Shirley Jones (5 page)

So I signed up for Centenary Junior College in Hackettstown, New Jersey, figuring that my mother was right.

I was due to start college in September, and in July, my parents and I took our usual trip to Manhattan, and to Broadway.

Then, as they say, fate intervened.

The three of us were staying at the Taft Hotel, and, on a whim, I called a friend, Ken Welch, who was the former musical director of the Pittsburgh Playhouse. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, Ken and I were running through some numbers, while he accompanied us on his piano. He even took the time to compose a song especially for me, “My Very First Kiss.” Then, because he believed in my talent so strongly, he went out on a limb and introduced me to Broadway agent Gus Schirmer (a member of the illustrious G. Schirmer publishing dynasty). Gus signed me up on the spot and uttered the sentence that would change my life: “Rodgers and Hammerstein’s casting director is having an open audition at the St. James Theatre today. Why don’t you go along?”

Well, I was very young, I had no Broadway experience, and I had never been to an audition in my life. But I was game for anything, so I plunged straight in and decided to attend the audition.

The wings of the St. James Theatre, just off Broadway, were packed that morning with nearly one hundred singers and dancers, all set on being cast in a Rodgers and Hammerstein show—any one of them. Rodgers and Hammerstein, the geniuses of the musical theater, had so many shows running simultaneously on Broadway and throughout the country at that time that they had to replace chorus people constantly.

During their legendary careers, which changed the course of American musical theater, the iconic duo Rodgers (who wrote the music) and Hammerstein (who wrote the lyrics) created a string of hit musicals from
Oklahoma!
to
The Sound of Music
, not to mention
Carousel
,
South Pacific
, and
The King and I
—and won a stupendous thirty-four Tony Awards, fifteen Academy Awards, and the Pulitzer Prize.

So here I was, Shirley Jones from Smithton, Pennsylvania, standing alone on the stage at the St. James Theatre, in front of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s casting director, about to sing for all I was worth. After all, I had nothing to lose, so I went for broke and sang “The Best Things in Life Are Free.” When I finished, a voice from the auditorium shouted out some abrupt questions: “Where are you from? And what have you done before?”

“Smithton,” I stammered, “and nothing.”

I later discovered the voice belonged to Rodgers and Hammerstein’s respected casting director, John Fearnley. “Haven’t you been in any shows?” he went on.

I shook my head.

“Then have you got something else prepared?”

I had.

I launched straight into my second number, Rodgers and Hart’s “Lover,” which I sang in a high key.

To my surprise, John Fearnley asked me to sing a third song. Luckily, I had come prepared with “My Very First Kiss,” the song Kenny had written just for me.

After I’d finished, there was a moment’s silence from the auditorium, during which I wished the stage would open up and swallow me right then and there.

Finally, three words rang out that would change my life: “I’m very impressed.”

Then John Fearnley asked me to wait. “Mr. Rodgers happens to be across the street rehearsing the orchestra for
Oklahoma!
at City Center. I would like to have him hear you,” he said.

I was so excited that he liked me that I didn’t even catch the name of the man for whom I was supposed to sing next. I waited a few minutes, then there was a rustling in the stalls as a second man joined Fearnley in the auditorium.

At Fearnley’s request, I sang the same three songs over again, and then a voice rang out: “You have a beautiful voice, young lady.”

“Thank you, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”

“Mr. Richard Rodgers, my dear.”

Whenever I tell the story of what happened next at the master classes I sometimes give for young people at universities, I cringe with embarrassment at how quickly and easily everything unfolded for me. It was as if a magician had waved his wand and effortlessly raised the curtain on my career.

“Could you wait twenty minutes?” Richard Rodgers asked me. “I’m going to call my partner, Oscar Hammerstein, who is at home. I would like to have Mr. Hammerstein hear you sing.”

I shot a glance at Kenny, who shook his head and dropped a bombshell on me: He couldn’t accompany me because he had to leave for the airport in a couple of minutes to catch a plane. I explained this to Mr. Rodgers.

“No problem,” Richard Rodgers said. “You can sing with the symphony orchestra.”

I had never seen a symphony orchestra, never mind sung with one. But, as I said, I was game for anything. Ten minutes later, I was standing in front of a real-life symphony orchestra, about to sing to the most famous Broadway-musical-theater team of all time.

In retrospect, my saving grace that day was that I thought this kind of thing happened ten times a day on Broadway. I assumed lots of unknown kids with no experience walked in off the street and ended up singing for Rodgers and Hammerstein. Had I known that I had got a break in a billion, I would have been overcome by an avalanche of nerves, but as I didn’t, I was not.

“Miss Jones, do you know the score to
Oklahoma!
? Mr. Hammerstein asked.

“I know the music, but I don’t know all the words,” I said, probably committing the gaffe of a lifetime, as Hammerstein was the lyricist. Fortunately, I was oblivious.

I was handed the score, and, as the gravity of the moment started to dawn on me, I held it right in front of my face, so that I wouldn’t have to look at either Rodgers or Hammerstein. Then I launched into “People Will Say We’re in Love,” followed by “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”

Mr. Rodgers thanked me and went into a corner, where he conferred with Mr. Hammerstein in a hushed voice.

“Miss Jones, what are your plans?” Mr. Rodgers called out from the auditorium after a short while.

“I’m starting college in a couple of weeks, Mr. Rodgers.”

“Miss Jones, we would like to make you an offer,” Mr. Rodgers said. “We have a spot for you in the chorus of
South Pacific
.”

I accepted his offer without a moment’s hesitation and, soon after, with Gus Schirmer’s help and advice, became the only performer ever to be put under contract to Rodgers and Hammerstein. A seven-year contract, no less! My future as a Broadway musical star, it seemed, was assured.

So that’s how it all began.

I owed it all to Richard Rodgers. He was my fairy godfather, and I was grateful.

Well, perhaps not as grateful as he hoped I would be.

A year after my first audition with Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein, I was cast in the movie version of
Oklahoma!
and was being hailed as “Hollywood’s new Cinderella.” Mr. Rodgers invited me into his office and made a cold-blooded pass at me.

I was shocked, but I somehow had the presence of mind to say, “You are very kind, Mr. Rodgers”—removing his pudgy hand from my knee—“and I will always think of you as my grandfather.”

It is a tribute to Richard Rodgers’s professionalism that he didn’t take steps to fire me or ensure
Oklahoma!
was the last movie I would ever make.

With my parents’ support and encouragement, I moved into the Barbizon Hotel for Women, on the corner of Lexington and East Sixty-Third, where Grace Kelly, Joan Crawford, and Gene Tierney had stayed at the start of their careers, and I lived there for a year.

Meanwhile, on Rodgers and Hammerstein’s instructions, I observed
South Pacific
for three weeks before joining the show, which at that time was in the last six months of its Broadway run. I was paid the massive sum of $120 a week and cast as a nurse in the chorus. I did some dancing and had just one line in the show: “What’s the trouble, Knucklehead?”

I danced in the “I’m in Love with a Wonderful Guy” scene as well as in “There Is Nothing Like a Dame.” The chorus guys were terrific and I loved every minute of my time in the show.

After that, Rodgers and Hammerstein cast me in the last six weeks of the Chicago run of
Me and Juliet
, a play within a play, revolving around a backstage romance.
Me and Juliet
was set in a Broadway theater where
Me and Juliet
was being produced. It’s been likened to the concept behind
A Chorus Line
, but
Me and Juliet
was before its time. It turned out to be one of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s rare failures.

Although my roles in these shows were minor, Rodgers and Hammerstein didn’t forget me. They arranged for me to study in the daytime with an acting coach and a vocal coach, and at night I was understudy to leading lady Isabel Bigley, who sang the great American standard “No Other Love.” I also danced in the chorus, and with me was another Shirley, a Shirley who was my polar opposite in every single way.

Five foot seven, with a pixie haircut and a surprisingly strong voice, Shirley MacLaine first turned her attention on me on the day when she discovered that I was scheduled to fly to Hollywood to screen-test for the part of Laurey in the movie version of
Oklahoma!

“Get me the part of Ado Annie. I am Ado Annie,” she demanded, and gave me a hearty pat on the back.

“But, Shirley, I don’t have the job yet. I can’t tell Rodgers and Hammerstein who to hire,” I said in what I thought was a reasonable voice.

“But I have to play Ado Annie. I am Ado Annie,” Shirley shrieked, unafraid to ally herself with the flirt from
Oklahoma!
who just “cain’t say no.”

“I’ll definitely mention your name.”

Later, I lived up to my promise and did suggest that Shirley MacLaine be considered for the part of Ado Annie, but she did not get the part. Gloria Grahame did, but Shirley, of course, sailed on to other, better things.

Many years later, Marty and I were in a charity performance of
It’s a Wonderful Life
at the Geffen Playhouse, along with Annette Bening, who is married to Shirley’s brother, Warren Beatty.

After the show, Shirley and Warren were outside waiting for Annette, when Shirley saw me.

“There she is, Shirley Jones! We were in our first show together,” Shirley screamed to all and sundry.

In contrast, Warren said nothing and shot me a smile.

Years before he married Annette, I was coming out of Saks Fifth Avenue, in Beverly Hills, when Warren, always a world-class Casanova, strolled up to me and said, “You are so beautiful. Would you go out with me?”

“I’m married, Warren,” I said, surprised that he didn’t know.

“That doesn’t make any difference.” He sounded genuinely surprised that I would for even one second consider my marital status the slightest impediment to our embarking on a liaison.

As poised and exuberant as Shirley MacLaine was and is, in recent years I managed to surprise her soon after I’d stopped dying my hair and let it go naturally white.

Shirley took one look at me, and her eyes widened in shock and she said, “Shirley Jones, that’s
very
brave of you. I take my hat off to you. You’ve got a lot of guts to let your hair go white in this business.”

My stint in
Me and Juliet
was memorable for me because Sari Price was in the cast and would become my lifelong friend.

One other bright and shining memory from the run of the show: one morning, out of the blue, I received a telephone call from my mother informing me that my father was on the way to see
Me and Juliet
and spend time with me in Chicago.

“But Daddy is scared of flying!” I said. (Come to think of it, so is Marty. Strange how the people we love often exhibit similar traits and phobias. . . .)

My father was, indeed, petrified of flying. But the depth of his love for me was such that he braved the flight from Pittsburgh to Chicago and showed up at the hotel where Sari and I were staying.

Sari was instantly captivated by him, particularly when he asked us what we wanted to do the next day. We told him we’d both been longing to experience Chicago’s beautiful parks, and he immediately hired a car to take us there and then to lunch afterward.

In the evening, after the show, he came with us to the next-door piano bar and bought beer for us and all the kids who worked with us. It was so cute.

I was sad when he left but promised to come home for a visit as soon as I could. Soon after he left, I received a memorable telephone call from my agent, Gus Schirmer, “Hello, Laurey!” he said. Against all odds, I had won the part of Laurey Williams in the movie version of
Oklahoma!

I was ecstatic. Soon after, I went home to Smithton to see my parents, and I met the first movie star I’d ever encountered in my life—the inimitable, the notorious, the once-in-a-lifetime legend Mae West.

I’d always been fascinated by Mae. I had been named Shirley Mae Jones, but the Mae was after one of my mother’s sisters, not Miss West. But that didn’t stop everyone who—even today—ever heard my middle name from assuming that I was named after Mae West.