Hello Darlin' (20 page)

In
What Are Best Friends For?—
my third movie of the year—I worked with Lee Grant and Barbara Feldon as well as other
talented actors like Nita Talbot, Ted Bessell, and George Furth.

I worked my ass off to capitalize on my name after
Jeannie,
but the juice didn’t last more than a couple years, and neither did the money. My
career was a constant hustle for parts. An actor’s life is not always mansions and
hot tubs. Despite three TV movies, I was broke. At one point, we rented our house
out for a month and slept on mattresses in Peter Fonda’s office. Awhile later I took
the family skiing in Big Bear and had just $60 on me. I figured on staying in our
van for a week or so, but on the way up I stopped for gas and I checked with my answering
service and picked up a message from my agent.

When I called him back, he asked if I wanted to do a show with Lauren Bacall.

“When?” I asked.

“In three days,” he said.

“What’s the money?”

“How much do you have now?”

“Sixty bucks.”

“It’s a lot more than that.”

I turned the camper around, and three days later we were in London to make a TV movie
of the musical
Applause.
Lauren was in the midst of a triumphant production of
Applause
onstage there. I heard that she’d been sent pictures of a number of leading-men types
to star opposite her in the TV adaptation and that her nine-year-old son had picked
mine from the pile and said, “Look, there’s the guy in
I Dream of Jeannie.”
When Lauren asked how I was, her son had said something like, “Gee whiz, he’s great,”
and then I got the part. She’s denied the story, but I believe it—mainly because it
makes a good tale.

I was thrilled to get a chance to work with her. My God, when she was nineteen and
going with Bogie, she was gorgeous, and years later she still had the looks, voice,
and presence of a great star. Her aura was intimidating.
Applause
was one of the most daunting roles I’d undertaken, and the greatest task was Betty
Bacall herself.

I rehearsed for over a week with her understudy before I even met her. I was warned
by producers that she didn’t like to be touched. I have no idea if that was true or
i f she even knew this was said about her. But when it was finally time for our proper
introduction, I was extremely nervous. I was led into a room where she was seated
in the center like royalty. I understood why everyone was in such awe of her. She
was an imposing figure. “Larry,” she said, gracefully extending her hand. “How nice
to meet you.”

Rather than lightly shake her hand, the equivalent of an air kiss, I ran my tongue
from her wrist to her elbow, an impulsive, immature piece of behavior that to this
day I can’t explain. But I did it and afterward I waited for something horrible to
happen. I vaguely recall her laughing tensely and then I got the hell out of there.

I’m sure she asked the producers who I thought I was. I’m sure they had no idea what
to tell her. Fortunately, she didn’t have me fired.

She was a sexy and charming woman. As we taped, she was friendly and gracious. I would
wait for my cue and each day, as I walked from our place in Kensington to the rehearsal
hall in Soho, I’d think, I’m out of my league. What am I doing here? I was so uptight
about working with her that I lost a pound a day during the shoot.

Once the taping ended, I needed time to recover. I took Maj and the kids to Wales.
We stayed in an old Norman castle that was in ruins except for a modern little cottage
in the center. Ravens perched on top of the stone walls, watching every move we made,
which terrified and delighted the children. One day, I got a call from Ben Washer,
my mother’s secretary and confidant. He told us that Richard had died. I paused for
a moment, then turned and told Maj and the kids the news. I felt sorry for Mother
and sent my regrets, simple and sincere.

Next, Claudio Guzmán invited me to do a movie with him in Chile, his homeland. His
enthusiasm alone appealed to my readiness for adventure. Claudio said
Antonio
was a comedy, but the real fun would be staying at his parents’ house. It sounded
wonderful. There was a downside, though. He couldn’t afford to pay me much, if any,
money. I laid out the offer to Maj, who insisted that I get at least $10,000.

“You know Claudio’s doing it on a shoestring,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “But we need to live too. Ten thousand dollars.”

After that was straightened out, we went down to Chile. My daughter, Heidi, spoke
some Spanish and got us around pretty well for an eighth-grader. The movie was cute.
Claudio had created it around Trini Lopez, who was a fellow graduate of Weatherford
High School. We got along well and had fun, though all through the shoot there was
tension in the country that made us uneasy.

We didn’t know what was going on at the start. Nothing worked the way it was supposed
to. Deliveries were late if they happened at all. Telephones were unreliable. Locations
weren’t blocked out the
way we’d contracted. Equipment didn’t arrive. There was no hot water in the hotel.
It was little everyday stuff that didn’t work, and I kept wondering why.

The country ran on bribery. Everyone was on the take. Which is fine with me if that’s
what keeps things running smoothly. Hell, it works in cities like New York and New
Orleans. Eventually I found out from some of the local crew that the people smelled
revolution in the air, and they were afraid to take the normal bribes for fear of
recrimination by the new regime. So the whole system stopped.

Not everything stopped. We took a train down to the southern tip of Chile. During
the trip, Preston suddenly got my attention.

“Dad, the locomotive has left us!”

I looked out the window and sure enough, the engine was nowhere to be seen and our
car was slowly rolling backward. Preston and I rushed to the rear of the car, found
a huge wheel, and figured it was the brake. We kept turning it until we came to a
shuddering stop. Awhile later, the locomotive returned, hooked up, and we continued
on the journey. There was never an explanation, and needless to say, Maj and I didn’t
sleep that night.

Once we arrived, we loved it down there. The food was delicious, the music was great,
and the air was intoxicating. It was like California, only upside down: the north
was hot and the south was cool. After shooting finished, we ventured into the mountains
and found a couple of hot springs that were in our book on thermal hot springs worldwide.
The hotel we found there was first class. The owner was a ham radio operator and had
a shortwave radio set up in one of the rooms. I think this somehow attracted some
of Allende’s soldiers. As we watched them tromp through the hotel with their machine
guns ready, our family vacation suddenly felt a little dicey. We went back to Santiago
and flew home. Two months later, Allende was overthrown, and perhaps murdered, which
changed the fate of Chile forever.

*   *   *

My name must’ve had some value, because my agent got me into
Here We Go Again,
a new sitcom about a newly married couple who move into a home near their ex-spouses.
I liked the premise. It seemed as if there would be endless possibilities. The cast
included pros like Dick Gautier, Diane Baker, and Nita Talbot. I thought it was going
to run forever, but for a series to be a hit so many ingredients need to come together
perfectly, and this didn’t have it.

The cast would read through a script, give their input, agree on changes with the
writers and director, and then the producer would arbitrarily ignore those fixes.
On the second show, I came onto the set looking for pajamas I was supposed to wear
for the scene I’d just prepared for. I asked the costume man where they were. He told
me that the producer had cut the gag.

“Without telling me?” I asked.

“He said he didn’t want you to wear pajamas.”

I was not used to being cut out of creative decisions. I expected to be involved with
the writing and directing. But the producer wasn’t a team player. He didn’t feel he
had to consult with anyone about the changes. Neither did he feel like he had to be
courteous or sensitive to the actors. In rehearsals he’d whisper comments or shake
his head and mutter, “Jesus Christ.”

“Look,” I said during a run-through, “I’m open to suggestions.”

“Okay,” the producer said. “I don’t like what you’re doing.”

“If you don’t like something, make a suggestion. But don’t demoralize the actors.”

Finally I barred him from the set. I told him he could criticize as much as he liked
but he had to do it out of our sight. He argued that I couldn’t do that to the producer.
I said fine, then I wouldn’t work whenever he was present. The other actors supported
me, and we had ourselves a regular palace revolution.

Unfortunately, the tension between the production team, the writing team, and the
acting team never improved. After thirteen episodes,
the network put the series out of its misery. It was the only show I’ve ever been
happy to see end.

The next project I did was
Sidekicks,
a made-for-television Western costarring Lou Gossett Jr., Blythe Danner, and Jack
Elam, one of the best character actors in the business. I got to be real good friends
with Jack. Playing scenes with him was a joy until you went to dailies. Jack would
be standing behind me during scenes and then I’d notice nobody was listening to my
lines. They were all looking at Jack. It wasn’t his fault—it’s just that he had one
wandering eye. You never knew which way he was looking.

That was a lesson to be learned: never let Jack stand behind you. There was a second
lesson too: never play poker with him. We played liar’s poker with dollar bills every
day. I got thirty bucks per diem, and our poker playing got to the point where I just
handed Jack my thirty as soon as I saw him. He was going to win it anyway. But he
hated that.

“Don’t do that, kid,” he said. “Lets have a good game.That’s half the fun.”

“Half the fun for you,” I said. “I know I’m not going to win, and I cant take the
ignominy of losing to you every time.”

I wasnt kidding. But Jack told me not to feel bad.

“Everybody loses to me.”

I
t was 1974, and I’d finished a couple of made-for-TV movies when my agent called and
said, “Larry, what are you doing?”

I had a feeling he never knew what was going on in my career. But he put me into
Stardust,
a feature film that chronicled the rise and fall of a sixties rock band called the
Stray Cats. The starring role was being played by real-life British rocker David Essex,
and Adam Faith, another musician and a terrific natural actor, had a supporting role.
It was shooting in London. Martin Balsam was supposed to have had my part, but when
a conflict forced him to bow out at the last moment my agent sent me the script and
asked if I could get there within the week.

Originally the part was that of a Harvard mobster, a guy with a Boston accent. On
the way to England, I worked on the character and developed a combination Boston-Italian
accent, which was a stretch for me. The day I arrived I met director Michael Apted
and the writer at an Italian restaurant in Soho. I wore a pinstriped suit and gave
them my whole act, including the thick accent. When I finished, Michael quietly asked
where I was from. I said Weatherford, Texas.
He politely asked if it would be possible for me to play the part with a Texas accent.
I lit up and in a thick Texas accent said that was a great idea.

“What name should we give you?” Michael wondered.

The name Porter jumped out first. Porter was the middle name of my dad’s fishing buddy
James Porter McFarland. I needed a last name. I thought of the capital of Texas. Austin.
Michael liked it, but he said that he wanted the character to have one of those two-name
names.

“Porter Lee Austin,” I blurted, thinking of Lee Marvin.

Michael approved and we got along swimmingly from then on. Michael’s one of the best
directors I’Ve ever worked with, and I’ve been blessed with more than a few. The movie
was complicated because it was really about drug addiction and how young rock groups
were taken advantage of by their managers and the record industry and discarded when
they were of no more use, and Michael had a complete and clear vision from the get-go.

Of course, it didn’t hurt to have David Puttnam as a producer. Puttnam was an absolutely
brilliant producer.

My character, as I look back on him, was an early version of J. R. Ewing, a fast-talking
businessman who was going to fleece the Stray Cats and love every minute of it.

Keith Moon, the drummer for the legendary rock band the Who, was in the movie. He
loved
I Dream of Jeannie.
He was a huge fan, and we became instant friends one bitterly chilly day when we
sat together in his Rolls-Royce, drinking champagne, while shooting at Gatwick Airport.
From then on that became our routine during production, drinking and bullshitting.
He was a sweet guy who had a gift for impersonations. He was hysterically funny. He
felt a kinship to me because his girlfriend was Swedish and so was Maj.

After
Stardust
we went our separate ways, me back to Malibu and Keith back to the madness of rock
stardom. But he promised to stay in touch.

Everyone says that, and I didn’t hear from him for a long time. Then one Saturday
I was upstairs in bed studying lines for a movie. It was a gorgeous day. The sun was
shining through the window. I was stark naked. Suddenly, from downstairs, I heard
Maj yell, “Larry! Larry!” in the tone of voice I knew from experience was trouble.

I dashed down the circular staircase, and at the bottom stood a Nazi SS officer.

“Yes, can I help you?” I said in a most polite voice, as if Nazi officers came around
regularly.

“It’s me, Keith,” he said. “Keith Moon. Your buddy. Your mate.”