But Enough About Me: A Memoir

by Burt Reynolds

  To be a good boxer you have to be agile enough to slip punches, you need great hand-eye coordination to be able to throw an accurate punch, you have to be durable enough to take a decent blow, and above all you have to have the nerve to get into the ring in the first place.

  After the show I worked out with Emile at the gym and he gave me pointers.

  And he told me his life story. Growing up fatherless in the Virgin Islands, he was sent to a reformatory, where he was sexually abused. He came to New York at the age of fifteen and was working in the garment district when he was discovered by the legendary trainer Gil Clancy, who made him a world champion.

  Emile was a natural athlete and a fierce competitor, but he was also a sweet man, sensitive and childlike in many ways.

  “I want to be an actor,” he told me.

  “Well, I want to be a fighter,” I said.

  I was ringside in Madison Square Garden the night Emile fought Benny “Kid” Paret. During the weigh-in before the fight, Paret called Emile maricón, Spanish slang for “fairy.” Emile was gay but pretended otherwise, and he was humiliated. In the twelfth round he trapped Paret against the ropes and unloaded on him. They carried Paret out of the ring unconscious. Emile tried to visit him in the hospital, but they wouldn’t let him in. Paret died a week later. Emile had nightmares about it, he got hate mail, and people spat at him on the street.

  Emile kept boxing for another ten years, but he was never the same. Not long after he retired, he was diagnosed with pugilistic dementia and spent the rest of his life in a nursing home. But before he died he came to terms with his sexuality and made peace with Benny Paret’s son. I hope he was at peace with himself.

  Actors and Movie Stars

  Fred Astaire was the most elegant man I ever met. The first time I saw him in person he was wearing a necktie around his waist instead of a belt. I thought it looked terrific, so I did the same thing and a guy came up to me and said, “Here’s twenty bucks, buy yourself a belt.”

  Fred and Gene Kelly were the two greatest dancers the movies ever had. Fred was all grace and class, Gene was athleticism personified. While Fred made it look easy, Gene made it look like a workout. But they were both great, and they were good friends. It’s a shame they made only one picture together, The Ziegfeld Follies (1945).

  Fred had a series of dance partners: Jane Powell, Cyd Charisse, Rita Hayworth, Judy Garland, Ann Miller, and Ginger Rogers, who I thought was the greatest. People said that he gave her class and she gave him sex appeal, and that she did everything just as well as he did, only backward and in high heels. They made some marvelous pictures together. The Gay Divorcee (1934), Top Hat (1935), Swing Time (1936), and Carefree (1938) are all classics, as far as I’m concerned.

  Fred was a perfectionist who rehearsed forever, and it drove Ginger crazy. She wanted to shoot it and move on, but he’d keep her working until she was ready to drop. He made her do one scene in Swing Time so many times her feet bled. Whenever Fred was shooting, people would come from every show at Metro to watch. By the time he finished rehearsing, they thought they could do the number themselves.

  But off the set, the taskmaster was a pussycat. We met at Dinah’s and became friends.

  One night he called to ask if I would give him a ride to the Hotel Bel-Air.

  “Sure!” I said.

  “Great!” he said. “Could you pick me up at my sister Adele’s? She’s having a party and she’s not too thrilled about my going anywhere.”

  When I got there, Adele cornered me and said, “Where are you taking him?”

  “To the hotel,” I said.

  I glanced at him and he kind of gave me a look like “Don’t say I’m meeting anybody,” so I added, “We’re just going to have a drink and talk.”

  “That’s all?” Adele said.

  “Yeah, that’s all.”

  When we got in the car, Fred said, “Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “But what’s going on?”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m meeting a young lady my sister doesn’t like.”

  I drove around to the back of the hotel and she came out. Fred brought her over and introduced us. It was Robyn Smith, who’d recently broken through as the first successful female jockey. She was kind of butch, but pretty. Fred was a horse-racing fan. One of the Vanderbilts had introduced him to Robyn, and he was smitten. But they had to meet secretly because Adele and the rest of Fred’s family thought she was a gold digger. Fred and Robyn got married anyway and stayed together for seven years, until his death in 1987.

  Maybe Adele and the family were right, because as Fred’s widow, Robyn licensed his image for a Dirt Devil commercial. I was sorry about that. He was too classy for a vacuum cleaner ad.

  —

  IF ANTHONY PERKINS and Tony Curtis had a son, it would be George Hamilton. You’re prepared not to like him because you think he’s a prissy guy, but he’s not that way at all. He has a fabulous sense of humor and he’s great fun to be around. The key to George is that he doesn’t take himself seriously. And he’s a much better actor than he thinks he is.

  That whole thing about George being wealthy was a farce. He was born in Memphis to Ann Potter Hamilton, a beautiful Southern belle he describes as a cross between Scarlett O’Hara and Blanche DuBois. She did her best to support him after his father, a bandleader named George “Spike” Hamilton, left when George was five. He grew up in Palm Beach in the midst of wealth but without any of it, but he pretended he did to the point of half believing it.

  George went to Hollywood at the first opportunity. He rented a Rolls-Royce and drove it around Beverly Hills wearing a chauffeur’s hat. He parked it in front of MGM and they noticed him, signed him to a contract, and put him in a bunch of films: Where the Boys Are (1960), Home from the Hill (1960), All the Fine Young Cannibals (1960), and the first movie I ever did, Angel Baby (1961).

  George is the least athletic person I’ve ever met. When we shot a fight scene in Angel Baby, he could barely throw a punch. I’d have to grab his fist and steer it. And when he had to throw me into the bushes, he sort of lifted me up and I jumped, and that’s exactly how it looks on the screen. I was in two pictures that year: Angel Baby with George, Salome Jens, Mercedes McCambridge, Joan Blondell, and my old friend Dudley Remus, and Armored Command, with Howard Keel, Tina Louise, and Earl Holliman. I played a rapist in both films. They were a double bill on 42nd Street and I only hoped the audience didn’t think it was typecasting.

  In the era of James Dean and Marlon Brando, with their ripped T-shirts and blue jeans, George was Mr. Elegance. I went shopping with him once when he was buying a suit: “I want the cuff a quarter-inch from the bottom of the heel, and I don’t want any drape here . . .” He talked like a tailor.

  Like Cary Grant, George invented a persona and grew into it. He cultivated the image of a Palm Beach millionaire playboy and decided that suntanning would work for him the way the blue suit did for Superman. Health nut is too mild to describe his obsession with what he calls wellness. He reads books with words in the title like detox and colon cleanse. I hate to think of what’s hanging on his bathroom door.

  For a long time George never got the one part that would showcase his talent. When he finally started doing comedy, people realized how good he is. He spoofed himself with Love at First Bite (1979) and then Zorro: The Gay Blade (1981). They were both successful, I think because he worked with the writers to polish the scripts until they had nothing but George Hamilton lines.

  Women love him. He dated Imelda Marcos, Britt Ekland, Lynda Bird Johnson, and so many Miss Worlds and Miss Universes, he could have his own pageant. Keely Smith was down in Miami Beach doing her show and I was dating her for a while . . . until George swept her away from me. I never had a chance.

  —

  WHAT I LOVED most about Riverboat were the guest stars, especially Ricardo Montalbán, who be
came one of my closest friends. Ricardo was the first big star in Hollywood who befriended me, and our friendship lasted for the rest of his life. I went on vacations with him and his wife, Georgiana, and he was the godfather to my son, Quinton.

  At first I didn’t know that Ricardo’s right leg was partially paralyzed. Because of who he was and how much he worked out in the gym, he built up his strength so it just seemed like a distinctive walk. I thought, Gee, I’d like to walk like him, and I imitated it. I thought I was being clever. I didn’t know that a horse had trampled him when he was making a Western in the early fifties. But of course Ricardo was gracious about it. He actually laughed when I did it.

  He was born in Mexico City, where his family had emigrated from Spain. When he came to Hollywood in 1943, MGM put him under contract and wanted to change his name to Ricky Martin. He played mostly Indians at first, and later suave Latin lovers. Throughout his career Ricardo broke barriers for Hispanics. He was one of Hollywood’s first Latin leading men and the first Hispanic to appear on the cover of Life magazine. In the 1970s he was the spokesman for the Chrysler Cordoba with its “fine Corinthian leather” interior. People will probably remember him best as Mr. Roarke in the TV series Fantasy Island, or as Khan Noonien Singh in the original Star Trek television series and the 1982 film Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.

  Ricardo shattered stereotypes just by being himself. He created the Nosotros Foundation to promote Latino involvement in the arts and entertainment. He told me that he lost jobs because producers thought he was militant, which wasn’t true. He just didn’t like the negative way Hollywood portrayed Mexicans and other Hispanics.

  At the end of his life he was confined to a wheelchair, but he kept working both as an actor and for his beloved cause. I always wished I could have the talent of Spencer Tracy or James Stewart and the class and charm of Ricardo Montalbán. I’m honored to have been his friend.

  —

  A LOT OF PEOPLE think Marlon Brando was the best American film actor ever. I wouldn’t go that far (Spencer Tracy), but I think his early work was outstanding. In those first few films with Kazan, he was more interesting at his worst than other actors are at their best.

  He was electrifying in A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) and Viva Zapata! (1952), and it was impossible to take your eyes off of him in On the Waterfront (1954). It’s a flawless movie and he’s stunning in every frame.

  After that, with a few exceptions, I think he was just phoning it in. The first time I saw Teahouse of the August Moon (1956), I was in the balcony with friends and they were all raving about Marlon’s performance.

  “The one who’s great is Glenn Ford,” I said. “His comedy is terrific.”

  But I caught Marlon acting. And I thought the buckteeth he wore were a cruel stereotype of the Japanese.

  Someone once said that intelligence gets in the way of great acting. Marlon certainly never let that happen, because I don’t think he ever grew up. I believe that was the key to his acting, and to his problems off-camera. He abused his body, the instrument that made him great; he ate himself out of the frame . . . because he was bored. Acting was too easy for him and he came to despise it. He was embarrassed by his success, so he retreated to his tropical island and worked only when he ran out of money. He got millions for a film but didn’t bother to learn his lines.

  Some of Marlon’s mannerisms were accidental. The pauses that everybody thought were so brave happened because he was looking for a cue card. He wasn’t generous to fellow actors, who said working with him was like working with a blank wall. And the way he constantly denigrated acting was an insult to everyone in the profession.

  I worked in television with his sister, Jocelyn. She would tell me how much I looked like him and I’d say, “Yes, I’ve been told that. Thank you, I guess.” People used to follow me on the street thinking I was Brando. At first it got on my nerves, and then it flat pissed me off. It’s the main reason I grew a mustache.

  Marlon’s problem with me went back to a Twilight Zone episode in which I did an imitation of him. I played an annoying Method actor who’d been a big hit in A Streetcar Named Desire, and Marlon didn’t like it.

  I’d known Rita Moreno long before we did B.L. Stryker on TV. There’s no other way to say it: Rita is just a great broad. On the set she was a total pro, and after work she loved to go out and party. Nobody could keep up with her. And what a marvelous actor. She’s one of only a handful of performers who’ve won an Oscar, an Emmy, a Tony, and a Grammy. I met Rita when I was still new in Hollywood. She was dating Brando and said he was curious about me. I was curious about him, too, so I let her talk me into going to a party at his house. When I finally met him, he was rude. He was sitting in a chair and didn’t get up; he just kind of looked away and mumbled something. After about two minutes of small talk, he accused me of trying to capitalize on my resemblance to him.

  “I’ll tell you right now: I’m not having surgery because you don’t like the way I look,” I said. “But I promise not to get fat.”

  That ended the conversation, and we never spoke again.

  —

  GUNSMOKE BEGAN as a radio drama. When they were casting the TV version, Duke Wayne recommended Jim Arness for the lead and introduced him in a prologue to the first episode. The show was a big hit, and ten years in, they needed someone to replace Dennis Weaver—Chester. They looked at a bunch of guys, but for some reason Jim liked me, so I signed on as Quint Asper, the half-Comanche town blacksmith.

  The two and a half years I spent on Gunsmoke were the best of times. I learned a lot about acting and about what it means to be a professional. The cast and crew were like a family. It all came from the star.

  Earlier in his career Jim made a number of features, including the sci-fi films The Thing from Another World (1951)—he played the title role—and Them! (1954). But he’ll always be remembered as Marshal Matt Dillon.

  Jim called the shots on the show. At six-feet-seven, he was an imposing figure, but he never pulled rank, he never made unreasonable demands, and he was kind to everyone on the set, cast and crew. I learned things from him that came in handy when I did a series of my own later on.

  Jim had no ego. He’d say, “We need a show for Kitty” or “We need a show for Doc.” He made sure everybody in the cast had at least one show that was all about them. He was in constant pain from wounds he’d suffered in the Anzio invasion in World War II, but I never once heard him complain. It surprises people to learn that he had a fantastic sense of humor. In fact he was one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. He’d ruin take after take with wisecracks and little practical jokes.

  I always wanted to get a ride in his car because everyone said, “He’ll try to scare the shit out of you,” and I thought that would be interesting. We were shooting on location, and at the first opportunity I asked him to give me a ride to my car.

  “Yeah, jump in,” he said.

  I mean, he went crazy. I think he was trying to get me to open the door and dive out, but I didn’t blink. Finally he roared up to my car, did a figure eight, and said, “I guess I’m not gonna get you to say uncle.”

  “Shit no! How ’bout letting me drive?”

  “Fuck you! Get out!”

  Gunsmoke ran on CBS from 1955 to 1975, and it’s still on the air more than half a century later. The shows hold up because they’re good stories, well produced, with terrific actors. I had a great time doing it because the people were just as nice as they could be. Amanda Blake was perfect as Miss Kitty and as sweet as she could be off-camera. Milburn Stone, who played Doc Adams, was like a father to me. When Millie started the show, he was fifty years old and they had to make him up to look old, but over the twenty seasons he aged into the part.

  I met three actors on Gunsmoke who became lifelong friends of mine: James Hampton, Bruce Dern, and James Best.

  Jim Hampton grew up in Dallas. He majored in the
ater arts at the University of North Texas. He was drafted into the army and served in F Troop of the 6th Cavalry, which is fitting, because one of his first television roles was Hannibal Dobbs, the inept bugler in ABC’s F Troop. He did a lot of episodic TV in addition to Gunsmoke, including The Doris Day Show, The Rockford Files, and Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C. Later on, Jim was a key member of the Evening Shade company. His Caretaker in The Longest Yard was the first good movie part he had, and he was terrific in it. I don’t know how many pictures we’ve done together since. Every time there was a part I thought he could do, I pushed like hell to get him, and he was always terrific. We had fun together on the screen because we ad-libbed a lot. Jim and I also did four or five shows together on the Kenley circuit, a kind of summer-stock company that toured the Midwest, and we had a ball. He’s a giving actor and great friend.

  I liked Bruce Dern immediately. He had that quirky delivery, and he was funny as hell. But he couldn’t ride a horse worth a damn and I kidded him about it.

  “You can do it because you’re a jock,” he’d say.

  “Being a jock has nothing to do with riding a horse,” I’d say. “You should have learned how to ride by now.”

  Of course he’s always been a jock. He was a speed skater growing up in Chicago and a record-holding half-miler at the University of Pennsylvania. He still runs every day . . . forever.

  And of course he’s an amazing actor. He can do it all, from comedy to drama, from Support Your Local Sheriff (1969) to Coming Home (1978). And he should have won the Oscar for his performance in Nebraska (2013).

  Bruce once told me that in his book, the greatest accolade you can give someone is “He could play.” Well, Bruce could really play. And he still can.

  James Best and I stayed friends until his death in 2015. He was a true good ol’ Southern boy from Powderly, Kentucky, who grew up during the Great Depression. He was born Jewel Franklin Guy to Lark and Lena Guy, but his mother died young and he was farmed out to an orphanage until he was adopted by Armen and Essa Best. He grew up in Indiana and served as a gunner on a B-17 during World War II. His first acting role was a bit part in a movie called One Way Street (1950), and he went on to make dozens of films and hundreds of television shows. People remember him as Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane on The Dukes of Hazzard. After it stopped shooting, he and his wife Dorothy moved to Florida, where Jim taught acting at the University of Central Florida. Jimmy Best was a sweet man. He had a sense of humor about everything, and I can still hear his beautiful laugh.