by Dyan Cannon
So I wound up in Los Angeles more or less by accident, though I’m not sure there really are any accidents. I hadn’t consciously set out to make it in Hollywood, but it’s hard not to believe that some powerful underground currents were pulling me in that direction. You could call it karma, or you could call it serendipity . . . or whatever.
Anyone who’d spent any time in Hollywood had heard the “discovery” stories. Lana Turner, the story went, was “discovered” when she was sitting at the counter at Schwab’s Pharmacy having a soda (she later dismissed the story as a fable). A bicycle messenger nearly collides with a big talent agent, and next thing you know he’s signed. And so on. Maybe it happened, maybe not. Everybody seemed to know somebody who knew somebody who got discovered just by hanging out at the right place, but you never met the person who actually got discovered.
Crazy as it sounds—and it sounds crazier to me than it probably does to anybody else—I actually “got discovered.” It happened one afternoon when I was having lunch at Frascati, a casual and popular hangout on Sunset Boulevard, with two of my roommates, Jackie and Alice. Schwab’s was conveniently located diagonally across the intersection, in case you wanted to run over and mug for the mirror behind the soda fountain. As it happened, though, I didn’t have to leave Frascati. Our orders had just arrived when a well-dressed, middle-aged man approached me.
“Are you an actress?” he asked.
“Well, yes I am.”
“I knew it,” he said. Jackie giggled and elbowed me under the table.
“Are you a fortune-teller?” I asked. Alice snorted iced tea through her nose. We were all about to blow up from the giggles.
“No,” he said, unfazed by our skepticism. “I’m a talent agent. And you’ve got star quality.”
The table went silent. We three girls all looked at each other, trying to contain our disbelief. And then broke out laughing harder than ever.
“What have you done?” he asked.
I promptly recited the name of every play I could think of off the top of my head. He looked at me, amused, and said, “You’re too young to have done that many plays.”
“I’m fast,” I said, laughing. I was just having fun with him. I never thought I’d see him again.
“I think you should meet Jerry Wald,” he said.
At this, we all kind of straightened up. It wasn’t that the man had said “Jerry Wald.” It was the way he said it. There was no bluster behind it. He seemed dead serious. Jerry Wald was big-time. He produced Key Largo, The Man Who Came to Dinner, Peyton Place . . . he was, to use one of those horribly overused words, legendary as a producer.
I got a grip on myself and said, “I’m Diane Friesen.”
“Hi, Diane. I’m Jack Hopkins. Will you give me your number, Diane?”
“Jack, excuse me for being cautious—”
“Diane, believe me, it’s only good sense and I understand. Here’s my card. You can call my office and ask anybody in town about me. I’m legit, and I want you to meet Jerry Wald.”
And he was legit. I called his office and several other agencies to check on him. He was a real agent, all right. Wow! A real agent was interested in me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Discovered
“Oscar, I’m going to have to give you my resignation,” I told my wonderful boss.
“What’s up, Diane?”
“I’ve met a talent agent. Oscar, I’m going to meet Jerry Wald on Wednesday! I’ve been discovered!”
Oscar smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “Take a breath, my dear. Don’t quit just yet. You can have Wednesday off, and hey, if you get the part, we’ll celebrate like it’s V-day. Just don’t quit.” I loved Oscar. So protective. So caring.
So I went to meet Jerry Wald on the 20th Century Fox lot. I stepped into his office and looked into a room that was as long as a bowling alley. Way down at the end was an enormous desk, behind which sat Jerry Wald. The desk was so large that at first all I could see was the dome of his bald, round head. It seemed like a quarter mile from the door to his desk.
He looked up at me and, apropos of nothing I could see, suddenly exclaimed, “Explosions! Guns! Cannons! Excitement!”
I thought he was talking to someone else. I looked around, but there were only the two of us.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asked.
“Diane Friesen.”
“No!”
“Uh, no?”
“Diane Cannon!”
“Diane Cannon?”
“Boom! Pow! Bang!”
“Oh,” I said, meaning, “Oy.”
“No more Diane Free-free-whatever! Now you’re Diane Cannon! And you’re going to be a star!”
“Thank you.” It was hard to know what else to say.
“Oscar, it’s happening. I’m going to be in the movies. It’s real now, so I’m going to resign.”
“Did you get the part?”
“My screen test is Thursday! The movie’s called Harlow. It’s for the role of Jean Harlow.”
“You can have Thursday off. But you can’t quit. Not yet. Don’t make a fur coat before you kill the bear, Diane.”
Dear, sweet, fatherly Oscar. I knew he was rooting for me, and his quiet admonition of caution was given with the best intention. I decided to humor him.
Jack Hopkins was as cool as sorbet when he assured me that Jerry Wald would see the same “star quality” in me that he did, but he was positively giddy with joy that his prophecy had been fulfilled. “You’re going to do swell, Diane,” he said, patting my hand as we sat in the sitting room awaiting the screen test. I think he was more nervous than I was.
“I hope so,” I replied, just as someone called out the name “Diane Cannon,” which went in one ear and out the other, until Jack nudged me. Oh yeah. Diane Cannon. Boom! Pow! Kerblooey! I liked it, once I got used to it.
“Sydney’s just about ready for you,” said a young woman about my age. She led me into the makeup department, where there were three barber-style chairs aligned in a neat row in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. The one chair that was occupied suddenly spun around and I realized that I was looking right at Elizabeth Taylor, who was every inch the goddess that she appeared to be on-screen. She stood up, thanked the makeup artist, then beamed the most gorgeous smile right at me. She was breathtaking.
The makeup artist introduced himself as Sydney Guilaroff. The name meant nothing to me at the moment, but I was about to be made over by one of the top studio makeup magicians of the past half century.
“Let’s have some fun,” he said, studying me rather like a mechanic appraising the lines of a classic car. “Just a little accent here and there. You don’t need a lot of help.”
A half hour later, I felt transformed, and that boosted my confidence as I launched into my screen test. For it, I was given a scene from The Long, Hot Summer, which had starred Joanne Woodward and Paul Newman. When I was done, the crew applauded. I came away from it feeling like it had gone brilliantly, and so, apparently, did the director. “You were born to do this!” he gushed. As I floated away, I indulged myself in the fantasy of the large and luxurious dressing room I would have on the lot.
“Oscar!”
“Yes, you can have Friday off.”
“I wasn’t going to ask for Friday off.”
“I know.”
“Oscar, this is it. I—”
“Call me after the meeting with the studio boys.”
“How did you know?”
“I’m bringing the ice,” Oscar said, running a letter opener through an envelope.
“To what?”
“To the party.”
“Oh.” The party had been hatched all of ten minutes ago by my roommates, who threw caution to the wind and planned a raucous celebration on the very day of my screen test, and Oscar was already invited! It would begin at three P.M., the idea being for it to be in full tilt by the time I got back from the meeting to discuss my role in Harlow.
“Oscar,
seriously, I’m so grateful for all of your kindness, but I think the time has come—”
“Diane.”
“Yes?”
“No, it hasn’t.”
“What?”
“One day at a time. Keep your job up until the moment they yell ‘action.’ ”
So that Friday, Jack and I were back at the studio to discuss my screen test and what we assumed would be a contract. In the meeting room, Wald and five executives in late middle age sat around a table awaiting me. The executives reminded me of a bunch of old ladies playing bridge.
“Miss Cannon!” Wald greeted me. Boom, pow!
“Your intelligence radiates off the screen!” offered Suit No. 1.
“Your acting is sublime!” added Suit No. 2, and so on down the line.
“Your timing, perfect.”
“You’re going to be huge!”
I was beginning to like this.
“The camera loves you, but . . .”
Kerblooey.
Suit No. 4 came closer and squinted at me through spectacles as thick as architectural glass. I held my breath. “There’s a little problem,” he said. “It’s your nose.”
“My nose?”
“It’s too flat.”
“Too flat for what?” I asked.
“Oh, your nose is great,” one said.
“But you said it was too flat,” I answered.
“It really has character!” Those were fighting words. They might as well have said I reminded them of Jimmy Durante.
They all nodded to each other, individually and collectively, now less like old ladies and more like gnomes. Finally, Mr. Wald broke the impasse with a simple, “Thank you for coming in.”
Tipsy laughter spilled out of the open window on the second floor where our apartment was. I had completely forgotten about the party. It was some party. The building practically shook.
I slipped into the apartment. It was nearly bursting out of its walls with people, and they were whooping it up like the end of the world had been announced and everybody had been promised a free pass into heaven.
They were in high spirits and full of strong spirits. Luckily, nobody noticed me as I took the phone into the bathroom and locked the door. I just wanted to stretch out and be alone, so I laid some towels in the dry tub and rolled one up as a pillow for my head. Naturally, I called my mother, which was the same as calling my father too, because he always got on the extension.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” My mother could hear the tears in my voice.
“Mom, I’m deformed!”
“What?”
“My nose isn’t right.”
“Isn’t right for what?”
“I don’t know. But they talked like I’d been in the ring one too many times with Cassius Clay.”
“That’s crazy!” my father boomed, now on the extension and deeply offended. By insinuation, his own nose had been impugned. I had my mother’s eyes and my father’s nose. “Oy,” my mother said.
“It’s your nose!” Dad boomed. “Your nose is your nose. God gave you that nose! It’s not like you can do anything to change it!”
“Ben, there’s such a thing as plastic surgery,” Mom told Dad.
“No!” Dad boomed. “She’s too young to have plastic surgery! Her nose isn’t broken.”
“Ben, she wants to be an actress.”
“I heard her, Clara.”
This was typical. I would call my parents long-distance, and they would have a short-distance conversation with each other in their own home, cutting me out of the talk while they debated what was best for me. That was okay, though. It made me feel right at home.
“I have to get a nose job!” I said, breaking in. “What if the only thing standing between me and being an actress is my nose?”
The line went quiet, then slowly stirred to life with mutterings of “Oy” and “Errgh.”
“I don’t think a nose job is a good idea,” Dad said.
“You already said that, Ben. Honey, when you think this through you’re going to realize getting a nose job is crazy.”
We talked a few more minutes. When I hung up I immediately got out the phone book and looked for a plastic surgeon.
I didn’t really want surgery, but after my near miss, I wanted to be an actor more than ever. I wasn’t going to let the character of my schnoz stand in the way of a brilliant career. So, I figured if I were going to do something about my hideously flat muzzle, with its nostrils flaring across several zip codes, I would go to the best. And Dr. Andrew Park, I was informed by several people I trusted, was one of the most highly regarded plastic surgeons in Hollywood.
At my consultation a week later, Dr. Park pried my nostrils open and looked up inside them.
“Passages are clear as a bell and completely straight,” he said. “Do you have trouble breathing?”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here then?”
“So you can fix my nose.”
“What needs fixing?”
“The camera doesn’t like it,” I said plaintively.
“Did the camera tell you that?”
“No.”
“Did someone at a studio tell you that?”
“Yes.”
He took my chin in his hand and gently turned my face from side to side. He tilted my head forward and looked down my nose. He tilted my head back and looked up at it.
“Can you help me?” I pleaded.
Then he crossed his arms and looked me straight in the eye.
“Yes,” he said. “Get out of my office.”
“Excuse me?”
“Miss Friesen—”
“It’s Cannon now. Diane Cannon.”
“Miss Cannon, listen to me. I don’t know what kind of Froot Loops these studio guys are eating, but I get paid a lot of money to give people the exact nose you’ve already got on your face.”
“But—”
“Hear me out, please. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to get in the car with a megaphone and yell for them to stop playing with people’s insecurities. Once those studio guys start changing things, they don’t stop. First it’s your name. Then it’s your nose. Then it’s your eyes. One day your breasts are not big enough, the next day they’re too big. I think they get a thrill out of it. They will turn you inside out, then they will turn you outside in—if you let them.”
I gulped.
“Don’t let them. They’ll change you on the outside, and then they’ll try to change you on the inside. And if I were a betting man, I’d lay a pretty good wager that in a couple of years, more than one gal is going to be in here saying, ‘I want a nose like Diane Cannon’s.’ Do you follow me?”
“Yes,” I said uncertainly. “I think so.”
“I’m sure you can find someone who’ll take your money, but I won’t do it.”
I didn’t realize it at the time, but Dr. Park was one of my guardian angels.
I went home and looked in the mirror and decided I liked what I saw. There were other women out there who were far more beautiful, and there were things I would have liked to change, but I decided to work with what I had.
I didn’t get the part, of course—or more precisely, my nose didn’t get the part. Carroll Baker’s nose did. I was a little disappointed but happy that I’d dodged surgery. Things worked out all right, though. Two weeks later, I got a job doing publicity for Les Girls, an MGM musical comedy. With Oscar’s blessing, I left my job at Eleanor Greene and spent the next four months traveling the world with two other girls, promoting the movie at press parties and screenings. I was making $200 a week, big money for me, and when I got back into town, I treated myself to the gorgeous white Thunderbird that I would later sacrifice so I could stay longer in Rome.
Growing up in Seattle, I’d always longed for adventure. That dream had come true beyond my wildest expectations. And I had a feeling I’d only just begun.
I looked across the aisle. My scotch-soaked
actor friend was snoring loudly, splayed out across the seats. I reclined my own seat and tried to get some sleep before we arrived in London.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Getting to Know You
Cary’s driver had picked me up at the airport, and now he pulled in front of a very old, crooked house that leaned almost like the Tower of Pisa. Cary preferred the privacy of a house to a hotel, so the studio had rented one for him. Standing outside, feeling like someone had thrown a pan of hot tomato sauce on my face, I was tempted to turn tail and head back for the airport. Why had I let him talk me into coming when I was such a mess?
When Cary answered the door, I lowered my head theatrically and pulled my hat down completely over my face. Cary ushered me in and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Now, let’s have a look,” he said, removing my hat and scarf. As he looked at me, his mouth flew open and his eyes bugged out. He took a step back, and then another, clapping one hand over his eyes and thrusting the other out to push the sight of me away.
“Oh . . . my . . . God!” he said.
I was startled for a split second before I realized he was mugging and I laughed. Then he pulled me close with an urgency that took me by surprise. He held me to his chest and whispered. “Oh, Dyan. I am so happy you’re here. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to see anyone in my life.” Very gingerly, he kissed my cracked lips and gathered me back into his arms. Then he led me onto the couch and pulled me onto his lap, holding me in a tight embrace, stroking my hair, kissing my neck. “I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured.
“I look like—”
“It doesn’t matter how you look,” he said softly. “It’s how I feel when we’re together.”
It never occurred to me that Cary would really miss me that much. I wrapped myself up in him and basked in the glow of those warm feelings.
For the next couple of days, Cary was tied up in script conferences, but he always stole away for lunch. On the first day, he took me for my first proper meal of fish and chips, English style. And I was hooked. I had to have them for at least one meal a day. Cary loved them too, so he indulged me. On the third day, my rash was almost gone, and we went to yet another little hole in the wall for take-out fish and chips. They were piping hot and in their traditional wrapping of day-old newspaper. Back at the house, we were just about to tuck into them when the phone rang.