Liza’s act was not unlike Judy’s in that both started with an overture. Of course all the songs in Judy’s overture were well known and closely identified with her. Some were songs that became famous because of her. Not so in Liza’s case.
At the end of Li’s overture—again, as in Judy’s show—there was a drumroll, following which a voice would boom out on mike from behind the curtain to announce the performer. I was standing backstage with an excited and nervous Liza, and I, too, was excited. When the overture was done, the drumroll started, right on cue, heightening the moment. Then the offstage announcement came from the wings opposite us: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Judy Garland!” The man on the mike had clearly been more nervous than we. What a horrible mistake! A great gasp rose up from the assembled biggies. I was speechless and had no idea what to do next. Not Liza. With consummate grace she took center stage and said, “That’s an act I could never follow!” Then she turned to her conductor, Jack French, and asked, “Can we please start all over again?” Jack raised his baton as Liza walked back into the wings, and the music that followed was drowned out by the applause.
Had the moment been staged, it could not have worked better. The star-studded audience gave her a standing ovation that wouldn’t quit. After the grace she had shown under fire, she could do no wrong. And she didn’t. She was wonderful not only on that night but on all the nights that followed. She was turning into more than a merely good singer; she was becoming a great showman. She not only had all the right moves, she had a beautiful slim figure with curves in all the right places that made her moves look like classy choreography.
*
The stars in my dreamed-of firmament of clients were all movie stars. I was obsessive about my career and oblivious to the world outside, a world filled with political upheaval. The Vietnam War was raging at the end of the sixties, and entertainers of all stripes were making their political points of view known. I did not hear them. I was wrapped in a cocoon where I could see nothing but my own activities and how they impacted upon my immediate world. I would never have dreamed of going to Woodstock or embracing its message. I didn’t understand what its message was. I mention it because my own limitations at the time strike me as ludicrous now. My interest was only in signing the young filmmaker Michael Wadleigh, who was undertaking the monumental task of documenting the rock festival at Max Yasgur’s six-hundred-acre dairy farm. The film, I thought, might make some money.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
What Is an Agent?
Not many people outside the entertainment industry or media really know what an agent is. I was one, and I can tell you: An agent is a fraud, but a fraud with good intentions. An agent is someone who believes his or her own bullshit and can convince others of its value. An agent is someone with a great gift of gab and the ability to sell with deep conviction, even if one doesn’t believe in the value. (But then one can convince oneself the sale is worthy.) An agent is someone who comes up with good ideas and allows her clients to believe the idea was their brainstorm. An agent is someone totally willing to sublimate herself to be the person the client wants her to be. Do you want me to be angry on your behalf? Here I am. Do you want me to be docile for you? Here I am. But regardless of what role-playing takes place, an agent must always maintain integrity and never lead a client knowingly in the wrong direction. An agent is a chameleon. I was one. By the midsixties I became a person who was agile on her feet, could see a strong wind coming, tack in a different direction, and maintain integrity throughout the process.
“The business belongs in the hands of the people who sign the clients.” Judy had left me with the feeling that if I survived her, there was nothing I couldn’t do. Freddie now left me with the understanding that signing my own clients is what I needed to do. In 1963 he’d moved his family to California, where the pickings were lush, and had opened an elegantly decorated office in very expensive real estate, Beverly Hills. Having made such a great success with Judy, he was quickly the new kid on the block, something Hollywood is perennially interested in, on his way to becoming the hottest agent in lotus land, with a reputation for signing the hottest clients. We were now a full-service agency with new call letters—CMA, short for Creative Management Associates (surely a twist on the old familiar MCA)—and he was primed to take over the greatest of all West Coast company towns.
I missed his voice in New York more than he ever knew. He had always been so good, so patient, explaining everything to me. He was a fine teacher. Now I only heard that voice occasionally on the telephone, but it was always with the same message: Sign clients, sign clients—it became my mantra. I had the chutzpah to believe that if I did it well, I would one day become his partner. It might take a few years.
*
In 1964, after four years with the agency, I was made a vice president. At CMA the title didn’t come with a raise, it came instead of one. But it brought with it a soupçon of prestige. And I was now the head of the theater department, which was nonexistent prior to my grand elevation. It was also a department that had no activity whatsoever. I was told to make it happen. I was supposed to invest myself fully in the workings of theater and find the clients who would support this unit. CMA did have one client, Henry Fonda, who was willing and eager to perform onstage. Every few years Hank was sent a play he wanted to do. He was an experienced professional. Told that I was the “go-to guy,” he called and told me the deal he wanted. No sweat. I then made the deal, and he went to work in a comedy called Generation that was directed by Gene Saks and ran for three hundred performances, or one season. He was wonderful, compelling on stage. During the run we became professional friends (as in “not at all close”) and every so often we met for supper in Sardi’s. That was big-time for me. He was always given one of the celebrity tables near the front, which helped secure a little recognition for me in theater. His lovely wife, Shirlee, was sweet and anxious to please; Hank was mostly silent and mysterious, not at all easy to get close to. I picked up the conversation and filled in the pregnant pauses. Hank picked up the checks.
When he gave me my promotion, Freddie told me the following: “The day you can walk into Sardi’s and have the occupants of at least fifteen tables talking about you will be the day you’ve arrived in theater.”
“What will they be saying?” I innocently asked.
“At one table they’ll be discussing your latest lover; at the second table they’ll be whispering that you’re a lesbian. At the third table they’ll be saying that you’ve had a child out of wedlock.” I got the message, but I didn’t have round heels. Hell—I wasn’t even ambidextrous.
*
And so I worked all day and pounded the pavements at night, always on the prowl for the next big someone. I was highly motivated to distinguish myself as head of a department in an agency that was fast assuming a large reputation. I signed the brilliant actor Stacy Keach and two actresses with talent and ambition who worked in both theater and film: Joan Hackett and Jill Haworth. Joan, who had been working steadily before meeting me, was at that moment more interested in film. Submitting her for good roles in movies put her into competition with many rising young stars, some of whom were immensely talented, and some who simply were rising off the casting couches in Hollywood. Joan was an actress with special qualities. I read every script my associates in California could get their hands on, knowing that if I could get her seen, or better yet get her screen tested, she would have a chance because of her wonderful voice and a certain quirkiness that separated her from the rest of the blond beauties. Joan and I became great pals. We spent wonderful times together socially as single gals running around New York, and in the process she introduced me to Robert Redford, who was then starring on Broadway in Barefoot in the Park. Everyone in the industry knew that he was the “next” leading man. He’d already done his interesting breakout films, scored in dramatic television, and was now a success on Broadway. Hollywood was beating a path to the door of this new golden boy. What a cou
p it would be to sign him! He was exactly what I needed for a big reputation.
*
I had to get on line with much bigger players like William Morris to grab Redford’s attention, but I had this huge inside advantage: Joan. She was a good friend of his, and he liked her. It was impossible not to; her energy and enthusiasm for life were infectious. She was always tooting my horn, and putting Bob and me together at dinner. I remember being invited to one at the home of the actor Richard Mulligan, who got so angry that I was pursuing Redford instead of him that he threw me out in the street in the middle of the meal. Bob followed me out to the car, trying to make me feel better.
In my effort to sign him, I chased Bob all over the United States and part of Europe as well, popping up at some location wherever he was. I was shameless. I never came on to him, nor he to me, adhering to one of Freddie’s ground rules, “Never fuck where you eat” (if only I had listened to him where Begelman was concerned). Bob and I had no interest like that in each other, but he liked being courted and he was a pretty good tease, always implying that someday things might just work out if things worked out. What the hell does that mean? He had more than a little mischief in him, but I was up for the challenge. But what could I do to sign Bob that would give me a better chance than the next guy? At that moment I could promise him nothing but my interest, which I said would be far greater than the next guy’s. I pitched the FF approach: “We are the Tiffany of talent agents. We only take the best, and we leave the rest. We are not interested in many clients, only a few wonderful ones.” And I made Bob understand I believed he was one of the few wonders in the world of showbiz worth having. I sold Freddie hard, since he was the new Hollywood whiz kid. That wasn’t lost on Bob, who had his ear to the ground. Lois Smith was also Bob’s press agent, and she had an insider’s view of FFA’s success. That helped. But I needed a big carrot to hold out to the boy wonder, and I had the good fortune to have it land in my lap in the not-too-distant future.
Like Judy, who was so much fun to talk to when she was in her best of all possible worlds, Bob was smart, witty, and political. I never felt as though I was wasting my time. I always learned something about the environment when we had serious conversations. We got along well. We laughed a lot together. With Joan’s blessing, I started inviting Bob to dinner without her whenever I found myself in the same town as him. (No one accidentally finds herself in Provo Canyon, where he lived, but I made it seem as though that was an entirely normal stop on the way to California.) Sometimes I felt like I was running in place, but I knew if I stopped running, someone else would be at the finish line. But let me come back to Redford the golden boy. In 1965 Bob wasn’t paying any part of my salary.
*
Meanwhile, I submitted Jill Haworth for the lead in Cabaret on Broadway, and she got the part and an equitable deal. She would have paid Hal Prince to play Sally Bowles. Remembered for her work in the successful film Exodus, Jill was beautiful, delicate, and had all the right vulnerability for the starring role. She was a delight to work with. Still, truth be told, her stage presence nowhere matched Liza’s. The defenselessness that Li projected on the stage came from a place one could understand only if one knew Judy. Really knew her. Nonetheless Cabaret was a success with Jill, and I was pleased for her because she worked so hard. It was another Hal Prince show, one he also directed. Hal was now Broadway’s most sought-after musical director, and he and I were cooking together. If he was doing a Broadway show, I always knew I’d get my clients seen and carefully regarded.
*
Some very funny/awful things—all theater related—happened to me, and I would feel as though I were cheating if I did not talk about them. First and foremost came my experience with Mary Martin. Without doubt, mighty Mary had been the toast of Broadway for a long, long time. One of her greatest gifts was that she didn’t age. In her sixties, she still looked like Peter Pan. Her name on the marquee didn’t guarantee praise from the critics, but it did guarantee an audience, except for the show that I was peripherally involved in for five horrendous minutes.
My misadventure involved Eddie Albert, a Freddie Fields client who lived on the West Coast. You may recall my having mentioned that Eddie was the one Frank Sinatra had pegged with the gibe “reliable.” And indeed Eddie was a workmanlike, dependable, featured actor who preferred to see himself as a leading man. He was the only one, however, who did. One generally found him playing featured roles on the TV playhouses of the day like The Alcoa Hour, The Philco Television Playhouse, and Studio One. The best role he ever had was as the photographer in Roman Holiday, in which he costarred with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck, and in which he had slightly more to do than come along for the ride.
Meanwhile, Mary Martin, who was not a client, was suffering in Boston in a turkey called Jennie. Richard Halliday, Mary’s husband, and the producer, believed the fault for the failure could not possibly be his wife’s. It must, therefore, be the fault of the leading man … an oft-heard excuse. Mr. Halliday discovered that CMA now represented Eddie, and he called me with an offer for Eddie to fly first class from Los Angeles to Boston by way of New York to see the show in the hope that Eddie would step in to replace Barry Nelson, who was ruining the show.
Eddie accepted the offer, flew first class, spent a night at the Regency, all at Halliday’s expense, and then went with me to Boston, where we decamped at the Ritz-Carlton—by no means a lucky hotel for me. Eddie didn’t like the show one bit and refused to go backstage after. “Don’t worry, Eddie, I promise I will get you out of this,” I pleaded. “But you simply cannot refuse to go backstage after these good people have laid out a lot of money for your trip!” I begged; I insisted. No go. Only the cliché fits here: My words fell on deaf ears. No way I could convince this not-so-great star of stage and screen to walk with me into the dressing room and be polite—or to be anything.
While Eddie could refuse to go backstage, I had no such choice. And when I told Mary Martin that Eddie was not going to appear, Richard Halliday took out a sharp knife and gutted me from head to toe. “How dare you show up here without your client?!” I apologized again and again. I told the Hallidays how hard I had tried to get Eddie to come with me while assiduously avoiding telling them how ghastly a show Eddie Albert thought he’d seen. But they knew. “And you presume to call yourself an agent? Get the hell out of here!”
I went out into the bitter-cold winter night. No cabs, no transportation of any kind, I walked back to the Ritz completely sobered by the near-zero temperature and what had just happened to me. Did I know what I was doing as an agent? I was shattered and felt I had deserved being cut into small pieces. Halliday was right. I should have been able to deliver Eddie. Back at the hotel, I salved my wounds, crawled under the covers, and let sleep take me.
The following morning I fastened down my manners, called Eddie and told him I was taking the 10:00 a.m. shuttle back to New York. He said he wanted to go with me. He asked me to pick him up in his room, and when I got there he asked me to help him with something he was having trouble with in the john. Stupid me! I walked in through the open door, and there lay Eddie soaking naked in the tub extending an invitation for me to join him. In answer to the question: Was there anything worse than being cut into small pieces by Mary Martin and her husband? Yes, definitely! Having to see this ugly jerk lying naked in a bathtub! Would that I could have put my high heel on his flabby chest and let the hot water run. Frank Sinatra got it all wrong. Eddie Albert was not only unreliable; he was a prick!
*
And then there was Al Pacino.…
*
It was David Begelman in New York who got the early scoop on Al Pacino’s brilliant performance in The Indian Wants the Bronx, an Israel Horovitz drama playing at a little off-Broadway theater way downtown. David suggested (more like demanded) that I sign him. By 1968 I had a wonderful associate named Sue Mengers, who had the balls of a blind burglar. Signing Al was going to be catnip for Susie and me. Together we were the slick
sisters. David knew he could count on us to “wrap Al up.” We went right down to the Astor Place Theater in SoHo, sat with Al after the performance, and told him how we would make him a star. Lines like “Al, you can do anything you want. You’re that good” or “Al, is there anything you can’t do?” always worked. An actor’s ego is generally way too large to be defined by a single adjective.
Although he said nothing, it was clear that Al shared our conviction about his talent. And we truly thought he was good. He was as convincing in that play as anyone I’d ever watched onstage. But while signing contracts with Al was easy, talking to him turned out to be hard.
He came to the office for the “official” first meeting, whose headline should read: What do you want to do with the rest of your life? Every client endures this boring welcome to an agency, and for this presentation to our newer, elegant Madison Avenue offices, Al dressed himself as a homeless dirty schlump. We discovered quickly that this was no costume. This was Al, and he may have been wearing the only clothes he owned.
But if he looked awful, he sounded worse. In the many years that have transpired since I first met him, I trust he’s developed more social skills. Way back then he was a grunter. “Unh,” was his first answer to most questions, and while onstage he projected so forcefully, now I had to lean over my desk to hear what he was saying. I finally got it clear, however, that he was interested in doing a musical. There is for sure a reason why his career has thrived without his ever having appeared on the musical stage. Here it is:
Hal Prince was casting Zorba, a musical about the friendship between a Greek man and a young American. Given the play takes place in a Greek village, Sue and I thought there might be something in it for Al. He was, after all, dark and swarthy; he could as easily pass for Greek as Italian. Using my good professional relationship with Hal Prince to set up an audition for Al with a creative team that included Fred Ebb and John Kander, I advised Al that he should come to the theater prepared to sing.
Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me... Page 15
