Unsinkable

by Debbie Reynolds

  Thank you, Bing.

  The Gazebo

  (MGM, 1959)

  Back to MGM for another fun film with Glenn Ford, this one a black comedy about a TV writer-director (Glenn), his Broadway musical star wife (me), blackmail, and murder. Carl Reiner plays a detective trying to find out what is buried under the gazebo in our backyard. Although Carl is one of the funniest people alive, he told me that he didn’t think he had a future in acting and was going to New York to work on a screenplay. I encouraged him to make that choice.

  When he returned to Los Angeles, he gave me the script he had written, called The Thrill of It All. I gave it to Ross Hunter, with my recommendation that he make the picture, which Ross did. The movie stars Doris Day and James Garner. Of course, Carl would have gotten it made and become the brilliant success that he is without my help, but I was happy to play a small part.

  Glenn Ford and I continued our nonromantic friendship, which lasted until his death in 2006. His son, Peter, took care of him when he was in bad health. For years Glenn was too ill to get out of bed. I told Peter that he should paint naked breasts on the ceiling so Glenn would have something pleasant to look at. He didn’t take my advice.

  The Rat Race

  (PARAMOUNT, 1960)

  The Rat Race was a departure from my usual musical comedies. I play a dance hall girl/model who becomes involved with a musician, played by Tony Curtis. The film was shot in New York. To prepare for my role, I spent time in establishments where young ladies danced with men for money. I was staying by myself and felt very lonely, and I was far outside my comfort zone.

  Don Rickles plays an abusive club owner. He was so scared about doing well and worked hard to be good. I reassured him whenever I could. One day I bought him a teddy bear as a gift. He was just the opposite of his onstage comic persona. He couldn’t have been sweeter or more willing to learn, and he is wonderful in the film.

  Tony Curtis was married to my good friend Janet Leigh at this time. Tony was a smart actor, fast with his saxophonist character, and always good to work with. I think we did a good job on this movie.

  Pepe

  (COLUMBIA, 1960)

  I made this movie as a favor to the director George Sidney, who was then married to my friend and MGM coach, Lillian Burns Sidney. The Mexican star Cantinflas plays a young man whose horse is sold to a Hollywood star. He encounters many other stars on his way to retrieve it. I’m one of them. Cantinflas and I do a complicated dance number that he worked very hard to do well.

  I’d finally divorced Eddie in 1959 and was now dating the heir to a large fortune from a chain of shoe stores. Harry Karl was very distinguished and made a big play for me, doing everything he could think of to sweep me off my feet. On our first date, we’d gone to the ballet to see Swan Lake. Harry gave me diamond earrings and a matching pearl-and-diamond pin made in the shape of swans. He showered Carrie and Todd with gifts and attention. He represented security for my family, and I was planning to marry him.

  Lillian thought this was a bad idea, which she let me know at the hotel pool one afternoon. The pool was four feet deep across the length of it, which was good because Lillian wasn’t much over four feet tall, and I’m just over five feet myself. Lillian pointed out that Harry’s track record wasn’t good. He’d married his last wife, actress Marie McDonald, twice. His marriage to another wife lasted less than a month. Lillian warned that Harry might love me, but he loved gambling more.

  I told her that I wanted a father for my children, both under five years old, and that I believed Harry would be a good provider. Since I refused her marital advice, Lillian advised me to make sure I got a bigger engagement ring than the one he gave Marie McDonald.

  Frank Sinatra had tried to get me to reconsider marrying Eddie when we were making The Tender Trap, and now Lillian Sidney put up a red flag about Harry. When I lost everything except my memorabilia collection because of Harry Karl, I sold an apartment I had bought in Century City as an investment to Cantinflas, who had become a good friend. At least I listened to Lillian about the engagement ring, which I lost when we had to sell everything in our divorce settlement.

  But those sad events were still to come. By the end of that summer of 1960, it was clear that Harry and I would get married. And shortly after that, I started work on a movie with another older gentleman.

  The Pleasure of His Company

  (PARAMOUNT, 1961)

  I remember calling Fred Astaire on the phone to urge him to take top billing in this movie about a young girl who is about to be married, even though that was originally my credit. I respected him so much, that was the only way it could be done. After a few minutes of listening to me insist, he said, “All right, Debbie, if that’s what you want.” I think he was happy to get off the phone.

  Tab Hunter plays my fiancé. Tab and I had been friends since we were teenagers. The studios used to put us together for premieres and publicity occasions. One night in my parents’ kitchen in Burbank, Tab tried to kiss me good-bye. I told him not to. I thought it would be like kissing my brother. And I was right—Tab is like my brother. It was the early 1950s; there was no discussion about being gay back then. But I knew that Tab was, and that I felt friendship for him, not romance. I got the sense that he felt the same about me. We always laughed and had fun when we were together. Tab’s a wonderful man who’s married to another wonderful man now. I’m glad we’ve been friends for so long.

  Fred Astaire plays my father, and we do a little waltz at the wedding reception. I was so nervous, dancing with the great Fred Astaire. What was I going to do?

  “You don’t have to dance,” he told me. “Just stay with me. Move with me. Follow me and trust me.”

  So I did—I put my trust in the best. And it was like dancing on air, a complete joy. I felt as light as a feather. Fred had his hand on my back. He had very long fingers. His figure was lean, athletic, and beautiful, even at the age of sixty.

  He really was the sweetest man I’ve ever known. If I’d thought he would go for a younger girl, I might have made a move. Instead, I danced with him, thinking what a great pleasure it was to be in his company.

  Dancing with Fred Astaire in The Pleasure of His Company. Fred was the sweetest, most gentle of men. I adored every moment with him. Photofest

  The Second Time Around

  (20TH CENTURY FOX, 1961)

  Although this movie was actually made before The Pleasure of His Company, when Harry was still courting me, it was released afterward. I play a widow who moves her young family from New York to the wild Arizona territory in the early 1900s and ends up becoming sheriff. Thelma Ritter plays the owner of the ranch where my character lives.

  Like Walter Brennan, Thelma was a terrific scene-stealer. In one scene, she had no dialogue at all; she was just positioned behind me, hammering nails into a shoe. As I delivered my lines downstage of Thelma, I could hear her literally spitting nails. Her mouth was full of them. She was pounding and spitting, totally upstaging my action.

  I asked her to stop.

  “What’s the matter?” she responded. “Can’t ya compete?”

  “Not with that, Thelma,” I admitted.

  She agreed to stop, but it didn’t matter. Even quiet, Thelma is still the most prominent thing in that scene. She was a master.

  Andy Griffith plays my leading man. At one point, he had to ride to Thelma’s ranch, where she and I were waiting for him on her porch. Andy rode in, this big man bouncing along, howling with every step his horse made—“Son of a bitch! Ouch! Owwww!”—until he finally came to a stop in front of the porch, slipped, and fell off the horse.

  Thelma and I had to bite our tongues to keep from laughing.

  Someone from the crew took Andy to get protection for his male parts, which were taking a beating.

  The second take didn’t fare much better: Andy kept bouncing and screaming and slipping off the horse, while Thelma and I stood on the porch laughing, no longer able to control ourselves. By the end of the four
th take, Andy was in so much pain, but we finally had the shot—which lasts only a few seconds on the screen.

  Juliet Prowse, a celebrated dancer who was a contract player at Fox at that time, plays one of the towns­people. She was then having an affair with Frank Sinatra, who had asked her to marry him, but also to give up her career. Juliet was unwilling to do this. I felt compelled to say something to her.

  “Marry Frank,” I advised Juliet. “He’s a wonderful man. At the end of a year he’ll want you to go back to work because you’ll drive him so crazy dancing around the house.”

  Juliet didn’t see it that way and broke the engagement.

  I gave the wrap party for the cast and got everyone gifts. I raided the Fox prop shop for Andy and found a real, stuffed palomino. I gave it to him with a card that read, “A little something you can practice on.” Andy loved it.

  He loved it so much that he loaded it onto the top of his station wagon when he decided to leave the party. By then he’d had a few drinks. On the drive home, he was pulled over by the highway patrol, who inquired as to where he thought he was going with this horse—unusual even by California standards. Andy told the cops that the horse was his friend. If Roy Rogers could stuff Trigger, Andy should be able to travel around with his pet horse. Miraculously, the police let him move on. After that, Andy would take his new friend with him to parties.

  How the West Was Won

  (MGM, 1963)

  While I was making The Second Time Around, Henry Hathaway called to invite me to lunch. So my first encounter with Henry was in the Fox commissary. Before I went, I asked several of my friends, including Glenn Ford, about him. They warned me that Henry was the toughest director, especially in the way he treated women.

  Henry was a tall, silver-haired man, with a weathered look; his gruffness was hidden at first by his polite manners. He began by explaining the part in his film that he wanted me to do: a seventeen-year-old crossing America with her pioneer parents to find a better life in the West. Flattered that he thought I could play seventeen when I was in my late twenties, I still turned him down. I was working on The Second Time Around and knew that there would be other projects after I finished shooting that. Henry couldn’t believe it when I told him no and insisted on knowing why. So I told him that I’d heard about his reputation, and he blew up—proving my point while denying it—and informed me that I would do the part. It seemed that I had no choice. But I made him agree to treat me well and not scream at me. He insisted (at the top of his voice) that he never yelled. Time would tell.

  I didn’t see him again until I reported to our first location, in Paducah, Kentucky, in May 1961. Henry welcomed me by yelling that I needed to get ready immediately to shoot a scene. When I returned in hair, makeup, and costume, he ordered me to walk “from that hill over there and look out there.” I asked him what the scene was about. He told me to just do what he’d said. So I did, and he seemed happy.

  A few days later, Henry came at me, screaming and swearing, in the middle of filming.

  “Please don’t yell at me, Mr. Hathaway,” I said. “I’ll faint.”

  He kept yelling.

  I closed my eyes and hit the dirt.

  Everybody rushed to help me. I just lay there, limp.

  Henry was livid, screaming that I was faking. As three crew members carried me off, Henry realized he was about to miss his shot, which required the sunset.

  Finally he apologized, still insisting that I was faking. This had remarkable healing powers. I “awoke” from my fainting spell and finished the scene.

  The next day he repeated his performance, yelling at me as though nothing had changed, and I repeated mine. “Stop this!” he demanded as I dropped to the ground. But this time he laughed when the two words “I apologize” once again had their magic effect.

  After that, we got along well together. I’d say, “I’m going to faint, Mr. Hathaway,” and he’d calm down. Henry wasn’t used to ladies who stood up to him.

  Originally, I was only supposed to be in the first part of the movie, my story ending when my family perishes crossing the rapids. But Henry wound up liking me so much that he kept writing extra scenes into the film for me. By the time we were done, I had aged from seventeen to ninety, taking my character all the way to California and the end of the movie. By then I was crazy about Henry too.

  Henry really knew his shots and how he wanted them to look. He wouldn’t let the actors use stunt doubles, although we were assisted by unseen stuntmen when it was necessary. As a result, we were often in real physical danger. Two stuntmen drowned shooting a rapids scene in Oregon meant to match the scene that Thelma Ritter and I almost drowned in. Another lost his leg in a train chase near the end of the movie.

  In one scene, Thelma and I are in a covered wagon during a stampede caused by an Indian raid. Six horses pull our wagon, galloping faster and faster. Thelma has the reins and is clutching them as hard as she can, cursing a blue streak while I cling to the wagon frame beside her, terrified. Any viewer who can read lips will be treated to her choice profanity as we race onscreen across the ground toward the ravine. We don’t have any actual dialogue, but Thelma is swearing throughout the whole furious chase. Although you can’t see it in the finished film, we’re headed toward the Dallas Divide in the Black Canyon near Telluride, Colorado. The wranglers wanted to stop the horses before we went over the cliff, but Henry refused to let them—until the very last second. And then the wranglers had to use every ounce of force they could command. It was a harrowing experience, way too close for comfort. But Henry got what he wanted.

  This was a big job for everyone who worked on the film. Being on location together for so many months really helped us to bond. My friendships with Agnes Moorehead, Thelma Ritter, and Carroll Baker became even closer than they had been, and those with Jimmy Stewart, Robert Preston, and Gregory Peck were strengthened.

  The work was hard, but it was worthwhile. The shoot lasted almost a year. How the West Was Won went on to receive Academy Award nominations for Best Picture, Best Art Direction, Best Color Cinematography, Best Color Costume Design, and Best Original Score, and to win Oscars for Best Writing (James R. Webb), Best Film Editing (Harold F. Kress), and Best Sound (Franklin Milton). It was shot in Cinerama using three cameras next to each other, which was hard for the actors because we always had to look at the camera instead of engaging with each other. The saga moves from western New York to the Pacific Ocean; it’s nearly three hours long, and looks wonderful on the big screen—an epic film made by one of Hollywood’s truly epic directors.

  My Six Loves

  (PARAMOUNT, 1963)

  I finished How the West Was Won in March 1962. The next day I began working on My Six Loves. In this charming comedy, I play a Broadway star who goes on vacation only to find herself taking care of six abandoned children. At that time in my career, I had approval of the director. So I chose Gower Champion, and he didn’t disappoint me on this project. He worked like a demon, knew the camera like crazy, and was a delight to be around. Many years later, Gower would save me by stepping in to direct my Broadway show Irene. I love his work.

  We all had a good time on this shoot. My costar, Cliff Robertson, was a total gentleman who was respected by everyone. It tickled me that he spent more time in the makeup chair than I did. The cast included Alice Pearce, who’d been brought to Hollywood from Broadway by Gene Kelly to reprise her role in the film of On the Town and who went on to win an Emmy for her role as the nosy neighbor in the hit series Bewitched. Everyone got along well and had a lot of laughs.

  David Janssen, who had been in the ser­vice with my brother, Bill, was another dear friend who worked on this film. David was a tortured soul. His mother had been a chorus girl in Los Angeles who had an affair with Clark Gable, and David was convinced that Gable was his real father. There certainly was a resemblance. It was a big issue for David. I believe it contributed to his alcohol abuse, which may have led to his early death.

  Duri
ng the shoot, I was pregnant with my third child, my first with Harry Karl. When we finished filming, Harry and I went to Europe for a combined business trip and vacation. In Rome, I felt the baby stop moving. It dropped down about three inches. I knew immediately that I had lost this child. When I got home, my fears were confirmed. Abortion was illegal, and a cesarean section would have impaired my health, so I had to carry the dead fetus until it either aborted itself or was stillborn.

  I was in my seventh month and wound up carrying the baby to term. People would say, “You look wonderful. What are you going to name the baby?” And I’d answer with a broken heart, “I haven’t decided yet,” knowing that the baby was already gone. Devastated, I asked Harry to handle the baby’s burial. I couldn’t bear to know any more about our lost child. Even though this was heartbreaking, we still hoped to have more children.

  Mary, Mary

  (WARNER BROTHERS, 1963)

  In the fall of 1962, I was signed to do the movie version of Jean Kerr’s hit Broadway comedy Mary, Mary, about a recently divorced couple forced to spend time together by an IRS tax audit in a blizzard. But it wasn’t until months later that I read the script. When I did, I was overcome by insecurity. I went to Jack Warner and told him I couldn’t do it. He wasn’t having any of it.

  “I’m not good enough,” I insisted. “I’m not right for the part.”

  He reminded me that he was paying me $350,000—a far cry from the $60 a week I’d been getting when my career started.

  “You think I’d waste all that dough on you if I didn’t think you could do it? I know what you can do!”

  Maybe if I hadn’t been married to the then very rich Harry Karl, hoping to have more children and not really needing to work, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that stars from the Broadway cast were also doing the movie—except for Barbara Bel Geddes, who’d been nominated for a Tony Award for playing Mary. I kept telling myself that I didn’t have the proper training, that I just did cute and adorable, that I wasn’t serious. You’d think that George Cukor, Bette Davis, Ernest Borgnine, and John Gielgud having told me I was good would have sunk in, but apparently it hadn’t.