by Erik Tarloff
But Chance was…he was disturbed. He didn’t know how to cope with his new status. For one thing, fans—he had many fans now—they found out where he lived and hung around outside his house hoping to see him, or get an autograph, or maybe just say hello. He didn’t like that at all, although he tried to be nice. And his neighbors were upset. Woodrow Wilson Drive is a quiet, rather narrow street where regular people live. Not show business people. Crowds assembling there at all hours was inconvenient for everybody.
And it wasn’t only practical things. Being famous…of course I think he always wanted it. But he was a very private person, and now he had very little privacy. It was hard for him even just to leave his house. If he went down the hill to Ralph’s to buy a quart of milk or Thrifty to buy a tube of toothpaste, he would be assaulted. It’s one of the reasons he decided to buy that house in the Malibu Colony. Someplace more remote, you know. Someplace protected, with built-in security. Where many of his neighbors would be as famous as him, which provided a measure of security in itself. But even before that, even for the last few months he still lived in the hills, he began spending less time at his house and more time at my studio in West Hollywood. He was safe there. Fans did not know about me—the studio saw to that—so they did not know where to look for him.
I look back on those days very fondly. They may have been our happiest time in fact, and you can believe me, that had nothing to do with his success. The opposite, I think you might say. It was the only time where we did not have to even think about his success. I would paint and he would put his jazz records on my gramophone and listen to the music and read, scripts or books or magazines, and sometimes he’d get up and look at what I was working on and offer some praise or encouragement, and it was all very peaceful and sweet. And domestic. The closest we ever came to domesticity. The world outside couldn’t touch us.
But what I was trying to express is…you see, what really bothered him, bothered him even more than the attention and the publicity and maybe even the loss of privacy, was losing touch with himself, if I can put it that way. Not understanding what had happened to his life, not knowing how he had somehow got from there to here, and not being able to control the events rolling over him like those big waves out there in Malibu that finally took him away from me. From all of us.
Alison McAllister (actress)
I’d signed with Metro back in ’56, and I guess they were sort of grooming me. For stardom, ha ha. It was quite exciting for a while; they seemed to think I was going to be a big star, and they more or less convinced me that was the case. As it happened, that never quite took, I worked a bit but whatever chemistry is supposed to happen between an actor and an audience never happened. I went from being the second female lead, the ingénue, managed that in a couple of pictures, then it was smaller parts, and then finally horror movies and TV guest shots. I was a good screamer; that kept me employed for a time. But it didn’t make me a star…which may have been a blessing in disguise. I really don’t have any regrets, although it killed me a little back when I still had big dreams. But anyway, in those days publicity departments wielded a lot of power, more than you can imagine. They arranged camouflage weddings for gay guys and gals and covered up pregnancies and turned commies into Eisenhower supporters. If you had a contract with the studio and the studio expected big things of you, they took you apart and reassembled you in the image they figured would go over well with the public.
They even changed my name. I don’t imagine you’d remember me unless you’re a fanatic about either black-and-white horror movies or second-rate weepies from the fifties, the ones with that garish Technicolor palette, but the studio thought my real name was ridiculous and that no one would believe it anyhow, so they christened me Deborah Hunt. What’s funny is, they thought my real name sounded made up, so they made up a name for me they thought sounded real. My family was kind of offended by this. My dad, who was pretty old-school in his attitudes— I don’t want to defend this aspect of his character—but he was so pissed about the studio’s high-handedness he said, “Why would they change your name? McAllister doesn’t sound Jewish.” Nice, huh? But there was no point in reprimanding him. He was who he was, a product of his time and place.
And my brother used to…well, let’s just say he used to substitute another letter for the first letter of my stage name. Such a clown, my brother.
And then some genius in publicity thought it would be a terrific idea if Chance and I were supposed to be a romantic item. They thought it would boost my profile, get me some ink, intrigue the public. You know, who’s this starlet Chance Hardwick is stuck on? We weren’t required to shack up or anything, it wasn’t totally crazy—it wasn’t like poor Rock and Phyllis—we were just supposed to be seen together at a few previews, maybe go to Ciro’s or the Moulin Rouge or have dinner at Perino’s or Chasen’s. Stuff like that. With press alerted, of course. The whole point was to be photographed. And the Hollywood press was incredibly compliant in those days. Maybe they still are, I don’t know the scene anymore. So we’d make moony eyes at one another, maybe hold hands, get our pictures taken, show up in the gossip columns and the movie magazines, be a glamor couple.
It didn’t have to last long or pretend to be an engagement. They wanted to give me a build-up and figured this sort of publicity would help, but they also wanted Chance’s fan base to think he was still available. So it was a narrow line we were walking…fun couple out on the town and enjoying each other’s company, but not quite ready for a ring. Something like that.
It made me uncomfortable, to be honest. For one thing, I had a real boyfriend back then, and he sure as hell didn’t like it. It even made him suspicious, as if all this ridiculous PR nonsense might have some basis in fact. That’s the power of publicity right there, even when you’re in on the deception you aren’t quite positive it isn’t true. And after all, Chance was a big star and an incredibly attractive man—obviously—so it wasn’t a completely absurd notion. And David wasn’t in the business, he was a pediatrician, so this whole thing seemed especially exotic to him. Not just exotic, but downright weird. He kept grilling me about Chance, and no matter how many times I told him there was nothing to it, told him it was just dream factory make-believe, he was never completely sure if he could trust me. Whenever Chance and I went out, I’d have to call David as soon as the date was over to assure him nothing was going on, and sometimes he’d even be waiting for me back at my apartment just to be sure I came in alone.
And it wasn’t just David. Who objected, I mean. I had plenty of reservations myself. The whole fake-romance business struck me as crass—you know what I mean? Not like prostitution, of course—I don’t want to go overboard here—but not how I’d assumed my dating life would go, either. I was a small-town Southwestern girl, for goodness sake. I still believed the movies, ironically enough. The ideas they sold us about love. Hearts and flowers and a Dimitri Tiompkin score. This other thing was just…you know, kind of icky. Even when it was pretend it was kind of icky.
But I’m kind of making this all about me, aren’t I? And it’s supposed to be about Chance. You’re asking me about Chance. Sorry. [laughs] Once a starlet always a starlet, right?
But the point I wanted to make is, sure, Chance had the reputation of being a rebel, one of the mavericks, one of the new breed. Someone who refused to play the game. But he sure went along with the studio’s idea that we go out on some public dates. If he argued with them about it I never heard anything to suggest so. Maybe later, if he’d achieved the absolutely stratospheric level of superstardom everyone expected for him, he might have had enough power to flex his muscles and refuse outright. I don’t know. I don’t know if that would have been his choice, and I don’t know, if it was, whether he would have acted on it.
The truth is, I don’t even know which team he played on. There were rumors in both directions. But of course there would be, wouldn’t there? He once told me he had a girlfriend—I t
hink that was to reassure me I was safe with him, he didn’t have any expectations of a carnal nature—and I’ve read about that French woman he was supposed to have been involved with. But who knows what’s true and what isn’t? Hollywood is like Washington, DC, in that way. Lies are the basic currency. If they lied about him and me, maybe they’re lying about the French girl too.
But the other thing I need to say is that he was a perfect gentleman. By which I don’t mean he didn’t pounce on me. I mean, maybe I mean that too. He could easily have assumed I was there for the plucking, just considering his fame and his looks and all. So it’s entirely possible he wasn’t attracted to me, or wasn’t attracted to girls generally. But it’s also possible he understood this was an artificial set-up and he had no right to those droit de signeur assumptions. We’ll never know.
But when I say he was a perfect gentleman, I mean something else. He must have understood this was an uncomfortable situation for me, with me being fairly new in town and new to the business and him such a big star and me a newbie and our not knowing each other at all but having to behave in public like we were in love or at least fascinated with one another. He could have let me know this was a tiresome chore, for example, either overtly or by acting bored. Or he could have not talked to me at all when we were alone, and then just talked about himself when people were watching or discussed sports and sports cars and whatever private enthusiasms he had without any regard for what might interest me. But instead he was personable and funny, and freely admitted that this was awkward for him too, and he asked me lots of questions about myself and even seemed to be studying me closely. He made the whole transaction human rather than just a piece of drudgery that was an unpleasant professional requirement.
People sometimes ask me if I’m that “woman in black,” as they call her, the old lady who lays flowers on his headstone. [laughs] Which just goes to prove that I’ve become an old lady, I guess. Well, I can’t deny that. But no, Chance and I never had any kind of serious relationship, romantic or otherwise—those people must have gobbled up movie magazines when they were young and believed whatever they read—and I definitely don’t put flowers on his headstone. Ever. I don’t even know where it is.
Sir Trevor Bliss
I’d decided to move back to London. My marriage had ended, in rather ugly fashion as it happens, and the political situation in the States was quite unpleasant, and I’d been feeling homesick in any case…rather, perhaps, like Ben Britten some fifteen or so years earlier, I was feeling increasingly alienated in America, increasingly drawn to home. It’s not that I didn’t like Los Angeles—I have very happy memories of my time there, and it had certainly been profitable artistically and financially—but my roots were on the other side of the Atlantic.
My house wasn’t even listed yet when Chance rung me up. He’d heard I was leaving. That’s Hollywood for you. A small town in many ways, with a lively gossip mill. He expressed an interest in buying my house, and said he didn’t want to haggle, I should name my price and if it seemed reasonable he would pay it. Which was very refreshing. In Hollywood, everyone wants to haggle about everything. Part of the culture, don’t you know? The rag trade transferred to another venue.
He’d been over only once or twice, but he said he remembered the house, he liked it, he appreciated the security, he loved the private beach being right out the back door—which in retrospect feels a little macabre, doesn’t it? When I mentioned that it was possibly a little large for his needs, he said he thought he could grow into it, by which I assume he meant that someday he might start a family and the spaciousness would come in handy. Anyway, to make a long story short, we quickly came to terms and frankly, that took one large worry off my shoulders. When you’re changing your entire life, disposing of a house is one of the more onerous aspects.
Irma Gold
Everyone wonders about Not My Fault! It seems like such an unlikely Chance Hardwick vehicle, doesn’t it? Even in retrospect. Maybe if he’d lived there would have been more like it and it wouldn’t stick out like that.
And I’ll tell you…the truth is, I think they sent me the script by mistake. It probably just got slipped into the pile accidentally. But I read it and thought it was hilarious. Usually I know whether a script is any good after about five pages. This one had me laughing out loud on page one. And I kept laughing. Original situations, sparkling dialogue, great love story. So I called Chance and asked him if he thought he could do comedy. And to my surprise he said he’d love it. Said he’d been dying to do something that didn’t require him to be a brooding young man, if only for a change of pace, and because, after his last three pictures, and especially after the success of his last two, he was afraid he’d never get the chance to be anything else. Well, as I say, that kind of surprised me, but I figured, “Hey, the boy’s so good he can probably do anything he sets his mind to.”
The studio wasn’t thrilled. He was right to be worried about being typecast. But by now they also wanted to keep him happy, and, you know, they probably figured, just like I did, he might be versatile enough to pull it off. Who knew? The sky could be the limit with someone like Chance.
Gil Fraser
Chance got me my part in Not My Fault! He was a pal about it. Not the kind of guy who forgets his friends. Not that he had to overcome a lot of opposition, I don’t think—I knew the AD, he was a fan of mine, so it isn’t like I was rammed down anyone’s throat—but still, Chance went to bat for me. It wasn’t exactly an act of charity, he knew I could play the part, but it was generous all the same. I don’t know whether I would have been chosen if he hadn’t insisted. Maybe yes, maybe no.
It turned out to be a fun shoot, too. The director, Charlie Cox, was a very funny guy, and not only that, but he was a fun guy. He liked his set to be a happy place. He welcomed input from anyone. Grips and gaffers could offer suggestions and would be listened to respectfully, and so of course could actors. We had a lot of laughs on that picture.
Benny Ludlow (comedian)
There was a bunch of us guys who used to buddy around together quite a lot. And Chance was one of us. We thought of ourselves as “Young Hollywood,” you know? Kind of pretentious or…what’s the word…presumptuous? Kind of presumptuous, but we dared to think the future of movies was in our hands. Not that all of us were necessarily going to make it, but that some of us would. And that a number of the most important people in the business would be coming from our group. Some had already made it pretty big, including Chance and a couple of the other guys. And they enjoyed a kind of special status among us. As for me, I was already getting some good nightclub gigs—I worked the Crescendo and Ciro’s a couple of times, and even played a few lounges in Vegas—and the occasional TV shot. Plus I was studying with Jim Sterling, so I hoped to get work as an actor, not just a stand-up. That’s where I first met Chance, in Jim’s class.
But the thing is, we were, for all our silliness and self-importance, we were a pretty hip group. That’s how it is in show biz. There’s a cynicism and a wit and an irreverence that’s the common tongue, you might say. It was the language we spoke, or maybe it’s more like our local dialect. It wasn’t always comprehensible to outsiders. But basically, if you weren’t funny, if you couldn’t keep up, you didn’t belong, you didn’t count. The funniest of us was Lenny Bruce; he’d hang with us from time to time. He hadn’t hit it big yet, he was working at a few local clubs, but anyone who knew him knew he was like the funniest human being on the planet. It wasn’t clear he could ever go mainstream, he was so foul-mouthed and sick we thought that might hold him back, but among friends he was a fucking riot. I mean, your sides would ache, if you didn’t pee in your pants you probably weren’t human. None of the rest of us could come near his level, of course. Not even me, and I was a pro. But we were all pretty funny, we all had something to contribute.
And a lot of people don’t know this, wouldn’t even suspect it, but Chance could be very funny too. In
his own way. Very dry, very droll, very understated. Almost British in his approach to humor. If you weren’t paying close attention you could easily miss how funny he was. He wasn’t out there punching, you know, he’d just mutter something caustic and if you heard it you’d make him repeat it so everyone else could hear it too.
And I’m only mentioning any of this because when he got the script for Not My Fault! he was unsure whether he should do it. I don’t think anybody knows this story, anybody who wasn’t there. He loved the script, he liked the part, but he said, “I don’t know, I just think, Christ, there are so many good dramatic actors out there, actors whose work I really admire, but they can’t do comedy to save their lives. They try and they try hard and it’s awful. Not funny at all. It’s downright embarrassing the way they seem to be begging for laughs. I’m afraid I’ll turn out to be one of those guys.”
And it was Lenny who told him he should do it. We were all out on the beach at Chance’s place, one of those lazy Saturday afternoons we used to spend out there, we were sprawled on towels on the sand, it was this gorgeous late afternoon, we were smoking pot and drinking beer and looking out at the ocean and talking about Chance’s hesitancy, knocking the pros and cons back and forth, and Lenny finally broke in and told him he definitely ought to do it, he definitely had the chops. And when Chance again said he wasn’t sure how to approach it, Lenny said, “Listen, schmendrick, cut the bullshit. It’s not so complicated and I’m sure you know that already. You’re a funny guy. The simple secret to good comic acting is that your character doesn’t know he’s in a comedy. That’s all. That’s it.” He told him to just play it straight, believe in the script, care desperately about the dramatic situation, and maybe show a little more weakness than you normally do. He said, “Trust me, you’re gonna kill.”