Make 'Em Laugh

by Debbie Reynolds

  THE WOMAN IN WHITE

  Every year the Thalians give a ball to honor a star. I had a hard time getting someone for the Thalians thirtieth anniversary, in 1985. Finally Lana Turner said yes to me. Lana had been one of MGM’s biggest women stars, along with Elizabeth Taylor and Ava Gardner. It had been a couple of years since she’d had her featured role on the hit TV series Falcon Crest. The evening would be a tribute to her and her career—film clips from all her movies, an overture, everything.

  Bob and Margie Petersen agreed to chair the gala in the ballroom at the Century Plaza Hotel. Bob was the owner of the Petersen Automotive Museum of vintage cars and motorcycles in LA, and publisher of many car-themed magazines such as Hot Rod and Motor Trend, as well as the fan magazines Teen, Tiger Beat, and Sassy. Margie ran the popular Scandia restaurant on the Sunset Strip. Anthony Newley, the creator and star of Stop the World—I Want to Get Off, agreed to emcee; that year he also played the Mad Hatter in Steve Allen’s all-star version of Alice in Wonderland for CBS. Comedian Rip Taylor agreed to serve as our auctioneer. And Jackie Cooper, Danny Thomas, Robert Preston, Marvin Hamlisch, George Hamilton, Charlton Heston, Red Buttons, and Hal Linden would tell anecdotes about Lana.

  The evening arrived. Among the celebrities in the audience were George Peppard, Tony Danza, Barbara Eden, Alex Trebek, Robert Stack, Lloyd Bridges, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Cesar Romero, Robert Culp, Jack Haley Jr., and Rhonda Fleming. My daughter, Carrie, was there as usual, and so was Lana’s daughter, Cheryl Crane, her only child. Cheryl was with her girlfriend, a beautiful woman. I was so startled; I’d never known that Cheryl was a lesbian. And then I was happy, because they seemed so happy. They were a lovely couple.

  Another thing I didn’t know until that night was that Lana was famous for not showing up.

  She was supposed to arrive at 7:00 P.M. Her apartment was only five or six blocks away. Time passed and we were all waiting. No Lana.

  So I called her.

  “I’m getting ready, dear, doing my hair,” she said.

  She had a young hairdresser—a really tall gay guy with white-blond hair; she was his friend until the end of her life.

  More time passed. I called again.

  “I’m just having a problem with my hair, dear. He’s making it more silvery. I’ll be a little late.”

  I kept calling, and she was still getting ready. And every time I called she was onto a “second” glass of wine. Lana could really drink to make herself happy. She was a very highly strung friend. She wasn’t like Ava Gardner. Ava was very down-to-earth, and not nervous at all. (No wonder Frank couldn’t win.) Lana was the opposite. She was very girlie and very feminine and very enchanting. She reminded me a little of Marilyn Monroe: sexy and girlie and childish. She adored men and she beguiled them. But now wasn’t the time for her to be getting drunk.

  I asked to speak to the hairdresser.

  “Are you guys drinking?”

  “We’re just visiting, just talking,” he said.

  I was upset, because he went along with her. He knew she had to get there. He should have opposed her drinking. Instead, he was having a good time with her.

  “You have to get ready and come over right now,” I told him.

  He said they would.

  Finally it was 8:30. Showtime.

  “I don’t think I can come,” Lana said when I called. “I’m just too tired.”

  You bet I was angry. We were friends at MGM all those years, and she couldn’t get herself the few blocks to her own tribute?

  “Listen, Lana,” I said. “You need to get your ass over here. I’m coming to pick you up.”

  I got in the car and went to fetch her. Lana and the hairdresser had their coats on and were ready when I arrived. They were both smashed.

  When we finally got to the Century Plaza, we were so late that the press had left. We went in through the back door, just in time for Lana to receive her award.

  Even though she was drunk, Lana looked divine. She had on all her jewelry; a formfitting, glittering white-beaded gown; and a white fox cape around her shoulders with white fox tails hanging off the end. She was dazzling; simply spectacular. As she was walking—very carefully—to the microphone, one of the tails right behind her ass fell off, onto the floor. Rip Taylor was standing nearby. He picked it up and handed her tail to her. I’d been so angry with Lana, but then I started to laugh. It was like retribution.

  So Lana never saw the tribute to her—not that she would have seen much anyway, she was so drunk.

  She came to the party at the hotel afterward with Cheryl, still smashed, and met with people and was charming and gracious. And we all laughed about it.

  It was quite a night and quite a tale—or should I say tail.

  Speaking of “tail” . . .

  A DATE FROM A BABY DOLL

  When I was in New York performing in Irene in the early 1970s, Carroll Baker came to visit me. We had become friends when we made How the West Was Won together a few years before. Carroll’s most famous role was as a sexy young bride in the 1956 film Baby Doll written by Tennessee Williams and directed by Elia Kazan. It earned her Academy Award, Golden Globe, and BAFTA Award nominations.

  When she saw me, Carroll became concerned. I was going through so much at the time. My second marriage, to Harry Karl, was over. I was depressed, had lost all our homes, and was unsure about the future. I had been working so hard that my weight had dropped to ninety-eight pounds.

  Carroll thought I could use some cheering up, and arranged for me to go out on a date.

  When I opened the door to greet him, I was a bit taken aback. The young man looked about the same age as my son, Todd, who was then around fourteen. But he seemed sweet and we had reservations for dinner, so off we went.

  We had a nice time together. The conversation was pleasant. I resisted the temptation to cut his food and wipe his face.

  When we got back to my town house, I said good night as I tried to give him money for the dinner check that he had paid.

  “Oh, no. I’m prepared to stay the night. I’m a gift from Miss Baker.”

  Needless to say, I politely refused this boy toy’s offer. I hope that Carroll got her money back.

  In case you’re wondering, Carroll lives in New York now, where she spends her time with her grown children, Herschel Garfein, a Grammy Award–winning musician, and Blanche Baker, a very talented actress.

  Sorry for going off script. I believe I was speaking about the Thalians? Every year when we do the Thalians ball, I always invite my friends. It’s important to have stars attend these events. Here’s one I wish hadn’t come.

  LUCK OF THE DRAW

  Shelley Winters was a pain in the ass. She gave me headaches every day when she costarred in my 1971 movie What’s the Matter with Helen? Even so, I coaxed Shelley to come to the Thalians ball, going so far as to offer her a free ticket. She gave me a rough time but finally agreed to attend.

  For many years Bob Petersen donated a car to be given as a prize in a drawing. That year he gave us a new Buick or Lincoln. We put everyone’s ticket stubs in a bowl and I drew the winner.

  When I read the number, we all heard a big scream. It was Shelley. I was so mad. She hadn’t even paid for her ticket! And she was rich, rich, rich, having bought up several streets of property in Beverly Hills.

  After the show I went to Shelley and asked her to donate the car back to the Thalians so we could raise money for the hospital.

  “No!” she said emphatically. “Why would I do that? This is the first thing I’ve ever won.”

  Shelley was a character, to put it mildly. She once locked herself out of her Beverly Hills house while she was wearing only a nightgown, and just asked someone who stopped to help to drive her to the studio. Later on, her family tried to put her away, claiming she had dementia. She told the judge, “I may act nuts, but I’m not nuts. I’m just amusing.”

  Very.

  One of the original Thalians was also one of my dearest friends. Our charit
y raised millions of dollars for mental health. We wanted to give back something to the community that had been so generous to us. But we had many other things in common.

  A KINDRED SPIRIT

  Sometimes people come into your life who feel like you’ve known them forever. That’s how I feel about Jack Haley Jr. We were such good friends because we shared so many common interests. His father played the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz with Judy Garland, so Jackie was raised in the Hollywood studio system. Jackie’s best friends were David Niven Jr. and Tom Mankiewicz, and the sons of studio heads Darryl Zanuck and Sam Goldwyn.

  Jackie loved the movies. He showed his love to the world when he produced the 1974 film That’s Entertainment! The movie helped make it possible for screen musicals to be produced again. Film preservation and the love of performers were part of his family heritage. He owned lots of movies and had a room in his house for editing. I loved these things from the outside first, and then from the inside after I was lucky enough to get into the business.

  Over the years Jackie and I shared our love of collecting and preserving Hollywood history. He bought a lot of memorabilia, some from the 1970 MGM auction and some from other sources. He was on many of the boards of organizations that worked to establish a Hollywood museum. He owned a red-and-white outfit that I wore in a dance number with Marge Champion in Give a Girl a Break. He even had costumes from Gone With the Wind.

  When I opened the small Hollywood memorabilia museum in my Las Vegas hotel, Jackie asked Tom Mankiewicz to lend me the sled Rosebud from Orson Welles’s great movie Citizen Kane to display. Tom’s uncle, Herman Mankiewicz, wrote the screenplay for this most famous film.

  When I performed in casinos and nightclubs, I changed from getting up before dawn to make movies to being a night owl who went to bed when the sun was rising. I’d finish my last show around 11:30 P.M. I knew I could call Jackie at all hours to talk, and so I spoke to him on the phone almost every night after my show. Or should I say, early morning.

  Sometimes he would be asleep when I called.

  “Wake up, Jackie,” I’d say. “Put your feet over the side of the bed on the floor.”

  I’d wait to hear him moving out of bed.

  “Do you have to pee? I’ll wait till you’re done.”

  Once I had gotten Jackie out of his dreams, we’d visit on the phone for an hour. We could tell each other anything.

  Eventually Jackie asked me not to call him after 2:00 A.M. Then I was cut back to 1:00 A.M. When we reached 11:00 P.M., I switched to calling him earlier in the day, before my shows.

  Jackie loved going to premieres and parties. When Superman II was released, in 1980, he asked me to go with him to the opening. He was also taking Altovise Davis, Sammy Davis Jr.’s wife. He was very close to the Davises. Sammy was on the road so much that Jackie would often escort Altovise to events.

  After the screening, there was a party at a big house on Doheny Drive above Sunset Boulevard. The mood was festive. This was the age of “sex, drugs, and rock and roll,” which I missed on all three counts. Bowls of cocaine were set out in plain sight. A big tree had pot hanging from it—you just plucked off a joint and smoked it. But if you didn’t smoke or snort, it wasn’t fun.

  When I went into the powder room, a young man followed me, a very handsome Italian man who was at the party with one of the producers. Before I knew it, he had slammed me against the wall and was trying to rip my clothes off. The guy was really smashed, not just drunk. Whatever he was on was very strong. I thought Superman had jumped off the screen and onto me. I got in a few swift kicks. You could hear me scream all the way to Malibu.

  Jackie and three other big men came in and pulled him off me. Then Jackie drove me home. That was the last premiere I went to with him until the opening of my film Mother many years later.

  Jackie died in 2001. I went to his house after he was gone and took rocks from his front and back yards as mementos. I still have them outside my kitchen door. They remind me of my dear friend every day.

  My friends in the Thalians are very giving people, and not only through our charity. One of them gave me a sweet experience I wouldn’t have had otherwise.

  A BELATED THANK-YOU NOTE

  In June 2007 I was invited to attend the premiere of Jersey Boys by Robert Ahmanson. He and his son Bill were friends I met through the Thalians. The Ahmansons were very successful businesspeople and philanthropists.

  Jersey Boys is a sensational show. I was on my feet hooting and cheering through the first act. At intermission I saw Frankie Valli in the aisle a few rows in front of me, so I went over to congratulate him on the show.

  “Isn’t it wonderful? I’m so thrilled for this great success,” I told him.

  Frankie thanked me and introduced me to the handsome young man standing next to him.

  “This is Eddie Murphy,” he said.

  “Oh, hello. I’m Debbie Reynolds.”

  I always introduce myself to people when I meet them. Folks tend to mix me up with Connie Stevens or Doris Day.

  “I know, I love you,” Eddie said. “I’m a big fan of yours.”

  “I love you, too. I’m your fan, too. I love your work.”

  What a treat to meet this talented comedian. I’ve always admired him, first on Saturday Night Live then in his many movies. A fan came up to Eddie, asking for his autograph. Eddie graciously agreed, asking for a pen. The fan didn’t have one and neither did Eddie. I did. I reached into my purse and handed my pen to Eddie. Eddie signed the program for his fan—and kept my pen.

  The next afternoon, a huge bouquet of gorgeous flowers arrived at my house. And I mean huge—at least four feet across and equally high. The card with the flowers read:

  Sorry I kept your pen. I loved meeting you.

  Your devoted fan,

  Eddie Murphy

  There was no number on the card, so I called his office, but was never able to thank him personally.

  So, thank you, Eddie. I adore you. I appreciate that beautiful gift. I still have the vase on my front porch. You’re a class act.

  And thank you, Bob, for taking me to Jersey Boys and for being my friend. Bob passed away just three months later, in September 2007. He was a lovely person who gave so much to so many through his family foundation.

  Now let me tell you about two of my closest longtime friends who are still with us.

  THE CONSTANT SHOPPER

  In 1955 Eddie and I spent part of our honeymoon at the Thunderbird Hotel in Miami, Florida. While we were there we got to know the owners, Albert Pollak and his wife, Phyllis. We became friends with the Pollaks and would see them whenever we were in Miami. Phyllis and I especially became great friends.

  Phyllis is such fun to be around. She’s so energetic. When she visits me now, out of nowhere she’ll drop to the floor and do a set of push-ups. And she’s ninety!

  She taught me a lot about antiques. (Phyllis collected French Provincial antiques, among other styles.) I grew up in a family with a long history of loving junk. Before Mother and I started going to thrift shops, Daddy used to take Billy and me to junkyards—usually a piece of land with wire fencing around it, owned by an old man who didn’t care to mingle with society. There were bicycles and tires and screws and all kinds of things. Later, when I was hired by Warner Brothers, I met a woman named Miss White whose house was furnished with some French objects with inlaid wood designs that I liked very much. She explained what they were, and I realized that I wanted to know more. Phyllis loved to shop and had lots of practice. I was eager to learn whatever she could teach me.

  Whenever Phyllis and I are in New York together we go to antiques stores. Once we spent an afternoon shopping on Fifty-Seventh Street. A beautiful S-shaped conversation seat in one window caught Phyllis’s eye. We went inside to talk to a salesperson.

  “How much is this?” Phyllis asked.

  “Thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Do you have two?”

  “Madam, you must understand t
hat this is a very rare piece. It’s the only one of its kind in the world.”

  “And you must understand that I have a very large living room. So I need two of them.”

  End of discussion; Phyllis thanked the man and we moved on to the next antiques store.

  On that trip we were sharing the two-bedroom presidential suite on the top floor of the Essex House. In the elevator with us when we got back to the hotel was a gentleman who left it on a lower floor. Once inside our suite, we started to unpack our purchases in the living room. A few minutes later the phone rang.

  “Hello?” Phyllis answered.

  A deep breathy voice responded.

  “I saw you in the elevator. I want to put my cock in your mouth. I want to feel your lips all over . . .”

  Phyllis put her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Debbie, it’s for you.”

  I went and took the phone from her.

  “Hello, it’s Debbie.”

  “I saw you in the elevator. I want to put my cock in your mouth. I want to feel your lips all over—”

  I hung up without hearing any more, and joined Phyllis laughing.

  I love New York. People really speak their minds there.

  In April 1958 Eddie was performing at one of the Miami hotels and of course we spent time with Phyllis and Albert. One afternoon Eddie and I passed a gallery that had a life-size portrait of Elizabeth Taylor in the window. We both thought it was a beautiful painting. Eddie’s birthday was coming up in September, and I decided to commission the artist, Ralph Wolfe Cowan, to paint my portrait as a surprise gift for him.

  I went back with Phyllis to order it.

  Unfortunately, Eddie left me before the paint was dry. He heard that Elizabeth’s portrait had never been claimed, bought it as a gift for her, and left me for the real thing. (I found out about his buying the portrait from the newspapers, which got the story from Ralph. One paper even ran a photo of my portrait with the headline “Rejected.” Many also carried stories on the same page about Eddie and me separating.)