Just Another Sunday With Mary Hartman

"Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman" may have seemed like a spontaneous nightly gathering of dysfunctional misfits, but bringing that bizarre community to life required long hours and intense dedication.

Norman Lear, the executive producer, was already on the far side of maturity, but the people who worked at the KTLA offices on Sunset Boulevard were mostly young, energetic, and eager to depart from reality and cross the border into Fernwood territory.

The shared commitment to delivering five shows a week created tensions, demanded personal sacrifices, but also forged meaningful relationships.  For the time that we were there, family resided in Fernwood.

Pat was one exceptional member of the Fernwood family.  She was my boss's secretary and instantly became my friend.  Smart, outgoing, aggressively kind, and under the circumstances, miraculously competent, Pat was always relied on to get the job done.

Nobody's perfect, however, and there was that one little problem.  Little, yes, but it might just have registered on the Richter Scale.

It was a Sunday morning.  Louise Lasser, Mary Hartman herself, discovered that her script for the following day did not contain the necessary revisions.  She called Pat at home and started yelling.  And didn't stop.

Unable to interrupt the very volatile Louise, Pat quietly passed the phone receiver to her husband, grabbed the correct script, jumped in her car, put on the gas, and didn't look back.

She lived near the Rose Bowl in Pasadena.  Louise lived in Malibu, about fifty miles away.  No matter.  Pat had a job to do.  She survived the traffic ordeal and an hour and a half later arrived at Louise's seaside home.  She found the star still on the phone, still yelling.

It was a tribute to the stamina of both women.

Book Review: "Tinseltown," by William J. Mann

[My niece Lisa doesn't just invent crimes for us to solve in our Forrest Sisters Mysteries; as a born detective and researcher, she solves historical crimes as well.  Some, however, are tougher than others.  Here is her review of William J. Mann's recent efforts to solve one of Hollywood's most famous mysteries.]

The death of William Desmond Taylor/William Deane-Tanner is among America's most enigmatic unsolved murders. What makes his case somewhat unique is that there were deliberate efforts from people high-up in the movie industry to ensure that the case remained enigmatic and unsolved. It is virtually certain that there were a number of people who knew--or, at least, had a pretty good guess--who shot the film director, but for their own reasons, they launched a conspiracy that allowed someone to get away with murder. Evidence was concealed, misleading rumors were launched, and mouths were kept firmly shut. As all the people "in the know" are now dead, we will never learn for certain who was behind the killing, and why it was done. As very little reliable evidence about the mystery survives, all theories about the case are necessarily based on speculation.

"Tinseltown" is no exception to this rule, but William J. Mann offers one of the fullest, richest accounts of the Taylor killing to date, introducing several new details, a novel, intriguing "solution," and--most valuable of all--offering a fascinating look at Old Hollywood. The Taylor murder is, in fact, only a plot element in the complex, often sordid, but always exciting history of the film industry's early days.  The anti-hero of our story is Adolph "Creepy" Zukor, the ruthless film mogul who likely engineered the Taylor cover-up. Other stars of the show include Mabel Normand (one of the few sympathetic characters in this story,) the sad, tormented ingenue Mary Miles Minter, Taylor's eccentric valet Henry Peavey (depicted much more sensitively and positively than most other accounts of the case,) and a host of grifters, blackmailers, killers, drug addicts, and desperate wanna-be stars.

Mann's scenario of how Taylor died is interesting, if impossible to prove. It cannot be accepted as the "final word," but it's certainly not implausible. However, it should be noted that his premise rests entirely on one woman's alleged death-bed confession. If you question whether this elderly, mentally unstable woman was speaking the truth--or for that matter, if she really made this confession at all--Mann has virtually no evidence on which to base his theory.

As thorough as Mann's book is in most respects, he does make a few odd omissions. He barely mentions the curious fact that Taylor's brother, Dennis Deane-Tanner, also abandoned his family and disappeared. It has been proposed, as a matter of fact, that Dennis was really Taylor's sinister former valet, "Edward Sands." Not long before the murder, Sands robbed Taylor and vanished--yet another puzzling element to this endlessly mysterious case. (Mann states that Sands was never seen again, although other accounts claim that the ex-valet was found dead under suspicious circumstances.) I believe Mann made a mistake in dismissing all possibility that brother Dennis and Sands the valet somehow figured in the murder. Like many researchers who fall in love with a particular theory, he seizes on any scrap that might prove his pet thesis, while deliberately ignoring anything that argues for rival "solutions."

Still, this book is wonderfully absorbing reading. Even if you have little interest in true crime, the soap-opera like saga found in these pages is almost certain to draw you in.

The Mary Hartman Follies

"MaryHartmanDVD" by Source. Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia

Norman Lear, the executive producer and absolute ruler behind "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman," asked the poignant question, "What is this s---?" and tossed out a month of scripts.  The show was in big trouble.  I knew nothing about any of it until a friend of mine gave me a call.  He had recently become head writer amidst a swirl of unsubstantiated speculation that he and the star, Louise Lasser, were having an affair.

That's not why he called.  He wanted me to come in that night to help with scripts on an unofficial basis.  I pledged my best efforts.  Never having seen the show, however, I felt I had little to contribute beyond echoing Norman Lear's question.

When I arrived at the KTLA studios on Sunset Boulevard, Dennis Klein greeted me.  He was always prolific and would go on to write, produce and create successful series, including "The Larry Sanders Show," but at that moment he appeared pale, fatigued, and virtually nonfunctional.  I worried that he wasn't getting enough sleep.

"I'll sleep on vacation," he assured me.

Eugenie Ross-Leming, the brash, funny, and stunningly beautiful producer, was on the phone, also making jokes about sleeping, when Dennis and I entered her office.

Eugenie's jokes were somewhat more provocative than Dennis', but the dim lighting concealed my embarrassment as the blood rushed to my face.  The other producer, Brad Buckner, Eugenie's considerably more subdued writing partner, joined us to give me brief descriptions of scenes that needed "fleshing out."

Dennis led me to an office where I could get to work.  Except Louise Lasser was there.  She too was on the phone, complaining bitterly about something.  Or nothing.  Or everything.  Life wasn't easy for Louise, and my instinct was to feel sorry for her.

When she hung up, Dennis introduced us.  But did she notice I was there?  I didn't think so.  She seemed too withdrawn to process the activity around her.  Dennis solicitously--as was his way--led her out.

I was busy writing when Dennis returned.  He looked uncomfortable but obviously felt obligated to ask me something.

"Could you take Louise home with you?"

It was a bit unexpected.  What could I say?  "What?" in fact, was all I could say.  Dennis explained that Louise lived in Malibu and was too tired to drive.  She had asked if I could put her up for the night.  "A couch would do."

I stuttered numerous mindless excuses and apologizes which culminated in the words, "Uh, no.  Sorry."

Dennis understood.  He always understood.  And when he arranged for me to be hired as a staff writer on "Mary Hartman," it became the most weirdly rewarding, happily unforgettable working experience of my life.

And This is Why I Am Not Married to Burt Reynolds

Tony Randall and Burt Reynolds were filming Woody Allen's "Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask," when a few of the writers at Paramount asked me if Tony would arrange for them to meet Woody.  I promised to find out at lunch.

We ate at a small restaurant within walking distance of both Paramount and Tony's studio.  I enjoyed my eggplant immensely and stared longingly as Tony left almost half of his on his plate.  He wasn't a big eater; when he didn't go out Tony often had only a can of tuna for his midday meal.  Perfect.  It always meant more for me.  I eagerly reached for his eggplant.  Tony held up his hand.

"It didn't taste right," he told me.  "I'm sending it back."

"Mine tasted great," I said, planning to do the tired old gag of clutching my stomach and falling over on the table as if poisoned.  I couldn't pull it off because the nice waitress was approaching with the check and probably didn't want me making a spectacle of myself.

When Tony cast aspersions on the food, she apologized profusely, snatched back the bill, and refused to let him pay.  It made me uncomfortable, especially since every morsel of mine was gone.  Celebrities, however, become accustomed to the special treatment they invariably receive.  Tony shrugged off my concerns with the comment that it's just the way the world works.  It was the way his world worked, not mine.  If I hadn't been there with Tony, my meal would never have been free.

Tony and I had many memorable dinners and lunches, including at Sardi's and Ma Maison.  This one was memorable too.  I remember it as "the eggplant embarrassment."  But, there was more embarrassment to come.

On the way out, Tony offered to introduce me to Burt Reynolds if I went back to the studio with him.  He liked Burt, thought he was wonderfully funny, and admired him as an actor.  I gave the matter some serious consideration for half a second.  Burt Reynolds was awfully cute at the time.  If fate had plans for us--small ones, like love at first sight--wouldn't it be a mistake to say no?  I agreed and we were on our way to the studio.

I should have known better.

As we walked, Tony related another tale of special treatment lavished on the "Star."  In New York he had gone to see Martin Sheen in a Shakespeare play.  When Martin noticed Tony in the audience he stopped the proceedings to pay tribute to him.  Tony was clearly proud of that moment.  He manifested his ham-actor-feigning-humility persona and thanked me for warning him previously that Martin was a fan.  If he hadn't known, the shock of "Shakespeare interrupted" might have been too much for him.

After we agreed that Martin was a great actor, and especially adept at spotting talent in others, Tony regaled me with accounts of the gorgeous women he'd seen lining up to meet Burt.  My prospects for a future with the superstar began to dim.  Then, they disappeared altogether.

Burt Reynolds wasn't there.

My mind cleared.  I recalled my promise to my friends, including Joe Glauberg, one of the nicest, most decent men in show business, who achieved well-deserved success as the creator of "Mork and Mindy."  Tony liked Joe and the others I mentioned, but couldn't guarantee that Woody would meet with them.  He described the director as extremely intense, serious, and totally focused on business.

I sensed discord.  Tony respected Garry Marshall's creative control on "Odd Couple," but even Garry wasn't allowed to give him "acting notes."  No one told Tony Randall how to act.  Did Woody Allen fail to realize that?

Finally, Tony said he'd talk to Woody if I did something for him.

"What?"

"Peek into Burt's dressing room."

"No."

Tony explained that a flimsy wall which didn't quite reach the ceiling was all that separated their dressing rooms.  If I stood on the bed I could peer into Burt's room and see if he was entertaining anyone.

"That's disgusting.  An invasion of privacy," I said.  "You do it."

Tony looked offended.  He claimed he'd never do anything like that.

"But you can do it," he insisted, "for the guys," meaning my friends at Paramount.

And, all right, I was curious.  Besides, aren't all actors exhibitionists?  Don't they want to be watched?

I hoisted myself onto the bed, stood on tip-toe, angled my head by the ceiling, and nearly fell over with relief when I saw...nothing.

Tony tried to act disappointed and suggested that I come back later to try again, but we both had had enough of playing Peeping Toms.

The meeting with Woody never came off.  I suspect he and Tony didn't get along.

And, Burt?  In the highly unlikely event you ever read this blog post...Sorry for the intrusion.

Ben Affleck's Guilty Secret

"Ben Affleck SDCC 2014 (cropped)" by Gage Skidmore - https://www.flickr.com/photos/gageskidmore/14783041472/. Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

I have never seen a Ben Affleck film.  I only know him as a determined liberal activist.  I also remembered him as the man at the Democratic National Convention a few years back who described the excited crowd around him as "enervated."  Maybe he meant "energized," but, it's of no consequence--just one of those small things you can't forget.

Now there's something new I won't forget, and it's not a small thing.  Affleck appeared on a PBS genealogy program--presumably voluntarily--and had his ancestry traced.  When research uncovered a slave owner in his past, he had that piece of information expunged from the show.  A cover-up, no?

But why would anyone do that?  It makes no sense.  We aren't culpable for the actions of our ancestors.  But now, suddenly, Ben Affleck, PBS, and Sony are guilty of perpetrating a lie.  A lie by omission is still a lie.  And it's that--not ancient secrets over which he had no control--which makes Ben Affleck seem a little deficient in the intelligence department.  As for character?  Well...

These misplaced guilt feelings are a major problem in our society.  It's likely that no one involved will feel guilty about what they've actually done wrong.  Lying, distorting, misrepresenting are OK as long as you don't get caught.

In the 1960s, we were told "If it feels good, do it," "Don't be judgmental," and countless other bromides that allowed impressionable young people to enjoy living dissolute narcissistic lives.

But the society still had a conscience, and all that guilt had to go somewhere.  It seems to have been projected onto the past.  Narcissists could feel like self-righteous humanitarians when they compared their lives to historical lifestyles we now condemn.

Ben Affleck should not have destroyed his credibility by being misguidedly guilt-ridden. 

Does ESPN Sanction Bullying?

Britt McHenry, via Wikipedia

I just witnessed a repulsive display of stupid, gratuitous cruelty which made my skin crawl.  The episode was the living definition of abusive bullying.  If it happened at school or in the home, anger management teams would descend.  They wouldn't help, of course, because the problem isn't anger.  We all lose our tempers at times.  The real problem with ESPN's Britt McHenry, who viciously attacked a defenseless working woman, the real problem with all bullies, is their lack of character; they are weak, hateful, miserable people who want to inflict pain on those they perceive as targets who can't fight back.  Bullies don't pick on someone their own size.  They're too afraid.

McHenry apologized for her "mistake."  It wasn't a mistake.  Bad behavior is not a mistake.  It's a dropping of the mask which reveals an ugly face underneath.

How many people have lost their jobs because of inadvertent comments that someone considered offensive?  This wasn't inadvertent.  It was a deliberate, personal attack.  And what could be more offensive than deliberate cruelty?

A week off won't help.  It won't replace inhumanity with kindness.  It won't create a conscience where none exists.  It may do no more than remind a perpetrator of the presence of cameras.

ESPN should be appalled and ashamed.  And what have they done for the victim?

Anything?

Another Really Odd Couple

I had been at Paramount Studios only a few weeks when I received a call one morning from Sergeant Grass of the LAPD.  It was serious.  My neighbors were accusing me of unthinkably gross public indecency.  And I thought they were nice.  What made them turn vicious?  Oh, I caused a bit of flooding in the downstairs apartment once, but it really wasn't my fault.  Sali didn't warn me about the shower.  She was a friend who graciously allowed me to room with her when I went to work for Garry Marshall.  Sali was the personal assistant to Connie Stevens, and went to Las Vegas with her boss for a memorable meeting with Elvis right after I moved in.

Now, as I listened to the charges against me, all I wanted was to escape on a bus and head back home to San Francisco.  My face burned with embarrassment, my heart thumped, and breakfast threatened a return engagement.  Sergeant Grass used words I didn't know--even after an education at UC Berkeley--to describe obscene acts I couldn't imagine, but supposedly performed nightly in a parked car near Sali's apartment building.

I was innocent, of course, but how could I prove it?  Sergeant Grass claimed there were several witnesses who saw everything. Making my case wouldn't be easy, especially since I was trembling too hard to speak.

And there was a problem.

It was true that Tony Randall drove me home every night and, yes, he often parked the car and we talked for a while.  Talked.  That was all.  We discussed life, politics, and "Odd Couple."  One night he handed me a copy of the play and asked me to read it.

The next evening I was ready for him.  That was a Friday, when the cast and staff gathered for a catered pre-show dinner.  Tony and I went to the corner table where we generally sat and talked in private while we ate before the filming.  Tony asked what I thought of the play.

Still under the pernicious influence of University-speak, I babbled that the pervasive silliness of the show precluded an examination of human incompatibility which I believed was Neil Simon's original intention.

Jerry Belson, who was Garry Marshall's partner, but rarely participated in the show, happened to be at the dinner that evening, and joined Tony and me at our table.

"Mara just said the most interesting thing," Tony reported.  "She thinks we've lost sight of what the play was about, and..."

That was all Jerry needed to hear.  He stood abruptly, flung his napkin on the table, and delivered a tirade about the difficulties of doing a weekly show, as opposed to the ease of writing without a schedule or deadline.  And given the obstacles they faced, he thought they did a pretty good job.  Then he stormed out, leaving his dinner behind.  I normally have a big appetite, and hate to see food wasted, but somehow I had lost my desire to eat.  Jerry's plate went untouched.

Tony, bewildered by the spectacle of a producer unappreciative of criticism, gave me his innocent little boy look.

"Gosh, Mara," he said.  "I hope I didn't get you in trouble."

Amazingly, he didn't but I was in trouble now.  Sergeant Grass was about to haul me down to the station and charge me with crimes I was much too naïve and inhibited to ever imagine, let alone commit.

A pitiful gasp or gurgle, or involuntary cry, triggered laughter.  Yes, Sergeant Grass was laughing at me.

"I really had you going, didn't I?" he chortled.

It was no longer the stern law-and-order officer, appalled by my disreputable behavior; it was that schoolboy prankster who lurked inside Tony Randall and frequently unleashed himself on unsuspecting victims.  He was never intentionally cruel; his antics gave him the attention he craved, and relieved the tension of a tightly-wound life.  His playfulness allowed him to dispel an inner sadness by laughing, even though it was never the genuine, easy laughter he envied in others.

Jack Klugman once commented that everyone thought Tony is so sophisticated "because he reads and loves opera," but really, "he's just a kid."

A kid, yes, but not just a kid.  The sophistication was there, too.  On an excursion to an art exhibit in New York--where the museum director emerged to personally thank Tony for his support and fundraising--we wandered into a ghastly world of human torment.  On first sight, my instinct had been to flee.  I saw despair and desperation as hands reached out of smokestacks and bodies lay contorted on crooked, cracking streets.  The artist--or perpetrator--is now forgotten (or mercifully expunged from my memory,) but the images of anguish remain.  And irritate me still.

Tony felt exhilarated.  His professorial lecture on the cultural implications of the worldwide anti-industrialization movement was impressive.  And also irritated me.  I feel insulted with artists resort to hideous depiction of the horrors of life, of man's inhumanity to man, because they feel the need to teach us that suffering exists.  If we don't know that already, it's unlikely that a third-rate art exhibit will do that.

Tony saw things differently.  As an actor, he wanted to believe that art had the power to change people; make them better.  He felt he had that power.  Even if it often took the form of acting like a particularly goofy frat boy.

If Burt Reynolds only knew that...

But that's for another post, another day.

The Search for Richard III is Not Over. No Bones About It

"Richard's himself again." A line from the play "Richard III?" Yes. But from Shakespeare? No. "Lord, what fools these mortals be." Now that's from Shakespeare.

In March 2015, in a solemn and elaborate ceremony--fit for a king, really--formerly disconnected bones and a detached skull, pieced together to resemble a skeleton, were laid to rest in Leicester Cathedral. These bones are now called the earthly remains of Richard III. More than five hundred years after his death, how did these bones come to be identified as Richard's?

To hear historian John Ashdown-Hill tell the tale, the journey began in 2003, when he set out to find the maligned king's final--but not quite--resting place. Ashdown-Hill concluded that persistent legends claiming the body was tossed into the river Soar or buried under Bow's Bridge were "rubbish." Richard was, in fact, buried under a parking lot in what must have been the site of Greyfriar's monastery in Leicester.

He e-mailed his conclusions to Philippa Langley of the Richard III Society.  Langley was financing an extensive search for the body.  She took a look at the parking lot and saw the letter "R."  Perfect!  R for Richard.  R for rex, meaning king.  She had a feeling in her bones.  What more would you want?  It might as well have been an X, marking the spot.

The heavy equipment rolled in.  The concrete was jackhammered, and the digging began.

Incredibly, two leg bones were found.  Some time later, a disjointed skull, separated and at an angle over loose vertebrae, as well as bones from two normal arms--not withered, as Shakespeare described--were unearthed.

It had to be Richard.  After all those years of searching, all the money, all the ego-involvement, it had to be.

The University of Leicester, which participated in the exhumation, took CT scans and arranged for radiocarbon dating to determine the approximate age of the bones.  They extracted four small pieces from a rib and sent two to the Glasgow University and two to Oxford for testing.  The idea was that two pieces at two different facilities "should provide consistent results--and indeed it did."

So says the University of Leicester's website.

Glasgow and Oxford both concluded with 95% probability that the samples dated from 1430-1460, or, from 1412-1449.

There was just one small problem.  Richard died in 1485. 

"Oh, dear," says the Leicester website.

What had been called their "thrilling prospect," their "global sensation," this "testament to their unparalled skill," was snatched away by those infernal scientists and their 95% certainty.

But wait.  When there's fame, fortune, and prestige involved, academics don't give up.  All they needed was the "Bayesian statistic modeling technique" and...fish.  Richard must have eaten a lot of fish.  He must have!  And fish can make all the difference in the world.

How?  The amounts of carbon-14 vary over the years, as well as between the atmosphere and the oceans.  "Radiocarbon dating of marine organisms can be out by several hundred years..." the website explains, and "to a lesser degree in terrestrial life where seafood forms part of the diet."

Simple solution!  Throw out the bad results, and blame it on that damn fish.

And so, using the Bayesian "modeling technique," based on incomprehensible, unverifiable formulas--we won't say "fishy"--the approximate dates came back from 1475-1530 "with a 69% confidence."

When did 69% once become more reliable than 95% twice?

But, it proved nothing anyway, so on to the DNA testing.  You can always count on DNA to save the day.

Too bad the Y-chromosome didn't match.  That's the genetic material passed down from father to son.  Richard's son died in childhood, so no direct line of male descendants exists.  Only one putative living male relative was found.  He was nineteen generations removed, and from an indirect line.  And his Y-chromosome wasn't compatible.  Either he wasn't a Plantagenet or the bones were not Richard's.  Or Richard wasn't a Plantagenet.  Or, oh, forget about it.  Generally speaking, no match means no match.  The party's over.  Go home and nurse your headache.  Maybe change your name and withdraw from society.

But wait.  There was a match; two, in fact, with the mitochondrial DNA.  That is the genetic material in the egg which a mother passes to all her children, male and female.  The problem is, after many centuries the number of people with the same mitochondrial DNA grows exponentially.  How many mothers with how many female children did Richard have in his background?  His mother alone had five sisters.  Perhaps these bones were a distant cousin. 

This debacle might well be an example of the "six degrees of separation" in action.

And we can't ignore the issues of contamination and degradation of DNA fragments.  Bones carelessly tossed into the ground--as seems to have been done with the "parking lot king"--and unearthed many years later, are not the best evidence of identity.

My niece Lisa did not believe in the accuracy of DNA results which identified damaged, decomposed bone fragments as the remains of Czar Nicholas, Alexandra, and four of their children.  Lisa and I also never believed that Queen Victoria passed the gene for hemophilia to the Czar's son, Alexei.  Lisa e-mailed one of the scientists involved in the testing to ask if the gene for hemophilia was found.  The response that it was unnecessary, as everyone knows Alexei had hemophilia.

Now the Russian Orthodox Church has its doubts that the bones given a royal burial belonged to the Czar and his family.  It has asked for the exhumation of the remains for more testing.

With apologies to Colley Cibber, Richard is not himself again.  There is no good reason to believe he lies in Leicester Cathedral.  But unlike the poor soul whose bones were taken from where they had lain for so many hundreds of years, maybe Richard can now rest in peace.  Wherever his grave may lie.