Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me... (20 page)

When he gave me my promotion, Freddie told me the following: “The day you can walk into Sardi's and have the occupants of at least fifteen tables talking about you will be the day you've arrived in theater.”

“What will they be saying?” I innocently asked.

“At one table they'll be discussing your latest lover; at the second table they'll be whispering that you're a lesbian. At the third table they'll be saying that you've had a child out of wedlock.” I got the message, but I didn't have round heels. Hell—I wasn't even ambidextrous.

*   *   *

And so I worked all day and pounded the pavements at night, always on the prowl for the next big someone. I was highly motivated to distinguish myself as head of a department in an agency that was fast assuming a large reputation. I signed the brilliant actor Stacy Keach and two actresses with talent and ambition who worked in both theater and film: Joan Hackett and Jill Haworth. Joan, who had been working steadily before meeting me, was at that moment more interested in film. Submitting her for good roles in movies put her into competition with many rising young stars, some of whom were immensely talented, and some who simply were rising off the casting couches in Hollywood. Joan was an actress with special qualities. I read every script my associates in California could get their hands on, knowing that if I could get her seen, or better yet get her screen tested, she would have a chance because of her wonderful voice and a certain quirkiness that separated her from the rest of the blond beauties. Joan and I became great pals. We spent wonderful times together socially as single gals running around New York, and in the process she introduced me to Robert Redford, who was then starring on Broadway in
Barefoot in the Park
. Everyone in the industry knew that he was the “next” leading man. He'd already done his interesting breakout films, scored in dramatic television, and was now a success on Broadway. Hollywood was beating a path to the door of this new golden boy. What a coup it would be to sign him! He was exactly what I needed for a big reputation.

*   *   *

I had to get on line with much bigger players like William Morris to grab Redford's attention, but I had this huge inside advantage: Joan. She was a good friend of his, and he liked her. It was impossible not to; her energy and enthusiasm for life were infectious. She was always tooting my horn, and putting Bob and me together at dinner. I remember being invited to one at the home of the actor Richard Mulligan, who got so angry that I was pursuing Redford instead of him that he threw me out in the street in the middle of the meal. Bob followed me out to the car, trying to make me feel better.

In my effort to sign him, I chased Bob all over the United States and part of Europe as well, popping up at some location wherever he was. I was shameless. I never came on to him, nor he to me, adhering to one of Freddie's ground rules, “Never fuck where you eat” (if only I had listened to him where Begelman was concerned). Bob and I had no interest like that in each other, but he liked being courted and he was a pretty good tease, always implying that someday things might just work out if things worked out. What the hell does that mean? He had more than a little mischief in him, but I was up for the challenge. But what could I do to sign Bob that would give me a better chance than the next guy? At that moment I could promise him nothing but my interest, which I said would be far greater than the next guy's. I pitched the FF approach: “We are the Tiffany of talent agents. We only take the best, and we leave the rest. We are not interested in many clients, only a few wonderful ones.” And I made Bob understand I believed he was one of the few wonders in the world of showbiz worth having. I sold Freddie hard, since he was the new Hollywood whiz kid. That wasn't lost on Bob, who had his ear to the ground. Lois Smith was also Bob's press agent, and she had an insider's view of FFA's success. That helped. But I needed a big carrot to hold out to the boy wonder, and I had the good fortune to have it land in my lap in the not-too-distant future.

Like Judy, who was so much fun to talk to when she was in her best of all possible worlds, Bob was smart, witty, and political. I never felt as though I was wasting my time. I always learned something about the environment when we had serious conversations. We got along well. We laughed a lot together. With Joan's blessing, I started inviting Bob to dinner without her whenever I found myself in the same town as him. (No one accidentally finds herself in Provo Canyon, where he lived, but I made it seem as though that was an entirely normal stop on the way to California.) Sometimes I felt like I was running in place, but I knew if I stopped running, someone else would be at the finish line. But let me come back to Redford the golden boy. In 1965 Bob wasn't paying any part of my salary.

*   *   *

Meanwhile, I submitted Jill Haworth for the lead in
Cabaret
on Broadway, and she got the part and an equitable deal. She would have
paid
Hal Prince to play Sally Bowles. Remembered for her work in the successful film
Exodus
, Jill was beautiful, delicate, and had all the right vulnerability for the starring role. She was a delight to work with. Still, truth be told, her stage presence nowhere matched Liza's. The defenselessness that Li projected on the stage came from a place one could understand only if one knew Judy.
Really
knew her. Nonetheless
Cabaret
was a success with Jill, and I was pleased for her because she worked so hard. It was another Hal Prince show, one he also directed. Hal was now Broadway's most sought-after musical director, and he and I were cooking together. If he was doing a Broadway show, I always knew I'd get my clients seen and carefully regarded.

*   *   *

Some very funny/awful things—all theater related—happened to me, and I would feel as though I were cheating if I did not talk about them. First and foremost came my experience with Mary Martin. Without doubt, mighty Mary had been the toast of Broadway for a long, long time. One of her greatest gifts was that she didn't age. In her sixties, she still looked like Peter Pan. Her name on the marquee didn't guarantee praise from the critics, but it did guarantee an audience, except for the show that I was peripherally involved in for five horrendous minutes.

My misadventure involved Eddie Albert, a Freddie Fields client who lived on the West Coast. You may recall my having mentioned that Eddie was the one Frank Sinatra had pegged with the gibe “reliable.” And indeed Eddie was a workmanlike, dependable, featured actor who preferred to see himself as a leading man. He was the only one, however, who did. One generally found him playing featured roles on the TV playhouses of the day like
The Alcoa Hour
,
The Philco Television Playhouse
, and
Studio One
. The best role he ever had was as the photographer in
Roman Holiday
, in which he costarred with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck, and in which he had slightly more to do than come along for the ride.

Meanwhile, Mary Martin, who was not a client, was suffering in Boston in a turkey called
Jennie.
Richard Halliday, Mary's husband, and the producer, believed the fault for the failure could not possibly be his wife's. It must, therefore, be the fault of the leading man … an oft-heard excuse. Mr. Halliday discovered that CMA now represented Eddie, and he called me with an offer for Eddie to fly first class from Los Angeles to Boston by way of New York to see the show in the hope that Eddie would step in to replace Barry Nelson, who was ruining the show.

Eddie accepted the offer, flew first class, spent a night at the Regency, all at Halliday's expense, and then went with me to Boston, where we decamped at the Ritz-Carlton—by no means a lucky hotel for me. Eddie didn't like the show one bit and refused to go backstage after. “Don't worry, Eddie, I promise I will get you out of this,” I pleaded. “But you simply cannot refuse to go backstage after these good people have laid out a lot of money for your trip!” I begged; I insisted. No go. Only the clich
é
fits here: My words fell on deaf ears. No way I could convince this not-so-great star of stage and screen to walk with me into the dressing room and be polite—or to be anything.

While Eddie could refuse to go backstage, I had no such choice. And when I told Mary Martin that Eddie was not going to appear, Richard Halliday took out a sharp knife and gutted me from head to toe. “How dare you show up here without your client?!” I apologized again and again. I told the Hallidays how hard I had tried to get Eddie to come with me while assiduously avoiding telling them how ghastly a show Eddie Albert thought he'd seen. But they knew. “And you presume to call yourself an agent? Get the hell out of here!”

I went out into the bitter-cold winter night. No cabs, no transportation of any kind, I walked back to the Ritz completely sobered by the near-zero temperature and what had just happened to me. Did I know what I was doing as an agent? I was shattered and felt I had deserved being cut into small pieces. Halliday was right. I should have been able to deliver Eddie. Back at the hotel, I salved my wounds, crawled under the covers, and let sleep take me.

The following morning I fastened down my manners, called Eddie and told him I was taking the 10:00 a.m. shuttle back to New York. He said he wanted to go with me. He asked me to pick him up in his room, and when I got there he asked me to help him with something he was having trouble with in the john. Stupid me! I walked in through the open door, and there lay Eddie soaking naked in the tub extending an invitation for me to join him. In answer to the question: Was there anything worse than being cut into small pieces by Mary Martin and her husband? Yes, definitely! Having to see this ugly jerk lying naked in a bathtub! Would that I could have put my high heel on his flabby chest and let the hot water run. Frank Sinatra got it all wrong. Eddie Albert was not only unreliable; he was a prick!

*   *   *

And then there was Al Pacino.…

*   *   *

It was David Begelman in New York who got the early scoop on Al Pacino's brilliant performance in
The Indian Wants the Bronx
, an Israel Horovitz drama playing at a little off-Broadway theater way downtown. David suggested (more like demanded) that I sign him. By 1968 I had a wonderful associate named Sue Mengers, who had the balls of a blind burglar. Signing Al was going to be catnip for Susie and me. Together we were the slick sisters. David knew he could count on us to “wrap Al up.” We went right down to the Astor Place Theater in SoHo, sat with Al after the performance, and told him how we would make him a star. Lines like “Al, you can do anything you want. You're that good” or “Al, is there anything you can't do?” always worked. An actor's ego is generally way too large to be defined by a single adjective.

Although he said nothing, it was clear that Al shared our conviction about his talent. And we truly thought he was good. He was as convincing in that play as anyone I'd ever watched onstage. But while signing contracts with Al was easy, talking to him turned out to be hard.

He came to the office for the “official” first meeting, whose headline should read: What do you want to do with the rest of your life? Every client endures this boring welcome to an agency, and for this presentation to our newer, elegant Madison Avenue offices, Al dressed himself as a homeless dirty schlump. We discovered quickly that this was no costume. This was Al, and he may have been wearing the only clothes he owned.

But if he looked awful, he sounded worse. In the many years that have transpired since I first met him, I trust he's developed more social skills. Way back then he was a grunter. “
Unh
,” was his first answer to most questions, and while onstage he projected so forcefully, now I had to lean over my desk to hear what he was saying. I finally got it clear, however, that he was interested in doing a musical. There is for sure a reason why his career has thrived without his ever having appeared on the musical stage. Here it is:

Hal Prince was casting
Zorba
, a musical about the friendship between a Greek man and a young American. Given the play takes place in a Greek village, Sue and I thought there might be something in it for Al. He was, after all, dark and swarthy; he could as easily pass for Greek as Italian. Using my good professional relationship with Hal Prince to set up an audition for Al with a creative team that included Fred Ebb and John Kander, I advised Al that he should come to the theater prepared to sing.

On the appointed day Sue and I went to the Mark Hellinger, a huge Broadway house, to watch our budding star. All the appointments were set at fifteen-minute intervals, and at 10:45 it was Al's turn. The stage manager came from the wings and announced him: “Mr. Pacino at 10:45.” Al shuffled out. He had his own special way of walking (hopefully that, too, has changed). He stood there for a moment in the key light while Hal Prince sized him up. “What are you going to sing for us?” Hal asked.

“‘Luck Be a Lady Tonight,'” answered Al. At least he could be heard in the back, where Sue and I were sitting.

“Did you bring your music?” Hal asked.

“
Unh
…”

“Why don't you speak with the accompanist,” Hal suggested. Al then schlumped upstage to the piano to talk with a man who could do anything asked of him. (Theater accompanists are an amazing lot. They can play anything you request in any tempo and in every key.) So Al and this accompanist chatted for about a minute, and then Al schlumped back downstage and again found his key light. We heard the intro.
Dada-da-da-da-da
, and Al started to sing. On key! Sue and I thought that was very hopeful. Here's what Al sang: “Luck be a lady tonight … Luck be a lady tonight … Luck be a lady tonight … Luck be a lady tonight … Luck be a lady tonight … Luck be a lady tonight.” The lyrics had moved on, but Al had not. After the sixth repeat, we heard some pronounced slow claps coming from the seventh row, where Hal and his group were seated. This was not applause. “Do you know any other lyrics, Mr. Pacino?” Hal asked.