The Ear of the Heart: An Actress' Journey From Hollywood to Holy Vows

by Hart, Dolores

  But I never forgot that Don’s faith in me was greater than my own. I tried to repay him in the only way I could: I made sure that he was identified by name in all of the articles about the way I got into pictures. Even years later, when the story was repeated at the time I left Hollywood, Don Barbeau’s gift to me was acknowledged.

  I took the midterms and did well in every class—except one. Miss Barnelle, true to her word, failed me.

  The Wallis contract was offered. Drawn up and signed before the six-month period was up, it was for seven years with a salary starting at $250 a week and going to $3,500. There would be an option pickup every six months, at which time Wallis could keep her or let her go. In addition, he could loan her out to any other studio or producer, paying her the weekly salary and pocketing the fee he charged for her services. Everyone celebrated, but no one more than Carlos Alvarado, who without having to pick up a telephone now represented a contract actress who would be paid forty out of fifty-two weeks a year.

  I guess I was the only girl in America who wasn’t insane over Elvis Presley. I had never been interested in rock and roll—it all sounded much the same to me. So when our director, Hal Kanter, introduced Elvis to me, I wasn’t meeting ELVIS!!!, but a very charming, soft-spoken and polite young fellow who was immediately on his feet. He took my hand and, in true southern-gentleman style, called me Miss Dolores. He called me that the whole time I knew him. He was the only one who did—except for Gary Cooper, but that was later. I thought Elvis was quite sweet, but truthfully, I was much more impressed meeting Wendell Corey and Lizabeth Scott. They were real movie stars.

  Just before we started shooting, Mr. Wallis asked me to change my name. In his opinion, Hicks wouldn’t look good on a marquee. For my first name, he favored Susan, the name of the girl I was to play in the movie.

  That same day, Dolores went to Westwood’s Village Delicatessen, nicknamed the VD by the students, with Sheila Hart and Maureen Bailey. Sheila had news. She had just become engaged to her Loyola boyfriend, Bob McGuire, and was deliriously happy. In the midst of the girls hugging and shrieking, Sheila had a brainstorm. Since she was going to get a new name, she said Dolores could have her old one.

  That’s how I got the Hart. Mr. Wallis liked it and thought it went well with Susan, so I was introduced to the press as Susan Hart—“the girl other girls will hate”—because I was going to give Elvis Presley his first screen kiss. When Mom saw that in the newspaper, she exploded. She didn’t object to the last name—after all, she had gotten rid of Hicks too. But she made such a fuss about my given name that Mr. Wallis backed down on Susan and I became Dolores Hart.

  Dolores would legalize that name later, a move that pleased Grandpa Kude, who had always said that no Hicks would ever amount to anything. Her father, however, was displeased. Bert had not seen his daughter for almost a year and had become aware of her budding career through family members.

  Production began on The Lonesome Cowboy, the title of the Good Housekeeping story it was based on. The film was renamed Running Wild during the shooting. It would subsequently be called Stranger in Town and then Something for the Girls before getting its final title from one of the songs in the film, Loving You. Dolores played Susan Jessup, a young singer who falls in love with a truck driver (Presley) who becomes a rock-and-roll singer thanks to a bandleader (Wendell Corey) and a clever press agent (Lizabeth Scott).

  From the very first day, I felt I was surrounded by a new family. Mr. Kanter couldn’t have been kinder or more helpful. And he was funny to boot. Everyone was wonderful to me—makeup man Wally Westmore; our choreographer, Charlie O’Curran; and the lady who did my hair, Nellie Manley. Charles Lang, our director of photography, actually took the time to tell me that I was picking up movie technique in a snap. He wanted to know where I had studied. I told him nowhere. That night in a dream, Grandpa showed up and said, “Hey, kid, remember me? I showed you a thing or two.” From then on, whenever I was asked about early training, I would give Grandpa his due.

  Edith Head did the costumes for the film and took a shine to me. She nicknamed me Junior. She had six Oscars in her office then (she would win eight in all). Time had taken its toll on their glossy finishes as it probably did to most things in Hollywood. I picked one up. It was named Sabrina. “God can be good”, I thought, remembering nights I lay awake in the dormitory dreaming of holding my own Oscar.

  Edith once took me on a tour of the costume department, and as we passed the forms of the actresses she had dressed at Paramount, she had a running commentary. “Ingrid. Do you think that’s her bust? I gave her that bust. Grace had a very flat fanny, but not when I got through. My motto, Junior: ‘What God has forgotten, I fill with cotton.’ ”

  Oddly enough, Edith never padded me. Not that I didn’t need it. I think she just liked me as I was. She also approved of my homemade wardrobe: “You re so cute the way your mama put you together”, she said with a smile. “We’ll take advantage of that.” She designed my movie wardrobe like the clothes Mom made for me.

  Edith Head voiced the feelings of the rest of the studio personnel who came in contact with Dolores: “That girl had such a way with her that we were all pulling for her. We wanted her to be a success.”

  Two people at the studio were more than special. Edith’s assistant, Pat Barto, who actually did a lot of the designing but got no credit, was someone I took as a role model. She had elegance and the charm of true womanhood, and I wanted to be like her. The other was the studio publicist, Jim Stevens, he of the dry wit and sly smile, who was largely responsible for my becoming known even before Loving You was released. Jim remains a friend to this day.

  My first scene in front of a camera was my last scene in the film, the clinch with Elvis. The set was small but hardly intimate with the crew, of course, and all of Elvis “boys”—four or five young guys; I think most of them were cousins—who followed him everywhere. Mr. Kanter stressed that we hold the kiss until he called, “Cut!” During the take, it seemed as if we held that kiss for ten minutes. Elvis himself finally broke away and called, “Cut!” He apologized but said he had to come up for air. Mr. Kanter said it was all right because the take was no good. It seems I began to blush, and my ears got bright red.

  Another take, and the same thing happened. So production stopped while Wally Westmore fiddled with my makeup. Another take. More red ears. Mr. Westmore finally had to devise a completely new makeup that would mask my rosy countenance.

  Elvis and I hit it off right away. He seemed to be in the same boat as I. He had just finished his first movie but was still way in the dark about filmmaking. He was a dream to work with. He had a marvelous sense of timing, which isn’t so surprising, given that he was a musician. He took direction quickly, though it wasn’t always from Mr. Kanter. “Colonel” Tom Parker, Elvis manager, was on the set at all times, standing more often than not right behind Mr. Kanter. When the director called, “Cut”, Elvis never failed to look first to the Colonel for approval.

  On the set, Elvis always had his guitar within easy reach and would strum it and sing whenever the spirit moved him—which was often. You would never find him in his dressing room. He would walk around the set, almost childlike, talking to people and bumming dimes for the apple machine.

  —Elvis Presley never carried loose change.

  Almost as much as Elvis loved to sing, he loved to kid around—that’s where his boys came in. Like all young kids, they were forever laughing at their own jokes. Theirs were always “in” jokes, and though I generally didn’t get them, they were never crude—as far as I knew. The boys themselves were very sweet to me and would shuffle their feet and look down at the ground—very “aw, shucks”, “gosh golly”—whenever I was around. The one I knew best was Gene Smith, who kept in contact with me even after I entered Regina Laudis. His calls were just short hellos to tell me he and Elvis sent their love.

  And, yes, Elvis did ask me out. We had been shooting for about a week when he thought it would be “
nice for us to get to know each other”. I did the unheard of: I turned him down. I didn’t want to be thought of as an opportunist trading on his celebrity while we were working together.

  —There was a lot of Granny in me. I patted myself on the back for this estimable stand when I wrote her, “This Natalie wouldn’t.” I would have gone out with Elvis after the film was finished, but he obviously took no for an answer. He never asked me again.

  Mom went with me to the studio frequently, but she was hardly a stage mother. She was just excited to be on a movie set. I think it gave her a feeling of fulfillment, that she was part of the entertainment world at last. Elvis liked Mom a lot. So did Wendell Corey. I had begun sharing tales of my family with Wendell, and he was genuinely fascinated. He really wanted to meet Granny and watch her drink a martini upside down. I didn’t tell those stories to everyone. But I usually found at least one person on each picture I could share them with.

  I wrote Granny a lot on the set, and my letters often concerned my finances. I was making $250 a week, less taxes and agent fees, more money than I had ever had in my life. I was determined to sock away in the bank at least fifty dollars every week and told Granny that even if this kick lasted only a year or so, I would probably have enough to return to school. I told her I was always on the lookout for other sources of income and once hinted that when Elvis got his hair cut on the set, I should sweep up the clippings and sell them to the girls at Marymount for a dime a piece. That was when Granny started slipping five or ten dollars into the envelope with her letters “to tide you over just in case”. Bless her, she did that during my entire time in Hollywood in spite of my salary boosts.

  My one and only extravagance was a new car. Through Paramount, I got a brand new Ford Skyliner convertible, light blue with those wonderful stripes. And I was able to buy Mom a sewing machine. I got Great-grandmother Bowen a rug to cover the holes in her linoleum and delivered it in person on a fast trip back to Illinois. I stayed the night, and the following morning I found her on the floor, stretched out on the carpet, and my heart stopped. Suddenly she sat up and smiled, “Honey, I’m fine. I jist wanted to sleep on this nice new rug b’fore everbuddy messes it all up.”

  When a movie finishes shooting and the director calls, “That’s a wrap!”, it’s customary to celebrate with a wrap party. Hal Kanter hosted the celebration for the Loving You company on an empty soundstage, but when the guests arrived, they were greeted by a booth with a huge sign reading, “Thank You”. In the booth was a beaming Colonel Parker, greeting everyone and handing out Presley albums. Kanter, still miffed after fifty years, recalled, “Everyone thought the Colonel was the host of the party. The next day I received a handmade card from Dolores thanking me for the evening. She was the only one who did.”

  For weeks after the production ended, I was in a blue funk. After months of being together like a very close-knit family, everyone was gone. It was more than disorienting. It was depressing.

  Loving You was a hit, and Dolores reaped the benefits of giving Elvis his first screen kiss. Overnight Jim Stevens found he could pitch this newcomer to the fan magazine editors. She began a heavy schedule of publicity, interviews and photo layouts.

  At first the interviews were about her take on Presley, with titles such as “What It Feels Like to be Kissed by Elvis”. But her fresh personality and candor, especially about the pitfalls of teenage dating, connected with the editors, and soon the features bore titles such as “Flirting Can Be Fun—but Dangerous”, “Going Steady—Shortcut to Heartbreak?” and “Be a Good Girl”.

  In interviews I frequently spoke about my conversion to Catholicism. I tried to convey my conviction that faith can be a great buttress to one’s shortcomings and weaknesses, helping us to rise above them and giving our lives true purpose. I didn’t beat the drum. But it was part of my identity.

  Things at home were problematic at best. While Mom was sincere in her joy for my good fortune, she could, when she was drinking, be jealous and hostile. “You have everything—I have nothing; you are somebody—I am nobody” became Mom’s mantra. She had a strong moral sense of her own value, but when she drank, self-pity blocked it out. She was alone much of the time. Pop left for the restaurant early every morning and stayed there late, way past closing, drinking with his cronies. I’m sure it was because he didn’t want to face the situation at home, but the pity was he that wasn’t there when Mom needed him. I thought he didn’t love her enough to help her.

  Usually I was able to call on my ability to detach myself from the unpleasantness, but with increasing frequency, I found myself confronting Mom and adding to the ugliness. I was jealous too—of the bottle. I would spit out hateful things and later feel awful about it. My faith in her basic goodness became my guiding principle; it kept me trying over and over. But each time I found in myself a growing resentment of my softening. When you allow those sentiments to creep in, when you soften, it makes you vulnerable all over again.

  If it hadn’t been for the good things happening to me then, I don’t know what I might have done. I knew that this sudden fulfillment of a dream was a gift of grace that had to be carefully nurtured. It was given to me with a condition: that I not set up any false values or let the trappings of Hollywood delude me into forgetting the grace. It asked for all my attention.

  Six

  There’s a saying around Hollywood soundstages that getting your first film is easy; getting the second one is hard.

  During 1957 Paramount Pictures introduced several young actresses, only to drop each after one film. Norma Moore was Anthony Perkins’ leading lady in Fear Strikes Out; Elaine Aiken played opposite Perkins in The Lonely Man; Mary Webster was the ingenue in Jerry Lewis’ The Delicate Delinquent. And that was it for each of them. Dolores had the advantage of being under contract not to Paramount but to Hal Wallis, whose associate producer was the savvy Paul Nathan.

  Paul liked me from the first moment and was always honest with me. He carefully monitored the rushes of Loving You and decided I should spend some time in the studio gym and pay attention to a diet. I was five foot six and weighed 126 pounds. Since the camera adds about ten pounds, Paul thought I should get my weight down to 117. So I began living on lettuce and cottage cheese. Paul also got me into cheek exercises so I wouldn’t look like a chipmunk in close-ups.

  More important, Paul watched out for her career. There was a role in the new Jerry Lewis movie Wallis was producing that she could do. And she would have too and then possibly have bitten the dust if not for Paul.

  There was another film on the Wallis slate, one that was shaping up to be his most important for the year. A Woman Obsessed was to be Anna Magnani’s follow-up to her Oscar-winning American debut in The Rose Tattoo. The cast included Anthony Quinn and Anthony Franciosa. The director was George Cukor. The film had prestige written all over it. The story concerned an Italian immigrant (Magnani) who, in old-country tradition, comes to America to marry her late sister’s husband, a rancher. A romantic triangle ensues, involving the Magnani character, the widower (Quinn) and a young ranch hand (Franciosa) betrothed to the rancher’s daughter. The role of Angie, the nineteen-year-old daughter, had not been cast. Cukor agreed to Paul’s request to let Dolores test for the part.

  Dolores test impressed Cukor and Wallis enough to cast her as Angie. That bit of casting, coming so early in her career, stamped the young actress as a contender, someone due a respect that wasn’t going to be given to the latest Elvis Presley or Jerry Lewis girl. The chances of her fading from view, like the contract actresses before her, got smaller.

  My character figured in only a few scenes, but I was in major company now and aware of my inexperience as an actress. Loving You had been a game. This film made me realize how much more I would have to learn if I was to be any good. I vowed to study, but the film was about to start shooting. I had been given a great gift in being able to work with these extraordinary people, so I spent every moment I could watching the rehearsals and filming. On
days I wasn’t scheduled to work, I would show up anyway just to absorb as much as I could. This began my dependence on people who were more experienced and willing to share their knowledge with me. No one was more generous in this regard than Anthony Quinn.

  The first day of filming was devoted to my short scene with the two Tonys. Then my character was shipped off to school so the grown-ups could thrash around in love and lust. I would have no scenes alone with Tony Franciosa, which was just as well, since every time I was in his company my ears turned red.

  I was to have only one scene with Anna Magnani, but she had not been on the set yet. I looked forward to working with this actress who had captivated me in The Rose Tattoo, and I felt I was prepared. I had spent days working with Pamela Danova, the dialogue coach, who carefully translated the lines into Italian so I would recognize the words if Anna spoke them in Italian, which I was told she sometimes did.

  The day we were to do our scene was the day I met Anna Magnani. I remember thinking this was going to be the most important day of my life.

  The lady was having one of her so-called disturbances when Mr. Cukor introduced us. With her mane of dark hair and those deep-set eyes, shaded by sunglasses, she appeared larger than I had anticipated. Before I had a chance to kneel at her feet, she glared at me and shook her head, “No, no, no.” The corners of her mouth drooped while she looked me up and down over the dark glasses. She stared at my eyes and threw up her hands. “No!”

  She already hated me, I was sure. Mr. Cukor artfully pulled her away and spoke very quietly—so quietly that I had trouble eavesdropping. But Magnani did not speak quietly. Her English was not good, so she yelled in Italian, with Pamela translating as fast as she could. I could catch only bits and pieces of the tirade—words such as inexperienced and amateur. I was devastated. Mr. Cukor was equally firm but without the hand waving: “Her inexperience can work for the scene.”