Balanchine directed his dancers in a uniquely relaxed manner. Most other choreographers were forever screaming at the dancers. But Balanchine spoke softly. Pat recalls his pensive style: “He was the first choreographer I’d worked with,” she says, “who was quiet. You’d see him thinking, and he would blink his eyes in a certain way, and then he’d get up and show you very softly how to do it correctly.”
Her description reminds me of a similar change I’d seen on Broadway. Elia Kazan was the very first director I worked with who wouldn’t shout. When he had some instruction for an actor, he would give it in a soft, calm, relaxed manner. No doubt, his personal style had a great deal to do with his training in “the method” style, where reaching inward was as important as projecting outward. Perhaps Pat was seeing a similar transition with new theories of dance.
Another of Pat’s fascinating encounters during Courtin’ Time had little to do with dancing. Just as Courtin’ Time was preparing for its Broadway run, the United States was still in the thick of the Korean War. After the initial success of General Douglas MacArthur’s invasion at the Korean Port of Inchon, the Chinese entered the conflict, and the war bogged down. As a result, a well-publicized feud began between MacArthur and President Harry Truman, leading to the General’s dismissal in April of 1951. He then returned home, his first trip to the mainland in fourteen years, where he received one of the biggest welcomes in history. I still recall the ticker-tape parade in New York City, which was the largest ever. MacArthur finished his tour of America with an address to a joint session of Congress where he famously ended with his bittersweet lament that “old soldiers never die, they just fade away.”
A few weeks later he decided to take in a Broadway show. Pat recalls the excitement at the end of the performance as everyone lined up in a semicircle onstage to shake hands with this legendary five-star general who had defeated Japan in World War II and ruled over the Japanese Islands for years after the war. Now he was back home taking in a Broadway play like everyone else. Pat still vividly recalls shaking his hand with a degree of amazement at the presence of this bigger-than-life figure.
Notwithstanding Balanchine’s marvelous choreography and a boost from the former Supreme Allied Commander, Courtin’ Time lasted only a week on Broadway. Regrettably, they lost their star, Lloyd Nolan, who developed problems with his vocal chords and was unable to sing. Once he was replaced, the show never gained much traction.
Still, Pat’s brief association with George Balanchine made it worthwhile. And it was a testament to her tremendous talent. Balanchine wanted dancers with the ability to express his vision. Only a few had that unique talent, and my future wife was among them. I’ve always been so proud of her marvelous accomplishments onstage—and so grateful that, along the way, she chose to spend her lifetime with me.
* * *
From Courtin’ Time, Pat went immediately into Two on the Aisle, starring Bert Lahr, the famous Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz. From there she worked in a number of other venues, including a stint dancing on The Steve Allen Show. She was quickly making herself a reputation as one of the best young dancers in New York City when she heard about tryouts for a dance company established to work with the new comic sensation, Jackie Gleason. The head of the company was June Taylor, the sister of Gleason’s future wife, Marilyn, who was a dancer in the group and remains a good friend of ours today. Soon these dancers would become famous the world over as The June Taylor Dancers.
Jackie Gleason had now worked his way up through the clubs in New York City—where Helon first worked with him—to “B” films in Hollywood, and then to his big break in 1949 when he landed the lead on The Life of Riley. I have a strong memory of the show—and of Gleason—because it began the same year as I Remember Mama. But I also remember him because I truly believe he was among a very elite group of great entertainers. Milton Berle, Lou Costello and Jimmy Durante were other comics who come to mind. But Gleason had one advantage over most everyone; he was also a great dramatic actor, with such timeless roles as Minnesota Fats in The Hustler and Maish Rennick in Requiem for a Heavyweight, directed by my friend, Ralph Nelson, who felt the same about Gleason’s prodigious talents.
In 1950, Jackie began hosting Dumont’s Cavalcade of Stars on the Dumont channel, which later moved to CBS and was renamed The Jackie Gleason Show. Gleason always loved the old Busby Berkeley musicals extravaganzas of the 1930s with their elaborate dance routines, and he worked similar numbers into his variety show. His penchant for these spectacular numbers caused him to rely more and more on his own June Taylor Dancers, which were becoming a central feature of his programs.
By 1952, Gleason had already developed many of television’s unforgettable characters: Reginald Van Gleason, Rudy the Repairman, Joe the Bartender and, of course, Ralph Kramden, the ever-scheming, loud-mouthed but lovable Brooklyn bus-driver. As the show’s popularity soared, he increased the number of June Taylor Dancers to sixteen, and Pat set out to land one of the new spots.
Gleason, with a style all his own, turned the audition itself into a spectacle. He arranged for Life magazine to cover it and once June had narrowed the field to about fifty qualified girls, Gleason had them all paraded down Broadway to his suite at the Park Central Hotel—with Life magazine photographers snapping away as they went. Once inside, each girl had to walk, one at a time, in front of Jackie, who would tell them: “Pull your skirt up to your knee”—this was obviously before the days of harassment lawsuits!
Pat was chosen. She worked on the Jackie Gleason Show for two years beginning in 1952 and was featured in a number of the routines choreographed by June Taylor. Recently my kids and I watched one from 1953 in which Pat was featured on an old reel, and we all just marveled at her amazing talent.
In 1953, Gleason chose six of his dancers to go to Europe during the summer break. Pat wasn’t among them. Annoyed at not being selected, Pat decided to break off and form her own dance act. She contacted a choreographer from the Steve Allen Show who worked up a series of dance routines for her. But before things got underway, Pat’s godmother, Marie Spataro, decided to take a trip to Europe and asked Pat to come along.
Before leaving, Pat mentioned to Gleason that she was also going to Europe for the summer with her godmother. He took her aside and, in typical Gleason fashion, handed her a note and said good-bye. When he left, she opened it, and there was a $50 bill inside with a message that read: “Have your first drink in Europe on me.” Pat still has the note.
Pat then sailed for Europe and had a wonderful time with her godmother. She also had the last laugh on Jackie because when she returned on the U.S.S. Constitution, the New York paparazzi showed up at the dock in Manhattan. As she came off the cruise liner, they photographed her, and the next day her picture was on the front page of the New York Daily News.
After arriving home, Pat’s mother received a phone call and yelled out to her: “It’s Gleason on the phone!” So she took the phone, and Jackie invited her to his place in the Adirondacks in upstate New York: “I have this house,” he said, “and everybody comes up for the weekends. They usually spend the night, and we have a party, and it’s a lot of fun. Would you like to come?” By now, Pat and I were dating, but I was away doing summer stock, so Pat took my sister Joyce, and the two rode up to Gleason’s house on the train.
At the party, Gleason’s producer, Jack Philbin, told her they wanted her back for the next season. Philbin was surprised when Pat told him: “I’m not coming back.” She explained she was putting together her own act and was planning to take it on the road. He took it with a certain degree of disbelief and even umbrage that she would have the temerity to dare to leave this hugely successful show and strike out on her own. She still remembers Philbin looking down his nose at her and scoffing: “Well, get her!” But Philbin didn’t know my wife, and she went off to better things on the Broadway stage—and elsewhere.
Many years later, I met Jackie at a Morton’s Steak House in Chicago. He invited me to hi
s table. I remember his booming voice: “Sit down and have a drink, Dick.” I told him I didn’t drink and was about to order a coke when he commanded: “Nobody sits with me and doesn’t drink!” So I ordered something and nursed it while we talked. He remembered Pat, and we talked about the old days in New York.
* * *
When Pat saw me in Mister Roberts, she was still dancing at Radio City. Later when she joined the Gleason show, she and the other June Taylor Dancers rehearsed in the afternoon at New York’s Grand Central Station, the same place we rehearsed Mama in the morning.
One day I was watching the dancers come in and spotted the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. I remarked to Ralph Nelson: “Look at that girl. She’s so beautiful, I could marry her tomorrow.” Ralph laughed and said, “What kind of nonsense is that? You don’t even know her.”
So I approached her to strike up some conversation, and she looked at me and said: “Don’t you remember me? I’m Pat Poole, and we used to sit next to each other at the Professional Children’s School?” Suddenly, I remembered the pretty blond girl whose homework I copied. She told me she had seen me in Mr. Roberts and really enjoyed the show. I was ecstatic.
Immediately I began thinking of ways to connect with this bombshell. I discussed it with Ralph Nelson, and he came up with a plan. Ralph suggested we put a small dance number into one of the Mama episodes. He would then call Gleason and ask him to send her over to teach me the dance. I thought it was a great idea, and so Ralph called Gleason, told him what we wanted, and specified that it had to be the young girl named Pat.
It worked like a charm. The next day, Pat came to our rehearsal to teach me The Turkey Trot. We worked on it every day for a week. Then I invited her to come see the show, which was broadcast live on Friday night. I was delighted when she agreed to come, but she showed up with her fiancé. Rosemary Rice, who played Katrin in Mama, came to the rescue. She suggested that she host a small party for the people in the show and invite Pat. But she would stress to her that she should come alone.
Rosemary came through. Later that night, Pat showed up at Rosemary’s apartment on East 55th Street. It wasn’t really a party, just me, Ralph and Rosemary, and, at first, Pat thought it was all very strange and was about to leave. But Rosemary coaxed her into staying, and we ended up having a great time. At the end of the night, I finally told Pat that I wanted to start seeing her. She reminded me she was engaged, but I just ignored that and kept at her. After a while, she relented, and for a time Pat was dating both of us.
I knew that could only last for a while. Pat was working all day, then going out with Herb and afterwards heading back out again with me for a midnight show. But I had a good plan. I realized that the best way to get to Pat was through her mom, and the best way to get to Helon was to buy her ice cream. So every night while Pat was out with Herb, I’d come around the apartment plying Helon with quarts of ice cream. It worked. In short order, Helon was on my side.
* * *
In the meantime, things had become complicated for Pat on a professional level. Agnes DeMille, the great choreographer and niece of film giant Cecil B. DeMille, contacted her about the possibility of taking a lead dance role in a revival of Oklahoma as it went on the road. She would be the central ballet dancer to Florence Henderson’s beautiful singing. One of the biggest hits in Broadway history, Oklahoma, written by Rodgers & Hammerstein, had run from 1942 through 1948 and was now headed for the road after its revival at the City Center Theater.
At the same time, Pat had an opportunity to dance in another Rodgers and Hammerstein production, Me and Juliet, which was already running on Broadway. The stage manager had asked her to come see the show, so she and my mother went to a performance. She enjoyed it immensely and took the job, dancing in the chorus with a talented young dancer named Shirley MacLaine.
Shortly after Pat and I began dating, she separated with Herb. I had fallen in love with her, and for the first time in my life I began to think seriously about marriage. Still, I had enjoyed my independence for quite a number of years, and I knew that if I married her those days would end. At the same time, I realized Pat was the one for me, and by the beginning of 1954, I had made up my mind that I couldn’t live without her.
Around that time, I became close friends with Maxie Rosenbloom, a great boxer who had been the light heavyweight champion of the world in the 1930s. Maxie and I met at a place called A Bird In Hand on 51st and Broadway, where all the actors and theater people would hang out after the shows. I remember Steve McQueen was there every night. He wasn’t a star yet, and I still recall that he had big bags under his eyes that distracted from his natural good looks. I’ve always thought he must have had surgery, because he was so handsome in the movies.
Maxie lived in the Piccadilly Hotel on West 45th Street. He was a legend in New York City, not only as a great boxer, but as a stand-up comic. Maxie did a hilarious routine, and I’m sure that the boxing legend, Jake LaMotta, who also became famous for his comedy act, took his cue from Maxie.
Pat loved Maxie. We used to hang out together every night. I remember Maxie telling me: “You’d better marry that girl.” Pat, who really didn’t know much about boxing, was especially impressed one night when we went to see a fight at Eastern Parkway Arena, and Maxie came with us.
When we arrived, the three of us got out of the car and started walking toward the stadium. Suddenly a crowd gathered around. Within moments we were being mobbed. By the time we were about a block from the arena, there was a huge throng of people on all sides of us, chanting, “Maxie! Maxie! Maxie! Maxie!” As we entered, the fans inside went crazy as soon as they saw him. I’d been on television, radio and Broadway, but none of that even remotely compared to the adulation that these fans had for this truly unique boxing legend. It was an exciting night—and Pat still recalls her astonishment that her friend was so revered.
Like so many of the old timers from New York, Maxie’s gone now. I guess that makes it safe for me to tell another story I’m not so proud of. Maxie was a big horse player, and we often went to Belmont Park together. One afternoon, after the sixth race, Maxie had to leave. He gave me $100 and told me to bet it evenly on a horse in each of the two remaining races. I remember that the horses were numbers 4 and 7.
When he left, I looked at his choices and thought neither one had much of a chance. So I got the bright idea of pocketing the money rather than placing the bets and losing. If Maxie did get lucky on one of them, I’d just pay him. It was a terrible thing to do, but I was young and reckless, and the idea that this was a betrayal of his trust never really entered my mind.
Well, I got exactly what I deserved! Maxie’s horses won both races. Had I bet the money, he would have made $1,600. Instead, I walked out of the track with his $100 and wondering what the heck I was going to tell the former light-heavyweight champ of the world the next morning at breakfast when he’d come looking for his cash.
Desperate, I had another bright idea. It was still early enough to make a bet on a baseball game. It was particularly stupid because I didn’t know anything about baseball. Also, I didn’t have enough money to make a bet that would recoup Maxie’s losses. But there was a sports bookie I knew, Zip Russo, over on 51st and Broadway who would take the bet over the phone with the understanding that I’d be good for it if I lost. So I called and bet $1,600 I didn’t have on the Yankees. It was a six to five pick-em, which meant I would get back even money, and so I had to bet a lot. If I lost, of course, I’d be in a real jam.
But someone was looking out for me that night. The Yankees won by 16 runs. I’ve never seen such a walk over. I went to the bookie, got the cash, and the next morning met and paid Maxie, acting like nothing had ever happened. But I do thank God he never knew what I did. I just congratulated him on his two great picks and never mentioned how much grief those two horses had really caused me.
The great thing about Maxie is that he really loved Pat. As I mentioned, he kept telling me: “You’ve got to marry that one, Di
ck.” Maxie was right. Still, I took my time and nearly lost my chance. I found out later Pat was getting tired of waiting. By the spring of 1954, she had expected me to ask her already. One day we had to go to the wedding of one of her friends, a dancer named Joan Donavan. Pat later told me if I hadn’t asked her on that very day, she was moving on. At the same time, I also realized that if I didn’t take the plunge I could lose the best girl I’d ever known. So I picked her up in my ’49 Oldsmobile convertible at her apartment on West 67th Street. When she got in the car I just sat there for a moment with the car parked. I don’t know why, maybe because of the wedding, but it just suddenly came out: “Well, I was thinking that maybe we should get married.”
And just as matter of fact, Pat responded, “Oh, well, when would you want to do that?”
I was looking straight ahead in the car and so was she.
“Well, I was thinking that Easter is coming up, and I thought that April 25….” And she said: “I would like to have a family.” So I responded, “Well, I was thinking I would like to have a family.”
And that was the end of it. I turned the engine on, and we drove to the wedding without saying a single word.
But when we arrived at the reception, I just couldn’t contain myself. I told everyone, “We’re engaged!” In retrospect, it was in very bad taste, stealing a bit of the thunder from Joan’s wedding.
From that inauspicious proposal, Pat and I have enjoyed fifty-five wonderful and romantic years that just keep getting better. We were married on April 25, 1954, in a small church, Saint Malachy’s in what was appropriately called, The Actors’ Chapel. The whole cast and crew of Mama was there, as well as many of the June Taylor Dancers. My grandfather, Vincent, was my best man, and Pat’s best friend, Dolores Dawson, was her maid of honor. She was stunning in her white wedding dress, and it was the happiest day of my life.
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Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment Page 15