Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment

by Dick van Patten

  I always loved the competition of one-on-one sports and so I introduced the kids to the most competitive of all them all, boxing. Nels, who was the most interested in all forms of athletics, recalls the many Friday nights we spent down at Sunnyside Gardens watching the up-and-comers in the Golden Gloves. He still talks about a devastating young man we watched named George Foreman in his first professional fight. It was particularly memorable as it came just after the 1968 Olympics when Foreman stunned the world with his show of patriotism, walking around the ring with an American flag after winning the Gold. Later in his life, Big George would strike a blow for all of us senior citizens when he accomplished the seemingly impossible task of winning the heavyweight championship at age 45!

  Nels speaks fondly of those Friday-night fights, not just because we had such a good time out together, but because there were lessons to be learned from those fierce competitors in the ring. “I learned about hard work,” Nels recalls, “because most of these fighters came from nowhere.” I think my son may have understood just how true that was even before I did. Nearly every one of those guys in the ring were fighting their way out of difficult circumstances. For many, they had only one path out: hard work. Some made it, and others didn’t, but, as Nels recognized, there were no slackers in those rings. Everyone was working hard in pursuit of some dream. I think Nels took the lessons he learned from those fighters and has passed them on to the thousands of people he’s coached in thirty years as one of the finest teaching professionals in the tennis world.

  Casey, of course, brought his own unique personality to the mix. Even as a child, Casey, like his mother Joyce, was thoughtful and curious about the world, always with a book in his hands. I recall when he was just six, he went on a big trip to the 1960 Summer Olympics in Rome with Joyce and her husband, the actor Martin Balsam. On returning, he told me about a young fighter he saw named Cassius Clay, who would, of course, go on to greatness as Muhammad Ali. I always loved Ali. Years later, I was at a fight in Las Vegas when I noticed him sitting in the first row and thought it was strange that he kept turning his head and looking ominously back at me. When the fight ended, I was even more concerned as he got up from his seat and headed straight for mine. So I just stood there not knowing what to expect, when the Champ put his tremendous hand on my shoulder, leaned over and whispered in my ear: “I’ve been watching you a long time.” I was thrilled!

  Nels, Jimmy, Vincent and Casey have now grown into wonderful, sensitive and accomplished adults. They are also my closest friends. I feel so very fortunate to have all of them still living nearby so we can continue to share this amazing journey. In recent years I’ve felt their presence more than ever. I think it’s probably fair to say they are all more concerned about my health than I am. Nels and his beautiful wife Nancy Valen, a former Baywatch actress, who for twenty years has been like a daughter to Pat and me, are a constant support since my two strokes and open heart surgery. Vincent and his lovely wife, Eileen Davidson, a legendary soap opera star—and their newest arrival, Jesse, who, at age two reminds me just how wondrous this life can be—are also a constant source of joy. And Casey, Pat King and their two children, Bridgit and Christopher have always been a treasured part of our family.

  And Jimmy, an eligible bachelor, has been there with me during some of my most memorable moments. A few years ago, we had the great fortune of sharing the stage lights. Together with the great Frank Gorshin, Jimmy and I toured over a hundred cities across America in Neil Simon’s The Sunshine Boys. In a difficult role, Jimmy showed his marvelous acting skills. But more important to me, we had the time to really get to know each other as we made our way through a million motels and pit-stops all across this wonderful country. It was a special time for both of us that created memories I will always cherish.

  * * *

  While working as a real estate agent I continued looking for roles. One of the advantages of real estate is that the schedule is flexible. I always had time to audition or even take a part, from time to time. There was no clock to punch and no boss checking to see that I put in a certain number of hours. I worked on commission, and if I sold a house, it gave me time to try my hand at another audition.

  I was hoping that things might turn around in December of 1963 when I landed a role in a comedy, Have I Got a Girl for You. It was a humorous story of a Jewish family torn by the familiar conflict between getting ahead financially and maintaining their high principles. Before the show even started, I had a nice piece written by William Raidy in the Long Island Press in which Raidy reviewed my thirty years in the theater. But the show, which played at the Music Box, didn’t last long or open any substantial doors.

  The same year, I also took a part in a ninety-minute special, Men in White produced by David Susskind, which aired live on ABC. I seemed to always have problems with doctor skits. I did one with Lee J. Cobb and Richard Carlson that was a disaster. We were playing surgeons, and at one point Cobb says: “We must operate.” Because it was filmed live, we had to run off the set and put on rubber gloves and then get back for the next scene. When the camera turned to us again, we were all standing there with our hands, now covered with rubber gloves, held up in the air like we were about to begin the operation.

  But when Carlson, Cobb and I rushed over to the table for the rubber gloves, I couldn’t get mine on. It was hot, and I kept trying to put my fingers in and they kept slipping out. Time was running out, so I just ran back for the scene with the gloves only half on. So as we were all standing like doctors about to perform surgery the camera moved from Lee J. Cobb to Richard Carlson, and then to me. And I’m standing there with my hands held up in the air like I’m about to operate, but the white-gloved fingers were drooping down on my hands. It looked absurd.

  Afterwards David Susskind said to me, “What the hell happened there? This is ridiculous. Can’t you get the gloves on?”

  I said, “No.” So David, who was pretty piqued at this, realized what was wrong. He pointed to a bottle on the table I hadn’t seen and said to me, “Put the damn talcum powder on your hands.”

  Worse was an episode of As the World Turns where I also played a doctor. The moment came when I was supposed to listen to the patient’s heart with my stethoscope. I had it around my neck, but forgot to put it in my ears. So I placed the stethoscope on the patient’s chest and started listening intently—without anything in my ears. The other actor, Mark Rydell, who went on to be a big director, was looking at me funny. Then he just started laughing and shaking his head while I’m telling the patient, “Your heartbeat sounds very good. Yes, it sounds very good.” I remember wondering why the heck Mark was laughing.

  36

  THE ROAD BACK

  In 1968, I landed a small role in a film, Charly, a moving drama about a mentally handicapped man who becomes highly intelligent after an operation. The results, however, are temporary, and he discovers that he will soon regress to his former condition.

  I suppose the psychological torment he endures must be similar to what happens in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, when a patient knows that he will, in time, begin to lose his way. I think all Americans were brought closer to those feelings as we admired the way President Reagan confronted the onset of his illness. Nothing was more courageous than the beautiful farewell letter he wrote to the country in which he recognized that he was slowly slipping away.

  That was the dilemma of Charly Gordon, marvelously played by Cliff Robertson. I had known Cliff years before when he was my understudy on Mister Roberts, and now he had developed into a powerful performer and deservedly won the Academy Award for his portrayal of Charly Gordon. While my own role as one of the doctors was very minor, it was, at the time, a welcome opportunity to get back into entertainment. It was also my first film. With all of the work I had done on television, radio and the stage, I had never had a part in a movie.

  Shortly after filming Charly, I landed a role in a Broadway play by two authors named Renee Taylor and Joseph Bologna ca
lled Lovers and Other Strangers. It was a well-conceived and written comedy involving a series of storylines centering around an upcoming wedding.

  The play, which opened at the Brooks Atkinson in September of 1969, was very much reflective of the changing times. As the legitimacy of marriage as an institution was being increasingly questioned, Lovers and Other Strangers highlighted what was both good and bad about marriage. The strongest performance was by the veteran character actor, Richard Castellano, who played the groom’s father.

  At the wedding of one of Castellano’s sons, it becomes known that his other son is in the process of getting a divorce. Castellano’s character, Frank, spends more time obsessing on how this could have occurred. Throughout the play he continuously interrogates his son: “Okay, what happened?” His questions assume there must have been some precipitating incident. He believes that once it was revealed, he could then help resolve it—even to the point of suggesting that his son consider taking a mistress.

  But hearing only vague responses from his son about how the enjoyment or “fun” of his marriage had been lost, he becomes utterly confused—unable to understand that for many in the younger generation of the 1960s, a marriage had to be about more than just getting by for the sake of convention. The divide between Frank and his son reflected what became known as the “generation gap”—a phenomenon that played such a powerful role in the social turbulence of the 1960s.

  My character, Hal, the father of the bride, is more flexible—although not in a particularly attractive way. Hal tries desperately to strike a balance between his own marriage of thirty years and his relationship with his long-term mistress. His inability to take action, either breaking up his failed marriage or cutting off his affair, represented the hypocrisy so prevalent in many relationships when they begin to stagnate and men—at least, typically men—begin looking outside the marriage for ways to find fulfillment.

  But Lovers was not a wholesale attack on marriage. For that reason, I believe, it became a success—although not so much as a play. We closed after just seventy performances, but the next year it was made into a motion picture in which Castellano starred, along with Diane Keaton and Cloris Leachman. Gig Young, who had just won the Academy Award for his supporting role in They Shoot Horses Don’t They, took my role as Hal. The movie did much better than the play, and the song played during the wedding scene, For All We Know, became a classic, winning the Academy Award and prompting The Carpenters to sing a version that became a best-selling record.

  Lovers and Other Strangers was my first play on Broadway in five years, and it did crack open a little bit of a door for me to get moving on the road back. A few months later, I took a small part in a drawing-room comedy, But Seriously, at the Henry Miller Theater on Broadway. Opening in March of 1969 and starring Tom Poston and Bethel Leslie, it lasted just a few days, when, as The New Yorker wrote, the play “closed wisely after its fourth performance.”

  One positive note was a stand-out performance by a young actor playing the couple’s son, named Richard Dreyfuss. I wasn’t the only one who noticed him. The same critic who panned the play also noted that Richard had come “within an ace of stealing the show.” He also had a kind word for me, saying he “enjoyed Dick Van Patten as the hearty and pompous neighbor.”

  During rehearsals for But Seriously, my nephew Casey came to the set with me nearly every day. He was interested in making his way as an actor, and I was glad to see him hanging around with Richard, who advised him to hone his acting skills by doing as much live theater as possible. I certainly agreed with that.

  37

  THREE’S A CHARM!

  Later in 1969, I received a call from Wayne Carson, an acting friend who had worked on Mister Roberts and now was the stage manager for a show called Adaptation/Next at the Greenwich Mews Theater starring Jimmy Coco and produced by Elaine May. Next was a one-act comedy written by Terrence McNally about a hapless, middle-aged, overweight divorcé who mistakenly finds himself at the draft board, where the strict female Sergeant Thech tries to enlist him. The repartee between them is wonderful.

  Jimmy Coco was getting very hot at the time, soon to win a Tony for his role in Neil Simon’s The Last of the Red Hot Lovers and in the winter of 1969, Jimmy wanted to leave the show. Also, the production was going to Los Angeles for several months, and Coco wasn’t interested in doing it on the West Coast.

  I auditioned for the part, and Elaine May selected me as Jimmy’s replacement to finish up the New York run and then go to Los Angeles. At the time I thought I’d be away for just a few months and then come back to New York and the real estate business.

  Coincidentally, at the very same time, Connie Stevens was looking for a young boy to play her son in a show she was prepping for television. She had heard about my son, Vincent, who was 12 years old at the time. Connie came to see him for an audition in New York City. She loved him and decided he should come to Los Angeles to film the pilot.

  So with two reasons to once again think about Hollywood, Pat and I decided that we would all head west—at least temporarily. The time constraints were more pressing for Vincent, so he and Pat took a plane, which left me, Jimmy, Nels and Casey to drive out.

  By now, I thought I had the gambling thing pretty much under control. But with several weeks to kill on the road, I decided to do something a little out of the ordinary: take a cross-country tour of America’s race tracks. I’ve known hard-core fans who tour the baseball parks—zigzagging from state to state, catching games in all the famous venues, so I decided to do the same with the tracks. I sat down at the kitchen table in Bellerose making a list of all the tracks in the country and then mapping out our circuitous route west.

  We almost lost everything in Ohio. Stopping at the Beulah Park racetrack in Grove City, I quickly lost a series of races. Suddenly we didn’t have enough money to keep going. By this time, Jimmy and Casey had returned to the car and sat there wondering if they were going to sleep in the racetrack parking lot. Nels stayed with me as I put all the remaining money on the final race. The two of us watched as our horse came roaring down the stretch with a tremendous upset. We ended up pulling away with more than when we arrived.

  I’m sure all this sounds reminiscent of the Gallant Man fiasco when the urge to bet was threatening to destroy my life and my family. But by this time, things had changed. The grip that gambling and the races had over me in the late 1950s had diminished greatly. I certainly realized that gambling addictions don’t just go away. I also realized it would be a constant presence in my life, and I would have to be vigilant to ensure that it never controlled me again. It might make a nice story if I could say I just walked away from the horses and the poker tables and never looked back. But it would be dishonest. The truth is I found a middle ground; a place between addiction and abstinence. I understand there are many good people who say that can’t happen, or that it’s not the right way to beat a habit. And I don’t dispute them. But I will say, as I’ve said about so many things in life, that every one of us is different. We’re all unique. And what works for one of us may not work for someone else.

  Moderation has worked for me. That’s as much as I can say. I still go to the racetrack with an excitement I’ve felt my whole life. I love the grass, the track, the horses, the jockeys, the stables, and, most of all, the people. And each time I look out at the infield, it takes me back to my childhood watching my grandfather sitting up there on the high stool next to his big blackboard on the beautiful grounds of Saratoga.

  What’s changed is that I won’t bet the house. In fact, I don’t really bet that much at all. It’s true there will never be that wild, insane rush gamblers feel when they put it all on the line. There’s a natural high that comes from living on the edge. I felt it that day in 1957 when I lost the wedding bonds. But the price was too high. It nearly cost me my family—and that was the most frightening thing I’ve ever experienced.

  It’s different now. And it was already changing by 1969, even though
I did drag the kids along on that crazy zigzag through America’s racetracks. I suppose I’ll always feel the impulse to put something down on a horse, but it’s as much a social event as anything else. Out at Santa Anita or Del Mar, I enjoy the company of my good friends, Mel Brooks, Tim Conway and Jack Klugman, not to mention the more colorful characters like Jimmy the Hat, Fat Eddie, and many more. For better or worse, the horses have been an important part of my life, and, while I’m figuring out whether it’s all been good or bad, I’ll be out at the track still looking for the big win—but doing so on a much smaller bet.

  Yet that’s not to say my trip out West was a model of maturity. Nearly every day, I’d stop at a motel with a pool. And while I’m not so proud of it now, I had the kids put on their bathing suits and jump in for a swim as if we were motel guests. I figured no one would think a grown man with three kids would do something so stupid—and I was right. While I feel a little ashamed of it now, we did enjoy great pools all the way to the West Coast.

  The road trip continued through a dozen different tracks. And along the way, we stopped in Arizona to see the Grand Canyon. I still had a vivid memory of this natural marvel from my trip with Florence in 1935, and I wanted my kids to enjoy it too. Finally we arrived in Los Angeles on Halloween Day, October 31, 1969. And we’re still here.

  * * *

  Just as we were getting comfortable in our new home on the Queens Road cul-de-sac in Hollywood, a big family moved in next door. As we watched them unpack, we could see that there were a lot of them. Pat and I went over to meet the family. The parents introduced themselves as Joe and Katherine Jackson, and then we met all of their kids, including their eleven-year-old, Michael.

  They had just moved from Gary, Indiana. The kids played together in a band, which already had some local success back home, but now they had gotten a recording contract and were making a push for the big time. I thought nothing of it, but I was happy to have a bunch of kids next door. The transition had been difficult for our boys, especially Nels, who had to leave all their friends back in New York and now at least there were some new kids on the block.