Not Young, Still Restless (3 page)

I was having none of it. I was well known right where I was, and I had my choice of roles in a wide variety of nonstop, challenging theatrical productions. I’d moved to an apartment I loved and furnished it exactly the way I wanted, and I still had the security of my job at the appliance store. As far as I was concerned, that was about as good as life could get.

So my friends decided to take matters, and my future, into their own hands.

I never did find out who all was involved in this, or how long it took for them to plan and choreograph it behind my back, and I swear to you, I’m not making this up, because I couldn’t.

I woke up one morning on what seemed like a perfectly normal day, got dressed, and headed off to work. I arrived to discover that Tony Kent and Janet Stewart had arrived before I did and given my boss notice that I was quitting, effective immediately. My boss and I had a great relationship, and he took this news so well that when I walked in the door that morning he greeted me with a sweet, supportive, “I know it’s time for you to move on, and I understand completely.” I obviously had no idea what he was talking about, but before I could ask, Tony and Janet came bursting in, grabbed me, and walked me right back out the door.

“Come on, Jeanne, let’s go,” Tony ordered, thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Go where?” I sputtered.

“Your new home.”

We arrived at Tony’s car, which was packed with all my clothing, and over the next several hours on the road, they filled me in on the whole astonishing story.

The minute I left for work, where Tony and Janet had already resigned on my behalf, a second team of friends had raced into my apartment, completely cleaned it out, loaded all my furniture into someone’s truck, and delivered it to its new owner in Stockton, my friend Millie.

And that night I was delivered to the partially furnished apartment above a garage they’d already rented for me in Los Angeles.

So there you have it, my answer to the age-old question: “How does an aspiring actor get to Hollywood?”

Get yourself kidnapped by the best and sneakiest friends anyone could ask for (and even when you’re in your eighties, never, ever forget them).

Chapter Two

Hollywood and I Discover Each Other

S
o there I was, waking up that first morning in Los Angeles in my new apartment, complete with a space-saving bed that rolled into the wall when it wasn’t being used. My head was spinning from the day before, a day that had started with a routine drive to my job at an appliance store in Stockton and ended in a whole new world with a whole new life. I was overwhelmed, scared, and more than a little excited as I assessed the situation. I’d grown up being relocated whether I liked it or not, so I had plenty of experience adjusting to that. I’d proven to myself that I could hold down a steady day job and do it well, which meant I wouldn’t let myself starve, and no one had studied harder or worked with more dedication to learn and love the art of performing, which meant I still had a long way to go but nothing to apologize for. This might work, I decided. And even if it didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, since I’d be moving on to New York City theaters before long anyway.

Armed with that confidence, the dear friends who’d brought me here, and more than a little false bravado, I hit the ground running.

Through one of those dear friends, Paul Davis, I got a job at Ball Scripts, a company that typed and mimeographed scripts for the studios and routinely employed struggling actors in need of rent and grocery money. What it lacked in glamour it more than made up for in inside information—we got to see firsthand and ahead of the rest what projects were being done in town and what parts would be available.

At the same time, another of those dear friends, a choreographer named Jack Pierce, decided to open a theater-in-the-round called the Gallery Stage at the corner of Crescent Heights and Santa Monica Boulevards, in the heart of Hollywood. It was a wonderful ninety-nine-seat space, perfect for the production of
On the Town
with which it opened its doors for the first time. I was privileged to be part of the cast, and in this case being part of the cast also meant being part of the crew. Between rehearsals and our day jobs, we hammered, we painted, we hauled, we scrubbed, and we fell in love with that theater. I mean it literally when I say that we were still pounding the last few nails into the floorboards on opening night and changing from our coveralls into our wardrobes with only minutes to spare.

I threw my first official Hollywood party during those insane weeks of rehearsals. I have no idea how that many people managed to wedge themselves into my small apartment. I also have no idea when or why I fell asleep on the couch. But first thing the next morning I woke up yearning for my magical disappearing wall bed.

I still remember the shock of rolling the bed out from its hiding place in the wall and discovering that it was already occupied. There, peacefully and soundly asleep, was Pat Morrison, a fabulous singer and dancer in the
On the Town
cast. Having never entertained an overnight guest before whom I didn’t know was there, let alone one who was hidden in my wall, I was debating the etiquette of the situation (i.e., whether to wake her up or let her sleep) when my doorbell rang. I answered it to find Don Gazzanaga, aka Pat’s husband, standing there.

“Good morning, Jeanne,” he greeted me cheerfully. “Thanks again for last night. Great party. Really, just great. I was wondering, though, did I happen to leave my wife here?”

Before I could say a word, Pat came scuffing up behind me and said sleepily, “Right here, honey.” She turned to me for a hug and promised to see me later at the theater, then scuffed on out the door and disappeared with her husband.

“Interesting marriage,” I thought as I watched them drive away. “Interesting town.”

(Pat and Don and I became close friends over the years, by the way, and it turned out that they had a strong, happy, totally committed marriage. They apparently just misplaced each other every once in a while.)

D
espite its almost leisurely sprawling layout, Hollywood is a very small town, and word spread quickly among the acting community that a new theater called the Gallery Stage was opening. Our first audience was graced with the likes of Elizabeth Taylor, Debbie Reynolds, Betty Garrett, Norma Shearer, Barbara Eden and her husband, Michael Ansara, and more than a few other show business movers and shakers. We were a hit, we were ecstatic, we got great reviews, and we were suddenly in demand.

The studios immediately started calling, wanting to meet me. I had no agent and not enough experience to know which calls to return and which to ignore. Paul Davis came through again—his cousin Jerry Herdan was an agent, half of the successful Herdan-Sherrill Agency, and next thing I knew, he was officially representing me. Jerry had several clients at Universal Studios and arranged a meeting for me there.

Another “next thing I knew” thanks to yet another wonderful pal: Bill Lundmark, one of the elves who’d participated in my surprise move from Stockton, was a good friend of an actor named Raymond Burr, who was fresh from a prestigious performance in a hit film called
A Place in the Sun
with Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift. As a favor to Bill, Raymond agreed to do a screen test with me for Universal Studios, a scene from another recent movie called
Detective Story
.

Universal promptly offered me a contract, and believe me, $250 a week was far too generous a salary for me to pass up. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by such esteemed colleagues as Shelley Winters, Lee Marvin, Tyrone Power, Rock Hudson, Julie Adams, Dennis Weaver, and Beverly Garland, to name just a few.

There was a lot to be said about the legendary “studio system” in those days. Publicity departments worked hard to create and perpetuate images for its contract actors that we were expected to maintain (in public), while the studios provided a mandatory series of classes, teaching us everything from acting to dancing to horseback riding to wardrobe and makeup skills. We visited soundstages and postproduction houses to learn about filmmaking both in front of and behind the cameras and to see with our own eyes that we actors were only one part of the process. Our “den mother” at Universal was a drama coach named Sophie Rosenstein, and I’ve never forgotten the speech she gave her new students on our first day of “school,” which still resonates to this day:

“Some of you are here because of your looks,” she said. “Some of you are here because of your talent. And some of you . . . I have no idea why you’re here. But whatever you’re doing here, never forget that this is first and foremost
a business
. The studio is investing money in you, and if they don’t get a return on their investment, count on it, you will be excused.”

It was an exhilarating time. I loved everything I was learning both inside and outside those classes at Universal. It became apparent, for example, that, to paraphrase Sophie’s speech, some of us were aspiring to be famous and others of us aspired to be skilled, legitimate actors. In my case I quickly realized that my passion was acting, and whether it led to fame or anonymity was beside the point. I also discovered that while there were, and are, some truly great people in this town, people of real worth and substance, Hollywood was, and is, a place where far too often qualities like depth, talent, and integrity are valued less than skin-deep appearances, a place where many fail to remember that genuine success has nothing to do with wealth. In fact, some of the creepiest, most despicable people I’ve ever met happened to be rich, proving that the old adage really is true: money doesn’t care who owns it.

My mandatory presence at the studio made it impossible to keep my job at Ball Scripts, but I kept right on performing in and loving
On the Town
. And then, one fateful day, casting director Millie Gussie called me to her office at Universal and informed me that I would have to give notice at the theater, because I’d be too busy shooting my first movie,
The Redhead from Wyoming
, with Maureen O’Hara.

I know. You’d think I would have been yelling “Thank you!” at the top of my lungs and turning cartwheels around the room. Instead, I was about to be taught a lesson in what could be called Contract Signing 101.

“I’m sorry,” I told her, “but I’ve only got one week to go on the play, and then I’ll be moving to New York. Thank you for thinking of me, though.”

She smiled a little and patiently let me finish making a fool of myself before she replied, “
I’m
sorry, but that won’t be happening. You signed a contract. Universal made a six-month commitment to pay you $250 a week, and you made a six-month commitment to earn it.”

And that’s the story of how my film career officially began.

The Redhead from Wyoming
, a story of a cattle war in Wyoming Territory, confirmed everything I’d been hearing from other actors on the lot: nothing’s more fun to do than a Western. (For the record, I would leap at the chance to do another one today. How about Jeanne Cooper and Eric Braeden in
The Life and Legend of Wyatt AARP
? Anyone . . . ?) In addition to Maureen O’Hara, the cast included Alex Nicol, Jack Kelly (the future Bart Maverick in the
Maverick
TV series), and Dennis Weaver, who was cast as Chester in the iconic series
Gunsmoke
not long after
The Redhead from Wyoming
was released.

I played the role of a showgirl named Myra, and from the very beginning I couldn’t help but notice that Maureen O’Hara, the saloon proprietress, was repeatedly cutting more and more of our scenes together. I didn’t appreciate it, but even more than that, I didn’t understand it, especially since she wasn’t cutting anyone else’s scenes but mine. Approaching Miss O’Hara about it was out of the question—I wasn’t shy, but I knew my place on the set—so I asked our director, Lee Sholem, about it instead, wondering if I’d done something to offend our star, and if I had, what on earth it could have been, since I thought I’d been nothing but respectful and professional.

“It’s nothing you’ve done,” Lee assured me. “It’s who you are.”

“Who I am? What does that mean?” I asked, incredulous. “I’m a newcomer. She’s Maureen O’Hara. What does who I am have to do with it?”

He put his hand on my shoulder and led me off the set until we were out of everyone’s earshot, and he kept his voice discreetly quiet and compassionate. “Exactly,” he said. “You’re a newcomer, and she’s Maureen O’Hara. Or, to put it another way, you’re a fresh, dynamic, talented young actress with your whole career ahead of you. She’s an established star who’s been around awhile, and standing next to you on-camera makes her look and feel older. Please don’t take it personally.”

I’ll always appreciate how graciously he handled it. That simple, honest explanation erased any possible resentment I might be harboring and made me want to reach out to her. Later that morning, at the first opportunity, I sat down with her and said, partly because I meant it and partly to defuse any resentment
she
might be harboring, “Miss O’Hara, I just wanted to tell you how honored I am that I’m doing my first film with you. I’m new at this, I don’t know what I’m doing, and I can’t imagine working with a more patient, more generous teacher.”

She’d clearly been feeling guilty—she immediately thanked me and started making excuses for cutting so many of my scenes, while I kept on complimenting her, hoping the ice between us had finally been broken.

That afternoon we were shooting a crowded dance hall scene. I was standing in the background among several other actors, where I’d been told to stand, when I felt an arm slide around my waist to subtly move me a little to my right. It was Maureen O’Hara, who whispered before she left me there, “Always remember, Jeanne, if you can’t see the camera, the camera can’t see you.” She made sure I could be seen; I’ve never forgotten that bit of advice, and I’ve most definitely never forgotten her.

I was happy to go directly from that film to another Western,
The Man from the Alamo
, starring Glenn Ford, Julie Adams, and the very handsome Hugh O’Brian, television’s future Wyatt Earp. It was during the shooting of that movie that one conversation with a good friend convinced me to give up my New York dreams once and for all and made me realize that I was actually right where I belonged.

David Janssen was that good friend. He and I were Universal contract players together, and he was still relatively unknown, a decade away from his megasuccess in the television series
The Fugitive
. One day he kidnapped me from the
Man from the Alamo
set for lunch, arranging with a studio wrangler for us to ride two of the horses far into the vast back lot where we could have a picnic in peace and, as usual, confide in each other about our dreams for the future of our careers.

There wasn’t a building or another person in sight while we relaxed there together. The only signs of civilization were several reflectors on tripods at the top of a hill. David looked up at them during a long, thoughtful moment of silence and then pointed at them and said, “I’ll tell you where the future is—it’s right up there. Get in on the ground floor of that and you’ll have a career you can count on.”

I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, and told him so.

“That’s a television show they’re shooting on that hill. Take my word for it, television is going to be the most exciting thing to happen to actors since motion pictures were invented.”

I know it’s hard to believe, but there actually was a time when television didn’t exist, and in the early 1950s television sets were just beginning to appear in living rooms across the country. Its potential seemed limitless, as did its need for programs, which meant a whole new world of employment possibilities for us actors. You know how sometimes you hear something and you know it’s true? You’re not even sure why you know, you just do. And that’s the way it was with that prediction of David’s.

Apparently the timing of the truth counts for something too. As David daydreamed about the magic that TV would perform on the entertainment industry someday, I flashed back to an evening at the Pasadena Playhouse when a small herd of executives in expensive suits gathered us acting and theater majors for a rah-rah session about a new phenomenon called television. It was going to sweep the country, the execs said, and there would be a time when no home in America would seem complete without one. Its potential was beyond our wildest imaginations, they said, but it couldn’t happen without those of us in the creative community. Come join us when you graduate, they said, and we will guarantee each of you a CEO position in the television industry.