Larry Hagman - Hello Darlin'

by LARRY HAGMAN

  Rather than lightly shake her hand, the equivalent of an air kiss, I ran my tongue from her wrist to her elbow, an impulsive, immature piece of behavior that to this day I can’t explain. But I did it and afterward I waited for something horrible to happen. I vaguely recall her laughing tensely and then I got the hell out of there.

  I’m sure she asked the producers who I thought I was. I’m sure they had no idea what to tell her. Fortunately, she didn’t have me fired.

  She was a sexy and charming woman. As we taped, she was friendly and gracious. I would wait for my cue and each day, as I walked from our place in Kensington to the rehearsal hall in Soho, I’d think, I’m out of my league. What am I doing here? I was so uptight about working with her that I lost a pound a day during the shoot.

  Once the taping ended, I needed time to recover. I took Maj and the kids to Wales. We stayed in an old Norman castle that was in ruins except for a modern little cottage in the center. Ravens perched on top of the stone walls, watching every move we made, which terrified and delighted the children. One day, I got a call from Ben Washer, my mother’s secretary and confidant. He told us that Richard had died. I paused for a moment, then turned and told Maj and the kids the news. I felt sorry for Mother and sent my regrets, simple and sincere.

  Next, Claudio Guzmán invited me to do a movie with him in Chile, his homeland. His enthusiasm alone appealed to my readiness for adventure. Claudio said Antonio was a comedy, but the real fun would be staying at his parents’ house. It sounded wonderful. There was a downside, though. He couldn’t afford to pay me much, if any, money. I laid out the offer to Maj, who insisted that I get at least $10,000.

  “You know Claudio’s doing it on a shoestring,” I said.

  “I know,” she said. “But we need to live too. Ten thousand dollars.”

  After that was straightened out, we went down to Chile. My daughter, Heidi, spoke some Spanish and got us around pretty well for an eighth-grader. The movie was cute. Claudio had created it around Trini Lopez, who was a fellow graduate of Weatherford High School. We got along well and had fun, though all through the shoot there was tension in the country that made us uneasy.

  We didn’t know what was going on at the start. Nothing worked the way it was supposed to. Deliveries were late if they happened at all. Telephones were unreliable. Locations weren’t blocked out the way we’d contracted. Equipment didn’t arrive. There was no hot water in the hotel. It was little everyday stuff that didn’t work, and I kept wondering why.

  The country ran on bribery. Everyone was on the take. Which is fine with me if that’s what keeps things running smoothly. Hell, it works in cities like New York and New Orleans. Eventually I found out from some of the local crew that the people smelled revolution in the air, and they were afraid to take the normal bribes for fear of recrimination by the new regime. So the whole system stopped.

  Not everything stopped. We took a train down to the southern tip of Chile. During the trip, Preston suddenly got my attention.

  “Dad, the locomotive has left us!”

  I looked out the window and sure enough, the engine was nowhere to be seen and our car was slowly rolling backward. Preston and I rushed to the rear of the car, found a huge wheel, and figured it was the brake. We kept turning it until we came to a shuddering stop. Awhile later, the locomotive returned, hooked up, and we continued on the journey. There was never an explanation, and needless to say, Maj and I didn’t sleep that night.

  Once we arrived, we loved it down there. The food was delicious, the music was great, and the air was intoxicating. It was like California, only upside down: the north was hot and the south was cool. After shooting finished, we ventured into the mountains and found a couple of hot springs that were in our book on thermal hot springs worldwide. The hotel we found there was first class. The owner was a ham radio operator and had a shortwave radio set up in one of the rooms. I think this somehow attracted some of Allende’s soldiers. As we watched them tromp through the hotel with their machine guns ready, our family vacation suddenly felt a little dicey. We went back to Santiago and flew home. Two months later, Allende was overthrown, and perhaps murdered, which changed the fate of Chile forever.

  * * *

  My name must’ve had some value, because my agent got me into Here We Go Again, a new sitcom about a newly married couple who move into a home near their ex-spouses. I liked the premise. It seemed as if there would be endless possibilities. The cast included pros like Dick Gautier, Diane Baker, and Nita Talbot. I thought it was going to run forever, but for a series to be a hit so many ingredients need to come together perfectly, and this didn’t have it.

  The cast would read through a script, give their input, agree on changes with the writers and director, and then the producer would arbitrarily ignore those fixes. On the second show, I came onto the set looking for pajamas I was supposed to wear for the scene I’d just prepared for. I asked the costume man where they were. He told me that the producer had cut the gag.

  “Without telling me?” I asked.

  “He said he didn’t want you to wear pajamas.”

  I was not used to being cut out of creative decisions. I expected to be involved with the writing and directing. But the producer wasn’t a team player. He didn’t feel he had to consult with anyone about the changes. Neither did he feel like he had to be courteous or sensitive to the actors. In rehearsals he’d whisper comments or shake his head and mutter, “Jesus Christ.”

  “Look,” I said during a run-through, “I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Okay,” the producer said. “I don’t like what you’re doing.”

  “If you don’t like something, make a suggestion. But don’t demoralize the actors.”

  Finally I barred him from the set. I told him he could criticize as much as he liked but he had to do it out of our sight. He argued that I couldn’t do that to the producer. I said fine, then I wouldn’t work whenever he was present. The other actors supported me, and we had ourselves a regular palace revolution.

  Unfortunately, the tension between the production team, the writing team, and the acting team never improved. After thirteen episodes, the network put the series out of its misery. It was the only show I’ve ever been happy to see end.

  The next project I did was Sidekicks, a made-for-television Western costarring Lou Gossett Jr., Blythe Danner, and Jack Elam, one of the best character actors in the business. I got to be real good friends with Jack. Playing scenes with him was a joy until you went to dailies. Jack would be standing behind me during scenes and then I’d notice nobody was listening to my lines. They were all looking at Jack. It wasn’t his fault—it’s just that he had one wandering eye. You never knew which way he was looking.

  That was a lesson to be learned: never let Jack stand behind you. There was a second lesson too: never play poker with him. We played liar’s poker with dollar bills every day. I got thirty bucks per diem, and our poker playing got to the point where I just handed Jack my thirty as soon as I saw him. He was going to win it anyway. But he hated that.

  “Don’t do that, kid,” he said. “Lets have a good game.That’s half the fun.”

  “Half the fun for you,” I said. “I know I’m not going to win, and I cant take the ignominy of losing to you every time.”

  I wasnt kidding. But Jack told me not to feel bad.

  “Everybody loses to me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was 1974, and I’d finished a couple of made-for-TV movies when my agent called and said, “Larry, what are you doing?”

  I had a feeling he never knew what was going on in my career. But he put me into Stardust, a feature film that chronicled the rise and fall of a sixties rock band called the Stray Cats. The starring role was being played by real-life British rocker David Essex, and Adam Faith, another musician and a terrific natural actor, had a supporting role. It was shooting in London. Martin Balsam was supposed to have had my part, but when a conflict forced him to bow out at the las
t moment my agent sent me the script and asked if I could get there within the week.

  Originally the part was that of a Harvard mobster, a guy with a Boston accent. On the way to England, I worked on the character and developed a combination Boston-Italian accent, which was a stretch for me. The day I arrived I met director Michael Apted and the writer at an Italian restaurant in Soho. I wore a pinstriped suit and gave them my whole act, including the thick accent. When I finished, Michael quietly asked where I was from. I said Weatherford, Texas. He politely asked if it would be possible for me to play the part with a Texas accent. I lit up and in a thick Texas accent said that was a great idea.

  “What name should we give you?” Michael wondered.

  The name Porter jumped out first. Porter was the middle name of my dad’s fishing buddy James Porter McFarland. I needed a last name. I thought of the capital of Texas. Austin. Michael liked it, but he said that he wanted the character to have one of those two-name names.

  “Porter Lee Austin,” I blurted, thinking of Lee Marvin.

  Michael approved and we got along swimmingly from then on. Michael’s one of the best directors I’Ve ever worked with, and I’ve been blessed with more than a few. The movie was complicated because it was really about drug addiction and how young rock groups were taken advantage of by their managers and the record industry and discarded when they were of no more use, and Michael had a complete and clear vision from the get-go.

  Of course, it didn’t hurt to have David Puttnam as a producer. Puttnam was an absolutely brilliant producer.

  My character, as I look back on him, was an early version of J. R. Ewing, a fast-talking businessman who was going to fleece the Stray Cats and love every minute of it.

  Keith Moon, the drummer for the legendary rock band the Who, was in the movie. He loved I Dream of Jeannie. He was a huge fan, and we became instant friends one bitterly chilly day when we sat together in his Rolls-Royce, drinking champagne, while shooting at Gatwick Airport. From then on that became our routine during production, drinking and bullshitting. He was a sweet guy who had a gift for impersonations. He was hysterically funny. He felt a kinship to me because his girlfriend was Swedish and so was Maj.

  After Stardust we went our separate ways, me back to Malibu and Keith back to the madness of rock stardom. But he promised to stay in touch.

  Everyone says that, and I didn’t hear from him for a long time. Then one Saturday I was upstairs in bed studying lines for a movie. It was a gorgeous day. The sun was shining through the window. I was stark naked. Suddenly, from downstairs, I heard Maj yell, “Larry! Larry!” in the tone of voice I knew from experience was trouble.

  I dashed down the circular staircase, and at the bottom stood a Nazi SS officer.

  “Yes, can I help you?” I said in a most polite voice, as if Nazi officers came around regularly.

  “It’s me, Keith,” he said. “Keith Moon. Your buddy. Your mate.”

  I didn’t recognize him in the uniform. Who would? Maj didn’t place him at first either. Who knows why Keith was in that uniform? He never offered an explanation. Keith had bought a house in Malibu, and he wanted us to see it. He had a white stretch limo waiting in the street.

  On the way over to his new home, we passed a house whose garage was open and we saw a kid playing the drums. Keith told the driver to stop. He jumped out, moved the kid over, performed a ten-minute riff that blew our minds, especially the kid’s. Then he handed the drumsticks back, said, “Thank you, mate,” and we took off. I could imagine that kid trying to convince his friends that Keith Moon had dropped by and played his drums.

  Cut to my house a few months later. It was morning, and I got a call from Keith’s girlfriend. Her voice had an alarmed tone. She said Mr. Moon—she always called him Mr. Moon—was having a terrible fit and she wondered if I could hurry over. I pulled on my Levi’s and a sweatshirt, then sped to his house.

  Keith had moved from Malibu to a smaller rental house in the hills above the San Fernando Valley. I walked in and saw it was a disaster. There were holes in the doors, the mirrors in the living room were broken, and everything was covered with shit. Keith was lying in the middle, facedown.

  Slowly, he looked up at me.

  “Hello, mate,” he said. “Good to see you, Larry. What brings you?”

  I’d heard that he was having a little trouble. With a slight, somewhat comical nod of his head, he acknowledged the mess—the overturned furniture, the broken glass, everything. He propped himself up on an elbow, surveyed the damage, and explained what’d happened. His dog, an enormous Great Dane puppy, had rooted into his stash of black beauties and lapped up God knows how many. At least it had been enough for him to have had a shit fit all over the house.

  After a night of clubbing, Keith had walked in and caught the dog in the middle of the rampage. As Keith explained it to me, he’d thought the dog was having too much fun by himself and joined in, trashing whatever had been overlooked.

  “What do you think, Keith?” I said. “Shall we go to Saint Johns Hospital? My sister-in-law works there. They also have a great detox facility.”

  “Yeah? Sounds like a great idea.”

  I went back home and cleaned up and then came back and got him. He was very calm. He’d done this before. On the way to the hospital, we took his dog, now more or less comatose, to the veterinarian so he could detox too. Then we got to Saint John’s. Before Keith was allowed into detox, he had to be checked out by an internist. The doctor, a young man, was in awe of Keith the rock star, but he was more amazed when Keith described his daily regimen.

  “I always wake up around six o’clock and I have some eggs, bangers, and mash,” he said. “And I have, um, a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a half a bottle of Courvoisier, and then I take a couple of downers because I take my nap at ten until about six.”

  “Uh-ah,” the doctor responded and nodded, wide-eyed.

  “Then I get up and have another half a bottle of Courvoisier, finish off the Dom Pérignon if there’s any left, drop some black beauties, and then we go out on the town. Usually we go out to dinner, then we go to a couple of the clubs. I’ll drop a few more black beauties and drink some more Courvoisier and, uh, then get in around, say, two or three o’clock in the morning, sleep till six, and start all over again.”

  Keith described this as if it were a rather well-balanced day. By the time he finished, the doctor had put down his notes and was just listening. He’d never heard anyone describe a routine like Keith’s. Few people who had such daily habits live long enough to describe them.

  Next, the doctor checked Keith’s heart and blood pressure. Afterward he looked stunned.

  “Everything seems to be fine,” he said.

  Having passed the tests, Keith was allowed to enter the detox ward. He said good-bye as if going on vacation. While I waited for some of his paperwork to go through, I asked the doc to check me out too. As long as I was there, I said, “Why not give me a little exam? Listen to my heart, look at my blood pressure.”

  After he completed the checkup, the doc asked if I had a private physician.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You better go see him. Your blood pressure’s out of sight.”

  Both Keith and I pulled through. But on September 7, 1978, Keith’s lifestyle caught up with him when he died of too much … hard living. I still had another seventeen years before my bad habits nearly did me in too.

  * * *

  There was no shortage of characters with colorful stories to tell, and many of them got told in our hot tub. I found that people always talk more freely and openly when they strip off their clothes and relax in the water. Roger Vadim, the filmmaker who’d married Jane Fonda and lived down the beach from us, was one of those people. One day, as the two of us soaked prior to his and Jane’s divorce, he confided, “My greatest mistake in our marriage was to teach Jane how to read a newspaper.”

  Roger told numerous stories about his love affairs with Catherine Deneuve, Brigitte
Bardot, and Jane, and his worldly travels, but the one story he told that’s stuck over the years was how he lost his virginity. He was in his mid-teens when his parents sent him to stay with relatives in the country to spare him from the bombing they believed was headed toward Paris.

  One night his cousin, a beautiful girl—as is always the case in stories told by the French—invited him into her bedroom. As he climaxed, Roger heard explosions, a constant stream of them. The walls shook, the ground quaked, and the nighttime sky seemed to be on fire.

  “It was my first orgasm, and I’ve had one like that since,” he said.

  Of course, it was D-Day, the invasion of Normandy.

  During this time, we arranged for Burgess Meredith to buy the house next door to ours on the beach. He got a very good deal, and to celebrate his moving in, Maj built him a Jacuzzi. Sometimes he was a great neighbor, sometimes he was a pain in the ass. It depended on his mood. But we loved him anyhow—and there were some big any-hows. A few years later, we remodeled our house in a Santa Fe style, but when we finished Burgess claimed that we’d built two inches above the roof line and sued us for blocking out his sun.

  I remember telling my friend Bob Wynn that Burgess was suing me. He said, “Larry, I have a prayer session every Thursday night. About twenty-five of us get together and read the Bible. If you’re having trouble with Burgess, we’ll just pray that old fucker dead.”

  I saw no need to go to that extreme. But I spent a considerable amount of money fighting the suit and eventually I won it. By then Burgess (who’d played the Penguin on the hit TV series Batman) and I no longer spoke to each other. The next time he gave a big party, of course I was not invited, but I thought it was a good opportunity to get his goat for all the trouble the lawsuit caused.