My good friend James Rosin, author and actor, told me a great story the other day and I asked him to type it up and send it to me, to share with you. The following below is from Jim.
It was the spring of 1970. I was an aspiring 23-year-old actor living in Los Angeles. I was studying acting
with Estelle Harman, a reputable acting teacher in Hollywood, and working as a
bartender at the renown Beverly Hills Hotel, decked out in pink and green on
Sunset Blvd.
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| Richard Burton |
This was not your typical commercial hotel. A lot of notable people stayed there because
it was somewhat small and private. In back were a series of bungalows which
provided a safe haven for the reclusive, including Howard Hughes, who once lived
there. Downstairs were a series of shops, plus a beautiful ballroom, where larger-scale
events were held. The room had lots of history. For example, in 1941, the
wedding reception for Barbara Stanwyck and Robert Taylor took place there.
Although we had entered a new decade and were into the “consciousness
movement,” the hotel still retained a flavor of a past era. For example, in
addition to the Rodeo Room (where parties were held) was a formal dining room,
and a festive nightclub room with a dance band playing pop standards. Dominique, the pretty cigarette girl, always
dressed in black, wandered throughout the hotel as did Buddy Douglas, the page
who stood about three feet high, and portrayed the same in some memorable Phillip Morris commercials.
I
usually worked the day shift in the well-known Polo Lounge where phones were a
fixture on most of the booths. It was a fun place for me as many industry
people came in for lunch or cocktails. They included Jane Wyman, Mervyn LeRoy,
Rock Hudson, Orson Welles, Ben Gazzara, Jacquline Bisset, Ringo Starr, Agnes
Moorehead, James Caan, Tina Louise,
Suzanne Pleshette, Roy Thinnes, Christopher and Linda Day George, Johnny
Carson, plus many others.
Some found their way to my small and intimate bar. The actors I remember
with a fondness include Dick Van Dyke, Pat O’Brien, Kennan Wynn, Paul Burke,
Alex Cord, Carl Betz and boxer Billy Conn. Some of my other customers included Van Heflin, Jack Palance, Laurence
Harvey, Lex Barker, David Hedison, Sylvia Miles, Frank Perry and Lawrence
Dobkin.
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| Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor |
Sometimes
I would do night duty for a party or banquet. One Wednesday afternoon, the head
bartender called and asked me to come in that night to work a small cocktail
party. It was to be hosted by Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor for all the
actors who were nominated but didn’t win at the Academy Awards, held two nights
before.
The party would
take place on the Lanai Terrace, a small and narrow room overlooking the tennis
courts. I was set up at a portable bar and ready for the small get-together. Richard
Burton was a bit reclusive from the guests and stood by my bar for huge periods
of time with his P.R. representative, John Springer. He was a bit put off by the
Academy Awards experience. At one point he said to Springer: “You know, Elizabeth and I spend our whole
lives trying to avoid the masses and then she has to go and be a presenter at
that ceremony.” At that moment I felt
for him. I realized that achieving fame curtailed a huge amount
of individual freedom.
Burton was “on the wagon” that night and throughout the evening he would
turn to me and say, “ Well, hit me with my old soda water.” I truly liked him.
He possessed a pleasant demeanor. He was a handsome man with crystal-clear blue
eyes that belied a sensitive and gentle soul. I remembered as a small boy watching him in The Robe, and that final scene where both he and Jean Simmons are
condemned. They ultimately leave the palace with the sky behind them
symbolizing their eventual ascent to heaven. (Ironically, four years later I
would act in an episode of Banacek
and meet Jay Robinson, the actor who played the twisted Caesar who
condemned them. Robinson too, was a very
nice and down-to-earth man diametrically opposed to the man he portrayed on
screen.)
At
one point, I told Richard Burton that my agent had submitted me for a part in an
independent film written by Edward
Anhalt (who had written Becket starring both he and Peter O’Toole.) He then wrote down my name and number on a
cocktail napkin and said he would
call “Eddie” and see if he could get me
in for an audition. He seemed sincere
and I appreciated his generosity. (Unfortunately the film never came to fruition.)
Later on, Elizabeth Taylor, whom I had no previous exchange with, was
standing nearby conversing with Donald Sutherland. They were discussing her oldest son, who was
about sixteen at the time, and who had apparently run away to India. They
finished talking, Sutherland made his exit, and Taylor moved to my bar with her
back to the guests.
Standing
in front of me was an iconic movie star with her mesmerizing blue eyes,
exquisite diamond tiara necklace who had become distraught. Her eyes were
suddenly fighting back tears she didn’t want those behind her to witness. I
didn’t know what to do. The scene reminded me of acting class; how you learn to
speak to the other person in the scene with a purpose, an intention, aware of
your conflict. I was in the midst of such a moment. I felt this strong need to
comfort her but didn’t know how she would react and it concerned me. At the
same time, my need to reach out to her overshadowed that. I said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Burton, may I say something?” She nodded yes, with a
look of receptivity and trust. I told her that I couldn’t help overhearing
about her son but that she shouldn’t be overly concerned.
Lots of teenagers do things like that in a
rash moment, but when the smoke clears they come running back. She talked a bit about her son, then remarked
that there was nothing demeaning about what I was doing, and suggested her son might take a
similar job. I pointed out that I was seven years older but when I was his age,
I was also in a similar state of flux. I assured her with conviction, that in a
year or two, he would be in a different place and one that would give her more
peace of mind. My sincerity seemed to
lessen her concerns, at least for the moment, and Mrs. Burton began to dry her
eyes. Just then, John Springer joined her at the bar. I offered her a drink and
made her “Jack Daniels on the Rocks.” She earned it. She then went off to her guests.
At
the end of the evening, she came back to the bar and thanked me for our “little
chat.”
In recent
times, I watched The VIP’s on Turner Movie Classics that starred Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton and co-starred Rod
Taylor, Maggie Smith, Louis Jordan, Orson
Welles and Margaret Rutherford. The Burtons were playing a couple whose
marriage was in jeopardy and their scenes together were affecting. There was
also something familiar about this couple which in a way had more of an impact. I didn’t realize why I felt that sense of
familiarity. After it ended, I realized I had spent an evening with the Burtons
many years before. I remembered them both as sensitive and genuine people. I
guess that was what made their performances even more meaningful for me forty four years later.
Jim's story above has a concluding note. Ironically, twelve years later in 1982, with
over twenty TV roles under his belt, Jim Rosin auditioned for a role on television's The Fall Guy, a TV series that starred
Lee Majors. The part was that of a Philadelphia cab driver. Jim is from
Philadelphia. He also drove a cab in Beverly Hills for four years in-between
acting jobs. It was a two-character scene. The other actor was to be Richard
Burton. Despite his Philadelphia accent and experience as a taxi driver, Jim didn’t get the part.
