If losing a “son” wasn’t a big enough problem, the producers were confronted with an even bigger bombshell. ABC, the network airing the series, decided to drop the show even though MTS was still drawing audiences of thirty million. The brains at ABC were betting that the show’s future was limited, and a costly new deal with Mac-Fedd Productions (MacMurray/Fedderson) was not worth the risk, especially if the show was losing a very popular player like Considine.
Don Fedderson had two other options to resell the show: NBC and CBS. The rounds were made, deals were tendered, and CBS rolled the dice and bought the series outright from Mac-Fedd Productions. MacMurray and Fedderson pocketed a princely five million dollars (approx. $50 million by today’s standards) in the process. Switching networks rarely happens on TV. Nobody really likes “yesterday’s papers.” Nonetheless, CBS gave MTS a new home despite the fact that the show needed another major rewrite to introduce a new “son.” Question was ... where do you get a new “son”?
When the starting pitcher leaves in the middle of a baseball game, the manager looks to the bullpen. That’s how my reputation in TV was built, like a relief pitcher. Ozzie Nelson tapped me to replace Stan when he left his show, and now the producers of MTS saw me on their roster of talent to take over Considine’s starting position.
It was a stunning and delightful moment when the producers informed my family of their plans to make me a full-fledged “son.” I personally hated to see Considine leave. He was a very cool guy, and I looked up to him for outspokenness and his irreverent sense of humor. He also shared with me his love of auto racing, not to mention his great seats at Dodger games. Nonetheless, he was leaving to pursue other endeavors, which left a giant hole in the lineup. (Tim would make movie history in a couple more years when he played the stressed-out soldier George C. Scott slaps silly in the 1970s Patton.)
I’d been on the show for about a year and a half as the friend next door. In all that time nobody told me that I was a foster child. That was the angle the producers were going to use to bring me into the show as a full-time member. I was available for adoption when my foster parents (again, people I had never seen in my previous years) were leaving the country and couldn’t take me with them. Rather than let Ernie disappear into an orphanage, the Douglas family would take him in. Thus, the show’s title, My Three Sons, would still be valid and the franchise preserved.
Ernie’s adoption process occurred over a six-episode arc. If you were hiking in the jungle and missed seeing those shows, you wouldn’t have a clue as to how I became a son, because my adoption was never mentioned again.
The tone of MTS, lighthearted and whimsical, took a turn toward the dramatic during my induction to the family. Some quasi-serious issues had to be addressed: Could cranky old Uncle Charley prove to the adoption board that he could be a nurturing surrogate mom? When could I start calling Steve Douglas “Dad”? What are we going to do with my dog, Wilson, since the family already had a hound named Tramp? Once all these transitional problems were addressed, life got back to normal on the show. My foster parents, and Considine’s character, were gone forever. MTS was a sweet and wholesome world on screen; off screen it was all business.
The sixth season of My Three Sons premiered on CBS, and the show’s ratings soared. Demarest and I had to fill the shoes of two popular original cast members, and, thankfully, the fans accepted us.
One of my favorite episodes was filmed after I became a “son,” and it involved working with a lion. The story called for the beast to take refuge in the Douglas house after escaping from a circus that was visiting our midwestern town, Bryant Park. It was always funny to the MTS actors that our fictional little city had everything that a major metropolis would have: an international airport, a thriving Chinatown and a Little Italy, visiting movies stars, a major aeronautical industry (fyi: Steve Douglas was an aeronautical engineer). Nobody ever gave it a second thought.
In the lion episode, Ernie was the first person to spot the errant big cat lolling around in the backyard. When I tell “Dad” about the beast, he thinks I’m making things up to get attention since I was just adopted. Eventually, everybody has a run-in with the lion as it roams about the house. It was a pretty amusing show. The most memorable part about that episode was what happened off screen when the heavily sedated cat got loose from his cage.
Panic ensued when we learned that the lion was roaming free on our soundstage. The place was as big as a blimp hangar and had many dark areas for a predator to hide in. The crew huddled together in a brightly lit area of the stage, and Stan and I hid in our schoolroom while the trainer hunted for the big cat.
Meanwhile, Demarest arrived for work, unaware of the crisis, and entered the dimly lit stage. Once the old guy’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he took a few steps and then stopped; the lion stood in front of him, about ten feet away. He knew the animal was working that day, but he didn’t expect to see him hanging out all by himself. Something was definitely wrong with that picture.
Demarest turned and ran like a teenager. The lion’s predatory instincts kicked in, and he gave chase. Luckily, the actor’s dressing room was close by. He outran the lion and dashed into his room, slamming the door in the big cat’s face. Demarest got on the phone and called the authorities to tell them where they could find the missing cat: right outside his door. He wasn’t a guy prone to cursing, but on this occasion, he cut loose with a vulgar volley that would have made William Frawley blush.
CHAPTER 16
The CBS Years and Fred De Cordova
By this time, the show had over 150 episodes in the can. The addition of Uncle Charley and Ernie helped add some new storylines, but the producers decided the show needed another boost to freshen things up. The Douglas family moved Bryant Park in the Midwest to North Hollywood, California.
The shift in locale meant we would be filming at a new studio, the CBS production facilities in Studio City. It was a whole new playground to explore. There was the Gilligan’s Island lagoon to check out. The new studio also had a sprawling Western town where Wild, Wild West, Gunsmoke, and Big Valley filmed. The move also brought a new and important person into my life: Fred De Cordova, our next director.
Frederick Timmins De Cordova was a legend in Hollywood, not so much for the B movies he directed like Bedtime for Bonzo or Frankie and Johnny, but for his razor-sharp wit, charisma, and close connections with people in the upper echelons of society. When he was a young man he attended Harvard and sharpened his verbal skills as a regular attendee at the infamous Algonquin Round Table in New York where the brilliant minds of the day, George S. Kaufman, Dorothy Parker, and Noel Coward, gathered to spar with their witticisms. Now in his mid-fifties, De Cordova’s personal friends included Ronald Reagan, James Mason, Walter Annenberg (founder of TV Guide ), the Shuberts of Broadway, George Burns, and Bob Hope. His closest pal was Jack Benny, whose Emmy award–winning television show he produced and directed.
I had never seen or heard anybody like him. I immediately fell under his spell, enamored by his sophistication and charm. Woe to anybody, cast or crew, who messed up, for they became immediate fodder for a De Cordova put-down. Defending yourself was useless; his sharp tongue could cut a challenger’s ego to pieces in seconds. Even MacMurray seemed intimidated and was not spared from his acerbic quips.
I’m not sure what De Cordova saw in me, but we bonded fast. Perhaps I was a surrogate son he never had. Whatever the case, De Cordova became my best new pal and role model.
The instant I finished my studio schooling for the day, I’d make a beeline to wherever he was. We’d talk about sports, movies, or headlines, and I’d try to make him laugh with my own sarcastic quips, imitating the master. After the day’s work was done, we’d hop onto his flaming-red golf cart, dubbed Mr. D’s Dragon, and race up to his office. He’d make himself a vodka martini, I’d grab a Coke, and we’d head for a screening room to view the dailies. Half the time we’d make jokes about the other actors, laughing at their quirks that we
re so naked and exposed in the rough uncut footage. After the dailies, he’d chauffeur me home in his Cadillac, the only brand he’d drive. Then he’d race away to spend the rest of the evening at some elegant soiree up where a Kennedy or a Rockefeller was being feted. It was just another average day in the life of Frederick Timmins De Cordova.
One day De Cordova invited me to go with him to a Dodgers game. Naturally, he knew the team’s owner, Peter O’Malley, and had the best seats. Game day arrived, and I was hoping to leave early for the park to watch batting practice. Fred told me to relax, that we had to wait for a friend of his who would be going with us. The doorbell rang, and Fred ordered me to get it.
I did my best De Cordova imitation and huffed, “What do I look like, a servant?” The doorbell rang again, and Fred insisted that I open the door.
This time I obeyed. I opened the door, and Jack Benny was standing there. “Well, you’re a bit young to be a butler, aren’t you?” he said.
I shot back, “And you’re a bit old to be selling Avon.” Ba-da-boom! As I had hoped, both men laughed, especially De Cordova, and that was all that ever mattered.
Driving to the ballpark, I soaked in the conversation between these two funny men. One particularly funny moment came when Benny started to describe an encounter with the son of Vin Scully, the Dodgers announcer.
Benny said, “Fred, I can’t tell you how much Vinnie’s kid looks just like his old man. I swear, if I were lost in a snow storm in Alaska, and I came upon an igloo, and inside that igloo I saw a family of Eskimos sitting around a fire, eating whale blubber, and in their midst I saw this redheaded kid, I would say ‘That’s Vin Scully’s son!’” Benny’s timing was impeccable.
Once we got to the exclusive Club Level of the stadium, De Cordova, Benny, and I were escorted to Peter O’Malley’s private box. I was in Dodgers heaven, gorging on free Dodgers dogs, ice cream, Cokes, and hanging out with two of the funniest men on the planet while watching my favorite baseball team from the best seats in the house.
After the game, De Cordova drove the three of us in his Caddie to the eastern end of the Sunset Strip and the old Cock and Bull Restaurant. We finished the day with massive steak dinners and drinks, martinis for the men and a tall Roy Rogers for me. It was another typical day in the life of De Cordova, and a pretty amazing one for me.
A few feature films were coming on to the CBS studio lot to film and, naturally, De Cordova knew all the stars involved. We’d march onto any soundstage like De Cordova owned the place, disregarding the Closed Set sign on the door meant to keep out visitors. Jack Lemmon was shooting The April Fools and greeted us like family, whipping out pricey cigars. Lee Marvin, filming Monte Walsh, roared with glee at the sight of De Cordova, and we retired to the actor’s dressing room for a quick cocktail. Even the young anti-establishment star Dustin Hoffman, who was working on Little Big Man, was savvy enough to leap up from his chair to honor the presence of Mister De Cordova.
The De Cordova era of MTS ushered in another big change in the show: women. The Douglas family had always been an all-male household, one of the more unique and charming aspects of the show. For a series to last as long as MTS, though, change was inevitable. It certainly made sense for the older sons to consider getting married. At least it put to rest some of the taunts at my public school that the Douglases were all “closet homos.”
The first girl to be a series regular was Tina Cole, who played Katie, Robbie’s wife. Since Robbie was still in college, the newlyweds lived at the Douglas family house. This opened up a whole new batch of storylines with a woman in the house. It also opened up some other questions about the honesty of the show, particularly about sex. In the real world, the contraceptive “pill” had altered society’s views about fornication. It was now a recreational activity. The taboos related to religion and accidental pregnancies were fading away. Despite these changes, CBS insisted that Robbie and Katie’s bedroom be furnished with twin beds. What young, healthy married couple in the mid-sixties slept in twin beds? Not many. The censors surmised that just the sight of a king-size bed inferred lusty comingling. That was unthinkable in their 1950s mind-set. The media cretins calling the shots also chose to ignore most other changes that were happening in America, too. The civil rights movement, the Vietnam War, and the nuclear arms race with the Russians were all happening in a land far, far away from the peaceful world of My Three Sons.
To Don Grady’s (Robbie) credit, he did some research on the “twin bed” issue. He found out that Bewitched, another popular sitcom of that era, had broken the bedroom code. Darrin and Samantha, the married couple on that show, were recently allowed to have a king-size mattress in their bedroom. With that precedent achieved, the CBS censor caved ... with one caveat: Robbie and Katie can never be seen under the covers at the same time, and if one of them was already under the blankets, the other had to be in full pajamas standing outside of the bed or sitting on it. Whew. The virgin minds of young Americans were spared another trauma by our clever and vigilant media watchdogs.
CHAPTER 17
Making a Best Friend, Losing a Best Friend
When I returned to public school, the radical cultural changes (civil rights, Vietnam, hippies) unfolding in America were obvious. More than ever I felt like the poster boy for the dreaded “establishment.” I went from being a regular celebrity to an uncool celebrity, like Richard Nixon or Lawrence Welk. Mockery was shifting to outright scorn. That really hurt. There was no bucking the power of TV to reinforce an image, be it true or false. I felt pretty isolated.
One of my problems making friends at school stemmed from the fact that I wasn’t on campus long enough to connect with other kids. My work schedule kept me at the studio for a good part of the year.
I’d also become more comfortable hanging out with adults than my peer group. Kids could be unpredictable if not downright mean. That kind of social disconnect is pretty common among most child stars and, no doubt, accounts for some dysfunctional behavior as they reach adulthood. It’s pretty clear to see that now, with the benefit of time and a lot of psychoanalysis. When I was a teenager, though, it felt like a whole lot of inexplicable, hostile rejection.
It was no surprise that my social life was pretty dull. I’d even outgrown my one good neighborhood pal and “army” buddy, Jack McCalla. War games weren’t as fun now that gory images from the Vietnam War appeared on the TV news every night. Occasionally, I’d tag along with my brother Stan and his gang to cruise Sunset Strip for chicks. We’d usually wind up for breakfast at the International House of Pancakes at two in the morning alongside such burgeoning rock-and-rollers as Neil Young, Jim Morrison, and David Crosby having their after-the-gig meals. It was great hanging out with the older guys, but I always felt like I was a junior member of the pack and could be expelled at any moment.
I did have one great, reliable friend to keep me company when I was alone: the Los Angeles Dodgers. I’d lock myself in a bathroom at our house and listen to the games on my transistor radio. I was like Superman in his Fortress of Solitude, making notes on the players’ stats, hanging on Vin Scully’s words as he’d describe the play-by-play action. Dodger games were my holy hours. I was not to be disturbed, particularly if my hero, Sandy Koufax, was pitching the game. I was alone but never lonely when the game was on.
It wasn’t until I graduated from Millikan Middle School and entered North Hollywood High that I connected with a few kindred spirits. The first great friend I made was Gene King. He was initially a buddy of my brother Stan, who met him while they were attending North Hollywood High.
Gene was a fifteen-year-old speed-talker, a raconteur and a dead ringer for Gene Clark, the lead singer of the Byrds. His parents were alcoholics and abusive, and he sought refuge at our house on the weekends. Very quickly, Gene and my mother bonded over pots of Yuban coffee and unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes.
Over the summer of 1968, Gene went from a kid who occasionally slept over to a full-time member of our family. My parents ha
d a rocky husband-wife relationship, but they were in total sync when it came to sheltering kids in need. They’d already adopted two children at birth, my brother Bill and my sister Michelle. Now Gene joined our brood. It was one big happy family on Milbank Street until Stan unleashed a bombshell: he was getting married and would be moving out of the house.
Stan was seventeen years old when he told my parents that he had met his future bride on a late-night outing at the Pancake House. Enter Sandy Goble. She was four years older than Stan and was working as a “cage dancer” at the Whiskey-a-Go-Go nightclub. Naturally, my flustered parents disapproved and counseled my love-struck brother to wait. They tried to point out the risks of getting married so young, particularly to an older woman who was a go-go-dancer at the Whiskey.
My parents’ warning fell on skeptical ears, though. Stan reminded my mom that she ran away from her home in Beaver Falls at sixteen and worked as a “fan dancer.” That pretty much destroyed their arguments to dissuade my brother.
I wasn’t keen about Stan’s marriage, because it meant losing my brother and best friend. From the beginning, Stan’s future bride tried to pry him away from his family. To her defense, Sandy was not exactly welcomed with open arms by my mom and dad. I resented her greatly, much like Paul McCartney must have felt about losing John Lennon to Yoko Ono.
My parents obviously had another concern about Stan’s impending marriage: the impact it would have on his career. Wholesome teenage Chip Douglas marrying a go-go-dancer from the Whiskey? What would CBS think? What would the American public think? What would Fred MacMurray think?
The Importance of Being Ernie: Page 8