Backstage Pass To Broadway Page 13

  As the air date for the 12-hour series neared, Pat Loud became concerned about how she and her family would be perceived on TV.

  Pat’s first objection was Channel 13’s choice of a logo for the series. She had provided a photo of her large, smiling family. Channel 13’s art department had placed it in a frame and then smashed the glass. The cracked image of the Louds as America’s broken family was strong and effective. Pat said furiously, “My family is not broken.” Despite her objections, the logo remained.

  The entire family was invited to attend a special press screening of An American Family which I hosted in LA, and they enjoyed being the center of attention. When the Louds agreed to let the TV crew invade their lives, it never occurred to them that their values would be judged or their lifestyle dissected in the media. They were shaken to find that TV critics not only reviewed the TV series, they also reviewed their lives.

  Instead of commending them for living the American dream, TV critics focused on how the series questioned the very concept of the American family and exposed this one with all its lies and warts. Rather than becoming stars, the Louds became public targets and symbols of all that was wrong with our capitalistic American culture. One writer said the series was designed to compel and repel. By the time the 12 hour series ended, it had reached 10 million viewers.

  The Loud’s fifteen minutes of fame was extended by a follow-up program about Lance’s battle with AIDS and his somewhat aimless and self-indulgent lifestyle. In 1974, Pat Loud wrote A Woman’s Story, about the making of the series and the show’s affect on her family. Pat referred to me as “the nice girl from Channel 13 who handled the publicity.” I doubt she knew how protective I felt toward all of them or that I quit my job at Channel 13 when I was specifically instructed by my boss to book Lance on the Dick Cavett Show wearing a dress.

  Margaret Mead said the series was the most important event in human thought since the invention of the novel. I’m sure Pat Loud and her family did not agree.

  In 2011, HBO aired an original movie called Cinema Verité about the making of An American Family. Diane Lane and Tim Robbins gave remarkable impersonations of Pat and Bill Loud, with James Gandolf-ini playing a slightly more seductive version of producer Craig Gilbert. The film included clips from the original NET series, cutting back and forth between different versions of the same ‘reality.’

  In her New York Times review of Cinema Verité, titled “The First Airing of Dirty Laundry” (April 21, 2011), Alessandra Stanley wrote: “Ethical questions raised by the making of An American Family are answered, perhaps a little too patly. Cinema Verité makes reparation to the Louds, who insisted they were never as spoiled and decadent as the camera implied and the critics said. Here they are painted as they had hoped to be seen when they first agreed to the experiment in 1971: an attractive, interesting family of seven who agreed in good faith to surrender their privacy for a greater good. The Louds couldn’t know then that the camera distorts reality in the least flattering direction, adding 10 pounds, not just to the body but also to the soul. An American Family couldn’t really live up to its creator’s intent to strip a modern household bare, though the stilted on-camera breakup is still quite shocking. The PBS series is mostly memorable for revolutionizing television, and not just by paving the way for reality shows like The Osbournes and Jersey Shore, as well as mock-documentary sitcoms like Modern Family and Parks and Recreation.”

  In 2013, Pat Loud was interviewed by the New York Times (June 16, 2013) with Carole Radziwell, one of TV’s ‘Real Housewives.’ Loud spoke again about being treated badly by WNET and the producers of An American Family yet admitted that, if invited to appear on Real Housewives of Los Angeles, she would say, “How much?”

  As head of Publicity at USA Network, I needed Don Adams to come to New York City to promote his short-lived USA Network sitcom called Check It Out. But when I called his manager to work out the logistics, I learned Don, the beloved star of Get Smart, was terrified of flying. Evidently, it took many drinks before he was able to get onto an airplane. As he knew he’d arrive at his destination drunk or, at the very least, extremely hung over, he would not permit anyone but an anonymous limo driver to meet him when he deplaned. The limo driver had specific instructions (and a healthy tip) to get Adams checked into his hotel, up to his room and into bed, before leaving him. It worked because Adams was always prompt and professional for his publicity appearances and interviews.

  SHELBY, BORIS AND BOBBY BRING CHESS TO THE MASSES ... VERY SLOWLY

  In August, 1972, Mike Chase, a young TV exec at New York City’s educational Channel 13/WNET, had the bright idea to televise the Fischer/Spassky World Chess Tournament in Reykjavik, Iceland.

  The only problem was that there was no TV transmission available of the chess match between the quirky American and imperious Russian chess masters. After losing the first (televised) match, Bobby Fischer forfeited the second match, blaming the distraction of the TV cameras. As a result, the match was moved into a small room with no cameras and, thus, no TV coverage.

  Channel 13 hired a rumpled, scholarly, local chess master named Shelby Lyman to host and narrate the chess match from a borrowed TV studio in Albany, NY. Shelby stood in front of a large, mounted black and white paper chess demo board and moved paper chess pieces in and out of slots in the board. Off camera, a stage manager was on the phone with a guy at the State University of New York who had a short wave audio-link with Iceland. Each time Bobby Fischer or Boris Spassky made a move, it was relayed like two kids with tin cans and a very long piece of string. When one of the players made a move in Iceland, someone would ring a little round teachers’ bell in the Albany TV studio.

  The stage manager would write down the move and give it to a female assistant who would hand it to Shelby, who was patiently waiting on camera. Everything would stop while he read the move and then Shelby would rush over to the chess board to explain it to the live TV cameras. Shelby would move the paper chess pieces showing the move and explain at length why he thought the move was smart or dumb. As you can imagine, there were long pauses between moves so Shelby used that time to move away from the board, stroll around the studio, pontificate and educate his captive audience about the joys and intricacies of chess. He would schmooze with any chess grandmasters they could drag to the studio to fill those long gaps between moves.

  This ridiculously low-tech, live TV show became an instant hit in NYC and Shelby Lyman became a local media star. What was planned as ‘filler’ before Channel 13 began its regular daily broadcast, turned into up to five hours of live daily programming by the end of the 21 chess matches. Within days, the show attracted more than a million viewers. It even pre-empted Sesame Street.

  This mousy chess maven, who had been the 18th ranked US player, normally taught bored housewives and retirees at the Marshall Chess Club in Greenwich Village. He reveled in his new, unexpected fame by making star-like demands on Channel 13 and me, the press agent for the station. When Macy’s asked him to make an in-store appearance, he demanded and got big bucks plus several expensive chess sets.

  This unassuming man, who previously was grateful for any attention, began dictating terms for interviews and demanding star perks. But the media loved Shelby and his clunky coverage of the chess match and wrote about it with glee.

  Shelby Lyman and wife today.

  (Photo credit: Shelby Lyman website)

  New York Post columnist Bob Williams compared Shelby’s lack of slick professionalism and his chatty, off-the-cuff schtick to Julia Childs’ exuberant cooking style and occasional faux pas. Variety crowed, “Bobby and Boris Get Hefty Numbers on WNET in World’s Slowest Game.” The New York Times quipped, “TV Here Brings New Dimension to Chess Contest and Kibitzing,” and the Newark Star Ledger said, “Iceland Match Whips Up Chess Storm in Jersey.”

  Shelby subsequently produced and hosted five more PBS world championship chess matches and currently writes a nationally syndicated chess column.

 
If tapes of those 1972 broadcasts existed, I’m sure Shelby Lyman would be a YouTube sensation today.

  HENRY WINKLER OR YES, I KNOW THE FONZ

  Hunter College High School, a public high school for smart girls, and McBurney School for Boys, a private school for wealthy boys, were an unlikely match, but in the early 1960s, someone thought these two New York City high schools should collaborate on theatrical productions. I found myself playing Mrs. Webb in McBurney’s production of OUR TOWN, and then dancing and singing in the chorus of the Gershwin musical, OF THEE I SING.

  The first day of rehearsals for the musical, I noticed a cute boy gesturing in my direction through the glass door of the music room. I looked around to see who he was flirting with, and realized it was me. At the break, he introduced himself as Henry Franklin Winkler, a junior and ‘the star’ of the musical. Henry was tone-deaf but had won the lead role in the musical through sheer determination — he wanted to perform that badly. He talked his way through the songs (like Rex Harrison, but without the panache), and danced up a storm. He ‘sang’ with such conviction that few people realized he couldn’t actually hit the notes.

  He also flirted relentlessly with every girl in the cast, including me. He was constantly singing and dancing around the rehearsal room, lip-syncing to records and imitating Jerry Lewis. He was desperate to be a professional actor and it was clear to me that nothing would stop him. I told him I thought he was very talented and would be a star. He later told me I was the first person, besides his mother, who believed he would make it as an actor.

  This blurry rehearsal photo from OF THEE I SING amuses me for several reasons:

  a) Henry is clearly emoting his brains out

  b) I look fairly dishy in my Esther Williams bathing suit (and glasses)

  c) The totally disinterested expressions of the male chorus boys behind us!

  Susan (left, in bathing suit) and Henry in OF THEE I SING at McBurney School for Boys.

  (From the author’s photo collection)

  Henry, who was diagnosed as dyslexic as an adult, failed a class his senior year and had to attend summer school before graduating from McBurney. He was admitted to Emerson College, where he excelled in theatre, and then went to Yale Drama School, sharing classes and stages with Jill Eikenberry, Meryl Streep, Mary Beth Hurt and others. By the time he graduated from Yale, I was working at WNET (New York City’s public television station) as a senior press agent. WNET was creating a new children’s program called Masquerade which featured story theatre acting techniques. I knew Henry had performed in story theatre productions at Yale, and recommended him to the producer. Henry auditioned and got the job — his first professional TV gig, and performed on the TV series for a full season along with Hattie Winston and Paul Sands.

  One day, he called to say he had been cast in his first TV commercial. It was for tooth paste. He was out of his mind with excitement and grateful to his orthodontist for his toothy smile. Soon after, he was cast in a low budget movie shooting in Brooklyn called The Kings of Flatbush, playing a nebbishy guy, with several other young, unknown actors including Sylvester Stallone and Perry King. None of them, including Henry, ever got paid.

  In 1973, Henry’s agent, a mutual friend, was pushing him to go to Los Angeles to audition for TV pilots. Although he came from a wealthy family, Henry got little emotional or financial support from them and saw no reason to fly to LA to compete with tall, blond hunks for the same roles. He said, “What are they going to do with a short Jewish guy from New York?” He saw himself as a classically-trained stage actor. But he finally gave in, flew to California, slept on friends’ couches and began getting small roles on several popular TV series, including playing a schlumpy (but funny) loser on the Mary Tyler Moore Show. I was happy to see him pop up in these cameo roles and score laughs.

  A few months later Henry called me, on this 28th birthday, over the moon — he’d been cast as a minor James Dean-like character in the TV pilot of a new series based loosely on Ron Howard’s recent movie, American Graffiti, set in the 1950s. That pilot, of course, was Happy Days and, within months, Henry was an international sensation as The Fonz. I called Henry ‘The Twinkler’ as he became a bigger and bigger star. In interviews, Henry would often say he had been invisible for 29 years, before becoming The Fonz, but it wasn’t true. Even in high school, you could not miss him in a crowded room. He was, and still is, a large presence to be reckoned with. You cannot ignore Henry, in person or on the screen.

  One episode of Happy Days that particularly amused me featured Henry/Fonzie imitating Elvis Presley. The entire half hour episode built up to Henry performing an Elvis song in a tight, fringed, white jumpsuit. I thought “But Henry can’t sing — maybe he will lip-sync the Elvis song.” The big moment arrived. Teenage girls swooned on camera (and probably at home too.) With the same conviction and tune-defying attitude he had displayed in OF THEE I SING, Henry SPOKE, “Since my baby left me...” He had all the moves — the knee dips, the swiveling hips - but he didn’t sing a single note of the Presley song. He was now a big star but some things had not changed.

  Another episode of Happy Days became notorious for the wrong reason. Henry’s family had a summer house on Mahopac Lake, in Westchester, where he became an excellent water skier. (At the same time, I was learning to water ski at nearby Candlewood Lake in Connecticut.) He mentioned his water skiing skills to the Happy Days producers, who wrote an episode featuring Fonzie, in leather jacket and bathing trunks, illogically jumping over a shark on water skis. When that episode aired in 1977, Happy Days was reaching the end of its long run and “jumping the shark” became shorthand for a show that was past its prime and operating on fumes.

  Henry and I would see each other when he came to New York City for publicity chores or to visit his family or when my work took me to California. We always picked up mid-sentence and our strangely strong connection continued despite the distance and growing demands of our careers and social lives.

  Henry was shooting the film Heroes in Times Square outside my office in the famed Paramount Building and he invited me to visit the set. I arrived at the heavily barricaded Army Recruiting station in the middle of Broadway and 44th Street where they were shooting. I told a production assistant I was there to see Henry Winkler and he said, “Sure, you and every other girl in New York.” I said, “No, really, ask him.” The PA ignored me and I stood, like a jerk, on the wrong side of a police barrier watching Henry rehearse inside the recruiting station, surrounded by actors and technicians. As Henry was about to begin filming the scene on the street, the excited crowd surged forward and I was suddenly in danger of being trampled by Fonzie fans. At that moment, Henry glanced at the crowd, saw me, reached through the police line, saying, “She’s with me,” and pulled me to safely.

  Henry may have struggled academically in high school, but he was no fool when it came to business. As the success of Happy Days was mainly attributed to Henry’s popularity, the producers obviously wanted him to continue playing Fonzie as long as possible. At the end of each season, Henry would talk about leaving and the producers and the network would offer larger, more lucrative incentives for him to stay with the show. In addition to earning one of the highest salaries on TV at the time, when Happy Days ended after 11 years, Henry had the largest guaranteed production deal in the history of TV. He could produce whatever he wanted and it would air on ABC-TV. He went on to produce MacGyver and several other successful series, thus beginning a second career as a TV and film producer and director, all built on the shoulders of The Fonz.

  After years of playing the field, Henry was dating an LA press agent with whom I’d once almost shared a bi-coastal PR charity project. She was my age and one of the few Jewish girls he dated seriously. (He liked, by his own admission, tall, blond shiksas.) Barbara Walters interviewed Henry and Stacey on one of her TV specials. They talked about how they met and appeared comfortable together. At one point Barbara asked them about marriage. Without missing a beat Henry sa
id, “Well, Stacey is free to get married anytime she wants,” inferring that particular decision wouldn’t involve him. Not long after the Walters interview aired, Henry and Stacey were married.

  Henry and I continued to be friends, still instantly picking up where we had left off. We even worked together. I was heading the Publicity Department at USA Network, which was sponsoring a telethon for the Juvenile Diabetes Foundation, and Henry was one of our celebrity hosts.

  The morning of the telethon, Henry arrived at the TV studio in the stretch limo I’d arranged for him. We hadn’t seen each other in several years. He got out of the limo, we looked at each other, and we both burst out laughing. As my staff stood impressed and slightly dazzled, Henry grabbed me and gave me a huge hug and kiss. Neither of us could believe that we were now working together, two professionals in the business we both loved and that Henry was, for that day, ‘my star.’

  With our shorthand banter still easy and fun, I ‘looked out for him’ as only a good press agent can, making sure his tie was straight on camera, seeing that he was prepared for his on-air segments, keeping the press at bay. At one point, I said, “Let’s take a picture.” Note the sign in the background that reads ‘No photographs allowed.’ But it was my photographer, my star and my event so we damned well took the photo when and where I said! I also love that Henry and I are clearly having a conversation behind our teeth in this photo.

  Henry Winkler and Susan at USA Network telethon for Juvenile Diabetes

  (From the author’s photo collection)