My Days Page 7
One night, following a performance of Journey to Jerusalem, I was approached by a man who identified himself as Milton Lewis and told me he was a talent scout from Paramount Pictures. He said he had enjoyed my performance, and asked if I would be interested in coming in to screen-test. By this time I had become a little less naïve, and so while I may have had an initial twinge of concern over the offer, he seemed to be very professional, and I had no reason to believe he wasn’t on the up-and-up. However, I also had no reason to believe that word of my earth-shattering portrayal of the Virgin Mary had spread like wildfire throughout Hollywood and that Paramount executives had immediately dispatched Mr. Lewis, with orders to do all he could to get me under contract before any other studio could scoop me up. Instead, I just figured he attended the same temple as Jack Weiner and owed him a favor.
Whatever the reason, I did give Lewis my phone number and soon thereafter received a call from his office to schedule me for a screen test. I also learned he had been responsible for bringing many new faces into Paramount’s stable of actors, including Margaret Field (usually billed as Maggie Mahoney), who went on to become the mother of Sally Field; and Mary Murphy, who, while on a coffee break at her job as a package wrapper at Saks Fifth Avenue, caught Lewis’s eye à la Lana Turner at Schwab’s Pharmacy and went on to appear with Marlon Brando in The Wild One, Tony Curtis in Beachhead, Dale Robertson in Sitting Bull, Fredric March and Humphrey Bogart in The Desperate Hours, and Ray Milland in A Man Alone.
Thanks to Rosa Choplin, I had already been on the grounds of a major studio, but when the day came for me to report for my screen test, I was a bit unnerved. It may have been Broadway rather than Hollywood that was my ultimate goal, but still, as I walked through those iconic Melrose Avenue gates of Paramount Pictures (the same ones that, ironically, many years later I would pass through on a regular basis to make my way to Stage Nineteen, where Happy Days was filmed), my stomach’s butterflies were doing some serious fluttering.
Paramount was one of what were known as the “Big Six” film studios; and under the leadership of its founder, Adolph Zukor, who believed that big names were what it took to sell movie tickets, the studio signed many of Hollywood’s early stars, including Mary Pickford, Clara Bow, Douglas Fairbanks, Gloria Swanson and Rudolph Valentino. As time went by and as the silent era gave way to the “talkies,” the studio also became the home base for Dorothy Lamour, Carole Lombard, Bing Crosby, Gary Cooper, Bob Hope, Marlene Dietrich, Mae West, W. C. Fields, Jeanette MacDonald, Claudette Colbert, the Marx Brothers, Alan Ladd, Veronica Lake, Paulette Goddard and Betty Hutton.
Knowing of the long list of luminaries that Paramount had propelled into stardom, I was very serious about my screen test and made sure nothing had been overlooked as I prepared for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I hired a drama coach to help me get ready and had my hairstyle and clothing selections checked and rechecked. Yes, I had cut my bangs too short, and the fact that they refused to do anything other than stick out, rather than caress my forehead, had those butterflies in my stomach smacking into one another in hyperactive confusion. But even they did nothing to diminish the pride and confidence in my stride as I walked past the soundstages to the location where I was told to report.
It will be on this day, I thought to myself as I made my way through the studio lot’s narrow streets, that I will cross a threshold and enter into an exciting new world and a new chapter of my life, one in which I will transition from being a young girl with a dream to being a young woman—an actress—actually living that dream.
It all felt right—very right—and I savored the moment. I felt I had been methodical in the steps I had taken to get to that point, and perhaps more importantly, I also felt I had paid the appropriate dues for my dream to gently dissipate into childish stardusted memories and for reality to begin.
There may not have been a grand staircase for me to descend from, nor was there any trace of this being some sort of a deluded fantasy, and yet I did feel a bit like Norma Desmond as I stepped through the elephant door of the soundstage where my screen test was to be shot. All right, I thought to myself. I’m here, and I’m ready for my close-up!
If I was a stellar example of confidence as I walked onto that stage, within seconds that confidence took a jarring hit.
While I can’t say I had totally envisioned a coterie of behind-the-scenes craftsmen, stagehands and assistants fawning over me, making inquiries as to what I may like to drink and then fighting over which one of them would get to provide me with my desired beverage while leading me to my dressing room, what I didn’t envision was that there would be other girls there to screen-test. And, to make matters even less than what I may have envisioned, they weren’t just other girls. They were beautiful girls—beauty queens—who all seemed to be “Miss This” or “Miss That.” They were these gorgeous creatures, with curves in all the right places, who, unlike me, did not have bangs that stuck straight out and who were not desperately trying to use every method of makeup magic to conceal a cold sore on their upper lip.
It’s all right, I recall thinking to myself as I smoothed out my dress, which, unlike the ones the other girls were wearing, was not adorned with a sash proclaiming the title of my reign. Yes, I am a tad bit disheartened to find that this is not exclusively my screen test, and that I have to vie against a bevy of beauty queens, but who cares how many bejeweled crowns or satin sashes they have? I’m a serious actress.
When my turn came to test, I was paired up with a young actor to do a scene from the Anita Loos play Happy Birthday. I played the role of Addie, the timid and shy librarian who is smitten with a dashing bank clerk, a role that had been played by Helen Hayes during the show’s three-year run on Broadway in the late 1940s. I was extremely pleased with the selection, in that there wasn’t a moment in which I didn’t have the opportunity either to deliver or react to a strong emotional line. That meant also that there wasn’t a moment during the entire scene in which the focus wasn’t on me.
Although I was deeply immersed in the role, I was also acutely aware of the technical aspect of what I was doing—of the craft I had honed. It all felt so right. My big moment had arrived, and I was prepared and ready to face it. I felt a strong swell of confidence bolster me with energy, which wasn’t even diminished when, after doing one take, I pushed up those bangs and they stayed up, looking like the brim of a cap. I gave that no thought except to believe that with the hair away from my eyes, the camera could see my reactions even more.
When the test was over and I was walking off the makeshift set, one of the grips came up to me and extended his greasy hand. As I looked up at him and took his hand in mine, he said, “You should thank your mother.”
I immediately understood what he meant, and graciously accepted it as a compliment. I had projected the air of a refined young woman of proper breeding who was also capable of being vulnerable and genuine. I just knew in my bones—in my very soul—that I could not have done a better job. That fact was solidified by my capturing the attention of a grip, one of those guys who are typically more interested in getting the scene over with so they can grab a smoke or something from the craft services table rather than the actor’s performance.
On that day, as I left Paramount Pictures, I was no longer dreaming of becoming an actress. I walked out into the real world as an actress and within days would be offered a studio contract.
Chapter 9
My Days Between Two Worlds
It was 1952, the waning days of the Truman administration, and while the United States was still involved in the Korean War, and polio was horrifically attacking thousands of American children, most Americans were feeling, overall, pretty positive about life. Car ownership was booming, two out of three families owned a telephone, and one in three homes had a television set. The world was on the verge of seeing faster and less expensive commercial air travel, and there was a constant stream of debuts that would change the way Americans did just about everything. A ne
w type of restaurant that offered fast food and a chain of motels known as Holiday Inns began springing up from coast to coast.
That year the Today program debuted on NBC, with its host Dave Garroway, and Agatha Christie’s murder-mystery play The Mousetrap was the toast of Broadway. As for the film world, Americans were flocking to theaters to see The African Queen, The Greatest Show on Earth, The Quiet Man and Singin’ in the Rain. To me (but, seemingly, to no one else), the biggest news being made in Tinseltown was that Paramount Pictures had offered a contract to an up-and-coming-star—a twenty-four-year-old actress who had risen from the unlikely place of Albert Lea, Minnesota, and was about to take the film world by storm before going on to dominate the stage of New York’s Great White Way.
I may have been obsessed with this big news, but for some reason, neither Variety, the Hollywood Reporter nor any other film industry trade magazine seemed to see it as being worthy of front-page (or even any page) coverage.
* * *
From the moment I put down the phone after receiving the news that I would be offered a contract with Paramount, the entire world seemed different to me. I can’t say I was shocked. In fact, I would have been far more in shock had I not received that call. But what I did feel was that the work of dues paying was now behind me and the work of establishing myself as a film actress, to garner the attention of Broadway producers, was beginning. And there was also the more practical economic element involved, as I went from twisting and turning Scarfinets for thirty-five dollars a week at Bullock’s to being a Paramount actress who made $150 a week.
Because of my long-held belief that this was my destiny, coupled with the methodical training and stage work I had under my belt, I can’t say I ever felt that I was floating in a magically stardusted world of disbelief that this had actually happened to me. I was, by all means, pleased that I could now call a major studio my employer and that, for all intents and purposes, I could say I was a “professional” actress (albeit one who had not yet appeared on the screen), but it was something I accepted in a very pragmatic way. I had dreamed my dream, had been educated in my craft, had appeared in numerous stage roles, had worked diligently to make connections, had always (well, at least for the most part) retained a positive attitude, and was now simply taking the next step. It was far less a “through-the-looking-glass” fulfillment of a dream than it was the practical progression of a destined and determined woman who, like any other person who had properly prepared for a career in business, medicine, law or any other profession, was now ready to apply her craft in a professional realm.
While a part of me entered into this new life with pragmatic maturity, there was, for sure, another part of me that tingled with excitement as I walked onto the Paramount lot each morning. It was an extremely exciting time to be there, or on the lot of any major film studio in Hollywood. In the 1950s, location shoots were reserved for big dramatic scenes in epic films, which meant that the great majority of scenes were filmed on the studio’s stages and back lots.
Each day the lot buzzed with activity as thousands of workers each applied their specific craft to the process of filmmaking, and among the throngs I would pass on a daily basis were individuals whose names and faces were as (if not more) recognizable as those of our nation’s new president, Dwight Eisenhower. Yes, I will admit that at times I did have to employ my theatrical training to conceal a gasp of wide-eyed wonder or a skipped heartbeat of excitement as I turned a corner and caught a glimpse of Burt Lancaster, Dean Martin, Agnes Moorehead, Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Dorothy Lamour, Ronald Reagan or Rhonda Fleming on their way to meet with the studio executives, do a scene, sit in on a screening, or have lunch at the commissary. It was an exciting world—so exciting, in fact, I often found myself forgetting that it was the stages of Broadway that I saw as my final destination.
While I was now a contracted Paramount actress, I was also still something else: Mrs. Freeman Meskimen. It was, at times, like having feet in two different worlds. Effie had enrolled at UCLA, and while he was working toward obtaining a master’s degree, he still seemed more interested in becoming an actor. That interest, however, still never motivated him to do the necessary work to achieve such a thing. Jack Weiner, who was by then serving as my agent, knew of Effie’s desire, as well as his lack of ambition. He helped (me, perhaps, more than Effie) by suggesting that Effie change his professional name to Freeman Morse and by arranging some auditions for him. I also did my part by going to the research library at Paramount and checking out books I felt would be both helpful and motivating for him.
Still, Effie floundered when it came to really applying himself to his studies, acting or anything other than polishing off a daily bottle of Scotch. And yet Effie’s drinking and moping still never bothered me. His lack of motivation may have become a little less charming and a bit more confusing for me to understand, but it was not anything I spent much time thinking about as I went off to spend my days at Paramount. To me, it was just Effie still simply being Effie.
My one foot may have been in the mundane world of being a young wife married to a brooding wannabe actor, but my other, the one that was on far more thrilling ground, was proudly promenading around the sixty-plus acres of Paramount Pictures. And it was thrilling. If I had been a slight bit nonchalant about getting a Paramount contract, that casual attitude rapidly dissipated. I got to the point where I could not wait to get to work in the morning to see what was going on and what they would have me doing. Everything was thrilling, even just eating lunch in the commissary with “the Golden Circle,” the moniker that had been hung upon the studio’s contracted actors. There were between twelve and fourteen of us in the Golden Circle at that time, and a few among us would go on to make our mark in the entertainment world.
One of them was Mary Murphy, who, after playing the sweet girl who, as I previously mentioned, was intrigued by the motorcycle gang member Johnny, played by Marlon Brando, in The Wild One, would go on to appear in many films, including Beachhead with Tony Curtis, Sitting Bull with Dale Robertson, and as Fredric March’s character’s daughter in the suspense thriller The Desperate Hours, which also starred Humphrey Bogart. She also costarred with Ray Milland in A Man Alone and went on to have a prolific television career in the 1960s, appearing in popular shows of the era, such as Perry Mason, The Lloyd Bridges Show, I Spy, The Outer Limits, The Fugitive and Ironside.
Another Golden Circle colleague was Barbara Rush, who was the first to break out of our little clique by winning a Golden Globe Award for the most promising female newcomer for her role in the 1953 science fiction film It Came from Outer Space. Like Mary, Barbara also went on to have a very successful television career, appearing in films, miniseries and the daytime dramas Peyton Place and All My Children.
A darling Texas girl, Kathryn Grandstaff, was also a part of our little circle. That name may not mean much to anyone, because she used the last name Grant and, within just a few years of being signed at Paramount, she personally (but not yet professionally) changed her last name to that of her husband’s, Crosby—as in Bing. As Kathryn Grant, she starred with Jack Lemmon in the 1957 comedy Operation Mad Ball, and over the next few years she also starred with Tony Curtis in Mister Cory and played a trapeze artist in 1959’s The Big Circus. Kathryn’s acting took a backseat to raising her children, although she and the kids did appear on Bing’s television show and holiday specials.
While we were mostly composed of actresses, an actor or two also completed our circle at times, most notably Peter Baldwin. Peter played the role of Johnson in the 1953 Billy Wilder film Stalag 17, along with Hollywood heavyweights William Holden and Otto Preminger. He appeared in a number of films and television productions throughout the 1960s and then turned his attention to directing, where he worked with Mary Tyler Moore and Lucille Ball and directed classic shows, including The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Family Ties and The Wonder Years (for which he won an Emmy Award).
Rounding out our circle of gold was an actress
I will be forever associated with, in that we would both go on to play the role of an iconic mother in a classic television show. Carolyn Jones was another Texas girl, and she, unlike me, suffered with severe asthma throughout her childhood. Just like me, however, she loved to read Hollywood magazines when she was young, and she was also an alumna of the Pasadena Playhouse, where she began her theatrical studies when she was just fifteen.
Carolyn, with those big, expressive eyes, was a standout in our circle. She appeared in a string of feature films, was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for her role as the existentialist in the 1957 film The Bachelor Party, and won a Golden Globe Award as one of the most promising actresses of 1958. While she was the only one of our Golden Circle class to receive an Academy Award nomination, Carolyn would go on to be far better known for her portrayal of Morticia Addams in the 1960s campy series The Addams Family, which was based on the characters in Charles Addams’s New Yorker cartoons. The role of Morticia—the matriarch of the creepy and kooky family—earned Carolyn both another Golden Globe Award nomination and admittance into the exclusive club of beloved television moms, of which I would also become a member.
In 1953 there might have been some place in the world where more excitement was going on than what was taking place on the Paramount lot, but you would have been extremely hard-pressed to make that argument to any member of our Golden Circle. We felt as if we were at the epicenter of at least Hollywood, if not the world. I felt like I had made it. I even went to a bank and opened an account so I could cash my checks. I had never had a bank account before, so seeing my name imprinted on checks was a very significant milestone.