My Happy Days in Hollywood

by Hector Elizondo

T
HE FIRST TIME
I met Garry Marshall I almost knocked his teeth out. The year was 1979. I had flown in from New York City to L.A. to co-star in a series for CBS,
Freebie and the Bean
with Tom Mason.

I had been working onstage since 1960; in repertory theater, off-Broadway, as well as Broadway. I had already established myself in movies and television, including starring in my own series,
Popi
, for CBS in 1975 (which was, coincidentally, knocked off the air by the wild success of
Happy Days
). But I wasn’t familiar with TV producers’ names yet. So, when I was invited by my pal and agent Mark Harris to play in the longest running basketball game in Hollywood—it had been ongoing every Saturday morning since The Flood—I said, of course! The game would take place on the home court of writer/producer and soon-to-be-director-extraordinaire, Garry Marshall. “Who’s that?” I say. “You know,” Mark said, “the guy who created
Happy Days
.” “No kidding,” I replied.

Somehow, the day of the game Mark failed to introduce me to Garry. I had no idea that the tall guy with the wrapped knees who was guarding me like Velcro was, in fact, our host, Garry Marshall. Now Garry has very fast hands (he’s a drummer, after all) but not a very fast face: my quick, behind-the-back pass to my teammate was intercepted by Garry’s mouth. My host thereby dropped to one knee, whereupon he spat into his hand to check how many teeth he had lost. They were all there. That was good. He motioned me to come over. That was bad. He looked at me with a straight face and said, “You’re a terrific actor but a lousy passer. I have a project to talk to you about.” It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Garry and I have a lot in common: both from New York City (he from the Bronx and me from Manhattan); both kids during WW II; and both products of the great New York City public school system.
Then there were the street games, baseball, basketball, and music, music, music. Whatever differences we have are complementary.

My first movie for Garry was
Garry’s
first movie. It didn’t take me long to realize that he’s a master of comedy and a natural mentor to budding talent. I’ve watched him time and again inspire young people who showed an aptitude and zeal for the work, whether it was writing, acting, or producing—and always with humor and kindness.

A brief but important moment for me as an actor was when I needed an angle on the character of Barnard Thompson, the hotel manager in
Pretty Woman
. I went to Garry. He paused for a moment and said, “Just create the guy you’d like to work for.” Simple as that. No long discussion. No deep analysis. A slight suggestion and I made it my own. We’ve done seventeen movies together that way.

We were in sync from the start. It’s very much like jazz, the music we grew up with. Or like a baseball double play; scoop, second, first, and out. Rhythm.

I have a tendency to get stuck in bemoaning the human condition. Garry pauses—and then moves on. He celebrates life. Like Fellini, he loves parades, clowns, and birthdays. Someone said that Garry doesn’t shoot a movie—he throws one, like a party. It’s true, and he’s not beyond the occasional pie-in-the-face like he did to Matt Dillon during
The Flamingo Kid
. That loosened Matt up while giving him dessert. Since then, Matt has become a fine actor and human being.

Actresses love to work with Garry because they can trust him. What a parade of talent has flocked to him: Julia Roberts, Bette Midler, Anne Hathaway, Kate Hudson, and Julie Andrews. And then there’s his big, magical raptor, the Falcon Theatre in Toluca Lake, California, named after his boyhood social group in the Bronx. It’s one of Garry’s dreams come true—as is his family.

My life with Garry has been a slow and steady revelation of steadfastness and passion in one’s work coupled with a deep sense of responsibility to one’s community. Garry—not bad for a kid from the Bronx.

Oh, and by the way, did I mention we both love ice cream and happy endings?

Growing Up Allergic to Everything but Stickball

M
ARJORIE WARD MARSHALL
, my mother, was the first director I ever met.

Wearing an apron and teaching tap dancing in the basement of our Grand Concourse apartment building, she was a Bronx housewife and a tap dance teacher you didn’t want to mess with. She ran a tight ship, and little girls never dawdled in putting on their tap shoes and costumes in front of Mom. She believed that dancing and performing were good for children because they gave them self-esteem and a purpose all their own.