Meeting One Of Hollywood's Greatest Legends

I ‘discovered’ Sam Peckinpah in late 1960. I was an avid Brian Keith fan and since Keith was starring in a new Western series on TV, aptly called, ‘The Westerner,’ I took a look. The show was not only first rate, a dramatic change from the other television horse-opera fare offered back then, it was also brilliantly conceived and executed. But much to my and a whole bunch of other Western fans’ dismay, it was short lived – cancelled after 13 episodes.

I was reacquainted with Peckinpah again a year or so later when ‘The Deadly Companions’ was released. I had wanted to find out if Brian Keith could replace The Duke as Maureen O’Hara’s leading man, and realized instead that this Western motion picture’s unheard of director might just replace my favorite, John Ford – if Ford wasn’t careful.

Sam Peckinpah finally became a permanent entry in my book of greats in late 1962, after I ran across a second-billed, action-packed, sentimental yarn called ‘Ride the High Country’ – an MGM Randolph Scott, Joel McCrea starrer directed by Sam – while I was attempting to seduce my date in a San Fernando Valley drive-in theater. As soon as the picture began, I found myself pushing my date away, sitting at attention and gluing my eyes to the screen – and there was nothing my girl could do but sit there sulking and watch the movie with me as I enjoyed thoroughly what was obviously the best Western movie I had seen in a long, long time.

Less than a year later I was working in the movie business, not as an actor like I’d done when I was growing up and until recently, but as a mailroom messenger on the Columbia Pictures main studio lot at the corner of Sunset and Gower in downtown Hollywood. After the first few months or so, I had become pretty used to passing the famous faces in the hallways. I would see the beautiful people every day as I made my rounds: celebrities such as Burt Lancaster; Vivian Leigh; Jack Lemmon; Lee Marvin; Kim Novak; Audie Murphy; Joan Crawford; Lee Remick; Moe Howard of The Three Stooges; and others. But when I got wind that the studio was about to consummate production on a post-Civil War Western starring Charlton Heston titled ‘Major Dundee’ with Sam Peckinpah signed to direct, I made up my mind I would try anything – go for broke – to get an acting part in the picture; or maybe a job as a stuntman. Or at least get a meeting with Peckinpah, just so I could let him know how great I thought his films were.

First, as I had done with many of the other shows I wanted to be involved in at Columbia, I got my hands on a ‘Major Dundee’ script. I read it, and read it, and read it again; then I re-read it, until I found the part I was right for – the one character written just for me and me alone. And hey, the part I chose for myself wasn’t just an in-the-door-out-the-door bit part – it turned out to be the juvenile lead: third or fourth billed, I would find out later. Anyway, it was the part I wanted, and that’s the part I made up my mind I would ask Peckinpah about, if I was ever able to meet the man. Just getting in to see Sam Peckinpah, I was told, would be damn difficult. He had never been seen in the halls of the studios he worked for in the past. And Peckinpah wouldn’t only be busy as all get out like most of the other producers and directors I had tried to meet in the past; he was also, like his legend would eventually describe him – moody; plus he could sometimes be downright unpleasant.

As a messenger, I pretty much knew all the girls in the steno pool – studio secretaries who would be assigned to the incoming producers, writers and directors that hadn’t brought their own staff with them. I also knew, almost before anybody else, which office and floor a certain person was to be assigned. So, before I’d even heard the date of Sam’s arrival, I pretty well knew which floor, which office, and which secretary would be his.

It wasn’t long after Peckinpah was in his office and preparations for ‘Major Dundee’ were underway that I began to make contact every day with his secretary; asking first thing off – whether I walked through the door legitimately to deliver something or not – would it be all right for me to meet him. Each time I was told that would be next to impossible; that Sam wasn’t even making himself available to his producer, and she had just been advised he wasn’t taking any more calls from the head of the studio either. On my subsequent trips to the Peckinpah office, I continually received the same answer: headshakes from the woman who was becoming my favorite secretary, followed by the rolling of her eyes and sometimes, just a direct “No, it’s just not the right time yet.” But she never let me lose faith, continually telling me that if and when that time did come, and if I happened to be in her outer office at that precise moment, she would make sure I got past the many barriers Peckinpah had established to prevent the studio executives from getting through to him.

A month passed, during which time I tried several alternate routes – one being through the ‘Major Dundee’ assistant director, John Veitch; an unimpeachable, prematurely-gray, nice-looking gentleman who would eventually go on to become the West Coast Head of Production for Columbia Pictures several years later. Veitch took my word that I’d had experience as a stuntman (which was true ) and introduced me to Henry Wills, the action coordinator for the show, and also one of Hollywood’s top stuntmen and horse-fall experts. Both said they would sincerely make an effort to find me a spot as part of the stunt team. But as usual, I was a day late and a dollar short. By the following week, all the stunt positions were filled by members of the Stuntmen’s Association.

Another angle I tried was through a studio friend who had been a messenger like me, and had been promoted to producer’s assistant just days before I had started work. Rick Rosenberg and I had some of the same interests, one of them being screenwriting. We had even spent a few hours together working on a spec script, but for some reason or another, we never got further along than knocking out the initial story treatment. Now Rick was Jerry Bresler’s assistant, and to my advantage I thought, because Jerry Bresler was ‘Major Dundee’s’ producer – and in effect, Sam Peckinpah’s boss. Rick tried every way he could think of to get me a part – any part – in the movie; even introducing me officially to the Columbia Pictures casting director; though all I got from him was another shake of the head and a “Sorry … maybe next time, kid.” Rick Rosenberg, by the way, went on to produce a few Emmy-nominated TV Movies, including the highly praised, “The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittmam.”

I was close to giving up; ready to call it quits. Then I found myself slinking into the Peckinpah office one day with a stack of interoffice envelopes and a dejected look on my face – a crestfallen expression that quickly lightened up when I saw the excitement on the face of my favorite secretary. “It’s that time,” she whispered with wide-eyed enthusiasm. “He’s in his office … and … he’s in a pretty good mood.” I should state that I had never seen Sam Peckinpah in the flesh before, only heard the stories, read the few articles that had been written about him at the time, and seen most of his films. Unlike now, several decades after his death, there were no photographs circulating that showed the world what this soon-to-be film genius looked like. That, and because of Peckinpah’s developing reputation of a Hollywood Bad Boy, I had a picture in my mind of a giant ogre waiting to pounce from behind the door once I entered. I gulped. “Go on,” Sam’s secretary urged. “This may be the only time you’ll ever have the opportunity. There’s talk that he may be getting fired before the first frame of film is ever shot.”

“What?” I gasped. “Fired off of ‘Major Dundee’? No way.”

She tilted her head, her smile becoming lopsided. “I’m afraid it’s true . At least that’s the rumor going around the steno pool. And that’s probably why he’s in the mood he’s in.” she continued. “It’s like he’s lost some of his fight.” I nodded. I actually understood. Sam Peckenpah was in the very same position I was in. Something he really wanted to have – his dream – was so close to becoming a reality, yet there were those who were standing in the way of that dream. He was actually between a rock and a hard place like I was. That moment, I felt compassion for the man flow through me. Now even more than before, I knew I had to meet him. The secretary stood up. “If you’d like, I’ll run interference - go in and ask if he will see you now?” I nodded. She was back before I even knew it. “Go on,” she whispered. “He says it’s OK.”

I stepped through the door cautiously, nearly passing by Peckinpah’s desk. It was not located in a prominent position in the room like the desks in most of the other executive offices I had been in before. Sam’s desk was set back in a corner, beside the window that overlooked Gower Street, not in front of it. And the man who was sitting behind the desk, was probably the most unimposing person I had ever laid eyes on. Even though he was sitting, I could tell he wasn’t tall. He was slender, starting to gray, and wore a small but stylish moustache. He also wore glasses. Today I’m not too sure if they were dark glasses (like he is seen wearing in so many photographs), or normal reading glasses. I think they were the latter, because I have this picture in my mind of them being small and worn down toward the end of his nose. He looked over them to see me, I remember now. And that’s what he did for what seemed to me a very long time, though it was probably only thirty seconds or so. Finally he said, “I’m Sam Peckinpah. What can I do for you?”

I drew in a deep breath and held out my hand. We shook. “I’m Stephen Lodge, an actor.” And then I must have rattled off the rest of my speil like an anxious machine gun: “I love your work, Mr. Peckinpah. I think I’ve seen about every piece of film you’ve ever done.”

He chuckled. Then he leaned back in his chair, his fingers spread and touching over his chest. “Thank you,” he said simply. “It’s nice of you to say that.”

“I also want to play the part of Tim Ryan in ‘Major Dundee,’ I told him. Now get this – he didn’t laugh. I had expected he would find it amusing that I wanted to play a leading role, or maybe even be angry at the suggestion – enough to kick me out of his office. But he didn’t.

He just shrugged and said, “I don’t think I’m going to have anything to say about casting that part, Stephen.”

“Steve,” I said quietly, “you can call me Steve”

“Well Steve,” he went on with barely a pause. “The sonsofbitches upstairs have already told me they want some English actor to play Tim Ryan. And if I want to have any say in the casting of the other parts, I’ve decided I’ll have to give in to them this time.”

I shrugged. “Well, thank you for talking to me anyway, Mr. Peckinpah,” I said to him with a sigh.

He stood up slowly, shaking my hand again. “Sam,” he smiled. “You call me Sam.” He came around the desk, looking me straight in the eyes. Then he said, “There’s talk that if ‘Major Dundee’ turns out all right ... that if it makes a profit ... I’ll be here at Columbia for another few pictures. If that happens, Steve,” he went on, “then don’t hesitate to come back and see me. I’ll make sure I put something for you in the next one.”

I smiled, taken back by his kindness. “I … uh … thank you, Sam,” I said slowly, backing away toward the door. He smiled and nodded, throwing me a wink. I turned away, reaching for the knob.

“Oh, Steve,” he called to me. I turned back. He stood there looking at me. “It was nice meeting you.”

I smiled again. “It was nice meeting you, too, Mr. ... Sam,” I replied.

Needless to say, ‘Major Dundee’ wasn’t a success. The studio took the film away from Peckinpah, and between them and ‘Dundee’s’ star, Charlton Heston, with whom Sam had sparred from the inception, the movie was cut to shreds before it even opened.

Some years later, I walked into a small bar near the Warner Brothers Studios in Burbank, the studio where Sam had finally earned the film-world’s respect he had dreamed of for so long with the astounding success of ‘The Wild Bunch.’ Peckinpah just happened to be drinking in there and much to my amazement, he recognized me instantly; calling me over by name. Then for all to hear, he told the story of how he’d met me when I’d had the determination to get past the roadblocks and gotten in to see him when no one else had been able during the preproduction of ‘Major Dundee.’ We shared a drink; laughing at someone’s joke; Sam telling another story or two of his own. Then he was called away to another table, his cronies following. That left me alone in the booth to finish my drink and to contemplate those faded, compassionate moments that I’d spent with this man who was not known for his kindness.

I never saw him again – in person – though I continued to hear the many, sad stories about his drinking and carrying on through friends who worked shows with him; plus the rumors about his failing career and health – and finally the news of his death at age 59 from a heart attack.