If You Ask Me
Page 4
After those earliest years, we moved our campsite to a remote area of Yellowstone National Park. In the way a lot of kids look forward to Christmas all year, I used to count the days from one June to the next, until we could take off again.
On the last half-day of school for the summer, my folks would pick me up at Beverly Hills High School, and we were on our way. Dad always wore a forest ranger hat on vacation, and when I’d spot that hat, I would know the day had finally arrived.
So it’s no surprise that I developed a love of animals and the outdoors, but as a child I could only dream of becoming a zookeeper or a forest ranger. Today, after forty-seven years of working with the Los Angeles Zoo, I am satisfying the zookeeper part. Now, let me tell you the clincher.
Not long ago I received a letter from the United States Forest Service that thrilled me to my toes. It seems someone there must have read one of those interviews about those early dreams, because there was an invitation to Washington, D.C., where, in a special program at the Kennedy Center, the Forest Service would make me an Honorary Forest Ranger! It was all very official, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Of course, I went back for the ceremony, and it was a beautiful program. Thomas Tidwell, the Forest Service chief, made the presentation with a huge Smokey Bear standing behind him. As I stepped to the podium to accept, I got a big hug from Smokey, which almost got me, but I didn’t actually lose it until—after receiving the certificate and the badge—they presented me with an official ranger’s hat.
He’s been gone all these years, but as the memories washed over me, I would swear my dad was standing right there. It is a moment I continue to replay in my mind.
My eternal thanks to the Forest Service for this honor, which is so deeply appreciated. It truly was one of the greatest moments of my life.
I shall continue to work my hardest to spread the word that not only must we protect our wilderness areas—we must appreciate them. They are an endangered species.
ASSOCIATED PRESS/CLIFF OWEN
ON STAGE FRIGHT
I can remember my first attack of stage fright. I was in grammar school, in the third grade. And I had to get up in front of the class and recite a poem.
“Little Machi met a cameraman on a Chinatown Street one day....”
That’s how it started, and I was panic-stricken. I don’t remember if I made it through the poem at all, but I can remember what it felt like.
Still, I somehow managed to continue as a young girl, participating in plays throughout grammar school and high school. In fact, I wrote the play commemorating graduation from Horace Mann Grammar School—which was called Land of the Rising Sun. We were studying Japan at the time, and like any good red-blooded American girl, I wrote myself into the lead! I also wrote a prologue for the show, explaining that it was traditional Japanese theater and props were held by non-actors. The play opened with the princess talking to a nightingale. Since one of the football players was going to be onstage holding a birdcage, clearly this all had to be explained in the prologue.
Guess who spoke the prologue?
So I was the star and the interlocutor. And anything else I could be. Remember who wrote it!
But I never outgrew the stage fright.
To this day, it still happens—every single time I go onstage.
Jay Leno and I are good friends, and I appear on his show all the time. We greet each other before the show and have a catch-up in the makeup room. Suddenly it’s showtime. I’m in the wings and those butterflies appear. Ballplayers have rituals. They may touch each corner of the plate with the bat to calm themselves down. I have no ritual. I have—butterflies.
Color Day at Beverly Hills High. I sang “Heart and Soul.”
BETTY WHITE PRIVATE COLLECTION
So you work your way through it.
Let me be clear: You are never calm. But your job is to deliver.
In the case of Jay Leno, or Craig Ferguson or David Letterman or Jimmy Fallon, suddenly the conversation gets interesting and it carries you along.
Just hope the audience comes with you.
At the 2011 SAG Awards, when my name was announced, I was so shocked—it was so unexpected that I would win the award, given the other nominees, that my first thought was, They read the wrong name. Then I got up to the podium and thought, Oh, no, I’m going to have to say something! On air, I might look calm, but if you knew what was going on in my head, your own head would spin.
None of the tricks I try work. I’m lucky if I can breathe.
It’s amazingly common for actors to have some form of stage fright. It just manifests itself in different ways.
I remember Rue McClanahan used to say, “That’s one thing I never get! I never get stage fright!”
I think she was lying through her teeth.
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You’re taking a chance every time you step in front of an audience.
So is the stage fright due to fear of forgetting lines? Fear of drawing a blank on what to say? Fear of making a fool of oneself?
All of the above.
Rue may have been the only actor I’ve known to say she didn’t feel stage fright.
REUTERS/FRED PROUSER/LANDOV
TYPECASTING
After more than thirty hours a week on live television for four years, there were those who thought of me as sickeningly sweet. They’d say, “She’ll make your teeth fall out!” But if we met at a party, they would tell me, “Oh, you’re not as bad as I thought you were!”
I was certainly typecast as icky sweet on Life with Elizabeth and even Hollywood on Television. But then Sue Ann Nivens came along and changed the whole picture. The neighborhood nymphomaniac on The Mary Tyler Moore Show was a surprise to everyone (including me)!
The character was written as “an icky-sweet Betty White type.”
The casting director, Ethel Winant, said, “Why not get Betty White?” But the executives said they couldn’t have me read for the role because Mary and I were best friends, and it might make it awkward for Mary if it didn’t work out.
As an actor, you don’t get every role you try out for, so it wouldn’t have bothered our friendship at all, but they didn’t know that.
Well, I guess they couldn’t find anybody sickeningly sweet enough, so they finally called me one Saturday morning and explained the part of the Happy Homemaker and asked, “Would you do it?”
Of course I said I’d be thrilled!
So I called Mary and said, “Guess who’s doing your show next week?”
She said, “Who?”
I said, “Me.”
She said, “Oh, no, you’re not! I have veto power!”
She was kidding, of course.
As Sue Ann Nivens on The Mary Tyler Moore Show.
CBS PHOTO ARCHIVE/GETTY IMAGES
And Sue Ann Nivens really did change my career. That sickly sweet image I’d grown up with expanded to another context. She was the Happy Homemaker who could fix anything, cook anything, clean anything, and sleep with anyone who would stand still. Another character, Phyllis (played by Cloris Leachman), became suspicious that her husband was having an affair with Sue Ann, because he’d come home with his clothes cleaner than they’d been when he left.
People would invariably ask Allen, “How close to Sue Ann is Betty?”
He’d say, “They’re really the same character—except Betty can’t cook.”
Recently I had a similar role switch. I did a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie called The Lost Valentine, which is a very poignant and emotional film.
I have been doing comedy for so long that people were surprised to see me play a dramatic part. I kept getting calls afterward, saying, “Hey, I’ve never seen you do anything like this!”
But it’s good to mix things up as an actor. Or else you can grow too accustomed to a character. On The Mary Tyler Moore Show, I played alongside Gavin MacLeod (as Murray Slaughter). When she was near, Sue Ann always petted Murray’s bald head.
In a
poignant, emotional role—with Jennifer Love Hewitt in The Lost Valentine.
HALLMARK/THE KOBAL COLLECTION
Gavin went on after The Mary Tyler Moore Show to his own hit series, The Love Boat. I did a guest role on his show, and in one scene I’m standing behind Gavin, as Captain Stubing, and it was so hard not to stroke that bald head!
So for me, Sue Ann was a huge career mood change. The Mary Tyler Moore Show aired for seven years altogether. I came on in the fourth season, in what was to have been a one-shot appearance. The most episodes I ever did during one season was twelve of twenty-two—the other seasons, I did only five or six episodes. But people still remember Sue Ann. She was such a mess!
And such fun to play.
Allen’s quip about me and Sue Ann always made people laugh.
PHOTO BY GABI RONA/MPTVIMAGES.COM
Sometimes you lose control.
TV LAND/PHOTOFEST
CAST CHEMISTRY
On Hot in Cleveland, when we’d all been cast and come together for our first table read, we all simply fell in love.
It was that instant rapport. We all knew one another from other shows. Everyone in the cast is a pro. Valerie Bertinelli from her career work, Wendie Malick from Just Shoot Me, Jane Leeves from Frasier, and I from The Golden Girls. We’d all seen one another work, so we were looking forward to getting to know one another better. But you can’t manufacture chemistry—it’s either there or it isn’t. And boy, was it there!
When we’re on the set, we’re holding one another’s hands, or someone will come by and ruffle the back of your hair. And we laugh inordinately.
Back in my second book, Betty White in Person, at one point I was writing about The Golden Girls and the team relationship we had. Well, I reread it recently and laughed out loud. It described the exact same rapport I was just talking about on Hot in Cleveland.
Let me quote:From the very beginning we were each thrilled by the professionalism of the other three. No one had to be carried. Whatever one of us served up was returned in kind . . . or better.
Of equal importance, if a set is to be a happy one, we were also blessed by the work manners of our group. No one had to be waited for . . . each was where she was supposed to be when she was supposed to be there. This set the tone and allowed us to relax and get silly, knowing that when the whistle blew, we’d all be in the chute.
It’s as though I wrote that about Valerie and Wendie and Jane! How can you get that lucky again, twenty-five years later?
We all just love to laugh. One night we went off the air in hysterics—we couldn’t tell anyone what the joke was. We still can’t. Valerie came in, early in the season, with this not-nice joke and we all found it so funny that before each show we put our arms around one another and say, “One for all and all for one”—and then we add the punch line. And it works every time.
I feel so fortunate to be on another show with the rare chemistry and goodwill that I experienced on The Golden Girls. It feels a little bit like lightning striking twice.
But I’ll take it.
With the Golden Girls—Bea Arthur, me, Rue McClanahan, and Estelle Getty.
ABC PHOTO ARCHIVES/ABC VIA GETTY IMAGES
On The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.
FRANCIS SPECKER/LANDOV
STAND UP?
People often mistake me for a comedienne and ask me to do stand-up routines for charity. But that’s not my skill set. I’m an actor, not a comedienne. Doing stand-up is an entirely different beast.
Witnessing good stand-up makes you appreciate what people like Craig Ferguson and David Letterman and Jay Leno do every single night, night after night. Sure, they have writers, but they have to put their stamp on it, too. Night after night. Did I mention that?
I asked Craig once, “Are you getting a little roadweary?”
And he said, “Not all the time.”
When you’re a guest on one of these shows, you’re successful when there’s great repartee. Now, we know the hosts are accomplished comedians, so the question is, can guest and host play well together?
The producer has some assistant call you for a preinterview, which I hate. The assistant calls, and then you end up giving your whole interview to them, and you don’t want to repeat it when you’re on the air! It’s obviously a safety net for the host, so he has something to fall back on.
But when I’m on Craig’s show, we never go near those notes. He’s got them all there on his desk, but we just start talking.
Usually when I appear on his show, I’m doing a sketch involving some kind of costume, and I’m always short of cash. That’s a running theme. But recently I was on and we didn’t have any idea where we were going.
And Craig, like Tim Conway, is one of those people you have trouble making eye contact with for fear of cracking up. He has these eyes that just dance. So when I’m on his show, on the couch, I talk to him looking down at the floor, and he talks to me peering intently into my eyes.
So we sat down and just started having this easy conversation, and we didn’t know where we were going or how we were going to end, but somewhere along the line it just got funny. I can’t tell you how or when, but it did. And then it just came to its natural end. So at the end, the crowd was clapping and laughing, and he hugged me and whispered in my ear, “We did it! What did we do?”
It goes back to that repartee and comedic timing both. You have to listen and play off what someone else says. You can’t be thinking of what you’re going to say next or it dies right there. If you listen to people, it triggers something in you to which you can respond. It’s about both really listening and hearing that funny track that you can pick up and deliver back.
I can’t tell you it’s innate. I don’t think it is. But I think you have a propensity for it. And after that, practice helps a lot.
But this is not stand-up comedy.
With comedy, as opposed to drama, you get an instant review. With a dramatic performance you act up a storm and hope it works.
Doing comedy—if you don’t get the laugh, you know you bombed.
It’s a tough business.
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THE CRAFT
When a script comes to me, I read through the whole thing so I know what the story is about, who the other people are, and where they’re coming from. It gives me an overview.
Then I go back and start learning.
I have trouble acting with a script in my hand, so I memorize as quickly as I can to get both hands free.
Other actors that I’ve worked with are more comfortable holding their script through dress rehearsal, like a security blanket. Everyone works differently.
On a series, every week it’s inevitable that at some point someone forgets what the next line is. In front of a live audience, there is that deadly silence. You all look at one another, wondering, Is it me? So we just stop and start to giggle in spite of ourselves, which spreads like wildfire in the audience. We have a good (??) laugh, then we just go back a couple of lines and start where we were before.
Similarly, if you stumble or your tongue gets twisted, you can stop and start up again with the line before, and the editors can make their magic.
Though technology has advanced so dramatically and the equipment is better (since, say, The Mary Tyler Moore Show), the actors do it more or less the same according to whatever works for us, personally.
You go with it—and pray a lot.
Sometimes it’s not all laughs—even on a comedy set. On The Golden Girls just a couple of weeks into the show the first season, both my mom and Bea Arthur’s mother became seriously ill. Ironically, the script we were doing at the time happened to be heavily mother-daughter-oriented—just by coincidence. Two weeks later, both our mothers were gone. Not an easy time.
Line readings are always a challenge. When the line falls right, you feel it in your gut. That’s how you intend to do it from then on. But just try to repeat it—you can’t get it back to save your soul from perdit
ion. Now and then, that “good line reading” doesn’t happen until you’re driving home after the show. But, of course, the party’s over by then.
I’ve heard some of the best actors say the same.
It’s a strange craft!
With James Lipton on Inside the Actors Studio.
BRAVO/PHOTOFEST
TELEVISION
Over time, I’ve turned down three Broadway shows. I love summer stock. But with summer stock, there’s a beginning and an end to the production. Maybe a week’s rehearsal and three or four weeks playing the show, then you’re free.
If you get into a Broadway show and it doesn’t work, you’re a failure. And if it does work, you may be stuck for who knows how long. It just doesn’t sound great to me!
My theatrical friends think I’m a Neanderthal.
“It’s THEATER,” they protest.
“I know,” I say, “but I’m television!”
I was there when television first started. We grew up together.
When I graduated from high school, television had just begun in New York, but it hadn’t yet started in California.
I had done our senior play and was asked to do an experimental television show downtown. Our senior class president and I did a scene from The Merry Widow up on the fifth floor of the Packard Automobile building. And it was broadcast all the way to the bottom floor. My parents had to stand in front of a tiny little monitor on the first floor to see me! But it was the beginning of television in Los Angeles.
Then I actually got paid (a little) to do a role as the girl behind the hotel desk on a show called Tom, Dick, and Harry. Never do a show with three comics who have a broom. But it was fun.