I, one who takes pride in being a fair impressionist, outdid myself. I channeled Mr. Selman and impersonated his voice, his grimaces, and his pantomime to perfection, palsied hand and all. My lisping on the words “discontent,” “glorious,” “summer,” and “son of York,” even to the volume of spit, was identical to his. When I finished declaiming “may gloriuthh thhhummer by the thhhhun of yawwwwwk,” an eerie silence descended in the room. The dozen or so actors who had witnessed my “audition” were all staring at me. Mr. Selman too was staring at me with his good eye, the eyebrow above it fully arched.
After trying to determine whether I was a complete idiot or just an actor who follows directions too well, Mr. Selman smiled crookedly and said, “Very good, young man, very good indeed.”
The most astonishing aspect of this incident was that I was blithely unaware of what I had done until a fellow actor, Gene Lyons, who would become a close and dear friend, came up to me and asked, “Hey, what the hell were you doing?”
“I was doing what he told me to do—why?”
“Mr. Selman told you to make fun of his stroke?”
I could not make Gene or anyone believe that I was not aware that our boss had suffered a major stroke. How could I notice anything about the old man when I was so busy worrying about what he was noticing about me?
WHAT I LEARNED
Sometimes ignorance is bliss.
LIZ SMITH
Syndicated Columnist
When I began writing my nationally syndicated column back in 1976 I was almost immediately attacked publicly by a well-known publicist. For reasons best understood by him, he set out to try to destroy me, my credibility, my ethics, and, yes—even my private life.
He sent out wedding invitations that said I had married a woman, a friend, in her mother’s home. He sent letters over his own signature to the head of NBC News, saying I had had someone killed. None of this was true, of course, but he never stopped!
He’s still around, so far as I know. He was wrong about me being “finished” in the business, but I wasn’t smart enough not to let him bother me. I once contemplated getting into his apartment secretly and painting it all in black enamel.
I fulminated against him. I tried to defend myself. I tried to punish him—to no avail. I worried and fretted. So this was a big mistake.
WHAT I LEARNED
I should have simply ignored him; let him do his worst and gone on my merry way. It is probably best to ignore your critics. Maybe they will prevail; maybe you’ll be lucky, as I was, and you will prevail, but there is very little you can do to affect a matter while it is ongoing. I know Tom Cruise has been successful in suing people who offend him, and winning. But few of us have Tom’s money, power, or stamina. My theory now is that you might as well be tranquil and save yourself the trouble. Let the attack become a part of your own fame and “legend.”
Don’t sue people. Don’t pursue their errors. Don’t defend yourself in such situations. Don’t invoke the postal authorities and FBI trying to prosecute them. Don’t seek revenge. Forget about it. Go on doing your thing. Become a philosopher. Realize it would never have happened in the first place if you weren’t already a success.
ARTHUR HILLER
Motion Picture Director
My mother was thirty-nine when I was born (and that was in the 1920s). I had two sisters, one thirteen years older than I and one eleven years older than I, but my parents desperately wanted to have a boy and just kept at it until I finally arrived.
I was brought up in such a protected way in such a loving home that I thought that love was just a part of family life—that everybody lived that way. Love was just there in our home. I remember how shocked I was when I was nine or ten and heard a classmate refer to his father as “a damn SOB.” I thought, How can someone say that about a father? Then I met some of those damn SOB fathers and mothers and realized that not all parents were like mine.
I have such gratitude that they exposed me to so much culture. Whatever love I have for literature, for the visual arts, for music, was because of their example. They even started a Yiddish Theater in Edmonton, Alberta. They weren’t professionals but they put on a play once a year just so the Jewish community could keep in touch with its cultural heritage. When I was seven or eight they let me help with painting the sets, and by the time I was ten, I was acting with the long beard and the hanging sideburns. Also, my father bought me a camera when I was six . . . a Kodak Duo 620. I loved it! By the time I was eight I had created my own darkroom in our basement so I could develop, and enlarge, my “offbeat” pictures.
More important, through their actions and comments, and without my even realizing it, my parents were instilling me with moral values. From them I learned that each person is an individual and should not be judged by color, ethnicity, or heritage. Judge people by their actions.
My parents had very little money but they were caring and giving . . . sometimes too much. The worst thing I ever heard my mother say about anybody was when she pointed at a newspaper picture of Adolf Hitler, in the early 1930s, and said, “He’s not a nice man.” I remember that my father let Joe Cotton, a ninety-year-old black man in a wheelchair, sit just inside the door of his menswear and secondhand musical instruments store for a few hours any day. Joe would just look out at the goings-on on the street or talk with my father.
Years later, when I was studying at the University of Toronto, I would travel back and forth by train. In those days the porters were all black, and the ones who were from Edmonton treated me like a king. Why? Because they all loved my father. They told me that unlike other shopkeepers, he treated them like normal folks when they went to his store. He didn’t look down on them.
As I said, my parents had such wonderful moral values and tried so hard to instill them in me. I wish I could have lived up to all of them.
And what did they want me to be when I grew up? They would have supported me in whatever profession I chose, but their big desire was to see my name on the cover of a book. They meant that in a general creative sense, and were so happy to see my directing credit on TV and film.
When I began to prepare my remarks for accepting the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, my love and gratitude for them came flooding back. I would be able to verbalize these regretfully unexpressed feelings to a billion people. I did . . . and somehow I feel in my heart that my parents were listening. I only wish I had said it all while they were living.
WHAT I LEARNED
Express your deepest feelings to those you love while it’s still possible.
DR. JOY BROWNE
Radio Psychologist
The mistake I made was getting involved with somebody who was separated when I was separated. He had been separated for nearly two years, living in a different state from his wife, when I met him. I had been living apart from my husband for a year. We got involved with each other because both of us viewed ourselves as single. The reality was that neither of us was. Separated is still married. I got divorced within the next six months, but he didn’t for years. I was a public figure dating a married man. I made all the newspapers, and I am lucky the scandal didn’t end my career.
WHAT I LEARNED
As anyone who has ever listened to my program knows, I have the dreaded One Year Rule, which everybody hates: you have to wait a full year after a divorce or a death to start dating somebody again. Separated, staying together for the sake of the children, not having shared the same bedroom for years, afraid to leave, trying to save money, is still married, and as long as someone is still married, that person is not eligible or available as date bait. It takes a minimum of a year after the divorce is final for someone to go through an anniversary or a birthday alone, to get a cold alone, and to just be okay alone. I’m not suggesting house arrest—it’s okay to hang out in groups, do volunteer activities, jog, learn Italian, work on your abs, spend some time with your mom—but your heart is going to go its own wa
y. If the two of you had kids, they’re going to have an even harder time adjusting, and they just don’t get a parent dating. They’ll either get too attached to or be too hostile to the new person. So do yourself and everybody a favor and wait the year after the divorce is final. View it as a road to future happiness. I wouldn’t go out to lunch with somebody until I saw his final divorce decree and made sure that it was at least a year old.
BILL DANA
Comedian (José Jiménez), Writer
It was in the early seventies, and I was living in Hana, Maui—Hana, eternal entry in the Most Beautiful Place on God’s Earth Contest. I had wanted to escape from all my self-inflicted sturm and tsuris (for you gentiles out there, those words mean “grief”). That’s a Hana specialty, but enough time had passed. Many wounds had healed. It seemed as though my bout with Pagliacci syndrome (my name for comedian’s depression) was over. I was ready to get back to work, but back to work as what? One doesn’t get back to being a star of your own show. Writer! That’s it! People in the industry had forgotten Bill Dana, comedy writer. And, blushes aside, not just a comedy writer but veteran writer from the original Steve Allen Tonight Show. Add the writer who had designed the character that became Maxwell Smart for Don Adams. The writer who had created José Jiménez. As my father would say, “Not a phony falsification.”
I was the real thing. I knew that, but how could I prove it to real-thing hirers? I had been away a long time. Could I write myself back into the business? The answer was God given. The biggest television phenomenon in the country was All in the Family. Who’s the producer? Norman Lear. What is Norman Lear to me? My oldest friend in the business, that’s what. The guy who’d kept my tiny start-up career alive by hiring me as a general factotum on The Martha Raye Show way back in 1954.
I call, and Norman tells me up front that there’s no possibility of an assignment. They have a great staff, and all the outside gigs have been assigned. “But come on in, Billy. Been too long. Love to see you.”
A blur, and I’m in Mr. Lear’s CBS office at Fairfax and Beverly in Los Angeles. “No chance for an episode, Bill, but it’s really good to see a pal from what were Nice Old Days.” Damn. Feeling low, I realize Norman doesn’t know I’ve schlepped three thousand miles on my quest to be a scribe again.
I stand to leave. “Wait a minute. There may be something.” I stop with gratitude for the delay in departure. “Got an idea. Our biggest fan is Sammy Davis. He starts his show at the Sands a half an hour late so he can tell his audience what Archie and the Bunkers are up to. There’ll never be any other star on the show, but we have decided that if we can get the real Sammy Davis in the mythical Bunker household, he’ll be it.” Together we stumble onto the fact that Archie moonlights as a cabdriver. Everybody knows that a cabbie in Manhattan could be hailed by any star of any magnitude should geography and karma coincide. “Okay, Billy. Write a draft.” I’m on my way!
Title page: “Sammy Davis Visits Archie Bunker by Bill Dana.” I send in the finished script. I don’t have to wait long.
“This is the best first draft we’ve ever had.” Norman Lear is telling his Nice Old Days pal little Bill Szathmary. Not bad.
It gets better. The episode is in rehearsal. I get a call. It’s Sammy! The world’s greatest entertainer, his very own brilliant, loving self on the phone: “Billy boy, practice your speech. If you don’t get an Emmy for this . . . well, like I say, practice your speech. We’re having an absolute ball. Everybody loves it.”
In order to be eligible for an Emmy a simple but critically important item called a craft card must be submitted to the appropriate guild by a specific date. I call my manager’s office. He is out of town. But the devil made sure that his secretary wasn’t.
Even as I type this a tingle of remembered remorse flows up the two fingers that have connected me with my muse for more than sixty years. Of course, it may be arthritis. I ask his secretary if she knows how to handle the submission transaction. “Absolutely. Piece of cake, and I hear you’re a shoo-in. Consider it handled.”
The show aired on February 19, 1972.
Boffo. Smasheroo. Salvos from the tube viewers.
Denouncement. The nominations for outstanding writing for a comedy series are . . . It wasn’t me.
You see, my former, newest, closest secretary friend had made an error that put a stop to the glory. What had happened was, instead of the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, home of the Emmy, she’d called Writers Guild of America, West, where a voice told her correctly that it was too early for award submissions. Not until the Emmy qualification date was already irrevocably closed and the announcements were made did we find out the source of the glitch.
There was so much excitement around that script from so many people, so much anticipation, that not being nominated had an illogical, almost incomprehensible effect on me. I returned to Hana in an emotional state I thought I had escaped.
I am a very happy man today. I am deeply in love with my wife, Evy. When you are a happy guy like me you look back and bless every cobblestone on the path that got you here. Yes, bless even those with some dreck on them. But there is a lesson from my mistake.
WHAT I LEARNED
Don’t buck the bromides. If it’s really important to you and you want it done right, do it yourself.
BOBBI BROWN
Founder and CEO, Bobbi Brown
Cosmetics
From the beginning of my career as a young freelance makeup artist, I was always interested in using makeup to play up a woman’s natural beauty. When I did makeup, less was more: a little concealer to cover darkness under the eyes; some foundation to even out the skin; blush to create a healthy glow; and a natural lippy shade of lipstick. While many of my fellow makeup artists were contouring and painting in features, I used makeup to play up what was real.
My approach resonated with women, but one of my frustrations during those freelancing days was that I often had to “fix” most of the makeup I bought, blending it with other shades to change the tone. Store-bought foundation looked pink and chalky on the skin. Lipsticks often smelled bad or perfume-y and were either too dry or too greasy. Makeup just didn’t look natural.
One day I had the idea to create a lipstick that was dense and creamy and looked like lips (only better). I made the color with the help of a chemist and I named the lipstick Brown #4. It was simple and special and looked good on many different people. Next, I thought about different women I knew and what colors would look good on them. From that came nine more shades. I now had a collection of ten lipsticks that included all tones and could be mixed and blended to create any color-correct lip shade, and in 1991, I launched Bobbi Brown Cosmetics, filling a gap in the market. The business took off and it wasn’t long before other makeup companies offered their take on the “natural makeup look.”
Then, in the late nineties, the pendulum swung the other way. Women wanted a cool downtown look and they started turning to younger, indie makeup companies with an edgier sensibility. I was advised that if I wanted to stay on the radar, I needed to do a dra-matic about-face. Literally. I was told that women were no longer interested in neutrals and that bold was the way to go. And I listened, even though I had a nagging doubt in my gut.
In 2000, I launched an ultrabright collection of products for lips, cheeks, and eyes with shades like lemon-lime, cornflower blue, and deep magenta. The collection was a radical departure from the philosophy—a natural and simple approach to makeup—on which I’d built my company. Our ads portrayed models decked out in bright blue eye shadow, cherry bomb red lipstick, and zebra-print tops. The reaction from customers was lukewarm. Instead of looking natural, fresh, and glowing, customers were leaving our counters looking like bad makeovers.
After two seasons of lackluster sales, I knew I had made a mistake, and I quietly discontinued the new line.
WHAT I LEARNED
I took a long and hard look at the decisions I’d made in the year before to figure out how we had go
tten derailed. The answer was simple: I hadn’t listened to my gut and I hadn’t stayed true to my personal philosophy. To get back on track I needed to go back to my roots—the brand’s core products. I made one simple promise that I’ve kept ever since: to offer only products that are 100 percent a reflection of my vision. We all have to grow and evolve—after all, that’s life. The trick is to do it in a way that stays true to who you are and what’s important to you.
DAN RAVIV
National Correspondent,
CBS News
Live for today. Life’s too short. Seize the day.
Is it really possible to encapsulate—in three words or less—the great lessons of our limited time on this planet? I’ve been too busy to wonder much about that, until recently.
There’s nothing like a writing assignment to make you stop and smell the roses. Oops, another cliché. And yes, clichés are usually true.
Here goes: Alzheimer’s. This disease really does destroy the memory part of your brain, cell by cell, lobe by lobe. Over the past two years, our family has been experiencing the effects of this illness as my father silently bids us a long good-bye.
Benjamin Raviv was born in Poland in 1925. His parents somehow knew that Europe was about to be no place for Jews. Shraga and Hannah took their little boy to British Palestine, and later they helped to make it into the State of Israel.
My mother, Esther, meantime, was taken by her parents, Eli and Raya, to Tel Aviv from Romania. They were city dwellers but also urban pioneers building a new country.
If I Only Knew Then... Page 7