Our train trip to Porto Santo Stephano was confusing. We didn’t speak Italian making all the station announcements indecipherable. Holding our tickets and our train change instructions, we were at the mercy of the conductor who occasionally walked through our car. Lots of hand signals finally got through to us that we must change at the next station. With papers, passports, and tickets waving we managed to get on the right car at last.
Waiting for us at the station was the Contessa’s driver in a beautiful Mustang convertible. He told us that Lily Gerini was an American woman from Chicago who married a titled Italian and owned half of the Appian Way. She had built a villa on top of Nero’s birthplace and was renowned for her entertaining. A short and lively ride brought us to the villa and Lily.
“My darlings at last! Forgive us for not waiting,” she said, urging us inside.
We walked into a large room with about 20 people already into their meal. Snatches of Italian, Spanish, and French conversation floated back and forth across the table. We were ushered to our seats, Tim way down and across from me as they always do at such dinner parties. Once seated I surveyed my place setting and found an alarming fan of cutlery. Some of the utensils were as foreign as the food before me. I hadn’t learned any of this in my fast-track charm school.
The dinner mate on my left was a handsome young man, barely older than me. He registered my confusion and leaned over and whispered in a polished Spanish accent, “It’s easy. You only have to start from the outside and work your way in.” We both laughed and I was grateful he didn’t treat me like an American rube. He inquired about our trip and I told him that after a brief train ride to Modena, Italy, where Tim wanted to tour the Ferrari factory, we were on our way to Madrid. He seemed familiar with both places and assured me that we would have a memorable time.
As it turned out my dinner companion knew more about silverware and expensive cars than I’d imagined. Ten years later when he, Juan Carlos, was crowned King of Spain, I realized I’d learned a lesson in table manners from European royalty.
And as Spain’s future monarch had predicted, Tim did indeed enjoy the time we spent in Modena. He loved the Ferrari he tried out so much that he ordered one to be shipped to Los Angeles, where he planned to pay for it at the Beverly Hills dealership. Gulp. Though I had little knowledge of Tim’s finances I wasn’t at all sure he (or we) could afford that. But he was thinking like a TV and film star. The money would show up. The future was golden.
After we returned Tim and I were the “It Couple” for a while and we had lots of adventures that were documented in gossip columns and industry papers.
One night in Hollywood we were at a restaurant waiting for our table when in walked Charlton Heston, whom Tim knew from a film they’d worked on together with Julie Andrews in 1955, Private War of Major Benson. Heston in gregarious style came over with that radiant “Ben Hur” smile and greeted Tim by name. It was then Tim’s turn to greet him back and to introduce me. I could tell that even though he knew Heston, Tim was a pretty star struck. He looked at Heston. Heston looked back and then looked at me. I smiled at Heston and then at Tim. This went on for a long awkward moment until finally Charlton Heston gave Tim a “Good to see you” nod and walked away. I laughed and said to Tim, “Did you forget his name?” And he said, “No, I forgot yours!”
While I was still working like crazy to ramp-up my career — auditions, business lunches, parties, the chase for parts — Tim was pulling away from acting. While on our honeymoon, Tim’s agent had engineered a career-crippling disaster. Tim had expressed the desire to direct more episodes of My Three Sons and his agent had gone to the producers — while we were in Europe — and tried playing hard-ball, demanding that Tim direct half of the next season’s episodes. It was an all-or-nothing proposition. The producers went for nothing and promptly cut Tim from the show.
It wouldn’t be his only post-honeymoon disappointment.
Thinking it was time for the Ferrari he ordered to arrive, Tim stopped by the dealership in Beverly Hills where it was to be delivered. When he asked about the car he learned that, yes, it had arrived but actor Steve McQueen had been at the dealership that day, seen it, and wanting to throw some of his The Great Escape money around bought it on the spot.
Tim was furious but the truth is it was the best thing that could’ve happened. Neither of us had a Ferrari income at that point.
Tim spun into a funk, started spending more and more time in his dark room working on photography projects, and didn’t leave the house much. He stopped going to auditions and let his hair grow, which he stubbornly refused to cut and as a result started losing out on new roles. His mother and his agent begged him to get a haircut — nope. He wasn’t going to do it. He spent more and more time with his racecars and other interests. He and his brother John were working on scripts for a TV show they planned to pitch to the networks.
He was also settling into marriage, partying less, and becoming a homebody. In fact one night he said we should stop drinking and smoking pot altogether. Looking back I think this must have come, as least in part, from my own drinking. Not long before this, we’d invited some neighbors over for dinner and before they’d arrived, while cooking I’d downed an entire bottle of wine and had passed out. Tim was stuck with the job of a very awkward last minute cancellation.
While Tim did indeed stop drinking and smoking weed, I couldn’t imagine life without alcohol. Our entire social life centered on hanging out and having drinks or getting high. Rather than do as he suggested, I not only continued but almost certainly drank more. And since I couldn’t do this at home — or at least didn’t find it fun anymore under Tim’s sober gaze — we started spending less and less time together. He’d be at home or off behind the wheel of a racecar and I’d be out drinking with friends, and in many cases making new friends he knew nothing about.
He was in the Air Force Reserves, which meant he was gone for a training weekend once a month and I took advantage of those absences to pack in some extra fun.
On the acting front I was pursing every opportunity — TV, film, special appearances, and advertising. At one point I was so busy my agent started being contacted for “a Charlotte Stewart type but not Charlotte because she’s in everything.” Call it a farm girl’s work ethic.
In October 1966, I was back at The Cellar Theater in a production of La Ronde, a farce set in Vienna in the late 1800s, again directed by Ken Rose. The Los Angeles Times reviewer found a lot to dislike in the production though I was one of two performers she found some merit in saying that I “had my moments.” Seriously. That’s as good as the review got.
In 1968, I landed a part in Speedway, which starred Elvis Presley, toward the end of the run of bubble gum films he appeared in in the 1960s. It was such a treat to play a couple of scenes with him at MGM. In real life Elvis was as startlingly handsome and gracious as I’d always imagined. One afternoon, while waiting out a lengthy set-up for a scene he caught my eye, called me over, and set me up with a chair next to his. My stomach did a flip-flop because, well, he was Elvis — hands-down the most famous person on the planet — and I had no idea what he wanted. When I settled in he took my hand and apologized for the movie.
“It’s a terrible film,” he said and gave a deep sigh. “I get the girl, I get the car…”
Beyond the predictable script he thought the music written for him to perform was thin, uninspired, and forgettable.
This put me in a weird spot. How to respond? “Yes, Elvis, your movie is crap.”
I just wanted him to keep talking in the silky, smooth, Southern voice. And to keep holding my hand. The fact that I wasn’t visibly freaking out is probably the best acting of my life.
Whatever I said in response did the trick because he did keep talking about how he’d dreamed of being movies, like any regular boy or girl, and how that had turned into making B-grade romps like Girl Happy and Clambake. One topic led to another and before I realized it an hour sailed by as he told me abo
ut his life, his music, and his mama — the whole time holding my hand. He was by turns funny, intense, and thoughtful. It was very sweet and it was the first time I saw him as a person, not as an icon or a star but as a very nice, vulnerable guy — almost a kid — who was caught up in a career like a typhoon. It was one of my first experiences meeting a music legend, only to discover a kind, thoughtful, shy, and uncertain artist behind all the fame and tabloid stories. It was not to be my last such experience. His conversation with me ended abruptly, when his manager, Col. Tom Parker, walked into the sound stage. Elvis was up and out of his chair like a shot and nearly standing at attention in Parker’s presence, confirming a lot of what I’d heard about the hold Parker had over him.
My next film, back at Goldwyn Studio, was The Cheyenne Social Club with Jimmy Stewart and Henry Fonda, directed by the great Gene Kelly. I played a saloon girl and in my first scene was to enter through the swing-doors with food on a tray for Stewart and Fonda. When I heard Gene Kelly say “Action,” I swung through the doors and all the food on the tray sailed halfway across the set, which got a big laugh, especially from all the barflies. The scenes I was in were all with the guys in the saloon, a bunch of old time cowboy actors from the early days. Between set ups they’d sit around and swap stories about shooting Westerns all the way back to the days of silent flickers. What a hoot to hang out with those guys. Gene was a joy to work with too. One day at lunchtime a group of us were heading out to the Formosa Cafe up on the corner and I asked him if he’d dance with me. He said, “Sure, what would you like to do?” I asked him if he’d do the scissor-step and he seemed surprised that I’d know it. So Gene Kelly and I did the scissor-step together down the middle of Formosa Avenue.
It was a kick to work with legends like Jimmy Stewart and Henry Fonda, though beyond shooting our scenes together we didn’t exactly hang out and practice our dance moves. In the long periods of downtime on the set Jimmy Stewart, who had recently lost his stepson in Vietnam, would sit on the steps of his dressing trailer playing the accordion to himself. Jimmy had been a heroic figure in World War II as a wing commander for a bomber squadron based in Southern England. His courage and commitment had inspired a whole generation. But that was a different war and a different time. I wondered what his thoughts were now but he kept them to himself. Henry Fonda was a pretty keep-to-himself guy too. I always called him Mr. Fonda, which he preferred to anything less formal. I did try to warm up to him at the cast party when I pulled him into a stairwell and asked if he had any weed. This made him grumpier than usual and he stalked off saying, “I think it’s my son you want to talk to.”
I had a great deal more success in this regard — in the weed-scoring department — when I appeared on a western series on NBC called The Virginian, as the ditz wife of actor Dennis Weaver. What a foul mood Dennis was in on that shoot. Took himself very seriously and took an almost instant and long-lasting dislike to me; I was never sure why.
The episode was called “The Dark Train” in which the cast spent six days on small set built to look like the interior of a passenger train from the late 1800s. To give the sense of movement over tracks and terrain, the entire set was jiggled this way and that throughout the six-day shoot.
By the end of it the entire cast was pretty exhausted from all the jostling and to celebrate the end of our travails, most of us (minus Dennis) gathered in one of the dressing trailers to share the comforts of weed. When we were all feeling pretty fantastic, there was a sudden, loud knock at the door. We got busy inside the trailer opening windows and fanning smoke and arranging ourselves in such a way as to not look stoned.
When we opened the door, an assistant director was there to inform us that noise on the set had ruined the sound and that we all needed to come back to loop (meaning re-record) our dialogue. They hadn’t taught us at the Pasadena Playhouse how not to sound high when you are. It’s just one of those skills you pick up on the job.
Leaving the old west behind for a while, I got to fly to Hawaii and play a drug addict on an episode of Hawaii Five-O. The thing is I actually had a lot of weed in my luggage — we’ll call this method acting. The driver who picked me up at the airport in Hawaii was a big Samoan guy who was really easy to talk to and likeable. He helped get all my bags into the hotel and as a thank-you I gave him a couple of joints, which he appreciated. Out on my balcony I saw him crossing the courtyard below. He’d already lit one up and when he saw me he gave me the “OK” sign. Apparently my L.A. pot measured up to his Maui-Wowie standards. So far so good.
In one of my first scenes I was running down the street toward the camera, which was mounted on a car and moving away from me. I tripped and fell and wound up in the hospital with a broken kneecap. For the remainder of the shoot they had to find ways of shooting me from the waist up to avoid the cast on my leg. In the long shots, like where you’d see me walking away, they had to find a body double, who also had my long blonde hair.
And yes, in this episode, I worked with Hawaii Five-0 star Jack Lord. Jack was a big shot on the island. He owned a huge house in Honolulu and was the resident star in those parts — you got the sense just from the way he moved through the world that he was very much lord of the manor, no pun intended. He seemed unusually aware of his status and his appearance, even by TV standards. Though we were shooting an episode in the first season of the show, already the joke among the crew was that they could only shoot outdoors if the wind was coming from the right direction and didn’t mess up Jack’s hair.
In this episode Jack and I had an emotional scene in which I’m lying in a hospital bed — a fake one this time versus the real one I’d recently been in. And while we were shooting, he was holding my hand and nearly crushing it to a pulp. Did he think this was going to improve my acting? I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to end a scene with anyone.
Of course, did I say anything to him in between takes? Did I ask the big deal TV star to stop mangling my hand?
Nope. Speaking up for myself was not on my list of skills.
Back home I auditioned relentlessly and got guest roles on shows that have sunk into pop-culture oblivion such as The F.B.I., The Young Lawyers, and The Interns.
But good things come to those who audition, and a great career boost came with getting parts on Bonanza, an iconic show even at the time, during which I got to see the young Michael Landon at work. Even though Lorne Greene was billed as the star of the show, really it was Mike, who played “Little Joe.” Even then he was Mr. Charisma. What woman wouldn’t melt at least a little at that smile? But Mike was more than a pretty face and a pair of suspenders. He was ambitious and driven. He was a good writer, who had a dead-on understanding of story and character. He knew how to make an audience care. Sounds easy, I guess, but nothing could be more difficult.
On Bonanza, like lots of Westerns, we filmed interior scenes at Paramount Studios and the exteriors at sprawling Big Sky Movie Ranch, located outside of Los Angeles in Simi Valley. (This is exactly what we’d do a few years down the road, when Michael was the boss of his own show, Little House on the Prairie.) In one sequence, the script called for me to escape from a bad guy who was inside my cabin, a scene that we shot on a Paramount sound stage. A week or so later they needed to film me bursting out of the front door of the cabin at that same level of distress. At Big Sky I was inside the ramshackle house set waiting to hear the director call “Action.” I prepped myself on the other side of the door, breathing heavily and getting myself into the right mindset. When I heard “Action,” I flew through the door and thanks to hyperventilation promptly blacked out, landing in the huge arms of Dan Blocker, who played “Hoss.”
There are worse places to end up.
On the set of Ben Casey in an episode called “For Jimmy, The Best of Everything,” I had a scene with Peter Falk — this was just before he played his career-defining role of Columbo. I was a medical student and Peter was a doctor who asked a question of me. The line I had in response to his question was pretty co
mplicated, full of medical jargon, and I “went up,” meaning the line just vanished from my mind while the cameras were rolling. Instead of stopping and waiting for me to pull it together, Peter, who got his start in off-Broadway theater, just kept going, goading me for the answer like a real doctor would until the line just tumbled out of me. And I loved him for it. It made the scene feel real, provoking the very reaction a flustered student might give.
Also for Paramount I was briefly in The Slender Thread, a film directed by Sydney Pollack — it was his first feature though he’d acted and directed in TV for a long time. I played a telephone operator receiving a desperate call from Sidney Poitier at a suicide crisis center. Poitier was trying to track down the location of a suicidal caller (played by Anne Bancroft). We filmed the scene in an actual telephone company, in which there was a long bank of switching panels where operators would move plugs around a grid to connect calls. My scene was pretty simple. I was to take the call, recognize the gravity of the situation and ask my supervisor over to deal with it.
In the first couple of takes I really laid on the shock and explosiveness of the situation — throwing as much movement and “acting” into my few seconds of screen time as possible. Finally Sydney called “Cut” and came over, put his hand on my shoulder and said gently, “She’s just a telephone operator.” We shot the scene again and this time I took my performance down about ten notches, which worked. But it was at times like this when I wondered how much more I had to learn. Since the days of mastering the art of hitting my mark on Damaged Goods or eating so much I nearly burst on The Loretta Young Show, I hoped that I was getting better. Hoped I was learning my craft. But was I?
While jobs were coming in — TV, film and advertising — the thing I still lacked was confidence. Every time I was in front of a camera, I felt like a screw-up. Cast members were usually very supportive — though I could always find a Dennis Weaver who’d treat me like dirt. My career felt fragile like I was just one blown line away from seeing it all end. I couldn’t shake that feeling of being in a sound stage filled with crew and cast all waiting for me to cross a room or deliver a line and looking around thinking “I wonder if they know I don’t know what I’m doing.” Still, just as at the Pasadena Playhouse when I’d been invited to leave the program, I kept going to auditions, kept working at it. I still had no Plan B.
Little House in the Hollywood Hills Page 6