Not Young, Still Restless

by Jeanne Cooper

  Another “next thing I knew” thanks to yet another wonderful pal: Bill Lundmark, one of the elves who’d participated in my surprise move from Stockton, was a good friend of an actor named Raymond Burr, who was fresh from a prestigious performance in a hit film called A Place in the Sun with Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift. As a favor to Bill, Raymond agreed to do a screen test with me for Universal Studios, a scene from another recent movie called Detective Story.

  Universal promptly offered me a contract, and believe me, $250 a week was far too generous a salary for me to pass up. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by such esteemed colleagues as Shelley Winters, Lee Marvin, Tyrone Power, Rock Hudson, Julie Adams, Dennis Weaver, and Beverly Garland, to name just a few.

  There was a lot to be said about the legendary “studio system” in those days. Publicity departments worked hard to create and perpetuate images for its contract actors that we were expected to maintain (in public), while the studios provided a mandatory series of classes, teaching us everything from acting to dancing to horseback riding to wardrobe and makeup skills. We visited soundstages and postproduction houses to learn about filmmaking both in front of and behind the cameras and to see with our own eyes that we actors were only one part of the process. Our “den mother” at Universal was a drama coach named Sophie Rosenstein, and I’ve never forgotten the speech she gave her new students on our first day of “school,” which still resonates to this day:

  “Some of you are here because of your looks,” she said. “Some of you are here because of your talent. And some of you . . . I have no idea why you’re here. But whatever you’re doing here, never forget that this is first and foremost a business. The studio is investing money in you, and if they don’t get a return on their investment, count on it, you will be excused.”

  It was an exhilarating time. I loved everything I was learning both inside and outside those classes at Universal. It became apparent, for example, that, to paraphrase Sophie’s speech, some of us were aspiring to be famous and others of us aspired to be skilled, legitimate actors. In my case I quickly realized that my passion was acting, and whether it led to fame or anonymity was beside the point. I also discovered that while there were, and are, some truly great people in this town, people of real worth and substance, Hollywood was, and is, a place where far too often qualities like depth, talent, and integrity are valued less than skin-deep appearances, a place where many fail to remember that genuine success has nothing to do with wealth. In fact, some of the creepiest, most despicable people I’ve ever met happened to be rich, proving that the old adage really is true: money doesn’t care who owns it.

  My mandatory presence at the studio made it impossible to keep my job at Ball Scripts, but I kept right on performing in and loving On the Town. And then, one fateful day, casting director Millie Gussie called me to her office at Universal and informed me that I would have to give notice at the theater, because I’d be too busy shooting my first movie, The Redhead from Wyoming, with Maureen O’Hara.

  I know. You’d think I would have been yelling “Thank you!” at the top of my lungs and turning cartwheels around the room. Instead, I was about to be taught a lesson in what could be called Contract Signing 101.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her, “but I’ve only got one week to go on the play, and then I’ll be moving to New York. Thank you for thinking of me, though.”

  She smiled a little and patiently let me finish making a fool of myself before she replied, “I’m sorry, but that won’t be happening. You signed a contract. Universal made a six-month commitment to pay you $250 a week, and you made a six-month commitment to earn it.”

  And that’s the story of how my film career officially began.

  The Redhead from Wyoming, a story of a cattle war in Wyoming Territory, confirmed everything I’d been hearing from other actors on the lot: nothing’s more fun to do than a Western. (For the record, I would leap at the chance to do another one today. How about Jeanne Cooper and Eric Braeden in The Life and Legend of Wyatt AARP? Anyone . . . ?) In addition to Maureen O’Hara, the cast included Alex Nicol, Jack Kelly (the future Bart Maverick in the Maverick TV series), and Dennis Weaver, who was cast as Chester in the iconic series Gunsmoke not long after The Redhead from Wyoming was released.

  I played the role of a showgirl named Myra, and from the very beginning I couldn’t help but notice that Maureen O’Hara, the saloon proprietress, was repeatedly cutting more and more of our scenes together. I didn’t appreciate it, but even more than that, I didn’t understand it, especially since she wasn’t cutting anyone else’s scenes but mine. Approaching Miss O’Hara about it was out of the question—I wasn’t shy, but I knew my place on the set—so I asked our director, Lee Sholem, about it instead, wondering if I’d done something to offend our star, and if I had, what on earth it could have been, since I thought I’d been nothing but respectful and professional.

  “It’s nothing you’ve done,” Lee assured me. “It’s who you are.”

  “Who I am? What does that mean?” I asked, incredulous. “I’m a newcomer. She’s Maureen O’Hara. What does who I am have to do with it?”

  He put his hand on my shoulder and led me off the set until we were out of everyone’s earshot, and he kept his voice discreetly quiet and compassionate. “Exactly,” he said. “You’re a newcomer, and she’s Maureen O’Hara. Or, to put it another way, you’re a fresh, dynamic, talented young actress with your whole career ahead of you. She’s an established star who’s been around awhile, and standing next to you on-camera makes her look and feel older. Please don’t take it personally.”

  I’ll always appreciate how graciously he handled it. That simple, honest explanation erased any possible resentment I might be harboring and made me want to reach out to her. Later that morning, at the first opportunity, I sat down with her and said, partly because I meant it and partly to defuse any resentment she might be harboring, “Miss O’Hara, I just wanted to tell you how honored I am that I’m doing my first film with you. I’m new at this, I don’t know what I’m doing, and I can’t imagine working with a more patient, more generous teacher.”

  She’d clearly been feeling guilty—she immediately thanked me and started making excuses for cutting so many of my scenes, while I kept on complimenting her, hoping the ice between us had finally been broken.

  That afternoon we were shooting a crowded dance hall scene. I was standing in the background among several other actors, where I’d been told to stand, when I felt an arm slide around my waist to subtly move me a little to my right. It was Maureen O’Hara, who whispered before she left me there, “Always remember, Jeanne, if you can’t see the camera, the camera can’t see you.” She made sure I could be seen; I’ve never forgotten that bit of advice, and I’ve most definitely never forgotten her.

  I was happy to go directly from that film to another Western, The Man from the Alamo, starring Glenn Ford, Julie Adams, and the very handsome Hugh O’Brian, television’s future Wyatt Earp. It was during the shooting of that movie that one conversation with a good friend convinced me to give up my New York dreams once and for all and made me realize that I was actually right where I belonged.

  David Janssen was that good friend. He and I were Universal contract players together, and he was still relatively unknown, a decade away from his megasuccess in the television series The Fugitive. One day he kidnapped me from the Man from the Alamo set for lunch, arranging with a studio wrangler for us to ride two of the horses far into the vast back lot where we could have a picnic in peace and, as usual, confide in each other about our dreams for the future of our careers.

  There wasn’t a building or another person in sight while we relaxed there together. The only signs of civilization were several reflectors on tripods at the top of a hill. David looked up at them during a long, thoughtful moment of silence and then pointed at them and said, “I’ll tell you where the future is—it’s right up there. Get in on the ground floor of that and you’ll have a care
er you can count on.”

  I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, and told him so.

  “That’s a television show they’re shooting on that hill. Take my word for it, television is going to be the most exciting thing to happen to actors since motion pictures were invented.”

  I know it’s hard to believe, but there actually was a time when television didn’t exist, and in the early 1950s television sets were just beginning to appear in living rooms across the country. Its potential seemed limitless, as did its need for programs, which meant a whole new world of employment possibilities for us actors. You know how sometimes you hear something and you know it’s true? You’re not even sure why you know, you just do. And that’s the way it was with that prediction of David’s.

  Apparently the timing of the truth counts for something too. As David daydreamed about the magic that TV would perform on the entertainment industry someday, I flashed back to an evening at the Pasadena Playhouse when a small herd of executives in expensive suits gathered us acting and theater majors for a rah-rah session about a new phenomenon called television. It was going to sweep the country, the execs said, and there would be a time when no home in America would seem complete without one. Its potential was beyond our wildest imaginations, they said, but it couldn’t happen without those of us in the creative community. Come join us when you graduate, they said, and we will guarantee each of you a CEO position in the television industry.

  They asked for a show of hands of everyone who’d be interested. Not one hand went up. Give up our prestigious futures in the theater and in motion pictures for what would so obviously turn out to be nothing more than a short-lived, ridiculous fad? Yeah, that’ll happen. As a proud, hardworking, theater-trained student of the esteemed Pasadena Playhouse, there was one thing of which I was “absolutely certain”: my future did not lie in some mythical box in people’s living rooms.

  But on that day years later, on that picnic on the back lot of Universal Studios, I decided I didn’t want to be a New York stage actress after all. I wanted to stay right here in Hollywood, not to be a film actor but to take David Janssen’s advice and get in on the ground floor of television. Almost sixty years later I’m proud and grateful to still be working in this extraordinary medium.

  It’s my educated guess that no matter what business you’re in and how proficient you are at it, there’s always something or someone around to make sure you’re humbled from time to time. Being a busy contract actress at Universal Studios was no exception.

  In 1952 Ann Blyth, Gregory Peck, and Anthony Quinn made a film for Universal called The World in His Arms. When the film was released, six of us actresses were sent off to Alaska with Ann Blyth and some other contract players to promote the movie and to entertain the troops who were stationed there during the Korean War. We were honored and excited, until we found out what was really going on.

  It seems that while we were gone, Universal, in constant search of new faces whether they had a shred of talent or not, quickly brought several gorgeous Miss Universe contestants to the studio, put them under contract, and cast them in any roles for which they might be even remotely appropriate—roles that would have been given to us contract actresses if we hadn’t been so conveniently out of town. So we returned from a long, exciting, exhausting trip to discover that not only had we been duped, but we’d also been temporarily and unceremoniously replaced by a group of international beauties who had no training and no acting experience whatsoever. It wasn’t the fault of the Miss Universe contestants, needless to say. We had no one else to thank but the studio executives who “adored” us but were only too happy to shove us aside at their convenience.

  It shouldn’t have surprised us. Sophie Rosenstein had warned us from the very beginning that, in the end, “this is a business.” But even she seemed a little sheepish at the insult she had to add to our injuries. She called us into her office one day to inform us that we’d each been assigned our very own contestant to treat as a kind of “little sister,” to take under our wings and befriend—in other words, we were to be helpful, darling tour guides, chauffeurs, and confidantes to our potential replacements. Klass with a capital K or what? A contract is a contract, though, and Universal had one with my signature on it, so I wasn’t about to shoot myself in the foot by being uncooperative.

  My new BFF was the very beautiful and oddly unhappy Miss Germany. I would have asked what she was so unhappy about, but it wouldn’t have been enlightening, since she didn’t speak a word of English and Universal provided interpreters only at publicity events. I promise you, I more than fulfilled my obligation. I showed her around the studio. I took her shopping. I took her to lunches and dinners with my friends. I posed with her for countless photos. And not once, no matter how much she seemed to be enjoying herself at any given time, did her undercurrent of unhappiness disappear.

  I learned the sad, simple reason for it one day when I offered to drive her somewhere. I don’t remember where I thought we were going; I just knew that I was relying on her for directions. There was a lot of pointing and gesturing on the long drive to wherever, and only when we were almost there did I realize that she was directing me right toward the entrance of Los Angeles International Airport. I gave her a shocked “What are you doing?” look, to which she responded in the few words of English she’d managed to pick up: “I want to go home.”

  Believe me, I sympathized, but in the end, I’m a survivor. I had no interest in finding out what fate awaited me if Sophie Rosenstein asked me if I happened to know where Miss Germany might be and I replied, “I put her on a plane back to Munich.” Ignoring the wails and racking sobs of my passenger, I did an immediate U-turn, drove straight to Universal, personally escorted one very unhappy fräulein into Sophie’s office, and hugged her good-bye. From what I was told, she was released from her contract and flown home the following day. For someone I barely knew, whose name I don’t even remember, I’ve thought of her often and imagined what it must have been like for her to be thrust into a town and a business that are overwhelming enough when they’ve been part of your dreams. Against your will, they could be a living nightmare. I hope she went on to have a wonderful life.

  One of the Miss Universe contestants who was put under contract by Universal Studios and decided to stay was a stunning blond Miss Sweden named Anita Ekberg. She and I didn’t know each other well, but we were certainly friendly acquaintances, and we ran into each other on the lot several times a week. She took me by surprise one day when she pulled me aside in the commissary and asked for my help in her very thick Swedish accent that I won’t even try to re-create on paper.

  “I’m doing a film with Tyrone Power,” she whispered, “and I think he’s so beautiful, but I can’t seem to get his attention. We’re shooting a big dance scene this afternoon, and I’ll be dancing in the background of a scene with him and Julie. What can I do? How can I get him to notice me?”

  The film, it turned out, was The Mississippi Gambler, with Tyrone Power and Julie Adams. Anita was playing the uncredited role of the maid of honor. I had no idea what to tell her, so I just offered the only advice that came to mind.

  “I don’t know, Anita, maybe just have your partner dance you right into Tyrone a few times. Sooner or later he’s bound to notice you, even if it’s just to ask you and your partner to knock it off.”

  She actually seemed to think this might work and went skipping off to her wardrobe and makeup call. And I admit it, my curiosity got the best of me—I couldn’t resist strolling over to the set of The Mississippi Gambler that afternoon to watch Anita in action. Sure enough, there were Tyrone and Julie, both of them gorgeous, dancing away in front of the cameras on a crowded dance floor, surrounded by twenty or thirty couples dancing away in the background, Anita and her partner among them.

  I would have advocated more subtlety than this, but before long Anita initiated a series of minor collisions with Tyrone and Julie that kind of escalated in intensity until finall
y Anita Ekberg virtually slammed into Tyrone Power and a romance was born. They became the darlings of the tabloids, with the help of the Universal publicity department, and there’s no doubt about it, they looked breathtaking together. It made me smile.

  It was about five years later, I think, that I ran into Anita at a party with an escort who was most decidedly not Tyrone Power. In the brief private conversation between us, I found a gentle way to ask her if she and Tyrone were still together.

  “Oh, no,” she said emphatically. “I’m not with him anymore, and I almost wish I’d never met him.”

  It was the last thing I expected to hear after her almost frantic desperation to get his attention. “Why would you say that, Anita?” I asked her.

  She began shaking her head with some mixture of regret and disbelief. “Terrible, Jeanne. Terrible in bed. You would not believe it, just terrible.”

  Definitely the last thing I expected to hear and almost too much information. But for those of you who’ve always wondered, there you have it, from a woman who seemed to know what she was talking about.

  Not long after Miss Germany presumably landed in Munich and Anita Ekberg had collided her way into Tyrone Powers’s heart, it was time for Universal and me to negotiate a new contract. My agent and I were convinced that I deserved a raise. Universal was convinced I didn’t, and that $250 a week was really very generous of them. Both sides refused to give an inch, and in the end I left, excited to freelance and find out if I might have a future in television. For about a minute and a half I was offended that Universal didn’t appreciate me enough to give me the reasonable raise I demanded. But I quickly got a grip on two things I knew beyond a doubt: first, and yet again, that Sophie Rosenstein was exactly right, they don’t call it show business for nothing, and second, that I’d never let anyone define my worth, and I wasn’t about to start with Universal Studios.