On a beautiful Washington day, Sheila Weidenfeld, Ron, Michael, and I rode through the gates of the White House. Once inside, we were escorted to the East Wing for our meeting with Sheila Tate. The First Lady’s domain was calm and serene. Both Sheilas were wonderful, and they gave our writer, Michael Bortman, lots of information. Then they took him on a detailed tour of the East Wing.
Once back in Sheila Tate’s office, she asked Ron and me if we’d like to meet President Reagan. I didn’t mention my past experience. We were whisked through the building and into the waiting corridor outside the Oval Office. We then went through a door to a small waiting room, where we met the President’s personal secretary, Kathleen Osborne. She apologized profusely, saying that the President wasn’t in, that he had to leave for meetings. Ron and I were already thrilled to be in such close proximity to the most famous office in the world. Kathleen then said, “I shouldn’t do this, but,” and she opened the entry door and said, “Go on in. You can have a couple of minutes.”
The next thing we knew, she closed the door behind us, and Ron and I were alone in the Oval office. This was before cell phones with cameras, and I wanted to remember everything about this extraordinary moment. We took in the stunning Remington sculptures and the priceless paintings. We slowly walked around the room toward the President’s desk. Later on, I learned Queen Victoria gave it to our country. On this day, the President’s desk was pristine and polished to a high gloss, everything was perfectly in place except for one funky-looking small plaque standing close to his phone. Curious, I started to walk around to the front of the desk to read it, but before I could I heard, “We have to go now.”
Kathryn was ushering us out.
Many years later, in 2004, President Reagan passed away and numerous television tributes aired in honor of his passing. On the day of his funeral, I happened to tune in to a rerun of Nancy Reagan hosting a tour of the Ronald Reagan Library on PBS. She was in the library’s “Oval Office,” explaining that it was an exact replica of President Reagan’s. She went on to say that the furnishings were duplicates, but that all of his personal items were authentic. As she was crossing to his desk I saw it: the funky plaque that I didn’t get the chance to read! She picked it up and said that it was Ronnie’s most important personal keepsake. He’d had it on his desk when he was the Screen Actors Guild president, the governor of California, and the president of the United States of America. It was an old Irish saying, and he would never start an important call or meeting without reading it first. Ever. “There is no limit to what a man can do or where he can go if he does not mind who gets the credit.”
It was a moment that was difficult to wrap my mind around. The words Willie lived by were the same words that the leader of the free world lived by. Two great teachers and two great men, one in a janitorial room and one on the world stage—and both have created legacies that live on. “Dose words can save everythin’. No mo’ wars, no one hungry, all people’s happy.”
You are so right, Willie.
My “Big Room” Break from the Best
“Dat song make me feel alive, but only when Sammy sing it. He got mo’ pain den me, but he take mine away.”
Growing up, Dino, Desi, and Billy was a popular teen group. Dino was Dean Martin’s son, Desi was Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz’s son, and Billy was a close friend of theirs. At the time, they were on the cover of every teen magazine in the world. I would sit on my small front porch, reading a magazine, dreaming about driving one of their Ferraris and having girls run after me. I never realized that one day I’d be in the same publication, and actually meet and spend time with both Dino and Desi.
It wasn’t until years later that I learned their lives were not as great as the magazines projected. It turns out, we were pretty much alike—me, a kid sitting in front of a one-bathroom house, just a number in the world, and them, sons of superstars, rich and famous. Like me, they didn’t have the love in their lives that they so desperately needed. It doesn’t matter how rich and famous you are, there is no happiness without the love of family.
Actually, I was the lucky one, because I had to work hard jobs to earn money. My parents never had more than a hundred dollars in savings, and I had to pay for everything that I ever wanted except for food and basic clothes. If I didn’t have to work, I never would have met Willie. It’s ironic that with all the cars, fame and money, Dino and Desi kept searching for happiness, but a simple, uneducated janitor found me mine.
It was in one of those teen magazines that I first learned about the Rat Pack and Sammy Davis, Jr. Dino Martin was talking about his dad, Dean, and the Vegas shows he did with Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis, and Joey Bishop. Dean Martin said that Sammy was the most talented in their group, the best nightclub performer in the world. I didn’t have much interest in nightclubs, Sammy, or the others in the pack at the time, but years later, I would get my “Big Room” break from “The Best.”
Elvis was Willie’s number one favorite performer, this is true. But honestly the Rat Pack could be considered an equal number one. He loved Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Joey Bishop, and, especially, Sammy Davis, Jr. Their music would instantly soften his face and put a smile in his eyes, and when he’d bring in his ancient record player and play their 33 LPs and 45s, the song that he played over and over again was “Birth of the Blues” sung by Sammy. “Dat song make me feel alive, but only when Sammy sing it. He got mo’ pain den me, but he take mine away.”
When I was his janitorial assistant, I was too young to understand the perceptiveness of his words. Willie understood that Sammy helped everybody but himself; that he used his pain—and ultimately, that is what made him great. Willie was teaching me that those who tap into immense talent must also reach into the depths of their own emotions, both good and bad. If you didn’t find that balance, the bad could destroy you. The evidence abounds: Marilyn Monroe, Billie Holiday, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Vincent Van Gogh. I listened to what he was saying, but honestly, at fifteen I didn’t get it. I wished my parents were rich and I wanted the fast car and the girls.
* * *
Singing on Happy Days opened a whole new world for me. For years, we would shoot a show on a Friday night and afterward I would immediately drive to the airport to catch a red-eye to the city I was performing a concert in the next day. I’d fly back on a Sunday and be back on set on Monday. The gigs were mostly at large state fairs and amusement parks, like Disneyland and Six Flags. I had a lot of fun and met so many amazing people, but I wanted to continue performing and it occurred to me that I had better progress to adult venues, like Vegas, Reno, and Atlantic City. The thing was, the “Big Rooms” considered me a teenybopper performer and not right for their clientele. I tried, but I couldn’t even get near the door, let alone get a foot inside. My agent wouldn’t give up, though, and then one day the call I was hoping for came. Sammy Davis, Jr. was performing with Bill Cosby at Harrah’s in Reno, and he needed four nights off during his engagement. He had approved me as his replacement. In minutes my career turned around—I was headlining with Bill Cosby in the “Big Room”!
I had exactly had three weeks to put an entirely new show together. Thank God I was opening and only needed 30 minutes of material.
In no time, it was time to depart for Reno. I went with my conductor, Richard Barron, and our rhythm section. We were all treated like royalty upon arrival. The suite they gave me was right out of a movie: two floors high, four bedrooms, five bathrooms, a movie screen that came down from the ceiling electronically, and a full bar. The most incredible touch was a full buffet, served in polished sterling silver by a white-gloved server (I later found out that all meals were serviced and served this way).
I had a terrific rehearsal with the orchestra and then I was taken back to Sammy’s (my temporary) dressing room. I can still picture it: There was a decked-out meeting area, a full bar, a bedroom, and a huge bathroom. To top it off, during my performances I would
have the services of Sammy’s valet and bartender too. I felt like part of the pack, like I should be scanning the place for Frank, Dean, and Joey.
On my opening night, I was buzzing with adrenaline. Bill Cosby came into my dressing room to wish me luck. What a great man, I thought, going out of his way like this to make me feel like an equal. He calmed my nerves by doing so.
Still, it was slightly overwhelming. I planned to start the show from the back of the house, and then move through the audience to the stage. So after the room was seated, I took my wireless mike and waited just outside the front entrance for my cue. I heard my booming introduction, and was through the door singing “Tossin’ and Turnin’ ”, shaking hands and dancing with the ladies on my way to the stage.
At the start of the second verse, I was looking into the crowd when the spotlight hit one man: Sammy Davis, Jr.! For an instant the words, everything went away and I felt supreme shock. Sammy is in the audience? Sammy is in the audience! Somehow I managed to get to the stage and back on track, but rest of the show was a blur. I think I received a nice ovation at the end. Back in the dressing room, I still couldn’t figure out why I was there to take Sammy’s place if he was at Harrah’s too.
“Where’s my man? Where’s my man?” I heard. The door opened and there was Sammy in person. He walked in and gave me a bear hug before telling me what a great job I did. I wasn’t certain if he really meant it, but he sure made me feel special. We each got a glass of wine and sat down to talk. I asked him why he was there, since I was told he needed time off. He explained that he was going through some scheduled medical tests and it was recommended that he not perform until they were complete. It didn’t mean that he couldn’t watch my opening night. He said that he had seen me on The Merv Griffin Show, and thought that I had potential. So when he learned he would need a temporary fill-in and my name came up, he called Merv (a close friend of his) who said nice things about me.
I’d had no idea that all of this went on before I was booked.
We talked for quite a while. I told him about Willie, and how much Willie loved him. Sammy was touched, but unlike Elvis, Sammy never had a friend who could help him with his problems. He told me that his life as a kid was hard, that he didn’t have a family life, and that he had to perform to make people smile. No one was there to offer him help. What he said next put me right back with Willie in “Dey Talk Room.” Sammy confided that the only time his emptiness went away was when he saw smiles in the audience and heard the applause at the end of a song. For him, that was a moment in time when all was perfect.
Before he left, Sammy gave me one more bear hug. Like family.
After the gig at Harrah’s Reno, I received an offer from Resorts International in Atlantic City to co-headline with the beautiful and talented Lola Falana. I knew that Sammy had discovered Lola and that they were great friends. I didn’t think that booking was any coincidence. Sammy had quietly made my second “Big Room” opportunity happen. “Dat song make me feel alive, but only when Sammy sing it. He got mo’ pain den me, but he take mine away.” You were so right, Willie, but it also took away Sammy’s. That’s why he lived to perform: His family was his audience.
No Greater Gift
“You go with yer feelins, boy.
Don’t get stuck like deez people.”
In Atlantic City I was treated like royalty, and Lola Falana was beyond gracious. The shows were going great, the reviews were positive, and the attendance was 100 percent. Still, in my gut, I felt something was off. My agent was in negotiations with The Sahara Hotel and Casino in Vegas for my next show, but on the final night in Atlantic City, as I was waiting for my intro, my mind heard Willie instead: “You go with yer feelins, boy. Don’t get stuck like deez people.”
He had said that to me once, referring to many coworkers at Leonard’s. They didn’t look or act happy. It was obvious that the store was not where they were destined to be, but they now had no choice.
“Go with yer feelins . . .” As I was walking onto the stage, I knew in my heart that it would be my last time. My “feelins” said that I should move on, that this part of my destiny was complete. The next day, I called my agent and he grudgingly canceled negotiations with The Sahara. I never looked back. I set my sights on getting off the stage and spending my time behind the camera, writing and producing. It just felt right. Soon I had numerous projects in development.
One day while speaking with Ron, I confided that while producing was great, it made me feel detached, like I was no longer a true part of the creative process. Ron recommended that I do something that scared me: direct. Producing and directing are two different worlds. As a producer, you are all business. But as director, you’re constantly making decisions that impact the creative side of the project: casting, choosing locations, wardrobe, crew, set design, and on and on. I worried if I could handle it. Ron reminded me that I had spent years observing the best directors on the Paramount lot: John Schlesinger, Roman Polanski, and John Badham (and of course, Ron. I had watched Ron too). He convinced me that I could handle it and that I would do well.
Coincidentally, an Afterschool Special I had co-created called No Greater Gift was “green lit” soon after our conversation. It was about two twelve-year-old boys, one Hispanic and one African American, who meet in a hospital and become quick friends. After one child learns that he is terminally ill, he makes a pact to save his friend’s life through organ donation. Acting on Ron’s advice, I made an appointment with my ABC executive to convince her to let me hire myself. It wasn’t an easy task. Even though I was the project’s executive producer and co-creator, the approval to direct as well was not immediate. After some negotiation, and after Ron agreed to oversee (and take over if I was having trouble), I was finally approved. Ron’s friendship and belief in me was a great gift.
Betty Thomas, who was on Hill Street Blues at the time, agreed to a starring role in the film (today she is one of the most respected feature directors in the world). We found two sensational young actors, Ajay Naidu and Zero Hubbard, to play the kids, and a terrific supporting cast. From the first shooting day we were blessed, almost like an outside hand was guiding us. Sure, trying to analyze every question coming at me was exhausting, but whenever I thought I was reaching my breaking point, “Go with yer feelins” came into my head. There was Willie, and everything calmed down after that. I found a rhythm and confidence.
After a few days, the network made a surprise visit to the No Greater Gift set, congratulating everybody on great dailies, and telling us how important the film was to ABC. I learned that I was now on the director-approved list.
Ajay and Zero had lots of life questions. We were working together on very sensitive material, and even though they were in very responsible positions, they were still kids who needed guidance. I enjoyed our talks as much as I enjoyed filming and tried to help them, like Willie helped me.
The purpose of the film was to humanize organ donation. At the time people were wary of it because of the imagery surrounding the process. The cast, crew, and I were hoping that our little film might open people’s hearts and change this. Before the show’s credits ran, we provided contact information to help viewers get more facts on donation. No Greater Gift aired in September of 1985 to great reviews, and the results were stunning: Organ donation went up as a direct result of the film! For years, No Greater Gift helped give the gift of life to thousands of individuals in need.
“You go with yer feelins, boy.”
I did, and in just a year, I won the Humanitas Award as a writer, became a director, and, most importantly, was part of a film that saved the lives of many wonderful people in need . . . all because of your guidance, Willie.
The Lone Star Kid
“You gonna do somethin’ great in life.
Just a feelin’ I got.”
I turned on CNN one morning and watched a story about the youngest mayor in the history of the Unit
ed States. His name was Brian Zimmerman; he was eleven years old, and mayor of his hometown of Crabb, Texas. Getting elected was an amazing achievement, but what caught my interest were this young man’s accomplishments. Once he was mayor, he not only convinced Houston (Crabb is in its jurisdiction) to put in paved roads, he also created an ambulance and security service for Crabb. I wanted to option the rights to Brian’s story, so I flew to Crabb to meet with Brian and his parents.
They were an impressive family. His dad dropped out of law school to go into the ranching and restaurant business. His mom worked with his dad, and both made sure that they were there for their son. Brian was beyond his years in maturity, yet still a kid. He had a pet turkey named Drumstick and used a go-cart to get around town.
I wanted to know what had motivated Brian to achieve so much while he was still so young. It turned out that he had witnessed a horrible car accident. A driver was injured badly—he was bleeding out, and the nearest emergency and ambulance service was almost an hour away. Help arrived, but only after the young man had died. Witnessing this had a profound effect on Brian. He realized that the man’s life could have been saved if there had been an emergency service located in Crabb.
On his own he started reading his dad’s old law books. He discovered that the way to create an emergency service in their community was to form an unincorporated town. To do this, an election needed to be held in Crabb, and a mayor elected. Brian’s best friend was a kid named Moses; but he had relied most upon an older African American man by the name of Holmes. Brian told me that Holmes was “blind and illiterate, and the smartest man I know.” Whenever he had problems or had trouble figuring out his life, Holmes had just the right words to help Brian move forward. I was taken aback; it was as if Willie had a twin brother.
Singing to a Bulldog Page 7
