Here's Bill remembering Arthur Jones -
"It's impossible to overlook this opportunity to give you more insight on the Arthur Jones I know. He is, by far, one of the most unique individuals I've ever met. Mike Mentzer (former IFBB Mr. America winner) attempted to describe Arthur by stating, “Arthur Jones is not a relaxing person to be with. He does not lightly exchange words. He spews facts, torrents of them, gleaned from studies and perhaps more important, from practical application of theory, personal observations and incisive deduction. You don't converse with Arthur Jones: you attend his lectures. He is opinionated, challenging, intense and blunt.”
I am in total agreement with Mike. This is just a taste of our on-again/off-again relationship, which began in 1958. Early one Monday morning, while I was opening the door to my Sacramento gym, Arthur appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing khaki pants, a khaki shirt and jacket that half-covered a .357 Magnum pistol strapped to his belt.
In his heavily southern accented, no-nonsense, baritone voice, he began the introduction, “You're Bill Pearl. My name is Arthur Jones. I'm from Slidell, Louisiana. I've come to see if you're interested in participating in a 'gawd'-damn movie I'm going to produce. I'll need you for about a month. It's going to be filmed in Florida and Louisiana.”
I asked, “Do you make movies for a living?” He articulated every word with a slight pause in between to make sure that he wouldn't have to repeat himself, “Hell, no. I have a large wildlife game reserve in Slidell that supplies most of the animal parks and zoos throughout the country with reptiles, exotic birds, monkeys and other 'gawd'-damn wildlife that I capture in South America. But I'm not new to the film business. I've made several documentaries.” “When do you plan to start filming?” I asked. “As soon as I can get your ass down to Louisiana.” “What am I supposed to do in this movie?” “Whatever it takes to make the 'gawd'-damn thing sell!” “How much are you willing to pay?” “How much are you worth?” We agreed on a price and, to this day, I've never picked up a tab when we've been together. His pride seemed offended whenever I've tried.
During those few days in Sacramento, it became obvious that we were from different worlds. Arthur had a definite opinion on everything. When it came to bodybuilding, he was convinced that the fastest muscular gains came from doing, “One set per muscle group--three days per week--while training to failure.”
On politics, I asked, “Do you think John F. Kennedy will become the next President of the United States?” His reply, “It really doesn't matter. Some right-thinking Texan will take care of the son-of-a-bitch.”
Our differences became more obvious during the filming of his movie Voodoo Swamp. Arthur could survive on Coca-Cola and cigarettes while holding court with whomever until the wee hours of the morning, and then expect everyone to be ready to go at his beck and call. I needed food, rest and consistency.
We clashed about a week into the filming. Six of us were jammed in his new Oldsmobile station wagon traveling to shoot a scene that had me trudging up to my neck in swamp water filled with leeches. The car radio was tuned to a country station blaring so loud it was impossible to think. He made matters worse by chain smoking in the closed vehicle. I was dragging from lack of sleep, and a white bread bologna sandwich wasn't my idea of a balanced diet.
Things came to a head when he began playing 'grab-ass' with the script girl sitting between us. I sat thinking, “This is ridiculous.” I flicked off the radio and shouted, “Stop the car!” Arthur retaliated with, “Why? You got a 'gawd'-damn problem?” I shouted, “I've got several problems! First, I can't breathe! Second, I don't do well on bologna sandwiches! Third, I've had as much sleep this past week, as I normally get in a night. Now you two decide to start screwing around. Either there are some drastic changes, or I'm out of here!” He apologized by saying something like, “I didn't realize you were so 'gawd'-damn sensitive.”
The more violent side of Arthur erupted while we were shooting a night scene that had me throwing a stunt man off a bridge into a large pool of water. We had done the scene several times, which always ended in a big splash, but on the final take, there was a thud. The stunt man had landed on the bank rather than in the water. With a loud moan he cried, “Arthur--if we're going to do this again, make sure Mr. Pearl tosses me further to the left!”
A carload of teenage boys had stopped to watch the filming. As they drove away, a crew member called out that he was missing an expensive camera. He was insistent that the teenagers had taken it.
In less than a block, they were pulled over. Arthur ran to their car screaming, “Did one of you steal my 'gawd'-damn camera?” There was no response. Arthur pulled out his pistol, drew back the hammer, placed the barrel in the middle of the driver's forehead saying, “Boy, I'm going to ask you one more time, before I scatter your 'gawd'-damn brains all over this car! Did one of you steal my 'gawd'-damn camera?” His reputation must have preceded him. The driver stuttered, “Honest Mr. Jones, we did not ta--ta--take your camera.” Not satisfied, Arthur told me to begin searching the car. Fortunately, one of his crew ran up screaming that they had found it stored in the back of the station wagon. It seemed everyone but Arthur let out a sigh, as he eased back the hammer of the gun.
In our final days of filming, Arthur had rented a beautiful old mansion on the outskirts of New Orleans. I was to be kept imprisoned in the mansion while recovering from the lady witch doctor's spell. They had me tied to beds, chairs, or whatever, to prevent me from causing more harm. Arthur had left instructions for Shorty, the head cameraman, to shoot a scene in the enormous living room where I was tied between two large pillars.
Shorty, like Arthur, was a chain smoker. He had a bad habit of setting lighted cigarettes on everything, which began to take its toll on the beautiful antique furnishings. What upset me even more was that he'd drop the butts on the marble floors, and then grind them out with the soles of his shoes. I finally told him, “Shorty, you do that one more time, and I'm going to bounce you on your can.” Sure enough, the next cigarette out of his mouth went on the floor to be ground to death. I jerked out of the ties and hit him so hard it knocked him, the camera, the tripod, the lights and canisters of film onto the floor.
Arthur heard the commotion and ran into the room shouting, “What-n-the-'gawd'-damn-hell's going on here?” Shorty looked up, saying, “He just hit me, and I bet he broke the camera.” Arthur asked, “Why in the hell did you do that?” I replied, “Because he has destroyed half of the antique furniture in this house with his lousy cigarettes and is now doing the same to the marble floors. It's going to cost you more money for repairs, than you'll make from the movie.” Arthur looked at Shorty and said something like, “You stupid moron. I should blow your 'gawd'-damn brains out.” I returned to Sacramento without ever seeing the finished version of the movie.
Several months later, Arthur invited me to view his latest film that he shot and produced in Africa. The screening took place in a private Hollywood studio. I had no idea what to expect, but knew it would not be a sequel to the movie Lassie. The least violent part of the two-hour documentary was the opening scene. It showed several natives dragging an enormous crocodile from a lake. The natives were close to losing limbs, as they struggled to get the crocodile subdued and turned over on its back, before Arthur stepped in with a huge knife to slit open its belly to pull out a young boy."
