This Time Together Page 8

  THE SUIT: Stop doing this.

  Tim never made it to the other boot.

  Australia

  In the fall of 1973 our show was tapped to be the first television show to open the newly finished Sydney Opera House. We were thrilled, and gathered the necessary crew for the trip: Joe as our producer; our director, Dave Powers; our lead dancer, Don Crichton; our choreographer, Ernie Flatt; a couple of writers; and of course Harvey, Tim, and Vicki, along with the brilliant ballet artist Edward Villella as our guest.

  The show consisted of a musical opening with the dancers performing a number outside on the steps of the opera house to the tune of “Waltzing Matilda.” Harvey, Vicki, and I would do sketches, and Tim, as the world’s oldest maestro, would conduct the symphony orchestra to the tune of the William Tell Overture. Edward Villella had a solo turn, and our finale was to be a fractured version of Swan Lake, featuring Edward as the hero and me dancing with him as the Charwoman. We all stayed at the same hotel, which featured a breathtaking view of the harbor and the opera house.

  Rehearsals began, and at the beginning everyone would get together in the evening to sample the various restaurants around town. After a few days, however, our group began to shrink as people somewhat mysteriously split off; liaisons were forming, which was typical of working on location. Major and mini love affairs were popping up all over the place. I guess being halfway around the world tempted some people to throw caution to the wind. Naturally each couple thought their tryst was a big secret. Nope. Things like that have a way of getting out, but we all did our best to keep mum. Joe and I felt a bit weird about all the goings-on, but these were all adults and it was none of our business.

  One night, shortly before we were to do the show, Joe and I made a date to have dinner with Tim, who was traveling solo. We called his suite, and he suggested we come by to pick him up.

  After we got off the elevator, we went to his suite and knocked.

  “Come on in.”

  We opened the unlocked door and entered the living room. No Tim.

  He called out from the bedroom, “In here. C’mon in.”

  We hesitantly approached the open door and peered into the dimly lit room.

  There was Tim, bare-chested in bed, covers up to his waist, smoking a cigarette with his arm around a sheep, whose head was peeking out from underneath the comforter.

  “Hi, guys. Be right with you.” Getting up, he kissed his bed partner, patted her on the head, and said, “Don’t wait up, Barbara. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Then he looked at us and winked. “I know you’ll keep this to yourselves.”

  Joe and I collapsed with laughter. “Barbara” was an unbelievably realistic life-sized toy sheep Tim had bought in the gift shop.

  None of us opted for lamb chops that night.

  Bob Mackie

  What can you say about a man who, for eleven years, designed as many as fifty costumes a week for our variety show?

  Plenty.

  When we were putting the staff together in 1967, we knew that for our show costume design would be as important as writing. It’s a huge job. On a comedy-variety show the designer has to create looks for every character in every sketch and musical number, both silly and serious.

  Joe and I had watched the Alice in Wonderland special on TV and had also seen Mitzi Gaynor’s show, and in both cases we marveled at the outfits. They were gloriously clever. We noted the name Bob Mackie in the credits, called him, and made a date for him to come to our house for a meeting. At the appointed hour the doorbell rang and I opened the door to find a very handsome young boy (he looked to be about twelve) claiming to be Bob Mackie.

  It turned out he was. (And he was in his early twenties.) We talked for a bit about what we were looking for. He was charming and funny and offered several clever ideas, so he was hired on the spot.

  It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship that lasts to this day. Bob saved many a comedy sketch on our show with his wit and sharp eye for detail. I trusted his judgment so much that after the third week I stopped asking to see his drawings of the characters I’d be playing. Often he’d surprise me, and I’d always be delighted.

  On Fridays we would give Bob the script for the following week’s show, and he would begin to design every single outfit worn by our regular cast, including our dancers and singers, plus our guest stars. He even designed the wigs, and many times the makeup, for the various characters we played—sometimes fifty outfits total—and he did all this in less than a week! To this day, I don’t know how he did it.

  My costume-fitting day was Wednesday, and I couldn’t wait for that morning, when I’d head to his workplace to see what he had come up with. There were times when I didn’t have a clue about how I was going to play a character until I put on the outfit Bob had cooked up for me. For instance, the character of Mrs. Wiggins had originally been written as a somewhat doddering old lady. Bob changed all that. When I arrived for my weekly fitting, I looked at the drawing he had made and there was this buxom blonde with a flowered blouse, tight black skirt, stiletto heels, and long red fingernails. Instead of seeing her as ancient, he suggested I play her as a bimbo—someone the “IQ fairy never visited.” I loved the idea.

  I got into the outfit, and he stuck a blond wig on my head. The skinny black skirt was very tight around my knees but baggy in the behind.

  The dress!

  COPYRIGHT © CBS PHOTO ARCHIVE/GETTY IMAGES

  ME: Bob, I think we’re going to have to take in the rear so it’ll fit.

  BOB: Why don’t you stick out your butt to make it fit?

  I did, and that’s how the “Wiggins walk” was born. I had found my character.

  Then there was the Wednesday when I went in for the Gone With the Wind fitting. Our takeoff was called “Went With the Wind,” and I was playing Starlett O’Hara. It was a brilliant send-up of the movie, with Harvey playing Rat Butler. There’s a classic scene in the movie when Scarlett takes the green velvet draperies with the golden tie tassels down from the window and has Mammy make a dress for her so that she can impress Rhett. In our written version, when Rat is waiting at the bottom of the stairs for Starlett’s entrance, I was to appear at the top of the stairs with the draperies simply hanging there on my body as I descended to greet Rat Butler.

  Funny enough. It was sure to get a good laugh.

  However, when I walked into the fitting room Bob said, “I have an idea for the drapery bit.”

  He then brought out THE DRESS. It was a green velvet gown still attached to the curtain rod that would fit across my shoulders, with golden curtain tassels tied at the waist. He had even made a hat out of the rest of the tassels.

  I fell on the floor.

  That Friday taping will go down in history. When Starlett appeared at the top of the stairs in that getup, the audience went crazy. It has been called one of the funniest moments in the history of television comedy.

  And it was all because of Bob.

  Today his spectacular creation is on view at the Smithsonian.

  Jim Nabors

  I remember watching an episode of Gomer Pyle where Gomer, played by Jim Nabors, sits on a porch swing with his girlfriend and sings a beautiful folk song, accompanying himself on the guitar. I thought he was wonderful, and sent him a fan letter telling him so. It was 1965. We met shortly after that when Jim was in New York on business, and we hit it off immediately.

  After Joe and I moved to California, we got together often with Jim, and I thought of him as the brother I never had. When I gave birth to Jody, Jim Nabors became her godfather.

  Jim bought a home in Hawaii and lived a double life as a farmer in Maui. I remember performing with Jim one night at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Having just come offstage after doing his encore of “Impossible Dream” to a standing ovation, he looked at me waiting in the wings and said in his Gomer Pyle voice, “Well, I just bought me another tractor!”

  When my variety show was about to premiere, Jim was
our very first guest. When the show took off we looked on Jim as our good-luck charm, so he wound up being the guest on our first show every season for eleven years.

  Jim and me rehearsing for The Carol Burnett Show.

  COURTESY OF CAROL BURNETT

  Jim is still living in Hawaii. We don’t see each other as much as we’d like to, but we call each other often and play catchup. And Jim, I just want you to know that I love my good-luck charm very much.

  Talking to the Audience

  Now that we had put together our cast, Joe went about the business of hiring staff: writers, choreographer, set designer, and so on. Many of our first choices had worked on The Garry Moore Show in New York and, happily for us, were willing to take the chance and move out to California to be on our show. Arnie Rosen came on board as our talented head comedy writer. The extraordinarily versatile Ernie Flatt signed on as choreographer. Bob Wright came to us as associate producer. Several of Garry’s original dancers and singers joined us, including our brilliant lead dancer, Don Crichton, plus two of our best production assistants, known to all as Sharkey and Mumpsy. When the hiring was complete and we all got together, it felt like a class reunion.

  One night Joe, Bob Banner (our co-executive producer), and I were at dinner kicking around some ideas. We were premiering in a few short weeks. We knew we wanted comedy sketches, music, dancing and singing, and guest stars each week. We also hoped to develop returning characters, like Jackie Gleason’s Poor Soul and Ralph Kramden, Sid Caesar’s German Professor, and Red Skelton’s Clem Kadiddlehopper.

  Bob brought up the subject of how we would open the show. It was, and still is, typical to have a warm-up comedian come out before the taping and tell jokes to get the audience in a happy and anticipatory mood. Garry Moore never used that approach. He was his own warm-up man. He would go out onstage before the cameras rolled and kid around with the audience by doing a question-and-answer session. Every week I stood in the wings listening to his give-and-take with the audience. Garry was amazingly quick. He was always funny, always accessible, and always warm. His approach was a great way to get everyone in the audience in the mood for the taping. Also, this way they felt they really knew him.

  Bob suggested that I do the same thing, except that we’d actually tape these audience chats to show on the air. I balked at the idea, big-time. First of all, I didn’t have the confidence to think that I could come up with anything interesting off the cuff, and I didn’t want any planted questions. All I could think of was that Garry’s sessions were completely improvised. They were honest.

  At least we knew how we would close the show. The cast and guest stars would all line up for a bow, and I would ask the guests to sign my autograph book. Joe, who had been a songwriter and musician before turning producer, wrote our theme song, “I’m So Glad We Had This Time Together,” which I would sing. Then I’d tug on my ear for Nanny, and we’d all wave goodnight.

  Bob kept pressing me about opening the show by doing Q & A’s with our studio audience, saying how important it was for me to be myself before we jumped into the sketches and various characters for the rest of the hour. I finally (and very reluctantly) gave in. I agreed to try it a couple of times, and if it didn’t work, we’d forget about it forever.

  I remember coming out onstage before that first show, absolutely terrified, and looking at all the folks in their seats waiting for me to say something. What if no one had a question? Or worse, what if someone did, and I didn’t have an answer?

  “Hi, and welcome to our show. Um … let’s see if you have anything to say … I mean, if you have any questions … about our show … or whatever. Let’s bump up the lights!”

  The lights went up. The audience was staring at me politely.

  “Anything at all? Just raise your hands.”

  No hands.

  “I mean, whatever you have in mind … Anything?”

  The flop sweat began to roll down the back of my neck.

  FINALLY, a hand shot up. “Yes?”

  The man asked, “Who’s on?”

  I talked about Harvey, Vicki, and Lyle. Then I announced that Jim Nabors, my buddy and the godfather of my daughter Jody, was our premiere guest star. Jim was one of the most popular performers in the country, and the audience went wild. They were warming up, and I was breathing easier.

  We tried the opening again the following week, and it went a little better. By the third week I was beginning to have fun, and the audience, having seen the first two airings, knew what to expect and weren’t as shy about raising their hands. And the questions got funnier.

  ME: (pointing to a raised hand) Yes, the lady in the pink.

  Q: What has been your most embarrassing question?

  ME: (thinking for a moment) I think my most embarrassing question was whether or not I’d had a sex change. (Laughter) Yep, I think that takes the cake. (Pointing to another audience member) Yes?

  Q: Did you? (Much laughter)

  Next question …

  Q: Did you ever take acting lessons?

  ME: Yes, I did … when I was at UCLA, I studied for a while.

  Q: Think it did you any good?

  Another time a woman raised her hand, stood up, and asked if she could come up onstage and sing a song. She was dressed somewhat like Bea Arthur playing Maude, and there was a physical resemblance to boot. I said, “Sure, fine,” and she shot up to the stage like the Road Runner. Before I even finished asking what she’d like to sing, she turned to the orchestra and yelled out, “‘YOU MADE ME LOVE YOU’ IN THE KEY OF G!”

  When the audience screamed with laughter, she shushed them and proceeded to belt it out, and I mean BELT! She was fearless, and I might add she was pretty good, too. After she got through the first couple of bars I decided to join her, and the solo became a duet. We were both belting it out in harmony, wailing away, and the audience was clapping to the rhythm. It was going beautifully and we were having a lot of fun. Then we came to the ending. I had in mind one way to vocally end the number, and she had a different take on how we should wind it up. So after a great beginning and middle, our ending left a lot to be desired. What had started out as a dynamic duet was now pitifully petering out. She shot a look at me and, obviously pissed, said, “YOU SCREWED IT UP!” The audience ate her up, and as far as I was concerned, she was pure gold.

  Another one of my favorite moments happened when a lady in the audience asked me when I was going to do another takeoff on Shirley Temple. We had done a couple of short bits earlier in the season where I played Shirley Dimple being interviewed by Harvey, who was playing a newsman. Upon hearing the question from the lady in the audience, the crew and cameramen burst out laughing.

  Why? Because in that very show, that very night, we were doing a complete twenty-five-minute send-up of a Shirley Temple movie that we had been rehearsing all week as our big extravaganza finale, taking up the entire second half of the hour! It consisted of four elaborate sets and dozens of costumes, with original music and lyrics by Ken and Mitzie Welch, backed by our regular twenty-eight-piece orchestra, led by Peter Matz, plus guest stars Anthony Newley and Bernadette Peters, along with Harvey, Vicki, Lyle, and our dancers.

  And this was a total and complete coincidence!

  Instead of explaining this to the lady and the audience, I decided to have some fun with her. I asked, “Do you like it when we do Shirley?” She smiled and nodded. I went on, “Gosh, I’m not sure, but maybe we can whip up something before the end of the show. I can’t promise you, but we’ll try.”

  The first half of the show featured solos by Anthony Newley and Bernadette Peters, and a couple of sketches. Then we came to the second half.

  First came the overture, with Lyle’s announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight we present our movie of the week, LITTLE MISS SHOWBIZ! Starring Shirley Dimple!”

  The first scene finds Shirley in an orphanage with other little girls in matching PJs singing and dancing on and around their beds in tap shoes. The story revolves
around Shirley and her two uncles: Uncle Meany (Harvey) is a rich Scrooge type, and his out-of-work younger brother, Uncle Miney (Anthony Newley), wants to write a successful Broadway show starring his girlfriend (Bernadette Peters). Both uncles want to adopt Shirley, whose father, Moe, died in an accident. Uncle Meany wins custody because he’s so awfully rich. Shirley sings a goodbye song to her fellow orphanage mates and sadly leaves with the wealthy and unpleasant Uncle Meany, much to the sorrow of Uncle Miney, who sings a sad lament with the remaining orphans.

  We next find Uncle Miney in his cold-water flat with his girlfriend, trying to write a hit show tune, which they sing while the girlfriend taps her way around the room. After the number, Shirley bursts into the flat, having run away from Meany, and begs her kind but poor uncle Miney to let her stay with him. The girlfriend isn’t too happy with this arrangement because she thinks Shirley’s a brat. Shirley’s not too crazy about the girlfriend either, and tries to come between her and Miney by writing and singing her own hit song for Broadway, which Uncle Miney flips over, claiming that they’ll have a major hit with that song starring Shirley. After they finish singing it together, Uncle Meany bangs down the door demanding that Shirley come back with him. They agree to take this problem to the highest court in the land.

  Our next scene finds us in a courtroom with a jury, where Shirley’s fate is to be determined. On hand are the two uncles and the girlfriend. Shirley enters and sings to the judge, segueing into sitting on Uncle Meany’s lap and singing to him, asking him not to be so mean. His heart is touched, and Uncle Miney jumps up and asks Shirley to sing and tap-dance for the court.

  She takes off her coat and reveals a sequined costume with dozens of petticoats. As this is happening, the set revolves, the jury members and the judge remove their outer garments, becoming dancers and singers, and lo and behold, we find ourselves in a Broadway show with everybody singing and tapping their hearts out, including Uncle Meany, who by now has decided to invest in Uncle Miney and Shirley’s show.