Life Is Not a Stage (19 page)

After chatting for a few minutes, they cut to the chase. “Would you mind doing a scene on film for us?” they asked me. I told them about the plane I had to catch later that evening. No problem, they said.

Immediately, they dispatched me to a makeup trailer to get ready. It belonged to
Star Trek
. William Shatner was in there, and he wasn’t terribly friendly. “What is she doing in here?” It was as if I were an enemy Klingon who had invaded his trailer. What was also humorous was that he didn’t make the slightest gesture to discreetly lower his volume to avoid my hearing him. He obviously had no clue who I was, perhaps just another extra or a bit player that had wandered by mistake into the stars’ makeup room. Years later, I reminded him about the incident, and we had a good laugh about it.

There was more bizarre comedy inside that trailer before I left for the soundstage. The makeup artist happened to put some long eyelashes on me that would be more suitable if I were playing a streetwalker rather than the matriarch of a blended family of six children.

“What the hell is this?” I exclaimed. But I didn’t have the confidence yet to speak up and say, “No long fake eyelashes!”

You have to remember that actors are very careful and particular about their “look,” especially how their faces appear in makeup and how they’re lit. A light hitting you the wrong way will let everyone know how little sleep you had the night before or how the passage of time and hours in the sun have turned your face into cracked leather. It’s not about vanity. How the camera likes the actor is a crucial part of his equipment and maybe what got him the job. And often it is the actor himself who has to be vigilant, because if he doesn’t care about his appearance, usually no one else will. For that reason, I am so grateful for all I learned from all the talented makeup artists I’ve worked with over the years.

Before we started the scene, I wanted a clear disclaimer about the eyelashes. “I don’t think Carol Brady would wear these,” I told them. Doing my standard trick of trying to turn a negative once again into a positive, I got the point across with humor and everyone on the set cracked up. I personally would have chosen to give the character a different look, I told them. This memory is particularly ironic and amusing to me given the iconic fashion influence the show would grow to have. People made an absurdly big deal about how my hairstyles would morph into something new with the beginning of each season.

Anyway, I did the scene together with an actor (not my soon-to-be-costar Robert Reed) who was portraying my husband, and then I made the plane to Houston.

I was about to go onstage two nights later when the phone rang. It was Sandy. “They want you to come back right away to do the pilot,” he told me.

“I’m opening,” I told him.

“Talk to the promoter.”

So I went over to the promoter and told him what happened. He said I could go if I could find someone to fill in for me. Jerry Vale, who had a string of pop hits in the 1950s and 1960s, graciously agreed to step in for me. I gratefully told the promoter I’d be happy to come back for the same salary if my new show became a hit. I would keep that promise.

CHAPTER 16

Brady-monium

T
he English used to be able to boast, “The sun never sets on the British Empire.” Similarly, I can say, “The curtain never falls on
The Brady Bunch
.”

At this moment, someone somewhere in the world is watching
The Brady Bunch
. Since the show debuted on September 26, 1969, it has been continuously broadcast in the United States and overseas in over 122 countries as one of the most beloved television series of all time. Full-set compilations of the show sell in steady numbers. You couldn’t kill it with a stick. Some people writing fan letters today from former Communist countries go so far as to assume that the shows are brand-new—outmoded clothes and hairstyles and glaring lack of computers or cell phones notwithstanding.

Many people think those few years on
The Brady Bunch
are basically the sum total of my career. In reality, the show was but a small part of my list of credits, but because of its lasting power, it is never going to go away. Such is the enormous power and penetration of the media. Many people would also assume that I could write several books on just the
Brady Bunch
experience alone. Because so much has been written about the history and impact of the show already, I am not going to attempt that. In reality, it was not so chock full of dramatic stories as one might be led to believe. We were a cast and crew that cared about each other like family, and we made sure to have a good measure of fun to balance the drama that life serves up. But it was hard work and long hours that were fairly routine day in and day out. In fact, some of the fondest memories I will share are of the things that deviated from the norm, especially when we shot on location.

Without the chance to play the role of Carol Brady, I don’t think the Smithsonian Institution would have honored me as a “cultural icon,” nor would
Entertainment Weekly
and TV Land use that same word, ranking me as one of their top 100 TV “icons” of all time. Unbelievable. All this came as the result of an opportunity that I was lukewarm at best about doing at the start.

What in fact excited me most about coming back to Hollywood to do the pilot was the chance to work with John Rich. From the time I was a child, I loved being around people who knew what they were doing and were masters of their profession. John was high up in that category. I’ve always loved working with strong directors, and John was both strong and tough. Those qualities came to the forefront quickly once we got down to work. And not everyone appreciated it as I did.

From those first scenes together in the pilot, Robert Reed (portraying my husband, Mike) proved himself immediately to be both a terrific actor and a very complex man. Gene Hackman was originally tested for the role, which I would have loved. Most of the time, Bob was a delightful curmudgeon on the set. He was extremely well educated and cultured, having attended Northwestern University and studied at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London (which also qualified him to be a certified royal pain in the butt!). On top of that, he was a classical pianist. Conflicts and issues that were apparent from the first day of work went fairly unresolved throughout the years we worked together. Behind most of it was his attitude—he wanted the show to be Shakespeare, more worthy of his training and skill. “Bob, it’s a sitcom,” I’d have to remind him whenever the matter reared its head, which it did regularly.

The tension mounted as we were filming the pilot.

“Cut…Don’t do it that way!” John shouted to Bob. As John could be, he was loud and direct, and it was more than obvious that Bob was getting angry. We had been doing a love scene that had gone fine in rehearsal but wasn’t working to John’s liking the way Bob was doing it. I felt I had to step in and do something.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I said to Bob. I had suddenly realized the source of the problem. I left him and walked out of camera range and took John off to the side.

“John, just back off,” I told the director. “Don’t say anything or make a big deal about this, but Bob’s gay. He’s nervous about this scene.” I told him that I knew how to handle it. I went back on the set and we started up again. I don’t remember specifically what I said to Bob, but I took extra care with him to make sure he felt comfortable. In that moment, I tried to love him as hard as I could and make him feel great. I wanted him to feel romantic and sexy as all get out. And perhaps, if he knew that I was comfortable about him and his sexuality, he didn’t have to be afraid of playing that role. I don’t think the crew caught on to this in the beginning like I had, but most did as the show went on.

Every time we’d do a romantic scene, the same nervousness would come up. We’d laugh as he came on set in his pajamas. I think on those days he would frequently self-medicate by drinking more than usual at lunchtime.

After a few days, we finished the pilot and all went our separate ways. There was nothing so extraordinarily special about it in my mind at that time. Yes, I thought it was a good idea to do a show about a blended family. It really hadn’t been done before. The kids were adorable. Bob was great, and the fact that he and I were to be seen sleeping in the same bed together might finally break that antiquated taboo on network television. I felt I could bring something special to the character of Carol Brady given the fact that I was a mother of four in real life. Beyond that, I had absolutely no expectation or attachment to the outcome. I just viewed it as a job, and it was done.

Did I think the pilot would sell? I really wasn’t sure, and consequently I moved on to other projects, most notably the filming in Europe. To be totally honest, I promptly forgot about
The Brady Bunch
until I got the phone call several months later with the news that it was a go.

It may sound strange, but I really wasn’t so aware during the first years while I was doing
The Brady Bunch
that it was growing into anything that might be considered a cultural phenomenon. It is probably one of my major personality quirks that I get hyper-focused when I’m in the middle of a project, especially one as all-consuming as a weekly television series proved to be. It was quite easy to get cut off from the world in the whirlwind of doing a weekly series. We went to work in the dark. We went home in the dark. The long hours and demanding schedule, plus trying to be a real-life mother, afforded little luxury of time for any distractions. When I did have time off from filming, I was usually off doing club dates or musicals to maintain my musical chops.

My MO has always been to keep my attention on the current job to make it the best it can be. Dwelling on the past has never been a priority. It is the same reason why my scrapbooks remained virtually unopened, a whole cabinet full of videos were never watched, and audio recordings were never played. Part of it, I know, is avoidance, because I am my own harshest critic, echoing my mother’s judgmental ways. And luckily, I’ve kept busy throughout the years, so there is always a new project that demands my full attention. It’s also important to realize that once it’s done and in the can, you can’t change anything. Whether you had a great success or a flop, it is your past. You have to learn to acknowledge it, and love it, but move beyond it. In my later years, I am thankfully and usually even pleasantly surprised on the rare occasions when I do happen to see a tape of something from the past or find an episode of the Bradys while channel surfing. “Hmm, that wasn’t so bad.” The show makes me smile.

One of the big reasons I think the show has endured for so many decades is due to the fact that we really tried to make each episode seem real and believable to the viewer. There was a commitment to be truthful in the way we interacted and reacted to each other. Every word in the script had to pass that credibility test. I am sure the background laughter would have been coming from that place of truth if we had filmed before a live audience instead of using a laugh track.

I had done enough television by the time the series began that the learning curve about doing a sitcom progressed very swiftly. There were some adjustments I had to make in learning about the cameras and the lighting. Having cut my teeth in the days of live television, I was already accustomed to how everything moved at a fast clip. Scripts were constantly going through changes, and we all had to learn new lines every day, sometimes a lot.

Doing the show was not the cushier life of sitcom stars of later years where you did a table read with the cast on Tuesday, rehearsed and blocked the cameras on the set on Wednesday and Thursday, and then shot two shows in front of a live audience and four cameras on Friday. Ours was filmed in the traditional way, more like a movie. There were no days of rehearsal. We memorized the script the night before. Usually, there would be last-minute changes to our lines, and sometimes quite a few. We would rehearse before the camera, then go off to the side and talk it through while they arranged the lighting with the stand-ins on the set. This was helpful if someone didn’t have the scene down. We’d also try to come up with some added nuances to make it more special. Then we’d shoot the master shot (i.e., the broader view of everyone in the scene), most of the time in one take, sometimes two. If you asked for a retake because you felt something wasn’t right in your performance, they’d do it again. Then the scene would be repeated to get all the close-ups, which could take considerable time if all nine of us were featured in the shot.

We didn’t get coddled or babied. After John Rich left the show, we had another director named Oscar Rudolph, the father of filmmaker Alan Rudolph. He was a short, bald man, and his direction was always the same, which the kids loved parodying. “Okay, everybody, up, up, up, up!” It was an additional pressure that the child actors could only work so many hours by law. Often they’d run out of time, so Sherwood Schwartz would quickly write another scene for Carol and the housekeeper, played by Ann B. Davis, to fill in the gap. During part of one year, they tried to do two shows in one week. That was insanity. But in the end, I give great credit to the cast that the show has sustained. We believed in it. We worked hard at it. Despite Bob’s meltdowns from time to time, both kids and adults were very conscientious and professional. So you can understand how easy it was to get tunnel vision. I don’t believe I ever sat down and watched a single episode of the show when it was first broadcast.

Speaking of Ann B., what a tremendous professional she was to work with and what a great friend she became. I probably spent more time together with her off camera than with anyone else in the production, hanging out at her home that overlooked the San Fernando Valley. One day, she took me aside and said, “You have to learn how to conserve your energy.” I was constantly moving around and talking. It was hard for me to sit still, but Ann B. had a solution for me. She taught me how to do needlepoint. I loved doing it, and the creations made great gifts for family and friends, usually in the form of pillows with floral designs. I was hardly an expert, however. On one trip back to New York when I went to put my things away for landing, I was slightly embarrassed to discover that I had found a way to sew the needlepoint onto my skirt.

Needlepoint aside, being on a popular television series changes your life, in some fairly absurd ways. You can be a big star on Broadway, but still many people outside of the Great White Way have no idea who you are. Get on a hit series that people really embrace, and your life will never quite be the same.

After the show had been on for a short while, I took Lizzie for a walk in Central Park. Some children recognized me and crowded around us.

“Mrs. Brady, can I have your autograph?”

Lizzie tugged at my coat. “Mommy, tell them you’re not Mrs. Brady. Tell them that
we’re
your real kids.” From that moment forward, I had to think twice about going out in public with them. I was comfortable for myself, but I didn’t want them to deal with all that kind of attention and feel diminished by it in any way. So for family outings to Disneyland, they’d have to go without me for the duration—and I always regretted that I couldn’t be the one taking them.

Ironically, it was a trip to another amusement park, Kings Island in Cincinnati, that opened my eyes to just how wildly popular the show had become. The episodes shot on location were for me the most fun and memorable, a nice break from the in-studio daily routine. The park was somehow or another owned by the Paramount conglomerate at the time, so some marketing whiz thought it would be a great cross-promotion and big publicity for the newly opened attraction and their hit television show. We had previously done three-part episodes at the Grand Canyon and in Hawaii, but not among the crowds like at Kings Island. The people there in America’s heartland went crazy over us like we were rock stars. Forget about sleep at the hotel in the park. Security, what security? Did such a thing exist in the early 1970s? The kids found out where we were and were banging on our doors at all hours of the night. A similar mob scene happened at Disney World, but I was there solo and sans Bradys as one of the first people to perform at Top of the World when the place first opened.