In a Gregory La Cava movie, Mr. Sachs would be a sugar daddy. In reality, he was a surrogate grandfather who was so enchanted with the girls and with what they were doing with their lives that he made them beneficiaries of many kindnesses, not the least of which was a trip to New York’s garment district to pick out some stylish additions to their wardrobes “on the house”. Irving Sachs remained a treasured friend to Dolores for the rest of his life. When she became a nun, he transferred his generosity to the Regina Laudis Community, and upon his death his sister continued his visits and his gifts.
Dolores soon found herself in a comfortable routine. She would arise late and go to Mass, then spend afternoons reading or writing letters or scraping paint. She still did publicity layouts for the fan magazines with young actors who were making movies in New York, such as Tab Hunter and Tommy Sands, and when Newsweek proclaimed her “Broadway’s newest star”, doors opened to the national magazines. She got her first cover—with Pogo—on Parade, followed by another on the New York Mirror. She appeared with Cyril and Cornelia on the covers of Gotham Life Guide, Host and Where. Look did a photo essay on her life with Pogo. Famed fashion photographer Francesco Scavullo shot a feature for Cosmopolitan of Dolores pub crawling in high-toned Manhattan, dressed to the teeth in Scaasi—after which she returned the fancy wardrobe and went back to her Forty-Fifth Street hovel.
She still walked to and even from the theater, which could be done without fear in the 1950s. On matinee days, she would be at the theater from noon until well after eleven at night. Still keyed up from the performance, she usually had a snack of matzoh, cream cheese and ginger ale, then wrote letters or did laundry until she was tired enough to sleep—usually around 3:00 A.M.
She was always the first of the cast to arrive at the Longacre, usually more than two hours before curtain, to give her time to do her makeup and hair and an hour to relax.
—Did you ever use the time to meditate or pray?
I was not inclined to pray in that circumstance. I wanted to clear my mind to prepare for the evening’s performance, and prayer does just the opposite. It engages the mind.
On January 3, 1959, The Pleasure of His Company was declared a bona fide hit. On that day, the producers repaid the entire investment of $80,000, only eleven weeks after opening night, at a top ticket price then of $6.90.
Down the street, Lonelyhearts had opened to disappointing reviews—it was called grim, gloomy, bitter. Dolores received fewer valentines than she got for the play. Variety said she “glows with a spirited sensitivity”, but most reviewers just acknowledged her presence in the cast. I had inconsiderately sent my less-than-enthusiastic assessment plus reviews from the Hollywood trade papers and got this reply:
I received the trade reviews you sent. Sort of gave me a bit to think about in the Reporter. I haven’t had a blow in a review yet, and the first time is kind of stunning. However, after the newness wore off I had to laugh at myself for acting like such a typical actress type. The only salvation in this business is to learn early not to take yourself too seriously.
Every now and then, I would see Father Michael Doody, the priest who had officiated at Sheila’s wedding, because he was now living in Boston. Father Mike, as I called him, was the quintessence of Irish, right out of a John Ford movie. I thought of him as a continuity of my grandfather. He thought of himself as my guardian Jesuit.
Mom and Pop, making yet another attempt at reconciliation, took a second honeymoon at the Kentucky Derby and stopped off in New York. Of course, they saw Pleasure and that served to sharpen a self-analysis of my performance. The excitement I felt when I was onstage had not flagged, but I became aware that the cause of my nightly nerves had changed. It was still generated by fear, but now I was going onstage afraid that I wouldn’t be as good as I was at the beginning or even as I might have been the previous night.
I strongly and repeatedly suggested that Dolores investigate acting teachers in the city that boasted the best. High on my list was Uta Hagen, who was a major acting force on Broadway. In the late 1940s she and her husband, Herbert Berghof, had founded the well-respected HB Studio, and by 1958 few teachers equaled Hagen’s impact on the quality of acting in America.
Initially, Dolores resisted the suggestion. She felt classes were for actresses who wanted to do what she was already doing. I prevailed—nagged—pointing out that Jason Robards, Geraldine Page and Hal Holbrook still studied with Hagen. I think I was more delighted than she was when the Actors Studio coincidentally invited her to observe some classes taught by Sandy Meisner and Bobby Lewis. Those few classes whetted her appetite. She contacted Uta Hagen, who told her she would have to audition for the class. Now determined to be accepted, Dolores spent the next several days working up a scene from Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio and was accepted. For the remainder of her time in New York, she met with the actress-teacher once a week.
Uta’s classes were a highlight of those days in New York. I was sharpening my craft, inspired by her on-the-money critiques, though I admit the best feeling of all came from hearing her say, “No criticism.”
Her challenge to me was to preserve a kind of innocence in my work. In a long run, you can become too comfortable, but there needs to be an edge so that the audience can feel that what’s happening in front of them is happening for the first time. Uta Hagen instilled in me a new and nearly unshakable respect for myself as an actress.
Yet I remained restless. The weekends presented a special problem. With Sundays and Mondays off, everyone else in the cast left town after the Saturday night performance, not to return until Tuesday. Everyone except me had someplace to go to unwind.
I mentioned to Winnie that I would like to find a nice, quiet retreat of sorts, a resort perhaps. Her friend Faith Abbott knew of a monastery of cloistered nuns in rural Connecticut, about two hours from Manhattan. It was an ideal setting, Faith said, for a devout Catholic woman to relax and meditate, and she would be happy to introduce me. I told her that I had had my fill of nuns and declined. But the idea of that kind of retreat kept creeping back into my thoughts.
With the play such a major hit, leaving no question that Dolores would fulfill her year’s commitment, she and Winnie moved uptown to a new apartment on the east side.
It was a real New York apartment with a real kitchen, dining room, bedrooms, everything—and it was furnished too. The rent was $500 a month, now affordable because I was earning a performance salary of $425 a week, and expenses and responsibilities were split as before. I rationalized the extravagance to Granny by enumerating the advantages over our former home: a safer address with a doorman and an elevator man, both of whom you had to pass before you got to the seventh floor. Granny would not have been pleased to know that, although East Sixty-Eighth Street was some twenty blocks from the Longacre, I still walked to and from work. But I now had a place to host cast members, and a frequent guest was the pert Sandy Smith, my understudy.
Sandy once told me she had taken the job as an understudy and had no ambition to play the part. She would regularly call to make sure I was showing up and would panic if I arrived at the theater a few minutes late. No Eve Harrington, she. When the East Coast winter introduced me to sinus problems that would plague me for years, Sandy would check on me several times a day. But the only performance I missed my entire year was the night Sandy was asked to go on so the producers could see her play the role in front of an audience.
When the Tony nominations were announced for the 1958-1959 season, The Pleasure of His Company racked up four. Cyril Ritchard was nominated for Best Director and Best Actor, and Charlie Ruggles made the Best Featured Actor list. But the nomination that most thrilled the cast was Dolores’ as Best Featured Actress.
I flew back to be with her at the awards. She was exquisite that night, in fur and jewelry freebies offered by designers to nominees on the chance that someone would mention their names to the press. That was a cottage industry in 1959. Today it is a major business.
&n
bsp; Not one to be impressed by celebrity, Dolores knew, nevertheless, that she was going to be in the company of some of the history-makers in her profession. The Broadway experience had increased her respect for stage actors, and she loved being a part of their tribe—whether she recognized them or not.
After dinner—and before the awards were announced—Dolores was in the ladies’ room with another nominee in her category, Julie Newmar. Julie found she had no money to tip the attendant, so she borrowed fifty cents from Dolores.
Dolores and I sat at The Pleasure of His Company table, which at the end of the evening was graced with a Tony. Charlie Ruggles was named the Best Featured Actor that season, the most popular award of the night. Dolores was not named Best Featured Actress. That honor went to Julie Newmar.
—And she still owes me the four bits.
With Dolores evenings committed to performing, I took in some of the other plays that were on that season. She was in very good company. The 1958-1959 season included The Visit, A Raisin in the Sun, Look Back in Anger, The Most Happy Fella, Sweet Bird of Youth and Look Homeward, Angel. I was also able to catch a dress rehearsal of a new musical opening off-Broadway, Once Upon a Mattress, which began the enduring career of my UCLA pal Carol Burnett. Dolores couldn’t accompany me to the rehearsal, but I was finally able to introduce my two favorite ladies.
I was amazed at how closely their lives paralleled. As youngsters in Los Angeles, both Carol and Dolores had hidden away to avoid the violence of alcoholic parents. Both were reared mainly by grandmothers who were real characters. (I’ve always thought, given the chance, Granny Kude would have taught Nanny White to drink a martini standing on her head.). Carol and Dolores also share a wicked sense of humor, a down-to-earth sense of responsibility and the passion necessary to bring each to her ultimate dream.
D and D were able to go to the theater together only once, to the Actors Fund benefit performance of Redhead with Gwen Verdon. On a Sunday, we “attended” the Academy Awards together. Richard Altman, my friend from UCLA days, now living in New York and teaching at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, threw an Oscar party at his Greenwich Village pad. Several other transplanted Uclans were there, including Merv Kaufman and Larry Swindell, who was then the reviewer for the Westchester County Newspaper Group (and, fortunately, had called Dolores “enchanting” in his notice). Altman always maintained that he threw the party just to be able to say that Kaufman and Hart attended.
William Perlberg and George Seaton came backstage late in the run of Pleasure. The Perlberg-Seaton Company, which was headquartered at Paramount, had just bought the movie rights to the play, and that night they promised Dolores that she would repeat her role in the film.
I literally floated above the ground for the next several weeks. Then one night Debbie Reynolds appeared backstage with the news that she had just been cast in the movie—in my part. I was totally devastated. I barely managed smiles and congratulations. It was the only time I’ve ever experienced the urge to kill. All the original actors would be replaced save one. Twinkly Charlie Ruggles repeated his role in the movie. I could never bring myself to see it.
George Peppard was the first cast member to leave the show, and I tried to get my friend James Douglas the part. James was a perfect fit for it and flew to New York to audition. I read with him. But Jim didn’t get the part. I had to call him to break the news, and it was the hardest thing I had ever done.
Richard Altman contacted Dolores about the possibility of one of his students auditioning for the role, and they met Dolores for coffee after a performance. Thinking he looked wonderful for the part, she arranged an audition for him. But Robert Redford didn’t get it either.
In June, wedding bells were going to ring for Winnie, setting off an alarm in Dolores. She had met the groom-to-be and thought she recognized her father in him and cautioned Winnie, who would not be dissuaded. Winnie’s family was against the marriage but waited until just four days before the wedding to withdraw their support, taking back her grandmother’s wedding dress she was counting on wearing.
“I’ll never forget,” Winnie said, “Dolores took me by the hand to Lord and Taylor, where we saw an ideal gown on a mannequin. It fit me perfectly. Dolores bought it on the spot as a wedding present. She was supposed be my bridesmaid, but the wedding was scheduled in upstate New York on a matinee day, which made it impossible. Still, she drove up early that morning just to see me in my wedding dress. She had to turn around and drive back to Manhattan immediately.”
As the end of her contract grew near and the play was showing no signs of fading, the producers asked Dolores to extend until the end of the run and then go on the road with it. Since Hal Wallis had nothing in the offing for her at the studio, she strongly considered extending, especially since her New York agent, Ray Powers, had arranged for her to test for the TV presentation of Edith Wharton’s novel Ethan Frome, which would be done in New York. I was excited at the prospect because the book was a favorite of mine and I thought she would make a fine Mattie Silver.
—I didn’t get the role—Julie Harris did.
Back in Hollywood, however, Harry Bernsen had lined up a test with director Henry Koster for the lead role in The Story of Ruth—a biblical drama—and both he and Hal Wallis felt Dolores should return sooner rather than later.
I had to agree that I would be better off in Hollywood, even if I wasn’t working, because at least I would be available. And I had come to the realization that, as much as I loved the Broadway experience, I did miss making movies.
I was told that one of the rewards of a long run on the stage is that it gives you the opportunity of tiring of everything and everybody gradually, and you don’t feel the letdown when it’s over. Don’t believe it. I think it’s the biggest scourge of show business. I felt completely empty, and nothing filled the space for a long while after.
Her last engagement before departing New York was to join other young players named by Theatre World as the most outstanding of the season for a group photograph. Theatre World has been, since 1944, the official chronicle of each Broadway and Off-Broadway season and acknowledges its best debut performances. Among the other actors photographed that day were William Shatner, Ina Balin, Larry Hagman and Rip Torn.
So, with 364 performances in The Pleasure of His Company behind her, a Tony nomination and a Theatre World award, “Broadway’s newest star” headed back to Hollywood, with a very tiny, very quiet, very secret Pogo in her pocket.
Nine
The year in New York was one of the great learning experiences of my professional life. I had worked with a gifted company of actors and had studied with a master. I was coming back to Hollywood with confidence in my craft.
I was also coming home with a heart filled with unanswered questions. I prayed that if the answers remained beyond my comprehension at that moment, God would give me the grace to live with the questions.
The questions concerned that monastery in Connecticut that Faith Abbott had recommended. While Dolores was still in New York, the idea of visiting the monastery surfaced in her thoughts from time to time. What could it hurt to find out more about the place, she would wonder, but then she would turn her attention to something else.
Until the chilly autumn day she stood on a crowded corner in mid-town Manhattan and stared as the traffic light turned green, then red, then green again and she couldn’t move a muscle. A policeman approached her and asked if anything was wrong. She said she was only daydreaming, but when she got back to the apartment she told Winnie that it was time she did something about Faith’s suggestion.
When Faith first mentioned Regina Laudis, I thought it would be “blue” Catholic—you can’t get any more Catholic than that. Faith had been drawn to its traditional ways—Latin prayers and full-length habits. Still, it seemed to have potential as a getaway to massage the kinks out with meditation and prayer, and the fact that the order was contemplative happily meant that the nuns would not be constantly available.
Dolores wrote to Regina Laudis for permission to visit overnight. The guest secretary, Mother Columba, thought the letter sounded very nice and shared it with the guest mistress, Mother Placid, who had grown up in New York City and was not unfamiliar with show-business folk.
Both women were convinced that actors and artists felt comfortable at Regina Laudis. Mother Placid had recently spent time with a visiting group of aspiring actresses who all lived at the Rehearsal Club in Manhattan. “The play Stage Door was about that place”, she was quick to tell me, sharing a bit of insider information. “Performers are always fun, if a little affected, and that group was particularly ‘actressy’—you see, they had all seen Ingrid Bergman play a nun. Frankly, I expected the same from this Dolores Hart. But I agreed that the letter was thoughtful and sincere.” An invitation to visit was extended.
Very early on my next day off—Monday, November 12, 1958—Pogo and I boarded a bus at New York’s Port Authority. I knew I was not supposed to bring pets into the guesthouse, much less on the bus, but Winnie was on call with the airline and I couldn’t leave him alone. He rode in my pocket. Two hours later we were deposited at the Regina Laudis “outpost”, Phillips Diner, in the small town—a village really—of Woodbury, Connecticut. At that time, Phillips resembled what it was, a real 1940s Pullman car. It has changed over the years but is still there. Out front was a phone booth. I had no small coins, so I splurged and dropped my sole quarter into the slot to call the only taxi listing in Woodbury.
I shared with the driver, Herbie Robertson, the directions I had been given: “You’ll drive through Woodbury and up Flanders Road toward Bethlehem, to the monastery. If you get to Bethlehem, you’ve gone too far.”
The drive up Flanders Road was short but, to my artist’s eye, full of God’s beauty. Although mid-November was late for the Technicolor extravaganza of a New England autumn, more than enough color remained in those woods, sparsely dotted with neat Connecticut houses, to inspire a greeting card or a calendar.
The Ear of the Heart: An Actress' Journey From Hollywood to Holy Vows Page 12