Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives

by Penghlis, Thaao

  Most churches in Havana are Roman Catholic, filled with statues of martyrs casting sadness rather than offering revelation. I was fascinated mostly by the Santería religion whose roots stemmed from Nigeria and were transported to the Caribbean by the Lucumi people in the late 18th century. I had also heard that the ancient priests of Egypt used the power of these rituals for imparting knowledge to the Pharaohs.

  The day I received the message from Ken I had a session with a Babalao, a priest of the Santería religion based on the worship of nature. I had been transported by car to the outskirts of Havana where the police, secret or in uniform, were always visible, sometimes stopping or following us by car. I was on another adventure in unknown territory and was looking forward to this new experience.

  In a private backyard surrounded by an abundance of plants, all sacred to the rituals, I was stripped and cleansed with herbs in front of a “shrine of worship” filled with deities. This was a sacred space where the initiate is “born again.” I became instantly aroused simply standing there in front of these sacred icons. I was embarrassed. But the Babalao shrugged it off. “It’s about power,” he said, putting up his fist, “your power.”

  A chicken was sacrificed as part of the closing ceremony. It screeched loudly in disapproval and was rubbed all over my body. And then silence. I had to face away from the deities when the animal made its transition.

  At the last stage of the ceremony I was instructed to turn around as the priest dropped three open coconuts at my feet. How the coconuts fell would reveal the final outcome of this secret ceremony. All three turned up white and were touching one another.

  The priest smiled and said, “It is a good omen when the spirits have sent you kisses.”

  With penetrating eyes he quietly told me that he had removed a knife from my back, placed there by a dark spirit. “That’s why the chicken was sacrificed. It absorbed the negative energy from you and died. It’s what you have been carrying for at least a year.”

  My mind rattled. Who placed this “knife”? Something did seem amiss that morning. And I was cloaked in a feeling that a confrontation was imminent. The imagery didn’t help. Perhaps that’s why I had been drawn to the Santería and not Catholicism for answers. It was a different solution. One that gave me guidance from outside sources, while the other gives guidance from within.

  The High Priestess of Havana. (Author’s Collection)

  After this intense day I needed to return to the hotel and call my home in Los Angeles. Our cell phones weren’t functional in Cuba. I arrived at the hotel two hours later, having enjoyed the wonderful but deteriorating architecture along the way. I loved watching that decadence of fallen beauty, manifested by Cuba’s history of struggle. I began thinking about my experience of being cleansed when the euphoria set in.

  The message from Ken Corday back in Los Angeles instantly killed the euphoria. I needed to call “right away” and that could only mean one thing: another tragic death for my character Tony DiMera on Days of our Lives.

  As I waited on the phone I filled with dread. Producers rarely call to give you good news. The silence was broken when Ken came to the phone. My intuition was correct.

  “We have decided to kill the character off again as this team of writers and producer are going in a different direction. You have sixteen more episodes and I’m sorry.”

  In other words, the death of my character was a sorry plot twist for someone in that group who was not feeling inspired. I knew it was the new executive producer who came to the show a few months back. I was reminded of the time I was in the hall at NBC talking to the stage manager when an unfamiliar man walked down the hall toward me. I thought, If this is an actor he should play Iago—a character in Othello who just oozed a mastery of sinister deception.

  He reached out his hand and introduced himself. “Hello, Thaao, I’m your new executive producer.” We both smiled, but from his tone and manner I knew at that moment I was dead. My instincts were right.

  It had not been a great time on the set recently as many of the actors and crew were experiencing cuts in their salaries, and the exits were rampant.

  “There will be at least six actors killed off in the next few months” was the word in the shadowed halls.

  The workload was becoming intense as well—two or three shows shot a day was the norm. The pressure was exhausting and everyone wondered who was leaving next.

  The atmosphere was tense. But everyone remained on their toes and our work was diligent. Sadly, it was no longer the joyous place I had remembered for so many years, driving through those gates in Burbank when the studio was at its peak.

  I first came to the attention of Days of Our Lives producers after a successful run on General Hospital. My General Hospital character was Victor Cassadine. I was hired by Gloria Monty to be part of the aristocratic and entertaining Cassadine dynasty, along with John Colicos and Andre Landzaat. General Hospital was experiencing unprecedented daytime success and the Luke/Laura/Cassadine storyline made soap opera history. “Luke and Laura” were on the cover of Newsweek magazine, christening General Hospital “TV’s Hottest Show.” Not daytime television. Television, period. Elizabeth Taylor was such a big fan she didn’t miss one single episode of the goings-on in Port Charles. A character was eventually written just for her. When I was hired for the role I had no idea of its popularity.

  I had come off the success of Altered States, and a SAG strike was looming. Work started to shut down and the only acting gigs available were in daytime, under the jurisdiction of AFTRA. The strike became the longest in the Guild’s history. For nine months actors struggled. Me included. Nearly broke, I could not continue to wait for movie opportunities, so I took the first available job and tested for General Hospital. I secured the part of a glamorous villain and became one of the first British-sounding characters to be cast in an American soap opera. Tastes were changing and producer Gloria Monty was a visionary. She was small in frame but tough as nails. Thirty actors were selected for that big summer storyline. If you were trying to get on her best side by complimenting her too much, she would quickly dismiss you. The best way to reach her tight heart was to bring your professionalism to the set, know your lines and exit. She had no time for small talk. When Gloria was on set I always ignored her by having my head stuck in a book. This made her curious, and the more I played that game the more she would approach me and ask how I was doing. I learned early on not to feed the power of those who already had it.

  Toward the end of the run one of the lead actors, machine gun in hand, grabbed me by the chest while overemphasizing his machismo during a scene, screaming out, “Shut up, Victor.” Pulling on my hairy chest in a way over-the-top fury didn’t quite make sense and it did not resonate well with the producer. I shouted in pain when Gloria came stomping out. With a pencil in hand she very intensely said to the nervous actor who tried to interrupt, “No, no, why do you need to grab him like that when you already have the upper hand with the gun? You see this pencil, all I have to do is break it next to your name in the next script and you’re dead.” It was a woman in power at her best. Men were intimidated because she held all the cards.

  The show was so huge that college students gathered in lounges and dorm rooms to watch General Hospital five days a week. Bars would change channels to General Hospital and offer pizza and beer specials. For the first time in my life I experienced what it was like to be part of a cult classic. General Hospital mania was everywhere. Just before our contracts were up, some of the actors hired only for the summer storyline were called into Gloria’s office for her condolences and thanks for a summer that made television history. My “brother” Andre and I shared a dressing room, and he was the first one summoned by Gloria. He returned dejected and with tears rolling down his face. “Can you believe that bitch? I’m going to die on the show next week and when I said, ‘But what about my fans?’ she said, ‘Oh, fuck your fans.’ Can you believe it? Well, good luck, you’re next.”

 
As I entered her sanctuary, Gloria stood up to shake my hand. I was stunned when she asked me to sit down. “How does it feel to be the only one out of thirty actors to survive this summer storyline? We want you back and I must say, darling, it is my pleasure to have you on my show. We’ll bring you back after you have spent some time in prison for your crimes. The public will forgive you and a great love story will bloom.” She smiled as I said thank you for the great privilege. When I went back to my dressing room, right away Andre wanted to know when I was dying. After I gave him the news all he could say was, “What did I do wrong?”

  Elizabeth Taylor joined the show as my sister-in-law as I was being led to prison. We never worked together, but I had the opportunity to meet her at a General Hospital party. I approached her table and on one knee introduced myself. What a gorgeous broad. I had fifteen minutes with her, and even today I cannot remember any of the conversation because for the first time in my life I was starstruck. Those violet eyes were so seductive that when I got up, I kissed her hand and left in a daze. When the other actors asked me what we talked about, I smiled gleefully and honestly replied, “I have no idea.”

  At the time, I didn’t return to Port Charles because the head writer, Pat Falken Smith, left the show and requested that I go with her to Days of Our Lives. When I did make the move to Days, Gloria Monty was not happy. One of the trade papers the next week carried the headline “The One That Got Away.” And I did. (Decades later, in early 2014, they would eventually bring Victor back to Port Charles. Twitter was abuzz with news of my return to the daytime landscape and episodes are just starting to air as this book goes into production.)

  After testing for the role of Tony DiMera on Days, I felt I was tested again by some of the more established actors who responded to the new actor on the block with indifference. Even the lovely MacDonald Carey was aloof. When I approached him one day at lunch he offered a harsh lesson on the life of an actor in daytime that I would never forget:

  “I don’t spend much time getting to know new actors on the show anymore because in the past when I had and they were killed off, it was a painful process to go through. Now I treat them with a slight curiosity, with no emotional investment.”

  As time passed and it became apparent I was there to stay, the attitudes toward me changed. They were a great group of pros that welcomed me into their family with a warm embrace. Learning pages and pages of dialogue every night was the biggest challenge, until a producer gave me the best insight to overcome this. “Don’t look at how many pages there are, as you will get overwhelmed. Take one scene at a time, be in the present and that way you stay in control.” It worked.

  On weekends we did a lot of charity work, and one experience still resonates to this day. I had been requested to do a Q&A and autograph session appearance in the Midwest. Thousands of fans appeared for the event, and afterward I received a call from the local hospital. The mother of a young lady asked if it was possible for me to stop by the Cancer Center for Children on my way to the airport to meet her daughter, Rose. She had only three months to live, and the deeply caring mother said that surprising Rose would be a “dream come true.” Apparently she was a big fan of the show and of my character in particular.

  I asked the driver to stop by a florist to buy two dozen roses. The mother met me at the front desk of the hospital, truly elated that I had come. When I entered Rose’s room she was overwhelmed. I presented her with the red roses and she cried and whispered, “Tony, Tony, Tony.” Her knight in shining armor leaped out of the television set and like a fairy tale was holding her in his arms. For a brief moment in this girl’s life I could feel some healing taking place when celebrity was used to make a difference. We sat together like old friends, and she mentioned how she loved the romance on the show and all of the unrequited love. She bravely spoke of her cancer and how limited her life had been. When I had to leave to catch my plane our embrace was long and emotional. I silently wondered why children are sent into this life only to discover disease and the struggle to survive, affecting all those surrounding them? Those answers never came.

  Over the months her mother kept in touch and on occasion I spoke with Rose and kept up the illusion of “Tony,” never smashing the myth. Rose survived beyond those three months initially predicted by the doctor’s prognosis and continued to live another four years. It was when “Tony” mysteriously left the show (disappearing into a fog) that our Rose passed away. She held on that long. Through the fantasy she imagined, Rose lived her last years happier by knowing that her hero did exist and had acknowledged her with roses. Her mother said when Tony left it was time for her as well. It moved me to tears.

  And now they were saying that NBC stood for “Nobody Cares.” This was to be my sixth death. That sounds comical but we were living through the imagination of head writer “Riley the Maestro.” Being killed off created a feeling of sadness within me, and in some instances, silent joy. It meant that my comfort zone was being challenged and I would be leaving the show for new horizons. No regrets, just being in tune with life’s changes and trusting the process.

  Cassadine Days. The night I met Elizabeth Taylor at a General Hospital benefit. (Author’s Collection)

  Meanwhile, back in Cuba I sat with this news and my stream of memories. I spent my remaining days in Havana with artists I had met along the way. The simplicity in the way they lived, surrounded by poverty, their passion and love flowing freely, revealed how indulgent I had become with the rewards life had given me. It reminded me of Saint Francis’ teachings of being satisfied with little, like the birds, without being stuck with possessions.

  I sat with these artists and together we drank an entire bottle of vodka while sharing tales of Castro’s Cuba and life in Hollywood. I gave my host a watch as a gesture of thanks. His guests were amazed at my generosity, and I thought nothing of it. It was ultimately a betrayal of my ignorance that a simple gift of thanks would eventually cause tremendous havoc in an oppressed region. Police would soon be stopping him on the street. Given the quality of his newly acquired watch, they would accuse him of stealing and smash his wrist against the wall. He would let out a loud cry and they would arrest him. He was eventually discharged. All this commotion took place because he had been given a gift he himself could not afford.

  That lack of freedom struck me hard, knowing their inability to afford anything because of low wages and the longing they had to escape their prison just to see how the rest of the world existed. I thanked them for their hospitality and I left with the promise of a return. When I was leaving, I noticed a painting hanging over the host’s kitchen table. It was a large-sized canvas, light in color with a hollowed center. I asked him, the artist of the striking painting, what the work represented.

  “It’s my escape from Cuba,” he replied.

  Two years later he did just that. Now he is a respected artist in Miami.

  I was returning home to California to face another challenge, but this time I was prepared. Filling myself up with another culture always gives me confidence and a clearer head on how to proceed. At that moment I laughed, thinking about a line from A Man for All Seasons—“Death comes to us all, my friends, yes, even for kings he comes.”

  Death can signify a major transition, and I had seen it through many times before. It was the “going through it” that was the obstacle course. Knowing that you were leaving the daytime world—again—while keeping up appearances was part of the norm.

  Pondering possibilities and probabilities. (Author’s Collection)

  Over the years I saw how other actors reacted during their last days. When you are called up to a producer’s office it usually signifies change. The door closes behind you and you face the expression of doom. Some become angry and others are relieved. The fact is that they are telling you that your services are no longer required. It can make an actor feel like they didn’t make a difference.

  It was now March 2009 and I was shooting my last two shows. I was in makeup when m
y producer, Ken Corday, walked in and wanted to know “when I was dying.”

  I told him on Monday and then took the opportunity to ask, “Why do I always have to die so violently? Can’t I just disappear up the stairs?”

  He smiled at me. “You’ll be back.”

  “No, I won’t,” I replied abruptly. He stared back in anger and stormed off. It was the last time I saw or spoke to him, and I regretted that moment.

  I have always liked Ken, as his employment was one of the main reasons I was able to afford my journeys. I found him to be generous and approachable with a great amount of spiritual awareness that we always shared. I brought him candles from Jerusalem along with the holy water from the Greek Orthodox Church in ancient Cairo, and he met these gifts from my travels with appreciation.

  On one of my last days on the set I was lying down on my hospital bed, acting in serious condition after a horrific accident where a spike had pierced my chest. It would be another violent death. Deep down I felt resentful for having to go through this emotional and physical violence. It does have an effect.

  I was glad I had gone to see the Babalao, as I now understood the image of the knife in my back. But I kept remembering the blessing from the spirits, and that helped me through it.

  My character was unable to speak due to the accident, so my on-camera communication was executed by writing on a pad. I lay there in my hospital room where actors and crew were talking during a five-minute break. I looked up toward the studio ceiling and began to flash back to the last twenty-eight years at NBC where I was a member of a wonderful cast and played two terrific characters, the diabolical Count Antony and the evil twin Andre DiMera.

  Dressing for my characters was one of my great joys on the set. I would fly once a year to Rome and buy my wardrobe, all paid for by NBC and Corday. It was a fantasy to walk into the Armani boutique on the Via dei Condotti and say, “I’ll have that, that and that.” It was an ego trip I took seriously.