by Patty Duke
Despite all this, I wasn’t worrying that I’d never work again, or, why my career was in the toilet. For one thing, I had become obsessed with the idea of having a baby—that was the main thing on my mind—and I’d worked often enough—that Virginian episode and a few variety shows—to have some sense of my career continuing. Harry and I had talked a lot about my getting out of television and the fact that my career had to take a different turn now that I was older. I bought into all of that, which is how I came to be involved in what I think of now as “Valley of the Dreck.”
I think it was Joanna Barnes, who was always plugged into whatever was hot, who first started talking about the Jackie Susann novel and suggested that I play the Judy-Garland-who-wasn’t-Judy-Garland part of Neely, the young singer who was a victim of booze and pills. Both Harry and I liked the idea, the book was a big best seller, and we suggested to my representatives at William Morris that “this is the part we should really go after. It’ll be so startling, I’ll make the transition to adult roles overnight.” If we only knew.
I still believe that the novel Valley of the Dolls, trash though it may be, was far superior to the film, that it did a real service in its pop psychological approach to exploring what it was in the life-styles of its characters that drew them into addiction. And Neely was the best part in the book. No matter what anyone says, and even though I myself learned very convincingly to proclaim, “No, this is a prototype, this isn’t based on anyone real,” the part was indeed based on Judy Garland and some of the excitement about the role was reenacting the dynamics of this woman. I don’t think we’ve yet begun to scratch the surface of Judy; there was a wild bunch of cells thrown together in that lady. Playing that, plus figuring out how someone so seemingly stable and bright could get sucked into such a destructive life-style, was instinctively appealing to me.
The first crisis was the announcement that no one would play a role in this piece without having an audition and screen test. Of course there was a great hue and cry of “How dare they! An Academy Award winner … if they don’t know her ability …” Finally my representatives said, “We understand you haven’t seen her play this kind of role, and it is someone older, so Patty would be willing to come meet with you and maybe you can convince her to test.”
That was as much to soothe me as the production company. The age range in the book is approximately eighteen to fifty and I think one of the reasons my performance suffered so from the critics is that the filmmakers were unwilling to modify the ages. If at age twelve I looked seven, in my twenties I looked fifteen.
However, my screen test was probably better than anything I did in the finished film and it was decided that I was going to play the part. It was also established that I would not do the singing, which was fine with me. I believed a dynamic Judy Garland kind of voice was needed. There was great P.R. excitement about my casting, and I was excited myself. This was going to be my big chance to break into adult roles, to be accepted as an adult, which after years of mandatory infancy was incredibly important to me.
We started shooting with some location work in New York, plus some interiors (though I didn’t realize it until he told me years later, Marvin Hamlisch was the skinny piano player in my opening scene) and when I first arrived in the city it really thrilled me—going back to my old haunts as the conquering hero. I had the best part, the best-looking husband, had left the home in California to go on location, was driven around in a limousine.… I was the Sparkle Plenty little bride who had the world knocked up.
The first thing that went wrong was the appearance of a huge fever blister on the right side of my bottom lip. Ever since my first commercial as a tiny kid, that blister’s been with me every time I begin a job, and it can be horrendous, truly a plague. You’re dealing with the human beast here, and though as actors our anxiety isn’t permitted to show (you could swear there wasn’t a nerve in our bodies), the tension comes out in other ways. When I feel one coming on now, I resort to holistic techniques and the miracle is, I don’t get a blister on my mouth anymore, I get it on my hands; why I can’t get the thing the rest of the way off my body I’ll never know. At that time, though, all they could do was try to cover it up with a lot of makeup, but still, one side of the lip was so much more voluptuous than the other, it looked dreadful.
And almost from day one, I was miserable working with Mark Robson, the director. There was a brief grace period when I was the fair-haired girl, “the theater actress,” but that went away pretty quickly and he turned into a nasty, unkind man. He was someone who used humiliation for effect, who could be insulting about your physical appearance and who wouldn’t hesitate to bite your head off in front of everyone. I’d play a scene and he’d say something unpleasant to me like, “You may have been able to do that when you had your own show, but we’re really working here.” His mentality was, “I have to get a performance out of these girls.” I don’t know about anybody else, but you don’t have to get a performance out of me, I’ll give it to you. You can help me or you can hinder me, but you certainly don’t have to go get it. And even though I wasn’t aware of chauvinism or anything else at that point, I happened to notice he did not have that attitude toward the men in the cast.
I don’t know if it was the role rubbing off on me or me rubbing off on the role, but the meaner he got, the more frustrated I got. I was too afraid to fight back, however, in anything but little sneaky ways. Like eating. It was almost a joke on the set. If Robson insulted me, you could be sure that within the next two minutes I’d be at the doughnut box—and I didn’t even like doughnuts. I gained thirty pounds during that picture. Thirty pounds!
Sharon Tate, however, got it even worse than I did. She was a gentle, gentle creature—you could be mean to her and she would never retaliate. I was crazy about her and I didn’t know anyone but our director who wasn’t. What’s to dislike? She was an exquisitely beautiful girl who was so comfortable with her beauty that you weren’t intimidated by it. Robson, however, continually treated her like an imbecile, which she definitely was not, and she was very attuned and sensitive to that treatment.
I did a scene with Sharon one day that ended up going into the night because Robson was so rigid. Not only did he want it played in exactly one minute and eighteen seconds—who knows how he picked that figure—but he instructed her to enter on her right foot and say “Hi,” move to her left foot to say “Neely,” unbutton her top button for “did,” the next one for “you” and so on for “… have a nice day?” It was truly demeaning, like the old “Can she walk and chew gum at the same time?” line.
Robson also wanted Sharon’s body revealed in a certain way. Well, explain it to the girl, for heaven’s sake. She’s the one walking around with the body, she knows how to reveal it. All he had to do was say the feeling he wanted; she would have given it to him. But he never took the time even to consider that as a possibility. There were other actors in that scene but he just picked on her. Finally, after hours of this nonsense, Sharon wound up in tears, as would anyone who’d been badgered that way. We were always making faces at Robson and giving him the evil eye behind his back, but he had the last laugh: we were the ones who ended up looking ridiculous.
This was just a prelude to what happened with Judy Garland, who joined the company several weeks into the schedule as the legendary older singer, Helen Lawson. We never spoke about whether or not Neely was based on her, partially because I had my own ambivalent feelings about Judy being in the picture at all. She obviously needed the money, that was why she had accepted, but I thought it was cheap and tawdry to ask her to play the part. And it made me sad that she had reached the point of having to take this stupid role, playing opposite someone who was reputedly playing her. It’s tacky, it’s degrading, and it’s undignified to have to do such a thing, and even though she did a lot of undignified things, she was basically a dignified person.
At this particular time Judy was not in very good shape, to say the least; she was all the inse
cure things we’ve read about her. But she was also so sweet, cute, and funny, you just wanted to hug her all the time. She came on the set for three days before she was actually due to shoot in order to get used to the rest of the cast. After all, she was joining a group that had been working together awhile, and that would be a tough position for John Wayne. There was no entourage surrounding her. Her husband, Sid Luft, brought her, but there was no one else.
Possibly because I was playing her, possibly because of sharing a volatile nature and having kindred feelings of insecurity, I felt an immediate affinity for Judy. We hit it off instantly. Thete was lots of laughter, there was a general feeling of camaraderie and goodwill, and she seemed fine. The last prework day she started telling me how nervous she was and I tried to reassure her. Probably if I’d been older, I would’ve hugged her, but I was feeling too deferential at that point.
In those days, before mobile homes, stars had quite luxurious permanent standing dressing rooms, and the next day I went over to her room to see how she was doing and wish her luck. The sweetness was completely gone, all there was in this person now was abject terror. We kidded around a little bit, I asked her when they were going to get to her scene, and she said she didn’t know, she was waiting for Mr. Robson to come over to see her, and that was the end of that.
Robson was involved on the set and when it was time for Judy’s scene, he sent word down through the chain of command to go get her. And the word came back that she wouldn’t be ready for another forty-five minutes, which on a movie set is a terrible amount of time to be inactive. He was bugged by that, and even though it was none of my business, I went back to see her again. She was ready, but she wouldn’t come out of the room. She said she was waiting for Mr. Robson. I didn’t catch on that she was wanting him to show deference, but she later told me there was more than that involved: she was very nervous and she thought if he came for her and escorted her to the set and introduced her to the crew and all of that, it would make her feel better. Maybe she was being a nuisance, but I could see her point. Well, Robson never came and she never did get out of the room that day.
This went on for a couple of days and each day she acted a little stranger; she started slurring her words, for instance. I never saw her drink, I never saw her take pills, but rumor had it that that’s what was happening. By the third day, apparently, ultimatums had been issued, and she did indeed come on the set and work. Mark Robson kissed her ass in Macy’s window, but everyone could tell she was under the influence of something. I stood behind the set, just cringing, willing each word to come out the way it was supposed to, and it never did. When the dailies were shown, no one was happy and the scene was scheduled to be redone, with a costume change used as the excuse. There was no sense of tragedy on the set, just that this was going to be a long haul.
At lunchtime the next day, I implored her to eat something. No, she wasn’t hungry, but if I were a real pal I’d bring her a couple of Hershey bars. I went to the commissary, got my tuna sandwich and my chocolate milk and her Hershey bars—the longest I could have been away was fifteen minutes—but when I knocked on the door, I got no answer. Knocked again, no answer. Went to my room and called, still no answer.
I sort of dozed off and suddenly my phone rang and she was crying on the other end. I couldn’t understand a thing she was saying. I kept asking, “What happened? What’s the matter? Where are you?” Guessing she was still in her dressing room, I went over there and an enormous racket was going on inside, a lot of crashing and smashing. I pounded on the door, but she wouldn’t answer. I ran upstairs to call and again no answer. I couldn’t reach anyone else, tried to look in her windows, but no luck. I went back to her room and kept literally kicking at this heavy, old-fashioned door, yelling, “Please let me in! It’s me! Please let me in!” I was frantic and frightened.
Finally she opened the door, looking like the wrath of God. She was not physically hurt, but the cloth on the room’s antique pool table was torn, the light hanging over it was broken, there was glass everywhere. At this point I did embrace her and hold her. I just said, “What happened? What happened?” And finally I was able to understand: “They fired me. I’ve been fired. They fired me.” I tried to calm her down, tell her everything was going to be okay. Someone from the company arrived and told me I could go, that they would take care of this, but I hung around longer than I was welcome, until Sid showed up to take her home. I kissed Judy good-bye, told her that whatever had happened would work out somehow. And that was the last I saw of her until the following year, when she was appearing at the Palace, in tiptop shape and doing a great show, wearing her costume from Valley of the Dolls.
When Judy was fired like that, it was really the end of the movie for all of us. It was so ugly, so unkind, that even if people had cared before, nobody gave a damn now. The producers may have felt justified in terms of her being unable to work, but, remember, I didn’t think they were justified in hiring her in the first place. Also, they were a little too ready with a replacement. They had gotten their P.R. mileage out of the situation, the “Judy comeback” stories had created extraordinary publicity for the film, and now she was expendable.
Judy’s replacement was Susan Hayward, who seemed tough and very distant; I learned only later that she was recovering from her husband’s death. There was an unfortunate incident between us during the shooting of the scene in which I steal her wig in a restaurant ladies’ room and throw it down the toilet. She was very humiliated at having to do the scene in the first place. As written, it was supposed to look as if she had cancer and was losing her hair, but she refused to put on a bald cap. She insisted just bleaching her hair white was going to work.
During the scuffle for the wig I was supposed to push her, but I pushed too hard and she fell. According to Mark Robson, she thought I did it on purpose. Did he plant that seed in her head, or did she actually think that I had? I don’t know. I do know that it was a horror to me that Susan Hayward would think that I tried to hurt her. She refused to work for the rest of the afternoon, and I took the rap for that, as if I had done it on purpose. I apologized to her, I told her it had come to my attention that she thought I had pushed her on purpose, and of course I hadn’t. So that was yet another hideous, uncomfortable episode that took place on that picture. I hated Mark Robson. I truly hated that man.
Toward the end of the filming, the producers wanted me to do a nude scene and I refused. It wasn’t a moral judgment; I’ve taken my clothes off since so that wasn’t really the issue. In this particular scene, however, I saw no point or purpose in it. I was supposed to strip and then walk outside my house to find my husband swimming naked with another naked woman. I was supposedly drunk as well, it was an ugly scene, and with two naked people in it already, I didn’t see that they needed a third. There was a big argument about it, but they couldn’t force me; nowhere in my deal did it say that I had to do a nude scene. We were getting toward the last days of filming and given all that had happened, I was not inclined to go the distance for them anymore.
By the close of shooting, everybody hated everybody. War zones had been set up all over the place. On the last night there is traditionally a wrap party. You do the final shot, the chips and dip are already set up, everybody has a drink, and sometimes people hang around until morning. On this picture I had to go around begging grips and electricians to stay so that there could be any kind of celebration at all.
Only a pitiful little group of us stayed for the party, including Mark Robson. He came over and started telling me that he knew I didn’t like him but he really loved me and after all he’d gotten a hell of a performance out of me. I told him he was right, I didn’t like him—worse than that, I felt considerable animosity toward him, and as far as my performance went, he could have “gotten” a much better one with a different approach. He said, “I just made you mad because I wanted you mad in the scene.” And I told him, “Don’t you realize that if you’re going to hire somebody that you have t
o provoke, you’re not hiring an actor? You hired an actor. Let me play the scene.” It was a most unpleasant exchange.
The first hint of what Valley of the Dolls was really going to do for my career came in an insulting Look magazine article about the filming that portrayed me as a foul-mouthed harridan misbehaving in public. I did indeed swear but not like a sailor on the set, not to the extent that the piece claimed. It was cruel, it was erroneous, and it was bad journalism. I cried when I read it, and I literally did not go out of the house for two weeks, until every one of those issues was off the stands. And afterward, my swearing became worse. I figured, “Okay, I may as well be damned for a lion as for a lamb.”
Not long after Valley wrapped, I became pregnant, and there was great jubilation about that. It turned out to be an ectopic pregnancy, however, and I had to be hospitalized for the necessary surgery. I needed both an emotional and a physical recovery afterward, and during that period the call came from the studio that the film was ready, and wouldn’t it be a perfect shot in the arm for me to see it, my performance was so wonderful, all the usual palaver.
Harry convinced me the screening would be a good idea, and I was not that hard to persuade. I’d been distracted from my work while I was shooting—I was busy having a war with the director and eating doughnuts and playing an ineffective Florence Nightingale to Judy Garland—and I certainly wasn’t aware just how bad the film might be. So with no little effort (it was less than a week after my abdominal surgery) I was gotten dressed and to the car.
It was a small screening—the writer, the producer, probably Mark Robson, and a few other people. Remember, this was one of the first times in my career that I had been allowed to see my work, so I was especially excited. The film started out nicely enough, but then it got to the meat of things, and the pain from my surgery got worse and worse and I thought I would die. I was awful, everything was awful, it was just the pits. I started thinking to myself, “What am I going to do? Should I get sick and leave?” I chickened out and waited until the end of the movie, praying, I suppose, that it would get better somewhere along the line. It didn’t. The lights came on and no one said a word—talk about humiliating. I stood up—cautiously—and Harry said, “Gee, the music’s beautiful.” And that was it.
