Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment (34 page)

I guess I believed a little of both. Still, I genuinely liked Father Kaiser, and we enjoyed going on his show. One day he told me he was planning a missionary trip to Africa and asked if I would like to join him. He had already signed up LeVar Burton, the star of
Roots
, and Patty Duke, and there were a number of other people committed to going as well. At first, I declined. I don’t recall what excuse I made, but it stayed on my mind.

Later that day, I met John Forsythe, a friend since we did
Mister Roberts
together on Broadway back in the early 1950s, after Henry Fonda had left the show. I told John about Father Kaiser’s proposal, and John immediately said I’d made a mistake. He thought it would be a wonderful experience for me, as well as it being a very worthy cause. After that, I kept thinking about it, and finally, later in the day, I went back to Father Kaiser and told him I would go. I’ll never forget his response: “Dick, after you left I said a prayer that you would change your mind. And here you are.”

We all flew into Dijibouti, the capital of Ethiopia. I had never been to Africa or any other place where people lived at a subsistence level. We brought food and other supplies that were desperately needed. I remember that Patty Duke was particularly wonderful with the children, and we all grew very attached to them.

In the short time I spent with these wonderful African children, I was struck by the fact that they seemed to have never been exposed to humor—at least not in the way we’re accustomed to. The day we were leaving, on the spur of the moment, I pretended to bump into a tree. Suddenly all the kids went crazy. So I kept doing pratfalls and put on a little show as they just kept laughing and laughing. I had the impression they had never seen any kind of organized show or act that was designed just to make them laugh. It seemed to me that this was something outside their life experience. It may sound insignificant, but in the midst of all their terrible privation, I found myself introducing these kids to comedy.

I’ve had many different audiences over my lifetime, but I don’t ever remember one more appreciative. More important, I never appreciated an audience more than I did those kids. Laughter really is good for the soul. And I hope the children in that village, with all the enormous burdens they carried, felt a little bit better for having laughed at this crazy American who was bumping into trees and tripping over logs.

I won’t be so pretentious as to say that the African trip changed my life forever or made me a better person. But I did leave with a fuller understanding of the giant gap between those who have and those who don’t. I also see my own life a little differently. Most of us are self-absorbed when we’re young. I know I was. And yet, there are those rare and magical people who seem to be born altruists. To care deeply about the plight of others requires that we temper concern about ourselves. In the Catholic Church, the clergy take vows to ensure that state of mind—vows of poverty and even celibacy. These are commitments that help these wonderful people turn their own focus away from themselves and toward others. Other religions, I believe, have some variant on this—moral teachings and ethical principles requiring that people forego their own pleasures for the comfort of others. One of the advantages of growing older is the ability to see oneself more clearly. As I look back, I see that the time spent with those unlucky children was more important than all my appearances on radio, stage and television. That clear introspection leads to regret for not having done more. I’m sure many people feel that way. By the time we emerge from the self-obsession of our youth, we find ourselves on the homestretch—and wondering why we didn’t do more.

As a result of
Eight Is Enough
, I became a regular on all the talk shows. My favorite was
The Merv Griffin Show
, where I appeared many times. Merv was a good friend, and, as mentioned, we played tennis together for years.

One day Merv was going on vacation and asked if I would be the guest host. At first it sounded great, and I agreed. But as the date approached, for the first time in my entire professional life I began to feel nervous. This was different than what I was used to. I always had a script to lean on. Or, if I was the guest on a show, it was up to Merv or Johnny Carson or whoever to make sure things went smoothly. But now it would be up to me, and I was scared to death that I would run out of conversation.

One way to ease things was to book people who were already friends. So my first guest was Don Adams. Now Don was a great guy, but he could also be a bit ornery at times. I was sitting in the dressing room trying to think about what I would say to him when I came up with an idea. Before the show went on the air, I went into the audience and asked them to play along. I told them when Don Adams comes on I’m going to introduce him—and then dismiss him in ten seconds.

So Don came out. He sat down, and I asked him how he was. He responded that he was fine. And then I immediately said in the most serious voice: “Well thank you very much for coming, Don. It was wonderful having you.” Don gave me that ornery look as if I was completely out of my mind and then yelled at me: “That’s it?”

The audience loved it, which made me a lot more relaxed. I also remembered some advice that Merv gave me which is important for any interviewer—and is also important in real life—which is to really listen. Rather than thinking about what you’re going to say next, listen. There’s always a tendency as a host to be so concerned about the next question that you tune out what your guest is saying. In the end, that just makes it worse. I appreciated that advice, and it helped get me through my week as guest host of
The Merv Griffin Show
. But I also acquired a new respect for those people, like Merv and Johnny, who have that rare ability to keep a conversation going and to make it interesting to the viewers. I believe that everybody has something interesting about them and people like Larry King or Oprah have a special gift for bringing it out—and doing it day after day. I enjoyed my week in Merv’s chair, but that was enough for me. It’s a lot more comfortable being the guest.

*  *  *

Around the same time, I learned that whatever the occasion, whether as a talk show host, in an African village or anyplace else, an entertainer entertains. That’s the job description. And sometimes you’ve got to be ready at a moment’s notice.

My son Jimmy loves to tell a true story about some quick improvisation. Jimmy had a friend who introduced him to a very wealthy individual, recently retired, who had moved from Washington to Beverly Hills. Apparently, the man was very much taken with the idea of “celebrity.” He would throw giant parties with hundreds of people at his mansion and invite as many Hollywood stars as he could find.

One day he dropped dead from a heart attack. Jimmy was asked to be a pallbearer at his funeral, which he thought was odd since he didn’t know him all that well. But he agreed. Then it got even stranger when one of his friends asked Jimmy if I would come. Now I had never met the man in my life. Still, his family insisted that he was a big fan of mine, and they would really appreciate it if I attended. Jimmy thought it was ridiculous, but he asked me anyway. It happened that I had nothing scheduled that day, and the story intrigued me, so to Jimmy’s surprise, I told him I would go.

A few hours later, we arrived for the services, which were held at the cemetery. I sat down next to Jimmy, glanced at the program and nearly had a heart attack, when I saw in big black letters: “Eulogy by Dick Van Patten.” I looked at Jimmy and said: “What is this, some kind of practical joke?” He assured me it must be a mistake, and he would talk to them.

So the service started, and I was waiting for someone to announce an error in the program. Instead, the man’s friend who was speaking to the crowd was suddenly overcome with emotion and was unable to continue. At this point everyone looked at me. I didn’t know what to do, so I just got up, walked to the lectern and delivered a eulogy for a man I never met.

I began by saying what a wonderful guy he was. I then started making things up. I told about our many trips to the racetrack together and our long games of all-night poker. I explained to them about how we had talked so frequently about his interest in sports and the arts and many other aspects of his life that had been so tragically cut short. By the time I was done they were all in tears. Afterwards his mother and father came up to me, and with great appreciation, said: “You told us things about our son, we didn’t even know!”

*  *  *

In May of 1985, I had to say goodbye again, this time to my father. Following World War II, Dad remarried and had several more children: Johnny, Marjorie, Byron and Tim. He remained in New York for most of his life, but then moved to Los Angeles where he spent his final years. We had been close throughout our lives, but in the years prior to his death we became even closer, heading out to the Santa Anita racetrack together nearly every day. It was a wonderful time, and I’m so grateful to have been able to share those years with him.

Just as I wished Mom had lived a year longer to see the success of
Eight Is Enough
, I was sad my father died just six months before I received the great honor of having a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The famous bronze stars, set on the sidewalk of Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street, are awarded by the Walk of Fame committee each year for those making contributions in the categories of film, television, theater, radio and music. It is a special privilege to be among those luminaries, including so many talented people I’ve admired throughout my life.

Curiously, my star, placed on Vine Street in November of 1985, has just seen some unexpected traffic. It actually resulted from a mistake. There is a star very close to mine belonging to the Los Angeles talk-show host named Michael Jackson. The shocking death of my young neighbor from Queens Road sent thousands of mourners in search of his star. Many of them went to the wrong one near mine and set up a candlelight vigil. (Michael’s actual star is located in front of the famous Grauman’s Chinese Theater but on the night of his death it was closed off due to a theater production.) I was glad to hear the talk-show host, Michael Jackson, graciously assuring everyone that he was happy to lend his star for the tribute and that he would gladly give it up if it would only bring Michael back.

On the other side of my star, is the lovely actress, Virginia Cherrill, from the silent picture era—best known as Charlie Chaplain’s blind flower girl. In the same section are John Wayne, Eleanor Powell, studio mogul Richard Rowland and country music legend Roy Acuff. I’m delighted to share my small piece of Hollywood immortality with all these great entertainers. And while I wish my Dad could have been with us on that memorable autumn day, I believe he was watching from a far better place and whatever little luster there is to my star on Vine Street, it pales next to Dad’s star which I know will shine brightly forever in Heaven.

*  *  *

In early 1987, I received a call telling me that there was going to be a new award in the name of the great actor Pat O’Brien, and I was to be the first recipient. Pat O’ Brien was among my very favorite actors, and growing up I remember enjoying him in such classics as
Angels with Dirty Faces
,
Crack Up
and
The Personality Kid
. And, of course, in 1940 he uttered those famous words, “Win just one for the Gipper” as the legendary Norte Dame Coach in
Knute Rockne: All American
alongside a young man named Ronald Reagan. I had worked with Pat once on a television drama in the early 1960s, and he made a deep impression on me, not only as an actor, but as a truly decent and honorable man.

The event was held at the Beverly Wilshire on Saint Patrick’s Day, March 17, 1987, and was hosted by a Catholic priest, Father Michael Manning. As he presented me with the award, Father Manning said that “humor and dedication to wholesome family values were the hallmark of Pat O’Brien” He then added: “Perhaps, no one in Hollywood exemplifies high Christian principles and love of family as much as Dick Van Patten.” That was a beautiful thing for Father Manning to say, however undeserved.

The highlight of the evening was a videotaped message from President Reagan. The President recalled his old friend and noted that Pat “typified…all that is good in movies and television. He was a hard-working actor. He loved to use his talent to bring the Good Lord’s truth and laughter to his work.” Then President Reagan gave his approval to my winning the award, stating that Dick Van Patten had exhibited “high ideals” that are a “model for us all.”

I was deeply moved by those words, and I spoke a few that came from the heart that night. “The only reason I’m taking this,” I explained, “is because no one else in the world thought more highly of Pat O’Brien and idolized him more than I did.” As an actor, I said, Pat “made it look so easy. He was a fast actor, but he was very real.” In that sense, I was referencing the differences between those actors like Gleason and Mickey Rooney and the many radio actors who could achieve a real performance in a heartbeat. That was how I saw Pat O’Brien.

“To the public,” I continued, Pat “was the cop on the beat or the priest in the neighborhood parish, or the storefront lawyer or the fast-talking private detective…. He made it look so easy that I wonder if his acting was fully appreciated. He was one of the greatest actors that ever lived…. He had such respect for the writers’ words.” Finally, I noted the thing that struck me most about Pat: “There was no self-indulgence in his acting,” I said.