This Time Together Read online

  I would be Tillie to Walter’s Pete. We would be filming during the summer hiatus from our show, which was perfect timing for me. The three men were very enthusiastic, which was contagious.

  I said yes immediately. When the meeting was over, there were lots of handshakes and smiles. I stood in the doorway and waved goodbye, grinning from ear to ear, thanking them and saying, “See you soon!”

  I closed the door and leaned against it. Joe took one look at my face and said, “What’s the matter?”

  I was terrified. “Oh Lord. They’re big-screen and I’m little-screen!”

  The first few days of filming began, and even though I didn’t have much to do in those particular scenes, I felt like a stick. Everybody else was loose as a goose. I was in awe watching Geraldine Page, Barry Nelson, and of course Walter being inventive every which way they turned. Even though Martin Ritt was helpful and friendly, I kept waiting to get my pink slip. Why couldn’t I just relax and go with the flow the way I did on my own show? I just couldn’t get the feeling that I belonged.

  Then Walter asked me to have lunch with him in the commissary. We sat in a booth while I looked over the menu and tried to figure out what to order that would be easy to chew. He made me nervous. Everything made me nervous. The conversation was awkward. Walter kept trying to get a complete sentence out of his lunch date, but nothing was happening. Just some nodding and chewing.

  Until …

  WALTER: So tell me, why do you do all this television crap?

  ME: (fork halfway to my mouth) Excuse me?

  WALTER: I said, why do you do all this television crap?

  Whoa. Suddenly I found my voice.

  ME: Lemme ask you something, Walter. (This was the first time I had felt comfortable calling him by his first name.) How many movies do you make a year? Two? Three?

  He was one of the most popular actors in the business and was always working, so I knew I was in the ballpark.

  WALTER: Yep. That’s about right.

  ME: Are all of them considered great? Or could some fall under the heading of crap?

  WALTER: Some of ’em are pretty good, and some of ’em are crap.

  Walter and me on the set of Pete ’n’ Tillie.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  ME: How long do they usually take to film? Ten weeks? Twelve weeks?

  WALTER: That’s about right.

  ME: Well, look at it this way, Walter. It takes you ten or twelve weeks to make a piece of crap, and it takes me just five days.

  He threw his head back and laughed. We laughed all the way through the rest of lunch. In fact, we laughed through the rest of filming.

  Walter, his brilliant and lovely wife, Carol, Joe, and I became fast friends. I was lucky enough to work with him a few more times. Shortly before he died, his son Charley directed us in a television movie, The Marriage Fool. On the set one day I reminded Walter about our lunch in the commissary all those years ago. I had always suspected that he had riled me up on purpose.

  He looked at me and smiled. “Well, I knew I had to do something to loosen you up.”

  Thank you, Walter.

  The Front Page and Mea Culpa

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened; we’ll be taking off momentarily.” Joe and I were on a flight to New York for a short visit. The year was 1974. Our show was in its seventh season. The stewardess (that’s what they called them then, before “flight attendant” became the proper term) looked at me, smiled, and announced that the movie on our flight was The Front Page, starring Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau, and … (indicating me and where I was sitting) Carol Burnett. The other passengers in the cabin turned and smiled at me, and some even waved.

  Omigod. No. Please, no. Joe started to laugh.

  I had always loved Billy Wilder and his films. When it was announced that he was going to direct Jack and Walter in the classic The Front Page, I called his office myself and asked if he’d cast me as the prostitute, Molly Malloy. I also said I’d do it for nothing if they’d donate a sum to charity. I was hired. At one point during the filming, Billy turned to me and said, “You may not be the best actress I’ve ever directed, but you’re definitely the cheapest.”

  Jack Lemmon, me, and Walter in The Front Page, 1974.

  COPYRIGHT © 1978 BILL AVERY/MPTVIMAGES.COM

  As far as I was concerned, I was also the worst. Here I was, in a movie with the best in the business, and once again I was feeling helpless. I never got a grip on the character, so I acted every scene like I was in a high school play. I yelled every line. No nuance, no subtlety. Let’s just say it straight out: no confidence. Even though I had acted in some films by this point, I still harbored that small-screen mentality. What to do? I faced up to the fact that I was going to stink in this picture and couldn’t wait until it wrapped.

  I purposely didn’t see the movie when it opened. I got the reviews I deserved, and happily returned to my own backyard: CBS Television City, for our eighth year. And now here we were on an airplane and they’re showing The Front Page. It was too late to get off: we had already taxied down the runway and were lifting off.

  During the next hour or so, lunch was served. I ate half a roll, dreading the inevitable. It finally arrived. We were asked to lower our window shades, as the movie was about to begin. A few of the passengers smiled at me, and I managed a weak grin back. The cabin darkened and the torture began. I sank as low in my seat as I could and pulled a blanket over me, covering most of my face. When my name first appeared on the screen some folks even clapped. Where is a parachute when you need one?

  As the movie progressed, I couldn’t help peeking at a couple of moments when I was onscreen. Yep, I was as bad as I thought. I returned to my safe haven under the blanket. Mercifully, Joe was asleep.

  It was finally over. The window shades were being raised, only this time nobody turned around to smile and wave. Everyone in the entire cabin suddenly seemed very engrossed in the in-flight magazine.

  After a while, I climbed over Joe, who must have thought I was heading for the lavatory. Instead, I found the stewardess and made an unusual request: “Do you think I might be able to use your microphone and make an announcement?” She checked with the captain, who said it was okay. (Needless to say, this would never be allowed today.)

  She handed me the mike. I tapped it with my finger. It was on.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Hi. This is Carol Burnett. I just happened to be on this flight today and … ah … I want to take this opportunity to apologize to each and every one of you for my performance in the film you just saw. Thank you.”

  The entire plane erupted in laughter and applause.

  As I climbed back over Joe and into my seat he said, “I don’t believe you did that!”

  I was grinning from ear to ear, feeling absolutely cleansed.

  Restaurant Reservations

  In the late 1970s I was in St. Petersburg, Florida, to film H.E.A.L.T.H., a Robert Altman movie. This was my second Altman film. I’d first worked for him in A Wedding, and he was my favorite movie director, hands down. He made moviemaking so comfortable. With him I never felt like I didn’t belong. And this movie also had a terrific cast headed by James Garner, Lauren Bacall, Glenda Jackson, Paul Dooley, and Dick Cavett.

  Becky Mann, my assistant at the time, and I had traveled to Florida a few days ahead of the shooting schedule to get settled in the condos the studio had rented for the cast and crew. We were to film at the famous pink Don CeSar Hotel.

  The first night we were there, one of the crew suggested we eat at a local mom-and-pop German restaurant, I think it was called the Happy Times Café. At any rate, it wasn’t that local, since you had to drive awhile and then go over a toll bridge to get to it. It turned out to be very cozy, and the food was home-cooked and delicious. It was also empty. Mom and Pop were thrilled to see us and pulled out all the stops. We asked them why the restaurant was so empty. They explained that the location
was a problem; people didn’t want to pay the toll when there were other eateries right in town. We promised to come back as often as we could.

  A couple of days later Dick Cavett arrived, and Becky and I took him to the Happy Times. Again, it was delicious, and pretty empty.

  After we began shooting I made it a habit to hit the restaurant two or three times a week. Mom and Pop were always thrilled to see us, and made up special dishes for our tasting pleasure.

  A few weeks into filming, I decided to ask several of our cast members to be my guests at the good ol’ Happy Times for dinner one night, and a great time was had by all. Later that week an article ran in the local paper saying, “Well, the good ol’ Happy Times Café was really rocking the other night with the likes of Lauren Bacall, James Garner, Glenda Jackson, Dick Cavett, and Carol Burnett, busy ordering seconds of knockwurst and wiener schnitzel….”

  The following Friday I had finished my work for the day, so I asked Becky to call the Happy Times and say we’d be in early.

  Mom answered the phone. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry, but we’re full.”

  Is this where the saying “No good deed goes unpunished” comes from?

  All My Children

  I’ve watched the soap opera All My Children (set in the fictional town of Pine Valley) since before Erica married the first of her ten husbands. It’s the only soap opera I’ve allowed myself to get hooked on. I used to schedule my lunch hour at work so I could watch it. After VCRs came into being, I would tape the show, just in case I was forced to miss an episode. Sometimes the timer didn’t work or the tape would get warped, and I was not a happy camper. I used to talk to our show audience about All My Children when I did the introductory Q & A. We even used to do a soap takeoff on our show called As the Stomach Turns.

  In the early 1980s I was thrilled when the creator of All My Children, Agnes Nixon, offered to write a character for me to play as a guest on the show. She came up with a doozy. I was to be the illegitimate child of a carnival con artist and a snake charmer who comes to Pine Valley to find her biological father, who turns out to be Langley Wallingford (the wonderful Louis Edmonds), now married to wealthy socialite Phoebe Tyler (the equally wonderful Ruth Warrick). My name would be Verla Grubbs, and I would look like my name—pure trailer trash. Every outfit was way over the top. My story line was to last for two weeks, or ten episodes. I had several scenes with the late great Eileen Herlie (Myrtle) to boot. I was in heaven.

  I flew to New York, where they shot the show, and reported for work, thinking it would be a breeze.

  I have never worked so hard in my life. Soaps are not easy! They do a read-through at the crack of dawn. Then there’s makeup. Then there’s camera blocking. Then there’s a run-through with no stops. Then you get into your costume and get ready for the taping. This made for a fourteen-hour workday.

  And that was Monday. Now, I also had as many as twenty pages of dialogue to learn for the next day, and the next, and the next. Sometimes just before the countdown the actors would still have scripts in their hands; just seconds before the cameras rolled they’d hide the scripts somewhere—maybe under a pillow on a couch—just in time to say the next line when the camera light went on.

  The show was on a tight deadline, so it was taped as if it were live. If you goofed or forgot a line, there was no stopping or going back. You’d have to find a way to get out of any mess you got yourself into. As hard as it was, it was great fun to be a part of the AMC gang.

  They did take a time-out one day to spring a special surprise on me. I was in a scene in a bar with Myrtle when someone dressed in the cleaning lady outfit I always wore on my show made an entrance mopping the floor. She proceeded to bump into my chair. This wasn’t in the script, so I jumped up, turned around, and heard this great big belly laugh coming out of her. The crew was howling. She took off the mop cap and there stood Elizabeth Taylor.

  Elizabeth and I had worked together in an HBO movie, Between Friends, earlier that year and had indeed become friends. Agnes had planned this surprise, and Elizabeth, being the good sport she is, donned the outfit and hid out in one of the dressing rooms all day until the time came for the gag. The cameras kept rolling, and her belly laugh and my expletive (bleeped) went on the air exactly as taped.

  Elizabeth and me on the set of Between Friends.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  Keeping Up with Pine Valley While in Europe

  Several years before I had my shining moment as Verla Grubbs, Joe and the girls and I went to Europe for four weeks during the summer. So as not to miss the Pine Valley goings-on, I had my friend Rick send me a telegram once a week cluing me in on the latest trials and tribulations of Erica and the gang. He had our itinerary, so every Friday I’d receive tidings from the concierge at our hotel in London, Paris, or Rome, keeping me up to date on my soap. I couldn’t wait for those telegrams!

  Our last stop was Lake Como in Italy, where we were going to connect with some family friends. We had driven from Rome and were pretty tired when we arrived. The hotel was quite beautiful, overlooking the vast lake. We had an early dinner with our friends, unpacked, and hit the sack. Around two in the morning, we were awakened by someone knocking on our door. The girls were sound asleep, so Joe and I threw on our robes, wondering what could be important enough to wake us at this hour. We opened the door and there stood our friends, also in their robes, looking ashen. The concierge had a telegram in his hand, which was shaking. I was encouraged to sit down.

  Omigod, what’s wrong? My friend put her arm around me. Joe stood there looking confused and grim. The concierge said, “Signora, I am so sorry,” as he handed me the telegram.

  CAROL: ERICA WAS KIDNAPPED AND HAS BEEN FOUND IN A COMA. MARK SLIPPED AGAIN AND RAN AWAY FROM REHAB. HE HASN’T BEEN FOUND. MONA HAS TO HAVE EXPLORATORY SURGERY. DOESN’T LOOK GOOD. CHUCK HAS LEARNED THAT DONNA, WHO’S CARRYING HIS BABY, WAS ONCE A HOOKER. DONNA’S HUSBAND, PALMER, IS STILL IN THE DARK. THE WOMAN POSING AS BROOKE’S MOTHER IS WANTED BY THE POLICE. PHOEBE IS BACK ON THE BOTTLE. HOPE YOU’RE HAVING A GREAT TRIP. LOVE, RICK

  I started to laugh, which morphed into a kind of choking wail. I looked at everyone’s worried expressions, and tears started running down my face. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t speak. I’m sure everyone thought I was hysterical. They would have been right. The concierge suggested calling the house doctor, and my friends were all for it. Every time I tried to open my mouth to explain I burst into gales of laughter. Finally Joe took the telegram from me and read it. Then he started laughing, too.

  “It’s her soap.”

  They all turned their attention to Joe.

  “Her what?”

  I finally found my voice. Explanations and apologies filled the air.

  After everybody had left and the lights were out again, I was still laughing as I drifted off to sleep.

  I don’t think that poor concierge ever got it.

  Joan Crawford

  In the summer of 1962, I had my first contact with Joan Crawford. I was touring with my own live variety show, featuring the comedy team of Allen and Rossi and twenty male dancers. We opened in Pittsburgh, and from there we played theaters in Indianapolis, Kansas City, Dallas, and Detroit, closing at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas. Variety ran an article with a headline saying that we broke records wherever we played.

  When I got back to New York, there was a letter waiting for me. It had been forwarded from my agent’s office. The envelope was handwritten, and when I turned it over to look at the back, there was a return address and a signature: “Joan Crawford.” Joan Crawford?

  I tore it open. The letter was also handwritten.

  Darling Carol,

  I’ve read with great interest of your highly successful tour this summer. Congratulations! I’ve been a fan of yours for a long time. It’s always wonderful when good things happen to people you love.

  Sincerely, Joan

  I was dumbfounded. Joan Crawford. Wow. I remembered all the times my gran
dmother Nanny and I had sat weeping through a Joan Crawford drama. She was a queen.

  I thought about answering her. I didn’t want to seem forward, but I really wanted to express my gratitude for such a lovely letter.

  Dear Miss Crawford,

  Thank you so very much for your kind words. I was thrilled to hear from you. I’ll save your letter forever!

  Your fan, Carol Burnett

  A week went by. Another letter arrived.

  Darling Carol,

  I received your very sweet letter. And I’m planning on saving it the way you’re saving mine. Hope all is well and I send you much love, and please, no more of this “Miss Crawford” crap!

  Yours, Joan

  Should I write back? I wasn’t sure what to do. Okay, I decided, one last time.

  Dear Joan,

  Thank you for asking me to call you Joan. I’m most honored. I hope to meet you in person someday.

  With love, Carol

  The following week:

  Darling Carol,

  I’m so glad you feel comfortable calling me Joan. I too hope we can meet in person someday! Life can be so short … but also wonderful. Don’t you think so?

  Love, Joan

  I was at a loss. I didn’t want to be rude, but I felt somewhat awkward having Joan Crawford as a pen pal.

  I relayed this to a few other people in the business, and heard back that Joan Crawford wrote lots of letters to lots of people. I just couldn’t figure out where she found the time.