by Betty White
I don’t tell Carl, but I think Allen is getting a kick out of it, because he’s never very far from me. Ever.
With Carl Reiner on the set of Hot in Cleveland.
TV LAND/THE KOBAL COLLECTION
THE RED CARPET
Several times throughout this opus, I mention how much I love this business I’m in. And I mean every word of it.
But for all the things I enjoy about it, if ever I’m asked if there’s something I don’t like, the answer is a resounding Yes.
Red-carpet events.
Don’t get me wrong. When I’m at home watching television, I love seeing who’s there and what they’re wearing. But when you’re the walkee, it can be an absolute nightmare.
In real life, you step out of the car and immediately you’re struck blind and deaf as you’re greeted by a line of photographers armed with flash cameras and microphone-wielding television reporters, three deep, all shouting at you.
Betty!
Betty!
Over here!
Betty, look here!
Look up, Betty!
Mrs. Ludden! (They know that will get my attention!)
With all the flashing lights and the noise, you tend to lose your balance. All of a sudden, you’re staggering and you’re sure people are thinking, Oh, she’s had a few!
The lights are glaring and the noise is horrendous, but you try to be as polite as possible, because these aren’t villains, they’re just people trying to do their jobs.
Sometimes the function has somebody who takes you down the carpet. For instance, TV Land will send someone if the four of us are doing the event. But always, I also have Jeff walking behind me, at the edge of the media zone, off the red carpet. Riding shotgun, which I need.
Historically, premieres have always had these red-carpet events. But the process has taken on new proportions of late. Every event has a system of protocol, and the number of stars and reporters and photographers and media outlets just seems to grow and grow.
It feels like everyone’s there with a microphone. And I know a lot of them—we do interviews all through the year. So as you’re stumbling around, you’re trying to talk to all sorts of different people. Usually a representative from the project (whatever project it may be) guides you to various reporters along the way—likely, they mix and match us along the way, to be fair to all the outlets. But you can’t really hear what they’re saying, given all the noise, so you just keep talking and hope you’re making some kind of sense. It’s all seat-of-the-pants.
You can’t resent it—it’s a necessary evil to promote a project. It’s a hazard one just has to get over.
It’s not my favorite part of my job. Have you noticed?
I would rather go to the dentist for a root canal.
The TV Land folks threw me an eighty-ninth birthday party. Here I am with the girls from Hot in Cleveland.... The red carpet is a lot better with friends!
D DIPASUPIL/FILMMAGIC.COM
With Malin Akerman, Ryan Reynolds, Sandra Bullock, Anne Fletcher, and Mary Steenburgen on the set of The Proposal.
PHOTOFEST/WALT DISNEY PICTURES
THE PROPOSAL
Doing movies is different but interesting.
One thing in particular struck me about being on the set of The Proposal—what a joy it was to work with Sandra Bullock.
Here’s this big movie star, and there wasn’t anything “movie star” about her at all. She was just as down-to–earth as she could be. We became great and dear friends. Still are. The same goes for Ryan Reynolds.
Anne Fletcher, the movie’s wonderful director, had been a choreographer originally. We all got relaxed and silly with one another, so she wouldn’t just walk onto the set—she’d do a ballet leap onto the set, saying, “The director is here!”
In one of the scenes in the movie, Sandra and I are dancing around a bonfire.
On that day of filming, we’d been working all day, but we had to finish that night, because we were moving locations the next day. It was three o’clock in the morning, and I had to sing this blinking Eskimo song in order to shoot the scene.
First I had to learn it. And Eskimo makes no sense. I don’t know how Eskimos communicate! But I learned it. God knows what I was really saying.
And then it came time to dance around the fire.
Anne just turned us loose—told us to do whatever we felt like doing. And Sandra’s such a good sport. So just about the time we started moving around ...
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The rain started, and it kept getting harder and harder.
Now, we had to finish this scene! We were leaving the site the next day. So they put up a canvas on four big poles to keep us dry. But the rain continued—harder and harder.
I’ve said before I love my profession, and I do. At three o’clock in the morning in the rain, you’d better love it a lot.
With Sandra—a scene in The Proposal.
© 2009 TOUCHSTONE PICTURES/PHOTO BY KERRY HAYES/MPTVIMAGES.COM
THE LOST VALENTINE
For the Hallmark movie The Lost Valentine with Jennifer Love Hewitt, we shot in this pretty little house in Atlanta in a lovely neighborhood. Across the street was a low wall, and behind it was this big grassy lawn.
All the neighbors knew that I was working there, so they all brought their dogs.
We’d look across the street from the set, and they’d all be lined up—owners and dogs, sitting on the wall.
Between scenes, I’d go across the street to say hello and get to know all the dogs.
There was this young man, Mitch, hired to escort me around the set, who would go over with me. One day he came in and said, “Betty, there’s a Newfoundland out there.”
The way he tells it, at the word “Newfoundland,” I shot out of my chair like a bullet! Why not? I don’t get to smooch with a Newfie that often.
So I got my dog fix every day.
Now, that’s a happy set.
With Jennifer Love Hewitt on the set of the Hallmark movie The Lost Valentine.
HALLMARK/THE KOBAL COLLECTION
LETTERS
INTERVIEWS (REDFORD)
It is a real privilege to have been working in this business for so long, but there are a few built-in hazards—some of which can’t be avoided. Interviews, for example. There is no way to even estimate the number of them I have done over the years—we must be in the millions by now. This means I have answered the same questions, told the same anecdotes, wheezed on and on ad infinitum, again and again. The interviewers know the material better than I do, going in—and it’s tough to put a fresh spin on it.
A few years ago I was asked one of the standard questions for probably the umpteenth time: “Is there anything you haven’t done in your career that you would still like to do?”
Well, I had just seen Meryl Streep and Robert Redford in Out of Africa for the third time, so the answer was automatic: “Yes, Robert Redford.” And I was surprised to suddenly find it was true! Ever since, I have realized that that answer fits a variety of situations, and I have used it accordingly.
I have never met him. I never want to meet him (I’d be too embarrassed after taking his name in vain so many times). However, what began as a crush on a movie star soon grew into genuine admiration. I became aware of his concern for the environment, his love of and respect for nature, his involvement with The Wilderness Society, and I maintain that the Robert Redford answer works for me in almost any department.
Fast-forward to January 2010. A few days after I had received an unbelievable honor from the Screen Actors Guild, I brought the mail in one morning, as usual, and found the following letter.
Dear Mrs. Ludden:
Robert Redford has asked that I forward his congratulatory note to you on receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Screen Actors Guild.
Cheers to you!
Sincerely,
Donna Kail
Assistant to Robert Redford
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More than a note, the congratulation consisted of a delightful, funny six-stanza poem that began with “Dear Betty” and ended with “Congratulations, Robert.”
By now I don’t have to tell you how my mind was blown. Of course, my first reaction was that someone was putting me on, but the stationery was authentic, and on looking further, I found a great picture of himself, signed “Guess who? Robert Redford.”
Finally, I found the courage to write him a thank-you and said I couldn’t promise to stop using his name—unless he didn’t find it funny.
I can only say that Robert Redford is one class act.
P.S. I know you would love to hear the poem. Sorry.
© BETTMANN/CORBIS
With Bandit, Dancer, and Stormy.
ZUMA PRESS/NEWSCOM
WRITER’S BLOCK
Certain common clichés maintain that most men love hardware stores, just as women dote on shoe stores. I have no idea how accurate that is, because, personally, I am strange for stationery stores. Not for the fancy writing paper—it’s those tablets and packs of lined three-hole notebook pages and those packs of typing paper that turn me on. I even buy those things when I go to the grocery store, whether I need them or not.
Let’s say I am in the middle of a writing project and have, perhaps, hit a slow spot. Bringing in this stuff can recharge the battery. Or, if I am not in the middle of a writing project, it can often cause me to start one.
Why? I have no idea, but it has been that way all my life—even back to my school days. A fresh pack of paper was the best incentive in the world for me to tackle my homework.
As weird as all this sounds, I am not alone. I can remember once being told by an author—who was rather well known at the time—that on the rare occasions when he hit a stubborn writer’s block, there was only one specific brand of green-lined paper that could get him started again. He called it his “paper laxative.” As soon as he’d bring in a pack, the ideas would start again.
Okay, so I’m weird. At least I am in good company.
John Steinbeck, who was Allen’s and my good friend, did his writing standing up at a drafting table—in longhand, his white bull terrier, Angel, lying across his feet. People always seem amazed that I write in longhand. Well, if it’s good enough for Steinbeck, it’s good enough for me! I really can’t communicate to a machine—the thoughts want to go from my brain down my arm to my hand to the page. After I’ve written that first draft, I copy it over again onto another page. That’s when the most changes are made, as I polish and rewrite the original—once again, in longhand.
My mother had beautiful handwriting her entire life. As a little kid, I loved the time with her when I would make her write something so I could see how closely I could copy it. At wasn’t a learning chore, which I probably would have resisted. It was a game.
Somewhere in there fun sessions she managed to make a point that has stuck: handwriting is a means of communication. Why not make it as easy to read as possible?
I still remember those lovely times with my mother when I would try to copy her handwriting. Maybe it isn’t only John Steinbeck’s influence after all.
With our computers today, we have a whole new population who will find all of this totally academic, since they write by hand as little as possible. Even signing their names seems to have gone by the boards.
Computers can’t take all the blame. Both my business manager and my doctor have handwriting that is practically unreadable. Whenever I get fan mail in which the handwriting is absolutely illegible, I wonder if they’ve taken writing lessons from my business manager!
Ironically, when I grew up and entered into show business, I found many people who actually practiced diligently to make their autographs as eye-catching, illegible, and uncopyable as possible!
On Hot in Cleveland, Valerie Bertinelli, Wendie Malick, Jane Leeves, and I sign scripts each week to be used as charity auction items. I am always so grateful that I know their names, because I wouldn’t have a clue from their signatures, which are as distinctive and interesting as they are. You can’t imagine how dull my readable but boring “Betty White” looks on that script cover in that distinguished company.
I must practice.
Tess, my mom, of the beautiful handwriting.
BETTY WHITE PRIVATE COLLECTION
FANS AND FAN MAIL
The term “fan” somehow seems more appropriate for one in the faceless crowd at a sporting event than for those nice folks who greet me on the street, or in the market, or at the airport—or wherever. The greetings are warm and friendly, probably because they have been inviting me into their homes for decades.
The Betty White Fan Club, Bets’ Pets, has been around since 1971. While it has grown some over the years, it is still kept very personal, thanks to long-serving president Kay Daly and charter member LeElla Moorer. They have hung in there since the very beginning and have become treasured personal friends.
Over all those years, Kay and Lee have attended almost every performance I’ve done, not only in Los Angeles but out of town as well. As of today, they are in the audience every week when we shoot Hot in Cleveland. They are deeply appreciated.
Bets’ Pets was so named because from its inception, the club was dedicated to helping animals. The members pay minimal annual dues, and at Christmas and for my birthday in January, they put together a bonus gift—all of which is forwarded to various animal charities in my honor. They are a great group.
As well as sending out newsletters to the members about my activities, Kay manages to put out a great journal every year, comprising pictures and articles and pet news sent in by club members, which keeps us all updated on one another. She did all that while working as a fourth-grade schoolteacher until she retired. Lee, after serving as a nurse in the military, became head surgical nurse at UCLA Hospital until her retirement. I am most grateful that they haven’t retired from my life!
Fans, in general, continue to amaze me. When I’m working out of town and I show up at different studios for appearances, no matter which city we are in, there is always a group waiting, holding pictures of me to be autographed. How do they know my schedule when I hardly know it myself? Time is always short, and I feel bad when sometimes they rush me past and I can’t stop and sign, but these people always seem to understand and keep smiling.
Fan mail is something else again, with which my invaluable assistant Donna Ellerbusch and I contend! We try to keep up, but the mail continues to burgeon. A good percentage of it consists of picture requests, which I sign for Donna to send. I can’t answer it all, of course, but there are a few categories that Donna sets aside, to which I do respond: those who have just lost a life partner and need to share their pain with someone who has been through it; boys and girls achieving Eagle Scout and the Gold Award, respectively; hurting individuals reporting the loss of a beloved pet; and students writing me as part of a school project. My answers are understandably brief, but answer I must.
Fellow actors have urged me to send the mail to companies that make a business of handling fan mail rather than complicate a busy schedule. One actor friend maintains that he never deals with his fan mail in any way—he just dumps it.
Truth be told, I need to read these letters to discover what I’m doing right or, more important, wrong, and these writers don’t hesitate to tell you.
[Editor’s Note: My life has changed dramatically since I began writing this book.]
I used to be able to travel alone without thinking about it. I can’t do that anymore. I have to have a meet-and-greet on both ends to get me through the airport. People are just being nice, but recently I actually missed a plane because I couldn’t break away.
Between the Snickers commercial and the explosion of projects on which I worked in the past year, and a whole generation of fans who have met me through syndication, it seems like the number of people who call themselves fans just keeps growing. (There was a time when The Golden Girls was on four times a day!)
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I don’t mean for this to sound self-serving, but it can be a problem, and yet these are the people responsible for your good fortune!
Please know how grateful I am. Even if I do have to rush by to catch a plane!
With Dancer.
GLOBE PHOTOS
STAGECRAFT
ASSOCIATED PRESS/CLIFF OWEN
RANGER
One of the first questions in every interview since I started in television more than sixty years ago has always been, “When you were growing up, did you always want to be in show business?”
My answer has never changed. As a kid, show business wasn’t even in the mix. As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be either a forest ranger or a zookeeper. The problem was, back then a girl wasn’t allowed to be either one.
That was a real problem for a girl who grew up the way I did. Even today, my earliest, fondest memories are of the pack trips in the High Sierras on horseback I took every summer with my mom and dad. Mules carried our camping equipment and food supplies. The first time we went, I was just four years old and rode in front of Daddy on his horse. The following year I graduated to a mount of my own.
It was a two-day trip to our destination, Rae Lakes. (Today, you may be able to drive there—I don’t want to know.) Once there, we pitched camp, put bells on the horses and mules, and turned them loose. Pros that they were, they all hung out together nearby.
I can still hear those bells.
The next day, the guide would leave us and corral the animals to take them back to the ranch. Three weeks later, he’d bring them back in to pick us up. In those days, we would never see another human during the whole three weeks—it was true wilderness. Heaven.
