The Location Managers Guild International (LMGI) is the largest organization of Location Managers and Location Scouts in the motion picture, television, commercial and print production industries. Their membership plays a vital role in the creativ
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44 • LMGI COMPASS | Fall 2018 would have been proud of—the same one that Larry would use to film a stop-motion eighth-grade wonder called Fatman and Robin—and shot away, rubbing shoulders with Welles, Huston, Bogdanovich and some guy named Frank Marshall, hurrah! A few fun nights and then it was over … or so we thought. But the filming wasn't over. The crew had simply packed up and moved to the house. The Slingman house. They had driven off in two trucks. It was dinner and we found one truck at the local Burger King. We were given some fuzzy directions, told to look for a place that would be "lit up like a lighthouse." And it was. Larry, I'll add, has a habit of persevering. Long after I bolted from Hollywood, he hung in there, animating his way through the Ralph Bakshi years, the Disney renaissance, and the Dumbo leap to 3D, and he isn't afraid to make an ass of himself. On that night in Carefree, he scaled the back fence by the pool and was sum- marily tossed out. He then stood at the bottom of the driveway, and yelled, "until they let us in, just to shut me up." This, I do not remember. Terrified to make a scene, I only recall that suddenly we were in the house, standing in close proximity to the great and powerful Orson Welles, and he had a dog that farted like there was no tomorrow. For several nights, we hung out. Mostly waiting to take a turn as an extra, or stand in for one of the many actors who were filmed the week before, the year be- fore—but were now absent. Huston and Bogdanovich were still present, as was actress and Welles partner, Oja Kodar. The interior of the house was dominated by a living room with a long table where Welles held court—often with a can of Fresca in hand. Like all movie sets, excitement mixed with long stretches of ennui. Yet, Larry and I both remember scenes like they are mounted 16mm frames: Kodar is wearing a sheer top and, like any kid from the Phoenix westside, with its cotton fields and crop dusters, I struggle to stare out the window. And there—mo- mentarily left unguarded—a thick, dog-eared script. Larry fanta- sizes about taking one into the bathroom for a speed read, but his courage, this time, flags. Welles was mercurial—his voice, "quite frightening," Larry re- called. But generally he was affable, accessible. "He would re- mind crew members to get something to eat, and seemed genu- inely appreciative of the effort they were making on his behalf." As Ferris recalled, "There was an ego, but he was a feeling guy— sweet, sentimental." Ferris was ex-Air Force and a friend of Graver's. "I could quote scenes from the most out-of-the-way little movies and he could do the same. A friendship broke out." Graver was an extraordi- narily hardworking director and DP, who made more than 200 B-to-Z-grade movies with titles like One Million AC/DC—a film Jo- seph McBride dubbed the first "bisexual dinosaur movie." Grav- er convinced Orson that Ferris, at six-foot-three, had a strong shoulder and "they could use this guy." His first day on the job, said Ferris, "Orson gives me a big handshake and says, 'Glad to meet you, Mike. Can you get on the other side of that camera and throw dirt on me?'" He laughed. "Orson Welles! Begging me to throw dirt at him!" Huston was more mysterious—to us, anyway, a bit scary. "He rarely spoke," remembered Larry, "and the look on his face was intimidating. He carried an oxygen tube in one hand and usually had a cigarette in the other. One of the PAs seemed worried that the two would meet and John would erupt like a flamethrower." He would occasionally motion to Welles and the director would rush over for a quiet conference. "Unlike Peter Bogdanovich, whom he seemed to tolerate, Welles was very respectful to John." Huston I warmed up to. But at the time, I was probably more en- amored of Welles's protégé, Bogdanovich, who was on a searing hot streak with back-to-back-to-back hits: The Last Picture Show, What's Up, Doc?, Paper Moon. Bogdanovich was young, hip, con- fidant. Daisy Miller was in the can and he was no doubt proud of it. I tried to strike up a conversation. No luck. But Larry managed to inadvertently tap into Bogdanovich's fabled knowledge of cinema history when he stumbled upon Welles's Oscar statuette for Citizen Kane. It was sitting on the floor behind some books, and Larry turned to Bogdanovich and blithely announced, "It looks like a cheap bowling trophy." The director set him right. "During the war," Bogdanovich schooled him, "they cast the statues from painted plaster—to support the war effort." Larry recalled this being said with "a withering gaze." The "cheap" Oscars could be traded, after the war, for the real, gold- plated thing. "Still," said Larry, "it really was a mess. Clearly it had been carried around the world wherever Orson went. The felt was gone and it wriggled drunkenly on the base." Larry used a butter knife from the kitchen, tightened the bolt to the base, and reverently put it back on the bookcase." Author Josh Karp (Orson Welles's Last Movie: The Making of The Other Side of the Wind) noted that the Oscar was used as a prop during the movie, and Welles later gave it to Gary Graver, who promoted Photo courtesy of Netflix