In 1955, at the age of twenty, I headed to Hollywood with some letters of recommendation from Don Hall, a man connected to the summer theater where I was working. Here’s an excerpt from one of them that he wrote to a PR woman.
Here is the story: I have a slight interest in a local summer theater… you might say that I dabble at it.… This season we secured a young man (20 years old) as a juvenile type. You can believe me, Helen, when I tell you that this kid is not only talented but that he is the most talented young man that I have run across in my 25 years in theatrical work. I would hesitate going any further except that my opinion is backed by almost everyone who has seen him. He never once played a “leading” part this season but people come back week after week to see him. He is tall (6´1˝), very nice looking and has a tremendous personality. That is usual for a juvenile, of course. But his talent is most unusual. He can really act. Each portrayal is entirely different and a living, breathing, believable character. And his characterizations are 100%. There is no doubt that this young man will make the grade. It is only a question of where, when and how soon.
Upon meeting me, the PR woman described my impact on entering a room as “About the same as someone who’d just left.” Since she felt I had no personal impact, she asked, “What do you do, become the character?” I had no idea what I was doing to elicit the praise in those letters, but attempting with some success to “become the character” was what I was doing.
I had a similar letter of recommendation to the head of the talent program at Warner Brothers for whom I did a scene from a popular play and movie at that time, Tea and Sympathy. In the story the young man’s sexuality is in question, and he has a sexual encounter with an older woman.
Not knowing anything about what such a young man might sound like, I chose to lighten my quality. After the scene was over, the man in charge said, “Have your agent call me.” I walked out of the studio on a cloud. “Have your agent call me?!”
Of course, I had no agent, so I went to a phone booth and looked up agents in the Yellow Pages. I actually got one on the phone and told him what had happened. He said he’d call the studio and I should call him the next day, which I did.
I excitedly asked, “What do they want to do with me?” He said, “They don’t want to do anything with you. They felt your quality was too light.” “Too light? I was doing that for the role,” I said, but my explanation fell on deaf ears. I asked the agent if I could come in and meet him, but the answer was a polite no.
If the talent head had engaged me in conversation, he would have seen that my quality wasn’t too light. Just as would later happen, I was good enough that he believed that I was what they were seeing. Looking back, it was fortunate, because I was better served not being in a studio talent program but learning my craft more, getting experience onstage and in television, and not trying to jump into the movies.
The event that changed my path was that a director I viewed as knowledgeable asked, “What are you doing here? You could become a real actor. You should go to New York and study.” So, just like that, I did.
The man’s name was John Harding, and I owe him a big debt of gratitude as experience tells me good advice is hard to find in any field. Clearly, very few people give any thought to anyone outside of themselves and family.
In New York, I moved into a room in the Capitol Hall hotel. It had no bathroom, no stove, no hot plate, and no window. It had a sink. As I recall, there were two bathrooms on each floor. Each was shared by about sixteen people.
I was fine. I’ve always been unusually focused, and I was focused on how to become a good actor, so the lack of accoutrements didn’t get to me. Since there was no cooking allowed, and it wasn’t financially viable for me to go out to restaurants, I got myself an electric frying pan, which I smuggled past the front desk under my coat. Today I’m way more law-abiding.
I hid the electric frying pan under my socks in a drawer. I’ve always had a lot of socks. No matter what my financial condition was, for some reason I’ve always had more socks than any one person could wear. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not comparing myself to Imelda Marcos and her shoes, but I’ve always had a lot of socks.
Anyway, in my illegal electric frying pan I would regularly cook chicken wings, which I got for nineteen cents a package. Today, I still eat chicken wings as much as any other food. According to my recent physical, I’m in tip-top shape. I’m not suggesting you run out and get chicken wings; I’m just saying…
I think my experience at Capitol Hall—on Eighty- seventh Street between Columbus and Amsterdam in Manhattan—helps me identify with people in shelters. Of course, unlike me, most people in shelters don’t have confidence that someday they’ll be better than fine. Ironically, Capitol Hall is now a homeless shelter.
I hooked up with my pal from the Playhouse, Julie Ferguson, who had also come to New York to study acting, and we got an audition for the Actors Studio. Julie and I had bonded with one look at the Playhouse as we felt equally silly prancing around the so-called movement class—another concept I have no use for in an acting class. Let it be for aspiring dancers.
I had no idea the Actors Studio auditioned around a thousand people a year and accepted only a few. Julie and I were not among those few. It was the only thing in Manhattan harder to get into than a private preschool.