Read My Lips (12 page)

Luana got into the Actor’s Studio too. She had started working a lot in films and had starred in one produced by Roger Corman called
Dementia 13,
written and directed in 1963 by a little-known, up-and-coming writer-director named Francis Ford Coppola.

Jack had moved on to Marty Landau’s acting class, but we still hung out. Our group consisted of me and Luana, Jack, and Sandra Knight—she and Jack were serious now. Shortly after
The Outer Limits
I ran into Jack’s friend, Stuart Cohen, at the Daisy, a popular place to dance.

“I’m going to be your manager,” Stuart said to me.

“Oh, you are?” I laughed and started dancing away in the other direction.

Stuart started calling me five times a day. I’d answer the phone, and he’d say, “So?”

I’d say, “What do you mean, ‘So’? You called me.”

But he was irresistible.

Stuart insisted he wouldn’t take any money from me until he got me in the movies. I liked that part of the proposition, so we decided to work together. He soon began to change the way I looked at things.

One of the first auditions Stuart got for me was for a musical in Sacramento. When he arrived to take me, I told him in tears that I was sick of my one Chanel audition suit. I couldn’t bear to put it on again.

“Have you seen your
punim
?” he asked. (That’s Yiddish for face.) “Go put your jeans on and that yellow shirt you can practically see through.”

Talk about freedom! As far as I knew at that time, nobody ever wore jeans to an audition. Then Stuart said, “And besides, you’ll be so good that you’ll get the part—then have to buy your way out of your contract ’cause you’ll end up being too busy to do it.”

As it turned out, Stuart did change the course of my career more than I could have imagined. I got so lucky when I crossed paths with him. I loved him so much.

In addition to Stuart, two other very important people entered my life around this time.

I met Larry Kert through my friend Bob Sampson shortly after
Outer Limits.
Larry was the original “Tony” in the Broadway production of
West Side Story
and also toured with the production. Bob and I drove all over the country to hear Larry sing, all of us camped out in sleeping bags on the floor in someone’s apartment. When Larry sang, “Maria,” it melted me every time.

When Larry got back to town, we spent a lot of time together. One night we went to see the movie
The Servant,
starring Dirk Bogarde and James Fox, at the Oriental Theatre on Sunset Boulevard. (That’s the same theater where I first saw Marlon in those white pants. Today the theater is a Guitar Center—very depressing.)

I found the movie, about a British manservant who ends up controlling and switching places with his “master,” very decadent and stimulating—so much so that when I got out of the theater,
I thought, “I gotta get laid or do something.” Larry was so much fun to be with, so wild and irreverent, but he was gay. What was a girl to do?

So we went up to Anjanette Comer and Alex Cord’s house. They were both great actors and great friends, and that night I smoked grass for the second time in my life. The first time I ever really got high had been at Jack’s house, with Alejandro Rey, the Argentinean actor then making a name for himself on
Flying Nun.
All of a sudden, after we’d all had our fair share of herb, Alejandro started talking about going to the police to tell them what he had done. I looked around. None of us understood what the heck he was talking about. He couldn’t be serious, could he? Then he said, “I hear the sounds of the hind legs of a horse hitting in the night . . .” Only when Alejandro said “hitting,” it sounded like “heating.” So there I was, stoned, and Alejandro was carrying on about the hind legs of a horse heating in the night. Luckily he didn’t turn himself in to the cops for smoking pot, but he did take Jack’s record collection. All in all, it was a strange evening. I couldn’t wait to be sober.

My second time smoking pot, with Larry, was so much fun, so freeing. I hopped on the back of his motorcycle, and we flew into a rainy LA night, without a care in the world. I yelled in his ear, “We could be killed!” He yelled back, “I know!” I soon began smoking a lot more grass. I had a right to come home and relax my mind after a hard day’s work, I thought.

Larry knew the actor Robert Walker, and most Sundays we’d drive out to Malibu to hang out. Bobby and his wife, Ellie, were renting a little place from Rod Steiger. We would swim, smoke grass, and eat delicious meals that Ellie cooked for everyone. Next door lived Jane Fonda, who was, at that time, with Roger Vadim. My memory of Jane during that period was of her running around, cooing in French, and looking just as she did in
Barbarella
with her flowing hair, big doe eyes, and killer figure, while I looked like Lynn Redgrave in
Georgy Girl
—a little gawky, a little rough around the edges.

Malibu was more of a place than a label back then. It was mellow, relaxing. You didn’t go there to be seen; you went there to see your friends. That said, you still never knew whom you were going to run into on the beach. Some days it was Dennis Hopper or his wife, Brooke, with their young daughter, Marin. Other times it was Peter Fonda or Dan Melnick of MGM, Terry Malick, Terry Southern—all the Terry’s. And one very special day it was Jennifer Jones.

Jennifer was Bobby’s mother, she was the personification of Hollywood glamour. She had won the Academy Award for her lead role in
The Song of Bernadette.
After splitting from Bobby’s father, she had married David O. Selznick, the producer best known for
Gone with the Wind.
Selznick had launched the careers of many great stars of the Old Hollywood era, including Jennifer herself.

Jennifer came by for a visit one afternoon, and I’ll never forget the sight of her. There I was, lying on the beach in my sloppy pink bikini, and there was Jennifer, walking by in an elegant caftan and a large picture hat, looking just like the 1940s movie star that she was. I was immediately star struck. We exchanged a few words, and off she went. A few days later the phone rang, and it was Jennifer inviting me to dinner at her house. The night of the dinner I got held up shooting Slattery’s
People,
directed by my close friend Mark Rydell and starring Richard Crenna. But when I finally got to her house, Jennifer was perfectly gracious. “Sally, darling,” she said, “I’d like you to meet some friends of mine . . .”

She led me into a dimly lit room filled with orchids—Jennifer’s version of a kasbah. Sitting at a long dining room table, soaked in candlelight, were Ingrid Bergman, Deborah Kerr, Simone Signoret and her then-husband Yves Montand, Louis Jourdan and his wife, plus Pia Lindstrom, Ingrid’s older daughter. I had worshipped these people growing up, and here I was at dinner with them. I don’t remember one word that was spoken or one word that I said. I was that much in awe.

What was I doing there? Maybe I was invited because Ingrid’s daughter Pia was also there, and Jennifer wanted someone else
Pia’s age on hand. Who knows? But Jennifer was such a lovely hostess, and good hosting is a lost art to be sure. After that she became my biggest supporter, my mentor, like a second mother. Every young actress could use a fairy godmother, and Jennifer was mine.

My biological family was growing as well. Around the time
Slattery’s People
aired, Diana and her husband welcomed a baby girl named Claire into the world. I was now an aunt. I remember going to see my little niece when she was just starting to crawl around.

“Look, Claire, it’s your Aunt Sally,” my sister said. Claire turned around and crawled in the opposite direction. She was adorable, independent, and spunky even then.

Slattery’s People
earned me some good attention. Not long after it aired I got a call from Shirlee, a stewardess who had at one time bought the entire contents of my apartment for $100. At first I was worried she was calling because she thought I’d overcharged her for the two twin beds, Morgan’s grandmother’s couch (the one I covered in orange burlap), and two chairs that Susie Pleshette had left me after our one hour of trying to be roommates. (That’s all it took for us to realize that, with our strong personalities, we’d never survive living together with our friendship intact.)

“Hi kid, it’s Shirlee,” she said. “Listen, my boyfriend saw you on
Slattery’s People
the other night, and he’d like to meet with you ’cause he’s doing a play in New York. He thinks you’d be perfect for it.”

Yeah, whatever, I was thinking. It’s LA. Who isn’t dating an actor?

“Do you know who my boyfriend is, kid?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s Henry Fonda,” she timidly replied.

“Ohhhh!” I said brightly. Sure glad it wasn’t about the furniture.

So I met with Henry Fonda in a deli on Santa Monica Boulevard, and Shirlee flew a reel of
Slattery’s People
out to New York
for the producers on one of her flights. In the end I didn’t get the part. But shortly thereafter, while I was making what I consider to be my first “real” movie,
The Third Day
with George Peppard and Elizabeth Ashley, Henry got director Arthur Penn to come out and watch me shoot a scene. Arthur was overheard saying that I had so much presence just walking across the room. Sadly, that wasn’t quite enough. Little did I know that Arthur was about to start production on a movie called
The Chase
starring Marlon Brando, my lifetime heartthrob. And who got the part of the girl? Jane Fonda! Oh well. Easy come, easy go. Marlon Brando . . .

Shirlee and Henry had a long, happy marriage. She took with her into that marriage Morgan Ames’s grandmother’s couch, though she got rid of my orange burlap. I remember Henry saying to me, when he was much older, “I’ll never work again.”

He sounded just like all us struggling actors. But all I could think was,
Doesn’t he realize he’s Henry Fonda
? Shortly thereafter he won the Oscar for Best Actor in a Leading Role working opposite Katharine Hepburn and his wonderful daughter Jane under the direction of Mark Rydell in
On Golden Pond.
It was one of his greatest performances—and at the age of seventy-six. There’s hope for all of us yet.

S
TUART CONTINUED TO WORK PASSIONATELY FOR ME AND MY
career. He probably believed in me more than I believed in myself. When I heard that David Mer rick, the famous Broadway producer, was going to do a musical of
Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
I wanted it badly. I knew it would give me the opportunity to sing. It felt like a good fit; it felt like something I could do. I wanted to start to bring more singing into my career, and this felt like a good way to do that. Stuart went over to my agency, William Morris, to get me a meeting with Merrick and was told that David only wanted to see “stars.” Stuart exploded and said, “If you don’t think she’s a star, she’s out of here today!”

I got a meeting.

David already had around twenty Tony nominations under his belt, with several wins for musicals like
Hello, Dolly
! and Oliver! At the time I was shooting an episode of
That Girl
starring Marlo Thomas. And as embarrassing as this is, I always brought my dog and cat to work with me. So there I was in my jeans, scarf around my head, animals in tow, coming from the set for my appointment with Merrick. When he opened the door of his suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, my yellow cat, J. R., leapt out of my arms and my black cocker spaniel, Holly, chased him around the suite.

It was a good meeting.

As he walked me to the door, he said, “If Mary Tyler Moore doesn’t want it, I’ll let you audition. And by the way, what is the real name of your dog?” David asked, thinking I’d lied about the dog’s name to get the part of Holly Golightly. I ended up as Mary’s standby with a guarantee that I’d get to play Holly three months in the second year of production. I also had two numbers of my own as the character “Mag Wildwood.”

Doing the show was an incredible experience. Mary, an amazing performer, worked harder than anybody I’ve ever seen. My pal Larry Kert was cast, as was Dick Chamberlain from class. Both were wonderful. I treasured friendships I made with Bob Merrill, the lyricist (also the lyricist of
Funny Girl
) and the choreographer Michael Kidd, whom I will never forget saying to me, “It’s not that you can’t dance. It’s that you won’t.”

David was a character. Still one to weep at the drop of a hat, I cried at my first wardrobe fitting. David’s response? “Kellerman,” he said, “you don’t need to cry. Don’t you think we can see that the dress is ugly?”

When the show was on the road, David would often take me out for tea. Our names got linked romantically, which was unfortunate, because he was married and there was no truth to it.