In the middle of my third season on Gunsmoke, I knew I was in trouble when Ken Curtis came in as Festus. I was there to replace Chester, and I thought, Boy, if ever in the world there was a replacement for Chester, it’s Festus. So I moved on, but with no hard feelings. I loved Gunsmoke and I loved those people.
—
I THOUGHT Marcello Mastroianni was brilliant. His comedy was effortless. He could do more without words than anybody since silent films. He was a huge star in Europe, but I thought he was underrated in America. I know the Actors Studio people didn’t like him. They didn’t get that he was as good as Cary Grant. But then, they didn’t like Cary Grant.
While I was shooting Navajo Joe, I was in the commissary at Cinecittà and Mastroianni was there. He waved me over and I almost fainted. I thought I’d done something wrong. But he only wanted me to join him for lunch. It was just the two of us. He had a wonderful sense of humor and he was so charming. He said in broken English—his English was a lot better than my Italian—that he liked my work and that “We must-a work-a together.”
“I would kill to work with you!” I said.
“Oh, please-a do not,” he said.
—
THE FIRST FILM COMEDY I did was Sam Whiskey (1969), with Angie Dickinson and Ossie Davis. We got along famously. Ossie was already a good friend, and as for Angie, well, she’s one of the great women of all time. We had a nude scene together, but I wasn’t ready for it. I went to her trailer and said, “I’m just a little bit worried about this.”
“Just walk in completely naked and act normal,” she said. “After a while they’ll get used to you. It’s like being married.”
That didn’t help, because I couldn’t imagine getting used to seeing Angie Dickinson in the altogether, so I ignored her advice and wore my ratty little robe.
True to her word, Angie came in wearing only a pair of slippers and a smile.
She pulled the covers back and climbed into bed. I slithered out of my robe and got under the covers next to her. I looked up and there were thirty guys hanging off the grid. They’d come from every feature film and television show on the lot. And there were people standing around where you never see anybody, and no wonder: My God, Angie had one of the greatest bodies in the history of the world.
Angie was absolutely wonderful with me, but I got the giggles and kept ruining takes. But we finally got the scene done, to my everlasting relief. If our “audience” got used to it, they didn’t show it. Not one of them left until the end.
Angie is one of those rare women you can take anywhere, from a prizefight to a presidential dinner. She’s always the same: she’s just Angie. I think we both felt it was unlucky that she and I were never single at the same time. I think we would have been a great couple: We both liked the same things and we could make each other laugh. To me, that’s at the top of the list.
—
I MADE A FILM with Raquel Welch and Jim Brown called 100 Rifles (1969). I had third billing. It was a controversial film because Raquel kissed Jim in one of Hollywood’s first interracial love scenes. That’s probably the most memorable thing about the picture.
Jim and I were fast friends, but Raquel is another story. During production she said things to me that weren’t particularly nice, and I said things back to her that were even worse, so we didn’t part friends. But we made another movie together, Fuzz (1972), and I had top billing, which pissed her off. She told the producer, “I will not work with him. I will not be on the same stage.” So I’d come to work and Raquel’s double would have her back to the camera and I’d say my lines to her and they’d say, “Cut.” I’d get back in the car, and as I was driving out the gate, the guard would pick up the phone and say, “He’s leaving now” and Raquel would come in and say her lines to my double. If you see the movie, it’s never us together. It was the only time I’ve ever had to work like that.
About ten years later Raquel was in a movie called Cannery Row (1982) based on the Steinbeck novel. It was an important role for her, a chance to show she could handle serious material. In a strange way I was happy for her because she’d been publicized as a sex symbol who couldn’t act and I identified with that. In the course of her career she’d taken a lot of crap along those lines, and I was impressed by her courage.
They fired her from Cannery Row for being “unprofessional.”
Tell you what: Raquel’s a lot of things, but she isn’t unprofessional. When we worked together she was always on time and always knew her lines. When I heard she was suing the studio, I called her agent and said I wanted to testify for her.
The jury was 90 percent Latino. A lot of people don’t know that Raquel was born Jo Raquel Tejada to a Bolivian father and an American mother. During the trial she sounded like Carmen Miranda.
I got on the witness stand and said, “This is not right. Raquel Welch is very professional and anyone would be crazy to think otherwise.” Long story short, she won the case and got $10 million. She thanked me for my help, but we still don’t send Christmas cards.
—
I MET LIZA MINNELLI on Lucky Lady (1975), with Gene Hackman and Robby Benson. She’s not the easiest person in the world to act with. She’s never quite with you. It’s like she’s reading something somewhere off-camera. Yet she’s amazing as a live performer. The entire audience is standing at the end of the show. She gives everything she has, just like her mother, Judy Garland, did.
I went backstage before one of Liza’s shows and she grabbed my arm and whispered, “I think I’ll sing one of Mama’s songs tonight.” About a year later I went to another performance and she said, “I’m going to sing one of Mama’s songs.”
I wanted to say, “Hey, you said that last time!”
I met Judy a few times, and I’ll never forget her Carnegie Hall concerts in the early sixties. She did things that should be in a time capsule. She’d walk out on the runway, sit down, and tear out your heart. Judy was a tortured soul. You couldn’t be with her ten minutes before you were thinking, This is going to end badly. But at the same time, I was surprised by how funny she was. That’s why we got along. The first time I met her she told Liza, “Now, that’s a funny guy. That’s the kind of guy you should be with.”
Liza and I never dated, though. I couldn’t handle the drama. She was convinced that there was always something horrible about to happen, and she kept trying until it did. It got to the point where I felt protective. I wanted to put my arms around her and say, “What can I do?” or “Who can I keep away from you?” That was her M.O. Then I realized that she does the same thing with a whole audience. Just like Mama did.
Gene Hackman is a good actor. He’s tough, and Liza is so boop oopy doop, it didn’t sit well with him. Every once in a while he’d go, “Liza, shut the fuck up!” We’d all have to walk off the set until he cooled off. Gene’s not a bad guy, but he allowed Liza to distract him. Gene wasn’t the easiest to work with either. You’d do the rehearsal one way, and when you got to the take, he’d say, “You’re not gonna do it that way, are you?”
He’d do that to Liza, and she’d fall apart.
I didn’t let it bother me, and Gene and I parted on good terms.
I thought Robby Benson was a terrific young man and a good actor. He was having a hard time on the picture. I don’t know whether he and the director, Stanley Donen, weren’t communicating or what. And like all actors, he needed the director to tell him he was doing a good job and Donen wasn’t. But Robby showed a lot of maturity and made the best of it.
Robby is an athlete, and when we played pickup basketball between takes, he ran circles around Hackman, who got pissed off and tried to rough him up. But Robby kept his cool. He’s blossomed into a damn good actor-director and a wonderful teacher at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, among other universities. He’s written a bestselling novel (Who Stole the Funny? A Novel of Hollywood, 2007) and an off-Broadway pla
y (Open Heart, 2004). We’ve stayed friends over the years and I think the world of him.
—
I LOVED WORKING with Goldie Hawn in Best Friends (1982). Of all my leading ladies, she was the most professional, the funniest, the sharpest, and the easiest to work with. You couldn’t throw her no matter what you did. She was terrific and I was crazy about her. I first met Goldie on The Tonight Show. We went for drinks afterward and I thought she was terrific. I still do.
Goldie’s boyfriend Kurt Russell was not crazy about me. I dated her for a while before they met, and, Goldie being Goldie, she talked about what a nice man I was, and Kurt didn’t like it. Whenever I saw him, he was rude as hell to me, but we never had a confrontation, because I took the high road for Goldie’s sake.
—
I ADORED Dolly Parton from her early days at the Grand Ole Opry, when I told an interviewer that I thought she would be a big star. Dolly wrote me a one-word note: “When?”
Working with her in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1982) was a delight. The only problem was, we laughed too much and blew too much of the studio’s money on retakes. You won’t find anybody more fun to work with, and yes, she’s sexy as hell, though I liked it better when she was more zaftig.
Dolly is so talented as a singer-songwriter-actor, and she turned out to be a sharp businesswoman, too: She made a big success of her theme park, Dollywood. It’s beautiful. Every little place you go there—you throw darts at balloons or whatever—the guy’s name is Wood. There must be a hundred Woods working there.
Dolly is very self-deprecating, at least in public, and it’s part of her charm. She’s smart about that, like when she says, “It costs a lot of money to look this cheap.” I’m crazy about her.
—
RYAN O’NEAL was dating Farrah Fawcett and I had a crush on her. I have to admit that I was kind of hoping they would break up. When they did and I finally went out with her, I turned into Inspector Clouseau.
Hal had a brand-new Ferrari convertible, and when I mentioned my date with Farrah, he said, “Take the Ferrari!”
“Great idea!” I said, even though I’d never driven one before.
When I went out to the car, I couldn’t get the door open. Fortunately the top was down, so I climbed over and got in the driver’s seat. Then I couldn’t figure out how to start the damn thing. I couldn’t find a key or an ignition switch. I turned everything I could turn or click or pop, and the car finally started. Once I was in third gear, I couldn’t figure out how to get back into first, so I drove in third all the way to Farrah’s house.
When I got there she was outside watering the flowers.
“Hi!” I said.
“Hi!” she said. “Why don’t you come in the house for a minute while I get my purse?”
Aw shit! I thought. I’ll have to get out of the car. I climbed on the seat and sort of hopped out, trying to look cool. “It’s a Ferrari,” I said, stating the obvious.
“That’s great!” she said. “I love Ferraris.” She got her purse and we went back out to the car, and luckily she opened her own door.
I went around to the driver’s side and stood there, hoping she’d reach over and open mine, as some gals do.
No such luck.
“Wanna open the door for me?” I said.
“Uh, sure,” she said.
I got in and went through the machinations of getting the thing started. Again, I could only find third gear, and the car gasped its way down the driveway and stayed in third all the way to the restaurant.
Over dinner I confessed everything about the car, and Farrah thought it was hilarious.
After dinner the valet guy drove the Ferrari up and left it running, with the transmission in neutral. I fumbled around with it and somehow managed to get into . . . third gear. We drove that way all the way back to her house, and it must have been a sight: Farrah Fawcett and Burt Reynolds in a shiny new Ferrari, lurching from one stoplight to the next. Farrah and I went out a few more times, but I was never able to top that first date.
—
JOHNNY CARSON had a great rapport with Doc Severinsen and the Tonight Show orchestra, which I think was one of the finest bands ever. I liked Doc and had a lot of fun with him. I’ve always had an affinity for musicians. I met a lot of them through Dinah and liked them all. They have a sense of humor all their own, but you have to be around them for a while before you get it. It’s hard to explain. It’s like what Louis Armstrong said about jazz: If you have to ask what it is, you’ll never know.
I used to hang out with Doc in a bar across the street from NBC in Burbank called Chadney’s. My God, in those days the guy could drink. There was no way I could keep up with him, so I’d fake it. People would come in from the other NBC shows and they’d end up sitting with us. That’s where I met a lot of actors, like the cast from Hollywood Squares. There was Paul Lynde, who was mean as a snake when he drank, but funny; Cliff Arquette, who played Charley Weaver; Johnny Winters; Rose Marie; Rich Little (you never knew who he was going to be that day); and Betty White. I’m absolutely crazy about Betty. We’ve been friends forever.
Hollywood Squares taped five shows in a day, usually two before they broke for “lunch.” The producers had a hard time getting the talent back to the set, but the shows they did after the break were much funnier.
Bert Convy and I developed a game show called Win, Lose or Draw. We’d played it at my house all the time and we were just having fun, but Bert said, “Let’s see if we can get this thing on TV.” In those days game shows and soap operas were the most profitable shows, and we did get it on the air and it was a hit. But some people didn’t get it. Agnes Moorehead, who could be a little bitchy, said, “Why on earth do you do that silly show?” and I said, “Because I like it and it’s fun.” She looked at me like I was crazy. It’s just like Hollywood that people couldn’t figure it out, when the simple answer was, I enjoyed it.
—
DOM DELUISE was one of the sweetest people on the planet. He was a loyal friend, and God, did he make me laugh, sometimes so hard I couldn’t stand up. But I could make him laugh, too, so both of us together in front of a camera was a catastrophe. When he got the giggles, I got the giggles, and vice versa. Directors would try to make us shape up, but they could never get control because the crew was all laughing, too. We ruined take after take until the director gave up and called a wrap. We never did it on purpose. We just were so close, we liked each other so much, that it was easy to do something silly that set us off.
Dom was born in Brooklyn, the youngest of three kids of Italian immigrant parents. He made his acting debut in a school play when he was eight, in the part of a penny that rolled under the bed in the first act and stayed there until the last scene. Dom said that lying there quietly, out of the limelight, was the hardest thing he ever had to do on a stage.
He graduated from the High School of Performing Arts in Manhattan and Tufts University. He met his wife, the Broadway actress Carol Arthur, in 1964, while they were both doing summer stock in Provincetown. They married and had three sons, Peter, Michael, and David, who all became actors.
Dom was one of the great clowns. He couldn’t help being a scene-stealer, but you didn’t mind because he was so funny. He made a bunch of films with Mel Brooks, beginning with The Twelve Chairs (1970). He went on to do Blazing Saddles (1974), Silent Movie (1976, with Marty Feldman, Sid Caesar, and me), Spaceballs (1987), and Robin Hood: Men in Tights (1993). Mel said that whenever Dom was in the cast he scheduled an extra two days, “just for laughter.”
Dom always said that he became a comic when they laughed at his serious acting, but he was more versatile than he let on. His film debut was a dramatic role in Fail Safe (1964), a grim drama about nuclear war starring Henry Fonda.
Dom created a character called Dominick the Great, a bumbling magician (“No applause please, save-a to the end”) who
was a regular on Garry Moore’s variety show and then on The Dean Martin Show. From then on he was always working, whether on the stage, in movies, or on television. He was a lifelong opera fan who was thrilled to perform at the Met in nonsinging roles. He got rave reviews for his performances as Frosch in Die Fledermaus, and for the role of L’Opinion Publique (in drag) for the Los Angeles Opera’s production of Offenbach’s Orpheus in the Underworld.
I worked with Dom a lot during the 1970s and ’80s, in The Cannonball Run and Cannonball Run II, Smokey and the Bandit II, The End, and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. Dom did voices in a bunch of animated films and we got to work together on one of the better ones, All Dogs Go to Heaven (1989). Voice actors usually work separately, but I wanted to be in the studio at the same time with Dom, so I asked them to let us try it and they loved it, I guess because we managed to behave ourselves (for once).
In his spare time Dom made himself into a gourmet chef. He loved to go on the morning TV shows and whip up his favorite recipes, and he wrote a bestselling cookbook. He also loved to eat, and his weight was a problem since boyhood. Whenever he was sick or depressed, his mother would say, “Here, eat something! It’ll make you feel better.” He starred in a movie about that, Fatso (1980), written and directed by Anne Bancroft.
Dom didn’t get serious about losing weight until he needed hip surgery and the doctor refused to do the operation unless he lost a hundred pounds. But by then it was too late. He had high blood pressure and diabetes and was diagnosed with cancer. He died in 2009 at seventy-five. There will never be anyone like Dom. I miss him every day. And I smile whenever I think of him.
But Enough About Me: A Memoir Page 23