Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment Page 14

  Mister Roberts opened on February 14, 1948, at the Alvin Theater with Fonda as Mister Roberts, William Harrigan playing the captain, and David Wayne as Ensign Pulver. It was an immediate smash hit. At the 1948 Tonys, Mister Roberts ran away with the awards, winning Best Play, Fonda winning Best Actor, Logan Best Director and David Wayne receiving a nomination for his portrayal of Pulver. That same year, Logan and Heggens won the Pulizer Prize for Drama. Mister Roberts had struck a chord in the aftermath of the war, and it would be rewarded with a Broadway run of 1,157 shows, lasting nearly three years.

  In 1950, David Wayne decided to leave the show. I thought about auditioning for the part, and my mother called our agent, Maynard Morris. But Morris, who was also one of the producers of the show, told her categorically that I was too young. It’s worth remembering that David Wayne, whom I’d be trying to replace, had played my father in The American Way and was fifteen years older than me.

  As always, my Mom was undeterred. She insisted that we just show up at the theater during the auditions. I was less enthusiastic after hearing Morris’s assessment. After all, he was one of the show’s producers, but I went along. I remember arriving at the Alvin and immediately Josh Logan spotted me and asked what I was doing there. I said I wanted to audition for Pulver. Logan agreed, and so with Morris, my own agent who had told me not to come sitting in the audience watching the auditions, I gave it my best. It turned out Logan liked my portrayal and didn’t think the age difference was important. His view prevailed, and I landed the part.

  As I began thinking about taking on the role of Ensign Pulver, I was thrilled at the prospect of working with Henry Fonda. He was one of the truly great actors of the day, and Mister Roberts was already his biggest Broadway success.

  At the same time, like everyone in the business, I was conscious of the enormous stress Henry was under in his personal life. His wife, Frances, had just committed suicide a few weeks before I was scheduled to work with him.

  It was well known that Henry’s marriage to Frances had been failing. In fact, he had been dating another woman, Susan Blanchard, whom he later married, for quite some time, and I recall seeing her come to the set on occasion during the final six months of the show. Frances had struggled for years with a psychiatric condition for which she had been repeatedly institutionalized. A few months before I joined Mister Roberts, she was moved to a sanatorium in New York’s Hudson Valley. On April 14, 1950, she wrote out a suicide note and killed herself. She was just forty-two years old.

  Word spread quickly. Billy Hammerstein began to rehearse the understudy, Marshall Jamison, for that night’s performance. But in the late afternoon, Henry came to the theater and spoke with the producer, Leland Hayward—who ironically was the previous owner of my present home in Sherman Oaks, which was the setting for his daughter Brooke’s best-selling book, Haywire. Henry told him: “I’m going on. It’s the only way I can get through the evening.” Like Lou Costello ten years earlier when his son died, Henry Fonda was going to put the enormous weight of the day’s tragedy aside for at least a few hours. Later Hammerstein said Fonda’s performance that night was no different than any other night.

  I thought Henry showed real bravery. Lou Costello with his son’s death, the Lunts with bombs hitting the theater, and Henry Fonda in the wake of his wife’s suicide were, to me, all examples of great professional courage. Entertainers are frequently criticized—and often with justification—for behavior that is less than respectable. But in these difficult circumstances, certain performers have demonstrated that show business also has many people who are not only good, decent and admirable, but are capable of great fortitude in moments of crisis. The next time we are tempted to dismiss all entertainers because of the ghoulish antics of a few, we should remember that there are people like Costello, the Lunts and Fonda who stand as examples of what is decent and honorable in our business.

  Henry had two children at the time, Jane and Peter. They were often backstage in his dressing room at the Alvin Theater. We began to develop a friendship. On matinee days, when Henry would go out to dinner after the show, he’d leave me to babysit Jane and Peter at the theater. They were delightful kids. At the time, of course, I had no idea of the public controversies that would one day ignite around Jane during the Vietnam War. To me she was just a sweet kid—and so was her brother.

  Henry used to tell me I reminded him of a young Jimmy Cagney, which is interesting because later Cagney would play the captain in the movie version of Mister Roberts. As great as Cagney was in that role, for me, one of the finest actors I’ve ever worked with was William Harrigan, who played the captain on Broadway. I’ll always remember him yelling at me during one scene, with that deep contempt in his voice: “You college son of a bitch. I grew up waiting on you pansies.”

  I really looked up to Harrigan, who was married to Josh Logan’s sister, Ella. We talked a lot in the dressing room, and I told him about my time with Logan in On Borrowed Time. Most of all, he was a good friend and a great actor.

  I was just twenty-one years old during Mister Roberts and still a bit of a troublemaker. One incident hit the newspapers, causing me some embarrassment. It involved a charge that I’d sideswiped another car on the Crossbay Boulevard in Ozone Park. My license was already suspended from prior traffic violations, and I was now confronted with a third-degree assault, which could have landed me in jail. I was with my cousin, Donald Citro, at the time of the incident, and the driver of the other car had felt intimidated by us. He was certainly justified and now was angry and frankly wanted nothing more than to see me rotting in a jail cell. A court date was set for August 15, 1950, before Judge Henry Soffer. As the date approached, I was getting really nervous that the judge would look at my history of traffic violations and send me off to prison. That would be catastrophic since I was playing in both Mama and Mister Roberts.

  In the end, things worked out—although I admit it was not my finest hour. After the court date, the newspaper reported: “Actor Dickie Van Patten Forgives, Is Forgiven.” It continued: “All charges…were withdrawn” and further noted that “the case was dismissed yesterday when all parties shook hands.” They reported happily that “Van Patten…is back playing ‘Ensign Pulver’ in Mr. Roberts after a summer vacation.”

  But the newspapers didn’t have the whole story. What they and no one else knew was that the case was really settled on the courthouse steps before we ever went inside. As I’ve said, this was not a shining moment for me. But the truth is I paid the other driver three hundred bucks for him to drop the charges. I was desperate. I didn’t mind the prospect of some time in jail, but I might have lost my parts in Mama and Mister Roberts. That’s not an excuse, just an explanation of what was going through my head. Maybe the most amazing thing is that I clearly remember paying the money directly to the guy and his attorney. Anyway, it’s been just about sixty years now, and I guess it’s time to clear the air.

  28

  COMMAND PERFORMANCE

  In the years immediately following the Second World War, the biggest radio show in America was the U.S. Steel Hour. The show, debuting on September 9, 1945, was also known as the Theater Guild of the Air and played for over ten million listeners a week. It was initially a forum for bringing theater productions to a radio audience, and soon expanded to include Hollywood films.

  I was fortunate to have a role in one of the first broadcasts in 1947, which was a rendition of the play, Kiss and Tell with Elizabeth Taylor. Performances for the Theater Guild of the Air were held at the Belasco Theater in front of thousands of people with the actors dressed in formal attire. Seats were placed on the stage, and typically there were two microphones. When your lines came, you got up and walked to the mike just as the other person was sitting down.

  I had a wonderful friendship and working relationship with Doris Quinlin, an Associate Producer on Mama, who was also casting director for Theater Guild of the Air. As a result, each time a big production was set to play she contacted m
e if there was an appropriate role. In addition to Liz Taylor, I did shows with Gloria Swanson, Van Johnson, Orson Welles and many more.

  But the biggest thrill came in 1951, when the U.S. Steel Hour presented a radio version of the hit film Father of the Bride starring Spencer Tracy and Elizabeth Taylor. As often happened, the radio production utilized the same actors that appeared in the film. But Doris was looking out for me. Although I wasn’t in the movie, she called and asked me to play the part of Elizabeth Taylor’s younger brother. More important, it was going to be a “command performance” in Washington for President Harry Truman. Needless to say, I was thrilled.

  I still recall the train ride from New York’s Grand Central Station with Spencer Tracy, Liz Taylor and the rest of the cast. We stayed that night at the Willard Hotel across from the White House, and the next day we went to Constitution Hall for the performance.

  Constitution Hall, located on 1776 D Street, was the equivalent of the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts today. Home to the National Symphony Orchestra, it was built by the Daughters of the American Revolution in 1929, and nearly all performances for the President took place there.

  I don’t know exactly how it came about, but apparently President Truman enjoyed the movie, Father of the Bride. Perhaps it was because his own daughter, Margaret, a young actress and singer, was approaching the marrying age. Years later, I met Margaret at the Saratoga Playhouse when I was closing in Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter, and she was opening in The Happy Time. I stayed there an extra day, watched and very much enjoyed her performance.

  On June 25, 1951, I joined the stellar cast for our command performance before the President. Constitution Hall was a big place with nearly four thousand seats, and it was thrilling to see the President in the theater.

  Afterwards we all got to meet and speak with President Truman. In fact, a newsreel was made of our meeting titled President Truman Meets The Father of the Bride. The reel can still be seen as a special feature of the rereleased version of the 1950 movie. Most of the reel shows the President talking with Spencer Tracy, Liz Taylor and Joan Bennett, but if you watch close, you’ll see a young guy moving stealthily behind the President like a pickpocket sizing up his mark. That’s me!

  Looking back, I can’t help but think how my mother must have felt. In less than twenty years since she first started looking for modeling agencies, her son was now performing for the President of the United States. I hope that gave her great joy and satisfaction.

  29

  DREAM GIRL

  One night, a young freelance theater critic, Herb Worth, brought his fiancée to a performance of Mister Roberts. This was before I joined the production, and David Wayne was still playing Pulver. For some reason they sat way up in the balcony, and his date, a young dancer named Patricia Poole, had trouble hearing the show.

  Still she thought it must have been very funny because everyone up front was laughing so hard. So she decided to go back and see it again—only this time she went by herself. By now, I was in the show, and Pat Poole, in a better seat, laughed from beginning to end. But she especially liked the new Ensign Pulver, whom she recognized as her old classmate—the crazy one who used to copy her homework and got thrown out for reading his essay on how to beat the races.

  Pat Poole had been working hard as a dancer in the years since her family arrived in New York City, always dreaming of dancing on the big stages. She got her chance at age sixteen, when she joined the ballet company for the summer of 1947 at Radio City Music Hall. Most people have heard of the famous Rockettes and their leggy production numbers, but Radio City also has a ballet group, meaning dancers who worked on point—i.e., on their toes—not that they dance only ballet. In fact, most of the acts for the ballet troupe were ballroom style, and the girls were among the very best dancers in the world. They were less famous but at least as prestigious in the dance community as the Rockettes.

  It was at this point that Pat made the most difficult decision of her life. She had been dancing with her brother Robbie throughout her entire childhood. As kids, they were billed as “The World’s Youngest Exhibition Ballroom Team,” and they were terrific together. Tremendously talented, Pat and Robbie had several signature numbers, their favorite being their dance to the tune of Jealousy. They were hits at all the competitions.

  But there comes a point in every life when each person has to make their own decision as to what it is they’re shooting for. What are their dreams and their aspirations? We all do it—or should. And it isn’t selfishness; it’s a part of understanding who we are as individuals. One thing we know about life is that we’re happiest and most productive when doing what we truly love and moving toward some goal that is our dream.

  For Pat, that dream simply was not as a dance partner. As she grew older, she came to better understand that realizing her potential meant going it alone. She was right. Her mother knew she was right, and Robbie understood it too. So, in one of the most painful moments of her young life, Pat decided it was time to end the dance partnership.

  To her surprise, Robbie understood perfectly. I believe he was relieved. Shortly afterward, Robbie returned to North Carolina. There he finished college, married a wonderful girl, Barbara, and raised a family in Lynchburg, Virginia. Robbie was happiest there. Had he wished to continue in the dance world, he could have stayed in New York, and doors would have opened for him, just as they did for Pat. But, like his father, Robbie never shared Helon’s intense aspirations. Pat was much more like her mother. I believe Robbie was released from a burden. Ending the partnership allowed him to return to his roots and live a wonderfully happy life with Barbara and their four terrific children.

  Pat remained close to Robbie throughout their entire lives. Their childhood had built a bond between them that was enduring, and they continued to share the memories of their years on the dance floor. In 1999, Robbie collapsed of a heart attack. He died instantly. We went to the funeral in Charlotte, North Carolina. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my wife so sad. Robbie was her childhood confidant. It was Robbie who understood, better than anyone, the difficulties Pat endured as a child and the hard work she undertook in her quest to be a great dancer. When Pat had to say goodbye to Robbie, there was a part of her that went with him. I’ve never expressed it as fully as I have here, but his death was a great sorrow in Pat’s life, and a terrible loss for all of us.

  * * *

  At seventeen, Pat graduated from the Professional Children’s School and soon joined Radio City Music Hall’s Corps de Ballet full-time. For several years, she danced in all the great Radio City productions, including the famous Christmas and Easter shows.

  Then one day Pat had her own brush with greatness. She heard about auditions for a new theatrical production, Courtin’ Time, in which the producers were trying to create another Oklahoma, which had just finished its hugely successful run at the 44th Street Theater in 1948. The lead in Courtin’ Time was Lloyd Nolan, a great actor, and very popular at the time.

  But the show’s real attraction was the choreographer—none other than George Balanchine. By this time, Balanchine was already widely considered the greatest choreographer in the history of American dance. When Pat heard about Balanchine’s involvement, she was desperate to have a shot at the audition.

  But the producers at Radio City didn’t want their dancers heading out on auditions. They were afraid of losing them, especially the girls in the Ballet Corps, who were among the most talented dancers in New York City. So they cleverly arranged their own rehearsals at the exact time they knew the Broadway shows were having their auditions. Despite this, Pat had managed to get to the first one when the field was winnowed from around 500 to 100 dancers. The next audition, however, landed right at the time of a Radio City Ballet Corps rehearsal, and Pat couldn’t go.

  But Pat outsmarted them. She wrote a letter directly to Balanchine and left it at the stage door asking if she could skip the second audition and come to the finals. She was pleasantly surp
rised when they agreed.

  For the final audition each of the girls had to dance on point. One by one they moved across the stage, on their toes, doing turns as they went. Pat was toward the back of the line. When her time came, she took off dancing and turning until arriving at the end of the stage. There she looked out and saw Balanchine standing in the aisle. He was pointing right at her, as if to say, “That one.”

  She was absolutely thrilled. Nothing could compare to receiving that kind of recognition from one of the greatest figures in dance history. Later that night, she told her mother all about it. To have her daughter singled out by Balanchine was a great thrill for Helon as well, who rightly saw it as vindication for the difficult decision she had made years before to give her children a shot at dancing on the big stage in New York City.

  Pat joined Courtin’ Time. She got to know Balanchine pretty well, and he impressed her as a real gentleman. Although supremely self-confident, he was never dismissive of others and never allowed his great stature to interfere with his decency as a person. Pat recalls a special moment while they were on the road. After a rehearsal, Balanchine said to Pat, “Well, I’m going across the street to have a coffee. Would you like to come?”

  So they went together for coffee, and while at the table, one of the singers in the show rushed up all excited: “Oh, Mr. Balanchine, Mr. Balanchine, I want to introduce my friend. This is Anna.” Balanchine politely responded, “How do you do?” Then, realizing that Pat had been ignored, Balanchine turned to Pat, and without missing a beat, said to the couple: “And, I would like for you to meet my mother.” Pat was all of twenty at the time, and could have passed for sixteen. Everyone laughed. But his inclusion of Pat in the conversation and his sensitivity to the feelings of those around him, were a reflection of his strong character.