Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me...

by Stevie Phillips

  The irony in all this is that my mother pushed me into marriage with a man who was even more starstruck than I. It was an accident to be sure, but then again, maybe no accident at all. Had it not been written somewhere in the stars that I should be in show business, my new husband might have discouraged me from a theatrical pursuit; but this kind and honest man adored every aspect of entertainment. All he ever wanted in life was to be an actor, but instead he passed the bar to satisfy his parents—just as I was trying to satisfy mine by marrying.

  He quickly decided he was going to live his dream vicariously through me. I had his full support to delve into the world of showbiz, and that was all I needed. I felt capable of finding my own way, starting at the bottom of the ladder. The rest was determination, something I owned in abundance. I would make it. I just had to. I would finally realize the dream I had dreamed all those Saturdays in the uptown movie palace.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Girl on the Bottom

  In 1958 the only start-up jobs available, besides retail, were for women with decent secretarial skills. It was a time when, after you got your college degree, graduate work generally meant that you took a course in either the Pitman or Gregg method of stenography, and only then did you have a skill worth selling, one that put you on a collision course with a low glass ceiling. Of course if you graduated from Vassar, Smith, Holyoke, or any of the other Seven Sister schools, and you had good social connections, you might acquire an entry-level position as an editorial assistant at a top publishing house or classy magazine like Harper’s Bazaar—that is, until you married and moved to a start-up mansion in Greenwich. Inasmuch as I wasn’t one of those Muffy, Buffy, Duffy, or Libby socialites about to enjoy my coming-out, I went straight to the Kelly Girl secretarial school for my continuing education, recognizing that my bachelor of arts degree in literature might occasionally help me in cocktail conversation.

  From the moment I started working, I knew it was the right choice for me. Not all the shit jobs were, but then I was 100 percent prepared to pay my dues. My mom was wrong about working. I didn’t find it hard at all; of course, unlike her, I was not standing on a retail sales floor twelve hours a day. I was sitting in bright airy spaces, reading most of the time, and best of all, at the end of the week I had a paycheck in my hand that gave me the first real power I thought I’d ever had: buying power. But it wasn’t only about the money. Working reinforced my thinking that I could have it all: fame, money, and power. And there was at least a tiny bit of genuine altruism. I also wanted to make a contribution to society. I thought from the beginning that entertaining people was a great way to do that.

  With my skill set in place, such as it was (no hundred-words-a-minute me), I launched my attack on “the industry” by going to a temp employment agency, where I asked to be sent out for entertainment work. There were lots of jobs available, and I was regularly employed at a network (both CBS and NBC) or at advertising desks (McCann Erickson stands out because some jerk hit on me until I finally quit), where I read through whatever files were available to me, an eager participant in my own little master plan to figure out how people functioned in the industry. I thought I could learn by reading contracts and memos.

  I was placed in some jobs for a few days, some for more. Sometimes I would just up and quit after I’d sucked out of a particular office as much worthwhile background as I could. And I had plenty of time to do it. My boss of the moment, always a man, made up his mind before I got there that there was no point in my doing anything other than answering the phone until his regular girl got back. When asked why I was reading a file (and that wasn’t often) I simply said I needed something to read. The boss smiled. I was a girl, after all. How could I know what I was reading? But I thought I had a good plan because I was actually interested in everything I read. I might have forgotten my Shakespeare, but I could indeed remember contractual terms and conditions. I could remember who got paid what for every show on the air. I counted on the fact that this was not useless information, that one day I could get to a place where I could actually use the info I was stockpiling.

  Not all the early jobs were terrible. I stayed at ABC Television for a few months and had a wonderful time, though certainly not at the start in the typing pool, which was a drag and hard, boring work, typing columns of numbers that, without context, made no sense.

  Luckily I was rescued from the pool after only a week and a half, told I would now be a “production assistant,” and sent to the stage floor of a little game show called Who Do You Trust?, starring Johnny Carson. Though happy to be plucked out of the pool, I’m sorry to say I believe the only reason I was chosen over the other more efficient women who had longer tenure was my appearance. I was tall and slim; I had a good figure, and, although no great beauty, I was nice looking. I knew I attracted men’s attention, and I liked it. I was a flirt. So sue me.

  My new job definition was “Help anyone who needs help.” Typing was the least of it. What I remember most is running off copies on the mimeograph machine and chatting a lot. You couldn’t just deliver a copy without having a little chat. For five minutes I thought this was the beginning of the rest of my life. Not so. But it’s worth two minutes of recollection.

  I was awkward as a young woman (not so terribly different now): a tangle of long arms and legs that found their way into a space slightly ahead of the rest of me, mixing it up with whatever was in their path. There were always offending inanimate objects, taking on lives of their own against my daily progress. One day in my second week as production assistant I was running across the stage on some momentous mission when the camera cable reached out and brought me down.

  Now I am lying spread-eagle in front of the entire TV audience while Johnny Carson is doing the warm-up. “There she is, ladies and gentlemen—I give you the Jewish Elizabeth Taylor!” Oh no, Johnny’s not talking about me?! “Smile, Stevie, you’re on camera.” On big monitors no less, placed strategically around the audience of 499 giddy spectators laughing at my expense. Elizabeth Taylor had nothing to worry about, but then the audience could see that for themselves. I was still a natural brunette, and my green eyes—all that remains of that naive, young woman of twenty-three—were then, and still are, my best feature. Johnny could see they were not violet like her beautiful eyes. In fact he could see they weren’t violet even after he’d had a number of strong belts. I was always generously invited along for pre-warm-up drinks at Sardi’s bar next door.

  The way that guy knocked back two double shots showed me he’d had a lot of practice. Still, Johnny had no trouble standing up or doing stand-up, whereas I, on one simple, well-nursed glass of wine, would fall down. Sadly, when the show was canceled at the end of the season, so was I.

  This experience reinforced something I already knew, something that has been true since the beginning of time: Being attractive helps. I wasn’t totally dim. I always knew I could count on my appearance to some extent. But I also understood from the get-go that competence and intelligence matter more.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Can I Tell You About “Menial”?

  How I wish my mom had hung around long enough to see how things worked out. She was, however, only there at the start, and it was a slow start. I didn’t actually get my foot on the first rung of the success ladder until I got a job at the hugely successful agency called MCA (Music Corporation of America). I wanted a permanent job there, and I had no idea if they were hiring when I popped in to Personnel to fill out an application. The reason I found MCA so appealing is that it was across the street from my husband’s first private office.

  As a young lawyer with his own practice, he couldn’t afford a secretary. I could type up his few letters on my lunch break and then again at night after work. As well, an agency represented another area of show business that I was curious about, one that I thought might lead to something. MCA hired me on the spot because I was a college graduate. Most of the other secretaries were not.

  I had no difficulty d
oing whatever jobs MCA gave me while also doing my husband’s work. And he was totally grateful. Our marriage projected the appearance of picture-book perfection, but it was a lie. All of it. I liked him, but when we had sex I lay in bed feeling nothing even though he was such a considerate lover, always eager to please me. Our lovemaking was not unpleasant but far from exciting, and I faked my responses. In that as in everything else, creating a great impression was always easy, and it saved me from embarrassing honesty. I was totally disingenuous, clearly not the doting helpmate and sweet little wife. My ambition far exceeded the feelings I had for him. I was selfish and self-involved, thinking exclusively of number one. I felt guilty even thinking about home and hearth because he was so kind and generous, so anxious to make it work.

  As my career progressed and he saw less of me, he never raised an objection. He wanted to have children; I did not. I knew from day one that one day I would leave him, and children would complicate it. I hung in far longer than I should have. I knew it was over for me the first year. Guilt kept me there for five. But the bottom line is that he was the keeper, and I blew it. There were so many wonderful things about him to love—his thoughtfulness, kindheartedness, honesty, and loyalty, just to name a few—and I was too young and stupid to realize it.

  Given the marriages that followed, I can now say he was the only decent man I married, and he was much more than simply decent. It no longer embarrasses me to talk about it because as I matured I developed enough grace to apologize to him, and we became good friends.

  *

  MCA was a class operation, and its overall appearance reflected that. The halls were paneled in mahogany throughout, and, hanging everywhere one looked, were antique equestrian prints matted exquisitely in matching black-and-gold frames. There was a lot of French country furniture, much of it the real deal. The heavy doors with their beautiful brass hardware matched the paneling, and I mention the doors specifically because many, many years later, when I’d become the occupant of one of those grand offices, the little Boston terrier I took to the office daily missed me so much during my lunch dates that he eventually gnawed his way through my door. One morning when I came to work, I found a sweet note on my secretary’s typewriter from Lew Wasserman, the great gray eminence himself, asking me to replace the door. And I did—at no small expense.

  “Uncle Lew” to some, “Mr. Wasserman” to me, he was the mastermind who built MCA into the studio conglomerate that dominated Hollywood. What started out as a company that booked musicians and bands grew, under his management, into a megamonster agency that represented singers, dancers, producers and directors, writers of screenplays and books, and famous actors and actresses of the day, including such legendary stars as Bette Davis, Cary Grant, Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh, and, of course, Ronald Reagan, whom this kingmaker would later help become president of the Screen Actors Guild. A dealer of unmatched stature, Wasserman alone was responsible for installing his candidate as the head of the Motion Picture Association of America.

  His influence extended well beyond the Sunset Strip into governors’ mansions, Senate chambers, international boardrooms, and the White House. He held sway over dozens of labor unions, and he became the cultural statesman for the entire entertainment industry. He and his wife, Edie, whom I met only once, brought glamour to Las Vegas by lending the city their stature and bringing along their friends. Maneuvering together, they helped shape the television industry into the business we know today.

  Additionally Wasserman found time to pioneer the blockbuster film, and with his golden touch was responsible in large part for the successes of Psycho, Jaws, and E.T. And, as noted, he also found time to charge me for the door my dog ate. I am grateful to be able to boast that many years down the road we became buddies of a sort when he inadvertently discovered, through an offhand remark I made, that I was interested in current affairs. After that I looked forward to his New York visits because I would be invited into his palatial office suite to discuss party politics. The Iran hostage crisis was in the headlines, and it amused me that Uncle Lew asked me what I thought President Carter should do. I knew he was toying with me, and I loved it. On a more serious level he encouraged me to become more involved in the Democratic Party, in which I was a card-carrying member and he an important fund-raiser. At that point I was a Broadway producer working under one of Uncle Lew’s corporate banners. But—back to beginnings!

  I didn’t mind the awful low-man-on-the-totem-pole job that MCA gave me: something called “floating secretary,” which paid $69.50 a week, even less than the starvation wages I’d received at temp jobs. At first it was not at all different from the temp jobs; Personnel had me replacing secretaries who were ill or on vacation.

  The upside was that I got to work for all the important agents in the organization: vice presidents like Sonny Werblin, who a few years later went on to buy the Titans, the team he renamed the Jets. I was now on my best behavior, for I was a permanent employee who I felt would soon be placed in an office that suited me. Part of that choice, I was encouraged to believe, would be mine, pending availabilities, of course. I read everything I was allowed to see, and at Mr. Werblin’s desk (though there only briefly). I started to learn what “tough” meant. Old Sonny didn’t mince words. “Shut the door, you idiot. I don’t want anyone to hear me,” he told one of the younger guys. I wanted to hear him.

  Some of the agents I temporarily worked for seemed overwhelmed, and some dazed and confused as they wandered around the halls seeking information, but not Sonny Werblin. I admired his take-no-prisoners approach: Deal with what you’re supposed to know, and take responsibility for it. After working for him, I looked for the tough guys. I asked for the difficult jobs on the music side, where the agents were frantic. I stayed late. I worked insanely hard, which attracted attention. I attracted attention. I knew how to subtly size up the powerful men. And they knew the look. Suddenly Sonny Werblin and Larry Rosenthal—the two top guys in New York—started to notice me, and the next thing I knew, Personnel was asking me what I wanted to do. When they ask you what you want to do at an agency, you say: “I want to be an agent”—unless you’re a complete dummy. And so I did. I became an agent-in-training.

  What that means is four things: You get a raise (totally modest), you get to sit inside your boss’s office and listen in on his calls on an extension (except when the calls are personal), you get to be the gatekeeper and custodian of the calendar (which starts to put you on the shit lists of people who can’t get in the door), and you get watched by those who make decisions—which is the only part that really matters. As far as I know, I was the only young woman accorded this privilege.

  My “takeaway” from my early days at MCA has also been true since the dark ages: Hard work matters. When I looked at a ton of papers that had been piling up, I didn’t wait to be asked, I made the pile go away. I didn’t ask if I could finish the long memo in the morning. I made sure it was on “his” desk by the time he came in even if it meant staying late. I was efficient, organized, and as mistake-proof as possible. I knew that if I did a good job, I would be rewarded, and I was, for when I was called in to my first closed-door meeting, it was to discuss what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The New Kids on the Block

  I had been an agent-in-training only a few months when something unexpected happened. MCA was brought up on antitrust charges in Washington, DC. The government accused the agency of taking commissions from performers more than once for the same job, and Lew Wasserman was forced to choose between staying in the agency business or holding on to his new acquisition, Universal Pictures. Mr. Wasserman, whom I remember back then only as the man in the midnight-blue suit whose forbidding presence silenced all elevator chatter, decided in his infinite wisdom to keep the more profitable Universal. The agency doors were closing immediately. In one day all the lovely accessories that graced the offices and corridors of MCA vanished. It happened so fast it was as if a magicia
n came through the halls and waved a wand that made things disappear. Neither a magician nor thieves in the night were responsible: It was the agents who ran through the halls grabbing everything that wasn’t nailed down. Expensive lamps, blotters, trash baskets, leather pencil boxes and desk sets, some of the horsey prints, and the extant office supplies all left through the front door. Just about everything, short of the wall paneling and the largest pieces of furniture, was carried off.

  A few days before MCA’s doors closed for good, Personnel sent me as a floater into a double-office suite shared by Freddie Fields and David Begelman. Of all the guys I’d worked for, these two were the hippest, the coolest, and the most exciting. Freddie was the nattily sport-coated wisecracker; David, the very model of sartorial elegance—turned out every day in one of the dozen or more that he owned of the same exact suit; blue shirt by day, white by night—was the brilliant raconteur. Both were in their late thirties; both were sharp-witted, smart, flamboyant hotshots. They could call Rock Hudson, Doris Day, Ronnie Reagan, and Marilyn Monroe and get their calls picked up, but they had not signed these West Coast clients. Freddie had brought Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis with him from his prior job, and they were his ticket of admission to MCA. He was the agent responsible for Phil Silvers, who was a big Broadway, Hollywood, and TV star at the time, and he was married to the singer-actress Polly Bergen, who was also in great demand.