I was hanging out with a friend, Jan Peters, and his wife, Rita, one night, and we started bouncing names around. (Jan had changed his name too. He was born Irwin Padolsky.) I was really determined to do this. I was pretty sure I knew what I wanted my last name to be: MacLeod. I loved it. I thought so fondly of my Ithaca drama teacher, Beatrice MacLeod, and all that she did for me and so many other students. It just felt right to me. Coming up with a first name was a little more difficult, though. For a moment I considered taking Jan’s old name, to honor him, but “Irwin MacLeod” didn’t sound quite right. We tossed a few names around, but nothing sounded right with “MacLeod”—until I mentioned an old TV show I’d seen in college, an episode of a series called Climax. It was a powerful show, starring Jean-Pierre Aumont as a father who bragged about his son named Gavin. There was a twist at the end, where it became clear that every brag the father had uttered had been made up! It was moving and dramatic, and there was something strong about that kid’s name, which also happened to be the name of the episode: “Gavin.”
I spoke it out loud. “Gavin MacLeod.” My friends said it, too, in deep, Andre Baruch–like radio announcer voices: “And now, the star of the show . . . Gavin MacLeod!” It sounded great! So that was that.
In those days, you had to post proposed name changes in the newspaper and then wait a couple of months to make sure there were no objectors before you could make it legal. I had no objectors—except for one. When I told my mother, she said, “Your father will turn over in his grave.” At that point in my life, I said to myself, “I’m not gonna feel guilty about that.”
My new name gave me a new start. I felt refreshed. Reborn, almost. At least in my career. I felt like I was ready to take on the world. “Hello, world. Meet Gavin MacLeod!”
I also started a brand-new job at a place that would put me closer to all the action on Broadway: Jim Downey’s Steak House on Forty-Fourth and Eighth—a theater district hot spot that was so famous in its day, they brought it back to life sixty years later on an episode of Mad Men. I worked as a cashier there, where many of the big producers and directors and even stars would pop in for a drink, a bite, and maybe some deal making. How did I get that job over hundreds of other starving actors looking for work? As they say, it’s all about who you know. The owner, Mr. Downey, was Jimmy Downey’s father! Jimmy, my high school buddy who drove me to my scholarship audition at Ithaca College in his ’33 Chevy, was living in New York now and working for his dad. When we were growing up, Mr. Downey owned a couple of restaurants upstate, but this was the big time. I mean, big! His place was a West Side version of Sardi’s. Everyone went to Downey’s.
I wound up moving into Jimmy’s apartment, just a block and a half from the restaurant. Now I was living and working right in the thick of it, walking past all the theaters every day, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of Broadway—everything I wanted to be a part of. Life was great!
Rootie and I were head over heels for each other. I was twenty-five years old, and I felt in my heart that we were meant to be together. So I popped the question, and she said yes. We married in 1955 in a nuptial mass at St. Malachy’s, The Actors Chapel, right in the heart of the theater district. I’ll never forget looking down at my grandfather, Jimmy Shea, in the front row. He was crying and crying. He had quit drinking by then, but he had always been a real emotional guy. Maybe that’s where I get the tears from. I cry at the drop of a hat! Always have. I remember in one of my first nightclub acts, I sang that famous Stephen Sondheim song “Anyone Can Whistle.” When I sang the line, “. . . whistle for me,” I heard a whistle from a little boy in the audience and I just lost it. Right there onstage! I cry at movies too. An Affair to Remember with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr—I cried like a baby when I first saw that. When that movie plays nowadays, I cry at the opening credits just knowing what’s gonna happen.
The wedding was spectacular. I wore my hairpiece and looked handsome as could be, and Rootie was gorgeous. She always was, but on that day—wow!
In addition to both of our families, the church was filled with my buddies from college, friends from my acting classes, and our pals from Radio City Music Hall. The wedding made all the New York papers, too, with a photo and everything, because Rootie was a Rockette. (Certainly not because I was an ex-usher and elevator operator. That wouldn’t have made the news.) They even put the wedding announcement in the New York Times. I was moving up!
My college buddy Ron Pedrone was my best man, and Jimmy Downey was my head usher. Our friend Marta Curro, who was a big, tall dancer, caught the bouquet. She wound up marrying the song-and-dance man Jerry Orbach (who would be known later in life for his long run as a detective on Law & Order).
Rootie and I planned a honeymoon trip to New England, but we weren’t sure we were going to make it. I didn’t have a driver’s license! I was living in Manhattan. I never needed to drive. But my mother agreed to loan me her car so we could take a proper honeymoon. Weeks before the wedding, one of my brother’s friends took me out for driving lessons. Then I went and took the test—and I passed. But they mailed your license to you in those days. Two days before the wedding we thought we’d have to change plans and just take the train out to Long Island to start our life together. But luckily, with just a day to spare, my license arrived. We were good to go!
As Rootie and I drove out of Manhattan, the whole group in front of the church cheered. Secretly, I think they were praying, “Lord Jesus, protect them!” It was the first time I had ever driven on my own.
We wound our way northeast to a place called the White Turkey Inn, in Connecticut, where I spent my wedding night picking rice out of my hairpiece. Well, part of my wedding night anyway. (Wink, wink.)
We wound up driving all the way up through Vermont and New Hampshire in the days that followed—some of the most beautiful countryside either of us had ever seen. We were two kids in love and on top of the world.
Rootie and I moved into an apartment on Ninth Avenue at 54th Street—across from a bus depot, where they fixed the buses. There was a lot of noise at night, but we didn’t mind because we were in love, living in the city of our dreams, surrounded by everything we wanted to be a part of.
It was around that same time when I landed my first part on a TV show. It wasn’t much of a part, but it was on TV and in a show I had heard of! I played one of a group of people picketing on the street, protesting something or other in a scene for the show Lamp unto My Feet, a spiritual program that aired on Sundays on CBS. (Kind of interesting that my first TV show was something of a spiritual nature. Foretelling, perhaps?) It was a union part, and I remember how good it felt to sign up for the union under my new name: Gavin MacLeod.
The union categorized how you got paid by the number of lines you had, and I think I had a “five and under” part, which meant I had fewer than five lines. Well, guess who else was there in that same group of fictional protestors, playing the very same kind of part? Billy Dee Williams. He and I have had a few laughs about that whenever we’ve run into each other through the years. There we were, two young actors trying to catch a break, taking whatever gig came along.
An actor’s life is tough. You get a gig like that on a TV show, and you think you’ve got it made. You’re flying high! And then nothing else comes of it. I did some other theater work during that time, and every bit of it was a great learning experience, but it wasn’t really leading anywhere. I came to New York because I wanted to be on Broadway, like all of those amazing actors I saw when my uncle Al used to take Ronnie and me down to the city. I tried everything I could think of to get noticed.
With some of the money I made at Downey’s I enrolled in more acting classes, including one class led by Frank Corsaro, a disciple of Lee Strasberg himself (who of course was one of the greatest acting coaches who ever lived). Frank was only a few years older than I was, but he was already causing quite a stir in New York, and he gave me a huge boost of confidence on the first day of class. We worked on a scene from
Death of a Salesman, and as we were walking out of the building he said to me, “I really like the stuff you’re doing.” He liked it so much, he said he would consider using me as an understudy in a new play he was directing—a play called Johnny Had a Yo-Yo that was on a fast-track for Broadway.
“Wow!” I said. “Thank you!”
After the class was through, though, I never heard from him about that role. I’d see him at Downey’s now and then, but I didn’t want to ask him about it. I was honored just to have that compliment in my back pocket. Maybe at some point he’ll remember he said it, I thought. In the meantime, I just kept doing what I was doing.
After all my days of living on buttered rolls and ketchup soup, Mr. Downey made sure I ate at least one square meal a day at his restaurant—even though I only ate Jell-O on Fridays. I wanted to stay slim. I needed to be in shape. I had heard that Jell-O was made from ground-up horse hooves and was good for you! That’s what I’d been told, anyway.
I filled myself up just by being around those talented producers and directors, and even some of the biggest names in the world who walked through those doors. In fact, who should walk into Downey’s one afternoon but Marilyn Monroe.
Marilyn had come to town to study with Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio. Eli Wallach, the great character actor, was a regular at Downey’s, and he and his wife, Ann Jackson, had taken Marilyn under their wing. I was standing at the register, and I looked up and saw this lovely creature standing at the door with Eli, with a sweater on her shoulders, and a blouse cut down to there—she was wearing no makeup, just a little powder, and I said, “Whoa! That’s Marilyn Monroe.” They came in and sat at the booth right across from me. I kept looking and looking until finally Eli said, “Come on over, Gavin! Meet Marilyn Monroe.” I said, “Oh, what a pleasure to meet you. Are you enjoying yourself in the city?” She replied, softly, “It’s different. Everybody’s been such a help to me.”
I was flummoxed, of course. I said, “You’re so sweet!” And then I didn’t know what else to say. “Well, I’ve got to get to work. But can I tell you something?”
She said, “Sure.”
I said, “I’m gonna call all my friends tonight and tell them I met Marilyn Monroe!” She laughed at that.
To think: I made Marilyn Monroe laugh.
Sometimes I had to pinch myself. How in the world did this chubby kid from Pleasantville wind up living and working in the heart of Broadway, in a job where he gets to talk to Marilyn Monroe? It was mind-boggling.
As fun as it was, though, I started to wonder, When am I gonna get my big break?
It was 1956 and I still didn’t have an agent. Even with the hair! I went to auditions. I paid my dues. Almost four years had gone by since I moved to the city. That was as long as I’d spent in high school. As long as I’d spent in college. Wasn’t it time to graduate from a cashier job and bit parts?
Twenty years later, Kander and Ebb would write a song about the showbiz-dreamer experience, which a lot of young actors and performers like me went through: “New York, New York,” with that powerful line: “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.”
As optimistic and happy as I was, there was a little part of me that wasn’t sure: Am I gonna make it here?
4
BROADWAY, BABY!
WHENEVER WE COULD SAVE UP ENOUGH MONEY, Rootie and I would go to the theater. We wanted to see everything! And it was a glorious time on Broadway, with so much new ground being broken on the stage. One of the most unforgettable shows of the era was A Hatful of Rain, in 1956, starring Ben Gazzara, Anthony Franciosa, and Shelley Winters. As I recall, Walter Winchell called it the best-acted play in New York in ten years. It was astounding, and quite an emotional experience. It was a play that dealt with morphine addiction, and it was really quite dark. I had never seen a play about junkies before. It was eye-opening, to say the least.
Well, guess what? That play was the very same play that was originally called Johnny Had a Yo-Yo, directed by Frank Corsaro. The same play he had mentioned I might be good for as an understudy many months earlier. I sure wish he would remember what he said to me, I thought as we exited that theater.
That was a magnificent time in New York for my wife and me. She got pregnant. We were so excited about starting a family.
I also knew it wasn’t going to cut it for me to keep working as a cashier. I needed to make something happen in my career, pronto.
Seeing the shows, going to acting classes, working at Downey’s—I was in the thick of it, man, and I heard things. I knew things. I had my ear to the ground. I think that’s important no matter what industry you’re trying to break into. The thing was, A Hatful of Rain was getting so much acclaim, and its actors were winning over so many fans and critics, the cast wound up getting raided by Hollywood. Anthony Franciosa was picked up for the movies, which meant Harry Guardino—another talented actor, who was his understudy—was moving up into Anthony’s role. I knew that meant they would have to find another young actor to fill Harry’s spot, and I wanted that part badly. The character was called Man in Hallway, and he only had one line: “Back up, Johnny! Back up like a mule!” At that point I had never been around drugs, never tried a drug in my life. But I knew I could play that junkie character. I just knew it.
Frank Corsaro walked into Downey’s one day, and I decided to speak up. “God, give me strength!” I prayed. It was a big risk. He could have dismissed me entirely. He could have forgotten all about what he said. Maybe he didn’t really mean it and was just being nice to me all those months ago. By speaking up, there was a chance that I could have been put down, humiliated even. But I didn’t let those feelings stop me. “Frank, can I talk to you?” I said. “I understand that Tony is leaving, Harry is moving up, and you need someone for the show. Remember you told me—”
“Oh, yes, yes!” he said. “I’ll talk to Jay Julien, the producer, and arrange a reading for you.”
That was all it took. Lo and behold, he set up a reading for me that Saturday, at the theater where my wife and I had seen the show. It was the first backstage experience I ever had on Broadway. I was about to step out on the very same set where I had seen Shelley Winters and Tony Franciosa do their stuff—wow!
The amazing thing was that stepping out onto that stage felt as natural as could be. I was nervous, sure. But I had worked hard enough to feel like that stage was where I belonged.
My audition was strong. I could feel it in my bones. I was standing downstage, in the part of the set that looked like a kitchen. It was a lower level, and then the living room was up on a bit of a platform, which unfortunately I didn’t notice until it was too late. Right after I got up under those lights and did my thing, I turned around to walk backstage and tripped and fell over that step. I bounced right up and brushed myself off, but I was embarrassed. I thought for sure I had blown the audition. There were so many people from the Actors Studio auditioning opposite me. I was still such a newcomer, and now I looked like a klutz. And with a hairpiece, no less. I tried not to be too hard on myself. But I was. As I left the theater, I shrugged my shoulders and told myself I was glad that I gave it a shot.
I went to work that night and was standing behind the cash register when the producer, Jay Julien, walked over and said, “Gavin? Kid, you’ve got your first Broadway show.” At Downey’s restaurant! Behind the register! That’s how I found out I got my first Broadway play—and a salary of ninety dollars a week!
I could hardly believe my good fortune.
I ran over to Radio City to tell my wife as soon as I could. The doctors said it was okay for her to keep working even though she was pregnant, so there she was, night after night, kicking those legs sky-high. On my way in, I bumped into my friend Vince, my old roommate who gave me the money to get the hairpiece. Without that hairpiece, I couldn’t have gotten the part! I was so excited to tell him. “You’re not gonna guess what happened. I’m going on Broadway in A Hatful of Rain!” I said. He replied, “Eh, they’re
gonna close soon, anyway.”
I said, “What’s wrong with you?!” I wasn’t gonna let anyone rain on my parade. I went and found Rootie, and she was thrilled. She was so excited for me. For us! This felt like the start of everything. Like the big time.
The fact was, all I wanted to do was land a Broadway play. I told myself a hundred times, “If I can just land one Broadway play, I’ll be happy. That’s all I want.”
Of course, God had a lot more in store for me than I could have known at that time. There was a whole journey ahead of me, bigger than anything I could even dream about.
In the last few months of A Hatful of Rain’s run on Broadway, just before they took it out on the road, the cast went through a few more changes—including the addition of one soft-spoken guy who would make quite an impact in the world.
They read a lot of people to replace Ben Gazzara when he left to do his first film, The Strange One. Ben was the toast of New York at that time, the new sensational young actor, and the producers wanted someone with enough presence to fill his shoes. Wouldn’t you know it? Of all the people who read for the part of Johnny Pope, the one who got it was a newcomer—a guy named Steven McQueen. (That’s how he was billed in the show too: “Steven.” He wouldn’t change it to “Steve” until he, too, got drafted out to Hollywood.)
Frank Corsaro really saw something in McQueen, and I was lucky enough to have all of my rehearsals with him as he was getting ready. My wife asked, “What’s he like?” I said, “Well, he drives a motorcycle. He parks it right in the back of the stage door. He’s kind of friendly. But I tell you, when we’re playing a scene and I’m down left and he’s down right, I can’t hear him! When we get close, though, he’s fascinating. Just fascinating. He’s got something going on.” Little did I know, close-ups were where he was really going to shine—on the big screen.
This Is Your Captain Speaking: My Fantastic Voyage Through Hollywood, Faith & Life Page 5