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CINEMA SEEN - "Before the "Legend" Began!" By William Margold It’s an indisputable fact that I use MY page to relate stories from my remarkably varied past--- when the cinematic situation at eye, hand, and mind arises. I have been VERY fortunate to have lived very few, if any, dull years among my 62 (so far, this time around) of existence. So when a film comes along that allows me to unlock my memory banks, I’m quick to turn the key, and in the process (hopefully) give the faithful readers of Cinema Seen a bonus for their time spent with me. Herein not one, but TWO of my dearest associates (Brian “Movie Reviews & More” Sebastian and Jim “World Modeling Talent Agency” South) began to sing the praises of THE GREATEST GAME EVER PLAYED (Walt Disney Pictures), and I knew that I was going to eventually be afforded the opportunity to create one of my “special” pages---wherein my past would get blended into my present state of film reviewing. And even I disliked the movie, I would have the cake upon which I could slather on my own, very personal, frosting. However, I was delightfully surprised by the earnest little film, and, in fact, I found myself truly enjoying, and being appropriately moved by it, throughout. Based on the true story of American amateur golfer Francis Ouimet’s (played nicely by Shia LaBeouf) shocking upset of British champion Harry Vardon (portrayed nobly by Stephen Dillane) in the 1913 U.S. Open, the gently effective production, masterfully directed by Bill Paxton, spun me back 45 years to my days as a caddy at the Riviera Country Club in the Pacific Palisades. (For the record, the caddy boisterously presented here by hobbit-like Josh Fitter, is a mite too cute, but that’s a minor divot, indeed.) Fresh out of high school, and only 17 years old, I got turned down by the Marine Corps because of my Juvenile record (I was branded as “an incorrigible”), and was desperately in need of a job. I wandered into the Santa Monica City Employment office one day looking for any kind of work, and was asked if I knew how to caddy. Of course, I didn’t. But having to pay rent ($55 a month)…and eat (lots of Swanson frozen TV dinners, at 49 cents a piece, two made a pretty good meal, however the potatoes never thawed out completely)…and buy some clothes (although I did make the rounds of neighborhood laundry rooms and clotheslines, but that’s another story), I nodded my head, and was dispatched to the famous golf course off of Capri Drive. My first “loop” (going 18 holes) was a disaster. I was wearing uncomfortable leather shoes that made big imprints on the greens. And I had absolutely no idea of where to walk on the course, so I wound up being “motar-ized” by a volley of golf balls. Those damn things hurt, and they left gory bruises. But I survived. And I got paid $10. And I got fed a hot dog (with lots of mustard, onions and relish) washed down with a grape drink at the end of the eighth hole, and again at the end of the thirteenth hole. And while the trek was about four miles, it was all rather invigorating. So began almost two years (1960-1962) of caddying…Mondays thru Saturdays…with Sundays taken off to see movies…and to raid laundry rooms and clotheslines (but that’s another story). In a good week I could make well over $100 cash, and that included consuming over a dozen hot dogs, and guzzling an awful lot of grape drink. But my earnings, and my eating habits, were far surpassed by the benefits that I got from hanging out at the caddy shack, which was populated with veterans of wars ranging as far back as the Spanish American conflict as well as colorful characters who had loads of life experiences that spanned the entire first half (and more) of the 20th Century. Wisely I said little…and listened a lot! History, laced with profanity, spewed from their cigarette smoke bellowing mouths with the molten intensity of lava. And my mind lapped it, searing my senses with indelible imagery that transcended anything that I ever been taught during the first 12 years of my education. Being “the kid”---I was adopted by these slightly inebriated (no matter what time of the day it was) gentlemen, who were delighted that I was truly “all ears.” They even taught me how to play Contract Bridge, covering all of my bets, and rewarding me (I played very well, particularly when I was the “Dummy”) with food (not hot dogs!) and drink (certainly not grape) from the lunch wagon, whenever it made its daily rounds. Those were the last uncomplicated days of my life. Eventually I traded in my second hand golf shoes for regular tennis shoes, and began to go to college (pursuing a degree in Journalism at Santa Monica City College and later at Cal State Northridge), and took up selling dog food door-to-door to support myself. Leaving caddying also meant that I had to stop going on “clothes” raids. Because now that I was out in the world, I really didn’t want to run into someone whose shirt (etc.) I was wearing (but that’s another story). Then again… perhaps someone will make a film about that topic, and then I’ll be able to tell you all about the uniquely stripped blue shirt, and how I was visited by the police for stealing a car, at a time in my life when I had absolutely no idea of how to drive! end NOTE: Originally published in LA Xpress, October 27, 2005 issue. |