Candid Camera
In the sixties I was hired by Allen Funt to be a writer and director for Candid Camera. I’m still not sure exactly why he hired me. I know he had liked me in a Broadway show he had seen, but I had played a nerdy Wharton Business School graduate, nothing that would suggest I’d be good for Candid Camera.
A young agent, Owen Laster, who went on to become a major literary agent, set up a meeting with Mr. Funt. I don’t remember anything that transpired at the meeting. All I know is I was hired and given my own film unit.
There was a slight hitch, though. I had been asked to go to Hollywood to be on a soap opera, The Young Marrieds. I had no interest in doing that, having worked for a short time in New York on a soap opera called Love of Life, which was the most difficult thing I’d ever done. It really was a challenge to memorize so many lines each day. I felt if I read the teleprompter it would look like I was reading a teleprompter—not exactly a good career move. I couldn’t get anywhere near the level of acting I was capable of, because there simply wasn’t enough time to be confident enough with the lines, so it would be next to impossible to embody the character. I don’t watch soaps or much of anything on television besides news and sports, but I’m sure there are some actors and actresses on soap operas who, after playing their character for years, do it a lot better than I did.
I accepted the job on The Young Marrieds because I had a six-year-old daughter and bills to pay. I said I’d only do it for six months and was surprised when they accepted that. It was there I met Ted Knight, who later played Ted Baxter on The Mary Tyler Moore Show.
Ted played my boss on The Young Marrieds, and it was almost impossible for us to act the soap opera story together as it was a variation of the same scene over and over, which reduced us both to helpless laughter throughout rehearsal, much to the chagrin of the people in charge. I loved Ted. Once I was driving down a steep hill in Los Angeles with him and the car’s brakes failed. In order not to go over a cliff, I crashed the car into a brick wall of a garage. Amazingly, neither one of us was hurt. Ted passed away years later after refusing chemotherapy for what I assume was incurable cancer.
It was at his house at a gathering after he passed that I met Dabney Coleman. Dabney and I are close to this day, decades later. I wish I could have spent time with Dabney and Ted together, if even for one night. Sadly, it never happened.
After my six months were up, I headed back to New York and Candid Camera and immediately ran into an unforeseen obstacle in the person of an executive who worked under Allen who seemed to openly resent that I had been hired without her knowledge.
She met with me alone in an office and wanted to hear my ideas. I’d had six months to think about it, so I had about twenty-five I presented to her. She responded to each with variations of, “I don’t like it. That won’t work. We’ve done something like that. No. No. No,” and more noes. Then she sat back in her chair and looked at me, I guess to see if I would just leave the building. She obviously had no idea she was dealing with a thirty-one-year-old who had overcome being impeached at ten.
I said, “I know I can be wrong, but I don’t believe I can be wrong twenty-five times in a row.” It was decided we should go see Allen Funt, after she had expressed her feelings about me to him. Allen had just emerged from a Jacuzzi or a sauna, and he was sitting on a table wrapped in a towel. He asked me what I thought was my best idea. I told him, and he told me to do it.
The idea was that I was a young aspiring singer from Pittsburgh, and my uncle, played by the late Joey Faye of vaudeville fame, would tell a professional singing coach that he promised his late sister, my mother, that he would back me in a singing career, but he wanted a professional’s judgment of my potential.
We paid a coach for the use of his studio, and the coach called about six other coaches, telling them he had to be out of town and asking if they could come over to hear this young man and give their judgment. I believe we paid each one twenty dollars. Again, this was the 1960s. We scheduled them about an hour apart so they wouldn’t run into each other.
The studio was rigged with hidden cameras and mikes. The piano player, of course, was with us, and I burst into a completely sincere but way less than mediocre version of a somewhat operatic piece called “Be My Love,” made famous by Mario Lanza.
All day long the coaches were stunned, surreptitiously glancing at the piano player and Joey Faye, both of whom acted as though something reasonably acceptable was coming out of me.
A middle-aged heavyset male coach just stared at me as I sang, stunned. When I finished, I said, “I did this song for a group of Shriners in Pittsburgh and got a standing ovation! Of course, I didn’t do it as well as I just did it now.” The coach said, “I wonder what the hell that sounded like?”
One woman coach said to me indignantly, “I manage a baritone whom the New York Timeshas called one of the ten finest singers in this country, and this man cannot make a living!” I looked at her a moment and asked, “Does he have my range?”
Their outrage was hilarious. I went back to my office feeling great. The phone rang, and it was my agent. He said, “Congratulations!” I thought, “Wow, good news travels fast,” but I soon realized he was being facetious. He then said, “You’re fired.” “I’m fired?” He said, “You set a record. Candid Camera is knownfor firing people, but nobody ever got fired on the first day.”
Evidently, a couple of coaches had already threatened lawsuits, and Allen Funt was very upset with me. I went to see him and asked him to look at the footage to see how funny it was, even though we couldn’t show the segment. He did and rehired me.
I did some good work after that. Once we took over a sightseeing bus in New York, and Joey Faye described the sights of what we called the Garage and Warehouse Tour. The bus drove up and down streets filled only with garages and warehouses, and Joey would say things like, “Trucks come here every day and load up with supplies that are taken to stores around the city.” The camera was on the passengers, who were growing more and more agitated. Suddenly, an English fellow called out, “Where’s the Empire State Building?! Where’s the U.N.?” and Joey said, “The Garage and Warehouse Tour is our most popular tour.”
Another time we took over a New York restaurant called Voisin. Every time someone would take a sip of water, I would rush over and fill their glass. If there were any crumbs on the table, I would swoop in and sweep them off. Then I’d go back and listen with my headset to their comments, which began with, “Boy, they have some service here,” and then changed to, “This is starting to get on my nerves.” Ironically, when we announced we were from Candid Camera, no one would sign a release, because at every table we had miked, people were with someone they weren’t supposed to be with.
After a short time Allen asked me to go out to Kennedy Airport and put up a fake men’s room door. I told him I didn’t think it would lead to comedy when people came off a plane wanting to use a bathroom and then couldn’t. That shoot was a disaster, and I was notified at the airport that a call had come in from the Candid Camera office saying I was fired again. I chose not to go see Allen and remind him I had been against the idea in the first place.
Years later, after I had directed an Emmy-winning television special, my agent got a call from Candid Camera asking if I’d be interested in directing a special they were doing, but I declined. The lesson was, don’t ever accept a job from someone who has already fired you twice.
Endings
The first Broadway show I acted in was a standing room only hit in the early ’60s called Tchin-Tchin. It starred Anthony Quinn and the great English actress Margaret Leighton. I played the supporting part of Margaret Leighton’s son. The play had only three speaking roles.
I got excellent reviews but wasn’t offered another Broadway show for about two years. Part of the reason was that I played an unusual character—a mama’s boy—and I evidently did it well enough that people thought I was a mama’s-boy type. My take-home pay in the play was $
107 a week. I had a wife and baby, and since the play was such a big hit and I had gotten rave reviews, I asked the production supervisor if he would ask the general manager if I might have a slight raise.
When I didn’t hear anything for about a month I assumed the answer was no, but the production supervisor said, “He didn’t say no.” I said, “Really?” He said, “He didn’t say no. He just laughed.”
Years later, when I became known and the general manager became a producer, he sent me a play to be in. I chose not to read it. What goes around does come around.
Something really unexpected happened after the opening night performance of Tchin-Tchin. I was with Julie and two of our closest friends, a couple we had met in acting class. The woman said to me at one point, “You’ve been talking about yourself for twenty minutes.” It was opening night of my first Broadway show, and talking about it for twenty minutes in my mind doesn’t exactly qualify as a federal offense.
My friendship with that woman came to a mutual end that evening. It later ended with my male friend as well when they got married. I believe if I hadn’t made it to Broadway, as they hadn’t, we’d still be friends.
In the second Broadway show I did, I became close friends with another actor, who was considerably older than I was. That friendship came to an end when he saw an ad for The Heartbreak Kid in the paper. I had chosen to not even mention to him that I had starred in a movie, properly guessing it would end that friendship.
Something very uncharacteristic of me happened when I was a commentator for 60 Minutes II. At the end of my first year, I told the head man, Jeff Fager, who now runs 60 Minutes, that I wanted to replace my producer. I also said I would only do this if he could be sure she would be placed elsewhere at CBS. He said that could be done and then asked me why I wanted to replace the woman he had suggested to me. I said I wanted a producer who wasn’t also a second editor.
Jeff, as well as being a terrific guy, is also obviously an excellent editor and an all-around brilliant producer who’s on fire with his work. He’s won more awards than I can count. Once Jeff signs off on a piece, you don’t want further editorial notes. No one should have more than one editor.
I remember more than a few times after Jeff had signed off on a piece, my producer continued to give me further editorial notes, even after I asked her not to. I said, “You expect me to go back to Jeff? Thanks, but no thanks.” Producing is a full-time job, and one she did very well, and that’s what I needed.
Two other events caused me to want to make a change. Once I brought in my résumé for her to read so she could see I wasn’t exactly someone who’d gone from being a movie actor to a commentator on 60 Minutes II. It listed five years at CNBC and MSNBC doing commentary, not to mention producing and directing television specials that either won an Emmy or were nominated. I’d been deeply involved with those scripts and in charge of the editing after the filming was completed. When we completed Heaven Can Wait, Warren Beatty asked me to be involved with the editing. (I didn’t put that on the résumé. It wouldn’t have mattered to her anyway.)
I’d also written movies, produced, written, and directed plays in New York, and written several books, not to mention writing pieces for the New York Times and several magazines. I had produced and directed a Simon and Garfunkel special for CBS when she was working there as a receptionist. As she looked at my résumé, she openly rolled her eyes, making no effort to conceal her disdain. Not a good idea.
The clincher came when I asked her to show Jeff a piece I had done without a special effect and asked her to ask him if he felt we needed it. Jeff called and asked if I felt we needed the special effect. I asked, “How was it shown to you?” He said, “With the special effect.” Neither he nor I felt we needed it, but the producer went against what I thought was my clear request and showed it to Jeff that way because she wanted it. That sealed it for me. She is a very nice woman, but she was way out of line. I believe she could read this now and still not get it.
The second year, Jeff suggested a nice young fella he had worked with to be my producer, and the exact same thing happened, with continued editorial suggestions after Jeff had signed off on a piece. At one point, this young man said to me, “I feel as though you’re standing on my neck.” Even though I told him several times, he just couldn’t grasp that once Jeff signed off on these two-minute pieces, that was sufficient for me.
If you’re the on-camera person, it’s just not in your interest to know your producers would like you to use their words, not yours. Not to be overly redundant, but it’s a distraction.
I went to this fella’s wedding, and when he introduced me to his mother I have never been greeted more coldly, a perfect example of someone acting on hearing one side of a story. Of course, it was understandable. It is so difficult for a parent to be cordial to someone who has caused their kid upset, no matter what the bigger picture might clarify.
By the start of my third season, Jeff and I agreed that the young woman who had been more than capably serving as my associate producer would be perfect as my producer. She was content with producing and didn’t editorialize after the pieces were okayed by Jeff, and she was perfect.
But then came a week when Jeff chose not to run my piece, and I resigned, just as many a newspaper columnist has after similar circumstances. My rationale was if there was an option of my piece not running, it could happen on any given week.
I could have lived with that as well, but these commentaries were all I was doing, because my contract called for total exclusivity—meaning I couldn’t do movies, which I was being asked to do, or commentary elsewhere, which I was asked to do on what was then called Court TV. Henry Schleiff, then head of Court TV, made the point to Jeff that I had a substantial cable following that would help build a following on 60 Minutes II, but Jeff wasn’t buying that argument.
Looking back, I think I made a mistake in at least not giving the broadcast notice instead of leaving immediately, as the then head of CBS News, Andrew Hayward, a very good man, asked of me. I should have realized that when a columnist for a newspaper resigns, there are other columnists there. Of course, I was the only commentator on 60 Minutes II. I was and am so fond of Jeff Fager, I now feel I owed him that. All these years later we remain friends and talk on the phone from time to time, which I so enjoy.
Oddly enough, the experience at 60 Minutes II that really sticks in my mind didn’t involve Jeff or my two producers.
Once when I was working with an editor on one of my pieces, I gave him some notes that would take ten minutes or so to execute, so I walked out of the small editing room to go back to my office, which was at the end of a long hall and around a corner. As I stepped right outside of the editing room, I saw for the first time a large lounge area with lots of windows and TVs. No one was there, so I walked in, sat down, and turned on the news.
In a few minutes, a man appeared and sat across the room. After a moment, he said to me, “Doesn’t your office have a window?” I said, “No. Actually my office doesn’t have a window.” He said, “This is the editors’ lounge.” I said, “Oh, okay,” got up, and as I left saw a sign that read EDITORS’ LOUNGE. Oddly, there were no correspondents’ or commentators’ lounges. I went to my windowless office and knew I had a story worth telling.
I can’t even imagine what Andy Rooney would have said if an editor said that to him, but on the other hand no editor or anyone anywhere would ever say something like that to Andy.
All in all, the 60 Minutes II experience was wonderful, and I’ll always be grateful to Jeff Fager for giving me the opportunity.
When I left the broadcast, I sent an e-mail to everyone saying how much I would miss them—even the editor who wouldn’t let me sit in the editors’ lounge.
Special Agents
In my second Broadway show I again played an unusual character, the nerdy Wharton Business School graduate with glasses and bad posture, and the same thing happened as in my first Broadway play. People assumed that was what I
was like.
Joe Schoenfeld, who was cohead of the William Morris Agency’s movie department, came backstage to say hello to me after the show, and when I opened the dressing room door, he saw someone without the glasses and the bad posture and said, “I’m looking for Charles Grodin.” That moment began an important relationship with Joe, who I believe was about thirty years older than I was. He became a real promoter of mine.
My biggest promoter was Harry Ufland, who had asked Joe to go backstage to meet me. From the time Harry became my agent in the early sixties, he never stopped telling everyone, “Charles Grodin is as good as it gets no matter what he does.” Harry’s in my will.
Joe Schoenfeld was second only to Harry. I once went to his office to ask if he had any advice for me. I was a guest star on television shows about a half-dozen times a year, which grossed me six thousand dollars—a thousand a show. This was 1966.
Even though I was considered a successful and highly regarded young actor, I had gone from making $7,000 a year on Broadway in 1962 to $6,000 a year on television in 1967. (A lot of big movie stars of the forties and fifties died broke.) Again, I had a wife and child. I asked Joe if he had any thoughts. As he pondered my question, his phone rang. A picture shooting in Yugoslavia called Castle Keep with Burt Lancaster and others was having some problems. Joe represented a number of the principals involved. Millions of dollars were at stake.
After the call, I said to Joe, “I see you have much bigger issues to deal with. I’ll come by on another day.” He said, “Not at all, Chuck, this happens all the time. Please go on.”
How I Got to Be Whoever It Is I Am Page 7
