Why did he do it?
Because he could.
She looked at him and he gave her that same knowing elfin grin he had given her on the set that day, but this day she understood it. The only thought in her head was: WOW!
There are times when Sharon knows she didn’t just fall in love with and marry a good movie director. She fell in love with and married a cinematic Mozart. That was one of those times.
Yet the 35mm print that is being projected on the Bruin’s screen that she’s in is about as far away from that level of cinematic artistry as the earth was to the moon. The Wrecking Crew isn’t a film, it’s a movie. And it isn’t even a good movie. That is, unless you get a laugh out of seeing Dean Martin play Matt Helm. And since this is Dean Martin’s fourth Matt Helm movie, apparently a lot of people get a laugh out of seeing Dean Martin play Matt Helm. (Dean Martin’s deal on the Matt Helm movies was so good that he made more money on the first three than Sean Connery made on the first five Bond movies. Which infuriated the Scottish tightwad Connery.)
As Sharon makes her way down the darkened auditorium aisle looking for a seat, she can see that the scene being projected on the screen is the one of Matt Helm landing in Denmark.
Oh, great, she thinks, the hotel scene where she makes her big entrance is next. As she scooches sideways down an empty row, she glances around the dim auditorium. There are about thirty-five to forty people scattered around the huge picture palace.
As she takes a seat toward the middle of the row, on-screen Dean as Matt makes a quip to a sexy stewardess, and the audience laughs.
Good, she thinks, they’re laughers and they’re enjoying the movie. Sharon removes from her purse the huge glasses she wears whenever she watches a movie, puts them on, and settles into her seat just as secret agent Matt Helm, dressed in his turtleneck-and-sport-coat ensemble, enters the lobby of the Danish hotel.
Two different villainous female spies, Elke Sommer and Tina Louise, keep him under surveillance. As Helm speaks to the Danish desk clerk, “T. Louise,” speaking in what sounds like it’s supposed to be a Hungarian accent, approaches the secret agent, making both contact and a date for later that night.
When she slinks away, Matt Helm turns to the desk clerk, quipping in his familiar Dean Martin delivery, “This is some hotel you have here.”
Enter Sharon Tate as her clumsy character, undercover secret agent “Freya Carlson” . . .
As Sharon stood off camera, on location in Denmark, waiting for her director, Phil Karlson, to call action, she thought back to when she first read the script, five months earlier.
When she heard she was being offered a part in the new Dean Martin/Matt Helm secret-agent spoof, she naturally assumed she’d be playing a seductive chic-styled spy-film sexpot. And if she’d been offered one of the roles the film’s other three leading ladies—Elke Sommer, Nancy Kwan, and Tina Louise—were playing, she would have been correct. But her character, Freya Carlson, was Matt Helm’s beautiful but inept and bumbling sidekick. Sharon had already acted in two comedies prior to The Wrecking Crew: the Tony Curtis sex farce Don’t Make Waves and Roman’s film The Fearless Vampire Killers. But neither comedy allowed her to be funny. While the other actors (Tony Curtis, Roman Polanski, Jack MacGowran) in both films ran around maniacally, did pratfalls, and made faces, Sharon was just asked to act vacant and look alluring (or “sexy little me”). How ridiculously good she looked in a bikini in Don’t Make Waves was played for some comic effect. But, unlike with Leigh Taylor-Young in I Love You, Alice B. Toklas!, the film never took advantage of her character’s comic possibilities.
But the role of Freya Carlson was different. In this comedy, she was supposed to be the comic relief. Comic relief opposite Dean Martin, one of the best light comedians in the business. Also since her character was a klutz, a performance built around physical comedy (pratfalls, falling in mud puddles, knocking over things), in essence she was being asked to play the Jerry Lewis part opposite Dean Martin! Sharon jumped at the opportunity.
But that was then, this is now.
Now, on location in Denmark, standing in the lobby of a Danish hotel, waiting for the director to call action, then make her character’s entrance by running into the shot and performing her first comedic pratfall, Sharon was terrified. Not of hurting herself, though she was a little concerned at first of smacking the back of her head against the hard floor of the hotel lobby. The stunt gaffer, Jeff, had told her to tuck her chin into her chest when she fell and she’d be all right. They slipped a pad under her outfit to protect her keister and the small of her back. And Jeff gave her a few different things to hold in her head: tuck her chin into her chest as she fell, keep the champagne bottle in her hand held high during the fall so it didn’t shatter against the floor and shower her with glass. Also, the camera would be pointed right up her dress, so if once she hit the floor her legs go wild, she should close them. But the most terrifying part of all was performing a giant comedic pratfall in front of Jerry Lewis’s old partner.
As Sharon stood in the wings waiting for her cue to enter, arms loaded down with junk, her head full of things to remember to do, she’d never felt more at one with a character. Like Freya, she felt out of her depth (Freya as a secret agent, Sharon as a comedian) and intimidated by her more experienced partner (Matt Helm, after James Bond the world’s greatest secret agent, and Dean Martin, one half of one of the screen’s greatest comedy teams). Also, like Freya, she was eager to do a good job but also a little afraid of screwing it up. Somebody told her at one point they considered Carol Burnett for the role of Freya. It was obvious why they decided to go a different way. But whether or not they’d regret the way they went would all depend on how Sharon performed this gag.
The sweet gentleman Phil Karlson, who was the director of this picture, told her this was the moment that defined her character for the audience. At one point there was talk that maybe her character should be introduced as another slinky sexpot, like the other female leads in the film. Then, after the audience judged her by her sixties-starlet cover, that’s when it would be revealed that she’s a comic klutz. But, much to Sharon’s delight, Phil rejected that approach. “You’re the best character in this whole silly movie,” he told her. In fact, Karlson revised the whole idea. Not until mid-movie would her character wear anything even remotely sexy. Her long blond hair was dyed red and tied up on the back of her head. As opposed to Sommer, Kwan, and Louise, who were all introduced in outlandish stylish fashions, Sharon made her entrance in the uniform of a Danish tourist-board representative. They stuck big comic glasses on her face and she spent the first half of the movie wearing a collection of silly hats on her head. “As far as I’m concerned,” her director told her, “the real movie doesn’t start till you enter. So when you enter, you have to enter with a bang.”
Naturally, at the time, she was thrilled at her director’s confidence in her, but bang time was now, and she hoped she’d make a big bang and not a pitiful pop.
On the Bruin screen, Sharon as Freya Carlson comes running into the scene, carrying a bottle of champagne and screeching her co-star’s character name: “Mr. Helm, Mr. Helm, Mr. Helm!” When Dean turns to look at her, she falls backward over his camera case, landing flat on her ass.
The whole matinee audience at the Bruin does a belly laugh at Sharon’s pratfall. Wow! That felt nice, she thinks. She even turns around in her seat to look at the smiles on their faces. If she could have, she would have shaken all their hands and thanked them all individually. As she turns back to the screen, she wears an ear-to-ear grin on her lovely face. This was a good idea, she thinks. She unzips her white go-go boots, slips her bare feet out of them, throws her long legs over the back of the chair in front of her, and settles back to enjoy the show.
Chapter Fifteen
“You’re a Natural-Born Edmund”
Actor Rick Dalton, dressed in his Caleb DeCoteau costume, and his director, Sam Wanamaker, sit in their director’s chairs on the Lancer set, di
scussing Dalton’s character.
“I want you to think about a rattlesnake,” Sam says. “I think a rattlesnake is your spirit animal.”
Normally, directors on TV shows are so busy trying to make their day, they don’t have time to talk about spirit animals. But Sam is one of those serious British-theater-type directors. And since he seems to be so enthusiastic about Rick, Rick thinks he should probably talk that way too.
“Well, it’s funny you say that,” Rick lies. “I was looking for a spirit animal for Caleb.”
“Well, go with the snake,” Sam says, then points at Lancer series lead Jim Stacy sitting across the set with the little actress playing Mirabella Lancer, Trudi Frazer, in his lap. “Think of him as the mongoose. It’s a duel. We’re going to shoot that scene later today with the two of you. And I want it all in the eyes.”
I want it all in the eyes? What the fuck does that mean? Rick thinks.
So Rick thoughtfully repeats aloud, “All in the eyes.”
Sam reminds him, “You remember when I said ‘Hells Angels’ before?”
Rick nods his head.
“Think about you’re on a great big chopper”—Sam points again at Stacy across the set in his red ruffled shirt—“and that guy over there wants to join your gang. And you would put him through the exact same test that a Hells Angels boss would put one of their people through.”
“I see that,” Rick asks. “So the horses are almost like motorbikes?”
“They are,” Sam agrees. “They’re the motorbikes of their day.”
Nodding his head, Rick says, “Right.”
“And your gang is a bike gang,” Sam directs.
Nodding his head, “Right.”
“And they’ve taken over this town just like a motorcycle gang takes over a town and scares the living shit out of everybody,” Sam says.
Even though Jim Stacy’s sitting across the set and can’t overhear them, Rick leans closer to Sam and asks in a confidential manner, “So Stacy really wanted the mustache?”
Laughing, Sam says, “Believe you me, I can’t tell you the fights I had about that damn mustache. He wanted Johnny Madrid to have a mustache so badly. To him, that was the character. You see, Stacy, like Madrid, has got an edge. But not some broody Actors Studio edge. Like one day maybe he’ll go to jail kinda edge,” Sam says provocatively. “And, yes, of course he wants to do this series. But he doesn’t want to be like Doug McClure or Michael Landon. So the mustache made him different. And then CBS shit-canned the whole mustache idea.”
Rick hates wearing this furry fucking caterpillar stuck to his face. But, admittedly, the fact that Stacy wants it so bad is making Rick warm up to it more and more.
Sam continues, “Speaking of fake mustaches, the last time I had a fake mustache was when I was doing Lear onstage—with Olivier. And he used to come off every night after the storm scene dripping wet from the rain and drenched in perspiration. Then he’d take one look at me—I was playing the Duke of Cornwall—” As if suddenly seized by inspiration: “Rick, dear boy, have you ever done Shakespeare?”
Rick laughs, then realizes, Oh shit, he ain’t kidding. “Me?” Rick asks.
“Yes,” says Sam.
Do I fucking look like I’ve done Shakespeare?
“No,” Rick says, “I ain’t done much theater.”
“Well, I think you’re a born Edmund,” Sam says.
Rick asks, “Ed-Edmund?”
“He’s the bastard son of Lear,” Sam reminds him. “He’s the bastard son who’s been resentful his whole life.”
Any resentful character could be called a character that Rick was born to play. “Well, I can get behind that,” Rick says sincerely.
“He’s resentful because the king excluded him,” Sam explains.
“Right,” Rick says.
Sam declares, “You would be a killer Edmund.”
Really? Rick thinks.
“Well, thank you,” Rick says, “I’m flattered you think so.”
Rick can’t even read Shakespeare, no less speak it, no less know what he’s saying when he says it.
“And I would be honored to direct you in it,” Sam declares.
Practically blushing, Rick repeats, “Well, again, I’m flattered.”
Sam starts web-spinning: “I mean, it could be something we do together. I think the time has come that I have enough gray in my hair to be right for Lear.”
Rick admits honestly, “Well, I’d hafta do some reading up. I gotta be honest, I ain’t read much Shakespeare.”
Or any, Rick thinks.
“That’s not an issue,” Sam insists. “I can work with you on that.”
“Would I hafta do it in a British accent?” Rick asks.
“Oh dear lord, no! I wouldn’t allow that.” Sam explains, “I know it seems as if the Brits have a monopoly on the Bard.”
Who’s the Bard? Rick thinks.
“But in my opinion,” Sam proclaims, “it’s actually American English that is closer to the English spoken in Will’s day.”
Rick asks, “Will who? Oh shit, Shakespeare!”
Sam continues, “Yes, not that pompy hammy purple prose of the Maurice Evans school.”
Pompy hammy purple what? Maurice who?
“The best Shakespearean actors are American actors. Actually, truth be told, Spanish or Mexican actors—when they do it in English—are the best Shakespearean actors. Ricardo Montalban’s Macbeth—amazing! But Americans come closest to capturing the poetry of the streets that is what Shakespeare truly is when it’s done correctly—which it rarely is. That is, unless the American actor’s trying to do it in a British accent. That’s the worst.”
“Yeah, I hate that,” a lying Rick agrees. “Well, like I said, I ain’t done much Shakespeare. I mostly been cast in westerns.”
“Well, you’d be surprised how many westerns the plot is Shakespearean,” Sam tells him. Then he points again at James Stacy, across the set with little Trudi Frazer still sitting in his lap, and says, “You see, whenever there’s a struggle for power or who’s going to be the leader, that’s pure Shakespearean.”
Rick nods his head and says, “Yes, I see.”
“And that’s the relationship you two have—Caleb and Johnny—a struggle for power. And when we do your final scene today, the ransom scene with the little girl, we can have a discussion about Hamlet.”
Rick asks, “You mean Caleb is like Hamlet?”
“And an Edmund.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t know the difference.”
“Well, they’re both angry, conflicted young men. And that’s why I cast you in this. But underneath Hamlet, underneath Edmund, there’s a rattlesnake.”
“A rattlesnake?”
“On a motorcycle.”
Chapter Sixteen
James Stacy
Jim Stacy had waited for a little over ten years to get his own series. And now, on the first day of production, on the pilot for his new series Lancer, that day has finally arrived.
In the mid-sixties he starred in two pilots: A half-hour sitcom where he played a young pediatrician, titled And Baby Makes Three, which featured Joan Blondell and a pre–Mary Tyler Moore Gavin MacLeod in the supporting cast. And a half-hour action show called The Sheriff, about a beach-town sheriff played by Mexican movie star Gilbert Roland and a gang of rowdy surfers led by Stacy. Neither show was picked up for a full series. But Lancer, which was produced by Twentieth Century Fox for CBS, was an expensive pilot and a sure pickup for the fall schedule.
The man now known as James Stacy was born Maurice Elias in Los Angeles. The roguishly handsome football-playing tough guy came to acting via an origin story similar to that of a lot of young men of his era. Maurice had already become a star at his high school due to his combination of good looks and gridiron success. His idolization of James Dean (also like a lot of other young men of his era) led him to adopt his idea of a Dean-like brooding persona and take a few acting classes. And, like a lot of other young me
n and women who were the best-looking people at their high school, Maurice decided to move to Hollywood and give acting a try. Being from Glendale, the handsome hunk didn’t have far to go.
Maurice Elias changed his name to James Stacy. First name in tribute to James Dean, second name in tribute to his favorite uncle, Stacy. He put some grease in his hair, wore tight jeans, and hung around Schwab’s drugstore, waiting to be discovered.
His first real part was a recurring character as one of Ricky Nelson’s buddies on The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet. For seven years he hung around the local malt shop as part of Ricky’s crew, eating hamburgers and drinking milkshakes. And appeared in the background of military-themed movies with other future TV stars: Lafayette Escadrille with Tom (Billy Jack) Laughlin, Clint (Rawhide) Eastwood, David (Richard Diamond) Janssen, and Will (Sugarfoot) Hutchins. And in South Pacific, also with Tom Laughlin, Doug (Overland Trail) McClure, and Ron (Tarzan) Ely.
Stacy received his first real roles guesting on episodic TV shows: Have Gun–Will Travel, Perry Mason, Cheyenne, and Hazel. His first featured role in a major motion picture was alongside Hayley Mills in Disney’s Summer Magic.
Later he and the Lafayette Escadrille director’s son, William Wellman Jr., would star in two beach-party-type flicks that wouldn’t take place on a beach. In 1964’s Winter A-Go-Go, which takes place at a Lake Tahoe ski resort, Stacy canoodles with sixties’ pussycat Beverly Adams (who would later marry Vidal Sassoon). Jim even sings a snazzy number called Hip Square Dance, written by those Monkees hitmakers Boyce and Hart. Then a year later he’d again join “Wild Bill” Wellman Jr. in A Swingin’ Summer, which takes place at Lake Arrowhead. This one includes a good guest bit by the Righteous Brothers, doing the only real rocker in their songbook, Justine. But the real reason anybody remembers the flick is an early appearance by Raquel Welch, who steals the show as a bespectacled bookworm who tosses off her Buddy Holly glasses and turns into a sex bomb as she sings her big number, I’m Ready to Groove, backed by Gary Lewis and the Playboys!
Once Upon a Time in Hollywood Page 20
