Unsinkable

by Debbie Reynolds

  Marjorie’s husband, Stanley Krebs, had died in 1935. She still carried his urn around with her, so she could speak with Stanley. When she went to the lunch counter, she would hoist up the urn, order an extra meal for Stanley, and chatter away as if he were part of the conversation. She was wonderfully eccentric, and I loved being around her.

  Even though I didn’t have a lot to do in this film, I so enjoyed being part of this unusual ensemble. My next movie, a musical comedy about the shift from silent films to sound, was a major step forward in my career.

  Singin’ in the Rain

  (MGM, 1952)

  “Smile! Don’t look at your feet!” Gene Kelly shouted at me.

  We were rehearsing for Singin’ in the Rain, which Gene was co­directing with Stanley Donen. It was an important film for MGM, my first leading role since being signed by the studio, and Gene definitely hadn’t wanted me as his costar. But Louis B. Mayer himself had chosen me to play Kathy Selden, and there was nothing Gene could do about it, even though he was MGM’s biggest star at that time. The word of the studio head was law. Luckily for me, producer Arthur Freed also wanted me for the role, and he was the most important musical talent at MGM.

  I wasn’t a dancer, and had three months to learn what Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor had been doing for years. My lessons started immediately, right after my nineteenth birthday. I had three teachers: Jeanne Coyne, Ernie Flatt, and Carol Haney, all hired by Gene Kelly, who became members of the Freed Unit. Jeanne and Carol were assistant choreographers. Jeanne was also Gene’s assistant on the film. She’d divorced Stanley Donen in 1951 and would marry Gene in 1960. She just adored Gene. They had many happy years together. Carol went on to star in The Pajama Game on Broadway. Ernie Flatt later became the choreographer for The Carol Burnett Show. They would each give me a class every day.

  Jeanne and Ernie taught me Donald’s and Gene’s signature steps. (Gene’s favorite tap step was the maxi ford. When he asked if I knew it, I told him I didn’t know that car.) They tailored the choreography for “All I Do Is Dream of You,” my first number in the film, to my athletic abilities. Gene wanted the taps to be sharp and clear, so he and Jeanne recorded them on a soundstage with a wooden floor. Gene didn’t work on that number, as he wasn’t in it with me, but he choreographed my other numbers in the film. He came to rehearsals and criticized everything I did and never gave me a word of encouragement. He was a severe taskmaster.

  I’ve never worked so hard. I was dancing for eight hours a day. Making Singin’ in the Rain and childbirth were the two hardest things I’ve ever done. The movie was actually harder, because it hurt me everywhere, most of all my brain and my feet. My father had raised me never to start a job unless I planned on finishing it, and I was determined to do my damnedest. The word quit was not in my vocabulary. Still, Daddy had never been in a musical film. One day I crumpled in a heap under the rehearsal piano, crying. Fred Astaire came to my rescue. He asked me why I was crying, and I told him the dancing was so hard, I thought I was going to die.

  “You’re not going to die,” he said. “That’s what it’s like to learn to dance. If you’re not sweating, you’re not doing it right.”

  He took me to the studio where he was rehearsing with Hermes Pan, another great MGM choreographer. I watched in awe as Fred worked on his routines to the point of frustration and anger. I realized that if it was hard for Fred Astaire, dancing was hard for everyone. No one ever made it look easier. His kind gesture helped me a great deal.

  Shooting the “Good Morning” number took from eight in the morning until eleven at night. When we were finally finished, I collapsed from exhaustion. My feet were bleeding from hours of abuse. I couldn’t move. (Ironically, Gene wound up using the first take in the finished film.) My doctor ordered me to rest for two days. Arthur Freed called and told him I should report to work, that the studio doctor would give me “vitamin shots.” These were possibly the same “vitamins” that ruined Judy Garland. My doctor insisted that I stay in bed. That decision may have saved me from a life on stimulants.

  Aside from falling down with frustration and exhaustion, we had a happy time on the set. Everyone worked well together. Friends dropped by to keep our spirits up.

  Like Oscar Levant. Oscar and Gene had become buddies when they made An American in Paris the previous year. Oscar was a pianist and composer who acted and was famous for his sarcastic wit. He’d thought that he was going to have Donald O’Connor’s part in Singin’ in the Rain, until Betty Comden called him to talk about something else and let it slip that Gene had cast Donald. Oscar got very angry. But Gene made the right decision: his tap numbers with Donald are some of the best ever captured on film.

  Oscar was always stoned when he dropped by the set. We became friends, and in later years he’d show up at my house at three in the morning to sing, play the piano, and smoke cigarettes until he was ready to go home. I had to put a huge ashtray on the piano because he wasn’t careful about where his ashes went. His lovely wife understood that Oscar needed to wander about at night until he found an audience. She must have known that the piano was the only thing he was banging.

  Oscar wasn’t my only pianist visitor. I’d met Van Cliburn at one of the Hollywood parties we attended, and I invited him to stay with me when he was rehearsing for a local concert appearance. All the neighbors would stand outside to listen to him rehearse, because he was one of the most famous classical performers in the world. When he finished a piece, they’d applaud, but he never took a bow. Van didn’t require an ashtray when he was playing. He is the dearest man and neat as a pin. I should have tossed Eddie out and married Van, even though he’s gay. He wouldn’t have left me for Elizabeth Taylor, if only because he probably wasn’t her type.

  When I look at Singin’ in the Rain now, I realize something I didn’t understand at the time but must have known somehow. Mr. Mayer said I had to do it. Gene Kelly said I had to do it. I didn’t know that I couldn’t do it. So I did it, and I was terrific. But I must admit that I hate my voice in the movie. Right after it premiered, I began intensive lessons with the MGM dialogue coach, Gertrude Fogler. She taught everyone. When Grace Kelly became engaged to Prince Rainier, she’d run to Gertrude for French lessons after she was done filming for the day. After years of training and speaking properly, my voice is placed lower and correctly. In the movie, I was that little girl who was thrown into the middle of the great entertainment business.

  Part of my transformation from a young girl of the 1950s to a flapper of the 1920s involved my eyebrows. The makeup people plucked out my eyebrows and penciled in thin lines, to suit the fashion of the times. They assured me that my real brows would grow back, but they never did. To this day, I always carry an eyebrow pencil with me, to touch up my drawn-on brows.

  The year 2012 marked the sixtieth anniversary of Singin’ in the Rain. I’m honored to be part of a great work that has stood the test of time. It makes me happy when I hear how young people are being introduced to the film. Schools use it to teach dance. These are things we never thought about in 1952.

  There’s a scene near the beginning of the film where I throw a cake at Gene, who ducks so that the cake lands on Jean Hagen. (Jean and I had something in common: Mr. Mayer had also chosen her over Gene’s objections. She is brilliant as the silent movie star with the squeaky voice and went on to be nominated for an Oscar for this role.) When Gene and Stanley Donen were blocking the scene, I saw four prop cakes laid out on a table. Gene told me I would have four takes to land it.

  “I can do it in one take,” I said confidently.

  Gene and Stanley snickered.

  “No, no, I can,” I insisted. “I’m Miss Burbank.”

  They burst out laughing.

  I’ve been in this business a long time now and know how to deliver a punch line, but I was nineteen then and completely serious.

  “I’m a Girl Scout,” I explained. “I earned forty-seven merit badges. I know I can do this.”

  Gene ga
ve me a condescending look. I’ll show you, Mr. Big Shot, I thought.

  I pulled Jean aside. She was dressed in a beautiful evening gown for the scene. “When you deliver your line, stay on your mark and hold your head still,” I told her. “If you stay in one place, I know I can hit you in one take.” Jean agreed. She didn’t want more than one cake in her face.

  We reassembled to shoot the scene. When the cameras rolled, Jean delivered her line, Gene gracefully ducked out of place in front of her, and I landed the cake smack on Jean’s kisser!

  Speaking of kissers . . .

  In Singin’ in the Rain, Gene and I play two people falling in love. In one of the film’s many famous scenes, the camera comes down from an overhead crane as we kiss and “You Are My Lucky Star” swells on the soundtrack.

  Stanley Donen yelled, “Action!” The camera closed in. Gene took me tightly in his arms . . . and shoved his tongue down my throat.

  With Gene Kelly during filming for Singin’ in the Rain. Licensed by Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved

  Grabbing a bite on the lot at MGM between dance rehearsals for Singin’ in the Rain—lots of work. Mother packed my lunch when I went to the studio.

  “Eeew! What was that?” I screeched, breaking free of his grasp and spitting.

  I ran around frantic, yelling for some Coca-Cola to cleanse my mouth. It was the early 1950s, and I was an innocent kid who had never been French-kissed. It felt like an assault. I was stunned that this thirty-nine-year-old man would do this to me.

  Gene had stepped back, not amused. After a few minutes, I calmed down enough to face his now-icy stare and we redid the scene as you see it in the film.

  After that, Gene and I became friends. With the help of the MGM teachers, he transformed an untrained high school girl into a dancer. In the early ’70s, Gene came to see me when I was starring in Irene, my first time ever on Broadway. After the show, he came backstage, hugged me, told me how proud he was of me, and kissed me—no tongue—in front of the bedazzled cast. I was so moved, I cried. Gene made me a stronger performer who faces every challenge head on—and with a “Smile!”

  Skirts Ahoy!

  (MGM, 1952)

  My cameo in this film is an example of the MGM practice of dipping into the talent pool when they needed someone for a scene.

  Producer Joe Pasternak made all these light, entertaining movies that everyone loved doing. Pasternak also gave great parties. We used to hang out at his house in Bel Air, a wonderful brick home. He always had a pianist who could transpose songs to any key, so everyone was expected to entertain.

  What fun it was when we would all go over to Joe’s after working and relax and just be young and silly. Nutty, if you like. Some of the regulars were Mickey Rooney, Ricardo Montalban, Russ Tamblyn, Lena Horne, Kathryn Grayson, Howard Keel, Janie Powell, Vic Damone, Pier Angeli, and Leslie Caron, to name just a few. And Johnny Payne, who would call out at any given time, “Turn off the lights and call the law.” Even Billy Daniels came over with his pianist and sang “That Old Black Magic.” He was sensational—gorgeous with his gray hair, blue eyes, and beautiful light beige complexion. His performance was the sexiest I’ve ever witnessed without dropping my pants.

  I Love Melvin

  (MGM, 1953)

  This light musical comedy paired me again with Donald O’Connor. The film was made for commercial reasons, to capitalize on the success of Singin’ in the Rain, but it was cute. It’s basically a thin story about a budding photographer for Look magazine pursuing a young actress in spite of her father’s objections, that ties together a lot of musical numbers—an MGM specialty.

  My opening number is a dream sequence where I sing “A Lady Loves (to Love)” dressed in a sequined outfit with a large net skirt that forms a train. Choreographed by Robert Alton, a famous Broadway director who worked on many MGM musicals (Annie Get Your Gun, White Christmas, Pal Joey, Show Boat), this number is reminiscent of the famous “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” number that Marilyn Monroe later performed in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I’m surrounded by men dressed in formal evening wear, including top hats and capes lined in scarlet; Marilyn dances with a group of men in tuxedos, who offer her diamond bracelets. (I used to own the beautiful pink gown that Marilyn wears in that number, but as with many things from my collection, a former employee stole it. For legal reasons, I can’t give you the details.) It’s flattering that someone thought enough of that number to borrow from it. We filmed another version in a farm setting, but the more sophisticated one was chosen to open the film. The second version later appeared in That’s Entertainment! III.

  There were other fun numbers in this film. I play an ingénue who gets a part in a Broadway musical. The football ballet number was filmed with two football teams and me as the ball. Needless to say, when the boys were tossing me around the set, I was happy I had done so well in my gymnastics classes. My stunt double broke her arm during rehearsals for this number.

  We went on location to New York City, where Donald and I did a number in Central Park, dancing around a fountain. This isn’t an epic film, but it’s fun. I loved working with my dear friend Donald again.

  The Affairs of Dobie Gillis

  (MGM, 1953)

  This was one of the many films I did at MGM where I got the job, then went to work. Dobie Gillis is about college kids having good times, carefree times. My own life was like that when I made it—no obligations, no worries, just fun. I would go to André Previn’s home to listen to music after work. I did whatever I wanted and got a $300 check from the studio every week. Because of the financial freedom this gave me, I was able to help my father retire from the railroad. When I first started at MGM, Daddy would never accept money from me. The railroad paid him $200 a month. Daddy was only in his fifties, but now his health was failing. All his years of hard work had taken their toll. He started fainting under the trains, saved only by his buddies pulling him out. When I heard about that, I told him that I could provide for Mother and him. We all worried about him having a terrible accident. Thankfully, he accepted my offer.

  Those were my young and free years. I was the Virgin Mary Frances. I wasn’t obligated to any guy. Once Arthur Lowe Jr., the film’s producer, took me out to dinner. I had never been to a restaurant where you followed the maitre d’ to the table. When asked what I wanted to drink, I answered, “A glass of milk, please.” Arthur sweetly told the waiter, “No special vintage on that.” Word got out quickly on the lot that I really was a Girl Scout.

  Barbara Ruick, Bobby Van, and I became pals while making Dobie Gillis. Bobby Fosse worked hard on our numbers together. He was so brilliant even then, but he didn’t mix with us during time off the set.

  Barbara and I became good friends. She made many records for MGM. We recorded a comic hillbilly tune together, calling ourselves “Iffie and Miffie.” Barbara was Miffie. In 1956 she married John Williams, who went on to compose the scores for Jaws, Star Wars, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Schindler’s List, and so many other big films. They had three children together. Barbara’s aunt was the comedienne and radio star Joan Davis, whose television series, I Married Joan, was a hit from 1952 to 1955. Barbara and I had wonderful times at Davis’s beautiful estate. We stayed friends until Barbara’s untimely death in 1974 from a brain hemorrhage while she was on location in Reno, Nevada. She was working on Robert Altman’s film California Split, which he dedicated to her. What a shock to all of us who loved her. She was so talented.

  Give a Girl a Break

  (MGM, 1953)

  Making this movie was extremely difficult, and I still have a hard time speaking about it. It was like going to war every day. It sounds ridiculous, but there were too many talented people on the film.

  Bob Fosse and Gower Champion, both brilliant dancers and choreographers, shared the choreography duties, and it became a competition. On one side were Gower and his wife, Marge. On the other side, the director, Stanley Donen, and Bobby were a team. They challenged Gower on
everything. The men were constantly trying to one-up each other. Bobby had been standoffish when we did Dobie Gillis, but this was something else. All that jealousy for no reason. The Champions were my good friends, and I was their ally.

  Bobby was this amazing talent combined with blind ambition. There was no one like him, and he was right to try to get ahead. Stanley was immediately smitten and seemed determined to help his pal become a star. One day I looked at the rushes of a number I was in with Bobby. The camera was on him; maybe a part of my left ear was visible. Stanley’s affection for Bobby had spilled onto the screen and into my two-shot. Even in the love scenes, all you saw was Bobby’s face. I’m a team player, but this was ridiculous. Something was going on—and I felt it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

  I went to the front office, demanding that someone look at the footage. The footage was reviewed, the scenes were reshot—and my relationship with Stanley deteriorated even further. There’s no love lost between us to this day, which is unfortunate. He is a brilliant cinematographer and director who has made many wonderful, important films.

  Bobby did the choreography for our numbers together, and he came up with some very strenuous routines. It was the most difficult dancing I’d done since Singin’ in the Rain, but I was determined to keep up with him. During rehearsals, Bobby, who was so in love with his own well-endowed self, would come up behind me and press his “gift” into my backside to tease me. It was obvious he wasn’t wearing a dance belt; I could feel everything he wanted to share. And Bobby didn’t respond to subtle discouragement, like being pushed away vigorously.