The reward working for a popular soap opera was great abundance. But you had to earn it. They began shooting the hospital scene and I digressed into wonderful scenes of the past. Picturing Deidre Hall and Joe Mascolo play out their latest dilemmas, I tried to find the humor in it. I was getting emotional about them, as I loved them both. My very real emotions were captured on camera while my fellow actor James Scott was sharing his brotherly respect and regrets. When the scene was over and the tears from my digression were evident, James blurted out, “Even when you have no dialogue, you still steal the fucking scene.” I laughed at the tragedy of it all. He joined in. I loved working with James because he was fun and always the professional. A half-brother whose onscreen conflicts with my character were bigger than life. Yet in real life there was never a misunderstanding between us. It was definitely a case of opportunity meets compatibility.
As the scenes continued I kept living through my history, remembering the joys and loves and the occasional murder. I thought about the many “deaths” of my characters.
It started with the head writer, James Reilly, who has since passed. When I first met him, a rare occurrence for any actor, James presented himself as a big jovial fellow, rather tall and overweight. He wore colorful bow ties and was cartoonesque and very funny, a character popping out of his own fairy tale.
Yet according to inside sources, actors did not exactly enthrall him. He was a pup-peteer, and actors were to play according to his fantasies, and that was law. He painted a large canvas with an enormous penchant for storytelling. His way of creating began to be duplicated on other daytime soaps since our show’s ratings had really moved up. It had been widely discussed that he changed the face of daytime by having this fresh imagination. The audience loved it and bought into it for a while, but as it got repetitive and cartoonish, the ratings fell. He was fired along with his team of writers.
During a break in filming, I joked with a fellow actor about the many times Reilley had killed me off. He heard that I had allegedly remarked that his scripts were shit. I argued that I had never said that. I was one of a few actors who performed what was written on the page and gave it my own spin. If the scene was difficult or repetitive, I found ways to make it work by trying to add to the writer’s insight and thereby enjoying the challenge. It’s what I was paid to do.
I always felt appreciated by the head writers until Reilly came along. I had been blinded in a previous storyline and, feeling creative, began to reveal the possibility that I was getting my sight back. I didn’t know that six months down the road he was thinking the same thing. And now he was furious that I would anticipate his story ahead of time.
“Dead, dead, dead,” was his response.
The “knife in my back” seed that was planted in Cuba tinkered with my notion of a safe workplace. I found myself distrusting some of my fellow actors and others who were working behind the scenes. It became clear to everyone that there was a snitch amongst us who would report to Reilly any scenarios that would be of interest to him.
Once I went to see a producer, and while calling out his name I noticed a reflection in a mirror by his office desk—there an actress was hidden against the other wall so as not to be seen. It was obvious I was walking into a clandestine meeting and there was the snitch. I never entered the room, as I didn’t want to expose her. The producer asked me to come back later.
While returning to my dressing room I saw James Reilly walking down the stairs. My mind began to race, as I didn’t want my presence known. Feeling like my villainous character Andre, I fantasized of pushing him down the stairs, but as luck would have it he would probably bounce. I had a chuckle and decided to let him disappear, as he would not have been happy if I had addressed him. Writers and producers avoid you when you’re “dying.” I realized I was holding a grudge for all the times he had been responsible for my being fired whilst every time he was dismissed I was asked back. And that happened three times.
He held true to his character: death to those who defy him. But to his credit he did write my characters in a Greek dramatic style, and that I enjoyed even though in one episode that meant wearing a top hat and entertaining an audience at the circus as a large bucket full of blood (made of a sugary substance) was about to fall on my head from forty-five feet above the ground. As they called “Action,” a producer frantically called out “Stop!” Apparently he believed that the pressure of the liquid at that height falling on my head could cause the hat to cut my ears off.
When we started again, I took my hat off while announcing the highlights of the circus program. The “blood” poured down thunderously on my head, and as I stepped forward, I slipped on the sugary substance and fell on my ass. I got up laughing, covering my humiliation at the faux pas while the audience looked on in shock. Everyone was very helpful making sure I wasn’t hurt. The only problem was that I had to stay in costume all day as the sticky material dried all over my hair and skin. Even my private parts suffered.
Then there was the time an escaped tiger, a real one, ominously stalked my character. He circled and then lunged for the attack. They put in a fake substitute while I screamed my lungs out, pretending the pain was unbearable. I died quickly then. Reilly was rid of me once again with yet another nasty scenario. The producers used to send him a bucket of ice cream and a case of champagne to feed his indulgences. He was clearly not a happy person.
In another storyline, a knife was thrown and lodged in my throat. The fans went into an uproar. By all accounts, I was dead. Two weeks later I returned on my yacht wearing a bandage. Reilly did have a sense of humor. I heard he loved watching the show while he made fun of the older actors whom he saw as “old cows.” Apparently he cried out “Moooo” as he watched. He wanted them emptied from his canvas, and slowly but surely they were removed from the show.
When I returned to work after my parents passed, feeding the work helped delay those gutting emotions. I realized early on that the best place to mourn is through a creative outlet. But three months later I was summoned to the executive producer’s office. As I entered, the door closed behind me with the touch of a button.
Two more grim faces had joined the party. I was given the news and was feeling pretty raw. “I understand,” I told them. “But the next time you decide to kill an actor off could you do it after they have finished their scenes?” They apologized without emotion and I left, feeling confused with life. It’s been documented that the most stressful thing to happen to a person is to lose a parent, child or job. I had a double whammy within months.
Someone in the booth confided in me when they heard the news.
He said, “Flies always snap at eagles.”
I was told that their intention was to kill me three months earlier, but when my parents died they didn’t want to appear insensitive—or so they said. At the end of my storyline they placed my character in a coffin, displayed for the family characters to emote their remorse. That was a tough ending, lying in that coffin. It’s not a place many of us experience while we’re still breathing.
When I returned home that night, I slid down on the kitchen floor and wept for hours at my parents’ passing. It had finally hit me.
Those times of recognition don’t come often, but when they do, the insight provided is immeasurable. Now I was in the front line facing my own mortality. I began to question my purpose in life, realizing that my dream was attached to my parents’ approval. Now I had to create my own dream based on what I had become. The tears came with gale force, and when there were no more tears to cry I was completely drained. My heart, my soul, my spirit were all empty. Such a sad feeling, emptiness.
Writing became my outlet. What transpired are the stories that poured forth and are the makings of this book. It was not an easy transition because at the time the idea of acting seemed superfluous.
In circular fashion, Reilly was let go again and I was called back with a great return to the mythical city of Salem, and was met with a wonderful embrace by th
e new writers and producers. Ken Corday greeted me with open arms and I felt vindicated. But you never forget how you left.
Leann
Leann Hunley was the actor who made the biggest mark during my years on Days. I was always surprisingly calm in her presence. As an Australian, I come from a place where we call it as we see it. I became outspoken in my early days, and Leann helped me to see alternative viewpoints and ways to behave. I learned that not everyone sees your truth, and so I had to get used to “playing the game.” As I matured, that turmoil within me began to dissolve.
We were a popular couple, full of romance and dance, and gave signature to the line “love in the afternoon.” We never argued and that compatibility was evident on the television screen.
We broke boundaries, creating the first bathtub and shower scene in daytime television. That rubber ducky floating in the bathtub became part of a passionate love scene. The audiences loved it, especially when I told a public forum that during the scene Leann’s right breast was beginning to expose itself above the bubbles as the water was running. While shooting I was trying to create more bubbles underneath the water to help cover the exposure. She was a good Christian girl who would have been mortified.
In the shower sequence she requested that I do not pull the zipper of her evening dress all the way down as it would expose the crack of her bum. So in my tuxedo I carried her into the shower and while the water was running I got so caught up in the love scene that I did the obvious. The zipper went slowly down to prohibitive territory. I was playfully slapped, deservedly so. To this day we are still great friends because of that foundation. She was a beauty, and still is today.
Some of the male actors were quite competitive with their machismo, wearing lifts and elevated heels to appear taller. One actor was always making fun about how much shorter I was than he. Well, boy did he get a surprise one afternoon when I entered his dressing room unannounced. Meaning, no lifts. He paraded about the room on his toes as if that were perfectly normal.
I had a good laugh. Some actors feel that if they are taller than you, it makes them more powerful, and their manhood is somehow elevated. But most of them were a great group of guys who loved the world they basked in. I felt the same. It was a great world of make-believe.
The diva roles were left to the women. We had a few who played that role fully, but Lauren Koslow, Kristian Alfonso, Deidre Hall and of course Leann were a joy. One day in the makeup and hair room I kidded with the women who spent a good deal of time there.
“My God, ladies, if you spent as much time on your acting as you did in makeup, could you imagine the performances?”
They got the humor and laughed, except for one who left in a huff. She was the least talented.
In the early ’80s I worked with Brenda Benet, who was one of the most beautiful actresses I had ever known. Benet’s son Christopher died tragically in 1981. She went into a severe depression but kept a brave face on set, never revealing that she was falling apart from within.
One day I brought in duck à l’orange that I prepared the night before. A few of my fellow actors gathered. Joe Mascolo contributed a bottle of champagne, while Philece Sampler (who played Renee, my love interest) and Brenda joined in for this rare occasion. We created a feast as a celebration of our lives. It was a lovely exchange that I will never forget because that night Brenda Benet went home, and while looking in the mirror, shot herself through the mouth.
She was only 36 years old.
It was indescribably shocking. Many tears were shed on set. The storyline had to be abruptly changed and the writers had their hands full. The raw emotions were filtered through our performances. Some of the female cast would break down in the middle of shooting. Life moved on but that tragic memory always lingers.
One of the most joyous scenes for me at Days happened when my character became an evil clown. I was playing two characters, one good and the other deadly. I thrived when for the first time I wore a clown’s outfit. The shoes were huge and the makeup was brilliant. When I walked onto the set no one recognized me. I felt I could get away with murder. I created a voice from hell and began to terrorize the character of Sammy (Alison Sweeney) while she lay in her hospital bed.
She was fantastic in the role of the distressed heroine, and she hated clowns. When I heard that, I went to town. I brought her balloons and danced away around her hospital bed. I felt freer than I ever had before and unexpectedly threw myself onto a stool that glided me over to her at great speed. I climbed beside her and I began fondling her, as I knew she would be frightened and uncomfortable. I was hardly appealing.
Unpredictable and enjoying every moment as she squirmed, I reveled in the dark humor that came from God knows where. All I knew was that it was working and my acting partner’s fear of the clown’s maniacal behavior played off of it impressively. With my infamous words “All the world loves a clown” at the end of the first act, I applauded myself with my large red shoes while holding her hostage in my make-believe world.
In the final act of the terrorizing clown storyline I had to dress up as a nurse. After the last time they had put me in a dress and glamorized me, I ended up looking like an old hooker from Brazil. To make things worse, two male extras walked toward me and commented, “What an ugly transsexual.”
(Courtesy American Media, Inc.)
That did it. Andre the Clown had to escape the Salem police, so he quickly got out of his clown costume and disguised himself as a nurse. I told wardrobe and the makeup department that I wanted to be unglamorous. With an old cardigan, ’50s eyeglasses and low heels, and walking like a tired aunt, I felt more at ease as I was now controlling the joke. It was a lot of fun, and that performance earned me an Emmy nomination in the lead actor category. My brother George was in Los Angeles at the time, and when the news arrived early that morning I ran to the balcony and said, “George, I got a nomination.” He looked up as I had disturbed his crossword puzzle and simply replied, “That’s nice,” and went back to his puzzle.
My brother has always been close and supportive of me, and I knew where his heart was. But when one producer said, “Is it in the supportive category?” I knew where his heart was. “No,” I responded, “it’s in the category you have not had in twenty years.” The comments were mostly wonderful as it was always a supportive group. NBC was kind and sent their congratulations.
The night of the Emmys in 2009 was an incredible experience except for a producer who said “loser” after my loss. It was a bit jarring, but that was his kind of humor. I wished that my parents had been alive to see it. But my family was happy. At the after-party, our head writer approached me with her congratulations and told me about a new storyline she was developing for me in the fall about autistic children. I thanked her, not knowing that in the fall there would be no storyline in sight.
A few months later our executive producer, Ed Scott, was let go. I thought he was terrific in his position. He was full of passion, always cared about his actors and acknowledged performances that were worthy. He would charge onto the set like a bull in a china shop. What a difference his energy made. We all loved his style. He was a real straight shooter.
That’s when Gary Tomlin came in to replace him. After months of no story I went up to his office for a meeting. I mentioned that I had received a nomination that year and wanted to know why there was no story.
He just looked at me and simply said, “It’s not about talent, Thaao.”
It shocked me, as I had not heard that in all my years as an actor. What kind of people are these that they would be thinking this way? I knew my time was up. I left his office and thought how I had studied my craft for so many years, believing from those who led before me that I could make a difference.
The truth that surfaced that day was a wake-up call. Ageism was rampant. A lifetime of learning and a world of experience did not resonate with them.
On set with Joe Mascolo, Brenda Benet and Philece Sampler the day before Brenda died. (Aut
hor’s Collection)
Leann Hunley. (Photo: Jonathan Exley)
I thought back about those who had the same feelings as I, but they were disappearing. I was now on limited time.
As I was lying there for the final scene of the day, I came out of my conflicted thoughts when Joe Mascolo, who played my father on the show, came to give me an embrace. He had been saddened by news of my departure as we had played so many wonderful scenes together over the years.
He was a powerful being with a voice that bellowed like a mythical god. We shared great chemistry, especially when his authority was challenged. He was a perfect villain, which attested to his longevity on the show. There was no one like Joe, bigger than life. He loved classical music and opera. Once in a scene he had slapped my face so hard that I saw stars. I was stunned, but I played along as I turned slowly and wiped the slap off my face in defiance.
That’s how unpredictable our scenes were. It was classic Greek tragedy, and we bonded with respect to that level of work. The DiMeras, as we were called, were a great foil to the heroes of the show. Let’s face it, without good villains the challenges to the heroes of the show would not have been as effective.
I now had a new wife on the show named Kristen, who was played by Eileen Davidson. It was then that the dynamics changed for my character. She had betrayed me by having an affair with John Black, the show’s macho hero. That storyline softened me, as I was at effect rather than at cause in this popular storyline. Eileen was terrific, and that year we both did some of our best work. She looked beautiful and was always present. It was at this time the blindness story set in and my anticipation to be creative set in motion my next death. It didn’t help that this particular story was voted one of the worst by Soap Opera Digest, the publication otherwise known as the “bible of daytime.” This probably irked him, and whatever the reason, writer James Reilly had the right to paint his canvas in the way he pictured it.
Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives Page 6