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Authors: Barry Livingston

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CHAPTER 6
 
Memories Are Magic
 
The Dick Van Dyke Show
was my first acting job where I performed in front of a live audience, which I assumed would be easy. I was pretty cocky for a nine-year-old thespian, having already logged five years in the “biz.” That was halfway to qualifying for my Screen Actor’s Guild pension, which meant I could retire at fourteen! I had things all figured out. Or so I thought.
My role in the episode wasn’t that complicated. I played a friend of Richie Petrie (Van Dyke’s TV son). The boy boasted that his dad owned the wildest pair of pajamas ever made. I doubted him, and so Richie takes me to view the amazing pj’s while his father is in bed sleeping. Carl Reiner, the show’s creator, gave me one specific direction: go slack-jawed in shock when the pajamas are revealed. Easy enough. It was money in the bank.
We rehearsed the show for four days. Reiner staged our action, jokes were honed, and my “slack-jawed” reaction met with everybody’s approval. One element missing in rehearsals, though: Van Dyke’s spectacular pajamas. Either the star didn’t feel like wearing them or there was a calculated plan to reveal the pj’s on filming day, hoping to catch my “real” reaction. I suspected it was the latter, mainly because I overheard Reiner tell Van Dyke that the audience will howl when they see the goofy kid’s stunned expression.
Goofy kid?
I thought I looked like Steve McQueen. Another illusion shattered.
On the fifth day of work we were ready to film the show. A chattering crowd streamed into the studio, filling the air with electricity, and that triggered a sensation that I’d never felt before: preshow
butterflies.
The mere thought of people watching me onstage caused a tingling from my groin to my stomach. That’s when I started to worry. I’d heard disaster stories about other actors whose jitters grew into full-blown stage fright. Sometimes they’d go into total paralysis or break into tears and run offstage.
That couldn’t happen to me,
I reassured myself.
I was a pro, ready for anything!
Suddenly, a loud bell rang on the stage, filming had commenced, and the
flitting butterflies
morphed into
flapping crows
. I wasn’t ready for that. The hands on a wall clock backstage seemed to be spinning faster and faster, hurtling me toward my moment of truth. Before you could scream
run,
I heard my cue to enter the scene ... and I did.
I followed Richie through the Petries’ TV living room (being careful not to do a pratfall over Van Dyke’s famous ottoman). Perspiration beaded on my forehead, and it wasn’t from the hot studio lights. I felt the “multiheaded monster” in the studio bleachers watching us, daring me to look at them, but I resisted. . . and continued to sweat.
Richie and I crept into a bedroom where we found Rob Petrie (Van Dyke) “sleeping” in his bed. A blanket covered his body and, of course, the awesome pajamas.
Richie held an index finger to his lips and peeled back the covers. Ever so slowly, the pajamas were revealed. It was a two-piece suit, bright orange with black stripes. Van Dyke’s head looked like it was attached to the body of a Bengal tiger.
The audience roared with laughter, and their energy surged over me; that was another odd, new feeling. A nervous giggle started to work its way up from my gut to my “frozen, slack-jawed mouth.” Suddenly, I began laughing! Of course, that was not part of the plan.
An unseen voice, like a displeased god, boomed through overhead speakers: “Cut!” A stage bell rang twice, which meant that filming was aborted. Suddenly, things weren’t so funny.
Van Dyke opened his eyes, looked at me, and frowned. Even more troubling, Carl Reiner, the show’s eight-hundred-pound gorilla, walked out from the darkness behind the cameras. He looked disappointed; like I’d spoiled a surprise party that he’d been planning all week.
“You weren’t supposed to laugh,” he said.
“I’m sorry. I know. I couldn’t help ...”
Reiner interrupted me and said, “Let’s try it again. When you see Richie’s dad, just drop your jaw and stare. Nothing more.”
“Okay,” I replied firmly, trying to regain his confidence, and mine, too.
Take two: Richie and I sneak into the bedroom, my pal pulls down the covers revealing the Van Dyke–Bengal tiger, the audience laughs, and ... I follow their lead, turning into Chuckles the Chimp, again.
“Cut!” The stage bell banged loudly, signaling the end of filming, and perhaps my career.
Goddamn that audience,
I hissed to myself while still giggling. I’d lost all self-control.
Reiner was on the set within seconds this time. His disappointment now looked like frustration.
“What happened?” he snapped.
“I ... uh ... I laughed ’cause the audience ...”
“The audience can laugh, not you. It kills ‘the funny’ if you think it’s funny,” said the wise man of comedy. “Understand?”
I nodded
uh-huh
but I didn’t really understand. I figured I better pretend or get fired on the spot.
Reiner was no rube, though, and saw that I was scared and bluffing. He knelt down, gently patted my cheek, and whispered: “Think about something you remember, something that shocked you. Memories are like magic, you know. Just relax and go with it. Okay?”
I nodded
yes,
but I still didn’t really know what he meant.
Memories? Magic?
The “old pro” was clueless but game.
Take three: Richie and I enter, the pj’s are revealed, my jaw sagged, the audience screamed, and just as I feared, another tickle started to percolate in my innards.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve never had this problem before!
my brain screamed. The giggle kept rising. If it reached my mouth, I was screwed, the jig up, my acting reputation toast.
Then a miracle happened. The memory of my dog, Lady, popped into my mind’s eye, and it wasn’t a pretty picture.
My pet was lying in the street after a car had run her over; she was dead
. Granted, the image wasn’t the same kind of shock as seeing somebody’s dad in funny pajamas, but I was grateful that something,
anything,
popped into my head. I decided to go with the memory as Reiner suggested and focused on
Lady’s black eyes, glassy and motionless, and her furry midsection that looked flattened by the tire that rolled over her.
Not surprisingly, the tickle began to recede.
The audience was not to be spurned, though. They howled like Greek sirens luring me onto the rocks. I fought back with another memory: a
grumpy city worker scooping up my dead pet with a big shovel and flinging her limp body into the back of his truck.
Believe me, my “stunned, frozen slack jaw” has never hung lower.
At last, the scene ended. The studio bell dinged, just like it does at the end of a boxing match; I had finally won the bout.
Reiner returned to the set and pronounced me a comedy genius. Well, not actually. He just thanked me, I assumed for not screwing up his show, again, and the cast and crew moved on to the next scene. My work was done, not a moment too soon, and I was sent packing.
Driving home from the studio, my mom could see me lost in thought. “Don’t worry, Barry,” she said. “People make mistakes. There’s a lot to learn.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. I hated when adults said things like that. Secretly, I was still rattled but couldn’t admit it. My first live performance was a disaster, and that took my cockiness down a couple of notches. Perhaps I didn’t have it all figured out.
We rode in silence, and then my mother asked, “So, what did Mr. Reiner finally tell you?”
I sighed, wanting to put the whole weird evening behind me, and said, “I forget.” Of course, that wasn’t true because the director’s words were still echoing in my head. So was my dog’s ghostly memory. Lady’s appearance was a godsend and a revelation. She was still alive, somewhere in my body or soul, and I had the power to call upon her. My dog could still come to my rescue if I ever needed her help.
Reiner was right. Memories are like magic.
CHAPTER 7
 
The Top Secret TV Series
 
While I was busy working in movies, Stan was on the verge of an acting break that would change his life forever, and eventually mine, too.
Our agent told Stan that he had an audition for an untitled, top-secret project. Our family was intrigued. Nothing grabs your attention more than a super-classified project. The only thing that could be revealed: a huge movie star was attached to the enterprise, which was a pilot for a new TV series. This was an era when major film stars rarely appeared in TV projects; it was considered beneath their stature. This series was going to be very special.
At Stan’s audition, he learned that the untitled project actually had a name:
My Three Sons
. Somebody also leaked the name of the show’s star: Fred MacMurray. MacMurray was a
huge
movie star, having come off a string of Disney hits like
The Absent-Minded Professor
and
The Shaggy Dog
. Preceding those movies, MacMurray’s film career went back another thirty years and included such classics as
Double Indemnity
,
The Egg and I
, and
The Caine Mutiny.
How was a star of MacMurray’s stature lured to TV? There was one overriding factor.
MacMurray wanted a change in lifestyle. Movie work often required him to leave home and travel abroad or labor at the studio for long hours, putting in twelve- to fifteen-hour days. MacMurray wanted out of that madness because he and his wife, June Haver, had recently adopted twin girls. He dreamed of a job that would give him regular workdays with set hours. Plain and simple: MacMurray wanted to be a father more than he needed to be a movie star.
The creator of
My Three Sons,
Don Fedderson, knew of MacMurray’s desire and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. The deal specified that MacMurray would work only two months per season. There’d be no late nights on the set, either. He’d start at 8 a.m. and punch out at 5 p.m. Overtime would cost the company a pretty penny.
A novel way of shooting was devised to accommodate the star’s schedule. It became known throughout the industry as the MacMurray Method. In the two months that he was present, the film company would shoot
only
his scenes and
only
his close-ups, sometimes working out of ten different scripts a day to capture his footage from every episode. Once he was gone, the other series regulars would continue shooting the scenes that the star wasn’t in and doing their close-ups with a script girl who was reading MacMurray’s lines off-camera. It was a wildly unorthodox way of shooting a television series and a production nightmare. Normally, each episode is started and completed in about a week. If you have clout, though, the rules will change. MacMurray definitely had clout. It was an opportunity too good for him to pass up.
After one audition, the producers told Stan that he got the job of Chip Douglas, the youngest of the sons. Stan was the first series regular hired after MacMurray, so our family became privy to the machinations behind some of the early casting decisions.
William Frawley, best known as Fred Mertz from the TV classic
I Love Lucy,
came on board to portray Uncle Bub, the show’s nanny. Bobby Diamond, from the TV Western
Fury,
was offered the role of oldest son but couldn’t come to terms in negotiations. He was out. MacMurray suggested Tim Considine for the role since they had just worked together on a Disney film,
The Shaggy Dog.
When the boss suggests things, people listen. Considine was hired as the oldest son, Mike. To complete the troika of
My Three Sons
, Ryan O’Neal was cast as Robbie, the middle son.
Soon after work on the pilot began, things went sour and filming was halted. MacMurray felt that O’Neal wasn’t up to par with his comedy skills (he proved everybody wrong later in his career) and was let go. A mad search went out to replace him. My mother mentioned the talent hunt to Mary Grady, an agent specializing in child actors. She happened to be the mother of Don Grady, who was already famous as a Mousketeer on the
Mickey Mouse Club.
Mary got her son an audition, and Don won the part of Robbie, the middle son. The original cast of
MTS
was solidified.
In 1960, the concept for
MTS
was quite fresh and new: a widowed father struggling to raise his three boys in an all-male household. It was a radical departure from the other TV family shows that were popular at the time such as
The Donna Reed Show, Ozzie and Harriet,
and
Father Knows Best
. Those shows had two loving parents raising their children in spotless households in near perfect harmony.
MTS
was going to depict a new kind of American family: a single parent with kids. This prototype was to become a staple in films and on TV shows years later.
Don Fedderson is cited as the “creator” of
MTS
, but Peter Tewksbury, the pilot’s director, was a major force in developing the show’s originality. He fleshed out the brotherly relationships and shaped the whimsical comedic tone that became a hallmark of the show.
Tewksbury decided that the all-male household of
MTS,
lacking the feminine touch, would be in a constant state of disarray with the family dog asleep on the recliner, crumpled laundry piling up on the sofa, and stacks of mealtime dishes in the sink. Tewksbury also told the younger sons, Chip and Robbie, to take a shortcut midway down the staircase and leap over the banister. These were hardly revolutionary ideas, but they were true to the show’s premise and created a new, perhaps more honest, version of an American household.
When the pilot aired in 1960, the viewing audience saw a lot of themselves in this new TV family and fell in love. Every girl wanted to coddle this motherless clan, and every boy wanted to join their chaotic ranks. The show was an instant smash hit.
Thirty-nine episodes were filmed in the first season. Working in multiple episodes every day was key to making the MacMurray Method viable. Every day there was a frantic daily scramble to film the star’s scenes. Occasionally, only half a scene would be filmed, if MacMurray’s character exited in the middle of the action. In such cases, the actors would freeze in place the second he walked off camera and a still photographer would take a Polaroid picture catching the moment.
Months later, when it was time to complete the scene, the actors would look at the Polaroid photo, assume the “frozen” positions, and then pick up the action from there. Once the editors assembled all the footage, the final cut would look seamless, like it was all shot on the same day.
Maintaining continuity was the biggest challenge to success of the MacMurray Method. Hair would have to be kept at the same length and color all season long; an actor’s weight couldn’t fluctuate, either. Occasionally, Mother Nature had her say because the younger sons, Stan and Don, were still growing. A sudden growth spurt could easily occur in the intervening months between filming parts of the same scene. Wardrobe that fit in January might be too small in June. To deal with such problems, the costume designer bought doubles of everything: shirts, pants, dress suits. Sometimes he’d even buy larger sizes of the same outfits, trying to outwit Mother Nature’s whims.
Credit should be given where credit is due. The production manager for
MTS,
John Stephens, was the scheduling wizard who made sure that no shot was forgotten. Without Stephens keeping track of every missing scene, half-scene, or matching close-up, the MacMurray Method would have collapsed into MacMurray Madness. The star realized his importance to the show, too.
Stephens had a salary dispute with Don Fedderson one year, and the boss told him that he was fired. Before walking off the studio lot, Stephens stopped by MacMurray’s trailer to say good-bye. Once the star heard about Stephens’s leaving, he immediately got on the phone to Fedderson. Stephens was rehired that same day, with a substantial raise. Money was never better spent.

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