Growing Up Brady: I Was a Teenage Greg, Special Collector's Edition (19 page)

So nuts that we'd habitually sneak off the "Brady" set and spend
camera breaks lip-locked in my dressing room.

So nuts that much to the chagrin of the producers, you can
often see Greg and Marcia making eyes at one another in episodes
of "The Brady Bunch."

So nuts that our overheated behavior would at times actually
cause shooting delays on the set.

I asked Lloyd Schwartz for an example, and he jumped at the
chance to rat me out.

"Oh, this is great. Early on, I was presented with the following
problem: the libido among the six kids was showing signs that it
might one day become ... uh ... a problem. So I made up, and
Barry, you bought for a while, this whole sales pitch that went like,
`Yeah, Maureen sure is beautiful, but did you ever notice how
many really attractive friends she has? And wouldn't it be better to
have her introduce you to all of them instead of just being with
her?' That kept you guys apart for a little while, but then of course
the whole thing blew up in Hawaii.

"So now we're back in LA., and I'm directing an episode called
`Room At The Top'. And there's this scene where you're supposed
to come into the girls' room, sit on the bed with Maureen, and talk
to her about moving into the attic. At at the end of it, Maureen was
supposed to turn to you, hug you, and say something like, `Oh,
you're such a good brother.'

"... no, I'm just
happy to see her."
(Michael Ochs
ArchivesNenice, CA)

"Now at this point, you two were crazy about each other, and
every time you came in and sat next to Maureen, the scene
became very romantic. I mean, this was supposed to be Greg and
Marcia, brother and sister, and you were panting all over each
other. Anyway, finally, after the thirteenth take, I had you make a
fist and put your hand in between you and Maureen. Thankfully,
that physical barrier let us get through the scene without melting
the camera lens."

We got through that scene, but I was starting to get paranoid.
That's because everywhere, it seemed, there was someone intent
on keeping the youthful hormonal entanglement between Maureen
and me from getting too friendly. Lloyd certainly did his part; and
on one particularly frustrating occasion, so did my real-life dad.

It all started with a simple Friday-night visit. Maureen came over
to my house for an innocent "dinner with my folks"-at least that's
what I told her. I, on the other hand, being young, male, and nuts
about the girl, had more exciting activities in mind.

7:00 P.M.: I sprang my plan into action at dinner. A little flirting,
eye contact, hand contact, foot contact, and the groundwork was
firmly in place.

7:58 P.M.: My mom was frantically clearing the dinner plates as
Dad fiddled with the rabbit ears on the living room TV. "Two minutes to showtime!" he bellowed gleefully, alerting the world to the
fact that it's nearly "Brady" time.

"Uh ... Mo brought her swimsuit ... I think we're gonna skip
the show and take a dip in the pool instead," I said, smiling, hoping my virtuous look might mask my ulterior intentions and effectively snow both the folks and Maureen.

We changed into our bathing suits, hit poolside, jumped in, and
my already overstimulated hormones ran amok. Maureen glistened in the moonlight, and as those huge blue eyes of hers
locked onto mine, I stood transfixed, frozen breathlessly amid the
chlorine and the inflatable toys. Steam was rising off my swimsuit.

It was now past 8:30, and while "The Brady Bunch" was over, I
knew that my folks wouldn't budge from their La-Z-Boys until at
least the end of "Love, American Style," and that was two and a half
hours away. It was time to make my move.

Still wrapped in beach towels, I asked Maureen if she wanted to
go to my room and see my new stereo. I'm not sure if she knew
my real motives, but she said yes.

"I have a great new album I want Mo to hear," I told my mom,
trying hard to keep my face straight.

"That's nice," she replied unsuspectingly. "Have fun."

I grinned, stifled a laugh, and led Mo to my bedroom.

I should mention that I really did have a new stereo system to
show Mo. It was state of the art in 1973 (garbage today), andaside from that other all-consuming pubescent preoccupationmy most cherished indulgence.

We entered my bedroom a bit uneasily, and Mo sat down, I
cranked up the sound system and then joined her on the
extremely groovy three-by-five-foot foam-filled throw pillows that I
had scattered about my floor for lounging purposes. Soon, romantic hits like Elton John's "Your Song" and "Daniel" began blasting
from my room at a volume easily capable of repelling parents and
drowning out any noise that might begin emanating from within
my thin plasterboard walls. I had stacked several romantic albums
onto my automatic record changer Jim Croce; Blood, Sweat and
Tears; Bread (that one was a killer)-and as each one dropped
onto the turntable, Maureen and I got closer ... much closer ...
much, much closer.

Finally, it was time to haul out the big gun. No, I'm not speaking
euphemistically about my anatomy, I simply mean that in the hope
that Maureen and I might actually ... uh ... curl each other's toes, I
peeled the shrinkwrap off the granddaddy of all seduction discs.
Yes, Stone Gon' by Barry White dropped onto my turntable, and it served its purpose perfectly ... almost.

Turns out that Barry White and his trademark narrative made
his way from my turntable, out my speakers, through my bedroom
walls, down the hallway, into the living room, over an easy chair,
and into the ears of my dad. Nobody's fool, he caught onto my
plot immediately and headed toward my room.

Meanwhile, back in the boudoir, Maureen and I were blissfully
(though not blissfully enough for me) unaware of our impending
doom.

Then it hit. Actually, he hit-my door: three pounding resounding booms, followed by a terse statement about my mom wanting
to see us right away. The force of his voice cut right through Mr.
White's aural sex, and filled me first with surprise, then anger, then
fear.

Immediately, we scrambled about the room, rebuttoned and
rezipped what we'd undone, restraightened what we had loosened, and, glowing sweatily, made our way to the living room, trying our best to look really innocent.

My dad glared at us under a stern, knowing brow; but as it
turned out, my mom really did want to see us. Dessert was ready.

It's not often that strawberry shortcake rates inferior on the sensory pleasure scale, but in this case it was definitely less than satisfying.

I was frustrated but undaunted. I had lost one opportunity, but
more would follow.

Stay tuned.

ne of the toughest obstacles to overcome as a kid actor
is getting the various and multitudinous adults that you
work with every day to treat you like a human being. I
_ guess it's simply easier for the producers, directors, and
assistants to think of you as an object and speak to you condescendingly, as if you're some sort of miniature robot, awaiting their
instructions on how to behave. Even amid the usually supportive,
caring confines of the "Brady Bunch" set, this problem was not
uncommon-and never more apparent than with our most frequent director, Oscar Rudolph.

Don't get me wrong-Oscar was a pleasant, truly likable older
gentleman, with a round, ruddy face, a hearty laugh, and a history
of credits that extended back to the DeMille days. Unfortunately,
he also had an annoying habit of trying to maintain absolute control over everything in his path. While preparing to film a scene,
he'd supervise the lighting guys, bother the cameramen, and when
we were finally ready to shoot, he'd give in to his anal-retentive
obsessive compulsion by trying to completely manipulate the performances of us kids.

"UP, UP, UP!!" he'd yell before each take, encouraging us to
open our eyes wider, grin bigger, and exude manic amounts of
energy. As a result, the Brady kids sometimes spend whole
episodes bouncing around like they've had way too much coffee.
"UP, UP, UP!" he'd yell again; and just when your energy level was
soaring through the roof, he'd roll camera and spend the entire
take getting even more involved in your performance.

Oscar Rudolph wasn't a man who could simply sit in his director's chair and observe your performance. In his mind, that would
be leaving far too much to chance. Instead, this rotund gentleman
would squat just underneath the camera lens, and proceed to "act" our scene along with us, throwing every bit of his up-up-up" philosophy into his performance. His eyes would get buggy and wide,
his wooly eyebrows would rise up until they'd nearly met with his
receded hairline; but most memorable of all was his grin. Always,
he'd slap this huge goofy grin across his face, and as he'd lip-synch
the lines with us, his thick pink tongue always seemed to be protruding and retracting lizard-style.

We Brady kids did our best not to laugh.

What's less apparent, is the underlying message. Mr. Rudolph's
misguided manipulations weren't so much based on his ideas of
good television as they were based on his belief that we kids were
simply incapable of understanding how to behave in any given
scripted context. We were perceived as objects to be fed, watered,
and told what to do.

The degree to which each of us kids was "objectified" ran in
reverse order of age. I was the oldest, and I was patronized, but I
never came close to experiencing what the younger kids had to
put up with. Susan Olsen told me about it:

"I really resented being treated as an object, and most of the
adults that worked with us respected us as people who were doing
a job and being professional, and they were good with us. But
some people refused to acknowledge the fact that kids could be
communicated with. Y'know, they'd be surprised when other crew
members would speak to us in the same manner they'd speak to
an adult.

"But when I was at work I was a worker. I didn't want to be
talked down to. I didn't want to be treated with less respect than
anybody else, and what Oscar would do if he wanted me to move
somewhere on the set, instead of saying, `Okay, Susie, can you
take three steps left?' or whatever, he'd just pick me up and move
me. I can still remember his thumbs in my armpits. Even then I
remember thinking, `He doesn't do that to Florence.' One time,
when he didn't like the shirt that wardrobe had put me in, he started taking my shirt off, just exactly like I was a little mannequin or
something."