Mary and Lou and Rhoda and Ted: A History of the Mary Tyler Moore Show (30 page)

When Allen and Betty returned from a trip to Ireland just in time to send the “4” flowers, White got a call from Burns, who asked her to play a one-episode character named Sue Ann Nivens, known as “The Happy Homemaker” at WJM. She would have the thankless job of trying to steal Phyllis’s husband, Lars. Burns described the character as “cloyingly sweet on the surface and something of a dragon underneath, with a tinge of nymphomania.”

White said yes, taking great glee in calling her old friend and taunting: “Guess who’s doing your show next week!”

“Oh, no,” Moore joked. “I may not butt into the show often, but I do have veto power.”

In fact, writers Ed. Weinberger and Stan Daniels had, in their script, described the character as “a Betty White type”—that is, a seemingly pleasant lady with a warm smile and darling dimples—“but as vicious as a barracuda.” Ethel Winant had suggested they go ahead and try White herself instead of searching for a replica. Because White had been around the stage so much to support Moore, the producers got to know the actress a bit, so they recognized that she was bawdier than some may have realized. They knew she could pull off the role; they simply worried about forcing Moore to mix business and friendship.

Weinberger and Daniels auditioned other actresses for the part but couldn’t find the right one. Finally, they gave in and asked Burns to call White. Moore gave the go-ahead, saying, “I think she’d rather be asked than not given the chance because it might go badly.”

White felt nervous at her first rehearsal because she was so friendly with the talented cast and wanted to live up to their expectations.
And despite having been on television since almost the moment of its invention—her first job was on an early Hollywood-based talk show in 1948, the very year network programming began—she felt, with this part,
like she was starting her career all over again. But she settled right in once she saw the familiar set.

Leachman and White were facing off in front of a gaping oven on the fictional set of Sue Ann’s
Happy Homemaker
program. Leachman, as Phyllis, was confronting Sue Ann after finding out WJM’s helpful-hints guru had slept with her husband after meeting him at Mary’s party. “This is a very critical time,” Sue Ann cooed, referring to the state of her chocolate soufflé in the oven.

“I’m sorry, but this is a very critical time for me, too,” Phyllis snapped, opening and slamming the door.

“Oh, my poor baby!” Sue Ann cried, rescuing the dessert from the oven.

Sandrich cut them off there. It was a brilliant scene, perfectly acted, except for one detail: The oven door gaped wide open after White removed the soufflé, and the women were stuck sniping in front of a distracting black hole.

With the same combination of crude and smooth that her character had, White—still holding the white ceramic soufflé dish—lifted her knee and smacked the door shut.

She’d meant it as a between-takes joke, but Sandrich fell in love with the move. “That’s it!” he said. “No more problem.” That one gesture would become the most memorable part of an indelible episode.

When the episode came together for show night, White awed everyone by making this dislikable character who stole Phyllis’s husband watchable. Far more than watchable, in fact: She gave a transcendent performance that prompted viewers to ask: Where has
this
version of Betty White been, and how can we get more of her? As Sue Ann, she invented her own brilliant combination of manic and passive-aggressive, with a little bit of delusion thrown in. (“I cannot do a chocolate
soufflé with only two cameras,” she told her
Happy Homemaker
show crew through a clenched smile.) She was, in fact, the only person who could make Phyllis look sane by comparison.

When the taping of White’s episode ended, there was no question about what to do next: Brooks and Burns asked her not to make any plans in the near future, and Moore happily signed off on bringing her friend back to the set more often. Moore couldn’t wait to see what White would do next as Sue Ann, whom she called “everyone’s delicious pixie.” White, on the other hand, graciously attributes Sue Ann’s instant success to Moore’s subtle acting choices during the character’s introductory episode. Rather than disliking her, White says, Moore’s Mary Richards found the humor in Sue Ann so the audience could relax and laugh along with her a little. No matter who was responsible, the character was a hit.
Los Angeles Times
TV critic Cecil Smith wrote, “The happiest comic creation of the season for my money is the Happy Homemaker. Not surprisingly, she turned up on
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
. But what is surprising is that Betty White plays her. Because, as Betty so succinctly puts it, ‘She’s a bitch.’ ”

The morning after White’s first appearance on the show, her doorbell rang. When she and her husband opened the door, they found Moore and Tinker holding the soufflé dish from the episode, filled with flowers. “We just read some more scripts they wrote for you,” Moore told her, “and they’re wonderful!”

As Sue Ann developed, she’d become a sly reversal of the sweet “Betty White type.” Or, as White told Smith, “She’s not only a bitch, but a nympho. She can’t keep her hands off any man, not even Ted. I’ve been waiting all my life for a part like this.” She could cook a soufflé like a nice housewife, but she didn’t apologize for her sexual appetites or her bitchy bite. The best of her many great lines: “Mary, believe me, I’m proud that you haven’t been disheartened by those who murmur that you’ve sacrificed your femininity to your ambition.” White’s personal favorite came when Sue Ann asked her coworkers, “Does this dress make me look cheap?” And when they said yes, she replied, “Oh,
good!” The writers built the character so that audiences didn’t turn against her even as she started out bad and got worse. White admired her alter ego’s ability to even nearly murder her friends—when she poisoned everyone at work by knowingly giving them rolls full of custard that had gone bad—while still courting viewers. “Sheer genius,” Smith raved.

Sue Ann’s arrival began a new era marked by even greater freedom in addressing sex on the show. Seducing Lars without apology in her first episode was only the beginning. In a later episode she has a drunken one-night stand with Lou, and Lou is the only one who shows a hint of regret. In fact, he is mortified when Sue Ann shows up in his office the next day to return his socks—laundered, of course. He’s devastated when he finds out that Mary, who witnessed the sock exchange, accidentally told Murray; one of the show’s most dramatic moments comes when Lou confronts Mary in his office, telling her he won’t fire her—but he doesn’t like her anymore.

As further proof of Sue Ann’s ability to court controversy, Brooks and Sandrich clashed on how to play the scene out. “My concept was instead of Lou yelling, the quieter it is, the more it hurts Mary,” Sandrich recalls. “That’s not how they had conceived it. It was a wonderful scene, and Jim and Allan came up with a brilliant end to the show to get Lou back to being friends with Mary again.” They ended up shooting it Sandrich’s way, and, Sandrich says, “I think that was a great collaboration between the stage and the office.”

White would go on to win two straight Emmys for her performance as Sue Ann. Asner presented the award to her the first year she appeared on
The Mary Tyler Moore Show,
twenty-two years after she had gotten her first and only previous nomination; in 1951, the first year there was a category for women, she was recognized for her work as host of the variety show
Hollywood on Television
. In her acceptance speech, White thanked the “evil, wonderful, nasty” television industry for keeping her well-employed, even at the age of fifty-four. The next year, she found herself at the podium accepting her second straight
Emmy, this time wearing a black and white chiffon gown she got on
The Carol Burnett Show,
and this time with her beloved Allen winning one, too, for the hosting of
Password
. The two flew to Hawaii the next day for a week’s vacation.

Treva Silverman was writing an episode about Rhoda considering a move back to New York, and she needed to cast a coworker of Rhoda’s at Hemple’s department store. She remembered a film called
Taking Off,
a movie from Czech director Milos Forman about a couple, played by Lynn Carlin and Buck Henry, searching for their missing daughter. It included an actress Silverman thought was named Georgette, who was soft-spoken and spacey, with blond curls and perpetually startled eyes, the anti-Rhoda.

Silverman went to Burns and described whom she wanted, and he knew the actress she was talking about: Georgia Engel. Silverman had now named her featherbrained character in her script Georgette, and she kept it. Burns called Engel’s agent to offer her the part. The agent balked at how small the role was, but admitted he wanted his client, a summer stock veteran who had just appeared to great reviews in the surreal drama
The House of Blue Leaves
on Broadway as a deaf starlet, to branch out into TV.

Engel’s show had just ended a run at a Hollywood venue, the Huntington Hartford, after its New York theater burned down, so she was in the market for work. She had acted onstage since she graduated from the University of Hawaii three years earlier; she’d finished a year early and skipped the ceremony to get to New York to audition for
Hello, Dolly!
She wasn’t about to miss the final year of the company headed by Ethel Merman. She followed her instincts and got her first big break.

Her instincts kicked in again when she got the call from her agent suggesting she go out for that teeny part, hardly more than an extra part, on
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
. First of all, it felt a little like fate. During her run at the Huntington Hartford, Engel had already met
Moore, at a ballet class on Hollywood Boulevard. One day, an almost unrecognizable, makeup-free Moore, her hair back in a bun, told Engel she and Tinker, along with their friends Betty White and Allen Ludden, had seen her play, and they all loved it. Engel could hardly believe her luck—a woman as famous and talented as Moore had seen and liked her work! Now it was six months later, and Engel was back in her New York studio apartment with a Murphy bed, collecting unemployment and looking for acting work. How could she not try for even a small part on Moore’s show?

Engel turned out to be just as Silverman had imagined her, such a little dumpling, a baby-voiced, wide-eyed actress. As the week of rehearsals progressed, Engel got more and more lines, as well as a clear indication that her character could return. The producers wanted to write something for this girl who fit in with their quirky cast. In particular, something magical was sparking between Georgette and the long-vacant character of Ted Baxter. Though Georgette fawns over Ted in the episode, asking him to read some of Rhoda’s farewell cards aloud—“I just love his voice,” she gushes—she also ignores his offer to take her home. She was the perfect combination of naïve, sweet, and inscrutable—a challenge for Ted Baxter, and his perfect match.

Engel so charmed the producers that by the time the Friday taping came, Burns told Silverman, “We decided we want her back for seven episodes, and we want you to tell her.” It became one of the highlights of Silverman’s life, giving the news to Engel that she’d acted her way into a bigger job. Engel’s eyes went wide and teary when she heard the news.

Engel had to fly home to teach Sunday school that weekend, but she promised to return as soon as possible. Her agent, however, really had misgivings about the job this time. Though he’d supported her in pursuing the high-profile part, he worried that the return flights to Los Angeles from New York for the continuing gig would cost her more than she’d make doing it. “Sometimes you pay to work with the best,” she reasoned. The following Monday morning, the buzzer rang at her
New York apartment. She opened the door to find a potted palm had been delivered, with a card that said, “Welcome to the MTM family.” She knew then that she’d made the right choice.

The producers knew exactly what they wanted to do with her during her seven episodes: She’d become a legitimate love interest for Ted Baxter, which would particularly please Knight. He had long been complaining that he needed a story line that would make him seem more human, that went beyond his character’s mindless gaffes. The producers agreed, and had been on the lookout for the right girlfriend to expand Ted’s character in the same way that Lou’s divorce had given him more substance. Georgette seemed immature but knew how to put the chauvinistic Ted in his place. For instance, in her first episode back, called “The Georgette Story,” she learns, with the help of Mary and Rhoda, to refuse Ted’s requests that she do his shopping and laundry.