There was a break in the Peyton Place schedule, and I was offered a prestigious TV show back in New York: three one-act plays, three couples, written by Murray Schisgal, an outrageous comedy writer and playwright. Stanley Prager, an ex-blacklisted friend, was directing. Alan King, a terrific comic, was costarring. It was being shot in New York. I couldn’t wait to go back.
I showed up at the address given for the shoot. It wasn’t a studio, it was an apartment building on West 14th Street. The assistant director met me in the lobby, and we took the elevator up to the top floor, a penthouse, large, with three-sided views.
The play was set in a penthouse, but an actor rarely gets to work on location. It was both unnerving and exciting. I have a fear of heights that makes me dizzy even as I write this.
Alan was already there. I don’t remember if we arrived in makeup or if they had a makeup room in the apartment, but there was a “Let’s get a move on and shoot this thing” kind of energy that was coming from Alan and the two young producers.
We rehearsed two or three times with our director, old friend Stanley Prager. He turned to the producers. They nodded; he said, “Okay, let’s shoot it.”
The scene was a bitter, funny argument between us on the terrace of our penthouse, where I, the wife, threaten to jump off if my husband doesn’t do what I want. The dialogue ends with something like:
Me: “If you don’t stop, I’ll jump off this penthouse terrace!”
He: “You think you’re scaring me? Go ahead, jump!”
Me: “I mean it, I’m jumping off this roof—”
He: “I dare you—go ahead—”
Me: “I will!”
When I got to the point where my character actually jumps, I looked at my director and asked, “Where’s the studio?”
Stanley looked at the young producers, who walked toward me.
Producer 1: “There’s no studio, Lee, we’ve set up the jump here.”
Me: “Where?”
Producer 1: “Here. You jump to the terrace right below. You see, there’s a stagehand lying there as a protection between you and the street, and we’ve set up a mattress so you won’t hurt yourself landing.”
I looked over the side where they had set up the jump. The traffic on 14th Street swam below me. There was a large concrete balcony one floor down with a broken balustrade. A stagehand was stretched across the balustrade facing out, his long arms holding the base, his boots hooked into an opening on the other end. His chest and belly stretched across the space open to the sky and the curious birds. He turned his head to look at me. His eyes implored, Be careful, my life is in your hands.
I looked back at the smiling producers, unbelieving. Stanley had his head averted from the balustrade; he, too, had a fear of heights.
“Look, Lee, be a good sport. Let’s get this shot, so we can all go home, okay? You don’t want to put all these people out of work, do you?” Gesturing to the crew.
I looked at the crew. They looked back at me.
I looked at Alan, an old pro, the question in his eyes: So?
I would later film Plaza Suite, in which Walter Matthau crawled out a window and walked on a ledge outside. You don’t think Walter crawled out of the real Plaza, do you? This is done in a studio.
Me: “What if I hit that man and he falls? What if I fall?”
Producer 2: “Lee, we don’t have the budget to shoot in a studio. We’re television. There is no studio.”
I felt trapped.
“Set up the shot,” I said.
I climbed on the ledge, anger replacing fear, looked down at the distant cars moving on the street below, clear, not dizzy. I glanced at the stagehand, his knuckles white on the balustrade, his head buried in his arms.
Stanley whispered, “Action.” He couldn’t look. I turned to Alan for the cue.
“I really mean it,” I said.
“Go ahead, jump,” he said.
I focused on the mattresses way below and jumped.
The crew pulled me back up to the penthouse. They handled me with care. I waited. Grim.
“We could use another take, Lee.”
I felt so shut down and bitter and betrayed that I didn’t care. Two more times I jumped, carefully measuring the distance away from the stagehand, his neck red with strain. Both of us alone together.
It was a fuck-you jump. They pulled me back up and I left.
I took the next plane out, back to the safe sets of Peyton Place.