constantly aware that David had girlfriends everywhere, but nothing serious. Jack also knew how numerous these girls were and would sometimes crossly complain, “That’s all he cares about, girls.”
Whereupon I would laugh and say, “Well, Jack, he’s your son, and that’s all you care about.”
David also had something else in common with Jack: a giant endowment. David’s brothers called him Donk, for Donkey, and Jack would joke, “Where did you get that? You’re bigger than me,” which probably didn’t help their rocky relationship.
SIX
Elmer Gantry
By now, all the Hollywood power players viewed me as the ingénue from Oklahoma! and from Carousel and didn’t consider me to be anything other than a singer who starred in musicals.
That infuriated me—I was an actress, and I wanted nothing more than to act in a serious drama and to be taken seriously. In the meantime, when Jack wasn’t starring on Broadway, he and I performed our cabaret act all over the country together.
We were about to go onstage at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco to do our act when the phone rang.
“This is Burt Lancaster,” a deep male voice announced.
Burt Lancaster! Burt Lancaster! My teen idol. Must be a joke, I thought, and hung up.
Within seconds, it rang again. It really was Burt Lancaster. Burt Lancaster, only not making a social call.
“This is Burt Lancaster. Have you read the novel Elmer Gantry ?”
I hadn’t.
“Go get it and read it. We’re making a movie of it, and I would like you to think about playing the role of Lulu Bains. Can you come in and meet Richard Brooks, who is directing?”
Sure I could.
Overnight, I read the book and discovered that Lulu Bains wasn’t Laurey or Julie or some musical ingénue but a real, flesh-and-blood woman, the daughter of a deacon, undone by passion and forced into prostitution.
Burt had seen me playing the alcoholic Sunshine Girl in “The Big Slide,” a Playhouse 90 television drama with Red Skelton, and had never forgotten me. But to play Lulu Bains in Elmer Gantry , I would first have to pass muster with the movie’s fearsome writer, producer, director (all rolled into one), Richard Brooks.
Known for directing gritty, dramatic movies such as Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Blackboard Jungle , Richard Brooks was universally reviled as a martinet. I also knew through the grapevine that he intended Piper Laurie (who had also played an alcoholic in another Playhouse 90 production, “Days of Wine and Roses”) to play the part of Lulu Bains.
Richard Brooks definitely did not want to cast me as Lulu Bains, and however much Burt Lancaster wanted me to play Lulu and was rooting for me, I was petrified at the prospect of meeting Richard Brooks.
But I also knew that this was my big opportunity to make the switch from frothy musicals to drama, to be considered a serious actress at last, and not just a singer. It all depended on my winning over Brooks, and I wasn’t at all sure whether I was equal to the task.
I knew through other actresses and actors who had worked with Brooks that he was an ex-marine and a tough guy. Everyone who’d worked for him on movies hated him. He didn’t allow anyone to play cards between scenes or to read newspapers. Famous for calling the cast and the crew “sons of bitches,” he would think nothing of slapping an extra in the face if the extra was meant to cry in a scene but hadn’t so far managed to wring out a single tear. One hard slap from Richard Brooks, and that same extra was wailing like a baby.
Down the line, in 1985, during the making of Fever Pitch , which Brooks was directing, he employed that identical tactic on my own son Patrick, who had a small part in the movie. Brooks wanted Patrick to cry in one scene, and as much as Patrick tried to cry on demand, he couldn’t manage it. So even though Brooks was fully aware that Patrick was my son, he still slapped him in the face a few times—and with so much force that Patrick
Whereupon I would laugh and say, “Well, Jack, he’s your son, and that’s all you care about.”
David also had something else in common with Jack: a giant endowment. David’s brothers called him Donk, for Donkey, and Jack would joke, “Where did you get that? You’re bigger than me,” which probably didn’t help their rocky relationship.
SIX
Elmer Gantry
By now, all the Hollywood power players viewed me as the ingénue from Oklahoma! and from Carousel and didn’t consider me to be anything other than a singer who starred in musicals.
That infuriated me—I was an actress, and I wanted nothing more than to act in a serious drama and to be taken seriously. In the meantime, when Jack wasn’t starring on Broadway, he and I performed our cabaret act all over the country together.
We were about to go onstage at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco to do our act when the phone rang.
“This is Burt Lancaster,” a deep male voice announced.
Burt Lancaster! Burt Lancaster! My teen idol. Must be a joke, I thought, and hung up.
Within seconds, it rang again. It really was Burt Lancaster. Burt Lancaster, only not making a social call.
“This is Burt Lancaster. Have you read the novel Elmer Gantry ?”
I hadn’t.
“Go get it and read it. We’re making a movie of it, and I would like you to think about playing the role of Lulu Bains. Can you come in and meet Richard Brooks, who is directing?”
Sure I could.
Overnight, I read the book and discovered that Lulu Bains wasn’t Laurey or Julie or some musical ingénue but a real, flesh-and-blood woman, the daughter of a deacon, undone by passion and forced into prostitution.
Burt had seen me playing the alcoholic Sunshine Girl in “The Big Slide,” a Playhouse 90 television drama with Red Skelton, and had never forgotten me. But to play Lulu Bains in Elmer Gantry , I would first have to pass muster with the movie’s fearsome writer, producer, director (all rolled into one), Richard Brooks.
Known for directing gritty, dramatic movies such as Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Blackboard Jungle , Richard Brooks was universally reviled as a martinet. I also knew through the grapevine that he intended Piper Laurie (who had also played an alcoholic in another Playhouse 90 production, “Days of Wine and Roses”) to play the part of Lulu Bains.
Richard Brooks definitely did not want to cast me as Lulu Bains, and however much Burt Lancaster wanted me to play Lulu and was rooting for me, I was petrified at the prospect of meeting Richard Brooks.
But I also knew that this was my big opportunity to make the switch from frothy musicals to drama, to be considered a serious actress at last, and not just a singer. It all depended on my winning over Brooks, and I wasn’t at all sure whether I was equal to the task.
I knew through other actresses and actors who had worked with Brooks that he was an ex-marine and a tough guy. Everyone who’d worked for him on movies hated him. He didn’t allow anyone to play cards between scenes or to read newspapers. Famous for calling the cast and the crew “sons of bitches,” he would think nothing of slapping an extra in the face if the extra was meant to cry in a scene but hadn’t so far managed to wring out a single tear. One hard slap from Richard Brooks, and that same extra was wailing like a baby.
Down the line, in 1985, during the making of Fever Pitch , which Brooks was directing, he employed that identical tactic on my own son Patrick, who had a small part in the movie. Brooks wanted Patrick to cry in one scene, and as much as Patrick tried to cry on demand, he couldn’t manage it. So even though Brooks was fully aware that Patrick was my son, he still slapped him in the face a few times—and with so much force that Patrick
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