—It was a captive audience.
The fact that a nationwide search was going on for an unknown actress to play the teenage Joan of Arc in the film version of Saint Joan may have added to the attraction. This well-publicized search was second only to the 1938 quest for an actress to play Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, with applications available in movie-house lobbies across the country. The film was to be produced and directed by Otto Preminger, who in the recent past had been responsible for Laura, Carmen Jones and The Man with the Golden Arm. He had lined up a strong cast of internationally known actors including Richard Widmark, John Gielgud, Anton Walbrook and Richard Todd to support the unknown actress. Dolores couldn’t believe it when she received a letter inviting her to read for Saint Joan. Her friends Gail Lammerson and Janne Shirley had submitted in her name an application for an audition.
Mr. Preminger personally conducted the auditions at the Academy Awards Theater in Hollywood. There were hundreds of girls lined up in front of the theater. I waited five hours for my turn and overheard other candidates saying the most frightening things about Mr. Preminger. I was petrified when my name was finally called. His appearance was intimidating; but he was astonishingly sweet to me during the interview, and I started to feel at ease.
Just before the test began, Mr. Preminger asked me if I could cry easily. I told him I thought I could. “Fine”, he said and slapped my face and called, “Action!” Stunned and humiliated, but with tears streaming, I did the “King of Heaven” scene. Mr. Preminger asked me back for a second reading. To put it mildly, I was reluctant. I was afraid he might hit me again. He didn’t, but I was so nervous I read very badly, and that was the end of that. Jean Seberg, a young girl from Iowa, was the chosen one. From what I have been told, her life changed radically and so sadly. Over the years, I often prayed for Jean.
The “King of Heaven” scene was useful twice more: first, when the high school cast was invited to present it on the local Gene Norman television show, which put Dolores in a professional atmosphere for the first time in her life; and again when she presented it in a bid for a scholarship at her school of choice, Marymount College in Los Angeles.
Just before graduation, arguments between Mom and Pop accelerated to the point where divorce was talked about. I could hear them late at night calculating who would get the television set and whether the car was community property. She added and subtracted ironed shirts and hot meals, while he added and subtracted scotch and sodas. Their ears were closed to my pleas to try to work things out as they sat there and divided love. Pop wanted to sell the house—he always called it the “big house”—and promised to pay my Marymount tuition if we moved to an apartment. Mom vetoed that fast, and Pop walked out. Then he came back once again. That summer no people moved through the house on Hazeltine, just shadows.
I was peeved at Pop’s constant reference to the “big house” as if it were costing a fortune and his using my tuition as a wedge. Although I thought of his financial support of me as my due, I wasn’t about to ask for his help. I didn’t ever want to beg for anything.
—There’s a lot of Grandma Hicks in me.
Pop made good on his threat to withhold money. Still, I had to acknowledge that Pop had been very good to me; when all was said and done, I didn’t dislike my stepfather, and my relationship with him continued to be affectionate.
Dolores and her mother scraped together $400 for the tuition and took it personally to Marymount. It was after hours, and they traipsed up and down hallways, peeking into rooms until they found a lone nun sitting at a typewriter. Dolores presented the money and was told she was $75 short. The nun, Mother Gregory, was not a clerk but the president of the school, and she assured Dolores and her mother that something could be worked out.
That was when Saint Joan came through for Dolores again. The scene won her a scholarship of $500, which ensured that she would be able to attend the college. Her freshman year at Marymount would begin in September 1956.
The scholarship would pay for the tuition, but I was still responsible for room and board. So I enrolled as a day student and planned to live at home the first semester.
On graduation day, I was valedictorian of the Corvallis class of 1956. I wasn’t chosen because I had the highest scholastic average but because the nuns thought I could speak better. Everyone was impressed except Grandpa. He still preferred that I was prom queen.
During the summer between high school and college, I got a job at the Glen Aire Country Club in Sherman Oaks. They tried me out in several positions, but I ended up making hamburgers in the small pool cafe. It was a pretty boring job, so I daydreamed a lot about being an actress. The jukebox in the cafe continually played Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly singing “True Love” from High Society. The kids at Corvallis had teased me about looking like Grace Kelly. But when Grace Kelly was my age, she was already modeling in New York and studying at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. And there I was, making hamburgers.
Five
Marymount College was founded in Los Angeles in 1933, separately from but parallel to Loyola, the Catholic men’s university. These institutions would merge and become Loyola Marymount University in 1973, but in 1956 Marymount was still a small liberal arts college almost hidden behind eucalyptus trees in the hills above the UCLA campus.
The usual liberal arts curriculum was substantially supplemented by courses in religion, including apologetics.
—Apologetics?
Literally, apologetics means “defense of your faith”. One way to think of it is how a person who has faith would try to explain to someone who does not believe why it is necessary to believe.
There were also personal improvement classes such as charm and etiquette, with emphasis on how to comport oneself like a lady, how to carry on an intelligent conversation and how to set a table.
Most of the classes were taught by nuns, but there were “civilian” teachers too. The well-known modeling agent Caroline Leonetti taught charm and etiquette, and Roger Wagner, of the Roger Wagner Chorale, taught singing. Marymount also boasted a dramatic club. Virginia Barnelle was the head of the drama department.
Classmates Gail Lammerson and Maureen Bailey worked alongside Dolores and still remember her as “a vivacious comedienne who kept everyone in stitches with pantomimes made up in a flash—say, a bullfight, and she would play the bullfighter and the bull.”
The school’s living accommodation was Butler Hall, a dormitory with a nun in residence to “keep the girls safe”, and only one public telephone, which imperiled their social life. Finances kept Dolores from moving into the dorm during her first semester, but later she became a Butler Hall resident.
In the mid-twentieth century, college girls were expected to be on campus at all times unless they had permission to leave. They signed out and signed back in. Weeknight curfews were early, but if grades were kept up, girls were allowed to stay out until ten o’clock. The deadline was extended two hours on weekends. Marymount didn’t have uniforms, but its dress code was strict. Dolores and fellow class counselor Deanna Smith were monitors of the code, charged with reporting any classmates who were in violation.
—Neither of us ever snitched. In fact, one night we joined the rest of the Butler Hall residents in a protest over the dress code. We “decorated” the trees facing Sunset Boulevard with our garter belts and bras, which caused a traffic jam of hotrod drivers from both Loyola and UCLA.
I liked all my classmates, but especially Sheila Hart. When we met, Sheila was holding court in Butler Hall. I found her gay and witty, energizing, and I figured I would have to make a pretty big impression to get her attention. I followed an impulse and improvised one of my “scenes” on the spot. I pretended I had something important to say, opened my mouth wide, then clapped my hand over it, pantomiming with great distress that I had just swallowed a fly. I made my impression. Sheila made one too. She was the only girl who went for a glass of water.
Five decades later Sheila r
ecalled that the chemistry between them was immediate: “There are some people who are a match from the first moment. Somehow you know you’ve just met someone you will cherish for the rest of your life.” The girls shared like points of view. They also shared similar hurts—the divorce of parents as well as the devastating effect alcohol can have on a family. Both had gone through a polio scare. About the only difference between them was Dolores’ lack of interest in fashion. “She just didn’t care about clothes”, Sheila laughed, “and relied on me whenever she needed to buy something.”
Most importantly, we found in each other the same gentleness of budding womanhood and deep-rooted Catholic values, part of Sheila’s upbringing but a personal discovery for me. We could talk to each other on a level beyond usual freshman nonsense.
The two girls would walk up into the hills behind the school, trespassing on the nearby Bel-Air golf course. “It was on one of these walks”, Sheila said, “that Dolores wondered out loud if possibly there was something more in store for her than just becoming a Catholic. Although she laughed it off—‘No, thank you, I’m going to be an actress’—I was always aware that there was something about her, a longing. I used to think of it as her Hound of Heaven, and I was honored that she would share that with me. She hadn’t ever talked about it with the nuns at school.”
I did not understand or know how to describe what I was feeling because I was sure I would be a candidate for the loony bin. But I seemed to be searching for something. I felt I didn’t fully have the understanding of the Church that I needed, so my pursuit would introduce me to a number of Catholic orders such as the Carmelites and the Franciscans. For a brief time I was a Dominican tertiary and took classes on the works of Saint Thomas Aquinas at a Dominican house of studies. To take on study of Aquinas was no small challenge.
—Throughout my life, I’ve had difficulty concentrating while reading. At school, I relied a great deal on synopses. I was able to pull out the pith.
Early in her freshman year, Dolores met Loyola philosophy major Don Barbeau, who was older than most of the students by some ten years. He had been a Trappist monk before he entered Loyola, and he drove a 1938 hearse instead of a regular car. He was also involved in Loyola’s upcoming production of Joan of Lorraine, Maxwell Anderson’s modern take on the story of Joan of Arc, and asked Dolores if she would be interested in reading for the lead.
Barbeau was genuinely convinced that Dolores had movie potential, and he promised to invite Hollywood producers to see the play. Dolores figured this was just a line, but the thought of doing that play did interest her because one of her favorite actresses, Ingrid Bergman, had played it in the original Broadway production, and, well, it was Joan of Arc. The drama department’s Virginia Barnelle, however, would be a formidable hurdle.
I knew Miss Barnelle would not permit a frosh to be cast over one of her senior girls. So I didn’t ask permission but went to the audition in secret. I got the part. Miss Barnelle was not pleased.
Rehearsals, which occupied five nights a week, all but canceled Dolores social life, but she didn’t care. She admired the play and thought the part of Joan was perfect for her. The director was a priest from Hungary, Father Andrew Viragh, only recently liberated from behind the Iron Curtain. The cast included a young student, Bob Denver, in the role of the dauphin. Bob would make his mark in television a few years later as the star of Gilligan’s Island.
Barbeau did not take lightly his promise to help Dolores land a movie career. He invested in a camera and took some head shots to include in the letters he wrote to studio executives, inviting each of them to a performance of Joan of Lorraine during its one-week run beginning December 11, 1956.
As astonishing as it sounds, there were some takers. Representatives from Warner Bros. and Twentieth Century-Fox responded to Don’s invitation to see the play. I was asked to interview at both studios. The Fox possibility especially interested me because Daddy had been under contract there.
Neither studio followed through, but there was another name on Barbeau’s list of invitees—Hal Wallis, one of the top producers in Hollywood. During his years at Warner Bros., Wallis had been involved in the production of over one hundred films, personally producing over half of them, including Casablanca. In the mid-forties he moved to Paramount, where he would rack up a total of sixty films, including Come Back, Little Sheba, The Rose Tattoo and the successful Martin and Lewis comedies.
Wallis was taken with the genuineness of Barbeau’s letter and thought the girl in the photograph was fresh and pretty, so he asked the Paramount head of talent, William Meikeljohn, to check her out in the play. Meikeljohn’s reaction was positive, so Paul Nathan, Wallis associate producer, made a call to Dolores’ home to invite her to come in for an interview. Since Dolores hadn’t told her mother of Barbeau’s plan, Harriett thought it was a gag and hung up on Paul. His secretary tracked Dolores down at Marymount. She was called from class to take a telephone call from “a Hollywood producer” and dutifully marched to the dean’s office. She picked up the phone, and her life changed.
Nathan explained that she might be right for the new Elvis Presley movie that was about to go into production and asked her to come to the studio that very afternoon.
I nearly froze on the spot. I told him I would have to get my mother’s permission. He said she had hung up on him. With heart pounding, I somehow managed to track down Don Barbeau, who excitedly agreed to drive me to the studio immediately.
As we approached the studio in Don’s hearse, I recognized the Paramount gate as the same one through which Erich von Stroheim drove Gloria Swanson in that Isotta Fraschini in Sunset Boulevard. Wow, some difference! I had on my usual school costume—navy skirt, white blouse, white bucks and, of course, my ponytail. Mr. Wallis and Mr. Nathan met us in a reception room.
A few minutes later, she got her first look at the Wallis inner sanctum. Beautifully appointed, the huge room was full of trophies attesting to his lofty position in the film industry—twelve framed Oscar nominations for best picture plus the statue itself for producing Casablanca—and a number of original Remingtons and Russells reflecting his personal passion. He had a sense of humor too. At the threshold of his private john, there was a doormat with a caricature of Jerry Lewis.
Several executives joined us. Introductions were made, and we all sat down. The room fell into an immediate and prolonged silence. I could feel each man studying me. Mr. Nathan leaned over and whispered, “I didn’t like your photo, but I like you.” I began to blush.
The blush, which began at the roots of her hair, spread downward. Years later Nathan recalled, “Her ears looked like they were on fire. Everyone laughed, and the tension was broken. Her blushing had captivated us.” The meeting ended with Wallis giving her a scene from his current production, Hot Spell, to study for an audition in a few days.
Don insisted that I needed to get an agent fast. He knew of one, Carlos Alvarado, who had a good reputation. Mom wasn’t so sure that was the right move and asked friends—the Duncan Sisters—for advice. The Duncan Sisters, who were appearing at the country club Pop managed, had been headliners in vaudeville. They counseled against signing with Alvarado because they feared that, with a name like Dolores and an agent named Carlos, I would get offered only senorita parts. But both Don and I knew I wasn’t in any position to be choosy, so we met with Mr. Alvarado, who agreed to represent me.
Mr. Alvarado got an acting coach and an actor to help me rehearse the scene. Just before Christmas, we presented it to Mr. Wallis in a Paramount rehearsal room called the “fish bowl” because of a large see-through mirror on one wall through which he could watch auditions without being seen. I got through the scene and waited for some comment. Nothing. Not even “Don’t call us; we’ll call you.”
There was no call during the entire Christmas break. With midterms coming up, my attention went back to the books. On the first day back at school, as I was being raked over the coals for taking my shoes off in charm class, Mom
arrived clutching a telegram from Paul Nathan. I was going to be given a screen test for the Elvis Presley movie.
A letter agreement for a test option was drawn up on January 8, 1957, giving Hal Wallis the right to screen-test Dolores Hicks and lock her into a six-month contract, should that option be exercised. The test was set for the following week. There was one major bugaboo in this too-good-to-be-true scenario. The test was scheduled the same day as the drama class finals. There was no way around Miss Barnelle this time.
I had to ask to reschedule my exam. “Forget it”, Miss Barnelle warned. “If you miss the exam, you will not pass, and if you don’t pass, you can forget the scholarship.” I was a wreck and went to see Mother Jean Gailhac. “For Heaven’s sake, go for it”, she said. “This is what all the girls in the acting class would give their right arm for.” Did I ever love Mother Jean Gailhac!
The test confirmed that Dolores was photogenic and projected an open, natural quality that Wallis liked. The option was exercised for a six-month period beginning on January 16, 1957—exactly one month from the date of the final performance of Joan of Lorraine.
It was all turning out exactly as Don had promised. When we finally came down from cloud nine, I tried to put my gratitude into words. Nothing I could say seemed big enough to let him know how much I owed him. Then I felt his arm, gentle and tentative, around my waist. I had been afraid that Don’s interest was more than professional, but I couldn’t respond. I simply didn’t think of Don that way. But I couldn’t hurt his feelings, so I merely moved from his embrace, and we looked away from each other in silence. A while later Don gave me a beautiful wooden crucifix that he had had for a long time, with the most thoughtful and expressive note promising he would always have my best interests at heart. Then he moved out of my life.
The Ear of the Heart: An Actress' Journey From Hollywood to Holy Vows Page 6