Charlton Heston: Hollywood's Last Icon

DEDICATION

For Xiaolei Wu

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Book One: FROM ST. HELEN to MT. SINAI

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Book Two: HOLLYWOOD’S LAST ICON

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

Author’s Note and Acknowledgments

Bibliography

Notes

Complete Charlton Heston Filmography and Television and Radio Work

Index

Photos

About the Author

Praise

Also by Marce Eliot

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

By the age of thirty-seven, Charlton Heston was an Oscar-winning Hollywood superstar. After appearing on Broadway and in dozens of live television dramas in New York City, his career crested on the tidal wave of the iconic roles he played in three of Hollywood’s highest-grossing live-action features of the ’50s. In the next forty-five years he appeared in more than one hundred films and was instrumental in resurrecting the largely dormant science fiction, western, and disaster film genres. He was also the longest-running continuous president of the always-roiling Screen Actors Guild, from the mid-’60s through the early ’70s, and was crucial in keeping the American Film Institute in existence by fighting the government to maintain a reasonable amount of federal funding for the National Endowment for the Arts, the AFI’s chief source of income. He was also an accomplished stage actor. Besides Broadway, he appeared in London’s West End, in Los Angeles and Chicago’s biggest theaters, and even directed on Beijing’s main stage. He was also a member of the Greatest Generation and saw combat in the Pacific during World War II. And he lived an exemplary life as a family man, married to the same woman for sixty-four years, with whom he raised two children.

Yet, for all that, the first and, in many instances, the only thing that comes to people’s minds when the name Charlton Heston is mentioned is his relatively late in life membership in the National Rifle Association and the infamous moment in 2000 when the seventy-six-year-old actor raised a long rifle over his head and declared, with dramatic emphasis, that the only way it would ever be taken away was "From my cold dead hands!" In the instant-impact, media-dominated world we live in, where a single sentence gets repeated over and over again until it can overshadow the accomplishments of an entire career, and often derail it, Heston’s moment of enthusiastic NRA campaigning did just that (one thinks of Howard Dean, who suffered a similar fate when one overly enthusiastic scream fueled a media reaction that destroyed a lifetime in political service and his frontrunning presidential aspirations). As will become clear, there was so much more to Heston’s life than a single exclamation. The NRA episode does not, by any stretch of the imagination, define who Charlton Heston was, all that he had accomplished in his extraordinary life, what made him tick as an artist and drove him as a man.

Heston became a superstar after portraying Moses in Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments (1956) at a time when screen acting in America was in the midst of an extended infatuation with Method acting and its new wave of young movie stars, exemplified by Montgomery Clift, Marlon Brando, James Dean, Eva Marie Saint, Shelley Winters, and others. They were the individual standouts amid the last wave of cookie-cutter studio contract players: the Rock Hudsons, the Tab Hunters, the Joi Lansings, the Jayne Mansfields, to name a few. Heston was neither old school nor new Method; he brought something different to the screen—a stoic American Cold War fundamentalism he didn’t learn in acting schools, or even from looking death in the eye during World War II. All of it was rooted in and flowed directly from the emotional remnants of his early, traumatic upbringing. He had his own personal version of the Method.

Heston was raised in the backwoods of Lower Michigan, where his happiest days were spent hunting, fishing, chopping wood, and swimming with his dad, and happiest nights alone by the fireplace, losing himself in the literary worlds of Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer, Howard Pyle’s The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood, and Jack London’s The Call of the Wild. It was a time and place of childhood joy that was suddenly taken away from him when his parents divorced and his mother remarried and eventually settled in the urban environs of Chicago. The little boy lost everything: his dog, his beloved woods, his real dad, even his name.

For the rest of his life, Heston sought to reclaim that lost world through the creative universe of acting, in characters and films that resonated with him and that would define him as a figure of strength, stature, leadership, and ideals. There was Moses, who was taken as a baby from his parents and for the rest of his life tried to find and reunite with his true heritage; Judah Ben-Hur, who rose from Hebrew slavery and, once freed, searched for his former home and his missing mother and sister; Will Penny, who late in life desired to marry and become a husband to the woman he loved and a father to her boy before giving up and going his own way; Michelangelo, who was determined to please the father-figure pope by giving up his own creative urges to sculpt and instead painting the Sistine Chapel for him; Captain Garth, who fought in the Pacific during World War II to preserve America’s freedom and way of life at the Battle of Midway.

Heston’s desire to reclaim the perfect world of his childhood also expressed itself politically. As his fame grew, the onetime activist Democrat, who, in 1960, had supported John F. Kennedy’s successful bid to become president and in 1963 marched alongside Martin Luther King Jr. at the great March on Washington, began to turn away from the liberal Left in favor of a more conservative interpretation of the Constitution, especially the Second Amendment. Eventually, he became an enthusiastic supporter of the NRA, a commitment that many in liberal-dominated Hollywood considered outrageous.

Most Tinseltown scandals don’t last, whether it’s who slept with whom, who’s getting divorced, whose dress top fell off at which function, etc. ad nauseum. Hollywood loves these bits because they do nothing so much as promote this actor or his, or her, next film. The one big no-no is politics, unless you’re on the so-called ride side of the equation. During the industry-wrecking blacklist years of the ’50s, not one of Hollywood’s conservative stars—the Bing Crosbys, the Bob Hopes, the Gary Coopers—suffered for their patriotic positions. Some, like Ronald Reagan, used that time as a springboard to post-film political careers of varying degrees of significance. When an actor takes a position that is unpopular, he may not only lose his audience, but also the money people who finance his movies. He becomes a risk, and in an industry that purports to be an art form—the essential ingredient of which is taking risks—the last thing the financiers want. They like to play it safe, with films that look alike, sound alike, and earn alike, with no visible politics to get in the way of popcorn sales.

Most noncommittal (as in nonpolitical) actors will happily compromise their own beliefs and espouse middle-of-the-road views in the pursuit of widespread popularity and, with it, the promise of fame and fortune. Most, but not all. Heston did not worry about these things as much as he did his right to free expression, and if his views cost him parts in films, bigger paychecks, or his place in the pantheon, so be it, he was willing to pay that price. By the ’90s, when he became president of the NRA, he had already made his name in movies, won his Oscar, raised his children, and banked a sizable sum. He cared more about being a voice for freedom and a defender of the Second Amendment than having the approving roar of the crowd or hearing the ongoing jingle of the cash register.

The more he became involved with the NRA, the more the demand for his films faded (as did those of the post-Reagan crop of liberal actors that had once dominated the industry). He replaced that loss in a different kind of arena where he could act out his best character, Charlton Heston, a version as singular and recognizable as Hal Holbrook’s celebrated Mark Twain, a combination of Ronald Reagan (another Illinoisan from the sticks) and Davy Crockett, for those audiences eager to see him perform it.

But there was more to it than just adulation. Defending the Second Amendment was the best way he found to keep himself connected to his dreams of childhood—that life he lived in the woods, hunting and fishing with his dad. Up to the end of his days, until Alzheimer’s blurred the deep focus of his longing, erased the memories of his past and took away his visions of the future, Heston’s life journey propelled him inevitably forward, while he sought to somehow find a way to go back, to revive and release the lost child within.

Here is the story of Charlton Heston.

Charlton and Lydia Heston in New York City, 1948. (Courtesy of the Heston Family)

BOOK ONE

FROM ST. HELEN TO MT. SINAI

Charlton Heston, age seven, in the North Woods of Michigan. (Courtesy of the Heston Family)

CHAPTER ONE

It’s 1923 and Hollywood, like the rest of the country, is thriving. Americans are roaring through the twenties, making lots of money, drinking bootleg booze, dancing the Charleston, and packing themselves into movie theaters to see the latest picture shows. Demand for new films is so great the studios can’t crank them out fast enough. An undeveloped orange grove at the turn of the century, Hollywood is now the prime locale for the hot new industry of motion pictures. Houses are being speed-built to accommodate the explosion of studio personnel needed to help meet the public’s insatiable demand for movies.

At the height of this construction frenzy, a couple of opportunistic real estate developers hang a sign near the top of the hills surrounding the valley to advertise their new housing development. It has fifty-foot-high white letters that spell out HOLLYWOODLAND. It is meant to stay there only for one year, or until all the units are sold, whichever happens first, but it never comes down. Shortened to HOLLYWOOD in 1949, it becomes a hovering symbol of the industry of dreams, and to this day watches over Tinseltown like the giant statue of Jesus over Rio de Janeiro.

With revelry running rampant, Hollywood has fallen under increasing scrutiny by the federal government, which is concerned about its excessive displays of cultural decadence. In response, on December 4, Cecil B. DeMille, one of the industry founders, premieres his spectacular silent epic The Ten Commandments at, appropriately enough, Grauman’s Egyptian Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. It is immediately recognized as a moral testament to both ancient times and the present. Shot in rare two-strip Technicolor, and with its breathtaking sequence of the parting of the Red Sea, the film receives rave reviews and packs every theater it plays. Even the government approves.

Two months earlier, two thousand miles east and light-years away from the manufactured glamour and crunchy glitz of Tinseltown, in a rural, woody section of Evanston, Illinois, John Charles Carter is delivered into the world. Thirty-three years later, in 1956, at another moral crossroads in America, he will play Moses in DeMille’s even more spectacular remake of his biblical masterpiece.

By then, John Charles Carter will be known to the world as Charlton Heston.

His parents kept a small getaway shack in the woods that John Charles’ father, Russell Whitford Carter, had built for them by hand. Russell, who had learned construction from his father, John Carter, a poor Yorkshire County coal mine pit boy in the United Kingdom who came to America in search of freedom and fortune, and landed a job as a lumberjack with the Stevens Logging company of Roscommon, Michigan, a town named after the county in Ireland. Eventually, having sufficiently depleted the forests of Roscommon, the company moved its outfit farther south. Carter, who had saved every penny he earned, managed to convince the county of Roscommon to sell him half the newly denatured forests for a modest sum, in return for his guarantee to produce taxable revenue from it.

John’s mother, Lilla Charlton, was born in Chicago, descended from the Scot-English Clan Fraser of Inverness, a lineage traceable to William the Conqueror and whose ancestors came down to America from Canada and settled in Illinois. She came from a very interesting family, according to Holly Heston Rochell, Charlton Heston’s daughter. "It was run by a strict, Victorian-style matriarch, my grandmother, Lilla’s mother—‘Ladybird,’ as she was sometimes called by other kids in the neighborhood, or ‘Josie,’ or ‘Uncle Jo,’ which referred to Joseph Stalin, that ought to give you an idea of the kind of person she was.

"Lilla, a dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty, eventually ran off with the first guy who came along who got [her] out of her restrictive Victorian household. That was Russell. My dad, Charlton Heston, was their firstborn. He arrived on October 23, 1923. She always called him that, Charlton, not John or John Charles . . . the only one who ever did it, and the only one he would ever let do it. Or sometimes Tigger. Later on my mom called Dad Charlie, and she was the only one who could do that. Everyone else, all his life, called him Chuck."

Lilla had met the handsome, charming Russell Carter during one of her Chicago-based family’s frequent excursions to the St. Helen woods of Michigan, a favorite vacation spot of theirs. The couple was engaged while he was still in boot camp at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center, not very far away, just north of Chicago, where he was stationed. I believe she loved him, Holly said, but she also had a mission, to get out of that house and have some freedom.

Russell and his new bride lived in a small cabin in the St. Helen woods, near to where he felt he could earn a living. Although Lilla would always describe it as much more comfortable than it really was, she had a difficult time coping. Holly: This was a woman from a sophisticated, urban, well-heeled life who was used to going to the opera, to the Chicago Art Institute, and now found herself living in Podunk, Nowhere, in what was really just another cage, only worse. Instead of the gilded one she had tried to flee, she was stuck in a shack in this outback, feeling culturally stifled among the unfriendly, suspicious, uneducated locals she considered heathens. Russell loved it there, and I don’t think he had any idea how Lilla really felt.

From a very early age young John shared his father’s love of the woods, and believed it to be the center of the universe. During the week, while his father worked, he liked to go and sit by himself along the edge of the lake, to daydream, while breathing the pine-sweet air. I lived a very solitary life in the woods because there was no one around my age. So I did even more of what all kids do, which is play pretend games [with myself].

On weekends, Russell would take the boy and the family dog hunting in the woods. Russell taught him everything about guns—how to load and unload them, sight, aim, shoot, and, after, thoroughly clean them. In the winter when it snowed, the two would push through the slush to chop down trees for firewood. The freshly cut splits smelled wet and sweet, and covered the boy’s fingers with splinters and sticky pinesap. No matter. He proudly carried as much firewood as he could to the house and loved to shove them through the front door of the central stove. In the summer, Russell taught his boy how to fish, everything from baiting a hook to cleaning a catch. All they caught was taken back and cooked by Lilla as dinner for the family.

When John Charles was five, two things happened that upset his world: the first was when his mother gave birth to a girl she named Lilla Ann, after herself. Baby Lilla’s arrival ended John’s special status as the family’s only child. The second was his enrollment in school, a one-room house with no plumbing, and a class of twelve students over eight grades. School expanded his world and, for the first time, let him interact with other children his own age. That fall he won the part of Santa Claus in the school’s annual Christmas play. He had one line of dialogue: Merry Christmas! As he later told one reporter, That was the real beginning. Other than that, he did not blend in easily. During classes, he had a tendency to daydream. I liked to draw cowboys in my geography book . . . I had almost no playmates.

At home after school every day, he liked to listen to Enrico Caruso records on the family’s windup phonograph, and as he learned to read, books became his preferred vehicle of escape. He discovered the classics most boys do, his favorite Ernest Thompson Seton’s Lives of the Hunted. He liked to act out all the parts of the animals by himself in the living room while his mother prepared dinner. On days when there was no school, he would take his dog Lobo with him deep into the woods, where he would continue to act out the stories from his books. I pictured myself like Tom Sawyer—hunting and fishing, trapping, canoeing, and all that stuff.

As the boy got older, other reading material had a different effect on him. In those days every house in rural America had a Sears, Roebuck & Co. catalog, and in his memoirs Charlton recalled the hormonal charge he got from browsing through the phone book–size, fully illustrated one his parents kept: My first pubescent juices stirred while staring transfixed at the underwear models. (They were in the first part of the catalogue, just after housedresses.)

Russell found full-time daywork in St. Helen, operating a sawmill in one of the lumberyards, and a second job on weekends helping to build an earth dam. Sometimes, when he had to work, instead of hunting or fishing he would take the boy along with him to the dam to watch it being made. What better show for John’s fanciful mind?

And then, when he was ten years old, everything changed again. According to Holly, After my grandmother gave birth to a third child, a baby boy she named Alan, she had reached her breaking point. I think she knew early on she had married the wrong guy and one day said, ‘That’s it,’ packed a bag with their few belongings, took her three children with her to the station, and boarded a train bound for Columbus, Georgia, where her sister May lived. Lilla wanted her children to be raised the way she had been. Lilla’s sister had married a radiologist and lived in a marble-floored southern mansion.

It soon became clear to John that this wasn’t just a visit and that they were never going home. And where was his dad? One day not long after they were settled in, Lilla sat John down and calmly explained that she was no longer married to his father and that he wouldn’t be around anymore. In his memoir, Heston says that he didn’t really understand what it all meant, but the thought of not seeing his dad again sent him into a crying jag that lasted two full days, during which he kept begging his mother to tell him where his dad was, but all she kept repeating was he wouldn’t be seeing him anymore. It was an extremely traumatic experience, Heston said years later, and suggested, as many children of divorced parents do, that it was somehow his fault his father had gone. It colored my whole adolescence . . . for years it seemed an awful thing to me. I felt a deep sense of personal guilt. And still later, he admitted it wasn’t just his father he missed, but the world they shared together: I missed my dad greatly, and the woods I knew best . . .

Lilla wasted no time enrolling John in a Columbus middle school, but the boy found it hard to adjust to southern children, who were so different to him from his classmates back home. He made only one new friend, an African American boy named Josh whose family lived and worked in Aunt May’s house. Holly: Lilla had basically dumped Russell, but before she left him, she had become pregnant with Alan, her third child, except Russell was not the father. Chet Heston [Chester Lucien Heston] was, and he became her second husband. They’d first met while Heston was working for Russell. My grandmother saw Chet as her ticket out of St. Helen. She was a die-hard Chicagoan, and that’s where she wanted to live and raise her kids, in a more urban and cultured environment.

One day, again without any advance warning, Lilla packed the children’s belongings and returned with them to St. Helen. John brightened up and thought everything was going to be all right again, until he realized it wouldn’t. There was a new, tall man with his mother while his own dad was nowhere to be found. John had seen this man before, whenever his dad had taken him to work at the dam.

Shortly after they returned to St. Helen, Lilla married Chester, who then put the family’s belongings into a trailer hooked to the back of his car and drove them all south to Alliance, Ohio, where he was from and where he intended to live with his new family.

To Lilla, it was a big step in the right direction.

Charlton Heston filming Peer Gynt. (Courtesy of the Heston Family)

CHAPTER TWO

It was the height of the Depression, and Chester had difficulty finding steady work in Alliance. After only a few weeks, he packed up the family and headed for Wisconsin to start another new life with them. When the plenty of jobs he’d heard about there proved to be just rumors, he moved the family yet again, this time at Lilla’s urging, to Wilmette, North Chicago, where Chester rented a house and found a job near Lake Michigan as a welder in a defense plant. Soon enough, he had saved enough money for a down payment on a house of their own at 325 Maple Avenue, in one of Wilmette’s better neighborhoods.

The move had its advantages for John. For the first time, he had a space of his own, the third floor of the house, really the attic that Chester had turned into a bedroom for him. That part was great, but he still missed the woods of St. Helen, Lobo, and, most of all, his real dad. Chester tried to do the right thing, but it was just as difficult for him as it was for young John. According to Holly, Even though my dad deeply respected his stepfather, there was really very little warmth, no nurturing, no tenderness from Chester.

Then, as if to erase everything that reminded her son of Russell, Lilla told him his name was no longer John Charles Carter; from now on he was Charlton Heston. The boy was confused but said nothing. Holly: Dad took the new name not because he loved Chet, but because he was embarrassed and ashamed he was from a divorced family, although he was too young to understand what had happened or why.

Holly continued: He also no longer had a middle name . . . Early on, when his friends at school would ask him why, he would shrug his shoulders and say he wasn’t given one. He did give himself one later on when he was at university—Lance—that he used for a while before abandoning it and being just Charlton Heston.*

Chet continued to do well, and in 1934, at Lilla’s urging, he moved the family to Chicago. That fall, Heston started classes at Wilmette’s New Trier East High School, one of the best schools in the nation according to Life magazine. It proved another difficult transition for him. Years later he recalled, When I first [moved to Chicago,] I remember being actually scared to death of the automobile traffic and the noise and everything else that goes with a big city. New Trier was a social kind of school . . . kids are the most conventional people in the world. It is more important than anything else for them to conform, and I was a kind of the oddball. I was driven into being independent. The fact that, until sixteen, I was small for my age, made it worse because I was also the most awkward guy in school.

There were continued difficulties for him with his new name. When I first went to high school, the teacher read the roll and said, ‘Charlotte Heston?’ and I sank in my seat and she said, ‘Charlotte Heston?’ and I sank further, and she said, ‘Where is the little Heston girl.’ God! It was dreadful. Taking their cue from the teacher, the bigger boys took to calling him Charlotte and taunted him in the schoolyard. To make everything worse, he suffered a severe outbreak of acne. Then he turned sixteen and went from being the shortest and smallest among them to the tallest and biggest. He grew eight inches in a single year and his skin cleared up. They stopped calling him Charlotte.

I can’t emphasize enough how important New Trier turned out to be for me, Heston said later. Given my lonely circumstances, being a hick kid from a lonely part of the woods, who didn’t know how to dance, who didn’t know how to drive, didn’t have any money, had never played team sports before because there were never enough kids around to form a team. The only thing I felt equipped for were the rifle team and the chess club . . . Gradually, Heston found a way to make friends with the other boys. He was now big enough to play softball after school in the well-cared-for neighborhood field, and everyone wanted him on their team.

The other thing about New Trier that was new and exciting for him was its co-ed policy, something relatively new to American high schools. He’d never seen so many pretty girls except in those Sears catalogs, and these were much better. He could smell their hair when he sat behind them in class, and he marveled at how their skin glowed, but he didn’t dare speak to any of them. Later on he said, I was homely and self-conscious. My hair hung in my eyes. In high school, I never dated.

And it was at New Trier that he first discovered the academic world of drama. One of Heston’s classmates, a boy named Warren Mackenzie, was trying out for the freshman play and invited him to tag along. Chuck said okay, but he had no idea why Warren would want to be in a play, until he saw that all the prettiest girls from his class were on the stage of the school auditorium, and he got it. Or got something. He had always loved playing pretend in the woods by himself, but here all the kids were playing it together, and now he wanted to be included. He tried out for the play and won a role. As Heston recalled in his memoir, this was the moment when I began my life. Call it the craziest of second comings.

Acting with his schoolmates was something new and exciting for him, a type of social interaction he had never before experienced, and he couldn’t get enough. He tried out for every new play, acted out individual scenes in front of his English class, and, because of his deep voice, read parts in plays over the New Trier radio system. He was cast in one school production of Death Takes a Holiday, a romantic drama based on the Italian play La Morte in Vacanza by Alberto Casella, opposite what Heston later described as the prettiest girl he had ever seen. During the performance, he was supposed to pick her up and carry her across the stage, but he tripped over himself, dropped her, and then fell on top of her. Everyone laughed—he did too—but he would have preferred acting the hero rather than playing the fool.

As he began to feel more socially at ease, he allowed himself gradually to get closer to Chet, who was receptive to his stepson’s overtures. Whenever he asked, Chet always found time to help him with his chemistry homework, Heston’s most difficult subject at school. Lilla hoped their growing relationship would help erase the pain of Russell’s absence, that still lingered.

One afternoon after school, while he was playing softball, a car pulled up to the side of the field. The driver’s side window rolled down and Heston immediately recognized his father’s familiar warm grin. He dropped his mitt and ran over. They talked for a few minutes, until his father stuck his hand out and patted the boy on his shoulder, rolled the window up, and drove away. Heston watched the car until it turned a corner and disappeared. The familiar waves of longing and shame washed back over him. He left the field, ran home, and locked himself in his room, staying there until the bad feelings passed.

In his senior year, Heston dropped his other extracurricular activities and devoted all his free time to acting in school plays. At six feet, three inches, with his body filled out and his handsome face, perfect nose, hero’s jaw, and head full of wavy, thick brown hair, he got all the leading roles, not just in school but at the local community theater as well. In the spring he was offered the lead in the big senior production, The American Play, a popular prewar anti-Nazi piece that had recently been on Broadway.*

One day, during rehearsals, he received an anonymous note praising his acting and, along with it, a ten-dollar bill. He didn’t know for certain who had sent it, but suspected, and rightly so as he later found out, it was from the mother of the female lead. It was meant to pay for him to take her daughter out. The girl was very pretty and had a crush on him but, like Heston, she was shy and socially inexperienced. He read the note and wanted to ask her out, but he had never been on a date before, and couldn’t get up the nerve. He wound up using the money to take a couple of buddies out for burgers and shakes.

Opening night went well, and afterward, while still in costume sitting in his small dressing room, a large, intense-looking young man came by and said he wanted to see him. The fellow introduced himself as David Bradley, congratulated Heston on his performance, explained that he was an independent filmmaker and wanted Heston to star in his next production, an adaptation of Henrik Ibsen’s Peer Gynt, in the title role of the foolish, immature young man who seeks his fortune traveling the world. What he didn’t tell Heston was that he had found the high school production amateurish and difficult to sit through, but thought this actor’s good looks and strong physique would translate well to the screen.

The twenty-one-year-old Bradley had begun making amateur films at the age of ten and, when he was old enough, trained at the Todd School for Boys at Woodstock, Illinois, the same institution that the young Orson Welles had attended, after which Bradley made a number of self-financed silent 16 mm movies, fanciful adaptations of Treasure Island and Oliver Twist, the latter partially funded by Northwestern University’s School of Speech. Bradley had gone to see The American Play when he’d heard the actor in the lead was talented, good-looking, and, as he found out that night, willing to work for no pay. Bradley had begun production of Peer Gynt with a Northwestern student in the title role, but he quit after landing a paying job in a summer stock company. When Heston agreed to do it, Bradley later said, I found I had discovered a natural. Heston was not only the rabbit pulled hastily from the hat, but he had a natural presence and instinctive acting ability.

Heston, meanwhile, had never heard of Peer Gynt, or Ibsen for that matter, but was eager to be in the movie. He agreed to do it if he could film on weekends, his only days off from a summer job at the local steel mill Chet had helped him get. He told Bradley he needed to save as much money as he could for his college expenses, as he was starting Northwestern in the fall. The Winnetka Community Theater, where he had done several shows, had awarded him a full drama scholarship to the School of Speech at the university’s drama department.

It may not have been his work at the community theater that was the real reason for his scholarship. It is likely the family contributed more than a little to the community theater to help get Heston into its plays and indirectly funded the scholarship to ensure Heston would attend Northwestern. Holly: Northwestern was part of the family tradition. Lennox Barrett Clarke, my father’s father-in-law, graduated from there Phi Beta Kappa in 1918.

No, Bradley said, no steel mill. Heston had to make a full commitment to the film, or he couldn’t be in it. It may have been a bluff on Bradley’s part, as he was by this time desperate to finish his film, but Heston agreed.

Peer Gynt took the entire summer to shoot. As Heston later remembered, My performance as Peer has only physical virtues. David somehow perceived what other [future] directors also found: my face is useful for the camera. [Otherwise] I had no concept for performing the part. I’m not sure David did either. To fill out the film, Bradley cut in stock footage of Norway, a few stock shots of Arabs crossing the desert, and a sailing ship caught in a storm he concocted out of miniatures. He made his own title cards for the dialogue, and in one brief fantasy sequence tinted the negative alternately green, blue, and red. Whenever he showed it, he played a tinny-sounding recording of composer Edvard Grieg’s Peer Gynt as the sound track. Heston did surprisingly well considering this was the first time he had ever appeared on film.

The production wrapped early in the fall of 1941, just before Heston was about to begin his freshman year at Northwestern. Although he tried, Bradley was unable to secure any distribution for his opus, and reluctantly put it aside to move on to his next project.

In his first semester, according to Holly, Heston had his own unique style of dress. Holly: "He wore tight green corduroys and Elizabethan silk tops that his mother made for him, drapey shirts, with strings instead of buttons, ascots, and he wore three-inch copper bands on each wrist. On one side were his initials, CLH (the L for Lance), and on the other the name of his imaginary girlfriend."

He decided to try out for the football team. He was big and strong enough and believed he might even make first string, until one scrimmage when his nose was broken during play action. It swelled up and twisted and left a permanent bump with a slight hook. He dropped football after that, and the only extracurricular activity he went out for was acting in the university’s plays.

His deep, resonant voice also helped land him some bits on a local Chicago radio station, mostly daytime soap operas and an occasional appearance on the popular serial Terry and the Pirates. The gigs helped make up the extra money he had lost giving up his job to make Peer Gynt.

During this first year, in addition to his regular academic load, Heston took classes in Theater, set building, lighting design, stage makeup application, and speech. He enjoyed most of them, but couldn’t make heads or tails of the Stanislavski-influenced Fundamentals of Theater Practice B-40 acting class. It made no sense to him to look within to find his characters; they had a life of their own, and his job, he believed, was to approximate that life by acting it out, not by connecting it to his, in some kind of weird collaboration of spirits and personalities. He said about it years later, Method acting is like masturbating. It’s a lot of fun, but you don’t accomplish much.

His primary acting teacher was Alvina Krause, an assistant professor of voice and interpretation, who would go on to have a distinguished acting career in repertory theater. She urged Heston to improve his elocution and enunciation by unlocking his jaw, something that made sense to him. He had a tendency to talk through clenched teeth (something he never entirely got rid of). Heston later said, I consider myself lucky to have had a drama coach like Alvina Krause . . . and I know all of my other classmates, including [future stars] Patricia Neal and Ralph Meeker, felt the same.

Just for fun, when he wasn’t playing sports or studying, he would often take out a pad and sketch—whatever the subject matter was, it didn’t matter. He just loved sketching, Holly said. He also got into watercolors. He was quite good with both. Part of his scholarship deal at Northwestern was that he had to make silk screen posters for the speech department’s productions, which he enjoyed doing. He was also a talented draftsman. He could do anything with his hands. In his limited spare time he still loved to read, a self-described print freak who would stare at the ingredients on cereal boxes if nothing else was available.

One afternoon, Heston noticed the pretty young co-ed sitting directly in front of him in his Fundamentals of Theater Practice class, a ravishing nineteen-year-old student with a tumbling mane of black Irish hair that bounced when she tossed her head back. She was an anthropology major taking the class as part of her minor requirements in theater.

He decided right then he wanted to marry her, even though he had no idea how to go about making that happen. Or even what her name was.

Charlton Heston at Northwestern, 1941. (Courtesy of the Heston Family)

CHAPTER THREE

Lydia Clarke’s mother, Lydia Lenore Schaper, was a direct descendant of Margaret Huntington, a British immigrant who had landed in the New World a new widow, after a long and difficult journey across the Atlantic Ocean. Her husband died within hours of their arrival in Boston in 1633. With five children to raise, she managed to eke out a living until she remarried and then thrived. A century later, one of her many grandchildren, Samuel Huntington, was a signer of the Declaration of Independence. And nearly a century after that, several Huntingtons fought and died fighting on the side of the North in the Civil War. Lydia Lenore Schaper, the daughter of Dr. Charles Schaper, was an activist for the suffragettes and a gifted teacher of the German language, who had to give up her career when she married her husband, Lennox Barrett Clarke of Wisconsin, because of the Wisconsin teacher-tenure law of 1923 that made it illegal for female teachers to be married (when the law was later rescinded, her husband discouraged her from resuming her career).

L. B. Clarke, of Irish descent, was a graduate of Northwestern and a Greek and Latin scholar.* He survived eighteen months on the front lines of France during World War I as part of the American Expeditionary Force and, upon his discharge, became the youngest principal of the high school in Two Rivers, Wisconsin, where he met and married Lydia Schaper. They had a beautiful daughter they also named Lydia, who, while still in her teens, decided she wanted to have a career as an anthropologist.

When Lydia turned her head to the side that day in class and her dark curls shimmied, Heston couldn’t resist putting his fingers through them. Lydia remembered, I had, at that time, long black hair, and a lot of it. One day in class all of a sudden I felt my head swing back, and I realized the student sitting behind me was pulling my hair. He claims he was merely caressing it. No luck. He then tried doing a wolf howl for her in the hallway just as she walked by, something he was sure would do the trick.

It didn’t.

She had noticed him all right, but decided he wasn’t at all her type. This hick was, in her words, the tallest, skinniest man I ever saw in my life.

He nodded hello to her whenever they passed each other on campus and was hoping to find a way to formally introduce himself, but it wouldn’t have mattered; romance was the last thing on her mind. This was the ’40s; a woman either got married and raised a family or remained single and pursued a career. She was attending Northwestern to prepare herself for a professional life, not to find a husband. She never forgot that her mother’s ambitions had been curtailed by marriage and motherhood, and she was determined not to go down that same path. But even if she did, it never would have been with Heston: I thought he was arrogant and conceited and supremely self-confident was how she later described Heston.

They soon found themselves auditioning for the same plays. Each was cast in a separate one-acter on a multiple-act bill, and at the daily rehearsals they constantly and politely kept running into each other. According to Heston, it was Lydia who made the first real move when she asked him how she should read the weird entrance line she had in her script: Minnie, my frog is dead! He took the opening to ask this "breathtakingly beautiful, enchantingly intelligent, real girl" to go with him for coffee so they could talk it over.

Lydia didn’t remember it quite that way: We were insufferably rude to each other during play rehearsals and argued constantly, until one day, quite unexpectedly to him, she turned and said, sweetly, I wonder if I could ask your advice, Mr. Heston. On the way to the coffee shop, Lydia later remembered, she had to tilt her head all the way back to look into his eyes. That was the first time she saw anything about him she actually liked. We had a very stimulating conversation and that was it, she said. I was insanely in love with him.

That was my first date, Heston later recalled. My first date with anybody. I was a pretty weird kid then. But I obviously found the right girl the first time out. And I had the brains to recognize that, even at 17.

Lydia quickly picked up on his moodiness and sensitivity and her calming effect on him, and also the fact that he was always broke. One day he played the lead in a class play and was severely panned by student critics. After class I felt sorry for him and told him I thought he had done rather well. He scowled and said something about not trying to kid him. ‘I was just trying to be nice,’ I said, ‘but if that’s the way you feel . . .’ ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.’ When it came time to pay for the coffee he had to borrow the 20 cents from me.

He soon realized he would need money if he was going to seriously pursue Lydia, so he took any work he could get, including a stint as an elevator operator. It was the best job outside of acting that I ever had, because you can get a little sleep. I used to rehearse in the lobby. I was on duty from midnight until eight in the morning, you see, and all the people who lived in the apartments were so old that they went to bed very early, so I was left pretty much to myself.

In what spare time he had, whenever Lydia—Kitten to him now—was also free, or made herself so, he loved to get together with her and talk about anything and everything, from reminiscing about the beloved woods of his childhood to his literary and dramatic hero, William Shakespeare. If anything attracted Lydia to him, besides his rough-edged good looks, it was the intelligent way he spoke and the words he used. They were his best assets, she decided.

Heston proposed marriage not long after they started dating, and her answer was a firm no. She insisted she wanted no part of marriage, not to him, not to anybody, and maybe, she added, he should look to one of the many cute and very available co-eds on campus. Undeterred, Heston continued proposing, convinced that one day she would say yes.

* * *

As the first semester came to an end, their insular academic world was turned upside down, along with everyone else’s, when, in December 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. That infamous early Sunday afternoon (midwestern time), Heston was at his dorm desk working on a paper about Macbeth when the shocking news came crackling over his radio. He was jolted out of his chair and, red-faced with rage, decided he had to enlist in the military and help defend his country. The next day he joined the Army Air Corps Reserves, hoping to move through basic training quickly and be sent on to active duty.

It didn’t exactly happen that way. Two and a half years passed before he received the call-up, during which time he continued his studies at Northwestern. He and Lydia continued to see each other, and as she gradually grew more comfortable around him, she sometimes let him hold her hand as they walked, but that was it. She would go no further, leaving Heston wondering how she really felt about him. Then shortly before he was finally scheduled to leave for basic training, he found out she was going on a date with another young man who had just enlisted in the navy. It was too much for him. He burst in on them during their dinner at a local restaurant, grabbed Lydia by the hand and pulled her out the door. She didn’t resist; the other fellow didn’t really matter to her anyway and she liked the drama of the moment.

Then, in the winter of 1944, Heston was gone.

He was assigned to basic training in the piney woods just outside of Greensboro, North Carolina, where, despite the rigorous wartime regimen, he found time to write to Lydia every night before he went to bed (proposing in every letter). When he received his orders to ship out, he wrote Lydia for what he believed would be the last time, telling her he was about to be assigned to an active-duty unit and promising he would come back in one piece. Two days later, after breakfast he found a telegram that had been placed atop his neatly made bunk. Telegrams were never good news and his first thought was something must have happened to his mother. He ripped it open, read it, and broke into a smile that was a combination of relief and joy: HAVE DECIDED TO ACCEPT YOUR PROPOSAL. LYDIA.

He arranged for her to come to Greensboro by train and managed a last-minute two-day pass. He reserved a room at a bed-and-breakfast in town and bought a twelve-dollar wedding ring from a local jeweler. He met her at the station in his uniform, and when she stepped out of the car put his hands under her arms and lifted her off her feet. He held her that way as he kissed her and spun in a circle until they both were so dizzy they almost fell down.

They were married on St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 1944, he in his dress uniform, she in a lavender suit she had bought for fifty dollars, with matching high heels and a white hat covered with artificial flowers. On the way to the Grace Methodist Protestant Church, which Lydia later described as a beautiful white church with a flowering cherry tree in bloom, the skies opened and she and Heston held hands and ran to avoid arriving drenched. Only then did she take her hat off, and Heston waited to see if the rain had ruined it. Then he broke into a grin and said, If only they’d been real flowers, it might have done them some good.

Two ladies from the church served as witnesses. After, the minister wouldn’t let Heston pay, he said, because soldiers were giving enough defending the country. The next day, the eighteenth, Heston shipped out, to Scott Field in Illinois, assigned to further training at radio school, and Lydia returned to Northwestern to complete her studies.

At Scott Field, Heston proved adept at learning Morse code—memorizing patterns was easy for him when he broke down the dots and dashes like the lines of a play to learn their rhythms. Then it was on to aerial gunnery classes, where he was trained how to handle a .50-caliber machine gun, something that he was also able to pick up without much difficulty, having been around guns since he was a little boy. His next stop was Sheppard Field, in Texas, and after that Selfridge Field, in Michigan. By the time he arrived at Selfridge, he had reached the rank of staff sergeant, which made it easier for him to get a three-day pass to see Lydia.

As Heston sweetly notes in his memoir, they spent the first day of this brief reunion conjugating. That night he took her to see Paul Robeson in Othello at the Cass Theatre in nearby Cass City. As he ran his fingers down the phone book looking for the street address, he noticed a listing for Carter, Russell W. He turned to Lydia, pointed to the listing, and told her he believed this might be his real father, whom he hadn’t seen since that day nearly four years ago at the high school softball field. Lydia urged him to call and find out and, if it was him, to meet with him. According to Holly, He was hesitant because he didn’t want to open old wounds. The painful memories of what had happened were still there, and he knew his mother would be unhappy if he reunited with his father, but he decided since he was over eighteen he should make that choice for himself. His longing for a connection to his real father was stronger than his not wanting to disappoint Lilla.

He dialed the number. When a man’s voice answered, Heston asked if he was the Russell Carter from St. Helen. The voice said yes, and Heston said, simply, This is Charlton.

After a pause, Russell said hello. They talked for a few minutes, and when Heston gave his father his address, he said he’d be right over. It was the beginning of reestablishing their relationship that this time could not be interfered with by my grandmother, Holly said. She never wanted them to have a relationship. She wanted [Charlton] to learn about art and music, not how to skin rabbits.

Russell arrived at the hotel twenty minutes later with his second wife, Velda, and his six-year-old towheaded daughter, Kay, the half sister who until then Heston didn’t know he had. The meeting was warm, and he couldn’t help but notice how much older and less fit his father looked. When Russell suggested they come and stay at his house for the duration of their stay, Heston and Lydia said yes.

The weekend passed quickly, and when it was over Russell took them both to the station, where Lydia boarded a train back to Northwestern. Heston looked tall and handsome in his uniform as she watched him slowly shrink into the distance. She put her head in her hands. It was hard to have him go off and become a soldier. It was very painful for me.

Heston returned to Selfridge Field, but he wouldn’t be there for long. The next day, he received a new assignment. He was being sent to the Aleutian Islands in Alaska, where, it was widely rumored the Japanese were planning another murderous sneak attack.

Sergeant Heston in the Aleutian Islands during World War II. (Courtesy of the Heston Family)

CHAPTER FOUR

In 1942, the Japanese had invaded the islands of Kiska and Attu in the Rat and Near group of the Aleutians off the western coast of Alaska. It took the Allies more than two years to drive them out. The American commanders knew the Japanese were planning a new offensive and had sufficient air power ready to defend against it.

Heston was assigned to the Seventy-Seventh Bombardment Squadron of the Eleventh Air Force, stationed on an island in the Aleutian chain, where he was trained as a radio gunner