by Barbara Eden
“Well, I did climb the other two,” I said, and looked at the sergeant questioningly.
“Are you sure you don’t want a double?” he repeated.
I shook my head and started climbing. Three-quarters of the way up the tower, I looked down and saw that the other two towers were below me. As I did, the tower started to sway in the wind.
“You want a double?” the sergeant yelled.
I certainly did!
My next TV outing proved to be frightening as well, but in a very different way: a role in four episodes of Dallas, starring, of course, none other than Larry Hagman.
While Larry and I hadn’t been in touch much in the intervening years since we were together on I Dream of Jeannie, I had watched with a combination of awe and pleasure as Larry’s J. R. Ewing became the stuff of which TV history was made. When J.R. was shot in March 1980, a record 350 million viewers throughout the world tuned in, then united in global speculation regarding the identity of his killer.
Naturally, Larry joined in the heated debate, too, his tongue firmly in his cheek. Not even he knew who really shot J.R., as the producers had cunningly opted to shoot several alternative endings to the episode in which the killer was unmasked, each one featuring a different killer. The speculation reached such a feverish height that bookies all over the world made a terrific amount of money from all the people placing bets on the identity of the man—or woman—who had shot J.R.
Funnily enough, when pushed to make a guess about the identity of his would-be assassin, Larry finally said: “Barbara Eden did it!” I was flattered that he thought of me, but couldn’t quite ignore the subtext inherent in his casting me as a killer. At the same time, given Larry’s off-set demands and the villainy of his on-camera character, I couldn’t help gleefully recalling his insistence at not being viewed as the bad guy in I Dream of Jeannie.
As it turned out, I was going to be the villain this time around, as my character, the dastardly Lee Ann De La Vega, screamed double-crossing diva. According to the script, J.R. did Lee Ann wrong when they were at college together: she became pregnant and he ditched her, after which she had an abortion that almost killed her. Now that she had become rich beyond her wildest dreams, her primary goal in life was to wreak revenge on J.R. and pay him back roundly for all his past iniquities.
An archvillainess, she actually succeeded in taking over Ewing Oil, then engineering the situation so that J.R.’s fiancée, Vanessa, broke off their engagement and walked out on him. Lee Ann’s revenge was complete.
When I arrived at the studio on my first day, I was shaking with nerves, not just because I would be working with Larry again after all those years, but also because when you take a role in an established series, you feel like a blundering outsider and ache to fit in with the rest of the cast, but worry that you may not.
That the Dallas producers had cast me as Lee Ann with their collective tongue very firmly in cheek became highly obvious the moment I arrived at wardrobe and discovered that my first outfit was a pink suit. Pink! Hardly a subtle reminder of Jeannie.
Larry, I knew, didn’t want to be reminded of I Dream of Jeannie. He’d made that very clear to me throughout the years, not wanting to take part in any I Dream of Jeannie retrospectives or I Dream of Jeannie–related talk shows (except one joint appearance on Today) and doing his utmost to distance himself from the show whenever he was interviewed.
So as I waited to shoot the first scene in which Larry and I were scheduled to act together, I was quaking in my pink high heels. I thought maybe the sight of me might cause him to suddenly implode.
My first entrance was scripted so that I stalk straight out of an elevator and come face-to-face with J.R. So there I was in my pink suit, the elevator door opened, and Larry cracked, “Oh my God! We’re going back in time!” I never discovered whether or not that line was part of the script or one that Larry had improvised himself. After all, this was his show and he finally had carte blanche to rewrite the script whenever and however he wanted, so I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he had taken advantage of it. Either way, that line was a good one.
Whether intentionally or by accident, whether Larry had any input into it or not, the script of my episode seemed to be full of double entendres that harked back to I Dream of Jeannie. In one instance, J.R. takes one look at me and asks, “Haven’t we met somewhere before?” Looking at Larry across the set, I really did suddenly experience the weirdest sensation, as if we had indeed gone back in time together. My favorite out of the four Dallas episodes I appeared in was episode 343. Wearing a long blond wig fixed with a pink bandeau, I reminisce about how wonderful it was dating J.R. in my youth. Then I switch gears and talk about the shock of revealing my pregnancy to him and his subsequent reaction: denying that he was the father and wanting nothing to do with me.
Then I describe my horrific abortion done by a butcher of a doctor in a cheap, tawdry hotel, how I almost died, and how, as a result, I was forced to quit college. “I don’t just want to get back at him,” I declare, venom dripping from my every word. “I’m going to change his life totally, just like he once changed mine.” Melodramatic in the extreme, my role was a gift to an actress, and I loved playing it.
The shows all went well; I very much enjoyed working with Patrick Duffy, and both Larry and Linda Gray were extremely nice to me. Even better, the fans seemed happy that Larry and I had reunited, if only for four episodes.
Despite some of the more bizarre past memories of Larry, I still thought of him fondly, and was gratified that he had met with such stratospheric success in Dallas. The series would run for a record fourteen seasons, from 1978 to 1991, and along the way, Larry could hardly have been blamed for having acquired some starlike mannerisms and demands. He’d been waiting to become a star for so long and was clearly primed to enjoy every moment of his stardom.
However, I was a little surprised, not to say shocked, when my friend Dolores came to visit the Dallas set, and beforehand was briefed by one of Larry’s people that she was not permitted to talk to him unless he addressed her first, nor was she allowed to look at him.
That same year, I made I Still Dream of Jeannie, an NBC movie of the week. This time, the plot has Major Nelson spirited away into space on an extended secret mission, leaving Jeannie on earth. There, her jealous sister—as always, feverishly working against her—insists on enforcing a universal genie rule that stipulates that Jeannie has to find a temporary master, otherwise she is doomed to leave earth and Major Nelson forever.
Ken Kercheval, who played Cliff Barnes in Dallas, plays a schoolteacher whom Jeannie enlists to help her in her quest. Jeannie encounters a myriad of obstacles, including having to negotiate life in the singles scene, 1990s-style.
The thought of reprising a role I’d played twenty-five years before was pretty scary, and I was tentative about accepting it. For one thing, I was sure that the audiences would expect me to have exercised a brand of magic and still look the same. After some deliberation, I decided not to allow vanity to get the better of me. Although Jeannie was not my alter ego, I was still deeply attached to her, and, after a great deal more soul-searching, I took the part. I never regretted it.
It must also be said that in the years since I Dream of Jeannie was first on the air, and despite the myriad of roles I’d played since then, it was virtually impossible for me to shake the ghost of Jeannie, even if I’d wanted to.
Here’s a classic, if unpleasant, example: in 1991, I made a TV movie, Her Wicked Ways, in which I played a White House reporter. Heather Locklear also played a reporter. She was lovely and great to work with, but her husband, Tommy Lee, was quite another story.
We were on location in Washington, D.C., when in the middle of the night, the phone rang. I said hello, and heard Tommy Lee’s voice.
TOMMY: “Oh, my! I’m looking for my wife. Where is she?”
ME: “I don’t know. You must have dialed the wrong number.”
TOMMY: “Well, who am I talki
ng to, then?”
ME: “You’re talking to Barbara.”
TOMMY: “Well, hello, Barbara. You wouldn’t know Heather’s room number, would you, darling?”
ME, MY VOICE DRIPPING WITH FROST: “Sorry, I don’t. Goodbye.”
TOMMY: “Don’t hang up on me, honey, now, don’t.” [Clinking of glasses from the other end of the line] “Hey, guys! Guess what! I’ve got Jeannie on the phone! I’ve got Jeannie on the phone!”
The resultant roar that came across the line almost deafened me.
I cut off the call, left the receiver on the night table, curled up in bed again, and did my best to fall asleep.
Dreams of Jeannie? Now and again it was a nightmare.
Had I truly wanted to escape my I Dream of Jeannie legacy (and I did not), the rerelease of the series on Nick at Night in 1994 would have made it impossible. My picture was plastered the length and breadth of a building on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles and on a building in the middle of Times Square in Manhattan. I happened to be in New York City that week and had no idea about the publicity campaign, so you can imagine my shock when my cab drove through Times Square and I looked up to see myself many times larger than life!
The year before, I’d made two NBC movies set in San Francisco, the first of which was entitled Visions of Murder, in which I played Dr. Jesse Newman, a psychologist who works in the San Francisco police department and has psychic abilities. The handsome and distinguished actor James Brolin, who is now married to Barbra Streisand, played my first husband. In the sequel, another actor took that role. I was sorry about that, as James is a very nice, steady man and a good actor.
Speaking of Barbra Streisand, when I was making The Confession with Elliott Gould, Barbra was starring in Funny Girl on Broadway. Elliott was extremely affable and was kind enough to take me to see the show (which was incredible, and her legendary performance spectacular), and afterward he took me backstage to meet Barbra. She was extremely down-to-earth, and not a little discomfited when Shirley MacLaine arrived backstage and showered her with compliments. After Shirley left, Barbra turned to me and said, “She’s a big star, isn’t she? So what’s with the big red nails?” So refreshing, and very real.
When I made Visions of Murder, I was hopeful that Dr. Jesse Newman might develop into a Jessica Fletcher–type character, with the same resonance and long-term success that Angela Lansbury achieved with Murder, She Wrote. The producers were probably thinking along the same lines, but after the second movie, that didn’t come to fruition.
However, I did enjoy working in San Francisco again, and relished the coincidence of my playing a psychic in the same city where I had consulted Emma Nelson Sims, whose psychic predictions about me proved to be so uncannily accurate.
Unfortunately, while making Visions of Murder and the sequel, Eyes of Terror, I couldn’t find Emma, though I’d have relished her input. Instead, in the interest of accurately portraying a psychic, I consulted psychic Sylvia Browne.
Like my character, Dr. Jesse Newman, Sylvia also worked with the San Francisco Police Department on solving cases, and had a high success rate in doing so. When we got to know each other better, she confided in me that she found her work, which she did pro bono, extremely painful, particularly when missing children she was seeking turned up dead. But there were physical issues for herself, too.
A case in point: She was investigating the abduction and murder of a child when all of a sudden she felt blows all over her body and was bruised, just as the child had been. She then had a vision of the child’s abductor, which, when he was caught, proved to be accurate. I was so impressed that I partially based my portrayal of Jesse on Sylvia.
In 1996, I also made Dead Man’s Island, in which I played an investigative journalist, Henrietta O’Dwyer Collins. I owned the rights to the book on which the movie was based, and co-starred in it with Morgan Fairchild and William Shatner. For some reason, in those days before Boston Legal and remembering William’s role as Captain Kirk, I expected him to be staid and stuffy. Boy, was I in for a surprise!
During the five-week shoot, he proved to be a lot of fun. In one scene, he had to wear a one-piece swimsuit and was supposed to swim in a large pool, then get out, dripping wet, and stroll down a path while simultaneously conducting a conversation with Roddy McDowall. Well, William was quite heavy at the time, and the swimsuit that wardrobe had selected for him was a 1920s-style getup. In addition, wardrobe gave him a rubber bathing cap to wear that was extremely tight. But gallant and self-deprecating William Shatner just laughed his way through the scene, making fun of the outfit and, above all, of himself. A great sport and such good company!
My friends always say that I am all work and no play. They are sometimes right, but now and again I do indulge my love for exotic adventure travel. And so I was thrilled when I was invited to attend the Silver Jubilee of King Hassan II of Morocco (otherwise known as the “Finger of God on Earth”), along with Michael York and Robert Stack; the head of Atlantic Records, Ahmet Ertegun; and Ahmet’s wife, Mica.
We were flown first-class to Marrakech, where the streets were lined with orange blossom trees and floodlit in red, green, and orange lights, the colors of the Moroccan flag. The celebrations centered around the king’s fifteenth-century palace in Marrakech, and no expense was spared in making them spectacular beyond belief.
Before the trip, I’d been warned not to wear anything that revealed my arms or my legs. I brought a glamorous long white gown with cap sleeves, completely forgetting that the gown had a low-cut neckline and a slit up the front of it. With it I wore a white fox stole.
When the escort arrived at our hotel to drive us to the castle, she took one look at me and screamed, “Oh la la!”
“Oh la la?” I said.
Recovering her composure, she explained that I had to wear something else that evening. Good idea—except that this was the only long gown I’d brought with me, and I told her so.
Her solution? She took my white fox stole and draped it diagonally across my body, so that it covered one arm and one leg. Then she pressed my left arm across my chest and my right across my legs. Difficult to imagine, I suppose, but I hope you get the picture.
“Stay that way!” she instructed.
So I did, teetering to the car in my four-inch heels, my arms, legs, and fox fur all in place.
Once we arrived at the immense palace courtyard, I kept myself covered as best I could and watched enthralled as the king rode a black stallion the whole length of the courtyard and thousands of Berbers in white djellabas bowed down before him and wished him a long life.
Then we were escorted inside the palace, which was furnished with bizarre reproduction Victorian furniture, and into an anteroom, where a group of women, all dressed in long dresses cinched by heavy gold belts, chattered away like a flock of starlings. Although we were all girls together now, as it were, I still kept my arms strategically placed across my body and made sure that my fox fur didn’t slip from its designated position.
Then a ripple of excitement shot through the anteroom.
“The king, the king is coming!” the women cried.
“Remember, you don’t offer to shake hands with the king unless he offers his first,” my escort instructed me.
As I was holding my arms over my chest to cover it, and wished I had some Krazy Glue to fix them there, I was relieved.
Too soon, of course, because the moment the king came into view, the first person he approached was me. And the first thing he did was offer me his hand in greeting. And who was I not to take it?
Fortunately, the king kept his eyes focused firmly on my face, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief.
Afterward, we were led out to a huge garden, bigger than a football field, where the ground was covered by precious Persian carpets, each sprinkled with rose petals.
No alcohol was served, but there were massive tables, many piled high with all manner of sweets, including slivered almonds, hard candy, and petits fo
urs. Groups of wrinkled old men made mint tea for all the guests.
The following day, we had lunch at La Mamounia, Winston Churchill’s favorite hotel, which had beautiful rows of orange trees in the gardens. There we were served cold lobster, chicken galantine, and shrimp-stuffed artichokes. Again, the ground was laid with Oriental carpets sprinkled with rose petals.
The fête was rounded out by folk dancing, visits to the souks, and further exhibitions of horsemanship. All breathtaking, and opulent in the extreme. I was amazed to discover that the king had no fewer than ten thousand retainers to serve his every need!
I was happy living the single life and had no expectations of ever finding love again. Then one morning my friend Marilyn called out of the blue and announced, “Barbara, I met somebody last night. He’s really cute, and I like him. Do you want to date him?”
As usual, all I was doing was working, and the prospect of a date was enticing. The problem was, I simply didn’t have time, so I sighed and regretfully told Marilyn so. But she was having none of it; to her credit, she convinced me to set aside a weekend night on which to meet this new man she was touting so highly.
I was in my fifties and didn’t dream that I would ever fall in love again, but I was willing to meet Marilyn’s cute new acquaintance. So I was pleased when, a few weeks later, I received a call from Jon Eicholtz. I immediately liked the sound of his voice, his Texas accent, and the decisive yet courteous way in which he suggested that it might be more relaxing if we didn’t double-date with Marilyn and her husband but went out to dinner alone at Morton’s so that we could really get to know each other.
The first thing that impressed me about Jon, apart from his perfect manners, was that he had never seen a single episode of I Dream of Jeannie and wasn’t remotely starstruck. Quite a relief, especially after Chuck. Like Chuck, he was born in Chicago, but I decided not to hold that against him.
And I was relieved that he had nothing whatsoever to do with show business. His father had been in the army during World War II, and Jon went to the University of Kansas. Now a builder/developer, he had a five-year degree in architectural engineering. Like me, he had a twenty-six-year-old son; he had been married twice, and was now a widower.
