The Woman in Black

by Erik Tarloff

  So we’re in Barney’s, and he’s all smiles. I pointed out the “Fagots – stay out!” sign over the bar and told him not to worry about it, they mostly kept it there for its historical quaintness and its notorious misspelling. The policy, if you could call it a policy, wasn’t enforced or anything. It’s not that I suspected he was gay, by the way, I wasn’t warning him from that point of view, I just didn’t want him to think I’d taken him to some hotbed of homophobic bigotry. That wasn’t an impression I wanted to give him on his first night as a roommate. You’re in the arts, you can’t afford to indulge that kind of prejudice. Or any other, really. Tolerance for all sorts of people comes with the territory, is my philosophy. We’re a fucking Benneton ad is what we are.

  As to whether Chance was gay…I know there’s been all sorts of speculation about that question, both when he was alive and since. There always is in this town, isn’t there? Plus there’s that awful memoir that slimeball hustler wrote, which frankly I think is a bunch of crap. But all I’ll say about that whole business—and I’m someone who had a ringside view of his life for a couple of years, remember—what I can tell you for a fact is that he definitely liked to screw women. Whether he also liked men…I never saw any evidence of it, but that obviously doesn’t prove anything. You can’t prove a negative.

  But, for example, I’ve heard people say that that woman in black—you know the one I mean? The one who puts flowers on his grave? You do?—okay, well I’ve heard people say she must have just been a fan or someone with an unrequited crush, no way she could have been a lover, because he played for the other team. Well, that’s horseshit. I have no clue who she is or what she meant to Chance or Chance to her, but anyone who says that doesn’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Women loved the guy, and trust me, he loved them right back. Even before he was a star, when he was just an unknown schmuck like the rest of us, he had…well, he had those good looks, of course, but let’s face it: good looks aren’t so rare in this town. They’re the coin of the realm. Pretty people come here in droves. But he had something else too, some sort of special appeal. Something winsome and sweet and maybe even a little needy, something that seemed to cry out for mothering. And some mysterious quality, something withheld and murky and dark. He was just catnip to the ladies. Like they were moths and he was a flame. A dark flame. A smoldering flame. And trust me, he took advantage, he thoroughly enjoyed himself. Whatever else he may have been, and that’s anybody’s guess, he was not a guy who only liked guys.

  And anyway, who really gives a shit? Like Lenny Bruce said, a guy will fuck mud if he’s horny enough.

  But that’s another thing about Chance, and I’m sure you’ve been hearing this a lot from the other people you’ve talked to. He just wasn’t an easy cat to know. I was probably as close to him as anyone, at least in those days—hell, we shared an apartment for a couple of years and we were good friends all along—but even I can’t say I knew him real well. He had…I don’t want to call them secrets, because that sounds like he was keeping secrets, and I don’t think that was the case. But you just knew there was a lot more to the guy than you could see. He was like an iceberg. The part you could make out was the small tip with the main part submerged. He was…I don’t think slippery is the word. There was nothing dishonest about him. But he was almost impossible to figure out. You could never be totally sure what he was thinking or feeling. All he showed you was a smooth surface.

  Like, just for instance, there was this huge overgrown vacant lot near our apartment, around where Westmount runs into Holloway. Really huge. I mean acres, literally. It was like a jungle in there, trees, weeds, huge brambly bushes, hills, big declivities in the ground, gullies. When you were in it, you had no sense there was a city around you, you could have been in the Amazon basin or something. This was back before developers got their hands on it, obviously. I think it’s a parking lot now. Such a shame. LA is like that Joni Mitchell song. Anyway, there were times when Chance would cross the street and head into that place and just disappear for an hour or more. And if I asked him what he’d been up to, he’d say, “Oh, nothing. Just thinking.” See what I mean? Who goes into a vacant lot to think?

  So okay, where was I? Oh yeah, Barney’s.

  We got a booth, had a couple of shots and then some chili and a couple of beers. And we hit it off right away. Scoped out the women, made coarse comments the way young men do, shared a few war stories. I could see right away it was going to be a good arrangement. He may have been a little reserved—although I mostly became aware of that side of him later—but he was friendly, he was funny, he was present. You know what I mean by present? I mean when he talked to you, he was totally there, in the moment, listening and reacting, paying full attention. Just the way he was when he did a scene. It’s part of what made him such a good actor. And we had a lot to talk about, a lot in common. Chance was a little shy at first, but a genuinely nice guy. He was a good friend if you gave him a little room and a little time. And had something to offer.

  And he was very levelheaded. He knew pretty faces like his are a dime a dozen in this business. LA attracts good-looking people the way shit attracts flies. It’s full of beautiful gentiles and smart Jews, they come here in droves, and then they intermarry and have ugly stupid kids. [laughs] Just kidding. Anyway, Chance knew his face might open a few doors here, but it wouldn’t be his fortune. He had a good sense of what it could do for him and what it couldn’t. And he was shrewd enough to realize that while a featured spot on a New York-based soap was an okay item on his CV, it gave him some legitimacy, it wasn’t anything more than that. At first, when he mentioned it, I thought he might be bragging about it, might think it was a big deal, but no, he had it in perspective. It was just an incidental detail. He knew he was starting an uphill climb. He didn’t expect to soar.

  And I’ll say this for him too: He didn’t forget his friends. After he made it big, I mean. We didn’t see a lot of each other once he became a star, but I always knew he was there for me if I needed him.

  Dorothy Goren Mckenzie

  A couple of weeks after he left, I got a postcard from Chance. A picture of the Hollywood sign. The note on the other side said, “The air here is brown, but otherwise it’s paradise. Beautiful weather. Beaches and mountains. Got a place, got a car, got a roommate, now I’m looking for a job.” God, it sounded so exciting, so…so totally different from where I was. I was glad to get it, but it made me positively ache with longing. Longing for Chance himself, and for another kind of life.

  Irma Gold (agent)

  Chance came to me looking for representation. As I recall, I’d been recommended to him by Gil Fraser, another client of mine. I had a pretty good roster. No huge stars but a fair number of working actors and actresses. I kept them busy, they paid my rent.

  When he showed up at my office, he looked pretty bedraggled. Like someone who might ask you for spare change down on Selma. Jeans and a torn T-shirt—at first I thought it might be some sort of Brando affectation, but the truth is he might not have had anything better—and his hair was a mess and obviously hadn’t been cut in months, and he looked like he hadn’t been sleeping much. But still, signing him was a no-brainer. Even in that bedraggled state there was no mistaking he was a beautiful boy, and he’d been in a soap so I knew he wasn’t a complete wannabe, he’d had some experience in front of a camera, and then he read for me—this was before actors had demo reels, there was no such thing then, it was all very hands-on and low-tech. So he did some Chekhov thing if I’m remembering correctly—from The Seagull, maybe?—and it was obvious he could act. At least adequately…I won’t claim I recognized how amazing he was at that first meeting. I won’t pretend to have realized he was a genius, but I definitely could see he had skills, he wasn’t just another handsome lox. This town is full of ’em, and sad to say they sometimes manage to have careers. It isn’t only tits and ass that can get a person work. Biceps and pecs and a strong chin can
go a long way too.

  Two words: Lex Barker.

  I try not to represent people like that, though. I’m not a purist and I’m not a saint and I know this is a business and movies aren’t the Sistine Chapel or anything, but still, when I pitch a client to a casting director, it’s my reputation on the line just as much as the client’s, and my business depends on my reputation. It would be a bad thing if casting directors start regarding me as a bullshitter. If I call and say, for example, “This or that person would be perfect for your project,” he or she better at least be plausible for their project or they’ll stop taking my calls, or they’ll take my calls and shine me on but never hire anybody I send to them. So I try to be, within practical limits, I try to be selective. I have to believe in my clients. If I don’t believe in them, I can’t fight for them.

  Not that it’s a science. We make mistakes, we trust our gut and our gut might steer us wrong. Sometimes someone will come in and I’ll hesitate, I’ll say I have to think about it. At that point it isn’t much more than a coin toss. And sometimes someone will come in and I can immediately see there’s nothing there and I’ll say no right off the bat. It’s heartbreaking, but this is a tough town and it’s a tough business. “Sorry,” I’ll say, “but I don’t think I can help you. Maybe you’ll have better luck with someone else. I wish you the best.” Usually I never hear about that person again, but once or twice the person has gone on to have a pretty decent career. I called heads and it came up tails. That happens. And I’m happy for them. Truly. I freely admit I’m not infallible. There’s no such thing in this business. As William Goldman says, “nobody knows anything.”

  But I had no hesitation with Chance. I won’t say I knew he was going to become a screen idol, but I had no doubt I’d find him plenty of work right away, and had a notion that there might even be star potential there. But like I said, I’m no purist. The first thing I got him was second lead in this awful space opera thing. Total crap. Even by its own nonexistent standards. But hell, it was a job. I wasn’t too high and mighty to send him in to read for it, and he wasn’t too high and mighty to take the part when it was offered.

  Or even those TV commercials I got him. He played a college student with a splitting headache in one—that was for aspirin, of course. He did another for dog food. A few others I can’t even remember anymore. And I scored him a couple of smaller roles in TV plays, which were a thing in those days. Nothing memorable…I mean, some really good writers used to get involved in those: Rod Serling, David Shaw, Reginald Rose, Paddy Chayefsky. But there were some mediocrities too, mediocre writers and mediocre plays, and I’m afraid those were the ones Chance got cast in. One Playhouse 90, a couple of Studio Ones. Forgettable plays, but the important thing is, his work got noticed. He was really good in them, and he was developing a small reputation in the business.

  But we were just getting our feet wet with those early credits. I knew I’d invested in a property that was going to appreciate. It didn’t feel like a coin toss this time. I was just glad he knew Gil and that Gil was already one of my clients. Chance would never have come to me otherwise. Life is like that. Everything that happens, good and bad, happens by accident. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

  Matthew Devon (actor)

  Hardwick was a punk, all right? A total fucking punk. We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, is that what they say? Well, piss on that. You came to me for the truth, right? Well, that’s the truth. I hated the little prick.

  No, we were never buddies. Hardly. We were in a film together, that’s all. A cheapo horror thing. Trust me, you wouldn’t have seen it, probably can’t even find it on IMDb—but hey, it was work, right? A gig is a gig. And the producers were signatories to the MBA, and that was a big deal. The SAG health plan wasn’t anything to be sneezed at, not even in those days. You needed credits to stay covered. The director was some blacklisted guy working under a fake name. I think he might have been hot shit once, I’m not sure about that, but now he was reduced to cheapo crap and grateful for the gig. The producers were willing to turn a blind eye if the guy was minimally competent and willing to work for scale.

  I don’t think Hardwick had been out here very long, but I’d been kicking around LA for over ten years. Waiting for my big break, like everybody else. Scrounging, mostly. It was tough. A few B-pictures, one or two small speaking roles in a couple of bigger productions. I had a walk-on in a Duke Wayne Western once. Walked on, muttered a few threatening words, got dragged out. To Boot Hill. The Duke upped and shot me. ’Course, I had it coming. I was a no-good varmint. But anyhow, the point I’m making is, gigs were few and far between. I waited tables occasionally, did a little beefcake modeling—fruitcake modeling, I used to call it—anything to pay the rent.

  So one day my agent landed me this starring part—a starring part!—in Martians from Venus or whatever the son of a bitch was called. Some stupid thing. Outer space, rubber suits on the monsters, threats to destroy the earth. The usual crap. But still, I was gonna be the star. That meant something. Looks good on the bio, right? And it gives you bragging rights when you’re trying to score with some chick in a bar. “Oh yeah, I had a starring role in a picture.” They look at you with new eyes. You’re not obligated to give them the title. In my case, I could honestly claim I didn’t remember it.

  But that starring business was in my contract. The credits had to read, “Starring Matt Devon as…” as whoever. Flash Montague, Butch Bladeworthy…I can’t remember my character’s name either. The money was short, natch, not much above scale, but hey, you never know what might lead to bigger things. You want to be seen, that’s the thing we all tell ourselves. Never say no to a job. If you think something’s beneath you, you’re not an actor, you’re a hobbyist.

  So this newbie was hired to be my spaceship copilot or vice admiral or whatever it was. Chance Hardwick. The juvenile role. To appeal to teenage girls, I guess. The heartthrob. Dickie Jones to my Jock Mahoney. Edd Byrnes to my Efrem Zimbalist. And listen, I was fine with that. The part was in the script, and it didn’t step on my toes. He was there to grab a different demographic. Fine. I got the moms, he got the ones who were still waiting for their first period. Fair exchange. No prob.

  Or so I thought.

  After the first day of shooting—a location shoot up in the Santa Monica Mountains; the place was supposed to be Mars or Venus or Pluto or the moon or some foreign body that wasn’t a clearing just off Mulholland Drive—I suggested to Chance we go grab a beer. Just being collegial, you know. And he stared at me for a few seconds and then he said, “Why?” Which was already kind of…I mean, I was a little taken aback. And then, before I could come up with a reason, he said, “Nah.” No excuse or explanation or anything. Not “Thanks, but I’ve got a date,” or “I’m really beat,” or “I have to work on tomorrow’s lines.” Just “Nah.” I mean, what an asshole, right? Who does that?

  But that wasn’t such a big deal. I could see he wasn’t exactly the warmest, most sociable guy I’d ever worked with, but you don’t have to be best buds. I prefer to put things on a friendly footing, it makes for a happier set, it helps resolve problems more easily if they happen to occur, but hell, it isn’t required. The real problem was…see, I don’t know, maybe he was blowing the director or something, but somehow his part kept getting bigger and mine kept getting smaller. They kept giving him my lines, they even started giving him my heroics. This skinny little pipsqueak is suddenly grappling with space monsters in hand-to-claw fighting. I mean, I used to go to the gym daily, I was pumped, I’d been a fucking male model, I was much more believable as a scourge of extraterrestrials. But no, they wanted him to do it. In other words, to make a long story short, he was stealing the picture from me, right out from under me, in broad daylight, and with the connivance of the hack director we were working with. A schmuck who made Ed Wood look like Orson Welles.

  I finally spoke up. This was maybe the second week of shooting.
Or rather, I didn’t actually speak up, because I don’t like to make those sorts of complaint public, it makes you look like a prima donna, and besides, it adds to the tension, and there was already plenty enough of that, so I pulled the director—whose name I’ve also thankfully forgotten—I pulled him aside, we went into his trailer, and I said, “Look, what the hell is going on here? Why are you building up this kid? Those lines make a lot more sense coming from my character. And I’m obviously built more convincingly for the physical stuff.” I think I even made a joke and said, “Besides, I’ve been fighting Martians all my life.” Something like that. Just to leaven the mood a little, ’cause directors don’t like to have their authority challenged. Especially the insecure ones. And this one was plenty insecure. With good reason.

  He just gave me gobbledygook back. “We think it works better this way,” he said. I wondered who this “we” included. The producer? Maybe, although I never saw the producer on set. Or was it Hardwick himself? Did he have something going with the director, like I kind of hinted before? I don’t know the answer. And then he said, “Don’t worry, though, we’ve got some additional stuff for you later, you’ll see. The script needed a little restructuring is all.” Needless to say, that part never happened. In the finished picture, the kid probably ended up with more lines than I did. Conniving little bastard.

  Fortunately, nobody saw it. Even for a crummy drive-in date flick it was a piece of shit.

  Gerhard Fuchs (musician)

  I met Chance Hardwick at a party at, let me see, I think it was the Prices’. Vincent and Mary’s. Yes, definitely at the Prices’. Vincent, you see, was one of those rare Hollywood people who didn’t restrict their society to other show business people. This was very refreshing to me and Frieda. And unusual in this town. There were always plenty of movie stars present, too, of course, many in the way of show business royalty, they were willing to rub shoulders with us commoners if it was under the Price aegis, but it was at least possible at those parties to talk about things other than grosses and studio deals and who had been cast in what. Vincent enjoyed a mix of people—he had, I think, a life subdivided into many distinct compartments, if you catch my gist—and his interest in culture was genuine and serious. Mary’s also. So one found painters, of course—Vincent was an art historian with basically a professional level of expertise, as you probably know—and writers, by which I mean novelists and playwrights and even poets from time to time, not merely screenwriters, although in those days Hollywood screenwriters were a far more erudite group than you’d find today. And musicians like myself, and professors from UCLA, and so forth. Those were lively—you say frolicsome?—they were frolicsome parties.