Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment (18 page)

Still, everyone respected Gertrude Berg. She not only starred as the matriarch of
The Goldbergs
, but she was its creator and writer. Also,
The Goldbergs
had been on the radio for twenty years, beginning in 1929. Throughout the life of the show, Gertrude had grown into an important figure, both in the Jewish community and in the entire entertainment world. Not afraid to air her political views, particularly her support for President Roosevelt, Gertrude was willing to run the risk of sparking negative responses and alienating some producers and sponsors.

In his biography of Berg, Glenn Smith Jr., recounts an episode of
The Goldbergs
inspired by the atrocious “Kristallnacht” when Nazi thugs smashed the windows of Jewish shops across Germany. In the show, someone throws a rock through the window of
The Goldbergs
home during Passover service, and Molly has to comfort the children. She also insists on continuing with the service. It reminded me of the mob outside the home of Martin Gunther in
The American Way
shouting “Slacker” at the German-American family. Berg’s principles would be tested again during the blacklisting controversy that swirled around Philip Loeb, who played Jake Goldberg, the father in the show.

Everyone was aware of Loeb’s entanglement in the political mess involving the congressional investigation into entertainers. Both Elia Kazan and Lee J. Cobb had testified before the House Committee for Un-American Activities that Loeb had been a communist. Then in September of 1950, a report came out in a journal also charging Loeb with communist ties. He denied it, but General Foods, which owned CBS, began to pressure Gertrude Berg to fire him. She refused. But shortly afterwards, Loeb resigned, reportedly receiving a substantial settlement. A few years later, Phil committed suicide, taking an overdose of sleeping pills in the Taft Hotel in New York City. Loeb is considered by many to be a casualty of blacklisting.

My sister Joyce was convinced not only that Phil Loeb was blacklisted, but that there was a widespread practice that ruined many careers. Consequently, Joyce became politically active around that time in an effort to prevent blacklisting. It was then that she met Martin Balsam, who was also very outspoken on the subject. Eventually she married Marty, and they had a daughter, Talia Balsam, who grew up to have a wonderful acting career, with many appearances in movies and popular television shows.

Beyond her politics, Gertrude was an entertainer who clearly saw the possibilities of television. As Smith points out, she wanted to follow Ed Sullivan and Milton Berle into the new medium. Sullivan was hosting
Toast of the Town
, the precursor to his famous
The Ed Sullivan Show
and Berle had his
Texaco Star Theater
, each of which were tremendously popular variety shows. Like the producer of
Mama
, Carol Irwin, Berg thought television was ripe for what Smith calls an “episodic video stage play with continuing story lines and an established set of related characters”—in short, a situation comedy/drama.

*  *  *

Of the 500 live broadcasts of
Mama
the most popular by far was “The Night the Animals Talked.” It was a wonderful Christmas story, first airing in December of 1950. After the show, there was so much positive fan mail that Carol and Ralph decided to do it over again each year at Christmas time. It was beautifully conceived and written by Frank Gabrielson, the marvelous writer who as much as anyone deserves credit for the tremendous success of the show.

“The Night the Animals Talked” began with Mama telling a story to young Dagmar about an old-time Christmas back in Norway. The story dissolves back to a Norwegian home with all the same characters as the Hansen family in San Francisco, but also with a cow named Hilda and a goat named Olaf. Television critics Christopher Denis and Michael Denis describe the “touching, beautiful scene wherein Papa tells little Dagmar how the animals were given the gift of speech only for a few hours each Christmas Eve as a heavenly reward for their protection and devotion to the Christ Child in the stable in Bethlehem.”

But in the episode, there are thieves outside the home who plan to steal from the house when everyone is asleep. Before they can complete their scheme, the little girl, played by Robin Morgan, gets up at midnight and sneaks outside to try to hear the animals talk. She urges the goat and cow: “It’s midnight. It’s when Jesus was born…. Say something.”

The thieves are hiding, and they decide to answer, projecting their voices so that the child thinks it’s the animals talking. As they speak with her, they trick her into going back to the house and getting the family’s “silver” as a gift for the Lord Jesus. But Papa and Nels catch the thieves, while, themselves, pretending to be the animals talking. Instead of turning them over to the Sheriff, however, the family decides to invite them into their home for the Christmas celebration.

“The Night the Animals Talked” was a deeply Christian show. Christopher and Michael Denis describe it as an episode “with powerful religious overtones,” but which were “readily acceptable to mass audiences in those days.” It even ended on a spiritual note when it appeared that perhaps the final words in the barn really were spoken by Hilda and Olaf, the cow and the goat. Little Dagmar queries her father about the voices she heard: “If it was not you and it was not Nels then who was it? I wonder.” The episode was scored with the religious hymn: “Oh Come all ye Faithful.”

No doubt, this beautiful Christmas tale attracted such a tremendous audience due to its affirmation of faith and its celebration of the birth of Jesus. But it was also a parable that taught universal lessons—the importance of timeless values such as caring for others, and, in the case of the two thieves, the power of forgiveness.

Another well-known episode and one of my very favorites was “Katrin’s Wedding,” featuring Rosemary Rice. Katrin had always dreamed of a big wedding, but plans quickly changed when her fiancé, Phil, had to suddenly leave for France to fight in World War I. Mama expressed her anxiety about the war that rings true even today: “When I read in the papers the things that happen in France!” she exclaimed to Papa with great sadness.

Katrin and Phil decided to have the wedding immediately in the Hansen’s small San Francisco home. There was a moment of drama when Katrin, while waiting upstairs, became anxious and frightened about leaving the comfort of her home and family on Steiner Street.

Mama, as always, comforted her. One thing about Mama’s lessons was that they never avoided the truth. Mama told Katrin that after coming to America from Norway, she never saw her own mother again—something that must ring true for many first-generation immigrants. But, she further explained, the distance never stopped her from loving her mother, nor did it mean she would never feel close to her again. It was a moving scene, and Rosemary and Peggy played it beautifully.

During Katrin’s wedding, there was a scene that reminds me of Sid Caesar’s description of the dangers of live television. With family and friends waiting downstairs—and with Dagmar playing “Here Comes the Bride” on the family piano—Katrin and the bridesmaids started down the stairs. Just as the first bridesmaid reached the bottom step, she lost her balance and stumbled. About to fall, she quickly reached out for the handrail and managed to catch herself, preventing a disastrous tumble to the ground on live television. The young actress regained her composure and continued leading the wedding procession so quickly, that it was hardly noticeable. As Sid said, on live television in front of millions of people, there were no second chances. Like that bridesmaid, we often had to recover and improvise in order to avoid calamity. Fortunately, we had such a wonderful group of actors that we always seemed to land on our feet.

Mama
was symbolic of a wholesome American family. Its enormous and continuing success was due to many factors. Kathryn Forbes, the author of
Mama’s Bank Account
, was asked in a 1956 interview: “Why has
Mama
been so popular…while other family-type programs have come and gone?” Kathryn noted that the show had always “retained the basic theme of the story—a child’s dream of ‘mama.’” She explained that her “only idea” in writing the novel “was to show that my grandmother was a wonderful person. I never realized how universal that theme is.” Peggy Wood would make a similar observation: “Each week as I get into the role, I’m reminded of my own mother. She’s the secret of my portrayal of Mama.”

While I can certainly understand the very personal perspectives of both Kathryn and Peggy, there was also a more “universal” appeal to motherhood that drove the show and its ratings forward and upward for eight years. Our ability to convey that appeal was due in great part to our writers and directors. In fact, I believe that any show is only as good as its scripts and direction. We were fortunate to have brilliant writers in Frank Gabrielson and his staff, as well as an equally outstanding director in Ralph Nelson. Peggy Wood, speaking of both Frank and Ralph, correctly noted that “we had a feeling of security in them.” Both men had many other great accomplishments. Frank was a performer and writer on Broadway and television since the early 1930s while Ralph would go on to direct such hit films as
Requiem for a Heavyweight
and
Lilies of the Field
.

In their book
Favorite Families of TV
, Christopher and Michael Denis begin with
Mama
. They rightly claim that in spite of all the technical and other difficulties of coping with the beginnings of television, the show had “heart”—“enough to carry this simple sweet show to glory during its eight-season run.” I couldn’t agree more. Mama came along as television was just getting underway. Its tremendous popularity helped set the stage for so many other shows—including
Eight Is Enough
—that through the years have tried to convey a similarly positive and healthy image of family life in America. I was proud to have been a part of it.

In the 1940s, it was rare for television actors in New York City to do additional work in the theater, especially during production. Today, it would be impossible. With the intense filming schedules of a typical television series, actors are far too busy to take theater work. Also, the center of television production is now in Hollywood, making it impossible for an actor to work on a TV set during the day, run off to Broadway at night and then return to the TV show the following morning.

In 1949, however, my schedule on
Mama
included rehearsals five days a week and then a live telecast on Friday night at 8 p.m. That made it possible to work both on TV and on Broadway at the same time. Life would certainly be hectic, but it could be done.

I remember when Henry Fonda returned to Broadway in 1948 after ten years away working in films. While auditioning for
Mama
, I heard of a new play directed by Joshua Logan, my old friend from
On Borrowed Time
, that dealt with the exploits of the crew of a World War II cargo ship, the USS
Reluctant
, and its tyrannical commander, Captain Morton. The leading character was the 2
^nd
Lieutenant, Doug Roberts, who sided with the crew while doing his best to protect them from the Captain’s wrath. At the same time, Roberts desperately wanted a transfer to a warship so he could “get in the fight” before it was over. Although it had some extremely powerfully dramatic moments, the play, adapted by Logan and Thomas Heggen from Heggen’s novel
Mister Roberts
, was a comedy, with most of the humor centering on the character and crazy antics of the ship’s Morale and Laundry Officer, Ensign Frank Pulver.

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.