Merv Griffin- A Life in the Closet

by Darwin Porter

  ***

  The ongoing poolhouse trysts between Stewart Granger and Michael Wilding would lead to embarrassing repercussions in the years ahead. In 1962, Hedda Hopper published her candid, self-congratulatory memoir, The Whole Truth and Nothing But. Although within its pages she protected her friends and protégés, she used the autobiography as a mouthpiece for the airing of decades of private grudges and vendettas. She loathed Michael Wilding and outed him as a homosexual in the book. He threatened a retaliatory law-suit.

  Reacting to that, Hedda summoned Merv to her house, offering him a glass of champagne.

  True to her style, the gossip maven got right to the point. “I want you to testify in court that Michael Wilding is a homosexual. I know about those hot nights the cocksucker spent in your poolhouse with Stewart Granger.”

  “Hedda, be reasonable,” Merv pleaded. “I can't do that.”

  “You can do it and you will in exchange for favorable mention in my column,” she said. “I'm still powerful enough in this town to destroy a performer, especially one with your mediocre talent.”

  “You didn't hear me,” he said. “I can't do it.”

  “You know what I wrote is true,” she said, increasingly agitated.

  “That's beside the point,” he said. “I not only can't do that for you, I won't do it!” He rose from his armchair and handed her a halfempty glass of champagne. “I didn't finish it. You can have the rest of it. I'll show myself out.”

  That night Merv told Hadley, “Now and forever more, I'm officially on Hedda's Hopper's shit list.”

  In the days to come Hedda would reach out to other performers, including Eddie Fisher, with the same request. Each of her prospective witnesses rejected her request to testify against Michael Wilding, even though at least some of them knew that Hedda's accusations were true.

  During the months which followed, thousands of copies of the book were sold for $4.95 each to a public which demanded to know what Hedda had to reveal about the inner secrets of Hollywood's elite.

  Stewart Granger weighed in with the last word. He dialed Hedda's number and shouted into the phone: “You monumental bitch! How bloody dare you accuse a friend of mine of being a queer, you raddled, dried-up, frustrated old cunt.”

  ***

  In the early 1950s, just as the 3D vogue was dying, Merv was cast in the doomed 3D version of Phantom of the Rue Morgue, which was eventually released to lackluster sales in 1954. The film would mark the end of his career as a Hollywood actor, although later he'd make several final desperate and unsuccessful attempts to salvage his dream.

  Cast in the role of Georges Brevert, Merv once again was directed by Roy Del Ruth, who had helmed Three Sailors and a Girl, in which Merv had made a minor impression in his sailor uniform. Based on a short story by Edgar Allan Poe, the Rue Morgue film starred Karl Malden, Patricia Medina, and Steve Forrest. Although years later Merv would write that the only time he ever met or saw Dolores Dorn was as part of their arranged “date” one night at a premiere, she too was cast in the film as Camille.

  After it was released, the public understandably confused it with the previously released and roughly equivalent film Murders in the Rue Morgue. (Warner Brothers had used many of the same sets for both of the Rue Morgue pictures.)

  Briefly during the context of the film, the character played by Merv became a suspect as the serial killer. Ironically, even the film's director, Roy Del Ruth, doubted the wisdom of the casting, saying, “No one would believe Merv playing the role of a serial killer.” The director was right.

  During chats with Karl Malden, Merv jokingly referred to his part as “type casting.” He knew the actor was a close friend of Marlon Brando, having appeared with him in A Streetcar Named Desire. Karl, a Serbian, would also appear that year in Marlon's second greatest picture, On the Waterfront. In reference to his role in Phantom, he told Merv, “Sometimes an actor has to pay his bills. To be honest, I love every movie I appear in—even the bad ones. I'm a workaholic. As long as I work, I'm happy. At least in this turkey I can camp it up as an evil mad scientist with an ape as my sidekick.”

  Merv also met the female star of the picture, Patricia Medina, a voluptuous, exoticlooking leading lady who was born in Britain. She didn't look British at all, having inherited her sultry looks from her Spanish father. A veteran, she'd worked in movies since 1937 and had been famously married to the handsome English actor, Richard Greene. Patricia had already divorced him by the time she met Merv.

  Within six years of their picture together, Patricia would marry Joseph Cotten, who'd starred in Merv's alltime favorite movie, Citizen Kane (1941), directed by Orson Welles.

  In years to come, Merv would become friends with Orson and would invite him for frequent appearances on The Merv Griffin Show. In one confidential moment backstage, Orson told Merv that “Joseph absolutely hates you. He keeps urging me not to go on your show.”

  “Why?” an astonished Merv asked. “I never put the moves on Patricia Medina.”

  “Maybe you should have,” Orson said. “Joseph calls you half a man. That's how he refers to men he suspects of being homosexuals. I know in your case you're not gay, but Joseph is convinced.”

  “Joseph Cotten, a homophobe?” Merv said. “I can hardly believe that.”

  Orson chuckled as if he knew a secret. “Some men with a gay past feel they can cover their tracks by attacking gays. That way, they think no one will ever suspect them.”

  ***

  Shamed by the failure of the Rue Morgue picture, Merv made plans “to get out of Dodge,” as he put it. But dreams die hard, and Merv seemed fated to make a few final attempts before abandoning his hopes for a career in films as a romantic lead.

  Merv's great ongoing hope had involved starring as Curly McLain in the film version of Oklahoma! (1955). When he heard that Fred Zinnemann had been hired as its director, he requested a meeting. He'd known Fred when he'd directed From Here to Eternity. Receiving Merv, Fred was gracious and spared ten minutes of his time. He was quick to share the names on the list of actors he wanted to play Curly.

  “To be frank, I found an upandcoming actor who is the exact type for Curly,” Fred said. “Paul Newman. But regrettably, he lacks the singing voice needed.”

  “I can sing,” Merv said. “And all my many girlfriends tell me I've got the looks.”

  “Maybe. But I've got my hopes riding on another young actor who, physically at least, would be ideal.” Fred said. “James Dean.”

  “You've got to be kidding,” Merv said. “I mean Dean can do the acting part, but what about the singing? You plan to dub him?”

  “We'll see,” Fred said. “But under no circumstances am I going to let you play Curly. Better luck next time, kid. I know a guy who's working on a script called The Alligator People. Would you allow makeup to transform you into an alligator?”

  “Any day now,” Merv said, heading out the door.

  A few weeks later Merv called James Dean, not telling him that he, too, desperately wanted the part of Curly. James had just flown in from New York after testing for the role. He told an amusing story of getting kicked out of the lobby of the snobby Hotel Pierre because he showed up “dressed like an old cowboy wino.” He wasn't allowed to pass through the main entrance of the hotel but had instead been directed to the rear service entrance, where he took a freight elevator up to Fred's suite.

  “Zinnemann loved my ‘Poor Jud Is Dead’ number with Rod Steiger,” James claimed. “Zinnemann said it was the best screen test he'd ever shot.”

  “And your singing?” Merv asked. “You can sing?”

  “I'm not sure yet, but I might become a singing star in film musicals if I pull this one off,” James said.

  Eventually Fred decided against James, offering the Oklahoma! lead to a real singer, Frank Sinatra, instead. Rising from the depths of the depression he'd reached during the filming of From Here to Eternity, he'd leveled off in his drinking and was making a comeback. He'd signed a contract with
Capitol Records, and with his more mature voice he'd go on to record a string of albums that would display his brilliance as a pop singer for decades to come. And after its release in 1955, his riveting performance as a junkie in The Man With the Golden Arm would eventually earn him another Oscar nomination.

  When Merv called to congratulate Frank, he was shocked to learn he'd just turned down the role. “I learned the God damn thing is going to be filmed in Cinema-Scope and then again in Todd-AO,” he said. “Frank Sinatra is known as onetake Lulu. I said no way.” [Partially owned and heavily promoted by Mike Todd, Todd-AO was a highdefinition widescreen film format developed in the mid1950s by the American Optical Company in Rochester, New York. Todd memorably characterized it as “Cinerama outta one hole” because, unlike Cinerama, Todd-AO required only a single camera and only one set of lenses.]

  Later that day, Merv learned that other actors were rejecting roles in Oklahoma!, including Betty Hutton, who'd refused the role of Annie, which would have jumpstarted her comeback. Eventually, tonedeaf Gloria Grahame got the part, singing without dubbing, which meant that her songs had to be edited together from recordings made almost literally note by note.

  In quiet desperation, and without alerting Frank, Merv contacted Fred again, asking for a second chance at the role of Curly. “Too late, kid. This very morning I cast Gordon MacRae. He's got the right baritone voice. Only problem is the bastard refuses to curl his hair. Curly got his nickname from his curly locks. Gordon refuses to get a permanent. But his wife Sheila has agreed to fingercurl his hair every morning.”

  “Ain't that wonderful?” Merv said. “I'm about as crazy for MacRae as Bette Davis is for Miriam Hopkins and Joan Crawford.”

  ***

  Even though he didn't get the role of Curly, Merv was still determined and tried again. He wanted the role of Billy Bigelow in the Rodgers and Hammerstein blockbuster musical, Carousel (1956). It was to be directed by Henry King, a Virginiaborn native who'd gotten his start in girly burlesque shows before breaking into “flickers” in 1912. Still going strong in the 1950s, he'd directed such previous hits as Twelve o'clock High (1949), I'd Climb the Highest Mountain (1951), and The Snows of Kilimanjaro (1952).

  In jockeying for the role, Merv used his influence with Henry Willson, who called the director and arranged a facetoface interview for Merv. As the interview unfolded, Merv was carefully studied by a skeptical Henry. “Just what role do you think you can pull off in this film?”

  “Billy Bigelow, of course,” Merv said defensively. “I know all the numbers. Can I perform for you right now or else be screen tested?”

  “The only song you could sing from Carousel is ‘You're a Queer One, Merv Griffin,’” Henry said.

  “Are you insulting me?” Merv asked.

  “A mere slip of the tongue, my laddie,” Henry said. “I meant to say, ‘You're a Queer One, Julie Jordan.’ Sorry but I've already cast the leads. I'm going to ask Frank Sinatra to play Billy. The female lead's going to Judy Garland if she can hold herself together.”

  That night Merv called Frank once again to congratulate him on being cast as the lead. “I've turned down the God damn part,” Frank responded. “The same way I turned down Oklahoma! This fucking picture's being shot twice — once in 35mm and again in 55mm. But not with me in it.”

  Three weeks after Frank had prematurely rejected the juicy role, and too late for him to recoup it, studio technicians found a way to film only in 55mm, which could then be transferred onto 35mm.

  In the final hour, Merv made one last, desperate plea, virtually begging Henry for the role of Billy. “You're too late, Griffin,” Henry said. “I came to my senses and offered the role to…”

  Merv interrupted him, “Gordon MacRae.”

  “How did you know?” Henry asked. “I haven't told anybody.”

  “At night I moonlight as a fortune teller,” Merv said before putting down the phone.

  Even though he'd been disappointed, Merv wanted to appear sporting about his rejection and called Judy Garland to congratulate her for being cast in Carousel, which he thought might be an appropriate followup to A Star Is Born.

  “Don't congratulate me,” she said. “I'm off the picture. Henry King thinks I'm not—in his words—‘emotionally stable enough.’ He fears his God damn picture will run over budget. He cast Shirley Jones instead.”

  “You've got to be kidding,” Merv said. “With you as the star, King would have had a great picture. With Jones, he'll get a mediocre one.” He failed to mention that he had secretly sought the role of Billy Bigelow for himself.

  The only news emerging from the set of Carousel that delighted Merv came weeks later when he heard that Gordon MacRae had been arrested for drunk driving.

  ***

  Despite of the ongoing rejections, Merv continued reading the trades, hoping for one last chance. One morning he read that one of his former directors, Gordon Douglas, had been designated as director of Sincerely Yours,a schmaltzy film about a piano player. Previously, Gordon had halfjokingly promised him the lead if he ever made a movie about a piano player.

  Before his rendezvous with Gordon, Merv told Hadley, “I'm still gonna be big in Hollywood.” He paused. “Or maybe not. Wish me luck.”

  “Aren't you showbiz people supposed to say ‘break a leg’ or something?” Hadley asked as Merv headed for the door.

  ***

  Face to face with Gordon Douglas, the helmer gave it to Merv straight. “Don't make me laugh, Griffin. You, the lead in Sincerely Yours? Haven't you heard? The God damn sappy picture is a vehicle for America's leading faggot, Liberace.”

  “Oh, I see,” Merv said. “Hollywood's first big gay picture.”

  “Don't be an asshole,” Gordon said. “I've got to make Miss Sequins look straight as an arrow onscreen, with two hot pussies, Joanne Dru and Dorothy Malone, chasing after him. Joanne Dru has been fucked regularly by John Ireland, and he's got the biggest dick in Hollywood. How can I make movie audiences believe that a woman getting plowed by Ireland would go for Liberace? Much less that little hottie, Dorothy Malone. I wouldn't mind plugging that bitch myself. Frankly, I don't know what any woman would want with Liberace. Or any man for that matter. He's not my type. If I were gay, I'd rather fuck you than Liberace.” He answered a call from his secretary. “Say, if you stick around for fifteen minutes, I'll introduce you to the piano player himself. Seeing this guy still isn't believing it.”

  “No thanks,” Merv said. “I'd better go. Sorry to take up your time.”

  “It's okay, kid,” he said. “Don't feel too bad. Some guys aren't suited to make it in the movies, and you're one of them. You're too much of a nice guy. Too weak. No charisma. Not ruggedly masculine enough. John Wayne and Gary Cooper, even Clark Gable, allowed guys to suck their dicks when they were young and trying to get ahead. But they project a sense of macho on screen. You just can't do that.”

  “I'm a singer, not a cowboy,” Merv said.

  “Why don't you consider doing lounge acts in night clubs?” Gordon said. “Forget that big band shit—those days are over. You can still sing, right?”

  “Better than ever, and I'm about to open in Las Vegas,” Merv said defensively. “My opening is gonna get national coverage.”

  “Sure, kid,” Gordon said, looking down at his papers. “Don't slam the door on your way out.”

  Heading for his car, Merv stopped to watch a purplecolored Lincoln Executive limousine pull up. From behind the wheel emerged a startlingly handsome and very tall chauffeur in a pink uniform, tall black boots, and a gold hat. He grandly opened the rear door. Out emerged the flamboyant showman himself, the one, the only Liberace, darling of bluehaired grannies from coast to coast.

  From the blasting radio in front came the song “Mr. Sandman” by the Chordettes with the line, “wavy hair like Liberace.”

  Emerging from the limousine, Liberace reached back for his white cape, as the chauffeur excused himself to go to the studio's men's room.

 
Not meaning to stand there staring like a rubbernecker, Merv resumed his steps without acknowledging the showman. “Hey, I know you,” Liberace called out. “You're Merv Griffin. I once heard you sing with Freddy Martin's band. I love your voice. Do you want to come on my show? We could do that Coconuts I number. I'll even rent a monkey and dress him in sequins. It'll be a laugh riot.”

  Merv was flabbergasted that this flow of words—even a job offer—would come from the syrupy mouth of this showbiz eccentric before he'd even said a word. “Hi, indeed…I'm Merv Griffin, as you said.” He reached to shake the entertainer's hand.

  Liberace withdrew his paw as if it were burned on the stove. “I can't shake hands,” he said. “I have to protect my mitts for the piano.” Merv looked down and was astonished to see Liberace wearing seven rings, each of them as large as a fat escargot.

  “I was born Wladziu Valentino Liberace,” he said, “but I've been billed as Walter Busterkeys, Walter Liberace, Lee Liberace, Liberace Chefroach, or else The Glitter Man. My friends call me Lee. You can call me Lee.”

  “Where in hell did you come up with a name like Chefroach?” Merv asked. “I don't know you well enough to call you Lee, but I do admire your work. I've watched every one of your shows. I must say I'm a bit envious. I too play the piano, but not like you.”

  “No one does, you dear sweet thing,” Liberace said. “I'm unique.” He leaned over to whisper something in Merv's ear. “I hear we share someone in common.”

  Onstage and over the top with Liberace

  “Who, pray, might that be, other than the piano?”

  “We've both known Rock Hudson as David knew Bathsheba,” Liberace said. “I got Rock back when he was a struggling actor and playing an Indian in the movies. Quite a tomahawk he carries around.”

  “I know.” Merv was taken back that Liberace knew any detail about his private life.