by Betty Marvin
At their bedtime, I brought Christopher and Courtenay over to Daddy for a goodnight kiss. Daddy was definitely drunk. Later in the evening the party was winding down, but the remaining guests showed no signs of leaving. On my way to the kitchen to refill an empty platter, I spied Lee off by himself in a corner. He was barely holding onto a full drink, eyes half-closed. When I came back from the kitchen he was gone.
I declared the party over. By the time I crawled into bed, Lee was still nowhere to be found. A couple of hours later, I was awakened by a popping noise, like the sound of a firecracker. Still no Lee. I lay there for a while, then went out in my bathrobe and found him asleep at the wheel of his MG, parked in our driveway. He was cradling a Colt .45, one of the precious guns from his collection. I climbed in next to him, and he opened his eyes. “Oh, Mommy,” he murmured, “I shot the house.” The next day he was out patching two bullet holes in the side of our new home.
We were in the midst of an eight-year stretch that, unbeknownst to us at the time, would feature baby, movies, baby, movies, again and again. In fact, Meyer kept Lee so busy my husband was often shooting two or three pictures a year.
The Big Heat opened to much acclaim, and, just as we expected, Lee’s coffee pot scene with Gloria Grahame was the talk of every tabloid and industry paper. The intensity of Lee’s performance was gaining him a reputation as someone fearsome and formidable. When an interviewer asked me, “How do you live with a man like that?” I had to laugh.
“It’s easy,” I said. “Inside that tough exterior, Lee Marvin’s just a big bowl of mashed potatoes.”
Behind the scenes that was true. Most of the time he was loving, attentive, and surprisingly gentle. We grabbed any time we could get to be alone together, but my days were filled with the demands of two babies.
Mouseketeers Christopher and Courtenay, 1956
Lee adored our children, but he couldn’t figure out what to do with them. He knew what to do with any character handed to him in a film script—he became that character effortlessly—but in between films he could play the role of father for only brief bits of time. Then he needed to get out of the house, go drinking with his buddies, or take off on his motorcycle. I tried to let this go, too busy and tired from young motherhood to think about what was beginning to surface in my husband.
I figured he would become more comfortable with the children as they got older. But he was jealous of them. He wanted me for himself. When he was shooting Pete Kelly’s Blues at the Warner Brothers Studio, just a few months after I’d given birth to Courtenay, he started asking me to come to the set. “Can’t you just be there for me, honey?” he’d ask late at night, when we finally had some time to ourselves. “Gives me a good feeling to know you’re around.” That was fine, but we had a four-month-old daughter and a little boy not yet two.
I found a sitter, and finally made it to the studio where Lee was shooting Pete Kelly’s Blues. In the film Lee was playing the best friend of Jack Webb, fresh off Dragnet. Webb was directing as well as starring, and it wasn’t easy for Lee to take direction from his co-star. That afternoon, when I was on the set, I kept a sharp eye on my watch even though the studio was less than a mile from our house. I had promised the baby sitter I’d be gone no longer than two hours. I didn’t realize that once the light outside the set door went red, absolutely nobody could enter or leave and I was trapped until we heard “Cut” and “Print.” The scene was short, but they just couldn’t get it. “Again,” I’d hear Webb say, after each take. “Again.”
After three hours I was in a panic. I had to get home. I signaled frantically to Lee, but to no avail. He was having problems of his own. Finally I had a production assistant go up between takes and whisper in his ear. Lee took a break and I bolted out of there. Our lives were definitely in two different places.
Taking a much-needed break in Hawaii, 1956
Lee’s star was rising, and he was going after success with a passion. He loved acting and cared deeply about the quality of his work, but he didn’t like the notoriety. He’d get edgy when life got “too Hollywood.” He’d rather be out drinking late with the crew than seeking the limelight at celebrity spots. Many nights I was asleep by the time he got home. I didn’t like going to bed alone, but it was part of our lifestyle, and I supported his career 100 percent.
When director John Sturges cast him as Hector David in Bad Day at Black Rock, Lee was over the moon. He’d be working with one of his idols, Spencer Tracy. In fact, the project had a dream cast, including Ernest Borgnine, Anne Francis, Walter Brennan, and Robert Ryan.
Lee once again asked me to join him on location. By this time I had a regular sitter, lovely Nanny Lilly. I left Christopher and Courtenay in her care and drove 175 miles to Lone Pine, a small, one-street town located between the High Sierras and Death Valley—one of the most picturesque and popular locations for Westerns. It was a hot night when I arrived, and I heard the beetles crunching under my tires as I searched for the modest motel where the cast was staying. Lee was happy to see me and couldn’t wait to tell me about working with Spencer Tracy.
“He’s amazing, sweetheart. When I watch him work I realize I have so much to learn. Yesterday Ernie Borgnine got a real lesson. He’d been telling me how he was going to take a scene away from Tracy—Spencer Tracy—can you believe it? There’s a scene where Spence comes up to Borgnine in front of the hotel and starts to ask directions. Ernie gets this bright idea to take out a toothpick and start picking his teeth. Well, when Tracy sees that, he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and keeps mopping his forehead. Steals the scene. I’m telling you, honey, in my scene with Tracy, I’m doing nothing. Not one bit of business. Nada.”
The next day I watched Lee shoot his big scene. Propped up on a bed in a sleazy motel room, he greeted Spencer Tracy with great hostility, delivering his lines without moving a muscle. He was ice. Mr. Tracy was impressed. He came over to Lee after the first take and said, “This is your scene, kid. Take it.”
It was a great day for Lee.
Everything seemed to be getting better and better. And soon thereafter, I was pregnant once again.
“What’s this?” Lee said as I handed him a big box tied with a red ribbon on Valentine’s Day.
“Open it.”
“Okay, okay!”
At first he looked stunned, then he broke into a big smile. “Is it too silly? Will you wear it?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? This is great. I’m never taking it off. I’m wearing it to bed.”
Lee put on the white motorcycle crash helmet sporting two cherry red, interlocked hearts with our initials.
He pulled me to him. I could tell he had only one thing on his mind, but I had to ask him, “Are you sure you’re okay with another baby?”
“Better than okay. I love you pregnant.” He was kissing me harder, the helmet pushing into my forehead.
“Lee…”
He danced me out of the living room and toward our bedroom.
“I told you, I’m wearing it to bed. Come here, you.”
“Close the door! The kids!”
He kicked the door shut and grabbed me. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.” He frantically tore off all our clothes but kept the helmet on the whole time we made love.
Keenan Wynn came over the next day to go riding, despite the unusually cold weather. Lee and Keenan had met when shooting Shack Out on 101 and hit it off easily. They were both fixated on their motorcycles and went out riding every chance they got. I came in from driving the children to nursery school and found him waiting for Lee, double vodka in hand. It was about 10:00 AM.
“Little early, isn’t it?”
“Not by my time.” He extended his arm and I looked at his watch. Each number was a five.
“Cocktail hour!” He downed his drink and poured a second, lighter one.
Lee came in, joined Keenan in a quick eye-opener, then kissed me good morning and good-bye.
“Somebody loooves you,” I heard Keen
an ribbing him, following behind as Lee put on his crash helmet, the two painted hearts gleaming in the sun.
12
Meet the In-Laws: One Crazy Family
I FELT QUEASY during our three-hour drive from LaGuardia Airport through the Catskills, not knowing if it was my pregnancy or the anticipation of visiting Lee’s family on their terrain. Our daughter Courtenay, her grandmother’s namesake, was asleep on my lap. Christopher, now four, was getting restless. “Mommy, Mommy,” he whined, trying to crawl into the front seat. “Hold me, hold me.”
“I can’t hold you, honey. I’m holding Courtenay.” I was seven months pregnant, so holding her was a challenge.
His fussing woke Courtenay and she began to cry. I had run out of treats and stories and was almost out of patience.
“No. No… Mommy, you hold me!” He had his arms around my neck. “No more ride. I want out.”
Lee slammed on the breaks, jumped out of the car, and opened the back door. “You want out? Then get out!”
Christopher began to cry as Lee slammed the back door and walked away. I put Courtenay in the back and followed him. “I can’t take it anymore! I’m not cut out for this!” he yelled. “Can’t you shut them up?”
“Lee, calm down,” I pleaded. “We only have another thirty minutes to go. You’re acting like the child!”
I went back to the car to console my other, younger babies and let them share what was left of my lap. Lee joined us shortly, apologized, and we completed our journey without further incident.
We arrived in Woodstock and drove up the long driveway to the back of a formal, white Colonial house set on a beautiful knoll surrounded by neighboring farms. Lee’s father and brother were waiting by the back door to greet us. Lamont Marvin came to the car. “Welcome,” he said warmly. He lifted Christopher and Courtenay out of the back. “Well, look at you two. I’ve waited a long time for this. I’m your grandfather Monty.” Lee and his father shook hands.
I struggled to get out of the car. Lee hoisted me up and led me over to his brother, Robert, fair and thin with red hair and glasses. Lee overpowered him with a big hug. “I want you to meet my best friend and most severe critic, my wife.”
“Hello, Betty,” Robert stammered.
The children and I held hands as we passed through the formal dining room into the parlor, furnished with velvet settees and small marble tables covered with lace doilies and delicate china. On seeing this, I held their little hands more tightly. Mother Courtenay, in a petite, black silk dress, was seated in a gold silk brocade Queen Anne chair by the fireplace, near an antique harp. She held her head high, eyes hidden behind thick glasses, not a silver-blond hair out of place. She lifted a long, ivory cigarette holder to her lips and took a puff, showing off her Chinese red nails and matching lipstick. She turned her head in my direction and spoke with a deep, thick, Southern accent. “You look like you’ve had a rough journey.”
“Hello, Mother Courtenay,” I said and reached down to give her a kiss. She turned her cheek. The children began to explore. “May I put this out of reach?” I asked, picking up a figurine from a nearby table.
“Please don’t touch my things,” she said.
“Sorry!” I put it down, grabbed the babies, and stood frozen to the spot. After what seemed like an eternity, Lee came into the room.
“Hello, darling!” Mother Courtenay exclaimed as she opened her arms to receive his embrace.
“What do you think of my family?” Lee asked.
“I’d think you were Catholic. How many of these do you plan on having?” she said, eyeing the children and my burgeoning belly. I excused myself and went upstairs with my brood to unpack, wondering how we would make it through the week.
The next day was Easter Sunday. After church, many of the congregation lined up for Lee to autograph their programs. Robert stood off to the side, glaring at his brother. Lee was congenial to his fans, but I could tell he wanted out. I gently touched his elbow, smiled to the crowd, and steered him toward the car.
“Bless you, my child,” he intoned, kissing me on the lips as we walked away. Robert was behind us, sullen and silent.
The moment we returned home, Lamont wheeled the liquor cart into the living room. Mother Courtenay took her place in her chair while he fixed her a double JackDaniel’s, neat, in a crystal goblet. Next came a pitcher of dry Beefeaters martinis for the men. Because of my condition I abstained, which I’m sure was another mark against me.
Lamont somehow managed to get a leg of lamb surrounded by potatoes, onions, and carrots into the oven while tending bar. I sat at one end of the room with the children, holding Courtenay and reading to Christopher. I could hear the men trading crude war stories, so I raised my voice to drown them out. After more martinis and a second double for Mother Courtenay, the group stumbled to the dinner table. “Monty” took Mother Courtenay’s arm, as she was visibly weaving. I cautiously brought in the children and put them into borrowed high chairs next to me.
Lamont carved the lamb and passed the platter. He opened a bottle of wine and, in a sentimental moment, began a toast. “To our darling Betty, the daughter I always wanted. We are so happy—”
Mother Courtenay interrupted. “What are you talking about? You never mentioned any such thing to me, wanting a daughter. I guess now you love her more than me.” She shed a tear and Monty ran over to comfort her.
“Robert’s the daughter you always wanted,” Lee joked. “He was always dressing up in Mother’s clothes.”
“At least I wasn’t fucking every bimbo in town,” Robert snapped.
“You son of a bitch!” Lee yelled, jumping up, grabbing the leg of lamb off the platter, and hurling it at his brother’s head. Robert ducked.
“Yay, Daddy!” shouted Courtenay, clapping her hands and throwing her carrots at Christopher. Christopher laughed gleefully and tossed a handful of potatoes back at her.
Mother Courtenay attempted to assert herself. “Boys! Boys! Sit down and behave yourselves.” Lee took his seat, grimacing, but Robert, ignoring his mother, stood and left the room.
“More!” my daughter was squealing, still flinging bits of food at her brother. Recovering from my shock at the outrageous scene that just took place, I was about to discipline my kids when Mother Courtenay turned and looked at me disapprovingly. “Can’t you control your children?”
The table fell silent. She gazed at her plate and spoke quietly to her husband. “Monty, the meat is overcooked. You know I like it medium rare.” The leg of lamb lay on the floor behind her, grease dripping onto the Persian rug.
“Sorry, dear,” said Monty.
She held out her empty wine glass and he refilled it. “Thank you, dear,” she said dismissively.
Lee turned on his mother. “You are a first-class bitch.”
“Don’t speak that way to your mother,” Lamont said.
“Damn it, Chief, why do you let her get away with that crap?”
“Don’t speak that way to your father,” Mother Courtenay said.
“You know, you make me sick.” Robert’s voice came from behind us. He had returned, double martini in hand, and was standing in the doorway, glaring at Lee. “I don’t care who you think you are. You have no business coming in here and upsetting my family!”
Lee stood up, suddenly sober. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again.” He took my hand. “Come on, honey, let’s go.”
“I really hate that woman,” he said with constraint as we drove back to Manhattan. He gripped the wheel, and I could see he was doing everything in his power to keep from exploding. Thank God the kids had fallen asleep. I put my hand on his thigh and gave it a squeeze. He shook his head and sighed. “Do you know what she had the nerve to ask me while you were upstairs packing? She asked me what I really knew about you.” He took my hand. “My darling mother thinks you married me because you knew I was going to be a star. Can you believe that bitch?”
I was too stunned to answer.
13
&nbs
p; Moving On Up
IN JUNE 1956, when our daughter Cynthia came into the world, my college roommate Bev called from New York. She had married Joe, a dancer-choreographer on Broadway, and had given birth to her daughter, Tracy, the day after I delivered Cynthia. I was pleased our lives continued to parallel each other.
College roommate Beverly, 1956
That summer Lee was taking a brief break from making films to play File in The Rainmaker at the La Jolla Playhouse. I went to spend time with him and take a much-needed rest. Lee and I became friendly with the show’s producers, the actress Dorothy McGuire and her husband, John Swope, and the cast, including James Whitmore and Theresa Wright. Jim’s wife, Nancy, joined us, and she and I became friends for life. We all had great fun in that little town, hanging out at the Whale Room Bar, away from the tension of Hollywood life—just a bunch of stage actors drinking in the evening and swapping stories. Lee and I ended each night cuddling in bed, more like young lovers than the parents of three children.
After we returned to Los Angeles, Jim and Nancy invited us to dinner at their charming home at the end of Latimer Road in Uplifter’s Ranch. We had trouble finding our way through that old state tree farm, and by midnight we were lost trying to find our way out. The eucalyptus and oak trees seemed to stretch out for miles. We were thrilled to discover this rural paradise. It was like being in New England—in the middle of Los Angeles, no less.
While Lee was away on location with Raintree County in Kentucky, Theresa Wright, one of the guests at dinner, invited me to lunch at her home, also in Uplifter’s Ranch.
“I can’t tell you how much I love this place,” I said to her, looking around her charming cottage as we dined on the back patio. “It’s not like anywhere else.”
“Come on,” Theresa said after lunch, “let’s take a walk. I’m dying to look around Johnny Weismuller’s house. It’s up for sale.”