carefully, and fired. At that moment, to give the illusion that Clint's aim was flawless, the special effects man pressed a button, the rope exploded and snapped, and the horse took off like a bat out of hell while my hands were tied behind me. I kept yelling at the horse to stop, using my knees to try to control him, but it was no use. It took about a mile before the horse stopped.
That night I reread the rest of the film script - there were three more hanging scenes left. "Goddamn it," I thought. "Leone better order a box of cotton. Not only for the horse's ears, but mine as well."

Sidney Pink goes to Spain.

From: SO YOU WANT TO MAKE MOVIES My Life As An Independent Film Producer

by Sidney Pink

(After making three films in Denmark, American producer, director, writer Sidney Pink investigated production facilities in Yugoslavia.)

I scheduled my return to Copenhagen from Belgrade with stopovers at Palma de Mallorca and Madrid. Leo Bertelsen was a yearly visitor to Mallorca, and he suggested the beauty and climate of that island would be perfect for my family's winter stay. I also heard of the bargain-basement cost of food and hotels in the city of Palma from Leslie Faber. Leslie gave me the name of a Mallorcan lawyer who assisted British Lion in several lawsuits. Luis Sanchis was a graduate of Oxford and very conversant in English as well as familiar with the film industry...

I spend only three days in Mallorca, but in those three days Luis and I formed a relationship that lasted throughout my entire nine years in Spain. He became my friend, my lawyer, and my confidante. Luis never once betrayed a confidence, and never meddled where he was not wanted: he also gave me some of the best advice of my life. Luis was responsible for my first coproduction in Spain and represented my companies in all of their dealings with the Spanish government.

While in Mallorca, Luis contacted a producer in Madrid who was preparing a giant production that needed international stars and know-how. The company was the personal production arm of one of Spain's top box-office stars, Maruja Diaz, whose last picture, PELUSA, had set new records in all Spanish-speaking countries. She was married to a young Venezuelan, Espartaco Santoni, whose hungry ambition was driving him to expand the horizons of her talents and money. He was anxiously searching for someone who could help him get worldwide distribution for a project called EL VALLE DE LAS ESPADAS or THE VALLEY OF THE SWORDS. Luis was acquainted with the company and Maruja as well as the script. It was the true story of Fernan Gonzales, Spanish hero and the grandfather of El Cid.

Samuel Bronston was shooting a spectacle film with Charlton Heston and Sophia Loren based on the life and exploits of El Cid. The time seemed propitious for a follow-up picture that could reap the benefits of the Bronston superproduction. Luis made an appointment for me to meet the heads of Producciones Cinematograficas MD, and I flew to Madrid.~I arrived in Madrid at ten o'clock in the morning, where I was met by three gentlemen from MD (which I later learned stood for Maruja Diaz, who owned and starred in all of that company's films). Espartaco Santoni was as phoney as his name implied. He had the swarthy good looks of his Italian heritage, and he was overly anxious to be gracious. He was of medium height and weight and exuded a reptilian charm that, while it repelled me, must have been like an aphrodisiac to certain types of women. My instant dislike of him was most unusual for me, but as I learned later, my instincts about him were well founded.

His associate was Emiliano Piedra, who was everything Espartaco would have liked to be. Emiliano was the Spaniard we had been brainwashed into visualizing by Hemingway and other writers, who depicted the average Spanish caballero as gallant, righteous, and honest. Emiliano was a true Castilian, with a fair complexion and delicate features. He allowed his companions to carry the conversation and only spoke when necessary.

I learned to like and respect Emiliano; he was a man of honor and never went back on his word, although others were not so kind to him. (It was Emiliano who later got taken by the late Orson Welles on FALSTAFF, which, contrary to the original contract, was made in black and white instead of color. Welles spent almost $300,000 on colorful and costly materials for costuming. These were, of course, indiscernible in the finished black and white feature. Emiliano lost a fortune on that venture.) Emiliano was a scion of an aristrocratic family and was (as I learned later) the financial angel for the company. A mediocre actor named Julio Pena accompanied Emiliano and Espartaco to serve as out interpreter, since neither Espartaco nor Emiliano spoke any English and I, unfortunately, spoke no Spanish.

They got me through customs and immigration quickly; I don't believe it took five minutes. Prestige and power work wonders in unraveling the omnipotent red tape of the Latin countries. I was given VIP treatment and taken by limousine to the Hotel Fenix, a large, luxury hotel right off the Rambla, as the Avenida del Generalissimo was called. The hotel was located just a few minutes from the downtown area and the other older hotels like the Palace and the Ritz. It was within walking distance of the Prado as well as the Castellano Hilton, headquarters for the American stars and directors who were working in Madrid.

My new associates took me to the desk, advising me to rest until they returned "later that afternoon, at about 10:30." When I asked Julio how that could be considered afternoon, I got my first lession in Spanish life. He informed me evening did not begin until after dinner, and we were going to dine at an outdoor restaurant, La Florida, where dinner wasn't served before eleven.

(Pink always refers to Maruja Diaz, but the public knew her as Marujita Diaz. The writer and director of PELUSA, Luis de los Arcos and Javier Seto, would also be part of the team making THE CASTILIAN.)

Lee and Cushing on HORROR EXPRESS

From: HOLLYWOOD EXILE Or How I Learned To Love the Blacklist

by Bernard Gordon

In London, Ben Fisz had cast two highly regarded stars of the Hammer horror films, Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing. He had also made a deal for Telly Savalas to return to Madrid briefly for a truncated role. It was creative casting, and so was the deal made with Telly, who was, predictably, broke again. They had agreed to purchase a seven-year lease on a West End apartment, which would be his gift to the lovely lady with whom he was living. The added inducement - the gift was tax-free. I understood the cost was $22,000, which was a bargain for his services.

Christopher Lee was the first star scheduled to work. He showed up on time and conducted himself professionally. Tall, well-built, with strong, handsome features, he looked more like a leading man than a creature from the bog, but this suited his role in our film splendidly. He was pleased with his role and with the script. We worked out his wardrobe, he reported to the set promptly and knew his lines. He was cordial with me, with Eugenio, with everyone. When he wasn't working on the set, he roamed the hall of our dressing-room building where my office was located and sang arias from Boris Godunov at the top of his excellent baritone.

After the first week of shooting, Peter Cushing was due to start. I went to the airport to welcome the actor, whom I had never met, never even seen on screen, since I was not a fan of horror films. I had no trouble spotting Cushing: a refined looking English gentleman in a perfect British tweed suit, handmade London boots, proper necktie. He was slender, not tall, very fair, with delicate features - not what I had expected from one of the world's leading actors of horror films. No Frankenstein monster he.

My admiration for him faltered from the moment we got into the car for the drive to the studio. In quiet but insistent tones he made a startling announcement. "You know, Mr. Gordon, I don't intend to work in your film." He was not a man who was making a rude joke.

I tried to digest this. "Then why are you here?"

"Mr. Fisz in London explained that I had to report and explain matters to you. I agreed to do the film on the basis of having read the first draft of the script, but when I read the final one, the one we're shooting, I told Mr. Fisz that I didn't care to work in the film."

"You could have called and told me that from London. I would have arranged for another actor. You're supposed to start working tomorrow."

Cushing was genuinely contrite. "I entirely agree. That's what I told Mr. Fisz, but he insisted that I come here and report directly to you."

Since the studio property virtually adjoined the airport, we had arrived by the time we had concluded our brief conversation. I settled Cushing somewhere while I grabbed a telephone and called London.

"What in the hell is going on?" I demanded of Fisz and reported my conversation with Cushing. "I'm supposed to start shooting with this man tomorrow."

Fisz's attitude was that he had provided the actor and the problem was now mine. "You're the producer," he virtually sneered. "So produce."

My shouting accomplished nothing except to entertain the considerable gathering that had assembled outside my office door to listen to my very loud and angry epithets. Completely at a loss, I sought out Christopher Lee, who was an old colleague of Cushing's.

Lee smiled. "That doesn't mean a thing. Peter is always like this at the start of every film."

"What am I supposed to do about it?"

"We'll meet with him at the hotel after work," Lee said, "and everything will be fine."

We met outside Cushing's room at the Eurobuilding in a small public area, where the three of us sat in easy chairs, away from any other guests. I had no notion what to say or how to begin, but my efforts were not needed. Voluble under any circumstances, Christopher started to talk, a virtual filibuster of anecdotes and irrelevant remarks. Neither Cushing nor I could get a word in. No mention was made of Cushing's refusal to come to work, and if Cushing had any notion of voicing his intentions, he never had a chance. The whole performance was cleverly designed to keep Cushing from opening his mouth.

After about forty minutes of nonstop monologue, Christopher stood up. "All right, Peter, see you at work tomorrow."

If Cushing was surprised, he didn't betray it. I was dumbfounded, but Cushing reported to work the next day.

After a week, Peter, who was a truly gentle and decent man, serious about his work, dropped into my office. "I want to tell you, Mr. Gordon, how sorry I am for the way I behaved the day I arrived. I want you to know that I've studied the script again, and I really like it. I like the way the work is going, too."

I learned that Peter's wife, with whom he had been very close for almost fifty years, had died not long before, that this was his first venture outside of Britain since her death, that he was feeling devastated and alone in a foreign clime. Apart from his usual resistance to starting a film, Christopher believed that Cushing's intense sense of loss may have contributed to his initial feelings.

Eli sleeps with Clint.

From THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND ME In My Anecdotage

by Eli Wallach

The next day Leone gave a small party where I was first introduced to my costars, Clint Eastwood and Lee Van Cleef; both were veterans of Leone's previous Westerns. This would be Clint's third film working with him. Also in attendance were the members of Leone's technical crew. The wine and the Italian food all served to relax me. Leone talked about the film, the shooting schedule, and the locations and, at one point, he pulled me aside.

"Rest today," Leone said. "And the day after tomorrow, we will start with scenes six and seven."

Upon reading the call sheet for the first day of shooting, I couldn't believe my eyes. We were to leave the hotel at 6:30 A.M., drive for one hour to a Western set outside Rome, get into makeup, and be on set ready to shoot by 8:00. This was a far more grueling schedule than anything I had ever experienced in Hollywood.

In the first scene we were to shoot, my character, Tuco, is taken to a public square to be hanged. "E-li," Leone said to me as I stood on the set - he always used my first name with a strong stress on the last two letters - "You will be on the back of the horse screaming. Clint will turn you over to the sheriff and collect his reward for your capture."

"Fine, fine," I said.

"We will not shoot in sequence," he said. "You will be hanged after we move to location in Spain. Clint will shoot the rope and you will ride off on horseback."

Two days later Clint and I flew to Madrid, where we were to spend the night before we would fly to Almeria on the southern coast of the Mediterranean. North Africa was visible in the far distance. In Madrid all the hotels were booked with conventions and trade shows. Clint told me that he had a friend who had an apartment and who would gladly put us up for the night.

Pancho Kohner, whose father was my agent in Los Angeles, was most happy to see us, and he showed us to his spare bedroom, which had one small bed. "Do you want the left side or the right?" Clint asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I guess I'll take the left side." This made sense - politically I was always to the left. I wondered if Clint would snore, but soon I was asleep. Later in the shoot when Anne was visiting me with the children, I told her the story. She laughed and said, "Now you can brag that you're the only man to have slept with Clint Eastwood."

Clint and I were to leave Kohner's apartment at nine the following morning, but when we woke up, Clint told me that he hated to fly "in those rickety crates the Spaniards call plances." He said he would rent a car and driver and asked if I would ride down to Almeria with him.

"Sure, I'd be happy to," I told him.

On the long ride down to Almeria, Clint filled me in about Italian westerns, how there were no unions, how the hours went from sunrise to sunset, and shooting took place six days a week, how the food on location would come in little white boxes. It was usually pasta of half a chicken or a pork chop stuck between two pieces of bread, some fruit, and a bottle of red wine.

"Don't eat too much of you'll fall sleep by midafternoon," Clint told me. "And don't volunteer to do any dangerous scenes. Let the stuntmen do the tricks."

"Oh, I've made Westerns before," I told him. "I know how to take care of myself."

"No," Clint said, and gave me a hard stare. "You've never made a Western like this. Don't show off."

LE VERDI BANDIERE DI ALLAH

LE VERDI BANDIERE DI ALLAH

THE GREEN FLAG OF ALLAH

U.S.: THE SLAVE GIRLS OF SHEBA

Director - Guido Zurli 1962

Cast: Jose Suarez (Dionigi Tragona), Linda Cristal (Alema), Cristina Gaioni (Isabella), Mimmo Palmara (Jafaire), with Walter Barnes (Friar Metachini)Jose Jaspe (Calavas), Jose Tores (Omar), Renato Montalbano (Sultan of Constantinople), Helene Chanel (Rosalana), and Vittorio Sanipoli (Demetrius).

Story by Umberto Lenzi

Screenplay by Sergio Leone, Adriano Bolzoni, Bebo Marrosu, Guido Zurli

Music Gian Stellari and Guido Robuschi

Copyright Nazionalmusic, Milan

Art Director Oscar D'Amico

Costumes Mario Giorsi

Assistant Costumes Rosalba Menichelli, Silvano Giusti

Footwear Pompei

Make-up Renato Bomarzi, Angelo Roncaioli

Set Dresser Danilo Zanetti

Hair Dressser Emma Camia

Production Supervisor Giancarlo Campiodori

Assistant Director Giulio Pannaccio

Production Secretary Gianfranco Borgiotti

Script Girl Marcella Mariani Rossellini

Cameraman Franco Di Giacomo

Assistant Cameraman Fernando Gallandt

Sound Pietro Spadoni

Special Effects Oscar Verdenelli

Fencing Master Fernando Poggi

Exteriors filmed in Yugoslavia in collaboration with Dubrava Film - Globus Film of Zagreb

American version directed by Robert Stafford

Filmed in Eastmancolor in Totalscope

Director of Photography Luciano Trasatti

For the second unit Franco Villa

Editor Otello Colangeli

Production Manager Fernando Cinquini

Executive Producer Franco Caruso

Produced by Giacomo Gentilomo

James H. Nicholson and Samuel Z. Arkoff present

U.S. Distr. American International

An Italia Produzione Film Production

Prod. Reg. 2801

Oddly, ROBIN HOOD E I PIRATE didn't have a Friar Tuck, which would have seemed to have been a good role for Walter Barnes. Instead he played a pirate. Well, Barnes got to play a lusty and brawling Friar in LE VERDI BANDIERE DI ALLAH. And while it wasn't the world famous Tuck, it was pretty darn close.

Reminding viewers of THE GUNS OF NAVARONE, the cannon of San Antioch devastated all Saracen ships which came near. While the King of Spain and the Sultan of Constantinople were working toward peace, Governor Demetrius of San Antioch made a deal with King Charles of France to do all that he could to keep hostilities alive. Our hero, Captain Dionigi Tragona, refused to overlook this treason, and resigned from the military. This estranged him from his father, who continued to serve the Governor, and his fiancee, Isabella, whose father wouldn't allow the marriage. Soon, however, a failed attack by Turkish sailors and the kidnapping of Isabella would change everything.

Jose Suarez didn't get to play the swashbuckling hero very often, and his performance in this showed why; he's a good-looking man, but didn't have the charisma to make a good action star. And when he stood beside Mimmo Palmara, who had co-starred a number of times with Steve Reeves, Suarez hardly registered.

Luckily, the real stars of this movie were the women, and what a set of lovelies were assembled! There was the Gypsy fortune teller played by the raven-haired Linda Cristal. Besides making a sympathetic and credible heroine, she also had a chance to do a nicely seductive dance. For lovers of blonde hair, two beauties were featured in major roles. Helene Chanel was the more statuesque of the two and played a Venetian beauty who ended up sold into the Sultan's harem. Cristina Gaioni played the initially virginal fiancee of our hero, and was convincingly mousy enough to fall under the villain's spell. If these three weren't enough to convince viewers of where the filmmakers real interest lay, then the fact that a long section of the film took place inside the Sultan's harem would settle the case. Intercut with the harem scenes were shots of Cristal and Palmara being tortured in the palace dungeon, which gave the film a slightly creepy atmosphere of sadism - which was just about the only sequence which seemed reminiscent of other films upon which Sergio Leone labored as a writer. Note that the original story was credited to Umberto Lenzi, who had just made his directoral debut in LE AVVENTURE DI MARY READ, also with Walter Barnes.

Script-wise, the novelty of the film was that the Christians and the Saracens became friends and allies against a common enemy. This cross-cultural allegiance was best represented by the character of Friar Metachini. A Christian cleric held captive on The Black Eagle, which was captained by the one-eyed Jafaire, Metachini soon became indispensable as a doctor. While he was kidded for not being a good hostage for ransom, the Friar proved to be a loyal crew member by being the one who discovered the document which uncovered the plot by the Grand Vizier to murder the Sultan.

Eventually, Metachini, aided by Dionigi, had to steal into the Sultan's harem to prevent an assassination and to rescue Jafaire.

As in previous films, Barnes made a convincingly good-natured fellow with an enormous appetite. This role allowed him more than his usual chances to be comedic, and he proved able. He also handled the action stuff as well as usual.

For a movie with so many Spanish actors, it was hard to believe that this wasn't a co-production with Spain, and that the exteriors were filmed in Yugoslavia - but would the credits lie?

Director Giacomo Gentilomo was the producer of this film, and seemed to be working with the standard budget given to these kinds of pictures. Reportedly, he was also the director of at least the second unit stuff, but there was no evidence here of the atmosphere found in his better films; SIGFRIDO, MACISTE CONTRO IL VAMPIRO (U.S.: GOLIATH AND THE VAMPIRES), and MACISTE E LA REGINA DI SAMAR (U.S.: HERCULES AGAINST THE MOON MEN).

First time director Guido Zurli didn't get another feature credit until 1966 with E MEZZANOTTE...BUTTA GIU IL CADAVERE. In 1973, he went to Turkey with Alan Steel for KUCUK KOVBOY.

(This is available in a B&W version from Something Weird Video. It is unknown who re-edited the print to put the first scene before the credits, and half of the credits after the end. Thank you to John Strange for helping me to see this.)

Finishing the script for HORROR EXPRESS

From: HOLLYWOOD EXILE Or How I Learned To Love the Blacklist

by Bernard Gordon

Back in Madrid, after a full month of rewrites, Julian insisted on taking off to Rome. He was fed up with the script. With misgivings, I let him go but immediately regretted it. Eugenio was uncharacteristically stubbern about needing changes, and I had to agree that further work would help. I was back on the phone to Rome. "I hate to do this, Julian, but I need you back here."

"Not a chance," he replied.

"The script needs work, and I'm too busy to do it myself."

"I'm sorry." He meant it. "I have a life here and a wife who's been neglected for too long. I just can't leave again so soon."

"I'm sorry, too. And I understand. But I wish you wouldn't force my hand."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're putting me in a lousy position. It means that if you're not back here in a couple of days, I'll have to get someone else to work on the script."

Julian snorted. "Fat chance. Who will you find in Madrid?"

Actually, I had anticipated this impasse and had checked around . I knew that John Melson (from the BATTLE OF THE BULGE script) was still around and eager for work. "Johnny Melson is here and he wants to work. You remember him."

Long pause. Julian was considering. "How long will it take?"

"A week. Maybe two. Not more."

Julian came back, worked quickly and well, and in another ten days we had the script in satisfactory shape. Eugenio kept dragging his feet. I began to wonder why. He had a script that was much better than either one he had worked on before. Why was he so negative? Yorday was gone. Didn't he feel secure working on an English-American production where I was in charge? I was learning that most directors had to be dragged kicking and screaming to the set for the first day's shooting. Was that the problem? Or was it something else? I was not fated to get a good answer to this, because, fewer than three days before our start date, I had an emergency call from him.

"I'm sorry, Bernie, but I have to go into the hospital for an operation. I won't be able to do the picture."

Get another director? Now? And a Spanish director at that, because of the damned Spanish nationality problem? Alarmed as I was, I had the decency to ask Eugenio about his condition. "What's the problem? What kind of operation are you having?"

"It's for hemorrhoids," he explained. "I've put it off as long as I could. I can't wait any longer."

This struck me as less than a life-and-death matter. "How long will you be in the hospital?"

"Three of four days."

"I'll postpone production for a week. We'll just have to start a week later." He was stuck. He would have to go on. We didn't get started until the second week of December, 1971, which meant we ran through the Christmas and New Year's holidays. Despite problems, I felt I was really making a film - no Ben Fisz, no Milton Sperling, no Yordan. Not even Sacristan. I have never enjoyed anything so much in my life.

No holster for Eli.

From: THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND ME In My Anecdotage by Eli Wallach

One of the first things that Leone explained to me was that for the part of Tuco, the Mexican bandit, he didn't want me to wear a holster.

"So where do I put my gun?" I asked.

"You have a rope around your neck with the gun on the end of it," he told me.

"So the gun dangles between my legs?" I asked.

"Oui," Leone said. "You twist your shoulders hard, I cut to your hand, and there's the gun."

I asked him to show me how to do it. He grabbed a gun on a rope from his desk and placed it over his head. He twisted his shoulders quickly. The gun jerked up, but it missed his hand and hit him in the groin. He groaned and caught his breath. "Just keep it in your pocket," he said.

I was glad to be able to skip the holster bit. Clint Eastwood, Steve McQueen, and most of the leading Western stars took lessons and became very skillful at spinning their guns and popping them into their holsters without looking. But I hadn't taken lessons, and whenever I had appeared in Westerns, I always had to look down to find the damn holster.