Good Stuff Page 6

  The Directors’ Lounge was a home away from home. Fellow Hollywood Park directors Walter Matthau and Mervyn LeRoy, Dad’s dear friends, sat nearby. Sometimes Mervyn drove with us when his wife, Kitty, wasn’t accompanying him. Stanley Donen and Quincy Jones sometimes joined Dad and Barbara as well. Funnily enough, Dad gambled very little. Five or ten bucks a race. I think I once saw him bet fifty. Maybe. He was too busy cooing. I inherited the nongambler gene. While doing a series in Vegas, over the better part of a year I never placed a single bet. Flying into LAX offers a tremendous gander at Hollywood Park. Dad loved to point it out from the sky: “Look at the size of that place.… It’s a city within the city.” Hollywood Park was on the short list of oft-visited venues.

  I suppose we rarely ventured out because it created such a spectacle to do so. Once a particular outing such as Hollywood Park became established, somehow the crowd parted a bit easier. People still noticed Dad, but they generally didn’t trip over themselves with astounded awe. Maybe that’s why stars create such amazing homesteads. Perhaps there’s more to it than big bucks and showing off. Home needs to be a haven. It’s the safe space. If you can’t go to the park and sit peacefully with your children, better have a damn good lawn! People laugh at the absurdity of stars having bowling alleys instead of basements. Actually, I do too. But if you had any idea what an absolute pain in the ass it is to go anywhere with someone the entire world wants to be close with … it somehow starts to form an absurd logic. Movie theater at home! A gym with a private trainer! Bring people in who don’t glaze over at the sight of “CARY GRANT!!!!” I’m pressing the point. We had none of these things at our house, but I understand how one gets there. We managed to forge our semisecure venues, if only a few.

  Chapter Nine

  Dodger Days

  The 1970s Dodgers were our team and Dodger Stadium was a regular outing. Steve Garvey, Ron Cey, Steve Yeager, Davey Lopes, Manny Mota … those Dodgers. Dad was friends with the benevolent O’Malleys, so Dad and I sat in the owners’ box with dear Walter, Kay, and their son Peter O’Malley. From age four or so, I learned the RBIs and ERAs of baseball from Dad and the Dodger family. Dad eventually bought loge-level season tickets. “It’s on the same level as the owners’ box, darling.” There were perks to the freedom of everyman seating. For one, I was allowed to go purchase our Dodger Dogs and malteds from the vendor around the bend. Such an adult task! In “the box” our Dodger Dogs were hand-delivered by waiters in white coats. Pretty cool, but from our “regular” seats I could stand in line with the big people, carry money, show my stamped hand, which turned purple under the fluorescent light, to the guard, and return with all the goodies. Much more fun. Occasionally, we still went to the owners’ box for special events. Much to the O’Malleys’ amusement, I taught Dad “the bump” during an Elton John concert. Dad stood stationary, waggling his hips back and forth while I jumped 180 degrees to bump hips from each side. Oh, he laughed.

  Dad’s telegram to Dodgers owner Walter O’Malley. If I had been a boy, perhaps I could have won them a pennant.

  IF BROWSING WAS the order of the day, Dad was drawn to the Fox Hills Mall. A somewhat bizarre departure from the normal Grant environs, Fox Hills was a huge, neon-lit, consumer-packed, hustle-bustle, gargantuan, hideous brown structure in Culver City. JC Penney was the top draw. This was no Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, or Century City. Even in the late seventies Fox Hills was ghetto. It was our first real experience with indoor shopping malls, and magically, Dad rarely tired of taking me there. Usually we’d just meander together. Maybe grab some fast food or pop by the record store. Something about his Bristol upbringing lit up amid the bright lights, big city–ness of it. Semirobotically, Dad gazed around at all the vendors, blinking and nodding more than usual, as if registering what all this meant to society. Surprisingly, we could amble there. I guess the Fox Hills crowd wasn’t looking for Cary Grant, because if people did recognize him, they mercifully let us be. The Brentwood Country Mart, a sweet, inviting red barn–like assembly of shops at the corner of Twenty-sixth and San Vicente, was another manageable, oft-strolled getaway. Normality for a glide through the mall. Bliss.

  Dad and bundle of Jennifer near the Santa Monica incline section of the Pacific Coast Highway. We’re on the side patio of one of those extraordinary half-acre beach-front homes, in 1966.

  Who can blame the public for effectively squashing most of our private jaunts? Everyone wanted to be near Dad. People feel it’s their right. After all, they’ve paid good money to sit and watch stars up close, for years. They’ve felt intimacy from within the cinema, and when the person comes to life in front of their eyes, I suppose the moth instinct just takes over. On the rare occasion we entered an off-the-beaten-path establishment (be it a gas station or a deli), looky loos hovered around us, fish-bowl style. Women were wide-eyed, hunched over, and giggly. Straight back to high school. Men gave sideways “I’m not really noticing you” glances. Dad gently kept his distance with a soft smile, polite nod, and constant forward motion. I found it annoying. I wanted Dad to myself.

  Our ticket stub from a Father’s Day Dodgers game spent in the O’Malleys’ box. Dad’s print reads: “Father’s Day! Jennifer and Nurse Mimi and me in Walter O’Malley’s box.”

  Chapter Ten

  Acting

  Dad reached the top. The tippity top. Apex of the apex. I believe his success found its roots in play. Dad loved acting and he made work fun. It was an extension of the joy and playfully exuberant quality he had in life. Dad was a sweet, cunning, playful little devil. His charm captivated the world. Dad was who he was. He wasn’t masking some inner discontent by playing the clown. He was a clown. There are many talented comedians whose verbal riffs and acerbic wit are admirable, but I rarely enjoy their performances. Their intellect is astute enough, and yet I feel slightly ill at ease watching them. My informed guess is that pain drives the performance. While one may appreciate sharp, glib commentary, the resonating emotion is still discomfort. Dad, on the other hand, was congruent with the comedy he portrayed. He shared from a place of abundance, and his gifts of laughter were felt through one’s entire spirit. He laughed with, never at, you.

  Prince Rainier generally kept his cards close, but he melted a little where Dad was concerned.

  In Dad’s eyes, the world held innumerable sources for reverie. Dad “got teary” (as he called it) at the beauty in life, be it the glaciers, a duck pond, whales in the Pacific, or the Empire State Building. By the time I came into my father’s life, Dad was a crier. I don’t remember him ever crying out of sadness, though I know that he did. When I was with him Dad cried for joy. I grew up thinking that men cried, and it was beautiful. The national anthem went straight to Dad’s heart. He loved our country. America was, in his estimation, the best place in the world. He was quite proud of his citizenship. A free-market economy—“miraculous!” The right to self-determination—“the best gift a man can have.” He was childlike in his reverence for life’s many gifts. Dad gaped, starry-eyed in amazement, at the sight of Horowitz’s fingers gliding over piano keys or Baryshnikov leaping into the air. Dad particularly appreciated talent. He never lost the purity of heart it takes to lose oneself in art.

  · · ·

  PEOPLE OFTEN SAY that Cary Grant “created himself.” Well, don’t we all? The comment is made disparagingly, as though Dad donned a mask for the world. Dad held up his ideals and stuck to them. Perhaps that’s the distinction. Cary Grant successfully hit his character mark, whereas others forge theirs by default, or bemoan falling short.

  Dad was tough on his work, particularly his early stuff. He literally couldn’t watch some of his comedies. Arsenic and Old Lace made him shudder. WHY?! It’s a hilarious, sweet, madcap, thoroughly memorable movie. “Egads, all the overwrought double takes, all the gags.… I’m way over the top.” Yes. And it worked beautifully! It took him a few years to hone his less-is-more double takes. I’d argue there’s room for both. Remember him prancing around in a woman’s r
obe in Bringing Up Baby? His perfect horizontal leap when May Robson asks him why he’s dressed that way? “Because I’ve just gone gay all of a sudden!” Nothing less would’ve done.

  Dad didn’t “get” acting classes. “If you want to act, get out there and do it. You’ll never learn what it’s like to be on a set when you’re stuck in a classroom.” He didn’t sit around asking “how”; instead, Dad found a way. Now, others of us may need classes as a means of building the self-confidence to just get out there and do it. True to his Capricorn self, Dad trudged up the hill regardless of self-doubt. “On a set there are lights and sound and marks and all sorts of things to deal with. It’s not all about “acting.” He took the acting part for granted. Acting was easy for him. It was make-believe and he jumped in. The rest was the business.

  By Dad’s own admission, he wasn’t a character actor. Meryl Streep, Dustin Hoffman, and Philip Seymour Hoffman are generally known for their brilliance in inhabiting a character’s skin. They take what may be one tiny aspect of themselves and blow it up larger than life. Dad did something relatively opposite that; he played the same basic man, himself, and honed tiny aspects. Sure, in Operation Petticoat he was the able captain; in To Catch a Thief, the insouciant cat burglar John Robie. But his basic psychology remains fairly consistent throughout. He’s generally unflappable and always charming, witty, and playful. He deals with opposition readily, discreetly, and efficiently. It’s who he was as a man. It’s fun to watch all types of actors, and all are needed. The craft one chooses most probably reflects an individual’s aptitude and, therefore, highest method of self-expression.

  If Dad had an acting theory, it was a respect for language and the body. Dad was a fan of enunciation. Some of it was the Brit in him: “It’s herbs, not ’erbs …Au-tomobile, not ottomobile, darling.” His articulation was a mellifluous joy. Sharp voices “sent” him. “Modulate your voice” is a directive I’m quite familiar with. Dad also spoke highly of economic gestures: “Don’t distract from what you’re saying with your hands.… People who move their hands this way and that as they speak are really telling you that they don’t wish to be heard.” He liked my acting (pat pat on my own back) because I didn’t flail around. I’d learned from years in his company not to reduce my words with unnecessary actions. The body speaks too.

  He was quite proud of his Academy Award. It took the Academy until Dad’s retirement to honor him with a lifetime achievement award. If you ask me, he deserved ten. Dad questioned why comedians and handsome men weren’t honored as often as dramatic actors and, well, less handsome men. Are good looks their own reward, canceling out the right to more? My father never spoke of his own good looks. Occasionally he grumbled about his gray hair, and the additional five to ten pounds around his middle. Perhaps the Academy assuaged his ego with the award? He found the Academy biased. Dad admired Robert Redford—“It’ll be tough for him to be awarded anything … he’s just too good looking.” One could of course cite examples of handsome, comedic actors winning “serious” awards, but by and large, it’s a rare breed … and one that, when found, is, perhaps, underappreciated.

  As far as his movies went, the policy stated: “If you’re watching my movies, you’re up too late at night. You could be doing something useful with your time, like sleeping.” True, it was his modesty, but also true to the way he lived his life. Dad just didn’t watch films. At all. His detachment from the medium that made him a huge star was almost weird. Most celebrities I know are “into” movies. They go along for the ride of the film and also deconstruct its business. Once retired, Dad gave it all up. No movies, no industry magazines, no showbiz chatter, and zero gossip. He admired “Grace” and “Hitch,” but a bemused grin was as far as his recollections went. One would think I had a treasure trove of stories from his movie career. Not so. For whatever reason, we never discussed his life as an actor. He never told me of the many great directors, writers, and actors with whom he collaborated. How tremendously silly of me not to ask. Dad had been in it, but he was certainly not of it. To me, it’s like renting horses after having owned them. Unfulfilling. Dad knew how to move on.

  DAD HAD A SENSE of the apex. Perhaps his skill at comedy translated to life as well. He knew timing. There’s a natural limit for everything. The height of an experience. Beyond the crest, it’s all downhill. The way I translate it is, when you’re at the top of your game … get out. Dad did that in his career. He also applied that philosophy to parties, concerts, sporting events, and conversations. Part of “getting out” had to do with good planning. If we left Dodger games at the top of the ninth, we’d avoid traffic. Another side to it was his sense of pride. It’s akin to “always leave them wanting more,” and, conversely, “always leave wanting more.” Dad “retired” at his peak. He retired by choice. The offers still rolled in. Critics charged he was robbing the world of his talent too soon. He took it on the nose. Candidly, he joked that he didn’t want to watch himself grow old on-screen. “Ah, vanity!” he’d say. The truth was, he couldn’t work and devote his full attention to the child he wanted. In 1966, when I was born, my father retired from acting at age sixty-two. He had made his mark on the world; now it was time to make his mark as a father. With his signature, singular devotion, he dove in.

  The world misses my father’s movies and so do I. I’m continually questing for that giddy, yearn-inducing, ticklish moviegoing experience. Alas, the popcorn generally provides my biggest thrill. I sadly agree with A. O. Scott’s Sunday New York Times article decrying the state of modern romances:

  “In general the trough of late winter and early spring is Hollywood’s designated season of mediocrity.… Our parents and grandparents had Rock Hudson and Doris Day, such delicious subtext!… Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn. Or Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant. Or Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell … while the romantic comedy has almost always trafficked in happy endings, that happiness is rarely accompanied by a sense of risk or exhilaration. When you think of, say, Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn … you recall the emotional combat of two strong willed, independent individuals ending in mutual conquest. Love, in those old pictures, was a dangerous and noble sport that required skill and cunning as well as commitment. It required movie stars whose physical appeal was matched by verbal dexterity and a vital sense of idiosyncrasy.”

  Dad made me aware that not everyone’s father had his own airplane, with his initials in the registration number, N396CG. Still, the magnificence of it all didn’t dawn on me until many years later. Circa 1971.

  We crave that idiosyncratic romantic comedy bliss. There may not be any Cary Grant clones out there, but there are certainly gifted, witty, agile, confident, handsome, charming, winsome men in the world … aren’t there?

  The single movie I remember Dad seeing was Silver Streak. We had a date to go to the Malibu Cinemas for an evening of comedy. Laugh till we cried time. Thereafter, Dad was thoroughly enamored with Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor. Dad enjoyed the clean humor and physical comedy. When they screened the movie aboard one of our Alaskan cruises, we went to see it a second time. This time, knowing the gags ahead of time, we laughed before, during, and after.

  Princess Grace’s congratulatory telegram to Dad on my birth. A simple glance from Princess Grace had the power and focus to make me feel special.

  Dad’s time on movie sets was etched in him. The way Dad recorded me and our goings-on at home had a cinematic quality to them. He was so accustomed to being seen, photographed, and recorded, it was second nature for him to have an outside observer to life. One typewritten, aged, browned piece of paper found among the archives and titled “JENNIFER SNAPSHOTS” reads just like a script supervisor’s notes. In the margins he wrote asides. At the top of the page, in his own print, “Jennifer wrote Grant for the first time on 3rd November 1969.” He generally wrote descriptions of each color photograph on the reverse side. Dad describes one color photo of baby Jennifer on the floor with glasses as “The week of January 23–29, 1967, with my s
pectacles. Dear Jennifer was always fascinated with my spectacles.”

  A restaurant in New York, 1969. (Note the woman gleefully peering over at us.)

  THERE’S A SIMPLE EXPLANATION for why people feel close to movie stars. In many ways we are. Some characters are intimately linked with the actor. In revealing their characters’ strengths, weaknesses, delights, faults, foibles, and oddities, they reveal themselves. To illustrate: Dad undoubtedly improvised some of Father Goose’s Walter Eckland. It’s fun to witness the seldom seen side of Cary Grant. His rough, gruff, negotiating, rapscallion self. While Leslie Caron instructs a group of schoolgirls on the finer points of etiquette for a deserted island, Dad admonishes, “Why don’t you teach them something useful … like catching a fish?” There’s the Dad I know! “Are you sure you want to go to Stanford, Jennifer? You could get a job instead.… Perhaps I’ve done you a disservice by leaving you money … you always have something to fall back on. Will you be motivated to work for a living?” Good questions.

  Clearly, business fascinated Dad. “I’ve wasted my time being an actor. I should’ve been out there in the world studying things. Economics is what it’s all about.” In truth, Dad never really considered another career. He did fancy the idea of being a conductor. “Imagine standing up there in front of an orchestra … what a wonderful feeling.” Besides Hollywood Park, Dad was on the board of MGM and Fabergé. Thanks to his profitable career, Dad could devote himself to nonpaying jobs and let the horizontal money roll in. “Horizontal money” was Dad’s favored cash. Quincy Jones introduced the term. “Horizontal money”…that’s what we want. It’s the money you make while you’re sleeping. You do nothing vertically to produce it. It just rolls right on in. Dad howled at the mention of “horizontal money.”