“Booze” is a dirty word

Alcoholism is a deadly disease. Even if you are rich, famous and loved around the world, booze can sneak up, bite you on the ass, and destroy your life.

I saw it happen often in Hollywood.

Two of the earliest stars to die from alcoholism were W.C. Fields and Drew’s grandpa, John Barrymore. They both floasted on an ocean of alcohol into early graves.

A few of the Hollywood stars who have battled booze, in and out of jails and rehab centers, were William  Holden, Richard Burton,  Oliver Reed, and  Truman Capote. Many fought the battle and won, such as Dick Van Dyke, Robert Downey Jr,  Bill Shatner, Robin Williams  and Jack Lemmon. Many, like Mel Gibson and Nick Nolte are still swinging swords at the booze monster.

I watched Neville Brand destroy his life and career while at NBC . He was starring in a western series  called “Laredo.”  the producer learned early that if Neville had any lines, they had better shoot his scenes early in the morning, because his mouth turned to pudding after the boozing started at lunch. The problem got so bad that a male nurse was assigned to 24-hour care, to keep Neville away from alcohol. But he managed to get blind drunk anyway. One day the producer arrived at the stage and saw Neville bent under the hood of his car. “Doing a little tune-up” he explained. When he was called in to shoot the next scene the producer sent the nurse outside. “Check that damned car of his. Something’s going on out there.”

He was right. It turned out that Neville had emptied the car’s big winshield-wiper-fluid container and filled it with vodka. He had a straw sticking out so he could have a wee sip every time he went out to “tune up” his car.

NBC learned a painful lesson about his drinking on the afternoon Neville and the other stars of “Laredo” were brought to the plush Century Plaza Hotel in Beverly Hills, where we had taken over an entire floor for the annual week-long series of intereviews by the visiting national newspaper-magazine television editors. Each star would move from room to room to be questioned by eight or ten editors. At the end of the day NBC would put all those editors on a bus and take them to a gala party of one sort or another. On the night in question we took them to Paramount Studios for a “Night with the Cartwrights at the Ponderosa.”

But we had made a BIG mistake by leaving Neville back at the hotel, alone in our fancy hospitality suite. He soon sucked up half the booze in the unattended bar, and then called a local hooker to come and join  him.  When the bus came home after the Paramount party, the editors hurried up the the hospitality suite  for a nightcap, and discovered a near-nude Neville Brand on the floor making the near-nude prostitute earn her money. Ever since that night the TV editors referred to the suite as “The Neville Brand Memorial Suite.”

Lee Marvin was another actor who stumbled through a fog of booze during most of his life. Lee was a friendly, intelligent, delightful guy to deal with, until he got drunk. That’s when he turned from Dr. Jekell into Mr. Hyde — the kind of guy who peed in palm-plants in the center of a crowded hotel lobby.

My amazing experience with Lee and his drunkenhood occured when he and his best friend, Keenan Wynn, were signed to star in a drama for the Dick Powell Show.  The director was the legendary, and demanding, Sam Peckinpah

Lee was great for six days of shooting, but things went awry on the seventh and final day. There were only a few minor scenes to be shot, but Peckinpah went into a slow burn when Lee failed to arrive on stage on  time. He finally arrived two hours late, in a cab because he was too drunk to walk. Peckinpah took one look at his star and ordered that he be locked away in his dressing room so he’d be sober later in the day. But Lee’s buddy Keenan slipped a fifth of vodka through the dressing room window, and when Lee was brought out after lunch he was drunker than when he went in. Peckinpah cursed him, and stormed back into the stage to rewrite the final scene to save his show. In the meantime Lee climbed up on top of Peckinpah’s car and passed out. His fanny was against the car’s windshield and his legs draped over the roof. His bright-red head was on the car’s hood ornament in the 100-degree summer heat. Whenever the studio’s tour busses passed slowly by Keenan would run up to the car, point to the unconscious Lee Marvin, and yell, “Spencer Tracey! Spencer Tracey!”

Peckinpah finished the show, and, as was his habit, put on a nice “wrap party” for the cast and crew, hiring caterers to come on stage and present tables full of great food and a full-service bar stocked with bottles of the best booze.

But just as the cast and crew began enjoying the goodies I saw Lee open the stage door and stumble in. I pointed him out to the wardrobe man, who whispered, “Oh, Jesus. He’s going to do something stupid.” And indeed he did. Lee slid over to the four tables and, one by one, tipped them over onto the floor, sending food and booze in all directions. “You son  of a bitch, ” screamed Peckinpah. “Call the cops. I want that bastard  arrested.” But Lee slipped out again and disappeared into the night.

A few months later, when the show had been edited, scored and given a broadcast date, I arranged for an Associated Press writer to interview Sam about the program. After the interview I asked if he had seen Lee since that notorious night.  ”Hell yes,” said Sam. “He lives in my neighborhood, and when I was driving home that night I damned near ran over him. He was passed out in the middle of the street.”  Peckinpah, who enjoyed a sip now and then himself, had a deep respect for acting talent, and the curse of alcoholism,  put Lee in his car,  drove him home, and put him  to bed.

The saddest episode of alcoholism I witness was that of the man I considered the best actor ever to grace the screen.  Although those in the business knew that Ed Flanders ranked right up with Olivier and Brando, he never got the public recognition he deserved.  He won a Tony for his work on Broadway, and three Emmy awards for televsion dramas. Most viewers recognized his face, thanks to his many brilliant performances, but very few knew his name.

I was lucky enough to watch his Emmy-winning performance as Dr. Westphall, the head of the hospital on “St. Elsewhere.” I learned that he not only fought alcoholism, but was subject to deep fits of depression. But he was always a smiling, pleasant gentleman, no matter what was going on in his troubled mind.

I knew he was a fine actor,  but didn’t really realize how great he was until one afternon on “St. Elsewhere” when he  performed one of the most moving scenes I ever witnessed — without uttering one word. The scene called for Dr. Westphall to walk into his darkened home just after helplessly watching his beloved wife die. He came home with their very young autistic son. He held it all together while he tucked the boy into bed and reassuring him that everything was going to be okay. But then he went downstairs. He was now all alone.  He began wandering through the house. The camera followed as he moved about, touching his wife’s favorite chair or seeing their son’s birthday cake on the counter. Everything he saw reminded him of his wife and his great loss. Slowly, slowly, as he stared out the rain-swept window, he crumbled as tears streamed from  his eyes. The watching crew held their breath with the power of the performance, and when the director finally called “Cut” the whole company gave him a standing ovation. Ed just wiped his eyes and nodded his thanks.

On the night he won his Emmy for that performance I was with him. When you see the stars get their awards on the Emmy or Oscar broadcast, you may wonder what happens to them when they say their thanks and are escorted off stage-left. That’s when they are turned over to their publicity people, who then escort them through the publicity steps. First we’d take them to the room containing newspaper, magazine and television cameras. After being photographed, we’d move them to the area where television personalities were waiting to interview them. And finally into the room where all the print journalists were waiting for comments.

But on the night Ed won that Emmy he pulled me aside before facing those stressful interviews. “Bill,” he said,  looking into my eyes, hoping for understanding. ”I have to have a drink. Please.” His hands were shaking, and I saw the look I had seen in my own alcoholic father’s face when he was desperate for a drink.

I found a quiet spot to stash Ed, ran upstairs to the press bar and poured a double shot of scotch into a tall glass, and ran back downstairs. Ed drank the entire glass in one gulp, smiled, thanked me, winked and resumed his duties with the press.

I had been retired from Hollywood for several years when I saw a small story in the local paper. It mentioned that Ed, who had turned his back on Hollywood and moved far away, had shot himself to death.

I prayed that Ed’s troubled soul would finally know peace and comfort.

Fight Forth.