ow Barry grew up to be sane, I've no idea, bearing in
mind that "sane" in the acting world is a relative
term. Considering the pressures, conflicts, and stresses involved, how Barry grew up at all might be a
more pertinent question.

But this book is a testament to the fact that he has at least
survived, and apparently survived to tell about it. It might be
said that at best he speaks with veracity and can lay to rest
some of the semiaccurate trivializations that have recently
found their ways to the booksellers. And yes, alas, it is possible
to trivialize the trivial.

The question of adjustment for a young performer is a serious one. Despite the common belief, no child is a born actor.
No youngster left to his own devices conceives of learning a
text or a song with the notion of staging it before a group of
adults.

Children can be instinctive mimics (as anyone knows who
has seen a toddler bounce to a video beat or imitate the characters on "Sesame Street"), and they can readily role-play in
invented games with their peers. In no way, however, do they
perceive this as entertaining others, but quite simply as entertaining themselves.

Some outside conditioning must take place before a
potential thespian emerges from the child and transforms
simple self-amusement into attention-getting behavior. It can
start with something as simple as a lauded patty-cake or
parental applause when little Johnny is able to find his nose
with his finger. Little Johnny, of course, knows nothing of
performance at this stage but simply reads his actions as a method of receiving love and approval. As Dr. Joyce Brothers
points out, it is when little Johnny begins to point to other
parts of his body that the confusion begins. He quickly learns
that not all performance brings praise, nor will it necessarily
amuse him.

If confusion is not the quintessence of prepubescent acting,
it is almost surely the result of it.

Duke University inaugurated a study to attempt to determine the most stressful situation in which a human being
could find himself short of anything life-threatening-that is,
outside of going to war or having a pistol pointed at one's
head, what was it in normal life that could create the most
intense strain and pressure?

They found that by far the surest way to induce perspiration,
loss of voice, and trembling of the extremities was the simple
act of rising before a group to speak or perform in some manner. More than social problems, work-related stresses, marital
difficulties, school demands, the thoughts of having to stand in
a spotlight can cause laryngeal stricture and turn the brain to
mush.

It requires little to imagine the effects of being hired to
appear on a motion-picture set, where thousands of watts of
light and sixty or seventy pairs of judgmental and demanding
eyes are focused directly on you. Add to that the knowledge
that when "Action!" is called, virtually everyone around you is
practiced and competent, time costs thousands of dollars an
hour, and the competition for your job is more intense than in
any other vocation.

In this most exacting profession, it becomes a matter of the
pressure not just of standing up and performing but of having
to perform perfectly.

Even recompensed with parental love and approval, Little
Johnny is hardly immune to this kind of stress.

In the course of his development, a child routinely risks failure; it is part of his learning. If he falls off his bike, he simply
gathers himself up, remounts, and tries again until he gets it
right. He has no one to satisfy but himself. In school, failure is
normally met with nurturing, and time is allowed for progress;
and parental teaching is for the most part grounded in love.
Bruised sensitivities are given time to heal. Little or none of
this occurs in the milieu of professional television. Success is
demanded on the spot. That same little Johnny who only
recently learned to point to his nose now has a much more
complex and demanding task of achieving approbation.

A parent or guardian is required to be with the child on the set and can now witness failure magnified to its larger consequences. While some of the adult actors around him may offer
gentle indoctrination to a point, the director, and ultimate
authority figure, is far less likely to do so. And whether or not
the child is successful, fear of failure is a constant.

How often in the supermarket do we see the results of
these pressures on young actors displayed in tabloid excess?
Deprived of a constancy in education, normal interaction with
their age group, and an overload of attention that would dilate
the ego of a saint-added to the unfortunate fact that a series'
end may also coincide with the end of a young career-so
many of them have found their last splurge of publicity in the
scandal sheets, blaring their stories of substance abuse or
felony.

The questions of confusion in purpose, love and approval
and rejection are now major problems.

After forty years in the theater, my conclusion long has been
that the stage is no place for a child. For him to act naturally is
difficult enough; for him to grow up naturally in this environment is too much to expect.

It seems to me that for us adults in the profession, there is a
responsibility beyond just gentle indoctrination: in these ersatz
television families we create, we are forced, like it or not, to
assume some of the role of parent simply in order to prevent
the most blatant exploitation of the child. Even so, we offer
only a semi-solution, not without its own complexities and
problems.

Surrounding the child with further authority figures is problematic, considering that he already has in attention a parent, a
producer, a director, a crew, a dialogue coach, and a welfare
worker. Investigation, risk taking, and challenging, normal parts
of a child's development, are rarely countenanced. But at least
the actor playing a parent, having already established a relationship within the text, has an opportunity to extend those bonds
into reality, and because he is faced with exactly the same professional obstacles as the child, he has an open window for lessening of tension. The fact that we are doing the same thing gives
us commonality and affords the adult a chance to show that failure and experimentation not only can be allowed but are part of
the honing process. He is also in a perfect position to offer a pat
on the back when a hurdle is crossed.

Having painted a picture of the gentle art of acting as a
black hole for the young psyche, a pit at the bottom of which is
developmental disorder and lost youth, am I not denigrating
my task at hand? Am I not supposed to be creating an intro duction to the thoughts and remembrances of someone for
whom I care a great deal and who has my respect as a man and
as an actor? Presumably the text you are about to read is not a
tragic thesis on the life and declining times of Barry Williams.
Have I not ended up with an innacurate depiction of a dichotomy of purpose? No. My digression into the darker possibilities
of theatrical life is only to underscore the fact that "The Brady
Bunch" was virtually atypical.

Is the reader then expected to believe that of tTie plethora
of sitcom children spawned from 1965 to 1985, these, my syndicated brood, were incomparable? Yes. Sound like a father
speaking? Maybe. Self-aggrandizing? Perhaps. But in retrospect
at least, I think I am fairly objective. The show was what it was,
no more, no less.

After a career of eighty-three theatrical productions, five
television series, and enough film to girdle the earth, I am willing to go on record. Having personally met, known, or worked
with the vast majority of other young actors in the popular
television shows during that twenty-year span, I can unabashedly say that the six faces that appeared in the squares of
the opening credits of "The Brady Bunch" were almost without
equal.

I don't know to what to attribute not ending up with at least
one bad apple in the kid department. I am obliged to say, however, that for everything Sherwood Schwartz, the pater generator and producer of the series, would willingly accept credit,
the one to which he could lay uncontested claim is the casting
of the children. Several hundreds were auditioned, and he
gleaned the very best of the lot. Also my guess is that
Sherwood had as good an eye for parents as he had for their
offspring. In some ways they were as atypical as their children.

Second, the general tone and good nature of the scripts
themselves, coupled with an effort to keep them within the
bounds of reality and morality, tended to engender a positive
influence. Third, a cast and crew not unmindful of maintaining
a suitable atmosphere. And perhaps the most important of all,
a teacher/welfare worker who was one of the dearest and most
proficient in the business.

There were occasions when the kids were predictably kids,
and attention spans weren't quite as long as hoped, but the
minor problems that occurred were not actors' personality
problems, they were the same generic difficulties everyone has
at home.

The best accolade I can give them is to say that they came
into the show with a certain innocence and naivete, and five years later they left the show with an appropriate amount of
both qualities. They are now men and women of substance,
ease, and grace, whom I very much consider family.

To me, "The Brady Bunch" was the kids. Their gentle personalities, vulnerabilities, and ability to remain identifiable to
those their own age were its success. For adults to play familial
love is relatively easy; for children to do it convincingly is
remarkable. That the show is now playing to a third generation
of viewers speaks for itself.

I believe that what you are about to read, both in the lines
and between them, will give some insight into the qualities
that Sherwood must have seen.

ROBERT REED

Pasadena, California