Merv Griffin- A Life in the Closet

by Darwin Porter

  At the door to Charlton's apartment, Merv shook his hand and congratulated him one more time. “Let's be friends.”

  “Sure thing,” Charlton said, “providing we carry on that friendship outside of a dark movie house.”

  As Merv later sighed over the phone to Roddy McDowall, “Let's call him the man who got away. That package in the posing strap looked most promising.”

  In the trade papers, Merv was startled to read that Cecil B. DeMille had cast Charlton as one of the leads in his next big epic, The Greatest Show on Earth. The film would go on to win an Oscar as Best Picture and gross $40 million, the equivalent of $300 million at today's prices. Very quietly Charlton moved out of the Commodore, without telling Merv good-bye.

  Charlton did not mention Merv in his autobiography, In the Arena. He told friends that when he'd moved into the Commodore, he didn't know “it was the hottest whorehouse in Hollywood. You never knew what movie star you'd run into there. Clark Gable slipping down the hallway to knock on the door of a highpriced hooker. Even Gary Cooper and Robert Taylor came to call. With all that money exchanging hands, I found the tenants, both men and women, a little sad. They'd come to Hollywood to become stars and ended up working the oldest profession in history.”

  In his own autobiography, Merv summed up his experiences at the Commodore this way. “So we had god in the front apartment, the boy singer upstairs, and hookers and con men everywhere else.”

  ***

  Dressed in his tuxedo from his days with Freddy Martin's band, Merv drove to Joan Crawford's house, not knowing what gala they'd attend. She hadn't informed him, and he didn't dare ask. It was only five o'clock in the afternoon, which struck Merv as a bit early to be attending some glittering function, which most often occurred at night.

  For the occasion, Merv had borrowed a fancy car from Peter Lawford, who said it had belonged to his father.

  Joan intimidated him, and he hoped he wouldn't make a faux pas and infuriate her, as he'd heard she had quite a temper.

  Pulling into her driveway, he walked to her door and rang the bell. He was surprised when she answered the door herself, thinking she'd have a maid do that. She was fully made up and every bit the movie star in a black strapless gown and a white sable.

  She marched him into her living room and poured a Scotch and soda, light on the soda. He was going to turn down the drink, because he didn't want to get drunk if he had to chauffeur her somewhere. She handed it to him and ordered him to deliver it to “the gentleman who requested it.” She directed him to climb the stairs to her bedroom at the top. “The door is open,” she said.

  Walking up the stairs, Merv suspected that he'd encounter Steve Cochran in her bed. To his surprise, he walked in and found Clark Gable, lying apparently nude under the sheets.

  “About time, kid,” Clark said. “I thought I'd have to fuck somebody other than Joan to get a drink around this house.”

  “Mr. Gable, I'm Merv Griffin,” he stammered. “We first met when I was singing at the Cocoanut Grove. You were with Nancy Davis.”

  “Yes, I remember her and I remember you,” Clark said, sitting up in bed, exposing a chest that had looked a lot better in It Happened One Night back in 1934.

  “Now give me that drink, kid, and get the hell out of here. After I down this drink, I've got to take a shower. Joan doesn't know this, but I've got another date tonight, and I hope I can get it up again for the lucky gal. Joan sorta wore me out this afternoon.”

  Excusing himself, Merv hurried down the steps where Joan was waiting impatiently. “I said deliver a drink to Clark, not take the time to suck his cock.”

  She directed him to carry two clothing bags to his car. “I'm taking you to a party,” she said, “but before that, we're stopping off at Columbia. I have to meet Fred Zinnemann.”

  Merv immediately recognized the name, knowing that the Austrian director had cast Monty Clift in his upcoming picture, From Here to Eternity.

  At the studio, Joan and Merv were ushered into the director's office.

  Fred was just showing Burt Lancaster to the door. When Joan and Merv walked in, Fred finished his story with Burt before even acknowledging Joan. “Directing Ethel Waters in The Member of the Wedding was impossible,” he said. “Every time I'd issue an order, she'd roll her eyes to the heavens and say, ‘God is my director.’ How can you argue with that?”

  Burt kissed Joan on the cheek, and she introduced Merv to both Burt and Fred.

  After flashing his by nowfamous smile, and showing glistening Chiclet-white teeth, Burt excused himself and started to leave. He paused and turned toward Joan. “I don't know how I'm going to do that love scene with you on the beach without getting an erection. And me in skimpy swim trunks.”

  Merv was left standing awkwardly in the room holding two heavy clothing bags, as Fred and Joan engaged in a bitter argument which apparently had been ongoing for weeks. He learned from their shouting at each other that she'd been cast as the female lead in From Here to Eternity but was refusing to wear the drab clothes that an army wife might be seen in while her husband was stationed at Pearl Harbor on the eve of the Japanese attack.

  Against Fred's wishes, Harry Cohn, the head honcho at Columbia, had cast Joan as the adulterous Karen Holmes, the faithless wife of an army officer in the film. From the beginning, Fred had opposed the choice.

  Joan argued with Fred that she wanted everything in her wardrobe to be designed by her new costumer, Sheila O'Brien. To Joan's credit, Sheila had created a chic and highfashion new look for Joan more in keeping with her mature years. Though she still insisted on wearing the famous Joan Crawford fuckme shoes of World War II, Sheila had convinced her to abandon the shoulder pads, big bows, and other fashion excesses created by Adrian for Joan when she appeared in the pre-Depression films of the mid-1920s.

  Joan ripped two or three dresses from one of the clothing bags and held them up in front of Fred. They were intensely glamorous, something that she might wear to a luncheon with the mayor of Los Angeles at Chasen's. Secretly Merv agreed with Fred but Joan was adamant.

  After an argument that stretched out for more than an hour, Joan shouted at Fred. “If I can't wear this wardrobe designed especially for me, then I'm off the picture. You're trying to make me into a drab housewife. Joan Crawford is a movie star! She doesn't play a drab housewife.”

  “Then you're fired!” Fred shouted back at her. “Get out! You're off the picture.”

  At first Joan was stunned, as if it took a long time for Fred's words to sink in. She turned her back to the director and headed for the door. Suddenly, aware of Merv, she called, “Griffin, bring my clothes. I'll be directed in my next picture by a man capable of directing Joan Crawford, not this Austrian Nazi.”

  In the borrowed car, Joan ordered Merv to drive her back home. She was crying and claimed, “I've ruined my face dealing with that idiot.” She said she could not face other Hollywood stars at a gala that night and just would not show up, even though the sponsors of the event were expecting her.

  Back at her house, she asked Merv to carry her wardrobe into the living room. He felt embarrassed, not knowing what to say. He needed a drink like the one she'd mixed for Gable.

  But she didn't offer one. While he sat on the edge of her sofa in her immaculate living room, she went into her spotless marbleclad hallway and made three or maybe four urgent phone calls.

  “Griffin,” she finally called to him. “Get the hell in here. At times like this, I need a good fuck. Clark's no good at it.” She came up close to him, and without any warning her tongue was down his throat as she fondled his fly, feeling for his penis.

  She pulled him down on top of her right on the marble floor. It looked clean enough to eat off. “I have to have it now!” she shouted. “There's no time to go upstairs and get undressed.”

  She raised her dress and tugged at her champagnecolored panties. At the same time she also managed to extract his penis and attempted to bring it to life. To his chagrin, it seeme
d to shrink to a record low.

  He had no sexual desire for her at all, and, in fact, was in a state of panic. All of a sudden, he looked up. A little blondehaired girl had emerged from her bedroom and was standing at the top of the steps looking down at her mother and him. He gasped when he saw her, realizing that Joan was unaware of her presence.

  Breaking from Joan, he stood over her as she writhed on the floor. He stuffed himself back into his trousers and headed for the door.

  He looked back only one time as a halfdressed Joan was trying to get to her feet again. “Fuck you, Griffin! I should have asked a real man to escort me tonight. Stick to sucking cock!”

  Both Joan and Merv read in the trade papers that she was off the picture. Harry Cohn had been willing to pay her a $100,000 salary, although she'd have to take second billing to Montgomery Clift. But Cohn had offered her a sizable percentage of the box office profits. Since From Here to Eternity went on to become one of the big hits of the 1950s, Joan would have made a fortune.

  She put up a brave front to the public when she heard that Fred Zinnemann had cast the rather demure Deborah Kerr in the role instead. Fred was definitely casting against type, because Deborah was known for playing wellbred ladies on the screen. “That's great for that stuckup British bitch,” Joan told William Haines, her gay friend and former star. “It's about time somebody got to fuck her!”

  Years later when Joan made a glamorous appearance on The Merv Griffin Show, both she and Merv pretended to be meeting for the first time.

  ***

  After fleeing from Joan Crawford's house, Merv drove back to the misnamed Commodore Garden Apartments. As he was walking across the courtyard, he noticed a man sprawled out on a chaise longue. He'd either passed out or was dead.

  Merv moved closer to see if the stranger were all right. In the dim glow of the patio lights, he encountered Errol Flynn sound asleep with his mouth open emitting snores. Merv surveyed him closely. This worldfamous actor was no longer the same man who was the focus of his sexual desires in the 1930s.

  At long last a reckless life and endless abuse of a onceperfect specimen had caught up with Errol. He looked beyond tired, a dissipation that couldn't be erased even after treatment at the best spa on earth.

  The night was getting cold in the way a Los Angeles evening can; and Errol wasn't even wearing a coat. When Merv tried to wake him up, he failed. Errol muttered something before entering what seemed like a deep coma.

  It was at this point that Merv saw the two young men who lived next door to him enter the patio heading for their apartment. He signaled to them and asked them if they would help him “get my friend into my studio. He's had too much to drink.”

  Both of the young men agreed and practically carried Errol into Merv's studio after he'd unlocked the door. “Please put him on the bed and thank you so very much.”

  It was only then that Merv looked at the two young men, finding them incredibly sexy and appealing. One of them was especially handsome.

  “I'm Merv Griffin,” he said extending his hand.

  “This here is James Dean, and I'm Nick Adams,” one of the young men said. “We've seen you around.”

  “Sorry we didn't say hi before,” James said. He looked at the body resting on the bed. “If I didn't know better I'd say that was Errol Flynn.”

  “He's a lookalike,” Merv said. “When he was a bit younger, teenage gals used to come up to him and ask for his autograph.”

  “Yeah, he looks a little beat up for Errol Flynn,” Nick said.

  “We've got to go,” James said. “Good night. Let's get together for a drink in the courtyard tomorrow.”

  “Great idea!” Merv said, eagerly wanting to make the acquaintance of these two striking young men. “At sunset, okay?” As the men were leaving, Merv seemed to want to prolong the contact. “Say, are you guys actors?”

  “Yeah, we're terrific,” Nick said.

  Errol Flynn

  “Let's be truthful with this man,” James said. “We want to be actors. But right now we might list our profession as hustlers.”

  “I see,” Merv said, startled at such candor. “You mean, love for sale, or are you referring to pool hall hustling.”

  “More like dick for sale,” James said, before tipping his cap in a good night.

  Nick winked at Merv before heading out the door.

  After locking the door behind them, Merv turned to Errol on the bed. Slowly, almost sensually, he began to undress him. He'd never had the opportunity to examine the body of his teenage fantasy hero in detail. When he'd completely stripped Errol, he surveyed the body like a doctor in an examining room.

  “No, he's not for me,” Merv said in a whisper to himself. Errol chest had fallen and his stomach was paunchy. He still possessed that fabulous endowment, but that was no longer enough of an allure for Merv. He'd much rather be intimate with the two hustlers next door.

  He stripped off his own clothes and got into the bed beside Errol, although his snoring kept Merv up for most of the night. This was the last time he'd ever sleep with the object of so many wet dreams of his past.

  ***

  “A slouching stance, youthful rebellion in faded jeans, a cigarette in the corner of a kissable mouth, alienation, even outright hostility at times, and the most angelic face I've ever seen on a young man.” That's the way many contemporary witnesses described James Dean at the time.

  “This Dean guy is going to be a big star — maybe the biggest,” Merv later claimed to such friends as Bill Orr. “I have this feeling about him. But he's got a lot of weird habits. He'll smoke a cigarette so far down that it'll burn his lips. Yes, actually burn them with intent. He gets off on being burnt. He's a hustler/actor and will let some johns crush out a cigarette butt on his ass. The first night I was with him, and even before I had sex with him, he pulled down his jeans and showed me the cigarette burns on a beautiful ass. Strange boy. But I adore the kid.”

  Rebels and starfucker buddies:

  James Dean (left) and

  Nick Adams(right)

  The evening that followed his meeting with Nick and James, Merv waited impatiently on the patio of the Commodore Garden Apartments. Nick and James were nowhere to be seen. Merv sat there until long after the sun had set before both of them came rushing into the patio to greet Merv.

  “We had a john who wanted us to stay over for more fun and games,” Nick said in the way of apology. To Merv's surprise, Nick gave him a light kiss on the mouth. James held back, saying nothing, until he somewhat bashfully invited Merv into their studio next door to Merv's own shabby apartment.

  Dressed in a white Mexican shirt and jeans, James put on a pot of fresh coffee to welcome Merv. The whole place smelled like a dirty laundry bag. Yet Merv felt a sexual tension in the air, and this excited him. The prospect of having both young men strip down for his pleasure tantalized him.

  As his eyes surveyed the studio, they drifted up to the ceiling where he was shocked to see a hangman's noose dangling. Following Merv's eyes, James said, “That's waiting for me when I decide to commit suicide.”

  Merv didn't know if James were joking or if he really meant that. While James poured the coffee, Nick stripped down and dangled his penis in front of Merv. “Now you know why I'm called Mighty Meat along the street.” He headed for the shower.

  Over coffee, Merv and James shared their experiences of surviving in New York. James told the best tales, especially about how he managed to live on twentyfive cents a day.

  Merv suggested he should write a book. “All struggling actors coming to New York would buy it like a survivor's manual.”

  “Mostly I just hung around,” James said. “Sometimes I'd get lucky, like when Marlon Brando would invite me into his place to fuck me and give me a meal. Often I'd sit on a door stoop for hours at a time. Once I sat on this bench in front of a barbershop for eight hours, needing a haircut real bad but I had no money to pay for it.”

  Ever the practical one, Merv asked, “Bu
t didn't you have to take a leak?”

  James looked at him strangely, but didn't answer.

  Nick emerged freshly showered and dressed only in a bath towel. He joined them for coffee and shared his experiences of trying to break in as an actor in New York and Hollywood. “Being an actor is like eating a shit sandwich every day. It's kiss ass…” He paused. “Sometimes literally. Waiting for the next job, not knowing if it's gonna come or not. Trying to get that job and having to compete with a hundred other starving actors. Congratulating your best friend when he got the job instead of you.” He glanced furtively at James. “Waiting outside that producer's door. Even worse sometimes, getting invited inside the producer's door and having to submit to a blowjob from a disgusting piece of flesh. And then losing the job to the guy he planned to cast all along. Trying to get a job is half the job of being an actor — take it from me.”

  As the evening progressed, Merv was amazed that Nick seemed to be “tooting his own horn,” often at the expense of James. It was clear to Merv that there was definite competition between the two actors. It was as if Nick sensed that James had far greater looks and more talent, and Nick was hellbent on convincing Merv that he, Nick — and not James — was the real star.

  A latter day biographer, Albert Goldman, summed up Nick in ways that Merv felt but couldn't express at the time. “Nick was forever selling himself: a property which, to hear him tell it, was nothing less than sensational — ‘the greatest actor to hit this town in years,’” Goldman said. “In fact, he had very little going for him in terms of looks or talent or professional experience. He was just another poor kid from the sticks who had grown up dreaming of the silver screen.”

  When James learned that Merv had been living with Monty Clift, James entertained him with a deadaccurate impression. “Now I ask you: Who is better doing Monty Clift? The real thing or me?”

  “You, of course,” Merv said.

  After that, he entertained Merv with an even deadlier impression of Marlon Brando. “Fuck, I do a better imitation of Brando than Jimmy,” Nick claimed. Merv watched in fascination as Nick almost became Brando before his eyes. But he didn't dare tell James that Nick was better.