This Time Together Read online

  When lunch was over, we all rode down in the elevator together. Outside on Madison Avenue, it was raining like crazy, and Oscar offered to help me hail a cab. None was to be found. He offered to wait with me until I got one. Thanking him, I said, “Oh, don’t worry. You go on. Somebody in a truck will pull up and I’ll hitch a ride.”

  I’d barely gotten out those words when a huge beer truck stopped in front of us at the curb and the burly, tattooed driver leaned across the seat and yelled out the passenger window, “Hey, Carol! Me and the missus watch ya all the time on Garry! Need a lift?”

  Oscar Katz and Mike Dann hoisted me into the cab of the truck, and as it pulled away I leaned out the window to wish them a happy New Year. Their mouths were still hanging open as they waved me on my way.

  The driver deposited me in front of my building, and as I ran down the hall to my apartment I could hear the phone ringing. It stopped just as I put the key in the lock. Before I could get my coat off, it started to ring again.

  “Hello, Carol. Oscar Katz. Okay, you got your show.”

  Julie and me on our last special, Together Again.

  “What? Really?”

  “That was pretty peculiar, what happened. We figure it’s an omen of some kind. Anyhow, congratulations.”

  And that’s how Julie and Carol at Carnegie Hall got sold.

  Ken Welch and Mike Nichols came on board and wrote the whole show. The night of the taping, New York experienced a huge snowstorm; I had always felt rain and snow were signs of good luck, so this storm was right on schedule. The show aired in March 1962 and won super ratings and lots of prizes. It was the first American television show to win the coveted Golden Rose of Montreux. I’m just sorry I never got that truck driver’s name.

  Through the years that followed, Julie and I kept in touch. She went to Hollywood, and everybody west of New Jersey got to know her and helped make her one of the most popular movie stars of all time, winning the Oscar for Mary Poppins for starters.

  I stayed with television. Even though I did a few movies, I preferred (and was better at) weekly comedy-variety and playing to a live audience, thanks to the super training I got from Garry Moore. However, Julie and I did get together for two more TV specials, Julie and Carol at Lincoln Center in 1971 and Julie and Carol Together Again in 1989.

  We joke that during the first show all we talked about was our careers and our love lives. The second time around all we talked about was our kids and our husbands. The third time we were very much into the subject of menopause.

  If we ever do another one, we’ve decided to call it A Metamucil Musical with Julie and Carol.

  A Very Bad Hair Day

  Julie Andrews and I were working on our second TV special in New York for CBS, this one at Lincoln Center. Joe was producing and the Welches were writing the special material and music. Ernie Flatt was the choreographer, Dave Powers was directing, and Peter Matz was the musical director—all of them creators from our variety show. It was 1971, nine years after Julie and I had done our first show at Carnegie Hall. Julie was a major movie star now, and I had had my own weekly TV show for four years. We were very excited to be back together again. Even though we had husbands and kids now, we both reverted right back to the time we first met—giggling like schoolgirls, acting up, making jokes, and generally having one helluva grand ol’ time.

  The show was to air in December, but we were taping it in the summertime. I remember telling everybody to be on the lookout for a rainstorm on taping day, given my feeling that rain was good luck. After our final dress rehearsal, Joe and I went back to the hotel to order room service and turn in early before the big day.

  That night I was having a rough time getting to sleep, so I got up around midnight to get a drink of water. I looked into the bathroom mirror and had a brilliant idea: I should highlight my hair! I figured a blond streak here and there would give my hair more oomph for the show the next day.

  There was an all-night drugstore on the same block as our hotel, so I dressed quietly so as not to wake Joe, and tiptoed out of the room. A few minutes later I was back with a bottle of peroxide. Joe was still asleep. I put on a robe and locked myself in the bathroom. Parting my hair in sections, I began to comb the peroxide into random strands all over my head. How difficult could highlighting be?

  What was I thinking, you ask? The answer: I wasn’t.

  Expecting to see immediate results, I kept combing and combing until the bottle was empty. Still no results. I figured I’d bought a faulty bottle, so I towel-dried my hair and went to bed.

  The next morning I awoke to shouts of “OMIGOD! What happened to you?” Joe was beside himself. I ran into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. I started to cry as I explained what I’d done the night before to create this fright wig, which was now the color and texture of straw. I looked like Ray Bolger in The Wizard of Oz. No, I looked like I had returned from the grave. Joe just stood there shaking his head in disbelief.

  We got to Lincoln Center for our morning rehearsal before the audience was due in. After I removed my baseball cap, our hairdresser, Ernie Adler, took one look at me and literally clutched at his chest, breathing heavily. “What in the hell did you do to yourself?”

  “Ernie! Can’t you do something to fix this awful mess?”

  Julie and Carol at Lincoln Center: my bad hair day.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  Showtime was only a couple of hours away. Ernie did his best by washing my hair and using tons of conditioner to give it a little life. It was an improvement, but it wasn’t nearly enough.

  To this day, every time I see a picture of Julie and me in that special, I cringe. But the show must go on, and on it went. Julie and I did the opening number, and the audience was enthusiastic and ready to have fun. I tried to forget my hair and what the audience might be thinking about it: Did a small blond animal die on her head?

  Later in the show there was a comedic musical segment where I played the world’s oldest living ballerina on yet another final farewell tour, reprising her most famous role as a Greek goddess. Bob Mackie outfitted me in a tacky white wig (which, actually, was a notch better than my own hair), a pouchy stomach, and boobs down to my waist. The theme of the ballet was Greek gods and goddesses. Julie Andrews was playing my young and gorgeous rival for the affections of a beautiful hunk of a god (our lead dancer, Don Crichton). The plot has me preparing to seduce this young god, but before I can make much progress my gorgeous rival bowls him over with a very sexy dance. He succumbs to her charms, and in a fit of rage my character brings down a curse on her rival:

  O mighty Thor! Creator of lightning and storm! Ruler of the heavens and most powerful of all the gods! I beseech you! Strike down this beautiful stranger … NOW!

  I swear that on the very tail end of that bit of dialogue there was a genuine, honest-to-God clap of thunder that rattled the theater windows, and it began to pour outside. I got my rain. The timing was perfect. And I felt wonderful!

  So in spite of the trauma of the tresses, I wound up having yet another rollicking and utterly magical good time with my chum. This second TV special was also well received. And believe it or not, after it aired I got several letters from viewers wanting to know where I got my hair done!

  Julie, Mike Nichols, and the Lady in the Elevator

  Julie Andrews is a very funny and very bawdy lady. She’s a true dame in both the British sense and in the other (good) sense of the word—she’s down-to-earth, laughs loud and hard, and loves to play practical jokes.

  We were together again in Washington, D.C., in January 1964 to take part in a show to honor President Lyndon Johnson. Celebrities were pouring in from Hollywood and New York to perform. Julie and I were going to sing the medley of Broadway musicals that we had done at Carnegie Hall. Joe and I had arrived the night before the show, around ten o’clock, and checked into the hotel where everybody connected with the gala was staying. I called Julie’s room, figuring she and her husband, Tony Walton, h
ad also just arrived.

  “Hey chum, we’re here. Just got in. We’re unpacking,” I told her.

  “Great! What room are you in?”

  Our rooms turned out to be on the same floor.

  She said that she and Tony were already in their PJs and robes and had ordered some hot chocolate. “Why don’t you put on your robes and fuzzy slippers and come down to our room?” Joe was reluctant to walk down the hall in fuzzy slippers and a robe, but I was gung-ho, so he threw on a sweatsuit and I put on my flannels, and off we went to Julie and Tony’s suite.

  We were all on our second cup of hot chocolate when the phone rang and Julie picked up. “Ohhh, Mike! You’re here! Great. What floor are you on? … Well, we’re down on the second floor having hot chocolate with Carol and Joe. C’mon down!”

  It was Mike Nichols calling from his room on the fourth floor. He said he’d be down after he hung up a few things. Mike and Elaine May were also going to be in the show, doing one of their classic comedy bits.

  A few minutes later Julie’s face lit up.

  “What?”

  She looked at me and said, “Let’s go down the hall and greet Mike in our jammies when he comes out of the elevator. There’s a settee right in front of the elevator and we can sit there and wait for him. He’ll get a big kick out of seeing us dressed like this!”

  I had to admit we looked somewhat ridiculous (I think it was the big fuzzy slippers), so I figured, why not?

  We left Tony and Joe and went down the hall, plopped ourselves on the settee, and watched the numbers above the elevator light up as it ascended and descended. We figured that when the number 4 stayed lit up for a moment, it would be Mike getting into the elevator on his way down. So far, no action.

  Julie got that look again. “When the door opens and Mike comes out, let’s be kissing!”

  “WHAT?”

  “I don’t mean actually kissing kissing. Let’s just pretend to be kissing! He’ll absolutely scream!”

  We figured out a way to hug and make our faces disappear in each other’s necks so that it would look like we were in a mad liplock.

  We kept staring at the numbers, and finally the number 4 lit up for a few seconds. The elevator went ding-ding as the car approached our floor.

  Julie and I grabbed each other and began our charade. We heard the elevator door open. We heard someone walk out and then we heard the door close. We didn’t hear anything else.

  It was very quiet. Too quiet. I whispered to Julie, “I’m not sure it’s Mike. What do you think? I mean, he would’ve said something.” Julie whispered back, “Well, we can’t stay like this forever.” We broke our clinch and looked up.

  A woman who was the spitting image of Lady Bird Johnson was making her way down the hall with a couple of burly men who looked a lot like Secret Service, all of them looking back at us over their shoulders. Julie and I were frozen with embarrassment. They disappeared around the corner. Oh God, was that really the First Lady? Before we could get up to run back to Julie’s room, the woman returned to peek around the corner … and looked straight at me!

  “Aren’t you Carol Burnett?” she asked sweetly, in an unmistakable Texas accent.

  Pointing to my chum, who was looking up at the ceiling as innocent as a newborn, I replied, “Yes, ma’am, and this here is Mary Poppins!”

  Laurence Olivier

  During the 1970s when our show was on the air, Joe and I bought a small beach house in Malibu, where we spent weekends and summers with the kids. The real estate lady who sold it to us was constantly pressing us to rent the house if for some reason we weren’t planning on using it for any length of time. We would always say no. I didn’t want to have strangers in our home, and I really didn’t want to be somebody’s landlord.

  One Friday in 1975, I got a call in my dressing room just as we were getting ready to tape the show. I picked up the phone. It was Pat, the real estate lady. I rolled my eyes at Joe and mouthed her name to him.

  She sounded absolutely giddy. “Carol, I have someone who wants to rent the beach house for the whole summer! I quoted a big fat price and they said fine!”

  Joe took the phone from me and for the hundredth time repeated our mantra about not renting. I motioned to Joe to give me back the phone. I thought I’d have a little fun with Pat before we hung up.

  “Pat, how about this? No more calls about renting the house unless it’s Laurence Olivier! Okay?”

  Pat paused. Then she said, “Well, I guess you’re gonna be a landlord, then.”

  “What?”

  “Guess who wants to rent your house.”

  I almost fell out of my chair.

  Laurence Olivier. He was filming Marathon Man that summer, and our house was perfect for him and his family.

  He turned out to be a swell tenant.

  One Saturday night he and his wife, Joan Plowright, threw a party. It felt funny being invited to our own house for dinner, but everybody had a fine time. I remember asking him what his favorite film role was. He replied, “Well, I can tell you one thing, it wasn’t Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights.”

  We all protested: “You’ve got to be kidding! You were wonderful! So strong and romantic,” et cetera, et cetera.

  He said, “I can re-create my performance for you here and now,” whereupon he walked over to the large fireplace in the dining room, turned his back to us, and leaned his hands against the mantel, letting his head drop in an oh-so-melancholy way.

  You could’ve heard a pin drop.

  Finally, in a whisper, he said, “Cathy,” the name of his sweetheart, whom Merle Oberon played in the movie. “Cathy …” I had never swooned before, but I felt my knees start to buckle.

  He said “Cathy” one more time, then turned back to us. “That’s about it. My performance in a nutshell. Bugs Bunny could’ve done it.”

  I totally disagreed with his assessment, and based on the expressions on the other women’s faces, I was not alone.

  Walter Matthau

  It was 1972 and The Carol Burnett Show was in the middle of its run. There was never a day at work that wasn’t fun. The way we worked was also extremely efficient. I once totaled up my weekly hours spent rehearsing and taping the show, and it came to about thirty. I had a part-time job! We were probably one of the most organized television shows ever. Anyhow, that was our reputation. We produced a mini Broadway musical revue every week and still had time to go home for an early dinner every night with the kids, except for Friday, when we taped the show.

  I suspect this was because most of the cast, writers, and crew came from theater and live TV. Also, Joe was a terrific producer. Boy, did he know how to run a tight ship. He had begun his training as a writer on the wonderful Dinah Shore Show and graduated to producer under the expert tutelage of executive producer Bob Banner on The Garry Moore Show. When Gloria Swanson appeared as a guest on my show, she was absolutely stunned at how fast we worked and learned.

  Starting on Monday we learned our lines, our music, and our dances, hit our marks, and rehearsed. Come Friday, we taped the show twice in front of two different audiences, one at five o’clock and one at eight o’clock, and were finished early enough to have a nice, quiet dinner at Chasen’s. On Saturdays Joe would edit the show, choosing the best takes from both performances, finishing in time for a round of golf. No hassle. Hardly ever a retake.

  It was a dream job. We had weekends, summers, and Christmas and Easter off, plus a few weeks here and there in between. It was a school schedule, which suited our family to a T. Did I mention the fun part? Not a day went by when there wasn’t a huge belly laugh (or several) ringing through the rehearsal halls of CBS Television City. We were blessed, all right. Television was my second home. And the people who created our show were my second family.

  I had acted in one movie, Who’s Been Sleeping in My Bed? in 1963, with Dean Martin and Elizabeth Montgomery—one of those sixties comedies that was about as substantial as cotton candy. I’m not knocking it: sometimes co
tton candy can be satisfying when that’s what you’re in the mood for. There just wasn’t much to it, that’s all. I played the best friend of the leading lady, sort of the Eve Arden role. While I had a good time with everybody, I wasn’t crazy about the medium: lots of sitting around and waiting. So it never bothered me that the movie studios weren’t ringing my doorbell. I was a warhorse. I liked rehearsing. And when the curtain went up I liked performing in front of an audience and then going home. Besides, I wasn’t the movie star type.

  So it came as a bit of a surprise one night when our doorbell rang and there stood Walter Matthau.

  I’m getting ahead of myself here.

  The previous week my agent had received a call about the possibility of my being in a movie called Pete ’n’ Tillie with Walter Matthau. The script was sent over, and I read it and loved it. Not only would I be co-starring with one of the biggest stars in the movies, but it was also going to be directed by Martin Ritt (Hud) and written by Julius Epstein (Casablanca).

  Why me? At that time, television performers were television performers and movie stars were movie stars. The crossover thing hadn’t much happened yet, with the exception of James Garner and Steve McQueen. Still, a meeting was set up and Walter Matthau, Martin Ritt, and Julius Epstein were coming over to our house to meet with me and talk.

  Joe and I opened the door and there they were. We invited them in. Martin Ritt reminded me of a friendly bear. Julius Epstein was nattily turned out and very witty. Walter Matthau was funny but somewhat intimidating.