CHAPTER 5
Working with Legends
My brother started a new acting job that would eventually play a major role in my budding career, too. Stan became a recurring character on The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet playing a neighbor boy, Stanley.
The long-running series was in its latter years and Ozzie’s real-life sons, Rick and David (characters on the show), were too old to hang out with their Pop all the time. Ozzie cast Stan to inject a little youthful energy into his show, somebody he could pal around with and go to the malt shop with, without looking like a pedophile. The show epitomized a 1950s Pleasantville reality. Ozzie never went to work and always had tons of free time to goof off. Nice life, if you can get it.
Ozzie’s character was famous for his stuttering, stammering speech pattern. That wasn’t by choice. He spoke that way because he didn’t have time to remember his lines. He was too busy writing, directing, and producing practically every episode during the show’s sixteen-year run. When it came time to film his scenes, he’d read his lines off a teleprompter and fumble his way through the action with the other actors. The result was a lovable, bumbling, befuddled TV dad. In reality, though, he was a creative dynamo, perhaps television’s first auteur.
On the days that my brother worked on Ozzie and Harriet, my mom would haul me down to the set, too. It wasn’t because we couldn’t afford a babysitter; my mother wanted to let Ozzie know that I was available, too. Sure enough, her crafty little plan worked. Eventually, Ozzie asked if I would like to do an episode. She was always thinking ahead.
Ozzie wanted to use me in a school classroom scene. I was supposed to stand at a blackboard and write out a complicated math problem, much to his character’s befuddlement. I reported to the studio on my designated day of filming and, to my surprise, another crisis unfolded.
It turned out that I was too short to do the scene. I couldn’t reach high enough on the blackboard to write out the math formula so the camera could see it over the heads of the students. If the camera can’t see it, you’re screwed. Ozzie pondered the dilemma and decided that he had no choice but to go with the quickest, easiest solution: get a taller kid.
Holy crap. I couldn’t believe it. I was getting canned again. The last time I was too weird looking; this time I was too damn small. It felt like there was an insidious plan afoot to destroy my morale and dignity. Thank God, Ozzie was no maniacal screamer like the first director who fired me. He assured me that I’d get another role soon. True to his word, Ozzie hired me a few weeks later.
On my next episode, we were shooting a scene in the Nelsons’ TV kitchen, where there were no height requirements. I was asked to do something that I was very capable of: eat chocolate ice cream. In fact, I got so absorbed in my delicious task that I forgot to say my lines in the first take. Ozzie understood kids, though, and was amused by my mistake. He gently reminded me that I should eat my ice cream and say my lines. If I did a good job, I could have all the ice cream I wanted. Now that’s the kind of director I liked working with.
When the episode finally aired, my performance was pretty amusing. I had chocolate ice cream smeared all around my mouth. Whenever I had a line of dialogue, I’d barely lift my face out of the bowl to speak. The second I finished talking, I dove back into the scrumptious dessert. The scene was funny because it was honest, exactly the kind of behavior a real kid would do in such a moment. Ozzie was a master at recognizing those “little truths” and using them. I just wanted to eat as much ice cream as I could.
I became a member of Ozzie Nelson’s repertory of recurring characters, and I was treated like family. Whenever I worked on the show, Ozzie invited me to have lunch with him in his personal screening room. We would watch the “dailies” (rough footage of scenes shot the day before). After finishing our main courses, an assistant would deliver our favorite dessert: chocolate ice cream. I think he liked the stuff as much as I did.
Ozzie was my first acting teacher, too. He imparted two basic and important lessons: Number one, relax. Relaxation is key to every good performance. Lesson number two: Look at the other actors when they’re talking, listen to what they’re saying, and when it’s your turn to speak, answer them with your scripted lines. It is simple advice but profoundly true to the art of fine acting. Ask any good actor and they’ll agree.
Now that I was appearing regularly on the Nelsons’ hit show, my agent started receiving requests for my services. That was a big step up from the “cattle call” auditions. I became a known commodity, a “Barry Livingston type,” which amazed everyone in our family.
A couple of interesting roles were offered to me that involved working with two comedy icons. The first job was with that other seminal nerd, Jerry Lewis, who was a god to most kids of my age. I was the envy of all my young pals when I told them that I was going to be in his next film, The Errand Boy.
In the movie, Lewis plays a lowly movie studio employee, an errand boy. My character, a child actor, comes into the studio’s candy store where Lewis is working. I repeatedly ask him to fetch different-colored jelly beans from jars high atop some shelves. Lewis is forced to climb the store’s tall, rolling ladder so many times that he snaps. His broad reaction, a frustration that slowly builds to an explosion, is hysterical. It’s a classic routine that has become known as the “Jelly Bean” scene to many of his fans. I’m honored to have been a small part of it.
Lewis wrote and directed the movie as well as starred in it, so I got to watch him work in multiple roles. He displayed more nervous energy than most hyperactive kids at my elementary school. One day, Lewis was so manic and out of control that he darted in front of a moving camera dolly and got clobbered. The dolly hit him so hard in the head that it drew blood and knocked him right on his ass.
After working with Lewis, I was cast in a small part in a movie with another comedy giant, my Honeymooners hero, Jackie Gleason. The film was Papa’s Delicate Condition, and the “Great One” was larger than life. Nothing seemed to rattle his jovial mood, not even smashing his “Rolls Royce” golf cart into the back of somebody’s shiny new Cadillac. Gleason was another comedy giant with a thirst for life ... and alcohol.
CHAPTER 6
Memories Are Magic
The Dick Van Dyke Show was my first acting job where I performed in front of a live audience, which I assumed would be easy. I was pretty cocky for a nine-year-old thespian, having already logged five years in the “biz.” That was halfway to qualifying for my Screen Actor’s Guild pension, which meant I could retire at fourteen! I had things all figured out. Or so I thought.
My role in the episode wasn’t that complicated. I played a friend of Richie Petrie (Van Dyke’s TV son). The boy boasted that his dad owned the wildest pair of pajamas ever made. I doubted him, and so Richie takes me to view the amazing pj’s while his father is in bed sleeping. Carl Reiner, the show’s creator, gave me one specific direction: go slack-jawed in shock when the pajamas are revealed. Easy enough. It was money in the bank.
We rehearsed the show for four days. Reiner staged our action, jokes were honed, and my “slack-jawed” reaction met with everybody’s approval. One element missing in rehearsals, though: Van Dyke’s spectacular pajamas. Either the star didn’t feel like wearing them or there was a calculated plan to reveal the pj’s on filming day, hoping to catch my “real” reaction. I suspected it was the latter, mainly because I overheard Reiner tell Van Dyke that the audience will howl when they see the goofy kid’s stunned expression. Goofy kid? I thought I looked like Steve McQueen. Another illusion shattered.
On the fifth day of work we were ready to film the show. A chattering crowd streamed into the studio, filling the air with electricity, and that triggered a sensation that I’d never felt before: preshow butterflies. The mere thought of people watching me onstage caused a tingling from my groin to my stomach. That’s when I started to worry. I’d heard disaster stories about other actors whose jitters grew into full-blown stage fright. Sometimes they’d go into total
paralysis or break into tears and run offstage. That couldn’t happen to me, I reassured myself. I was a pro, ready for anything!
Suddenly, a loud bell rang on the stage, filming had commenced, and the flitting butterflies morphed into flapping crows. I wasn’t ready for that. The hands on a wall clock backstage seemed to be spinning faster and faster, hurtling me toward my moment of truth. Before you could scream run, I heard my cue to enter the scene ... and I did.
I followed Richie through the Petries’ TV living room (being careful not to do a pratfall over Van Dyke’s famous ottoman). Perspiration beaded on my forehead, and it wasn’t from the hot studio lights. I felt the “multiheaded monster” in the studio bleachers watching us, daring me to look at them, but I resisted. . . and continued to sweat.
Richie and I crept into a bedroom where we found Rob Petrie (Van Dyke) “sleeping” in his bed. A blanket covered his body and, of course, the awesome pajamas.
Richie held an index finger to his lips and peeled back the covers. Ever so slowly, the pajamas were revealed. It was a two-piece suit, bright orange with black stripes. Van Dyke’s head looked like it was attached to the body of a Bengal tiger.
The audience roared with laughter, and their energy surged over me; that was another odd, new feeling. A nervous giggle started to work its way up from my gut to my “frozen, slack-jawed mouth.” Suddenly, I began laughing! Of course, that was not part of the plan.
An unseen voice, like a displeased god, boomed through overhead speakers: “Cut!” A stage bell rang twice, which meant that filming was aborted. Suddenly, things weren’t so funny.
Van Dyke opened his eyes, looked at me, and frowned. Even more troubling, Carl Reiner, the show’s eight-hundred-pound gorilla, walked out from the darkness behind the cameras. He looked disappointed; like I’d spoiled a surprise party that he’d been planning all week.
“You weren’t supposed to laugh,” he said.
“I’m sorry. I know. I couldn’t help ...”
Reiner interrupted me and said, “Let’s try it again. When you see Richie’s dad, just drop your jaw and stare. Nothing more.”
“Okay,” I replied firmly, trying to regain his confidence, and mine, too.
Take two: Richie and I sneak into the bedroom, my pal pulls down the covers revealing the Van Dyke–Bengal tiger, the audience laughs, and ... I follow their lead, turning into Chuckles the Chimp, again.
“Cut!” The stage bell banged loudly, signaling the end of filming, and perhaps my career.
Goddamn that audience, I hissed to myself while still giggling. I’d lost all self-control.
Reiner was on the set within seconds this time. His disappointment now looked like frustration.
“What happened?” he snapped.
“I ... uh ... I laughed ’cause the audience ...”
“The audience can laugh, not you. It kills ‘the funny’ if you think it’s funny,” said the wise man of comedy. “Understand?”
I nodded uh-huh but I didn’t really understand. I figured I better pretend or get fired on the spot.
Reiner was no rube, though, and saw that I was scared and bluffing. He knelt down, gently patted my cheek, and whispered: “Think about something you remember, something that shocked you. Memories are like magic, you know. Just relax and go with it. Okay?”
I nodded yes, but I still didn’t really know what he meant. Memories? Magic? The “old pro” was clueless but game.
Take three: Richie and I enter, the pj’s are revealed, my jaw sagged, the audience screamed, and just as I feared, another tickle started to percolate in my innards.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve never had this problem before! my brain screamed. The giggle kept rising. If it reached my mouth, I was screwed, the jig up, my acting reputation toast.
Then a miracle happened. The memory of my dog, Lady, popped into my mind’s eye, and it wasn’t a pretty picture. My pet was lying in the street after a car had run her over; she was dead. Granted, the image wasn’t the same kind of shock as seeing somebody’s dad in funny pajamas, but I was grateful that something, anything, popped into my head. I decided to go with the memory as Reiner suggested and focused on Lady’s black eyes, glassy and motionless, and her furry midsection that looked flattened by the tire that rolled over her. Not surprisingly, the tickle began to recede.
The audience was not to be spurned, though. They howled like Greek sirens luring me onto the rocks. I fought back with another memory: a grumpy city worker scooping up my dead pet with a big shovel and flinging her limp body into the back of his truck. Believe me, my “stunned, frozen slack jaw” has never hung lower.
At last, the scene ended. The studio bell dinged, just like it does at the end of a boxing match; I had finally won the bout.
Reiner returned to the set and pronounced me a comedy genius. Well, not actually. He just thanked me, I assumed for not screwing up his show, again, and the cast and crew moved on to the next scene. My work was done, not a moment too soon, and I was sent packing.
Driving home from the studio, my mom could see me lost in thought. “Don’t worry, Barry,” she said. “People make mistakes. There’s a lot to learn.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. I hated when adults said things like that. Secretly, I was still rattled but couldn’t admit it. My first live performance was a disaster, and that took my cockiness down a couple of notches. Perhaps I didn’t have it all figured out.
We rode in silence, and then my mother asked, “So, what did Mr. Reiner finally tell you?”
I sighed, wanting to put the whole weird evening behind me, and said, “I forget.” Of course, that wasn’t true because the director’s words were still echoing in my head. So was my dog’s ghostly memory. Lady’s appearance was a godsend and a revelation. She was still alive, somewhere in my body or soul, and I had the power to call upon her. My dog could still come to my rescue if I ever needed her help.
Reiner was right. Memories are like magic.
CHAPTER 7
The Top Secret TV Series
While I was busy working in movies, Stan was on the verge of an acting break that would change his life forever, and eventually mine, too.
Our agent told Stan that he had an audition for an untitled, top-secret project. Our family was intrigued. Nothing grabs your attention more than a super-classified project. The only thing that could be revealed: a huge movie star was attached to the enterprise, which was a pilot for a new TV series. This was an era when major film stars rarely appeared in TV projects; it was considered beneath their stature. This series was going to be very special.
At Stan’s audition, he learned that the untitled project actually had a name: My Three Sons. Somebody also leaked the name of the show’s star: Fred MacMurray. MacMurray was a huge movie star, having come off a string of Disney hits like The Absent-Minded Professor and The Shaggy Dog. Preceding those movies, MacMurray’s film career went back another thirty years and included such classics as Double Indemnity, The Egg and I, and The Caine Mutiny. How was a star of MacMurray’s stature lured to TV? There was one overriding factor.
MacMurray wanted a change in lifestyle. Movie work often required him to leave home and travel abroad or labor at the studio for long hours, putting in twelve- to fifteen-hour days. MacMurray wanted out of that madness because he and his wife, June Haver, had recently adopted twin girls. He dreamed of a job that would give him regular workdays with set hours. Plain and simple: MacMurray wanted to be a father more than he needed to be a movie star.
The creator of My Three Sons, Don Fedderson, knew of MacMurray’s desire and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. The deal specified that MacMurray would work only two months per season. There’d be no late nights on the set, either. He’d start at 8 a.m. and punch out at 5 p.m. Overtime would cost the company a pretty penny.
A novel way of shooting was devised to accommodate the star’s schedule. It became known throughout the industry as the MacMurray Method. In the two months that he was present, t
he film company would shoot only his scenes and only his close-ups, sometimes working out of ten different scripts a day to capture his footage from every episode. Once he was gone, the other series regulars would continue shooting the scenes that the star wasn’t in and doing their close-ups with a script girl who was reading MacMurray’s lines off-camera. It was a wildly unorthodox way of shooting a television series and a production nightmare. Normally, each episode is started and completed in about a week. If you have clout, though, the rules will change. MacMurray definitely had clout. It was an opportunity too good for him to pass up.
After one audition, the producers told Stan that he got the job of Chip Douglas, the youngest of the sons. Stan was the first series regular hired after MacMurray, so our family became privy to the machinations behind some of the early casting decisions.
William Frawley, best known as Fred Mertz from the TV classic I Love Lucy, came on board to portray Uncle Bub, the show’s nanny. Bobby Diamond, from the TV Western Fury, was offered the role of oldest son but couldn’t come to terms in negotiations. He was out. MacMurray suggested Tim Considine for the role since they had just worked together on a Disney film, The Shaggy Dog. When the boss suggests things, people listen. Considine was hired as the oldest son, Mike. To complete the troika of My Three Sons, Ryan O’Neal was cast as Robbie, the middle son.
Soon after work on the pilot began, things went sour and filming was halted. MacMurray felt that O’Neal wasn’t up to par with his comedy skills (he proved everybody wrong later in his career) and was let go. A mad search went out to replace him. My mother mentioned the talent hunt to Mary Grady, an agent specializing in child actors. She happened to be the mother of Don Grady, who was already famous as a Mousketeer on the Mickey Mouse Club. Mary got her son an audition, and Don won the part of Robbie, the middle son. The original cast of MTS was solidified.
The Importance of Being Ernie: Page 4