Singing to a Bulldog

by Anson Williams

  So instead of quitting, I decided to climb. Grabbing the phone book, I looked up the addresses of the three largest and most powerful talent agencies I knew of: William Morris Agency (WMA), Creative Management Agency (CMA), and IFA Talent. The closest to my apartment was IFA, so I (metaphorically) tied up my hiking boots, jumped into my beat up old Corvair (they don’t exist anymore), and headed for the mountain—which in this case was in Beverly Hills, California.

  The agency represented major stars of the era: Jane Fonda, Charlton Heston, and Marlon Brando were a few of the bold letter names. Not wanting to spend a rent payment on parking, I found a spot at least a half a mile from the building and then hoofed it to Mount IFA. The building itself was imposing: a grand monument to the already successful. I took the elevator to the fifth floor. When the elevator doors opened, I found myself in a large, impeccably decorated lobby. At the far end, beckoning me, were large, gold letters: I F A. They gleamed on the wall behind the glamorous-looking young receptionist. I felt like I was approaching The Great Oz as I walked toward this starlet-to-be.

  “I’d like to see an agent,” I said.

  “Do you have a name?” she responded.

  “Anyone’s fine,” I answered.

  “You need a name,” she said with attitude, “and an appointment.” She then turned away rudely and took a call. I just stood there, not sure what the hell to do.

  “You climbs. Dat’s who wins, boy.”

  I decided to sit my ass down on a couch and wait. The receptionist finished her call and turned, locking devil eyes on me. “You have to leave, sir.”

  This time, I turned away from her.

  “Did you hear me? I said that you have to leave.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, looking back at her. “I’ll just sit here until an agent’s free.”

  Evil Starlet threatened to call security, then the police, but I didn’t budge.

  I sat there for hours. Periodically she would dial and whisper into her phone. I wondered if she was organizing a firing squad. Then I heard, “You! Hey you!”

  I glanced toward the voice. A young guy in a suit was holding open a door that led out of the waiting room. He was looking in my direction. “Me?” I said.

  “Yeah, you. Get over here.”

  I jumped up and pretty much leaped across the room. “Are you an agent?”

  “Yes.”

  That was all I needed to hear. He held the key to my future, my mountain’s plateau! An agent! I started telling him about me, the show—

  “I got it,” he interrupted, “Follow me.”

  I made sure to give a princess wave to the “witch” before entering the Emerald City. I followed my future agent into his small office; at that moment it seemed as big as the Taj Mahal. I continued to excitedly sell my wares.

  “Alright!” he interrupted again. “Can I say something?”

  Startled, I shut up.

  He told me that he had just received a casting breakdown for a segment of a Universal show called Owen Marshall, Counselor at Law. They needed actors that were over eighteen years old who could portray high school football players. IFA didn’t have any clients that fit the bill. He heard about a pain-in-the-ass kid who was doing a sit-down strike in the lobby, so he decided to take a look. Cutting to the chase, he said he would take a shot, and book me for an audition the next morning. If I got the job, he would sign me to the agency.

  I floated back to my car. “I got a 10 a.m. meeting with Jon Epstein! I got a 10 a.m. meeting with Jon Epstein!” were the words dancing through my head. He was a television producer! He was the man who would change my life!

  I made sure to arrive at Jon Epstein’s office an hour early the next morning. It was a good thing I did, because his secretary handed me a scene in which a football player dies from a drug overdose. I read this scene with mounting panic: I was auditioning for this particular football player and, yes, it was his death scene. All of my show biz experience leading to this moment was earned in light-hearted musicals; I’d never even had an acting lesson. The closest that I’d ever come to a death scene was watching Olivia Hussey in Romeo and Juliet. I was finished before I started.

  “Don’t gets in dey way of yerself.” I heard Willie’s comforting voice, and it calmed me down. “Feelins is truth.” His words changed me—I walked over to a chair, sat down, and started studying the scene in earnest. Feelings are truth. I started thinking about my childhood dog, Shatzie, who died in my arms, and those painful feelings came roaring back. Willie had given me the most important tool for acting: connection.

  At exactly 10 a.m. I was ushered into a large, comfy office with deep shag carpeting. Three people were in the room—Jon Epstein, the man that I thought could change my life, a casting director who would read the scene with me, and a skinny, young guy with glasses standing in the corner. I had no idea what his purpose was; only the other two introduced themselves.

  The audition started and I did the scene as realistically as I could; I damn well died on Jon Epstein’s plush carpeting. When I got back on my feet, I found out he had nothing to do with the show’s casting. That was up to the young man with glasses. His name was Steven Spielberg. He was already on the road to greatness, and had stopped directing television at this stage of his career. But Jon Epstein was his friend, and when a director suddenly dropped out of the episode, Spielberg graciously agreed to help him out.

  The shoot itself went as well as the audition. To date it is the only death scene I’ve played in my career. And the best part? The next Saturday night, my new agent from one of the world’s largest talent agencies came to see me—and the entire cast—in Victory Canteen. It wasn’t a television producer who changed my life, or even Steven Spielberg. It was a wise janitor who gave me the push I needed to climb my mountain.

  What’s a Potsie?

  “Some things supposed to be. Make you go different ways; better ways to get dere.”

  After being signed by IFA and “dying” on camera with Steven Spielberg, master of film, behind the lens, landing a regular paycheck in show biz appeared feasible. My agent started booking me in parts that I began to think of collectively as “Concerned Boyfriend” roles. On each job, every other actor in my scenes would converse, and then I would react appropriately until I said my line, “I understand.” A scene could be five pages long and all I’d be responsible for was those two words, plus expert head turning and nodding. Still, it was a living, and soon I could actually afford a place on my own.

  After two years of playing the Concerned Boyfriend in different venues, and perfecting head nods of understanding, I received a call from my agent.

  “Hey Anson, you’ve got an audition today,” he said. “It’s a pilot about the fifties, called Happy Days, and they can’t find a guy for one of the leads. It films in two days.”

  I took down the info and got ready as quickly as I could; I had to be at Paramount Studios in less than two hours. I jumped into my aged Corvair and felt revved up. I had never auditioned for a series pilot before! I hit the gas and was on my way. Then many miles away from the audition a bogeyman chose its moment to sneak into my engine: My car lost power, forcing me to the side of the road. I could not believe my luck. I didn’t know anything about car engines. To make things worse, the heavens opened in sunny California, and it started to pour down rain.

  At the time, cell phones only existed if you were on Star Trek. I wasn’t, so my only option was to get out of the traitorous Corvair, sluice my way through the gale, and find a phone. Which is what I did. I ran through the rain to a payphone and called AAA. They informed me that there were a lot of road problems at the moment, and that they would get to me as soon as they could. Then they hung up. I listened to the dial tone and watched as it began raining even harder. I practically swam back to my vehicle. Only once I was back inside it did the thought occur to me: I should have called my agent! I sh
ould have, but there was no way I was leaving the womb of my car again. I was sure my chance at the pilot was gone.

  It took almost two hours for AAA to arrive. The fix was a simple one: A cable had detached from my battery. Ready to turn around for home, I thought of what Willie told me once when I felt that I had unfairly lost a position on my high school football team. “Some things supposed to be. Make you go different ways; better ways to get dere, boy.” I decided to keep heading for Paramount Studios.

  When I arrived, I was both relieved and surprised to learn that my name was still at the gate. As pitiful as I must have looked, they let me through. It was still pissing rain when I finally found the office of Millie Gussie, the head of casting. Soaking wet and dripping on the reception area carpet, I announced my name to her secretary, who looked me up and down without saying a word and then buzzed Millie.

  “It sure as hell is about time he got here!” I heard from somewhere beyond the waiting area. Then out walked a short, no-nonsense lady, cigarette in hand. She stopped short. “What the hell happened to you?”

  I quickly explained as she virtually kicked my ass into her office. “You’re damn lucky,” Millie said, “that we still haven’t found the actor for Potsie.”

  “What’s a Potsie?” I asked.

  “Look this over quickly,” she answered, handing me a script. “And then read where it’s marked.”

  I started reading and immediately thought of Howie Shertzman, one of my best friends growing up. A little gullible and awkward socially, he was Potsie. I read with Millie, doing my best Howie impersonation.

  Without any expression, she said, “Wait here.”

  She walked into another office, but didn’t close the door all the way. “I don’t care if you’re looking at wardrobe,” I could hear her phone conversation. “He’s perfect. Get the hell down here now.” Walking back in, she said, “Wait outside. Garry Marshall, the executive producer, is coming down to see you.”

  I did as I was told. I reread the script and studied it for about ten minutes before a haggard-looking man walked straight past me into Millie’s office. She closed the door and then opened it a few minutes later. “Come on,” she said, waving me over.

  I walked in, and the man who would change my life forever said, “I’m Garry Marshall. I hear you’re pretty good. Do ya’ play ball?”

  “Yeah, I played football.”

  “Baseball, ya’ play baseball? If this show goes through I want to put together a team. Everybody’s gotta play.”

  “I played Little League ball,” I answered.

  “Were ya’ good?”

  “Yeah.” I thought that he was asking weird questions for an acting role.

  “Alright then, let’s read.”

  I sat down and read with Millie. Again, I began incarnating my pal Howie. We finished, and Garry just sat there looking at me. Finally, “What position did ya’ play?”

  “First base,” I said. It would be a year before I learned why he was asking so much about baseball.

  “Call Tony and the group down,” Garry told Millie before hurrying out. There was no, “Nice to meet ya’”— nothing.

  Millie turned to me. “He likes you. Wait outside.”

  “What’s goin’ on?” I asked.

  “He wants the network to approve you. Now, wait outside.”

  Totally confused, I walked back out again and sat down. Network? Approved? What the hell does that mean? I thought to myself. I sat there for close to an hour until a group of business-attired men and women quickly walked by me and into Millie’s office. A moment later, Garry Marshall followed.

  Again, Millie shut the door. All I could hear was muted conversation. Then the conversation stopped and the door opened. By now I knew my cue and immediately headed in. It turned out that the suited group was ABC Television executives. It was their job to approve Garry’s choice for Potsie. They wanted to see me do my thing, so one last time I channeled Howie Shertzman. The execs actually laughed a few times. The moment I was done, Millie got up and thanked me for coming. Not you were good, bad, just thank you for coming.

  What the hell! Thank you for coming? That’s it? I didn’t get the part? What a waste of my time. At least it stopped raining, I thought while walking back to my car.

  By the time I arrived at my apartment, I had reevaluated the day. I’d decided that it was a good experience, regardless of the outcome. The phone was ringing as I walked in, but I’d had a long day, it was a long drive home, and I really needed to hit the head. As I was relieving myself, the ringing started again. I couldn’t exactly answer so I let it go. Walking out of the bathroom, again the ringing. This time I picked it up. “Where the hell have you been?” screamed my agent.

  “I just got back from the audition,” I said.

  “You got the part! Nine tomorrow morning, you need to be at the studio for wardrobe fittings and then rehearsal. You shoot the next day. A script with all the info is being couriered to you tonight.”

  Dumbfounded, all I could say was, “I got it?”

  “Yes. Look, I gotta get your deal done. We’ll talk later. Congrats!”

  Numb, I stood there with the phone still in my hand.

  The next morning, I found myself standing in the never-­ending Paramount wardrobe department, a humongous warehouse of clothing history. It was here that I would meet Ron Howard, and I was a little in awe. The Andy Griffith Show was one of my favorites, and so was the movie, The Music Man. Ron had played the young boy with a lisp, Winthrop. He is the nicest and most generous person in the world, and on that initial day, when I was anxious, he immediately made me feel at ease and treated me like an equal. After we were finished in wardrobe, we headed for rehearsal and had immediate chemistry together.

  Most people don’t realize that there were two Happy Days pilots. The first one didn’t have the characters of Fonzie or Ralph, and different actors were cast for the roles of Mr. Cunningham and Joanie, though Marion Ross still played Mrs. Cunningham. The tone was more like the movie Summer of ’42 and less like (the future) American Graffiti. It was an excellently reviewed pilot, and it aired on Love, American Style toward the end of 1972. Unfortunately, it didn’t test well and was rejected by ABC as a series.

  “Well, that’s that.” I said to myself when I learned we weren’t picked up. I was certain I was going back to nodding parts. It felt so unfair. I thought about Willie and his insistence that “Some things supposed to be, make you go different ways; better ways to get dere.”

  I guess this wasn’t the better way, Willie, I thought.

  I’ve never been so wrong.

  “Happy Days”

  “See mo’ den whats you want to see.”

  So Happy Days didn’t sell, but I landed a commercial agent and scored a part in the first singing McDonald’s commercial. It was called “Clean Up Crew,” and I worked with several actors, including John Amos (the father on the television series Good Times); we sang about the cleanliness of the restaurant. The spot is a classic because it introduced the jingle “You Deserve a Break Today”; Barry Manilow wrote the song itself.

  Months passed. I continued getting roles, and both my acting skills and living conditions improved. I was able to afford the rent on a two-bedroom apartment with an extra half-bath, a sultan’s fortress to me. Up till then, I had lived in places with only one bathroom, including my childhood home.

  The parts I was offered also started improving: I landed a major role in the NBC Hallmark special, Lisa, Bright and Dark, based on the novel by John Neufeld, and starring Kay Lenz, John Forsythe, and Anne Baxter. The story is about Lisa, a teenager who is succumbing to mental illness. Her sister, Kay, was played by Erin Moran, a young actress best known for the CBS series Daktari (about a veterinarian and his family). The Hallmark shoot was in San Francisco, and it was going terrifically. A few days before it wrapped, I received a call fr
om my agent. “Guess what? ABC wants to do another Happy Days pilot.”

  American Graffiti had just been released. Ron Howard was in it, and the fifties were hot.

  “Great!” I said, “When do we shoot?”

  A moment of silence. “The network thinks that you and Ron might be too old. So before anything goes forward, they need to screen test the two of you together.”

  A longer moment of silence from my side. What the hell? “Okay,” I responded, and hung up. “What the hell!” I said out loud. How could ABC make me screen test for a role that I already created? Okay, that Howie Shertzman created? Remember that old saying “He who owns the gold makes the rules?” It is 100 percent correct.

  I arrived back in Los Angeles, and the next day went in for a Happy Days fitting. Again, Ron was there at the same time. When we were finished in wardrobe, a production assistant brought us the script for the screen test the following day. After looking it over Ron said to me, “I’ve done a bunch of screen tests and they never give anyone much time, so it’s easy to come off stiff and uncomfortable. Let’s find the stage we’re shooting on and rehearse this. I think that we’ll have a better shot.”

  It’s no accident that he’s so successful. Ron is smart now and he was smart then. “Makes sense,” I answered.

  We found the stage and rehearsed our scene, creating character bits that (we hoped!) would come off as spontaneous (and genius) at the shoot.

  The next morning Garry Marshall was directing the screen tests, and fifteen duos were testing; each test was supposed to take twenty or so minutes. Garry spent two hours with us! He loved our “on the spot” creativity. Little did he know the hours Ron and I had spent to be on the spot.

  A few days later, my agent called with the news that Howie Shertzman would live on! I got the part of Warren “Potsie” Weber (again). Hanging up the phone, I thought about the time that I complained to Willie about being second string and not playing enough in the football games, that the coach kept putting me in for only kick-offs, punts, etc. “You gots to see mo’ den whats you want to see,” he explained. Willie helped me see that my ability did not live up to my ego and fantasy. I honestly was not good enough to play first string, but the coach respected my commitment and hard work, and made sure that I earned a varsity letter by putting me in where he could. I didn’t see the bigger picture; I only saw what I wanted to see. I would never make that same mistake again. I was disappointed when the first Happy Days pilot didn’t get picked up. Now not only was it a better time to put the show on the air, but it also had the magic to stay on the air. There was a “better way to get there”!