Highway to Hollywood - Maury Dexter 2 MAURY DEXTER FILMOGRAPHY
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To Emma Foster Poindexter The best mother and friend in the whole world. There will never be another. I love you, Emmo. And Hank Tani My best friend and associate for over 40 years. There will never be another. Thank you, Tani. Highway to Hollywood - Maury Dexter 2 MAURY DEXTER FILMOGRAPHY MOTION PICTURES ASSOCIATED PRODUCERS / 20TH CENTURY FOX Producer Year* 1. Little Shepherd Of Kingdom Come 1959 2. The Third Voice 1960 3. The Yellow Canary 1961 PRODUCER – DIRECTOR 4. High Powered Rifle 1960 5. Walk Tall 1960 6. Womanhunt 1961 7. The Purple Hills 1961 8. Air Patrol 1962 9. The Firebrand 1963 10. Young Guns Of Texas 1963 11. The Day Mars Invaded The Earth 1963 12. House Of The Damned 1963 13. Police Nurse 1963 14. Harbor Lights (filmed in Puerto Rico) 1964 15. The Young Swingers 1964 16. Surf Party 1964 17. Raiders From Beneath The Sea 1964 18. Wild On The Beach 1964 19. Naked Brigade (filmed in Greece) 1964 20. Outlaw Of Red River (filmed in Spain) 1965 Highway to Hollywood - Maury Dexter 3 AMERICAN INTERNATIONAL PICTURES (AIP) Producer – Director Year 21. Maryjane 1966 22. The Mini-Skirt Mob 1966 23. Born Wild 1967 24. Hell’s Belles 1968 *May be year of production, not release. Directed multiple episodes of Little House On The Prairie. Worked as director/assistant director on over 100 episodes of Little House On The Prairie, 1974-1980. Worked for five years as assistant on Highway To Heaven with Michael Landon, 1983 – 1990. Directed several episodes of Father Murphy starring Merlen Olsen. Assisted on TV pilot Us staring Michael Landon prior to his death in 1992. Highway to Hollywood - Maury Dexter 4 CHAPTER 1 I was born in Paris, Arkansas, on June 12, 1927, the fifth child of William Henry and Emma Ellen Poindexter. I was preceded by three older brothers and a sister who, I’m told, died either very young or in childbirth. My birth name was Morris Gene Poindexter. My oldest brother, Foster, was a good 10 years older than I and James Reed was about eight years my senior, as I recall. William Talmadge, my other brother, was three years and three months older than yours truly. My father worked in the coalmines in Paris and my mother-nee Emma Foster, was the daughter of one of the largest mine owners in the state. My grandfather, Foster, owned the Eureka #1 and Eureka #2, as well as “The Short Mountain,” all big producing mines. Before I was born, Grandfather Foster died leaving everything to my grandmother, but leaving the financial control in the hands of his longtime employee – the controller, and his close friend – an attorney, whose names I cannot remember, as it occurred before I was born. The story that I was told, years later, was that in a few short years – after my grandfather passed away – the controller and lawyer, through a series of maneuvering of paper work being signed by my grandmother, (who trusted these men, as her husband had for many years) was able to legally wrest the ownership of all three mines from my grandmother. It seems almost impossible today, but I guess in the olden days – just after the turn of the century – the ladies knew nothing of business. They were strictly housewives and mothers, so it didn’t take a lot of “finagling” to take away one’s assets. Especially if you lived in a small town (population around 1,500) and you were the only lawyer for a hundred miles around, or so the story goes. My father, who had worked for my grandfather Foster, had met and married my mother when she was only 17. They had their family in Paris and everything seemed fine. However, with the loss of the mines, my father refused to work for the new crooks (owners) and moved us to Fort Smith, Arkansas – 42 miles to the northwest. Fort Smith was a pretty town, the second largest in the state, Little Rock being larger by several thousand people. Highway to Hollywood - Maury Dexter 5 I can’t recall what my father did for a living during my young years. I know we lived fairly well and had a nice two-story white house, on the edge of town. I do remember my dad seemed to be gone a lot, but was always home on the weekends. I recall vividly, him putting me on his lap and reading me the Sunday morning comics from the newspaper. We called them the “funny papers.” I remember, very well, one summer evening in July of 1935. I had just turned eight years old and was taking my bath in the upstairs bathroom at the end of the hall, when I heard the telephone ringing downstairs and then, a loud sorrowful scream! I was terrified and wanted to run downstairs for I knew the continuing screams of agony were coming from my mom. Naked and wet, I rushed to dry off and get my clothes on. It seemed like an eternity, getting out of the tub and drying off and dressing, before I could run down to the living room. Mom stood crying, loudly, with the phone receiver dangling in her hand. My aunt had called and told her that my dad had been killed, instantly, in a head-on collision somewhere near Kilgore, Texas. I later learned he was in route to a new job in one of the new Texas oil fields. It was the height of the Depression. My father gone and my mother (like her mother before) had no trade – never had worked a day in her life – left us entirely without means of any kind. Foster, being the oldest, was called home from the University of Fayetteville, Arkansas. He was only in his second year, but he came home to try and find work. With thousands of men with families unemployed, the chance of a twenty year old getting anything, was all but impossible. I remember two years before Dad died, he sent Foster some money to buy a “transportation” car to commute to the university and home. After his first term at Fayetteville, Foster drove into the rear driveway in his “transportation” car. It was a 1926-27 Lincoln convertible – complete with rumble seat and a mile-long hood. My father took one look at the huge “white elephant” and hit the roof! He scolded Foster badly and gave him a good lecture on economizing. “It takes a gallon of gas, just to go around the block!” My dad said, “Get rid of it!” The end of the next term, Foster drove in the rear driveway – again, only this time, in a British Austen. It was so small only two could sit in it and both were cramped. I guess, to spite my dad, Foster went completely the other way. He took me for a ride and while making a turn to come back home, the steering wheel came off in Foster’s hands. He put it back on the post, but the threads on the wheel itself must have been stripped Highway to Hollywood - Maury Dexter 6 because it kept going “round and round,” but the wheels wouldn’t turn. Foster told me to hand him a pair of pliers out of the compartment. He took the pliers and clasped the post, turned the wheels and we drove home – at about 10 mph – Foster maneuvering this little car, all the way, with pliers. After weeks at home, Foster finally got a job as stock boy at White and Castle, the largest grocery store in Fort Smith. We lived about three miles from the center of town on Johnson Street. The grocery store was at the other end of town, on Garrison Avenue, near the Arkansas River. With four growing boys, my mom could not make ends meet on Foster’s salary which I recall was meager, to say the least. Jimmy quit school in his senior year and Foster go him a job at the grocery store – as box boy. A year later, even with Foster and Jimmy both working, making peanuts, Mom had started selling off the furniture – piece by piece. The main trouble was that no one had any money to buy most of the articles. If slowly going to the “poor house” wasn’t bad enough, the entire family began being besieged by the unknown and, to this day, unexplained. It seems the house was becoming, for the lack of a better word, “haunted.” The first of the “incidents” that occurred, was on a warm evening in the summer of 1936. Mom, Jimmy, Bill and I were sitting in the living room. Foster had gone out. Jimmy and Bill were reading – Mom and I were listening to the radio. The living room had five or six concave glass-covered pictures hanging on the various walls of the room. All were early photographs of my dad’s relations and some, as I recall, of my mom’s. All of a sudden and all together – every picture came off the hook and hit the hardwood floor, face down. They, instantly, began spinning like a top, at high speed. The noise of the impact startled all of us and we jumped up and stood frozen, looking at the spinning pictures. After they all stopped turning, my mom went over and began to survey the damage. There was none. The glass had not been broken – not even marred. Surprisingly, the wire on every frame was still intact and the hooks, on the wall, were also.