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Authors: Barry Livingston

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CHAPTER 23

The Well-Rounded Performer Sings and Dances

I finally booked my first major TV job post-
MTS
. I was cast as Linus in a Hallmark Hall of Fame production of the hit stage musical,
You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown
. This job presented a real performance challenge: I would have to sing and dance. All of those lessons from Eddie Gay and Madame Etienne were about to pay off. I even had a big solo number, “My Blanket and Me.” My mom, needless to say, was ecstatic. Her dream had come true. I was finally going to be a well-rounded entertainer.

I knew my tap time-steps and could hold a melody, but, honestly, this new job terrified me. I was never going to be Gene Kelly, no matter what my mother said. I wasn’t even close to wearing Gene Autry’s boots, for that matter. American musical theater didn’t consume me the way it consumed a lot of other actors. My show tune repertoire was so impoverished that I resorted to singing
Song of the South
’s “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” at my audition. That was about as deep as my song library went—Disney movies. Nonetheless, the producers saw me as Linus, and I was hired.

Poseur paranoia immediately kicked in; I was certain that the producers had overestimated my abilities. Singing like Uncle Remus is one thing, but doing their show’s complex four-part harmonies was quite another. I’d also have to measure up to the other cast members that were cherry picked for their excellence from all the other
Charlie Brown
productions around the country.

Making matters even more stressful, the producers were tough theater veterans such as the director Joseph Hardy and Patricia Birch. She was the brilliant choreographer who went on to design the dances in the original production of
Grease
on Broadway. I feared I’d be the one out-of-tune violin in this orchestra of virtuosos. I had two weeks before rehearsals started, and I dropped everything to prepare.

For the next fourteen days, I spent every spare moment working with a dance teacher, Dean Barlow (an Emmy winner for work with Paula Abdul), and a singing coach, Marie Golden, whose specialty was whipping run-of-the-mill actors into instant singers. During that time I became a tap-dancing, scale-singing maniac trying to whip myself into credible shape.

As rehearsals for
Charlie Brown
commenced, I learned that I was as competent as the other actors. What I lacked in song-and-dance excellence, I made up for in television acting experience. That was a relief.

Fortunately, Pat Birch could tailor her choreography to each performer’s ability. On the high end was Bill Hinnant, the original Snoopy off-Broadway. Hinnant was a really good singer and dancer, so Birch designed some pretty elaborate moves for him. I was on the low end of competence, and Birch, gratefully, kept my dance steps simple but no less creative. After a couple of weeks of rehearsals, we were ready for showtime.

We moved to the NBC studios in Burbank to tape the musical. While I was there, I dropped in on my old best buddy, Fred De Cordova, who was on the lot producing Johnny Canson’s
The Tonight Show.

I was greeted with hugs, kisses, and the usual sarcastic repartee. He even accompanied me back to our soundstage to watch our dress rehearsal. My stock rose immensely when the
Charlie Brown
producers saw me with my important pal. It was a huge publicity boost if De Cordova allowed you on his program to promote your project. Salivating at the prospect, the producers approached us and inquired about Charles Schulz, Charlie Brown’s creator, going on
The Tonight Show
. It would be Schulz’s first televised interview ever, quite a coup. De Cordova jumped at the opportunity and granted their request. Without missing a beat, he added one caveat: “Barry must be on the show, too.”

My jaw dropped at De Cordova’s request. I had dreamed of being on
The Tonight Show
with Carson. The producers exchanged furtive looks and nodded gamely, mumbling what a great idea that was. I could see they weren’t thrilled, but the deal was sealed with a handshake.

What actually transpired on my
Tonight Show
appearance was far from what I’d hoped for. I envisioned Schulz and I sitting across from Johnny, trading barbs, swapping clever anecdotes, and sipping drinks from those
Tonight Show
mugs. It turned out that my loyal
Charlie Brown
producers had a subsequent talk with De Cordova and insisted that only Schulz should converse with Carson. They suggested that a few cast members, including me, could sing a song from the show about Charlie Brown’s kite. De Cordova agreed to the compromise, and that’s the way it went down. Schulz sat alone with Carson, blabbing on like Gep-petto the puppet master, and we trotted out to sing like his little marionettes.

After we taped the musical, the entire cast was flown to New York to record the show’s songs for an album. Working in a professional recording studio in the heart of Manhattan was a great new experience.

It also whetted my appetite for living there someday and working on the Broadway stage, just like my idol, John Barrymore. I tracked down my acting hero’s Greenwich Village apartment, the Alchemist’s Corner, where his Hamlet was born. I also made a point to have my first legal drink at the Algonquin Hotel, one of Barrymore’s last residences and the location of the infamous Round Table Meetings in the 1920s. It was a real kick to sip my whiskey in the smoky, oak-paneled bar and imagine the ghostly voices of Barrymore, Dorothy Parker, George S. Kaufman, Robert Benchley, Noel Coward, and all the other brilliant minds who met up there to match wits.

On the last night of my trip, I had one more highlight: participating in a George McGovern for President rally held at the Palace Theatre. Being a TV celebrity, and the youngest voter onstage, I was given a prime spot on the dais. I took advantage of my position to shake hands with one of my modern acting idols, Gene Wilder, and he couldn’t have been nicer. It was a great way to finish up an inspiring trip to the Big Apple.

CHAPTER 24

Moving to the Bunker

I returned to Los Angeles and my old apartment on Detroit Street and felt isolated, lonely. New York’s nonstop energy made Los Angeles seem like a retirement home. One day in the future I knew I’d move back East; until then, I just had to move.

I went apartment hunting in the hills of Studio City and, by dumb luck, drove past a For Rent sign at 4050 Fairway Avenue. I wandered up a stairway into a jungle paradise of palms, exotic flowers, and huge sprawling ferns. The complex had four terraced levels with an apartment on each one, totally unique residences made of wood, glass, and cinder block. I was wowed. I continued to the top level where the proprietors, Dick and Julie Weaver, lived in an amazing two-story ultramodern home.

It turns out Dick was an architect and built the complex himself. He designed each unit to be a state-of-the-art, all-electric residence, a concept popularized by the Monsanto House of the Future at Disneyland. This seemed like the perfect new headquarters for my Beret Brothers: an apartment in Fantasyland.

I wasted no time moving into my new residence. My pals soon dubbed the place the Bunker, for its gray cinder block walls and clubhouse vibe. It was a pot-smoking free zone and open 24/7.

I began to worry about the landlords’ reaction to our loud improvised routines and hysterical laughter, not to mention the plumes of smoke wafting out the windows. They never complained, though. It turned out the Weavers were already immune to such insanity because a psychologist specializing in Primal Scream therapy worked right next door.

I found out about the doctor’s practice and the blood-curdling cries of his patients the first day I moved in. I was unpacking boxes, setting up shop, when I heard desperate, agonized screams that went on and on. I didn’t have a phone installed, so I ran to the landlords’ house and pounded on their door.

Dick Weaver answered, and I said, “I just heard somebody screaming. I think somebody is being murdered next door.”

He laughed and said, “It’s just Doctor Otto with a patient.”

“Doctor Otto? You’re sure it’s not Doctor Mengele, the Nazi? I’ve never heard such screaming.”

“It’s Primal Scream therapy,” Weaver replied. “Sometimes his patients are reliving their childbirths.”

Ouch.

The Weavers must have thought the noise from my apartment was like a whisper compared to the agonized yelling next door. It was a very freewheeling, tolerant time. The early 1970s was the height of hedonism: nudist camps, disco decadence, and Primal Scream therapy.

CHAPTER 25

Work After
My Three Sons

It had been awhile since my last acting job, so I started to seriously think about going to college. I enrolled in UCLA and, true to Murphy’s Law, was offered guest star roles on three different TV shows. They were all dramatic in tone, a real departure from Ernie Douglas. I hated the idea of abandoning school, but the roles were very tempting. I put my higher education on hold.

The first role was in a series titled
Ironside
starring Raymond Burr as a wheelchair-bound detective. I played an embittered teenage paraplegic who was also in a wheelchair. Mr. Burr graciously offered me personal instructions on maneuvering my wheelchair. He also gave me a few sly winks and a pat on my bottom, which I took as a sign that I was doing a good job. Silly me. I was told later that he liked young men and, if the rumor was true, owned an island off Tahiti that was full of boys in loincloths.

The next show I did was
Room 222
created by Gene Reynolds, the director who brought me onto
My Three Sons
. I played a political radical, a flat-out Lenin-loving communist, in fact. My Uncle Bernard, a lifelong member of the Communist Party, couldn’t have been more pleased about my new role.

The last in the trio of parts was on
The Streets of San Francisco
. I played a runaway teen fleeing from abusive parents. Larry Wilcox played my older brother. He became famous a few years later as Erik Estrada’s partner on the TV series,
CHiPS
. One of the real thrills of this project was working with a screen legend, Karl Malden.

Malden was a masterful actor and performed brilliantly in such great movies as
A Streetcar Named Desire, On the Waterfront,
and
Nevada Smith.
I asked for his advice on a scene where I had to break down and cry. He eagerly obliged and coached me through a couple of “sense memory exercises,” which helped me tap into my emotions. I was able to bring those feelings into the scene where I confront my evil parents, and, sure enough, the tears flowed. It was a great lesson shared by a great actor.

I had another memorable moment on
The Streets of San Francisco.
Actually, it was more like a near-death mishap.

It was written in the script that my character was supposed to drive a 1950s Ford pickup. Before shooting commenced, I told the producers to find a truck that had an automatic transmission because I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift. They assured me that they would take care of it. Never trust a producer.

When I arrived on the set in San Francisco, the first thing I did was ask to see the truck. An assistant director pointed to an old, battered Ford parked on a steep incline. He said, “I think that old hunk of junk is it.”

Hunk of junk
was being kind. Every section of the truck—the doors, the hood, the front panels—was dented and painted different colors. Even the windshield was cracked.

“No way that’s an automatic,” I grumbled as I walked over to the multicolored wreck.

I peered into the truck’s cab and saw three pedals: gas, brake, clutch ... a manual transmission. The gearshift handle was located on the steering column instead of on the floor and was jerry-rigged with rubber bands to provide some kind of tension.

A burly teamster sidled alongside of me and said, “Ya gotta use both of yer hands to move the shifter when ya wanna switch gears. She’s a bitch.”

“You mean I’ll have to let go of the steering wheel while the truck is moving to change gears?” I asked.

“Uh-huh. It’s a bitch,” the teamster replied with a heavy sigh.

I tracked down the assistant director. I pointed to my
bitch
and said, “The truck was supposed be an automatic. I told the producers
not
to get a stick shift because I don’t know how to drive one!”

Assistant directors are easily the most stressed people on every film set, responsible for keeping the expensive shooting schedules on track. His eyes glazed over as he groped for an answer. “I’d better get someone to teach you,” he muttered. “Your scene is up in about thirty minutes.”

Moments later, I was sitting behind the Ford’s oversized steering wheel, waving away the torn ceiling liner tickling the top of my head. A stunt man sat next to me in the passenger seat, having volunteered to be my tutor.

As anyone who’s ever driven a manual transmission knows, learning takes time and practice. I had neither. We lurched and stalled, lurched and stalled, over and over as my feet tap-danced between the clutch, the brake, and the accelerator pedals. After thirty minutes of getting nowhere, literally, the assistant director said it was time to shoot the scene.

“You think I’m ready to do this?” I asked the stunt man.

His face clouded with concern. Then he mustered up a weak smile and said, “Sure, go for it.” He quickly hopped out of the car before I could call him a liar.

Next thing I know, I’m sitting in my idling Ford at the top of a hill and San Francisco is sprawling out below me. My palms went from clammy to sweaty as I clutched the giant steering wheel. I peered over the Ford’s bulbous hood, and I couldn’t even see the street in front of me, that’s how steep the descent was. The director’s voice crackled through a walkie-talkie lying on the passenger seat: “Okay, Barry, action!”

With the clutch depressed, I used both hands to yank on the steering column shifter and pull it up into first gear. Then with a silent prayer, or perhaps it was a curse, I gave it a little gas and slowly released the clutch pedal. The Ford inched forward and kept rolling. It looked like I was going to drive right off a cliff until the truck’s nose dipped downward. At last, I saw a long black ribbon of road dropping before me. It was like sitting in the front seat of a roller coaster and staring down at the first nauseating drop.

The truck picked up speed, and I put a death grip on the steering wheel. No way was I going to take my hands off that goddamn wheel and monkey around with that funky column shifter. I came up with my own plan: depress the clutch to the floorboard, stay in neutral, and “ride the brake” to the bottom.

Of course, the weight of the truck and the laws of gravity had something to say about my plan. Despite my constant braking, the old Ford was going faster and faster. It began to rattle like an overloaded washing machine with me inside hanging on.

About midway down the slope, I saw the camera crew on the sidewalk filming my descent. I raced past them in a blur and prayed they got the shot. If there was a technical malfunction, I’d have to go back to the top of the hill and do it again. The walkie-talkie next to me came alive again, and the director’s voice sputtered: “That’s a print! Let’s move on.” Those were sweet words to hear, except that I was still barreling downhill at top speed.

The only thing on my mind was stopping that old Ford before it rattled to pieces. Looming ahead was an intersection with a red light. I pressed harder on the brake pedal, hoping for a safe conclusion to my crazy ride. No such luck. The pedal melted to the floorboard, a sign that the master cylinder had failed. “No brakes!” I yelled to nobody in particular.

I arrived at the red light doing at least forty miles per hour and swerved through the cross traffic, barely missing a couple of cars. Once on the other side of the intersection, the road started to ascend. The runaway truck eventually slowed enough for me to turn it perpendicular to the hill and come to a stop. I’d made it out alive. Barely.

Back in Los Angeles, I got a couple more jobs notable for the people involved. The first was an Alan King special where Ron Howard, Opie from
The Andy Griffith Show,
and I did a sketch. This was before his directing career took off and he was still acting. I was to play the Teenager from Today and Ron was playing the Teenager from Yesterday. Our characters were going to meet and compare notes about our lives.

I knew Ron only as an acquaintance, from a few showbiz social functions, and he seemed like a nice guy. We weren’t overly friendly, though, and I sensed a competitiveness. We were both successful child actors, occasionally vying for the same roles. This rivalry surfaced during the sketch.

On Ron’s first line of dialogue, he took a big step upstage so that my face was pointing away from the camera. This is called “upstaging” another actor. It’s a cheap theatrical trick and allows the perpetrator to gain undue focus in the scene. I was no rube and saw what was happening. I countered his upstage movement by stepping upstage on my next line.

That’s the way it went through the whole two-page scene. Ron would step back while speaking and then I would step back while responding. By the end of the scene we had moved six feet away from our marks and were standing in the dark, far from where the lights were focused or the camera could film us.

The director finally stepped in and ordered us to stay put, and that ended the gamesmanship. I never saw or worked with Ron again. Given his sterling reputation for directing actors, though, I’m sure he’d never allow an actor to get away with such shenanigans. Chalk it up to youth.

The other job I landed was in a short-lived sitcom,
Thicker Than Water.
The best part of this gig was working with Julie Harris, the revered Broadway actress and James Dean’s costar in
East of Eden
. She was a consummate professional, a fact underscored by a prank that went terribly wrong.

It was two in the afternoon, the end of our lunch hour, and the actors, writers, and producers convened in a conference room to read the script. There was just one problem: the show’s star, Ms. Harris, was absent.

The director, Jerry Paris, was a notorious prankster and thought it would be funny if we started the reading without her, just to see her reaction once she joined us. There was no malice or lesson intended. He thought she’d break up laughing once the joke was revealed. Boy, was he wrong.

Around 2:06, Ms. Harris rushed into the room. Seeing us reading from the script, she stopped dead in her tracks and gasped. With her head bowed, she quietly took her place at the head of the table, her pale freckled face flushing red. Pressing on with the gag, Paris frowned at her and whispered, “We decided to start without you, Julie. We’re on a tight schedule.”

Ms. Harris then burst into tears. She looked to the group and sobbed, “I’m so very sorry. I didn’t mean to make everyone wait for me. I truly apologize ...”

Seeing his star traumatized, Paris backpedaled. “Julie, Julie, Julie! It was just a joke. It was my idea. I never dreamed you’d get so upset.”

Hearing that, her sobbing stopped. Ms. Harris focused like a marksman on Paris, her jaw clenched. You could hear a sneeze from the next room it was so quiet. We all held our breath waiting for her to unload.

Finally, she said in a controlled tremble, “I’m sorry that I arrived late. I was caught in a wardrobe fitting. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble for everyone, could we start from the beginning?”

Ever the pro, she put the work ahead of lashing back at Paris, and we started over. The mood wasn’t exactly primed for a comedy.

Another odd, prophetic moment happened on this show with Richard Long, another series regular and a well-established TV star. We were standing together backstage about to make our entrance before a live studio audience. Long discreetly pulled a small vile from his pocket, extracted a few tiny white pills, amphetamines I guessed, and gobbled them down.

The actor glanced over at me with a wink and a rascal smile. “Time to be
funny,
” he said.

Richard Long died of a heart attack about a year later at the age of forty-seven. The white pills were most likely nitroglycerine.

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