by Joel Grey
The owner of the hotel, Beldon Katleman, was very gruff but also very fond of me. Pleased with my work, he took me out for coffee and showed me around the hotel—and sent two women to my room. Gambling and girls go together. The high-end call girls at El Rancho blended perfectly with the guests. The two dark-haired beauties in elegant clothing that arrived at my hotel room door were no exception. When I saw them after opening the door, I naturally assumed they had to be some mistake.
“I’m sorry; I think you have the wrong room.”
“You’re Joel Grey, right?” the woman in the form-fitting jersey dress said.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Katleman sent us.”
“We’re your birthday present,” added the other woman with heavily applied black cat-eye makeup.
“It’s not my birthday,” I said like a dope.
They laughed and walked right in.
Sex was part of every aspect of Vegas, especially its entertainment. When I was booked the second time around at El Rancho, I was to open for Lili St. Cyr, the sexy and famous stripper. She was striking with her platinum-blonde hair, strong cheekbones, full lips, and arched black brows over heavy-lidded eyes. Of course, few people were looking at her face. Ms. St. Cyr’s performance consisted of her removing her clothes in such unusual ways that she named a few of her acts “The Wolf Woman” and “The Chinese Virgin.”
For her El Rancho engagement, she took a bath onstage. She came out with a beautiful robe, and someone helped her into an elegant tub, which sat atop a pedestal. To introduce her, I asked Ray Gilbert to write something special. So when I finished my act, I came back onstage, all sweaty, after my bow. The lights dimmed and I introduced Lili St. Cyr with this poem (said with a very straight face):
I wish I was the stopper
That’s inside Lili’s tub
When she gets in to take a bath
Glub, glub, glub … glub … glub!
Late at night, when the second shows at each resort and casino were over, a lot of the acts, hyped up and not ready for bed, would gather. Besides hanging out (most of us were ravenous since we hadn’t eaten before our shows) at the Chuck Wagon or other restaurants, we would also check out other lounge acts such as the Treniers, Louis Prima and Keely Smith, who regularly held forth until five o’clock in the morning. That’s when the acts would cool down before walking outside to the sun coming up in 100-degree weather. Sometimes we would head back to the Chuck Wagon for breakfast (before sleeping until three in the afternoon).
In the moody and loose atmosphere of the lounges along the Strip, performers connected. That’s how Harry Belafonte became a good friend. We had both been bitten by the theater bug early in life. Like my experience with the Cleveland Play House, all it took was one show at the American Negro Theater to set him on his life’s path. He had been working as a janitor’s assistant in the forties when a tenant gave him a ticket to the legendary Harlem theater. His musical career singing in nightclubs was just a way for him to make money for acting classes. Serious about the craft, he participated in the New School’s Dramatic Workshop program where Marlon Brando, Bea Arthur, Tony Curtis, and Harry’s friend Sidney Poitier were also students. But his recording success happened first and got in the way of his acting, a dilemma I, too, knew something about.
There was a significant difference between Harry and me. Las Vegas during that time was virulently racist, and Jim Crow laws were strictly enforced at the new clubs and restaurants along the strip. Even the top black entertainers of the day, such as Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, and Ella Fitzgerald, had to enter venues through stage or kitchen doors and stay in boardinghouses in the poor black area called Westside. When Sammy Davis Jr. went swimming at the New Frontier, the manager drained the “whites only” pool afterward.
It was hard to find restaurants where Harry and I could eat together. But when we did, we had great times talking about theater, music, girls. A few years later, we shared a bill at Bill Miller’s Riviera in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Harry had already released his album Calypso, which sold more than a million copies. I could barely get on after he sang “Day-O.” It was a sexy, thrilling performance, and it took about ten minutes for the audience to get him and that song out of their heads. After that engagement, I ordered a gold medallion engraved with TO HARRY, MAZEL! LOVE, JOEL as a closing gift to mark a successful engagement. But when it arrived, it read TO HARRY MAZEL. LOVE, JOEL. He’s worn it ever since.
Perhaps the most unusual friendship I made from my time in Las Vegas, however, was with another legendary stripper, Sherry Britton. Like Lili St. Cyr, Ms. Britton put her own twist on the art of taking her clothes off. One of her signature features (other than her hourglass figure) was her long, jet-black hair. When she wore it in front, it draped over her breasts; when she pushed it back, it covered her behind.
I met Sherry in Vegas during an engagement at the Desert Inn, and we hit it off instantly during one of those after-hours hang-outs. Sherry was truly stunning, funny, and smart—and Jewish! Like Gypsy Rose Lee, Sherry wasn’t just a bimbo who took her clothes off for money. The one-liners (“I strip, but I don’t tease”) rolled off her tongue effortlessly; this was a stripper who read the classics during her off hours. She brought intelligence and class to her act, removing elegant evening gowns of chiffon to the equally delicate music of Tchaikovsky.
Sherry was quite the sensation in Las Vegas with a long list of suitors that included many high rollers and members of the mob. After watching my show, she was effusive as well as affectionate. Of course, I laid on the charm as thickly as I could. I was impressed with her. She was tiny—even shorter than I—but onstage, she looked like an Amazon. Sherry was a goddess out there. I also liked how sought-after she was. When it came to flirting, she set the rules. But I could make her laugh, and she went for that. I felt something happening between us, and before anyone even had a chance to think about it, we were a couple.
There was real chemistry between us. You would have to be dead not to be turned on by Sherry. Her body was legendary, even among the jaded audiences of Las Vegas, who had seen an untold number of women take it almost all off. Any doubts I had about myself vanished when we were together. The sex was very exciting and powerful, and it felt right. It began with the fact that we really liked each other and had a lot to talk about. She was extremely literate and loved the theater. Given her profession, her erudition was delightfully surprising, and the fact that she was a Jewish stripper always made me chuckle. There was probably something to the fact that it doesn’t get more hetero than dating a stripper, and not just any stripper, a world-famous stripper. But at the time, my connection with Sherry didn’t feel as if I was trying to prove to myself that I was straight. It just felt right!
Of course, it didn’t hurt that with Sherry on my arm, my reputation instantly soared. I became known as some kind of a stud and was the envy of every man on her long list of her admirers. I knew they were all wondering, What’s he got? It was a fair question. Fourteen years older than I, she enjoyed a younger lover on his way to the big time (at least according to the local gossip columns). As a couple out in public—she the sophisticated older woman and I the energetic up-and-comer—we got a lot of attention. (At one point a gossip columnist in LA printed an item that we were on our way to the altar. In Vegas, that can happen in a second, and I got a panicked call from my dad, and I could hear Mother next to him.)
When my Vegas engagement ended, I flew back to New York, and Sherry joined me a couple of weeks later. We were going out to the theater, clubs, etc., and usually ending up at my place, on 57th Street at First Avenue. Not too long after, though, I found out that she had been in a longtime relationship with a much older man in New York and was still seeing him. I don’t know which of us was the guy on the side, but without any strain Sherry and I both took up with our previous lives. (I could hear the sigh of relief from Mickey and Grace all the way from LA.) There were never hard feelings between Sherry and me, and we stayed friends
for years.
New York might not have had the high-thread-count sheets of Vegas suites, but it did have the theater. I went to every Broadway show, where I saw many legendary performances, such as Lee J. Cobb in Death of a Salesman, Mary Martin in South Pacific, and Yul Brynner in The King and I. Each of them inspired and depressed me at the same time. Those shows were thrilling, the acting magnificent, but though I wanted it desperately, I didn’t have a place in that world, and whatever success or name I had made thus far did not make the crossover in any way easier.
But I kept trying. I read Variety and Backstage from cover to cover; hung out at the Gray drugstore in the Theater District hoping I might hear about a promising audition; and bugged the William Morris agents in the theater department. I did everything I could think of, but legitimate theater producers and directors thought of me only as a nightclub comic. They feared that people like me from the “variety” world would sully the high-minded idea of the theater as a place of art.
Ironically, it was my father who called me in the summer of 1951 to offer me my first part on Broadway. Although Borscht Capades wasn’t as popular as it once was, it continued to play around the country and in Los Angeles. Its core audience was always going to be there for it, which was the rationale for my father’s latest plan. He was taking Borscht Capades to the Great White Way—and he wanted me to be the show’s Juvenile Star. My heart sank. I needed to break out of the stereotype of a song-and-dance man, not advertise it in the heart of the Theater District.
“Dad, this is big,” I said. “Believe me, I know this is a big thing, for you. And I have a really good feeling in my bones about it. But it’s not the right thing for me.”
“I understand…”
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“No, no, no. I can see where you’re coming from.”
“I hate to disappoint you.”
“No, sweetheart. I had to ask. But I’m sure you’re right.”
As horrible as it was to say no to my own father, he did understand. Even though he was thrilled with my nightclub career, he had long sensed my unhappiness with it. Not every gig was El Rancho. Not long before Dad asked me to join him in Borscht Capades on Broadway, I played the Town Casino, a massive club in Buffalo with all the charm of a warehouse. It was the dead of winter and nobody was going out, which explained why there were maybe ten audience members in a place that held 350. After I finished my opening number, “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah,” a guy ringside who was feeling up his girlfriend turned around and yelled at me, “Get off the stage. Nobody wants to see you, anyway.” Respect and attention were rare in nightclubs, no matter who was onstage; it was just not that kind of an atmosphere. People came to show off and be outrageous, not listen. I finished the show, which I had been paid to do. But when my father met me at the airport in LA (accompanied by my mother and Grandma Fanny, who had brought along a thermos of her barley soup, because she was sure nobody else had fed me), I was sure I couldn’t go on doing the clubs.
Dad asked me to join Borscht Capades simply because he knew I would enhance the show, and he loved for us to be together, which made my decision not to do it even more difficult. Hal Zeiger, however, was a little less forgiving, calling me an “ungrateful little shit.”
Hal’s comment stung, because of course I felt like an ungrateful little shit. What kind of son was I to hold out on the father who had come to my rescue and shown me unconditional love when I was at my lowest moment, after the cantor? Not to mention that he’d launched my career by having given me a part in his show. Eddie Cantor, William Morris: none of that would have happened without Borscht Capades. The guilt only worsened when the show struggled as soon as it arrived on Broadway. Finally, it became too much, and I agreed to come in for a few weeks to help. But it was too late; Borscht Capades closed less than three months after it opened.
Dad lost $35,000 and returned to Los Angeles to start all over again. When a bill for an additional $5,000 from the IRS arrived, he had to sell the house on Malcolm Avenue to pay it. Witnessing my father with nothing, after he’d experienced the biggest success of his life with his brilliant comedy records and live show, made me worry about the career to which I was committing myself. But when William Morris called with the next job, another stint at El Rancho, I took it. And when I received that much-needed paycheck, I happily sent Dad a thousand dollars.
“The only suggestion of the appeal,” the New York Times critic wrote, “lies in the galvanized miming of a pint-sized newcomer named Joel Grey.”
CHAPTER SIX
I was seated in my dressing room in my underwear and still-damp tuxedo shirt after the second show of my act, which I was doing at the Mocambo—the so-of-the-moment nightclub on Sunset Boulevard where the stars (Ava Gardner, Betty Grable, Artie Shaw, and Frank Sinatra) gamboled—when the owner, Charlie Morrison, stuck his head in and announced, “Miss Lana Turner would love for you to join her at her table.”
Smiling at my dumbstruck expression, he added, “So get dressed quickly, young star, and follow me.”
Of course, I knew Lana Turner was in the audience; I saw her ringside the minute I stepped onstage for the late show. I nearly forgot the first lines of my opening song, “The More I See You.”
The more I see you, the more I want you.
Somehow this feeling, just grows and grows
Next to Rita Hayworth, who was so unbelievably sexy in Gilda, Miss Turner was my absolute favorite movie star. Her historic ascent to stardom from sipping a soda at the fountain of Schwab’s Pharmacy nearby on Sunset Boulevard was big-time LA lore (she was actually at the Top Hat Malt Shop—but what did that matter?). To my astonishment, she was even more beautiful in person. Luckily, by my third number I was able to restore my professionalism and do one of my better shows, but I remained nervous the entire time.
Now with Mr. Morrison staring at me in my underwear, I realized I had to get moving—towel-off quickly, remove what was left of the pancake, and, oh, yes.… put on some pants!
“You were just wonderful,” Miss Turner, up close and personal, said to me. Not only was the actress beautiful, but she smelled amazing, too. “Where do you get all that energy? And so late at night?”
Gulp
“I dedicated my show to you.”
I hardly noticed that she was sitting with a woman friend until Miss Turner introduced us, adding, “We’re going to my place just up the hill for a nightcap. Would you like to join us?”
Oh, Mommy, would I?
I struggled to get the words out: “That sounds very nice.”
That sounds so lame, Joel.
Her limo was parked outside, and it was agreed that I’d follow them up the hill in my little VW to her house, which, I’d read in House & Garden, was one of the best examples of classic California architecture. Out the big windows overlooking Los Angeles, the city lights seemed to shine all the way west to the Pacific Ocean.
Her butler greeted us with a tray of three glass flutes, but the excellent pink champagne didn’t relax me any. Miss Turner, rumored to have many lovers, particularly favored powerful men, not only in show business—but also, reportedly, in the mob. Seated in her living room, I kept picturing some ruthless gangster storming in to find me sipping champagne with his moll at this unwholesome hour.
After finishing my drink, I looked at my watch (as if I didn’t already know the time) and began apologizing for the hour. “I had no idea how late it was,” I said. “Excuse me; I have two shows tomorrow night. This was so nice of you. You have a wonderful place. Thank you for coming to my show.” I was talking very, very fast and was out the door even faster. I’ll never know where that evening with Miss Tuner could have gone, but driving home I got to thinking that Glenn Ford was unbelievably sexy in Gilda, too.
As it turned out, on the same night that Lana Turner had come to the Mocambo, a table of producers and casting agents from Warner Bros. also were checking me out—and would later offer me my first movie role.
About Face, s
et in a Southern military school, centered on the lives of cadets bending and breaking the rules during their senior year. The film, a musical-comedy remake of Brother Rat, starred Gordon MacRae, Eddie Bracken, and Dick Wesson as the hotshot cadets—and I was cast as the lowly plebe Bender. “Finn out, Bender!” they were always barking at my pathetic character. I might have been playing a twerp, but I was going to be in the movies! I had never even auditioned for a film role before, and this one was offered to me without so much as a screen test. Ever since I had moved to Los Angeles, the movies had always been a fantasy. I felt important with a sticker on my car window that granted me access into the Warner Bros. lot, where I had stood as a kid with my autograph book. My favorite part of the job was the commissary, where I ate lunch right next to the Warner Bros. film players, a who’s who of Hollywood.
There was no doubt that About Face was a good break. It was an amusing role, but I was the only cast member with no song, let alone dance number. All of the songs were written for the upperclassmen and their visiting girlfriends. My first movie musical and no music? I wondered, What would Mickey Rooney do?
I came up with my own number. Approaching the choreographer, LeRoy Prinz, I said, “What would happen if in the scene where Bender’s told, ‘Just remember, you’re nobody’ by one of the cadets, he replies, ‘I’m nobody…’” I then launched into a comedic soliloquy of low self-esteem with a few Jerry Lewis imitations for good measure. (Everyone wanted to be Jerry Lewis back then.)
Mr. Prinz liked the idea a lot. He and I wrote and rehearsed “I’m Nobody” and then went to the head of the studio, who gave us a green light to go ahead and add it to About Face. Even though the movie was poorly received when it opened, in the spring of 1952 (the New York Times described it as “overstuffed with inane dialogue and feeble gags”), my performance got noticed. “The only suggestion of the appeal,” the Times critic wrote, “lies in the galvanized miming of a pint-sized newcomer named Joel Grey … Mr. Grey rates a snappy salute in an entertainment package that deserves nothing more than an overripe raspberry.”