Shirley, I Jest!: A Storied Life (6 page)

I had the next day off. I was planning to go to the Prado and look at its vast collection of Fine Art. When I got home I studied my lines for a while, looked out my window, and admired the view. I could see the gypsy woman and her children standing across the street being snubbed by passing people and again I felt sad for them. I climbed in bed and was just about to fall asleep when:

Click, click, click, click, click.
She was back!

Click, click.

Silence.

Again, the sound of a string of pearls being dropped into a dish.

Then,
Zip! Click, click
and then she sat on the bed. And now for the other set of footsteps. This time I thought they sounded like boots. I waited. Ten minutes of squeaking ensued, then the dressing,
Zip! Clack, clack, clack
, the door closed, and they were gone.

I could
finally
go to sleep!

This went on every night the entire time I was in Madrid.

Two days later I was on the set waiting to shoot my first scene. I was sitting in my chair next to Mr. Cukor, outside the trailers. We were facing the sun. I had been told to always refer to him as “Mr. Cukor” or “Mr. Cukor, sir.” He had summoned me earlier to go over my scenes. Trouble was, I couldn’t see him due to the sun in my eyes and he wouldn’t allow me to wear sunglasses. I could only make out the outline of his body. We went over the lines, what he wanted in the scene, the emotion, I made the suggestion of changing the word “fuzz” into “cops,” telling him that “fuzz” was not really a term young people used anymore. I think he was glaring at me.

He sternly asked me: “What does it say in the script?”

“Fuzz,” I answered.

“Then that’s what you’ll say.”

We went on with the lesson.

I would read a line for him and he would say, “Again!”

I would read it again and he would say, “Again!”

After about a half hour of this, the man who had so brilliantly directed
The Philadelphia Story
,
Born Yesterday
,
Pat and Mike
, and let’s not forget
Gaslight
, let me return to my trailer. I laid down in my trailer wondering why he had cast me in this part. Obviously I wasn’t right for it except for my fabulous costumes!

I met Alec McCowen that day. We had the aforementioned “fuzz” scene to shoot together and I thoroughly enjoyed everything about him—his great sense of humor, his endless wit—and he was a marvelous actor. We were invited to have drinks at Mr. Cukor’s suite at the Ritz-Carlton. I would have preferred not to go as I didn’t want to come into his spyglass crosshairs again. I believe it was Alec who convinced me to go. I think we rode over together. The ornate suite was magnificent, with beautiful drapes and furniture. I don’t know why, but I sat close to the door in case I needed to make a hasty exit! It was like the adults on one side and the kids on the other. I didn’t want a drink-drink. When Mr. Cukor heard this he had them bring me tea, but not just
any
tea. He explained to me that it was tea that
Katharine Hepburn
had especially blended and sent to him. When the tea was served to me I just held onto the cup and stared into the tea. It was too precious to drink. Alec was in his element across the way, but I was thoroughly uncomfortable. Finally we left. I was happy to get home and into my bed. Happy to hear
click, click, click
again.

I would see Maggie Smith in the mornings going to makeup. She had hours of it while they tried to age her into the eighty-year-old Aunt Augusta. Something was making her unhappy. It seemed as though each morning when I would pass her on the stairs she was weeping. But she always managed a smile and a “Good morning, Cindy,” for me. I found out later that the makeup artist she loved and trusted had been placed in another position, and the studio would bring in someone they thought was more experienced. That made this extraordinary actress very unhappy.

On my days off, I would walk along my street going into the café next door to drink the best coffee I’ve ever had. On one of these days the two little gypsy girls came up to me begging. I gave them some money and then asked them if they wanted to get an ice cream in the parlor up the street. Their eyes lit up and off we went. One of the girls was around six or seven and the other about ten. When I tried to enter the ice cream parlor with them, the owner shouted:
“¡Fuera! Fuera! No hay gitanos en aquí!
” (“Out! Out! No gypsies in here!”)

Frightened, they ran outside. I ran after them. The little one was crying. I told them as best I could in my broken high school Spanish not to worry and asked them both what kind of ice cream they wanted. I said I’d get it for them. Each wanted strawberry. With them waiting outside, I marched back in and ordered the biggest strawberry ice-cream cones I could buy. I glanced at them through the window, waiting. They were dirty and in rags. The same man that shouted at them told me to stay away from them.

Once outside, I gave them their cones and told them to follow me. At the other end of my street was a Woolworths. My plan was to take them in and buy them each a new dress or whatever I could find when they were finished with their cones. As we walked I could see their mother with her begging baby on the other side of the street. I wondered if she worried about her two young daughters being out here. But then it was probably she who sent them to me with no thought of keeping them close to her. We got to Woolworths. We stood in the doorway. I didn’t want to enter before we had permission. I didn’t want a repeat of the ice cream parlor incident. I asked a clerk if they had children’s clothing. Somehow I managed to get across to the clerks that I wanted to bring in the children and buy clothes for them.

The clerk said, “
Si
.”

I guess the idea of a sale overrode whatever gypsy prejudice she had. We were welcomed in. The children and I made our way to the clothing racks and they were ecstatic about selecting new clothes. I gathered clothing that I thought would be appropriate for them and with our arms loaded down with the new duds we went into the dressing rooms. First, I helped the little one try on the sweetest sundress. She was thrilled! It was perfect. Next I started helping the older child out of her tattered dress. She had chosen a dress and a pair of pants. She signaled to me that she could do it herself. I stayed in the room with them. She gave me an embarrassed look as she took her skirt off. It was then that I realized that this sweet little girl was a little boy! I made no notice of it and bought him the pants and the dress; or should I say the costume that I realized his mother dressed him in to garner more pity and more money. All that mattered in the end was that they had a bit of happiness. From that day on I was known on my street as “
La Loca Americana
.”

The night before my big scene with Alec McCowen on the Orient Express the
click, click, clicking
continued. My girlfriend upstairs was
muy, muy
busy! Finally when she took her rest, I couldn’t. Between her and the anticipation of the scene in the morning, I barely had a wink of sleep. The next day I tried to avoid Mr. Cukor. I was afraid he was going to give me another “lesson in the sun.” He was sitting in his director’s chair in the common area outside the dressing room trailers where he always sat with a script rolled up in his hand and an empty chair positioned directly across from him. I slithered along a building flattening myself as much as possible, trying to disappear.

The production assistant came walking straight to me and yelled, “Found her!”

I was escorted to my seat in the “sun.” For an hour we went over and over the script with Mr. Cukor telling me how Tooley might be feeling. There were degrees of emotion in the scene that he intended to wrench out of me.

Finally he asked me, “Do you know your lines?”

“Yes!”

“Do you know your lines?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good! Now forget them!”

Mr. Cukor dismissed me. I walked to my trailer and climbed onto my bed. I was so anxious I fell asleep with my eyes open. They came to get me to shoot the scene. “Difficult” does not even begin to describe the experience. The more Mr. Cukor drove my emotions, the less I could give. During takes I could see him acting the scene out. I would cry between takes. The makeup artist would wipe the tears away and we’d go again. Once, Douglas Slocombe, the cinematographer, said he couldn’t shoot because I had tears rolling down my face. Alec was so kind to me, whispering that he thought it was fine. Take after take we’d work until the words became a jumble of consonants and vowels. Finally he called it a day and I was released to go home. I was shaking and that night I was comforted to hear my friend from upstairs
click, click, clicking
.

When I got back to the States a few weeks later, I learned that the street I’d been living on was called Dr. Fleming because it was in the notorious Red Light District of Madrid and Dr. Fleming was the physician who treated the prostitutes for venereal disease. The street was named for him.

Click! Click! Click!

Five

Some Enchanted Evening

American Graffiti
was George Lucas’s first studio film. Written by Gloria Katz, Willard Huyck, and George Lucas, the story mirrored, in many ways, his high school experiences. The movie was set as a “coming of age” story at a beautiful time of our country’s innocence; before the Vietnam War, before the assassination of President Kennedy, and before technology ruled our daily lives. The film was shot in twenty-eight nights and one morning. The budget was $775,000, most of that used to acquire the rights to the iconic music that would run throughout the film. The movie had a young cast of basically unknowns and a young director, no makeup budget, and no dressing rooms. However, one Winnebago was parked in whatever empty spot or vacant lot Gary Kurtz, the film’s coproducer, could find at the time. The Winnebago housed the costumes and the hairdresser, who only styled the wigs. A station wagon was the only means of transportation to and from the set. It also carried props and was driven by a kid who was (for some reason) very territorial and protective of the rides he parsed out to the cast. If you were finished for the night and the station wagon wasn’t available, you could wait an hour, or it could be until dawn before you’d get that ride back to the Holiday Inn. On these occasions I would sit and wait on the couch in the Winnebago, under the costumes that hung on the rack overhead.

Because the movie took place in one night, we shot from sundown to sunup, 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. And I know no one will believe this, but you know that old Hollywood saying, “pull the plug”? A guy, who was sent by Universal, would sit by the generator and at precisely 6:00 in the morning, on the dot, he would pull the generator plug, halting production to make sure the film would come in on time and on budget, no matter what.

My personal adventure with
American Graffiti
began when I returned from Spain after
Travels with My Aunt
. I was still reeling from the experience as well as suffering from extreme jet lag. I had no sooner landed in L.A. and crawled into bed when the phone rang. Calling was my friend, Fred Roos. He was casting a movie and wanted to send over a script; and needed me to read it as soon as possible. The script was titled
American Graffiti
.

“
American
what?” I asked.

“Graffiti,” Fred said. I asked him what that meant.

“Just read it as soon as it gets there! It’s great! The director is a young guy out of USC. He’s excellent. You’re gonna want to be in this movie. Look over the role of Laurie.”

I tried to protest, citing my jet lag, but he wouldn’t let me. So when the script arrived, bleary-eyed, I read it. And I loved it. There was only one problem, I told Fred when I called him. I didn’t want to play the part of Laurie Henderson, the ingénue. I wanted to play Debbie, the fast girl. He told me that Candy Clark had already been cast in that part.

I said, “Okay, then how about Carol?”

“Carol is supposed to be twelve,” Fred said.

“I’ll put braces on my teeth.”

He told me that as silly as it seemed, he had to cast an actual twelve-year-old to play that part! (The part went to Mackenzie Phillips.) I told him of course, I was joking, but I really didn’t want to play Laurie because all she does is sulk and cry throughout the entire movie.

“It’s a great part,” Fred insisted. “I need you at Universal tomorrow at 11:00 a.m. to meet the director.”

I gave in and said, “All right, send me the address.” The next morning I find myself sitting across from this kid in his office at Universal Studios, while he peruses my 8×10 photo. Maybe a minute of silence passes, I might have even fallen asleep before he looks up at me and says one word: “Terrific!”

And just like that, George Lucas had asked me to come back the next day to screen test for the role of Laurie. When I got home, I called Fred once again, and told him there is no way I could memorize the test scene by tomorrow.

He told me, “You can hold the script.” I insisted I couldn’t do it because of the jet lag and my nerves and not knowing the lines.

He says, “You have to, I’m down to the wire trying to cast this part. I’ve already teamed you up with Ron Howard.”

“Ron Howard. OPIE?”

“Yes,” Fred says.

Now, I love Ron Howard, honestly, I loved him in
Mayberry RFD
,
The Andy Griffith Show
, and
The Music Man
, and he was brilliant in
The Courtship of Eddie’s Father
with Glenn Ford. But I still resisted, and then Fred throws the curve ball.

“Oh, did I tell you Francis Coppola is producing?”

“Well, this is the first time I’ve heard about Francis Coppola producing.”

Although I had not seen
The Godfather
yet, I was a huge fan of the movie
You’re a Big Boy Now
. I had seen it four times when I was at City College, working at the IHOP across the street from the movie theater. I have to admit, I was impressed!

The next day I was holding my script, slow dancing with Ron Howard at Haskell Wexler’s studio in Hollywood. I was dragging and nervous and thought
I’ll probably blow this and they won’t hire me anyway and I can just sleep the rest of the week!
Earlier when I had arrived, I was introduced to Ron Howard who would be playing Steve Bolander, Laurie Henderson’s high school sweetheart. I liked him right off the bat. He was genuinely a nice guy! We went over the lines together, and then I told him that I was sorry, but I had to hold my script. He told me not to worry, that it was fine with him. George and Ron and I discussed the scene a little before the take. George was so calm, or was it that he was an innately quiet person? Whatever it was, he seemed confident and it rubbed off on me and helped me get through the scene. When it was over we were out the door. Ron and I said our good-byes and I got in my car and shook. Even though I was reluctant about this part, the actress in me wanted it, and I felt as though I had blown it. But I hadn’t! I was offered the part almost immediately when I got home and walked through the door. I was thrilled! The actress in me trumped doubt and jet lag!

George asked for a meeting with Ron and me. He wanted to talk over our story line and explain his vision for the movie. Sitting across from him in his office at Universal, I remember thinking,
he’s young and old all at the same time
. He explained that they didn’t have a budget for makeup, hair, or dressing rooms. This didn’t seem to concern Ron or George. I, on the other hand, was slightly worried about the six-year age difference between Ron and me. I might need just a little help to look seventeen! (I was twenty-four at the time and Ron just turned eighteen.) George had our 8×10’s on his desk, side by side. I kept glancing at them, trying to see if we looked real as a teen couple. Right before we got up to leave, George made a point of telling us that he saw this movie as a “musical” because the songs would not stop except for a couple of dramatic points. Once, when the car is stolen and the source of the music is the car radio, which is gone; and the second time at the end when the race abruptly ends because the ’55 Chevy flips over.

As Ron and I left and walked down the hall at Universal we looked at each other and almost in sync said,
“A musical? That’s genius!”

In June 1972 I found myself driving my orange Karmann Ghia into San Francisco, a city I knew from my days as a hippie. The sky was foggy and I loved it. I headed across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County toward the San Rafael Holiday Inn where the cast would be staying. The Marin County Courthouse was on my right. (At that very courthouse Angela Davis was now on trial for aggravated kidnapping and first-degree murder. She was later acquitted.)

We hit the ground running. We shot the opening scene of the film at Mel’s Drive-In, on Lombard Street in San Francisco (unfortunately the diner has since been torn down). The very first shot was of Charlie Martin Smith driving on his Vespa. Charlie played Toad, everybody’s affable friend, who was in for a long night with the fast girl, “Debbie,” played by Candy Clark. George wanted to get this shot as the sun went down. Charlie didn’t know how to drive the Vespa, and had to be given one quick lesson by Harry Travers, the transportation manager. Then they had to roll. If you’ve ever seen the movie, you’ll see Charlie crashing the Vespa into the trash can in front of Mel’s Drive-In. George kept rolling. Charlie deftly reacts, leaves the Vespa, and without missing a beat, walks away. George had no time for a second take with the sun quickly setting. So of course, this take stayed in and opens the movie.

The City of San Rafael hosted our next location. While the cameras rolled, classic cars circled the little town all night long. The constant revving of engines and peeling out of tires echoed for two nights straight while actors shouted their lines at each other through open car windows. Something about the commotion made the city leaders jumpy. After that second night, the film company was asked to leave. The production moved to Petaluma, a city that welcomed us with open arms and we arrived like a band of gypsies—Winnebago, station wagon, hot rods, and all!

One week into filming we were shooting a scene in the ’58 Impala. Ron and I were being towed by the camera truck. When the scene ended we waited to hear George yell “
Cut!
” but nothing came. We waited a few seconds longer and then the camera operator shook George’s shoulder to wake him up. He was so tired from shooting all night and editing all day he had actually fallen asleep sitting on the tow car. Many times after George yelled “Cut,” Ron and I would ask, “How was it, George?”

Without fail, George always gave the same one-word response. “Terrific!”

The film had a soul of its own. All of these beautiful machines represented classic American craftsmanship that was bedazzling—the ’32 Deuce Coupe, the ’55 Chevy, an art form of motion. Sometimes before takes, Haskell Wexler, the great cinematographer and director (who was working as George’s visual consultant), would take a cloth and polish certain parts of the cars. I asked him one time why he did this? He told me this would bounce light off the cars during the shots and make them sparkle. And it did! It made them shimmer brilliantly. If you’ve seen the film, you know what I’m talking about. The look was American eye-candy.

One night while we were waiting to shoot a scene, Ron and I sat in the ’58 Chevy Impala. Ron got out of the car and went to where the camera crew was setting up. I watched him speak intently with Haskell for a while. When he got back in the car I asked him what they were discussing. Ron told me he was asking Haskell about the setups and the shots because one day
he
wanted to direct!

“Oh, great!” I said. But I was really thinking,
“What’s he talking about, directing? He’s so young to be thinking about directing!”
I am embarrassed to be sharing this thought since we all know he went on to accomplish great work
behind
the camera.

On one particularly cold night while I was waiting to shoot a scene, a seat wasn’t to be found in the Winnebago. I noticed the station wagon parked nearby. I walked over and tried the handle. It was open. I didn’t want to get in trouble (because the kid was so strict about the use of that car), but the cold and dark overrode any trouble the kid might cause me. I just needed a place to sit. I scooted into the driver’s seat. I was enjoying the solitude when suddenly a figure popped up from the backseat. It scared me and I jumped! It was Harrison Ford! He’d been sleeping. We looked at each other and started laughing.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Waiting to work,” I replied. “There was no room in the Winnebago.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I’m finished for the night, but the kid won’t give me a ride home, so I’m waiting in here.”

Harrison laid back down and I waited in silence. The funny picture of how I met Harrison a year before popped into my head. A mutual friend had introduced us in a health food store in Hollywood. Harrison was barefoot and buying organic vegetables.

A few nights later, Harrison and I had a little scene to shoot together where Laurie decides to get in the car with his character, Falfa, the bad boy who has come into town to challenge John Milner, played by Paul Le Mat. While we were sitting in the ’55 Chevy waiting to begin, Harrison started singing “Some Enchanted Evening” just like Rossano Brazzi. It made me laugh! I suggested he sing it to me at the end of the scene. He did and George liked it, and tried to use it in the movie. In fact, there was talk about changing the title of the movie to
Some Enchanted Evening
, but George was not granted the rights by the license holders. Ultimately, they did allow the song to be included and it was edited back into the film.

One evening the kid picked me up to drive me to the set. He told me that we needed to make a detour first, to pick up one other person who was working that night. We headed to Sausalito and picked up a young woman named Suzanne Somers who was going to play the part of the blonde in the white T-Bird who says “I love you” to Curt (Richard Dreyfuss). When she climbed into the station wagon with us I was stunned. She was one of the prettiest people I’d ever seen! I could tell that the kid was smitten.

As pretty as she was, she was just as nice. We introduced ourselves, and I asked her if she was an actress. I thought they’d hired a model to play the part. She answered, “Yes,” and many years later she told me she was taken aback by my question and had thought about it that whole night. Looking back on it now, without my having told her that I thought she was a model, I could see how it could have come off sounding insensitive. When we got to the set, I ushered her into my “dressing room” (the couch under the wardrobe rack) where we talked for a while.

Years later she told me this little story about filming that night. She had gone over and over her one line, “I love you,” trying it many different ways in the mirror at home. When she was sitting in the T-Bird about to film, George came over to her and said, “I just want you to mouth the line.” After all that rehearsing, she wasn’t going to actually speak the line, not knowing then that it would become one of the most iconic moments in the film.