The Books: “Are You Anybody?: An Actor’s Life” (Bradford Dillman)

Daily Book Excerpt: Entertainment Biography/Memoir:

Are You Anybody?: An Actor’s Life, by Bradford Dillman

One of the side effects of being obsessed with Dean Stockwell is that you suddenly find yourself needing (yes, needing) to buy the autobiography of Bradford Dillman, who starred with Stockwell in 1959’s Compulsion (a movie I wrote about here) – just in case Stockwell was mentioned Dillman and Stockwell were not friends. As a matter of fact, they didn’t get along. Stockwell had done the play on Broadway with Roddy McDowall (post about that here) – and McDowall was not asked to do the film (not because he wasn’t good, but because the studio had a contractual obligation to Dillman, so they put HIM in the project) – and apparently Stockwell was, how you say, less than gracious to this interloper!! (In a beautiful moment of dovetailing narratives, McDowall, years and years later, would play a part on Quantum Leap in the final season … when Al is threatened, by a moment in his past, to no longer be in charage of the project in the future … and suddenly Roddy McDowall shows up to help Sam Beckett – played by Scott Bakula – and Bakula is like, “Where’s Al???”)

But is a small connection between Stockwell and Dillman any reason to buy an entire book, Sheila?? Well, yes, it is. Obsession follows its own pathways. Just find a used copy on Amazon for 20 cents and grab that sucker up.

I think Compulsion is terrific (not perfect, but a terrific psychological thriller, quite daring in the context of its day) – and while I think Stockwell far outshines Dillman (who does a lot of maniacal laughing – “indicating” that he is crazy) – somehow the pair ends up working. There’s a scene where Orson Welles interviews the two boys after they have been arrested. Stockwell is chain-smoking, pacing in the small cell – but it’s not “actor” pacing. It’s not cliche. He is pacing because he has so much nervous energy that he must move. He’s cranky. Welles asks questions that seem to imply that Stockwell’s character might, uhm, not be into girls (it’s 1959, so it’s subtle and coded …”No girls?”) … and Stockwell is sliced open, psychologically, in that moment. Meanwhile, sitting over on the windowsill, is Dillman, at first cocky and assured, and you can already feel how the boys are separating … Dillman’s character leaving Stockwell’s out to dry. “Sure, I’ve got alibis …” croons Dillman. So while some of Dillman’s work here seems “showy” to me, and unnecessarily so, it ends up working for the character. He’s also a “showoff” – that’s his whole thing. He’s a big phony, a liar, a con artist, and a manipulator. One of those Ivy League boys who had everything handed to them … and so, because things were so easy, he ends up having contempt for the whole world. Dillman really does play that well. I think Stockwell is riveting, however … and acts Dillman off the screen.

(If you haven’t seen Compulsion, I highly recommend it.)

I bought Dillman’s autobiography on this slim-pickins basis. But it’s actually a hoot. I loved it.

Dillman has 3 kids, was married to the same woman for 40 years (an actress – who passed away a couple of years ago), and – very much like his character in Compulsion was being bred for upper-class greatness when he horrified his family by deciding he wanted to be an actor. Like so many other people at that time (early to mid 50s) he gravitated towards the Actors Studio. That was the place to be. It was the kind of work that everyone wanted to do now. Everyone wanted to be Brando. It seemed like if you took 1 or 2 classes with Lee Strasberg, perhaps you could BE Brando?? No? Maybe?? But it was also a place to study, to get serious about your craft outside of the public glare, to stretch yourself, etc. etc. Dillman was no dummy. He knew it was the place to be.

He had his big break on Broadway, where he appeared as Eugene Tyrone in O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night (a very famous production, with Jason Robards and Fredric March). Another weird Stockwell connection: when the play was finally filmed, Dean Stockwell played Eugene, the role Bradford Dillman had originated on Broadway. Ouch. But regardless, that was a big big moment for Dillman – in 1956 – being in this huge hit show, that won accolades left and right, prizes, literary and theatrical – the production was a sensation. Fredric March (who played James Tyrone) took Dillman under his wing a bit, mentoring him, teaching him about the business. And Dillman’s career was off and running.

He was being groomed for stardom – but as so often happens in this life – he didn’t quite make it. His “star” slipped very quickly. He had been in big important projects, and then a couple of years later … not so much … However, Dillman kept working, and was involved in some pretty cool films (look him up!) as well as appearing in guest spots on every television show known to man. He had a recurring role on Falcon Crest, for example. Dillman’s career was LONG. I love guys like Bradford Dillman. They’re the ones who were “disappointed”, by perhaps not becoming as famous as their peers … but who kept at it. I know so many people like that, and it’s truly inspiring to me. Stockwell was one of them for many years. He has famous as a child, famous as a young man – and then dropped so completely off the radar as a man in his 30s and 40s that he finally moved to Taos and got his real estate license. Couldn’t make a living. He didn’t count on David Lynch resurrecting his career, and he didn’t count on being more famous at the age of 50 than he ever was as a little kid. Love that! Dillman remained good-looking and dapper, perfect for shows like Murder She Wrote and Love Boat, and despite his good looks there was always something a little bit … sketch about him … which worked in his favor. It worked in his favor early in his career (that character in Compulsion is the epitome of “sketch”) and it worked in his favor later. He could play the dashing shallow man accused of murdering his wife, and you thought, yeah, that guy probably did it, and he’ll probably get away with it. You can have a nice career playing things like that!

Now let’s talk about his book. There probably isn’t one serious word in it. Sometimes it feels like he’s writing a How-To book for young actors. He dispenses advice on how to deal with criticism, or how to concentrate on a busy movie set … and yet at the same time, it’s NOT an advice book, it’s also just a long compilation of funny anecdotes about his famous co-stars … So it’s a mixed bag. But some of his anecdotes are so hysterical … and you still get the sense that Dillman was like, “Can you believe how lucky I was that I got to work with so-and-so???” Not in an obnoxious way, but like a little kid gets excited. I find that kind of non-seriousness very refreshing, and also, as I’ve mentioned, I’m a sucker for an awesome anecdote.

For example, he recounts this famous anecdote, one of my favorites in Hollywood lore:

In The Greatest Story Ever Told [John] Wayne was cast as a Roman captain who visits the scene of the Crucifixion and says, standing at the feet of Christ, “Truly this was the son of God.”

Director George Stevens was riding a crane when the actor stepped in for a take. Wayne said, “TrulythiswasthesonaGod.”

“Cut. Duke, let’s remember you’re talking about Jesus here. You might want to take the speech a bit slower.”

“You got it, George.”

Take Two. The Centurion says, “Truly. ThiswasthesonaGod.”

“Cut. Duke, not reverent enough. Let’s try it again, and this time give us a little awe.”

“You got it, George.”

Take Three. The superstar says, “Aw, truly. ThiswasthesonaGod.”

Now why Dillman is relating this anecdote that has nothing to do with him is unclear to me. The book is full of stuff like that. It seems to me that he is relaying the story because it pleases him, and I don’t know, seems like a good enough reason to me.

So although there is little to no Stockwell in Dillman’s book, I had a lot of fun reading it. You’ll see why in the CHATTY excerpt below.

First of all, he relates one of my favorite anecdotes ever about Robert Mitchum, and he also relates a story about Orson Welles. Neither Stockwell nor Dillman had good things to say about Welles’ behavior (his acting is another story) … by that point in his life, Welles was a big mess in terms of his personal life, could only work on certain days on the month because he couldn’t be in America for longer than that time due to tax problems … so he would sweep in, be a total nightmare, sweep out, leaving everyone to … clean up, basically. Stockwell, who had been in the business forever by that point, although he was a young man, always felt that kind of bullying was unnecessary. There was always a trickster element to Welles … and you can see it operate here, in a less than benign manner.

If you like a gossipy book (well written), full of anecdotes about all the greats – with little to no segue between anecdotes – they serve no POINT, they are just amusing stories… I would recommend Are You Anybody? It’s a lot of fun.

Oh, the places you’ve led me, Dean Stockwell.

EXCERPT FROM Are You Anybody?: An Actor’s Life, by Bradford Dillman

For the past fifty years Robert Mitchum has been captivating filmgoers with his sleepy demeanor. He was the first actor to be jailed for marijuana, and it’s no state secret he’s enjoyed a cocktail or two in his time. But his toughness is no pose.

Before beginning a film with him, Henry Hathaway, a director acknowledged as a card-carrying sadist, felt impelled to explain himself.

“Listen, Mitch,” he said. “I got this thing. Sometimes I get a little excited, call actors names and cuss them, but I want you to know it’s nothing personal. It’s just me.”

“I hear you, Henry,” Mitchum replied. “I know how it is. I’ve got this thing, too. See, whenever somebody calls me names or cusses me out, I haul off and bust him in the mouth. Nothing personal. It’s just me.”

Yet few know what an intelligent, articulate man Mitchum is, how charming he can be. He’s also a prankster. When I worked with him on location in Hong Kong, our director was hearing-impaired. In the briefcase used for transporting his script he carried several hearing aid battery replacements. We’d rehearsed a scene in an office, we were doing Take One, I’d fed Mitch his cue, when he mouthed his response. No sound.

“Cut.” The director was pounding his ear. “Damn,” he said, removing the device, opening his briefcase to install a fresh battery. “Okay, let’s go again.”

Take Two. I give the cue, Mitch mouths his line.

“Cut.” The director pounding his ear anew. “Who makes these things, anyway?”

It took four takes for him to realize he’d been victimized by an imp.

The imp struck again during a scene in the lobby of the Hotel Peninsula, he and I seated at a table. Normally spectators keep a respectful distance as they observe the moviemaking process, but a blonde plumper spilling out of her pink pants suit couldn’t restrain herself. Between takes she rushed over and did a five-minute number on how Robert Mitchum ruled her life, how jealous he made her husband, how her friends teased her about her crush. It went on and on, the actor grunting occasionally before pretending to nod off.

The lady’s moving lips were right in his ear when Mitch jolted awake. Feigning shock, he thundered, “Suck what?”

**

Orson Welles was a genius. In my judgment Citizen Kane is the greatest motion picture ever made, and I told him so. Its innovations will be copied by filmmakers to the end of time. He transformed the medium forever.

Welles’ experience in radio taught him to “hear” a scene. When he directed he was as much conductor as filmmaker, asking his actors to overlap one another in such a way that only pertinent dialogue emerged. Out of seeming confusion he created clarity.

Orson was also a creative bully. I worked with him twice, in Compulsion and in a movie where he, Juliette Greco and I each played two roles. It’s called Crack in the Mirror.

During our weeks doing Compulsion, Orson was cordial and helpful, but evidently he neither anticipated nor appreciated that Dean Stockwell and I would earn critical acclaim to equal his.

When we began shooting Crack In the Mirror in Paris he was laying for me. The plot involves a love triangle at two levels. The first is a wealthy older barrister whose wife is having an affair with an ambitious young lawyer. The second is an older laborer whose wife is having an affair with a young punk. After the latter two conspire and kill the laborer, they are prosecuted and defended by the upper-crust attorneys.

The dual roles required special makeup. As the lawyer my hair was sprayed blond. As the punk I inserted plugs to expand my nostrils and my hair was ironed into tight dark curls. Orson noted the difference daily; depending on the schedule, he either called me “Blondie” or “Curley”. More than once he ruffled the carefully sprayed hair or ironed curls in what was purportedly a good-natured gesture. But it required time to repair.

Orson did his own makeup, working from a makeup box that must have dated back to his days at the Mercury Theater. Inside he had all his paints and putty noses, an unsanitary mixture that caused my fastidious makeup artist to sniff and whisper, “C’est une boucherie.” A butcher shop.

One early morning, seated side by side in makeup, Orson remarked, “You seem damn cheerful this morning.”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I’m pumped up. My wife’s arriving from California today.”

Orson put down his powder brush to study me. “You’re kidding. You’re married?”

“Sure.”

He snorted.

“What about it?”

“Well,” he said. “No offense. I always thought you were a fag.”

I looked to see if he was joking.

He wasn’t.

I gave some sort of light-hearted response but I was badly upset. My stomach churning, I went downstairs to the soundstage. As I walked on the set it hit me: I was about to play my most important scene in the movie.

And he knew it.

More than a courtesy, it’s important when doing coverage on a scene that an actor give off-camera dialogue to the person performing his close-up. The eye contact is essential. On opening day Welles demonstrated his despite by waving me away. “Stand over there,” he directed. “Get me a gobo.” A lighting stanchion was set in my place. Unseen, I fed him his cues.

But bullies are usually cowards, and Orson was no exception. I cherish Darryl Zanuck’s story about sitting with Welles in a restaurant, listening to an ongoing diatribe about the injustices done the director by some studio executive, how much he hated the man, what he’d do to the swine if he ever saw him again. A waiter interrupted to present a card. It was from this selfsame executive, inviting Zanuck to join his table for a drink. A feisty, combative man, Darryl showed Welles the card, then went over to the table, listed a bottle of champagne from its bucket and doused the villain with its contents. Triumphant, he turned to Orson for applause.

Welles had vacated the premises.

**

Frequently, live TV shows were rehearsed in a ballroom on the lower East side, a few doors away from Ratner’s, an outstanding Jewish restaurant. When I was rehearsing There Shall Be No Night I ate there almost every noon.

I was impersonating the son of Charles Boyer, one of the most charming men I ever knew. Tempted as he was, Charles would never agree to join e for lunch because he was fearful of being recognized. As Gallic sex symbol he’d had some unfortunate brushes with overheated ladies.

One day I had an idea. “Charles, if you’ll forgive a rude suggestion, I think you’d be perfectly safe to join me if you’d, ah, leave your hairpiece behind.”

He must have been hungry because he wasn’t offended. Instead he put the toupee aside and we marched arm in arm over to Ratner’s, where we were seated at a table in the middle of the room. Delighted with the menu, Charles ordered a sequence of specialties, beginning with the chicken soup. He was delighted, too, that his disguise was so successful no one had given him a second look. I was congratulating myself when I glanced over his shoulder to see a large, beaming woman rush across the room, homing in on him from behind. Charles was about to bring matzohs to his mouth when she crushed him in a linebacker’s embrace, causing the spoon to fly, inundating him with soup.

Hugging him, she cooed, “Cholly, Cholly. Take me to the Kezbah!”

**

Before he became an actor Burt Reynolds was a stuntman. In his early TV series he liked to be seen participating in a lot of action because it was what he did best. In those days, he wasn’t much of an actor. But as one series led to the next he became more confident, more magnetic.

I was a guest on what he thought would be his swan song, present the day his show Dan August was canceled by the network. “That’s it,” said Burt. “I’m dead. This is the third horse I’ve had shot out from under me. I’m history.”

The problem was, he’d never been given the chance to flaunt his sense of humor. But after he posed for a male centerfold and appeared on all the talk shows to jest about it, he built a whole new career as a lovable, laughable guy.