“No,” I said, “but I can play you one of Betty Hutton’s”—and I put on my record of “I’m Just a Square in the Social Circle” and repeated the routine I’d done for the Miss Burbank contest.
They laughed and applauded! They loved this little “kid” Warner’s had sent to them and hired me for $300 a week.
What a day! About to be dropped by Jack Warner but hired by Louis B. Mayer. Solly drove me back to the Warner’s lot. I jumped out of his shiny Cadillac, climbed on my bicycle, rode home to Mommy and Daddy on Evergreen Avenue in Burbank, and went happily to bed—safe, sound, and a newly signed contract player at MGM.
MGM: “MORE STARS THAN THERE ARE IN HEAVEN”
IMAGINE WALKING ONTO THE LOT at MGM for the first time as a teenager. In 1949 that happened to me. MGM was a magical world that created movies almost everyone in America saw. In the days before television, movies were the only game in town. People listened to radio at home and then went to the movies for entertainment. To this day, I feel privileged to have been there.
MGM had a completely different feel than Warner’s. Both lots were collections of office buildings, soundstages, bungalows, and buildings that housed wardrobe, sets, props, and all the support people crucial to making films. But MGM still made musicals—brilliant, wonderful musicals. Music floated in the air near rehearsal halls. You heard the sound of music as it was being written, and the lyrics being fit to the music. MGM also had a lot of younger people under contract. Peter Lawford drove his Cadillac convertible down the studio’s streets with his surfboard in the backseat. Mickey Rooney was on the prowl, as usual flirting with everyone. Grips and electrical workers walked around the lot beside stars like Spencer Tracy, Judy Garland, and Greer Garson. It was like your life itself was a movie and you were part of one big creative family.
Louis B. Mayer had a big office in the Thalberg Building. Mr. Mayer’s office was decorated all in white. His desk was on a riser so that he sat above people who came to visit him. Benny Thau, MGM’s top casting person, also had a large office. There were floors full of writers, producers, and creative people of every kind, all in small offices. Director Richard Brooks would be in an office right next to a scriptwriter like Sidney Sheldon, who later became a television writer and producer before going on to write many best-selling books, such as The Other Side of Midnight. Drama writers mixed with comedy writers. There were writers who wrote only for Joe Pasternak’s light musical comedies, and five rows of desks with writers working on the Andy Hardy series. Another row worked on Lassie’s films. Westerns had their own group. The studio created entertainment for every class and style of people in the USA.
Johnny Green was a songwriter, composer, musical arranger, and conductor. He was in charge of all the talent in the music division. Johnny was a little man. He looked like he’d stepped out of The Wizard of Oz. He was married to a very tall, beautiful lady from Texas who loved him dearly. Johnny worked with the great composers and arrangers Roger Edens and Conrad Salinger and the legendary producer Arthur Freed, who had his own unit named after him that was responsible for such great musicals as The Wizard of Oz, The Band Wagon, Gigi, An American in Paris, and Singin’ in the Rain. Roger Edens wrote special material for Judy Garland, including “Dear Mr. Gable” and “Born in a Trunk.” His work on Judy’s one-woman act showcased her talents brilliantly. He was the genius behind many of the performers at MGM. These men were all incredibly talented and funny.
Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, and choreographer Hermes Pan also worked in the music building. There was constant, exhilarating hubbub, with doors opening and closing as people came and went, everyone busy doing something. Music for Westerns, musicals, romances, and comedies—for every type of movie that MGM made—was created there. A huge soundstage included a recording studio for orchestras that could number over one hundred musicians. Johnny Green was right down in front, conducting. It was very energizing, very exciting. When you grew up in that atmosphere, it was no wonder you believed that there’s no business like show business. I still do.
André Previn was another genius who worked in the music department. I’d go to his apartment some evenings to hear André and his friends jam. Knowing what a chatterbox I could be, André warned me, “You can come to my house, but just sit and be quiet. If you start talking, you’ll have to leave.” So I kept still while he and his friends improvised the most wonderful jazz.
Life at the studio was an education. In addition to the time I spent at John Burroughs High School after work, the studio was required to provide three hours of academic lessons so I could graduate. As part of my professional training, I was taught the basics of the film trade. These included acting, dancing, singing, makeup and hair design, lighting, sound, vocal technique, wardrobe, and sewing! A woman named Adrienne Fazan in the editing department was allowed to teach me how to edit, because I was interested and wanted to learn. At that time, most department heads at MGM were men. Adrienne was one of the few women editors there. She was also one of the best. In a career that spanned thirty-seven years, the films she edited included An American in Paris (1951), Kismet (1955), Lust for Life (1956), Gigi (1958), Some Came Running (1958), and Bells Are Ringing (1960), in addition to Singin’ in the Rain (1952) and my fourth film, Give a Girl a Break (1953). She retired in 1970. I was grateful that she had the time and patience to work with a teenager who got into everything.
I spent most of my free time wandering around the lot looking at each department. I adored the antique furniture in the props department. Daddy was a carpenter, so I spent a lot of time watching the men in the carpentry department working with their big saws and lathes and thinking how much Daddy would love that.
Helen Rose was one of the best costume designers in Hollywood. She designed the dress for my first wedding. She did the gown for Elizabeth Taylor’s marriage to Mike Todd. When Kate Middleton married Prince William in April 2011, the future Queen of England’s dress was an updated version of Helen’s gown for Princess Grace’s marriage to Prince Rainier of Monaco in 1956. We actresses kept Helen busy with all our weddings.
MGM graciously allowed my mother to come to the wardrobe department and learn from the craftspeople there. She became a kind of unofficial apprentice. Mother worked on the second floor with the seamstresses who made MGM’s costumes. Helen Rose would make sketches and help Mother with drafting patterns. It was a big thrill—for Mother and for me.
In the early 1950s, the studios ran Hollywood. In 1951 I was told that I was to be a presenter at the Academy Awards. I was scared to death. For some reason, the studio didn’t dress me for the evening. Off I went to Lerner’s to buy a gown for the awards show. I chose a strapless evening gown with a tight, beaded bodice and a full skirt covered with multicolored net. I wore a ribbon around my neck. Having a tiny waist was important to me, so I had the dress altered accordingly. Then I could barely fit into it. Daddy had to put his foot on my rib cage so we could get the side zipper closed when I was getting ready for the Oscars ceremony. That dress only cost me $11, but it was beautiful.
Backstage I kept going over the index cards with my prepared remarks—there were no TelePrompters for this show in those days. Just my luck that my category was cinematography. I couldn’t pronounce the word. Fred Astaire was one of the hosts that night. Prior to announcing me, he introduced a contract player from 20th Century Fox by the name of Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn appeared in a huge ball gown with a ruffled collar. Fox probably helped her with that outfit. When Fred Astaire introduced me, he said, “Please welcome the most talented and most delightful Miss Debbie Reynolds.”
As I walked onstage, the orchestra played “Younger Than Springtime” from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s musical South Pacific, then in its third year on Broadway. I read the cards and rushed through the nominees. I believe I said “cinematographer” instead of “cinematography,” but I kept reading and announced the winners, my head down and my eyes fixed on the cards, a nerve-racked teenager in a tight dress.
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sp; With W. M. Guthrie and Robert Surtees backstage at the Academy Awards show in 1951. This was the only time I can recall being nervous in my career. Even though I had trouble pronouncing “cinematography,” these gentlemen still looked happy. Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences
At MGM, there was magic around every corner. Noël Coward and Clifton Webb became my good friends. They even talked my mother into letting me go with them to Jamaica for a vacation. Noël played the piano while I sang, and Clifton would enjoy the show. The three of us walked on the beach together. Clifton and Noël held hands, but I didn’t think anything of it. I felt their friendship and I thank them for including me. I know that one may wonder why they invited me, so much younger than they were and a girl. They loved youth and innocence, and I was funny. We entertained one another. We did the same at parties in Los Angeles. How lucky I was to have such extraordinary friends.
One of my favorite moments at MGM was meeting Clark Gable. When I was a young girl, he was the greatest movie star. One day when I was walking around the lot, I saw Howard Strickling, the head of publicity, coming out the commissary door. As we passed he grabbed my arm and introduced me to the man behind him.
“I want you to meet the new star on the lot, Clark,” he said. “Here’s Debbie Reynolds.”
He was so handsome that I was stunned. I think my mouth may have dropped open.
“Well, kid, you’ll find it an interesting life,” he told me.
For once, I was speechless. I’m sure I thanked him and said hello, but I was stopped in my tracks by the experience.
In May 1954, Gable left MGM without any fanfare. The decision was made in the boardroom not to renew his contract. That was it. When a decision was made, it was law. A letter was sent to every department on the lot. If a person was fired that day, they left that day. Their clothes and personal effects were removed from their dressing room. Clark Gable didn’t tell any of the people who worked with him that he was leaving. He was escorted off the lot like a prisoner getting out of jail. After more than twenty years as one of the greatest movie stars in history, Gable ended his days at MGM by driving himself out the gate, never to return. Afterward, everyone on the lot was so sad. A small article in the paper later stated that Clark Gable was leaving MGM to pursue other opportunities. All because a decision was made in the boardroom that one of the greatest stars of all time wasn’t worth the money the studio was paying him.
When I met Spencer Tracy, I was reminded of my introduction to Mr. Gable.
“So you’re the new kid,” Mr. Tracy said.
Everyone called me “kid.” I was one of the two youngest contract players on the lot. Russ Tamblyn was the other, and we became friends. Russ went on to become famous for his roles in the films Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Peyton Place, and West Side Story.
Mr. Tracy advised me, “Well, you want to be a good actress, so remember to be real. Got that?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
Soon afterward, I was seated next to the remarkable Ethel Merman at a special studio luncheon in the MGM commissary. My ear for imitation is keen, and it was on overload around Ethel. Remembering Spencer Tracy’s advice, I decided to be real. Real loud. Ethel inspired me. I created my impression of her immediately and continue to do it to this day.
MGM was my university. I majored in musical comedy with a minor in drama. The studio educated me, chose my escorts for premieres, managed my press, and advanced my career by having me make special appearances. They even sent me on a press tour to the White House, where I met President Truman, the first of several presidents I was to meet over the coming decades. I worked hard to keep up with all the great talent.
It was a time like no other—the most magical time you could imagine.
On October 8, 1951, in Washington, DC, President Truman greeted motion picture industry representatives as part of the fiftieth anniversary of the American Movie Theater at the White House. Front row, left to right: Elizabeth Taylor; Adolph Zukor, Chairman of the Board of Paramount Pictures; President Truman; Mrs. Randolph Scott; Joyce O’Hara, Acting President, Motion Picture Association; and Debbie Reynolds. Second row, left to right: Louise Allbritton, Arthur Mayer, Arthur Arthur, Julian Brylanski, Virginia Kellogg, and Randolph Scott. From Burbank to the White House in just a few short years! Notice Elizabeth with her gloves. Etiquette, always etiquette. MGM taught us to be movie stars, but always with good manners. The studio lent me the suit for the occasion. President Truman played the piano for us. (Many years later, Warren Buffett played his ukulele for me.) Harry S. Truman Library and Museum. Photofest
Three Little Words
(MGM, 1950)
After my audition with Jack Cummings, I went to work in this musical comedy. A street scene has me with Red Skelton, one of the funniest men I’ve ever known, and Fred Astaire, one of the most elegant. As they play the piano on the sidewalk, I walk into the frame wearing a dark brunette wig and lip-syncing “Boop-Boop-a-Doop” to Helen Kane’s voice. Kane was a popular singer in the late 1920s whose high-pitched voice was used for the animated character Betty Boop. My years of mouthing songs in the Girl Scouts served me well. Then Carleton Carpenter and I filmed a scene where I pantomimed Helen Kane’s voice in the entire song “I Wanna Be Loved by You.” I’m told that when Mr. Mayer saw the dailies, he said, “I like the way her eyes light up. Sign her.”
Two Weeks With Love
(MGM, 1950)
This was my first real role for MGM. It was a fun shoot. Every day my mother would pack my lunch. I usually ate sandwiches made with bologna ground up with pickle juice. Louis Calhern was one of MGM’s great stars and had a fancy lunch prepared for him by the studio. Even though he was on a special diet, he usually traded me for my bologna sandwiches.
Once again I was paired with Carleton Carpenter. We sing “Aba Daba Honeymoon.” When the song became a big hit after the film was released, MGM sent the two of us on a multicity tour to capitalize on our success. We played all the Loews theaters, beginning in Washington, DC.
Busby Berkeley did the choreography for this film. Dear Busby liked to drink. He was famous for his brilliant overhead shots that featured dozens of dancers in elaborate settings and patterns. Because he was usually tipsy during the afternoons, the crew used to strap him to the boom camera, where he sat high above the action. Whenever there was a halt to filming, we used to sing, “Somewhere there’s Busby, how high the boom?” to the tune of “How High the Moon.” To this day, when there is a glitch on a movie set, I sing that tune to recall that brilliant director and choreographer.
Dorothy Kingsley was one of the writers on this movie. Dorothy was part of the famous Freed Unit, hired by our producer Arthur Freed himself. She was always being called down to the set of his musicals to rewrite scenes while they were being shot. Often she wasn’t credited on films where she contributed dialogue or helped with problems. This is my brief tribute to that talented lady.
Onstage with Carleton Carpenter during our Loews tour—my first time on the road. Licensed by Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved
Our director, Roy Rowland, was a wonderful man who gave the best parties. He’d hire a pianist, and people like Lena Horne and Judy Garland would sing. We all did. It was heaven. Lena and I would chat about being contract players on the lot. Lena told me that she found her job very lonely. She was having a hard time making friends at the studio. I was much younger than she, and thrilled that she would talk to me. Whenever I saw her on the lot, which was almost daily, we would sit together. One day I asked her, “Why don’t we have lunch in the commissary?” She told me that she never went into the commissary unless it was for a press event. There was an unspoken rule, or strong request, that she not eat in the dining room. I was shocked to learn this. So we continued to bring our lunches in paper bags, sometimes eating together in Lena’s pretty dressing room.
Having a gay old time with Farley Granger (front row left); Jack Larson, who played Jimmy Olsen on Superman in
the 1950s (standing next to Farley); Carleton Carpenter (towering over everyone, as usual); Shelley Winters (front row right, kneeling); and other pals who came to enjoy the new pool I had built at my family’s home in Burbank.
Mr. Imperium
(MGM, 1951)
In this film, Marjorie Main plays the owner of a small hotel in Palm Springs. I play her niece who helps with the guests. It’s a very small part, but it was fun working with Marjorie and the movie’s star, Lana Turner.
At the time we were filming, Lana was pregnant and looking forward to being a mother. She was married to a man from Texas named Bob Topping, who claimed to be rich. Lana later found out that he was rich all right—rich with her money. Although he’d had millions, he lost it all. And then he took her money. Many years later, Doris Day and I would join the ranks of women who trusted our husbands too much with the money we worked so hard to earn.
Lana wasn’t very happy while making this film. Her costar, Ezio Pinza, was a wonderful bass singer who enjoyed a second career on Broadway after retiring from the Metropolitan Opera. He loved to eat garlic. When he had romantic scenes with Lana, he would try to make them as realistic as possible, which infuriated her. She would push him away when he forced himself on her and yell, “Cut!”—then run to her dressing room. Pinza’s garlicky breath would have been hard enough to deal with under normal circumstances, but Lana was very sensitive to odors during her pregnancy. She later lost the baby, which certainly was not because of the garlic she inhaled. Lana’s daughter, Cheryl, by her second husband, Joseph Crane, would be her only child.
Marjorie Main was so much fun. She had reached an age where she was having difficulty with her bladder. During a scene, she would hear the call and just walk off the set to the restroom while still reciting her lines. When the director called, “Cut,” she seemed not to understand why her lines weren’t picked up. Between Marjorie’s pee breaks and Lana’s fighting with Pinza, it was a pretty tense set. Our director was Don Hartman. Although he would later take over the studio when Dore Schary left, he was too nice to handle this crowd.
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