Like many other teens in the 1960s, rock-and-roll music fueled my fantasies of rebellion against authority. I even started to bristle against my mom’s notion that I become the new Danny Kaye, that good old-fashioned song and dance man. I told my mom that I never saw Mick Jagger do a “shuffle-off-to-Buffalo” tap dance step.
Of course, my protests fell on deaf ears and I was soon enrolled in a new local performing arts school, the Eddie Gay Dance Academy. It was tough enough to study jazz and ballet, but telling kids that I was a member of the Eddie Gay Dance Academy really sucked, no offense to any homosexual fans. I went along with my mom’s program, but in my head I knew that my dancing days were numbered.
CHAPTER 13
My Pal, Lucille Ball
Back at work on MTS at Desilu, I started to become pals with the studio’s owner, Lucille Ball. Lucy had divorced Desi Arnaz and had taken over the daily grind of running the place. That was in addition to producing and acting in The Lucy Show. She was a force of nature and seemed to be at the studio night and day.
After I’d finished school, I’d take a ride on my Schwinn, and my path frequently crossed with Lucy’s, who was speeding around the lot in her golf cart. Since she wasn’t in front of a camera, Lucy wore little or no makeup and would have her bright red hair tucked under a bandanna. A cigarette was also perpetually glued to her lower lip.
I couldn’t believe my ears the first time she waved to me in passing, yelling out, “Hi there, Barry!” I practically fell off my bike. It was one thing when your average fan greets you and quite another when a world-famous celebrity and comedic legend knows your name. My afternoon encounters with Lucy continued on a daily basis, nothing more than passing smiles and waves. One day, though, it got more up close and personal.
One of my current passions was baseball, and I would spend hours bouncing a tennis ball off the wall of our soundstage, playing catch with myself. I didn’t realized that my ball was also leaving little round smudge marks on the stage every time it hit it, which was hundreds of times. Lucy’s new husband and business partner, Gary Morton, caught me in the act and went ballistic.
Morton screamed, “Kid, what the hell are you doing? Look at all those marks! It’s gonna cost me a lot of money to repaint the side of that stage!”
Lucy pulled up next to us in her golf cart as Morton continued to rant and rave. “Gary, calm down for Chrissake. He’s just a kid!” Lucy yelled.
Morton replied, “Somebody’s gonna pay for this damage!”
“We’ll pay for it!” Lucy growled in her gravelly voice. “Now shut up and get in the goddamn cart, Gary. We’re late for a meeting!”
Morton did as ordered and climbed aboard, silently fuming.
Lucy turned to me and said, “Keep playing ball, honey, one day you’ll be on the Dodgers.” She stepped on the cart’s accelerator pedal and sped away.
Even though Lucy generously gave me permission to play ball against her stage wall, I decided to get a “pitch-back” net to play catch with rather than tick off Lucy’s surly partner. Not long after this incident, though, I ran afoul of Morton again.
Stan and I were racing our bikes down one of the studio avenues. We made a high-speed turn at an intersection, and I collided head-on with one of the scrawny feral cats that roamed the lot. Releasing the hungry felines was Morton’s bright idea to control the rat population. I had accidentally run over one of his prized tomcats, snapping its neck and killing it instantly. Stan and I panicked and decided to hide the evidence. We tossed the dead cat under our soundstage and fled from the scene of the crime, thinking we’d dodged a bullet.
All was fine in the “case of the dead tomcat” until about a week later. A horde of flies invaded our set. You’d be filming a scene, having a heart-to-heart moment with MacMurray, when a big horsefly would orbit your head and land on your nose, ruining the take.
For the next week, scene after scene was ruined by the flying intruders, costing the company thousands in wasted film. Eventually, some poor soul was sent under the stage and found the decomposing cat. Stan and I maintained our silence and never confessed to our crime. Gary Morton, probably suspecting I was involved in the mystery, continued to give me the “stink eye” at every opportunity.
I wasn’t so sure of my relationship with Lucy now that her husband seemed to hate me. My fears were soon put to rest when my agent called to say that Mrs. Ball had personally requested me for an episode of The Lucy Show. I was certainly available.
The episode was called “Lucy Gets Locked in a Vault,” and I was to play Arnold Mooney, son of the bank president, Theodore Mooney, who was Lucy’s boss. The story had Lucy demonstrating her frugal ways by giving me a homemade haircut, which accidentally comes out like a Mohawk.
When they filmed the scene, I sported a tall, bushy wig. Lucy and Vivian Vance, her longtime acting partner, stood in front of me blocking the live audience’s view while I was being sheared. When they stepped aside and the Mohawk was revealed, the audience went wild. Lucy knew comedy.
A while later, Lucy requested me for another episode, “Lucy and the Scout Trip,” and I returned to play Arnold Mooney again. I definitely landed on her “hire” list because a few more requests for my services popped up over the next few years. Unfortunately, I couldn’t oblige because I was working on MTS full-time.
CHAPTER 14
Bub and Uncle Charley
As sweet as Lucy was, Vivian Vance seemed like a grouch to work with. Maybe I caught her at a bad time. William Frawley (Bub on MTS) had nothing good to say about her, though. He played Vance’s husband, Fred Mertz, on I Love Lucy for six seasons. Whenever her name came up, Frawley would blurt out his favorite description: “she’s a double-barreled asshole.”
I was told that Frawley and Vance got off on the wrong foot right at the beginning of their relationship. During an early casting session of I Love Lucy, Vance had a meeting with Lucy and Desi. When they informed her that they had hired William Frawley to play her husband, she blurted, “Oh, c’mon! Nobody would believe I’d be married to that old fart!” She didn’t realize that Frawley was in a nearby room and overheard her comment.
He obviously never forgave her and transferred that real-life bitterness into their TV marriage. It was funny as hell on screen because the feelings were real.
Even though Frawley hadn’t worked with Vance on Lucy for years, he held a grudge like an elephant. Occasionally, he would recruit Stan and me to help him harass Vance while she was working on the soundstage next to ours. When Frawley was in the mood for a sneak attack, usually after a few shots of Cutty Sark whiskey at lunch, we’d gather our ammunition: large circular film cans. Frawley would hold open The Lucy Show stage door and cock his ear, listening to a scene being rehearsed inside. The second he heard Vivian’s shrill voice he’d give us the signal to fling the metal cans through the open door. They would land with a loud metallic bang, and Frawley would yell, “Let’s get the hell out of here!” We’d flee like three juvenile delinquents, Frawley leading the way.
If Frawley liked you, though, he could be surprisingly thoughtful. Example: when the surfing craze took off in the early sixties, the old guy heard that Stan was excited about the new fad. Soon after, a beautiful, expensive long board arrived as a present to my brother. Pretty sweet.
As most fans of MTS know, Frawley’s character, Bub, was the family housekeeper and cook. If you look closely, though, you’ll notice that the old guy was totally inept in his duties. He was a lifelong bachelor and probably couldn’t bake a casserole to save his life. Frawley would bark out his lines in a kitchen scene, all the while knifing a loaf of bread like Jack the Ripper; the crust would fly in every direction. When it came to folding laundry, he’d crumple shirts in a loose wad and toss them aside in a heap. I think people overlooked a lot of Frawley’s gaffes because they knew he was just being himself.
Frawley was Frawley on the set and off, speaking his mind when others would just keep quiet. A perfect example was when the show Th
is Is Your Life devoted an episode to Frawley. The program was shot live, and the idea was to ambush an unsuspecting celebrity, usually at a restaurant or a nightclub, and then haul the honoree over to a studio where key people from the celebrity’s past would be trotted out for a reunion. In Frawley’s show, camera crews and the show’s host, Ralph Edwards, surprised him at one of his favorite watering holes, The Brown Derby, after he’d already guzzled three or four stiff drinks. According to John Stephens, who was with him and in on the ruse, Frawley’s reaction was loud and blunt: “What the hell is going on?!”
Things went downhill from there. Frawley was dragged bitching and moaning from his cozy booth at the restaurant to a nearby studio filled with an audience to greet old friends and acquaintances. Virtually every person that emerged from behind a curtain—grade school pals, old vaudevillians, former girlfriends—Frawley didn’t recognize. They’d sit next to the guest of honor, recount their beloved memory of him, and Frawley would reply, “I don’t remember that, I don’t remember you at all!” The show’s final, surprise guest was none other than Frawley’s ex-wife, the only person he did remember, because he hated her! When the lady wrapped him in a fond embrace, Frawley’s puffy face turned reddish purple and he nearly passed out from anger. Needless to say, the show required massive editing to weed out his muttered obscenities. What a hilarious disaster.
Frawley was one tough guy, but old age and alcohol abuse finally wore him down. It was painful to see him forget his lines. One muffed take would follow another, and he’d try to cover his embarrassment by bellowing, “Who writes this crap, anyway?”
Other problems started cropping up, too. If the company didn’t get Frawley’s work filmed in the mornings, he might nod off right in the middle of a scene by the afternoon. Eventually, a prop man had to lie on the floor, out of the camera’s view, and tap on Frawley’s shoe to keep him from dozing off during his close-ups.
As season number five on MTS was about to commence, Frawley was so frail he couldn’t pass his health insurance exam. All TV series regulars, no matter what age, must pass an insurance physical before every shooting season to verify they are in good health and won’t cause a costly shutdown of production if they get sick. Apparently, Frawley’s doctor couldn’t even detect his heart pulse.
The producers made the painful decision that it was too risky for him to come back to work. Bub would have to be written out of the series. Frawley was deeply hurt when he learned he had to be let go. Despite the bad news, Frawley graciously returned to do a number of episodes that would explain his leaving the show; Bub was going to return to his native Ireland.
Frawley’s departure poised a real risk to MTS. Anytime a popular character leaves a show, the ever-elusive chemistry that makes a series work is jeopardized. Initially, veteran actor James Gregory (later the chief of police in Barney Miller) came on to the show as Bub’s brother. His deal called for him to do a number of episodes as a trial run. Turned out that Gregory hated the job of being the nanny and was soon gone. Next to be tested was William Demarest, a well-respected character actor, who would play Uncle Charley. Demarest was also MacMurray’s personal friend. That bode well for his chances of staying, assuming he wanted to.
When Demarest arrived for work, Frawley was just finishing his final show. There was obvious tension between the “new boy” coming on board and the “old guy” leaving. Frawley and Demarest had been lifelong rivals, vying for the same roles in films over the years. Both men excelled at playing comic tough guys because that’s what they were. Below their hard surface, though, they were very different people. Frawley was a lifelong bachelor, a heavy drinker, and profane as hell. Demarest was a devoted husband, sober as a preacher, and rarely swore. Despite their hard feelings, both men were stone-cold pros and got on with their jobs.
When Frawley’s last day on the set arrived, it was tough to watch. Bub was saying good-bye to his TV family as much as to the actors who were his friends in real life. He passed away a few months after he left the show. Old age, hard living, and a broken heart took its toll.
Work proceeded on MTS with the new nanny, Uncle Charley. It was an edgy transition for the younger members of the cast, going from one crusty veteran housekeeper to the next. Despite his cantankerous nature, Frawley knew how to develop a rapport with kids and charm them. Demarest was more reserved and uneasy. Granted, he was coming into a difficult situation, being the “new kid on the block.” Over time, though, we grew to accept him for who he was, a crusty old vaudevillian with endless stories about his “early days” in show business, playing cello, singing and dancing onstage in the boondocks. He also loved to talk about his relationship with Preston Sturges, one of Hollywood’s first great auteurs, and how he got cast in the film The Great McGinty. According to Demarest, Sturges was at lunch one day with a friend, bemoaning the fact that he hadn’t found the right actor for the key role of Skeeters, a hard-boiled campaign chief, and the film was about to start shooting. Further into their meal, the friend told Sturges a very, very dirty joke. When the director asked who told him such a foul knee-slapper, the man replied: William Demarest. Sturges immediately blurted out, “He’s my Skeeter!” Demarest was immediately hired and went on to work with the great director in many of his other classics such as The Lady Eve, The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek, Sullivan’s Travels, and The Palm Beach Story.
I tried for many years to get Demarest to repeat the infamous nasty joke that endeared him to Sturges. He never would tell it to me, though, saying it was too “blue” for my young ears. That was the kind of man he was, a tough guy but with a strict moral compass around us youngsters. Frawley, uncensored and full of bluster, was much more fun.
I finally began to bond with Demarest when we filmed the cake-fight episode, one of my favorites. The story centered on a bakery business that Robbie was running out of the Douglas family home. Things get out of hand when his employees, the Douglas family and the neighborhood kids, have an enormous cake fight that destroys the business. Demarest, an old pro from vaudeville, really knew how to “take a pie in the face,” a fact that impressed me greatly. He was pushing seventy and seemed to enjoy the messy chaos as much as I did.
Movie pie fights are choreographed ballets, designed to start slow and then build into a frenzied free-for-all. Here is the way we did it: The pie fight started when a neighbor kid shoved me and my arm landed in a freshly baked pie. In retaliation, I grabbed a cupcake and tossed it at the neighbor kid, but accidentally hit Chip instead. From that point on, the pattern is repeated: someone is provoked, they retaliate and accidentally hit an innocent bystander who gets sucked into the fray. The fight expands exponentially until chaos reigns.
One fact about pie fights: it’s much more fun throwing the pies than it is getting hit. It’s not the fruity goop that’s the problem; it’s the hard crust that hits your face like the slap of an open palm. The first time you’re slammed, you are stunned and dazed. When the director asks for another take, then another, it’s hard not to anticipate the pain of the exploding crust, particularly when a smirking prop man, enjoying his job a little too much, is launching it from off screen.
By the end of the day, we had filmed all the little moments leading up to the grand finale: a pie fight free-for-all. Now we were ready for one last take, and all hell was going to break loose. Three cameras were set up to capture the action. There would be no second takes, because we were going to throw everything but the furniture at each other. Cool.
The director yelled “action,” and it was a cake-throwing shit-storm. The floor got so coated with goop that I slipped and fell. Demarest saw me sitting on my ass and took advantage, planting a huge metal bowl of icing over my head. I remember him laughing his ass off, having caught me with my guard down. What a joker. I practically choked to death on Betty Crocker’s frosting mix. The pain was worth every second, though. What a crazy, wonderful way to make a living.
CHAPTER 15
Ernie to the Rescue
Se
ason five premiered, and everyone—the network, the producers, and the actors—breathed a sigh of relief when the show’s fans accepted William Demarest. The show remained a hit in the ratings. No sooner had we dodged one major change in actors, however, than an even bigger casting crisis was brewing.
Tim Considine, who played the oldest son Mike, wanted to direct more episodes of MTS. He had already done one and wanted additional assignments. Unfortunately, Considine’s request to helm additional shows challenged the status quo: the MacMurray Method. That process required filming scenes from five to ten scripts a day, with one director to ensure continuity. Allowing other directors to helm an episode here and there would wreak havoc on the system. The only other option was to hire Considine as the full-time director to do every episode in a season. That wasn’t likely, either. Fred was happy with the way things were.
With his contract expiring, Considine met with Don Fedderson and John Stephens, the show’s producers, to make his position clear. He yearned for more challenges as an artist and told his employers that he was reluctant to renew his acting contract if his directing aspirations were not met. It was a gamble that Considine must have felt he could win. The show was called My Three Sons after all. If he left, what were they going to do, rename it My Two Sons?
Without tipping his hand, Fedderson told Considine that he’d have to think things over. The moment Considine was out the door, Fedderson turned to Stephens and said, “It looks like we’ll have to write him out of the show.” Case closed.
Apparently, there was another factor behind the quick casting decision, and it involved MacMurray, the real power behind the throne. He was okay with giving Considine his one opportunity to helm an episode. The star was not comfortable with his “son” directing him in any future episodes, though. One shot was it, even though Considine had done a terrific job. The “oldest son” was welcome as an actor but not as one of the show’s ongoing directors. Call it ego or whatever. That’s what MacMurray wanted, and that’s the way it would be.
The Importance of Being Ernie: Page 7