Sidney, who gave me my first movie role
At one particular soiree at the Lumets’, I was at the piano accompanying Jack Warden, who was doing some very amusing patter. My weather eye kept wandering toward Syd Chaplin, who was ignoring us completely. He was lounging on a sofa too busy insulting a couple of gorgeous dames (who were, of course, loving it) to take notice. Warden and I were eighteen sheets to the wind (everyone was that night—there were strange vibes in the air) when I suddenly got it into my head that Mr. Chaplin was deliberately sabotaging our “brilliant” double act. I stopped playing, rose, staggered over to him and requested that he step outside. As “outside” meant stepping into a very small elevator, it was a tad ridiculous. Besides, I was so far gone, all Syd had to do was touch me and I would have hit the deck. However, I had thrown down the gauntlet and there might have been a confrontation of sorts had not someone stepped between us and led me away, where I burst into angry sobs of frustration, muttering through my drunken tears, “That-ne’er do-well-dilettante-nothing-son-of-a-great man!”
The next day I delivered a bottle of champagne with my apologies to Syd in his dressing room after the Bells Are Ringing matinée and I soon came to learn that the shoe was indeed on the other foot—that Charles Chaplin had treated Sydney abominably, shamefully inhibiting him at every opportunity—that the “great man” in his case only existed on the silver screen. Real life had painted quite another picture.
Later in the sixties when I was living in Europe, I got to know Sydney considerably better. He was running a restaurant in Paris called Moustache and a gambling establishment on Curzon Street in London called the Pair of Shoes. As a chum he was staunch, loyal, extremely sensitive and one of the funniest human beings I have ever met—a drawing-room comic con cojones!
GLORIA VANDERBILT’S talents were not just restricted to writing some enchanting poetry; she had an eye for detail and decoration that was exceptional. Her tastes were liberated, her imagination boundless. Not because she was bored but because invention never let her be, would she change the apartment for each season—yet another colour scheme, yet another theme, and at Christmas it all fairly burst with a dazzling richness and warmth. I also remember the great Georgian-silver wine coolers and her exquisite collection of Louis Quatorze seashell chairs.
Then, though I’m certain she never noticed, I would find myself staring shamelessly at Gloria’s beauty in repose, touched by that haunted, lost look of hers—the look of a startled fawn. It was hard to believe in the midst of all that surrounding gaiety that her life would again be scarred with more tragedy to come. Yet here was a born victim with an invisible, built-in toughness and bravery that has, over the ravages of time, managed so splendidly and gracefully to see her through.
NOW IT WAS TIME to postpone the good life, go back to television and what is laughingly called a living. The first assignment was a crisp little comedy which I shared with a very pretty Sally Ann Howes. It was a trifling romp mostly made memorable by the presence of Buster Keaton in a small role. The great silent-film comic was in his sixties, absolutely delightful, never said hello or good morning, but instead would launch into a stream of anecdotes which he occasionally punctuated by executing perfect somersaults from a standing position.
The second gig that winter was perhaps more my line of country—Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper for the DuPont Show of the Month. My first DuPont appearance had been in support of José Ferrer. This time I was the star. My lady partner was that exquisite jewel from Britain, Rosemary Harris, and between us, we had the supporting cast of our dreams: mad marvellous John Carradine, Victor Jory, Sir Cedric Hardwicke, young Rex Thomson and a little scene-stealer who could have been anywhere between the ages of eight and twelve named Patty Duke. Our producer, David Susskind, welcomed us by making the most sanctimonious and pompous speech, saying how privileged we should all feel to be part of a great classic and that he hoped we would rise to the occasion and do it justice. This in front of all these distinguished professionals. The speech was greeted with stony silence broken only by Sir Cedric whose noble organlike voice rang out loud and clear, “I’ve closed in better shit than this!” It was, however, just as Susskind had ordered—a resounding success.
Robert Saudek, a gentle academic who ran the prestigious Omnibus programme that employed crusty Alistair Cooke as its commentator-host, invited me to play Oedipus Rex, Sophocles’s young king, who, in a moment of inexcusable carelessness, had murdered his father and married his mother. Talented Alan Schneider (later killed by a car when crossing a London street looking the wrong way) presided over the production and good Ol’ Bob Goodier and Donald Davis were sent down from Canada to give the support some strength and stature. During the “dress,” not content with plucking out my eyes in the last act, I twisted my cartilage as well, wrenching my knee out of its socket, sending it all the way round to the back of my leg. We were to air the show the following day! In a panic, they carried me on a stretcher into a van which trundled me through the streets to an address on the East Side. On the way, to distract myself from the pain, I busily pulled out the latex prosthetics from my eyes till they resembled long stringy bits of cheddar.
Dr. Max Jacobson, or “Miracle Max” as he was more commonly known, was a cross between Conrad Veidt and Martin Borman. His reputation for getting people who were near death’s door back on their feet in a matter of seconds was the talk of the town. This had earned him his nickname. Opera stars who had lost their voices, politicians who had lost their nerve, dancers, actors, athletes, all plaintively knocked on his door begging for the “cure.” He was also society’s darling—they called him “Dr. Feelgood.” Later President Kennedy would make him part of the White House inner circle as his private saviour, summoning him for treatment whenever or wherever he felt pain or flagging energy.
“Vell? Vat happent to you?” this darkly sinister man shouted at me. I felt I was in the cabinet of Dr. Caligari.
“I put my knee out, Doctor.”
“I know vat you dit. I asked you vat happent?!”
My second Oedipus, CBS Omnibus
I told him the whole grisly story, adding that I had to perform the next day. He didn’t even wait for me to finish. He was out of the room in a flash. I could hear him bellowing at some frantic oversized diva, whom I had recognized as I was being carried in. He reappeared a moment later mumbling to his nurse, “Zere iss notting wrong mit dat stoopit bitch—tell her to go avay!” He was brandishing two long, thin sticks with cotton wool wrapped at the tip, one which was soaked in some liquid substance, the other covered with white powder. With no explanation, he stuck them both so far up my nose I heard it crack.
“But Doctor Jacobson,” I stammered, “it’s my knee, not my nose!”
“Shaddup undt mindt your own business,” he retorted as he shot me at least six times around the knee area with several ominous hypodermics.
“Now stand up! On your feet! Undt get outta here!”
I didn’t walk. I strode—I ran—I leapt. I was Superman!
True to his name, Miracle Max had done me proud.
We were to learn later he would come under investigation by federal authorities for suspected misuse of amphetamines and that his license to practice medicine was revoked by the New York State Board of Regents in the midseventies. How shortened our lives might have become under his care, one will never know; but whatever joy juice Dr. Feelgood Caligari had pumped into me that day, I could have played Oedipus at Colonus, Oedipus at the Olympics, at least ten more “Eeda-pussies” all at once and still have enough energy left to seek out my old troubadour friend Jason and celebrate with a vengeance, gouged eyes and all, my new bionic state.
THE POLICEMAN ASSIGNED to the West Forty-seventh theatre district was a particularly agreeable fellow and, luckily for us, an avid fan of showbiz! On horseback, he regularly patrolled the street at night, checking out the Lyceum, the Ethel Barrymore, the Cort, etc. After “curtain up” like clockwork he dismounted
outside our beloved Palace Bar and Grill, tethered his horse and wandered in for his usual libation. All of us this particular evening were well on our way so the rousing greeting we gave him was several decibels louder and more boisterous than normal. One could hear Jason’s powerful voice topping the rest of us as he instructed dear Ol’ Sol not to serve the cop unless he brought his horse in with him, insisting that the long-suffering beast deserved a drink just as much if not more so than his master. The cop obliged. There we were, all of us, standing at the bar—horse included! Jason bought the first of many rounds—triple Jack Daniel’s for both cop and horse. We tenderly held the glass to the horse’s lips as he gratefully joined in. He seemed to be hooked and clearly wanted more, as the evening became more obstreperous with much singing and shouting of old shanties. Suddenly the cop realized the shows were over and he was embarrassingly late getting back to his beat—but there was a problem! How to get the horse out of the bar, up the stairs and into the street! The room was so narrow—it couldn’t possibly turn around. After much grave and slurred discussion, we decided to take the beast out through the back alley where the rubbish was kept, turn him around there and then walk him out the front door. This took an eternity but finally success was achieved as we toasted the departing pair, horse and cop, returning to their duty, both totally bombed out of their skulls.
Later that year the cop, we were happy to learn, was promoted to captain, but I don’t think it was for anything that occurred on that dubious and extremely shaky eve. His partner, I should imagine, is by now safely confined to a home for alcoholic nags.
SOMEWHERE IN A HOSPITAL on the other side of town, poor Tam was going through the tortures of the damned. She never did have a very high threshold for pain and her labour spasms were becoming increasingly unbearable. They had filled her with drugs which made her hallucinate badly and her screams were heartrending. There was little I could do—she didn’t even know who I was, so, coward that I am, I’m afraid I couldn’t take any more and left. A sympathetic nurse assured me it would be all right to come back in a little while.
The nearest, most soothing room I knew of was the lounge at Regent House on Sixty-fifth and Park. I made a beeline for it, ordered a stiff drink and set about tranquilizing my jangling nerves. Two gentlemen at the next table invited me to join them—one turned out to be Budd Schulberg, author of On the Waterfront, What Makes Sammy Run and The Disenchanted, and the other, his partner and friend, a comforting whiskey-voiced Teddy Bear of a man by name of Harvey Breit. In fact, they both rather resembled Teddy Bears and when I told them what the Plummer ménage was going through, they made all the appropriate Teddy Bear noises and ordered champagne.
After the first toast, Budd told me that Harvey (a well-known journalist and Bear of Very Big Brain) was adapting Budd’s book The Disenchanted for the Broadway stage and that I, though a little young, would be very right to play the leading protagonist—Manley Halliday. That made me feel considerably better. So we toasted that idea, and Budd, with that soft-spoken charm of his and delightful stutter, which he has spent his life timing to perfection, suggested I also play the lead in his next film about illegal egret hunting in the Florida Everglades. That talented maverick of movies, that rebel with or without a cause, Nicholas Ray, was to direct. Several toasts went by and the afternoon rolled on in much mellower fashion as both Bears continued to recount wonderfully tall tales of the newspaper world, the fight game and, of course, Old Hollywood.
Budd’s father had been head of Paramount Pictures in the twenties and early thirties and one of the West Coast’s most powerful figures. Every year, according to Budd, the Schulbergs would embark on a long European excursion—a most orderly ritual—everything meticulously managed. They would leave LA by train to New York—then New York to England or France via ocean liner. Two Rolls-Royces would pull up at LA station, one carrying Mr. and Mrs. and offspring, the other containing spanking new luggage filled with every conceivable object they were convinced was suitable for each country and climate. “P-p-poor f-father,” Budd stammered, “he had no knowledge whatever of European c-c-customs.” One year, limousine number two fairly burst at the seams with innumerable cases of liquor. “What you got in all them cases, Mr. Schulberg?” asked the conductor as they were loading the train. “Scotch,” said the mogul. “Gosh! You must be goin’ a long way, sir. Where is it this time?” “Scotland!” was the brusque reply.
Now it was Harvey’s turn. He was just about to launch into some yarn when I jumped out of my chair. My God—I’d forgot! Tammy must have given birth by now. I waved good-bye to my two Teddy Bears and didn’t stop running till I reached New York Hospital. But I was too late—my cursed bad timing again. I had missed the moment. I wasn’t able to visit Tam—she was sleeping the whole thing off, but there, behind glass, was the tiniest, smallest-boned creature I’d ever seen. Automatically I glanced at my watch. It read the twenty-third of March, 1957. I just stood there in a haze—the room spinning around me. Did someone speak? I wasn’t sure. It must have been the nurse. I couldn’t quite hear what she was saying if indeed it was the nurse at all, but a voice that came from very far away was trying to tell me I was now the proud sire of a wee elf in search of a name.
AS IF THAT WASN’T exciting enough, David Selznick had just flown in from his chalet in Switzerland and had taken over most of the top floor of the St. Regis Hotel—Jennifer and he in one suite, the children and nanny in another and the remaining rooms were reserved for secretaries and staff. They had barely unpacked before the receptions began. David was almost as brilliant a host as he was a producer and had a passion for collecting people—new faces—new talent. It gave him the greatest of pleasure as he lavished his attentions on them. The latest of his “finds” this particular year were a young, fresh-faced, boyishly sexy Jane Fonda and me. Jane, who unquestionably had a direct line to fame and like a feline leopard could change her spots to suit the latest cause, would rise like a phoenix to the top of the class with a will that exceeded Eva Perón’s; as opposed to my subplot of a career born of self-inflicted doubts, and strange loyalties, which up to now could be simply described as an “Enigma Variation.”
While I ogled Jane in the distance, David pounced on me and propelled me around the room. Some people I already knew, but not John Huston, with whom I was now shaking hands, nor Irene Selznick (David’s ex and daughter of Louis B. Mayer), nor Jock Whitney, who had backed Gone With the Wind. I renewed my acquaintance with Hank Fonda and we sashayed over to a large group who stood hypnotized, listening to Truman Capote. Truman was recounting how he once watched a chain gang in the South working on the tracks, each man’s leg bound to the other, on a stiflingly hot summer’s day in, let’s say, Hades, Mississippi. All of a sudden a great number of cranes flew overhead, their graceful flight a thing of beauty to behold. All the men stopped work, dropped their picks on the ground, stood absolutely still and watched those cranes till the last one had disappeared over the horizon. The look of longing and of envy that filled their eyes told its own story and Truman would never forget it. I suppose the anecdote was made all the more riveting because Truman’s supreme gifts as a raconteur were enhanced by his high-pitched tones, which resembled the wailings of a theremin.
As the thought of that ever-looming seven-year contract with David again crossed my mind, I too identified strongly with those poor convicts and I swore to myself that the next day I would tell David—No. On the morrow I found him wandering back and forth from one suite of rooms to another in an elegantly cut grey flannel suit sporting a cane and wearing no shoes. He was wildly dictating some of his now famous “memos” to a slew of overworked sleepwalking stenographers. As I sauntered in, he smiled that beaming smile of his that made the whole world look rich and successful. “Let’s go across the street and grab some lunch.” The waiters at the Côte Basque bowed low and swept us to our table. They even bowed to me, obviously convinced that anyone with David could be nothing short of a tycoon.
At lunc
h, David became the Three Tempters under one skin. As he made my future sound more and more lush, I bided my time. I thought of what Jane Broder had told me after she had called an old colleague of hers in LA—that David O. was now a dollar-a-year-man as far as the government was concerned, so that his huge expenses could be resolved, and that he had sold most of his interests—Selznick Studios among them—and that he no longer owned the world rights to Tender Is the Night. I knew too that the days of long-binding contracts were to be a thing of the past and that the old studio system would soon give way to the “Independents.” So bracing myself, I thanked Mr. Selznick from the bottom of my heart, said I was sorry but I was off to play the Great Dane himself for at least twenty-five cents a week plus a maximum guarantee of obscurity. We sat in silence.
It’s a rare thing in life to meet someone who really believes in you. Here was a man with a huge heart—a hero of mine, the man most likely to film my dreams, whose style, taste and judgment had been nigh impossible to match in the movie industry, and he’d gone to battle for me—he had genuinely believed in me and I’d cast him aside. Was I insane? David thought I was and told me so—not just that day at lunch but years after in his biography—and the look of disappointment on his face when I told him made me want to crawl under every table in the Côte Basque. Yet at the same time I knew he understood. For behind all the mogul-mania, David’s real wealth and power was his artistry. He was a consummate artist, a master craftsman—intensely dedicated and intensely human. Yes, he understood all right.
In Spite of Myself: A Memoir Page 27