by Tim Conway
“Ya gotta come with me, Tim,” he’d implore. “Imagine, you just sign a piece of paper and they pay you five bucks.”
Believe me, he didn’t need the money. He simply loved to get out and socialize. He was a loyal guy, too. When Ernie was given the Screen Actors Guild Life Achievement Award in January of 2011, I was deeply touched that he asked me to bring him to the dais. I walked him up and said a few words. I told the audience that in order to get me there, Ernie had told me that the awards show was a pilot for a new series. I also mentioned that comedy was just one part of Ernie’s wonderful career. “He’s recently appeared in Red, an AARP action film.” Ernie was roaring with laughter as I returned to my seat. I found out later he was mad as hell. He didn’t want me to say a few remarks. He wanted me to introduce him and thought that was what I’d be doing. He didn’t know that SAG had instead asked Morgan Freeman to do the intro. After the ceremony, Ernie came down to my seat, pulled me to my feet, and dragged me around the room to make sure that everyone knew who I was.
“This is Tim Conway,” he bellowed. “Isn’t he great!”
Correction, Ernest Borgnine was great. Of all the people I’ve known Ernie was one of those blessed ones who knew how to enjoy life. God love him, and He did.
From the very first show to the very last show, McHale’s Navy was done with joy and ease, and it all began at the top. Without question, Ernie was the star and we all respected his position. He had that magic quality you find in the great ones. Plus he had the most wonderful sense of humor. He was like a big teddy bear; that’s the best way to describe him.
I found out years later, though, that everything wasn’t as hunky-dory with the production as I’d thought.
Ernie didn’t like one of the producers who wasn’t appreciative enough of the work we featured actors did, or so Ernie believed. Apparently Ernie told this guy that after the rushes were shown he at least should give all of us actors a pat on the back.
“I don’t kiss up to anybody,” the guy answered.
“I beg your pardon?” said Ernie.
“You heard me, I don’t kiss up to anybody.”
That did it. The next thing you know Ernie tore into him, and they had to be separated. Ernie later said that he was furious because he knew he was the only one making big bucks while the rest of us were getting AFTRA minimum wage. He felt that we deserved more respect for our work since we weren’t getting dough.
All during the run of McHale’s Navy, I never got over the fact that here was one of the biggest screen stars in the business doing a TV show with a bunch of crazies. Believe me, I wasn’t the only cast member doing stupid things. Chief among others, I was aided and abetted by Joe Flynn playing Captain Wally Binghamton. Like me, Joe was an Ohio native; he came from Youngstown and, like me, he kept up with his hometown. I used to just visit Chagrin; Joe actually ran for a seat in the Ohio Senate in 1950. (He didn’t win.) Joe was hilarious. My character, Ensign Parker, and his character, Wally Binghamton, aka Old Leadbottom, had certain catchphrases. Mine was “Gee, I love that kind of talk.” When Wally got frustrated, he’d always say, “What is it? What? What? What!” Viewers picked up our expressions, and people all over the country were saying them. Joe Flynn became a friend. We worked together after McHale’s ended. Joe had the distinct honor of appearing with me on The Tim Conway Show, one of the many bombs that bore my name.
The McHale’s crew was a footloose gang of actors. Besides Ernie, Joe, and me, there were guys like Carl Ballantine, Gavin MacLeod, Bob Hastings, and Gary Vinson. Our rough and tumble way of acting brought a particular realism to the characters we portrayed. I’d known guys just like the fictional McHale’s crewmembers when I was in the army. I’m sure that ex-service men watching the show felt the same, and that’s one of the reasons the show was so popular. To my way of thinking, this sort of reality TV makes sense—actors playing real people. I did such a good job as a slow-witted, bumbling idiot that people thought I must be just like Ensign Parker.
One day Charles Laughton, the distinguished British actor, visited the McHale’s set and sat on the sideline watching us shoot a scene. Laughton, an intellectual force in Hollywood, often appeared in classic dramas like King Lear on the legitimate stage as well in great movies like Witness for the Prosecution. I was in awe of him, as was Joe Flynn. Both of us were overwhelmed by his presence and neither of us could get over the fact that he was watching us perform. When we took a break, Joe convinced me that it was a good idea for me to go over and ask Laughton to lunch. I so wanted to talk to the man that I actually believed this was a good idea. I went over to the chair where Laughton was seated and said in the most refined tones I could produce, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Laughton. I was wondering if you would like to join Joe Flynn and me for lunch.” I pointed to Joe who was standing there with an idiotic grin on his face.
Laughton slowly glanced up at me and said, “Kind of you to ask, young man, but what on earth would we talk about?”
I looked over at Joe, still grinning like the Cheshire Cat, then turned back to Mr. Laughton, and said, “Right.”
One of the perks of doing McHale’s Navy was the opportunity to play dual roles, which Ernie, Joe, and I got to do in a few episodes. I liked being a totally different character from the one everybody recognized. One of them was an English general. I think I did a pretty good job with the accent (I hope I did), and it was fun to step outside myself. But Ensign Parker was my bread-and-butter role. He was very real to me, too—so real that in the show he referred to his hometown, Chagrin Falls, quite a few times. Honestly, he could have been from Chagrin.
Everybody loved McHale’s Navy. Yet, even though we ruled the broadcast waves, we were cancelled after a four-year run. The reason was simple. While we were shooting the first three seasons color television was on the rise, and by the mid-1960s, it had taken over. They could have shot the fourth season in color but, because the first three seasons were in black-and-white, they thought it would be a waste of time, and more important, of money. Basically, we got cancelled because people weren’t watching black-and-white television anymore. Everyone was sorry to see the show end, and no one was sorrier than Ensign Charles Parker.
A Salute to Garry Moore
During my time on McHale’s Navy, I did a lot of moonlighting on other programs. Variety shows dominated the television schedules, and I got to be on just about all of them. Why? Three little words: Ensign Charles Parker. I was a known commodity thanks to that guy. I appeared eleven times on The Hollywood Palace, both as a solo act and in comedy routines with Ernie Anderson. Billy Harbach was the producer and he was responsible for my gigs. I almost blew it at an early appearance when Kate Smith was the guest host. Kate was one of the most popular entertainers of her day; her day was more radio than television, but she did make the transition. She was a large woman with an imposing presence and a really great singer. Her rendition of “God Bless America” was one of the hit tunes of World War II. At the end of the show we all lined up for the finale; I happened to be standing near Ms. Smith. I had no idea that she performed a ritual before her closing number. It seems that she always crossed herself before launching into her final song. I saw her make the sign of the cross, and instead of keeping my mouth shut, I chirped, “Sure hope you make the basket.”
Kate Smith was not amused. If she had been the permanent host I might not have made any more appearances on The Hollywood Palace.
Joe Hamilton used to call me the Comedy Ambulance because when anyone dropped out of a spot on a variety show, they’d call me. I’d jump in the car, zip down to the studio, and fill in. I remember one time when I was involved in a sketch about chickens. The idea was to get me in a chicken suit, fill the stage with hundreds of live chickens, and put me in the middle of them. Unfortunately, some sort of strike was going on with poultry farmers, and they only managed to gather about ten live and clucking birds. This would never be as impressive as having hundreds of them. But we had to make do. Ultimately, it was a w
aste of time and costume. The studio audience consisted of elderly ladies with shopping bags, none of whom cracked a smile as I ran around in my chicken suit bumping into the few birds we’d scraped up. Some of the chickens laid eggs, and so did I.
Another time, I did a guest spot on a variety show, and one of the featured stars was John Wayne, a particular movie idol of mine. I was awestruck but still ready for some fun. Wayne’s well-known nickname was Duke. I asked one of the producers, “Do you think Mr. Wayne would mind if I called him Duck instead of Duke?”
“Of course not,” I was assured. “He has a great sense of humor.”
In the scene we had together, Wayne was supposed to break things over my head to demonstrate how they use props that don’t injure actors. Wayne said he would do the stunt only once. That put the crew on notice to get it right the first time. We took our places in front of the camera and as we prepared to demonstrate I said to him, “I just want you to know how great it is for me to be working with the Duck.”
Wayne’s eyes narrowed to a squint, he squared his shoulders, and hitched his thumbs into his belt. Immediately I knew I’d been set up but was helpless to do anything about it. The Duke grabbed a breakaway bottle and broke it over my head. He picked up a breakaway mirror and broke that over my head. He took hold of a breakaway chair and broke that over my head. It wasn’t supposed to hurt but he smacked so hard it did, a little. The scene got big laughs from the audience. Fortunately, a still photographer was on the set and I got a set of pictures from him. To this day, three photographs of each of those breakaway moments are hanging on my den wall.
I did my stuff on The Danny Kaye Show, The John Gary Show, The Dean Martin Comedy Hour, The Red Skelton Hour, and, I had a bit part on Channing, a dramatic series. (Channing only lasted for one season, and I only appeared in one episode but, hey, a credit is a credit.) These shows came after McHale’s aired in October 1962, but my most important appearance, the one that shaped the course of my future professional and personal life, happened before the McHale’s premiere. On June 12, 1962, I guest starred on The Garry Moore Show.
Garry Moore was another major star of the 1950s and 1960s whose influence is felt right up to the present day but whose name is even more obscured than Steve Allen’s. Garry’s shows were variety programs that bore his name and featured a stock company of players performing comedy sketches, musical numbers, and monologues. Moore was a short, easygoing guy who did two things consistently—he wore his hair in a crew cut and he always sported a bow tie, both of which became his trademarks. He was about the most genial person you can imagine. He never needed to hog the limelight; in fact, he did just the opposite. He wanted to give audiences the best possible show they could get and to do this he’d hand over the biggest laughs to his cast and his guests (like myself) if it were in the best interest of the show. Case in point: A certain young lady, whose own trademarks included an earsplitting rendition of Tarzan’s yell and a tug on her ear lobe, joined The Garry Moore Show in 1959 and stayed until 1966. To this day that certain (forever) young lady credits Moore with teaching her everything she needed to know about being a good performer and a good person—make that great performer and person. You know I’m talking about Carol Burnett, so let’s get on with it.
Carol had put herself on the entertainment map with a comedy ballad, “I Made a Fool of Myself Over John Foster Dulles,” especially written for her by Ken Welch. She first sang it at The Blue Angel, a popular Greenwich Village nightclub. Later she performed it on both The Tonight Show and The Ed Sullivan Show on CBS. For those who might not be up on the political scene of the 1950s, Dulles, the secretary of state from 1953 to 1959, was regarded as a bit stuffy and was really not that popular a public figure. The idea that this exuberant young woman had a crush on the stodgy secretary was so off-the-wall that people couldn’t get enough of it. Not only did the song ignite Carol’s career, it gave Dulles a needed political boost. She actually sang it to him on television and viewers were astounded to see the sour-faced secretary crack a smile. Carol then went on to appear off-Broadway and later on Broadway as Winifred in Once Upon a Mattress, a musical take-off of Hans Christian Andersen’s tale “The Princess and the Pea.” Carol was a hit, and it was full speed ahead after that.
Phil Weltman arranged for me to fly to New York to film an appearance on Moore’s show. I arrived on the set at CBS Studio 51 and was introduced to the regulars; Carol, Durwood Kirby, and Alan King. We really didn’t have much to do with each other because they were doing their sketches and I was doing my own; a take-off on Superman that centered on his inability to find a phone booth to change back to Clark Kent or vice versa. As I remember the booth was too small for me to get out of my suit and into my Superman costume and ended with me emerging in my underwear. (What on earth would Clark and Supe do today? I dare you to find a phone booth in this cell phone world.) Carol later told me that she watched my act and thought I was really funny. However, in discussing my performance with Charlene Fusco, an assistant to producer Joe Hamilton, she found herself defending me. Ms. Fusco thought I stunk. Okay, how many Charlenes do you meet in a lifetime? I am talking about my own beloved future wife, and here she was making snide remarks about my comic ability at our very first encounter. She’d probably be dissing me to this day if I hadn’t been asked to appear on The Sammy Davis, Jr. Show a few years later. Joe Hamilton was a producer on Sammy’s show, a William Morris package. I was with William Morris as was Joe; we were members of the same fraternity, so to speak. When Charlene learned that I’d been booked, she remembered my Garry Moore Show appearance and went right to Joe.
“Tim Conway? Oh please. You booked that guy again? Didn’t he do enough damage on Garry’s show?”
“Sharkey, he’s very funny,” Joe said. “He’s been a real hit on McHale’s Navy.”
“McHale’s what?”
My success had gone right by the lovely Ms. Fusco because, according to her, she didn’t watch California sitcoms except for The Dick Van Dyke Show. They were very snobby in New York City back then. And don’t forget the East and West Coasts weren’t connected the way they are today. There was much more local programming, and even though McHale’s Navy was shown nationally, Charlene considered it a local product. Can you believe this? Not funny, huh? Well I showed her a thing or two! After my spot, she went to Joe and said, “Oh, now I get it.”
And, happily, she’s been getting it ever since.
It’s time for a little background update which means I have to bring Carol into the picture, again. The Garry Moore Show was Carol’s graduate school in entertainment. She sharpened all her skills on that program and later brought them into her own show. They were a close-knit bunch on Garry’s show both behind and in front of the camera. Charlene and Carol were already buddies before I came along, and they still are. (To this day when we get together I feel like I’m along for the ride with those two. But it’s a terrific ride.) Around the same time Charlene and Judy Tannen became friends. Judy’s been managing Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé for nearly four decades. Carol and Joe Hamilton hit it off, big time, and eventually got married. The Moore Show trio—Carol, Joe, and Charlene—worked together so well it was only natural for them to continue their partnership. And so Carol led them out of New York and into the wilderness of Los Angeles where The Carol Burnett Show premiered on September 11, 1967 . . . without me. It’s hard to believe but there are still people who think that I was a cast member from the very start. I made my first appearance on October 2, 1967, but as a guest, not a regular. Carol remembered me from the Garry Moore days and thought that I’d make a nice now-and-again addition to her show. And so I became a regular guest for seven years. I was so regular I was on the show at least twice a month. In 1974, Lyle Waggoner, the announcer as well as a performer, left the show. Lyle and I looked so much alike that I was asked to step in and take over his vacated spot as a performer. At the same time, Ernie Anderson, that well-known member of the studio audience, took over Lyle’s anno
uncing chores. Bottom line? The Carol Burnett Show was telecast for eleven years, and I was a regular cast member for only four.
All Roads Lead to Carol
Here’s what I imagined heaven would be like when I was a kid. I pictured huge gates made of big white pearls and beyond them, fluffy clouds leading to a magnificent golden building that most resembled a humongous Falls Theatre. A smiling Eleanor Roosevelt was in the outside booth dispensing free tickets while inside, a smiling Franklin Delano Roosevelt gave out free popcorn. I’d take my seat and be treated to a newsreel, a Bugs Bunny cartoon, a Pete Smith special, a travelogue, and a double feature. After the show ended, I’d leave the theatre, wave good-bye to Franklin and Eleanor, and suddenly find myself on a racehorse competing against a bunch of jockeys with wings on their backs and halos on their heads. The vision ended with me in the winner’s circle, one large horseshoe of red roses draped over my shoulders and another one hanging over the horse’s neck as a crowd of spectators, which included Sophia and Dan, cheered wildly. Ah heaven!
Well, I grew up and discovered that heaven was nothing like that childhood dream. Heaven, in fact, was located in Los Angeles, California, at the corner of Beverly Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue in Television City’s CBS Studio 33. That’s where The Carol Burnett Show was filmed and that’s where I spent the happiest days of my show business life.