Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment Page 9

  But Joyce was still young at the time. Her enthusiasm for the stage never diminished, but her sense of an unhealthy obsession with success increased. One time, when Joyce was just thirteen, she took the train to Los Angeles to screen test for Meet Me in Saint Louis as Judy Garland’s little sister. She didn’t get the part. When she returned, our Grandfather Vincent said to her: “You know, we’re all very disappointed in you.” Joyce was devastated by that thoughtless comment.

  Still, Joyce’s attraction to the stage at an early age was profound. At the time of the interview with Caver, Joyce was playing in Tomorrow the World. Caver described Joyce, who was nine years old, as a “vivacious, inquisitive girl,” who “knows that she wants to do nothing but act always, preferably on the stage.” The portrait that Caver paints of my younger sister’s infatuation with the theater is wonderful—and true. Mom told him that “Joyce started reading the critics when she was three and a half before she ever went on the stage.” She even had a favorite critic—Ward Morehouse, who wrote for the New York Sun.

  Mom also described Joyce’s adamant refusal to take a day off from the show when she was sick. She explained to Caver that Joyce had “developed a slight temperature one evening back when everyone was having the flu and we tried to get her to go home. Well she put on a production number in the dressing room. The stage manager tried to explain to her that other players laid off when they were sick and that evening Judith Evelyn of Angel Street had gone home ill.” But Joyce protested: “Yes, but she’s a star. She can afford to. I’m just trying to become one and I can’t afford to.” Caver summed it up: “Joyce is stage struck.”

  And yet, it was more complicated than that. As she grew up in this single-parent home where one’s work performance seemed to be the measure of things, Joyce grew increasingly disillusioned. For a long time, I couldn’t quite understand why she would think such an exciting life could be a bad thing. And, at the same time, I think she may have wondered if I wasn’t a little blind to what was really going on. But, as time passed in our lives, we’ve come to appreciate each other’s view of that complicated childhood world a little more. I’ve certainly come to one definite conclusion: life is experienced differently by different people. Two people can have the exact same experience and walk away with very different feelings about it.

  As suggested in Caver’s interview, my mother never stopped loving my father. She never met anybody else and never really wanted to. She went to her death still loving him.

  20

  TOMORROW THE WORLD

  Shortly after Dad left, Joyce landed a tremendous role in Tomorrow the World. It was a chilling play inspired by the nightmare in Nazi Germany. It focused on the indoctrination of German youth.

  Opening on April 14, 1943, at the Ethel Barrymore Theater, Tomorrow the World lasted for 500 performances. Written by James Gow and Armand d’Usseau, the play told the story of a German-American, Michael Frame, played by Ralph Bellamy, whose brother died while living in Germany. The brother’s son, Emile, is then sent to live with Michael in his Midwest home.

  Michael Frame was a widower, with a Jewish girlfriend, Leona, played by Shirley Booth and a daughter, Patricia, played by Joyce. When the boy, Emile, arrived at the home, he stunned everyone by coming to dinner dressed in his Hitler Youth uniform. He had been so brainwashed by the Nazis that he believed he was still working covertly for the Third Reich. He began taking action against his uncle, especially when he learned that he was going to marry a Jew. When Patricia discovered him plotting against her father, he knocked her down the stairs, nearly killing her.

  Joyce had a very big part in the play and really demonstrated the talent that has been so evident for all of her career. Writing of both Joyce and Skippy Homeier, who played Emile, Burton Rascoe of the New York World-Telegram exclaimed: “These two children are not only the spectacular hits of the newest surefire hit on Broadway they ARE the play; they make it. And this is no disparagement of Ralph Bellamy and Shirley Booth.” Burns Mantle of the Daily News simply described Joyce as “exceptionally gifted.”

  But Joyce’s biggest thrill came shortly after one of her performances, when she received an unexpected visit from a special fan. I happened to be backstage at the time and saw Judy Garland walk around the back and climb the stairs to Joyce’s dressing room. This was four years after The Wizard of Oz, and Judy was already a legend. Seeing Judy Garland standing outside her dressing room, Joyce was stunned. Judy said to her: “I want to tell you what a wonderful performer you are.” Joyce thanked her and Judy left. That’s the kind of special moment you never forget.

  There was also an unfortunate aspect to Joyce landing the role in Tomorrow the World that made her recognize just how harsh the entertainment business can be. Joyce was only a stand-in while the show was on the road. Patricia Frame was initially played by the director Elliott Nugent’s daughter, Nancy. One day Nancy became sick, and Joyce filled in for her. Joyce was so exceptional they kept her in it—and dropped Nancy. It obviously wasn’t Joyce’s fault, but she was friends with Nancy and felt bad about it for a long time. It was a lesson in how unforgiving this business can be. I think Joyce learned that a lot earlier than I did.

  Joyce was also more sensitive to the underside of the business. She saw that even on Broadway there was poverty. In most shows, there were kids from families who desperately needed the money. For some of these kids, there really wasn’t much glamour at all since most of them didn’t have starring roles or even speaking lines in the plays.

  Still, Tomorrow the World was a real triumph for my sister, and we were all enormously proud of her. In addition to her own success, the play made an important statement about a serious subject. It was a disturbing reminder of how easily people can be deluded by demagoguery. Hitler was a monster who created other monsters—even out of innocent children like Emile. In 1944 we were at war with him, and Tomorrow the World was a reflection on the power of an evil man who knew how to play on fear and anxiety to make people believe the most terrible lies. My little sister helped bring a message of hope to thousands of people who saw in her character, Patricia Frame, a goodness that would never allow the evil delusions of a madman to triumph.

  21

  KIRK & THE BOYS

  I’ve never been much of a rebel. Joyce was always more outspoken and ready to stand up to power if she believed she was right. Growing up, I was pretty much content doing what I was told.

  But I had one night of rebellion, and Kirk Douglas was the instigator. I was sixteen, and we were in a show called The Wind Is Ninety. Kirk was about ten years older than me—to the day, as we happen to share the same birthday, December 9. He had just returned from the Navy where he fought against Japanese submarines in the Pacific theater.

  The Wind Is Ninety was written by Ralph Nelson, a former Air Force captain, who would later become a prominent television and film director. In fact, our paths would cross numerous times throughout the years ahead, and Ralph would become a good friend. The production was also memorable because it was the first time I worked with my sister Joyce.

  The play told the story of a family who had lost a son in the war. To help them through their grief, the ghost of a dead soldier from World War I appears. That was Kirk Douglas’s character. The soldier’s daughter was played by Joyce.

  We played the Colonial Theatre in Boston before coming to Broadway. After the show, Kirk and a few other guys, Henry Bernard and Jim Dobson, were heading out to a midnight burlesque show at the Old Howard Theatre. I wanted to join them, but they said I was too young. In the show I played a Boy Scout, dressed in short pants and short sleeves, which made me look even younger. But I kept pressing them, and finally they agreed.

  So, we went to the Old Howard on Scully Square, a real honky-tonk section, with all sorts of bars with lots of girls wearing spangled dresses. At the Old Howard Burlesque Theatre, Kirk and the others bought the tickets. They let me in without checking to see if I was underage.

  The show was great.
In addition to all the girls there was a great comic team, Stinky and Shorty. In fact, I still remember their full names, Shorty McAllister and Stinky Fields. They were well known in the burlesque houses.

  At one point in the show, with all the chorus girls dancing onstage, Stinky and Shorty suddenly came out and said: “Hold it girls. You should be dancing with some men. Come on fellas. Come on up here and dance with the girls.”

  With that, Kirk and the others pushed me up onstage. The next thing I know I was dancing with a big, tall show girl, and in the middle of the dance for some crazy reason, I whispered to her: “Can I see you after the show?” She agreed and told me to wait at the stage door when it was over.

  Proud as can be, I went back to our seats and told the guys that I was going out with the dancer after the show. They started laughing and poking fun at me, but when the show ended I met the girl in the alley behind the theater, and Kirk and the others left.

  The girl’s name was Sherry Everett. It was now about two o’clock in the morning, and we began walking along a street in what seemed to me as the wrong part of town. Soon we came to a tattoo parlor, and Sherry said to me: “Why don’t you get tattooed?” I told her no, but she kept at me, “Come on get one. What, are you scared?” I said, “No. I’m not scared.” And she said, “Well, go on and get tattooed.” Finally, like a jerk, I agreed.

  In those days, there were no electric needles. Instead, they took a regular needle, dipped it in paint and then cut. I picked out a design of a horseshoe that said: “Good Luck.” The tattoo artist started cutting, and soon there was blood streaming down my arm. I’ve always become sick at the sight of blood, and Sherry kept taunting me: “What, are you scared?” And I kept bravely telling her: “No, I’m not scared.”

  Finally the ordeal ended, and I thought at least there will be some payoff—which to me in those days meant nothing more than that I was going to kiss this burlesque dancer. Before getting to her apartment, we stopped at a drugstore as she said she needed to pick up a few things. By the time we left, she’d bought pretty much everything they had. The bill, which I paid, came to $37, a lot of money in 1945.

  Still, I was excited. I was almost home. In a few minutes we arrived at her hotel, the Crawford House on Parker Street. We went inside and walked up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor.

  Sherry opened the door, looked inside, turned to me and then whispered in a panic: “Run! My husband is here! Quick! Get out of here! He’ll kill you!” Without a thought I practically flew down the two flights and took off running back to my hotel. It wasn’t until I told Kirk and the other guys what happened and they started laughing that I realized that Sherry had made a fool of me.

  The worst part was the next day. I was playing a Boy Scout with short sleeves. When I arrived at the theater and took the bandage off, I had the tattoo on my arm. The Stage Manager looked at it and said, “You can’t go on with that. You’re playing a Boy Scout.”

  In the meantime my mother had arrived. When she saw the tattoo, she went ballistic. Joyce, who was there at the time, still remembers my mother literally throwing a shoe at me and screaming over and over again: “You’ve ruined your career!”

  When the hysteria calmed down, the makeup people put some grease paint over the tattoo, and the show went on. But I ended up with a tattoo that I still have. It’s a reminder of one crazy night at the Boston burlesque.

  Things worked out a little better for Kirk. When we arrived on Broadway with The Wind Is Ninety, he received great reviews. More important, Lauren Bacall had suggested to Hal Wallis, a Hollywood producer, that he see Kirk in the play. Wallis came to a performance and ended up signing Kirk to a contract that launched his career in film.

  The Wind Is Ninety struck a deep emotional chord in New York City. So many families had lost loved-ones in the war, and the play was a homage to those families. We opened in June of 1945 at the Booth Theater, and when the first performance ended, Ralph Nelson, the playwright, came onstage to give a rare curtain speech. With Ralph dressed in his army uniform, the whole crowd stood up and gave him a thunderous ovation. The war was still being fought, soldiers were still dying, and Ralph solemnly dedicated the play to “the next of kin of the country’s casualties.” While the play was a fantasy, its reception that night was a very real and cathartic moment for Americans suffering the terrible loss of their husbands, fathers and children. Joyce and I were proud to be a part of it.

  22

  THE MAGIC OF LUNT & FONTANNE

  On occasion people ask who were the most talented actors I’ve ever worked with? I never hesitate: Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne.

  I’m not alone in that opinion. The great English actor, Lawrence Olivier paid the highest tribute saying: “Everything I know about acting I learned from Alfred Lunt.” And one of those very few on the same rarified level of Olivier, Sir John Gielgud, described Lunt and Fontanne as “a perfect combination which we can never hope to see again.” Olivier and Gielgud knew what they were talking about.

  Onstage, Lunt and Fontanne were pure magic. I had the extraordinary privilege of working with them for four years in the hit comedy, O Mistress Mine—two years on Broadway at the Empire Theatre starting in 1946, and then on the road again in cities all across America.

  The Lunts were unique; they acted in a way I’d never seen before, literally speaking over each other. While Alfred was talking, Lynn was talking too. Yet somehow they blended together perfectly. Ordinarily, it would be considered breaking the rules. With lesser actors, they would be accused of stepping on each other’s lines. It’s pretty simple; if two people talk at the same time, neither gets heard. But every single one of the millions who ever watched these two onstage knows just what I’m talking about. There was a kind of magic in the effortless way they wove their lines together like musicians playing different notes, but always in harmony.

  And, of course, it only seemed effortless. Everything they did was planned and rehearsed a thousand times. The Lunts knew they had something special, but they also knew that all the talent in the world was no substitute for hard work. It was with the Lunts that I fully realized that it is only through relentless practice, rehearsing over and over again, that the best performances are created.

  It is impossible to understate the impact of the return of Lunt and Fontanne to Broadway in 1946. It was simply the most anticipated American theater event at the close of World War II. Prior to leaving for England in 1942, the Lunts had been on the road with my friend, Monty Clift, in the Pulitzer Prize winning play, There Shall Be No Night. After Pearl Harbor, the play closed in the United States, but, a year later, the Lunts decided to bring it to England’s Aldwych Theater, although Monty had, by then, moved on and couldn’t join them.

  When, three years later, the Lunts returned with their new play O Mistress Mine, every single young actor in New York City and beyond wanted to land the role of their son, Michael Brown. As Ward Morehouse later wrote in the New York Sun, there were seven parts, “but only three of them count.” The buzz throughout the city’s theater district was palpable, and I was fortunate to be there in the running. But to fully grasp the magnitude of their return, it is well worth taking a brief step backwards to see the fascinating events that led to this extraordinary moment.

  * * *

  Terence Rattigan was a former officer in the British Royal Army who, after fighting in World War I, embarked on a career as a London playwright. Rattigan had written a hit comedy in 1936, French Without Tears, and by the time of the war he had established himself as one of the principal London playwrights.

  In 1941, he wrote a play that was a largely autobiographical examination of his own life. It was, in part, a self-criticism of what he believed to be his failure as a young man in living up to his own idealistic principles. Rattigan was a socialist. He was haunted by the fact that after finding success as a playwright he had compromised his socialist ideals, giving in to the irresistible lure of money. At a deeper level, Rattigan understo
od that life has a way of tempting us to betray our own values—the ideas that define who we are, and the ideals we consider most precious often become casualties in a battle with practical concerns and the enticing power of money to make our lives more comfortable.

  And so, self-doubt and inner conflict led Rattigan to write a play where the central character was presented as a kind of “Hamlet” figure—a young man haunted by doubt and uncertainty as to what actions to take when confronted with the vagaries of life. That was the character of Michael Brown.

  But this was England in 1942, and, as Rattigan wrote his play, London was being devastated by the relentless bombing raids of the German Luftwaffe. Confronted by the terrible reality of his country under siege, Rattigan decided that the public needed an escape from these horrors, even if only for a few hours at the theater. So he turned his story of inner conflict into a comedy. Michael Brown’s internal struggle—in essence Rattigan’s own personal torment—was presented as humorous rather than tragic. As it turned out, it was the right decision, not just for the British audience, but for the success of the play itself.

  The play was originally titled, Less Than Kind. Michael Brown was the seventeen year old son of a British widow, Olivia Brown. His father had died while fighting in the war, and Michael was sent to boarding school in Canada at the age of thirteen. He studied there for four years, and the play begins with his return to England in the midst of the war.