Love, Lucy Read online

  When Desi read the shooting script, he realized that during his one big scene, he would be lying under a mosquito net speaking Spanish while Robert Taylor was in front of the camera speaking English.

  Desi went to the director, Tay Garnett, and asked if they couldn’t at least remove the mosquito netting so audiences could see who he was. Tay agreed, and it was a convincing death scene, but after that, Desi’s movie appearances were limited to occasional specialty musical numbers.

  From Du Barry, I went right into Best Foot Forward, with director Edward Buzzell. Eddie gave me my best chance at Metro. He understood my comedy and let me go all out and be my uninhibited self. Best Foot Forward was the story of a fading movie star who is invited to a prep school prom. George Abbott directed the New York stage show, which is remembered chiefly for the bouncy tune “Buckle Down, Winsocki.” The reviewers found the movie “bubbling, rollicking and charming, sharp and refreshing, with sparkling dialogue and the fresh spirit of youth.”

  My career at MGM was just getting into high gear when Desi was drafted into the Army in February 1943. One gray morning at dawn I drove him to the railroad station and he joined a group of typical draftees. Desi was hoping to become a bombardier and go overseas; knowing his reckless, impulsive nature and his great patriotism for his adopted country, I never expected to see him alive again. I cried and cried as we said good-bye.

  The day he became an American citizen was the proudest in Desi’s life. Having lived under a dictatorship, he could really appreciate democracy. Once, when our ranch was seriously threatened by a raging fire, the whole area in the San Fernando Valley roped off, our neighbor Marian Lederer telephoned Desi to ask him what she should save from our house. My jewelry and furs, our sterling silver, and five dogs and six cats were all in danger, but Desi didn’t hesitate to answer: “My American citizenship papers!”

  In basic training in 1943, Desi broke his kneecap while playing baseball, to his great disgust. He was then assigned to limited service with the Army Medical Corps, entertaining hospitalized servicemen. He was shuttled around to a variety of California army camps, and finally phoned me from Watsonville.

  “I’m going to be in Birmingham, honey,” he said. He sounded very depressed.

  “Gee, that’s great,” I replied. “I’m leaving for a bond tour in the East next week and I’ll come to Alabama to see you.”

  “Birmingham, California,” he groaned, naming an army hospital not five miles from the ranch.

  At the hospital, Desi did a fine job with the boys back from Bataan and Corregidor and Tarawa. He organized shows and saw that the troops had movies, radios, and books, plus access to all kinds of sports and gym equipment. He helped them with their letters and ordered candy and cigarettes for their rooms. He often put on one-man shows for them playing drums and guitar, and when I could get away, I joined him and we presented our old vaudeville act. Desi was dedicated to these wounded kids and won many commendations for his fine work.

  But it galled him not to be overseas himself. He was allowed to leave the hospital every night and weekends, which turned out to be unfortunate. He was too close to Hollywood.

  Social life in Hollywood in those days revolved around the studio producers and executives. When Louis B. Mayer deserted his wife in 1944 and moved into Marion Davies’s former mansion in Beverly Hills to live high, dozens of other Hollywood bigwigs left their wives and followed suit. Mayer and his friends took up gambling, horse racing, yachting, and parties in a big way, and Sergeant Desi went right along with them.

  I told Desi that it was all right for some executive or producer in a high financial bracket to join Mr. Mayer in his lively games; they could afford it. But no one approves of an actor enjoying wild parties and late nights; it’s too exhausting and shows up immediately in the face and the voice before a camera. I kept telling Desi that these were his bosses and they would have no respect for his reliability and talents as an actor if all they ever saw was a charming, irresponsible playboy.

  In 1944, Desi was still under contract to MGM. My dearest hope was that we could costar in a movie after the war. I told movie reporter Gladys Hall, “The only bad feature of this past incredibly wonderful year is that I haven’t had Desi. I don’t begrudge him to the Service, but I miss him. . . . When Desi comes back, I don’t believe there’s any doubt but that MGM will realize that in him they have one of the biggest bets in the business. Why, after he made one picture at RKO his fan mail was second only to Ginger Rogers’s. And even now, after having been away a year, he still gets two and three hundred fan letters a week.”

  During World War II, I was rushed from one extravagant musical to the next with the full star treatment at MGM. This was the heyday of the movies; it was hard to keep a level head and one’s sense of values. MGM made overworked, spoiled idols out of Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, and Elizabeth Taylor; it wasn’t the kids’ fault, nor the studio’s, it was the System. I too was on the spoiling list for a while, but I didn’t go along with it.

  The studio wanted me to appear at the bosses’ parties and entertain them in return. They didn’t approve of the “image” I created, living alone at the ranch in dungarees, catering to dogs and cats and my decrepit chickens.

  When the day’s work was done, I would slip away from the studio as quickly and quietly as I could. The San Fernando Valley was green open spaces then, with rolling horse ranches and walnut and citrus groves. The hour ride to and from the ranch was my “thinking time,” the necessary break for reflection.

  Desi came home less and less and I was soon caught up in bond tours. A group of us would fly to some city like Philadelphia and make forty-two appearances in a week or ten days. Desi and I communicated more by long-distance than in person.

  It was a strange, lonely, unreal kind of life. I clipped out a picture of an adorable baby from a magazine and pasted it along with my movie reviews in my scrapbook. Underneath the baby’s smile I wrote, “I don’t see any pictures of me in this book and this is your third year of marriage—quit kiddin’!”

  In 1943 I made Meet the People with Dick Powell. I was a clotheshorse again in this one, a famous actress who becomes a welder in a factory “to meet the people.” It wasn’t a good movie but I enjoyed working with Dick. He was a great natural performer. He was so natural that he was not always given the credit he deserved. Dick didn’t make noise about his acting, or his marriage troubles, or even his losing fight with cancer. A sane, sensible, stoic man, he was also a loving husband and father and a showman of rare ability.

  In January 1944, my grandfather Freddy, my beloved Daddy, died of a stroke at seventy-eight. We never even considered burying him in Hollywood; he belonged next to Flora Belle in the elm-shaded Hunt family plot in Jamestown. I flew east for his funeral and then stayed at the Jamestown Hotel for several days, seeing old friends and helping raise money for a war bond drive.

  I told local newspapermen that Desi was still the number-one interest in my life and that I hoped to costar in a picture with him after the war. Telephone calls and telegrams from Desi flooded the hotel during my four-day stay, and everyone assumed we were still honeymooning. Then I returned to Hollywood to make Ziegfeld Follies.

  This was a great, glittering, lavish production of Arthur Freed’s, with many top stars, including Fred Astaire, Judy Garland, Lena Horne, and Gene Kelly. I was promised that I could dance with Fred Astaire and do some Bea Lillie–type sketches. But it was such a stupendous production, involving so many egos and temperaments, that I ended up doing nothing but cracking a rhinestone-studded whip over eight black panthers. Ziegfeld Follies got terrible reviews; it was a costly dud, lacking all sparkle and originality.

  Once again I learned the bitter lesson that directors and producers can make or break an actress. I was a star, but I felt that I couldn’t afford to turn down parts for fear of infuriating these bigwigs—“Who does she think she is, putting her judgment above ours?” If I did turn down a script (which I never did while under c
ontract), I would be put on suspension, without salary. I couldn’t accept an offer from any other studio, no matter how good, yet I could be fired at any time without the bosses showing cause. In some ways, it was wonderful to be a contract player under the wing of a powerful studio, but at the same time it was a master-serf relationship. All the glittering “stars” were at the mercy of the whims of the top people. The studio executives and producers were the in group; the writers and actors and directors were the out group. The major war was between the in and the out groups, but equally savage wars raged within.

  I knew I had the ability, and I set myself to learn a difficult and demanding craft with as much self-discipline as I could muster. Most people at RKO and MGM knew I had something, but nobody knew quite what. They made the mistake of giving me gags, whereas I find my comedy is in the tradition of pure physical comedy. I must be given a comic situation which I live with, tussle with; then the twists and complications emerge.

  At MGM during the war years, the producers were always in love with a different girl every day of the week, and some of the things that were planned for me were given to other actresses. I didn’t particularly care. My tiny part in Ziegfeld Follies was a disappointment, but I went on to play a supporting role in Without Love, starring Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.

  It was tremendously exciting to be in a picture with Hepburn, whom I had admired so much at RKO. Katie seemed to lead a lonely life, but she is probably the least lonely woman I know. She is also one of those rare persons secure enough to disregard convention and yet retain her sense of dedication and self-respect.

  Spencer Tracy is a brooding, strange man with a great depth of feeling for those close to him. In his leisure moments, Spence is relaxed and can be extremely entertaining. On the set, he is all business. When you’re working with Spencer, you don’t kid around.

  Without Love was based on the Philip Barry play about a young widow who wants to keep bright the memory of a perfect marriage, and a love-weary scientist who is marriage-shy. In my supporting role, Bosley Crowther noted, “Lucille Ball throws wisecracks like baseballs.”

  While I was knocking myself out with moviemaking and bond tours, my marriage was crashing fast. Desi’s nightlife had even blasé Hollywood talking. Confidential magazine published a story about a Palm Springs weekend of his, and this too hurt and humiliated me deeply. At a Birmingham Hospital picnic that summer, Desi got roaring drunk and called his superior officer some pretty unprintable names. I was sure he’d be busted from sergeant to private, but because he was doing such a fine job with the wounded men, he was let off with a reprimand. Desi never could accept authority easily.

  During the summer of 1944, Desi stopped coming home. One night I tossed sleeplessly until dawn wondering where our marriage had gone awry and what I had done wrong.

  Finally I hit upon a desperate measure. I still loved Desi; he was the only man in my life. But I decided to divorce him. I chose California because a divorce there takes a year to become final, and therefore there were 365 days left for a reconciliation.

  Cleo was married and living in an army camp in North Carolina, and DeDe was visiting her there. I telephoned them to say that I was divorcing Desi. “It’s too bad you can’t work things out,” Cleo commented. “You two have so much going for you.”

  “I know that,” I agreed. “But now Desi’s even blaming me for the war.”

  The night before I was scheduled to make my appearance in court, Desi showed up. He was contrite, and his most charming self. The next morning I climbed out of our big double bed and started to put on a suit, picture hat, and jewelry. “Where’re you going?” Desi wanted to know.

  “To court, to divorce you,” I told him.

  I told the judge that Desi had caused me “grievous mental suffering.”

  I didn’t expect Desi to be around when I got back to the ranch later that morning, but he was. He looked white and stricken. “Lucy,” he said, “the next time I marry, I’m going to be a better husband.”

  “And the next time I marry, I’m going to be a better wife,” I answered truthfully.

  Desi’s face brightened. “Then why don’t we both try it on each other?” he suggested.

  I didn’t believe Desi could change, but he did for a time. I gulped a bit when I paid $2,000 in fees for the divorce I never got, but it was worth it.

  For a long time, Desi came home every night and we both tried very hard to make things work. I no longer expected to be as happy as I had been as an ecstatic new bride, but I did look for a measure of peace and security.

  I closed my eyes, put blinders on, and ignored what was too painful to think about. I tried to view my troubles less seriously, and worry less. I tried to curb my temper. Things said in embarrassment and anger are seldom the truth, but are said to hurt and wound the other person. Once said, they can never be taken back.

  During this period of reconciliation, a reporter asked Desi what adjustment he had contributed to our marriage. He fell into a prolonged silence, then finally came up with two: “Well, I try to sleep with the damn windows open because Lucy likes fresh air. Then I took up square dancing for a while; I went around jumping with the rest of the characters!”

  Around this time, my good friend director Eddie Buzzell asked for me for his picture Easy to Wed. This was a remake of an early Jean Harlow movie, Libeled Lady, and one of the highlights of my movie career.

  The plot concerned a rich playgirl (Esther Williams) who sues a newspaper for a libelous story about her. The paper hires a great lover (Van Johnson) to compromise her so that the suit will be forgotten. I played a showgirl again, in ringlets, black tights, and short bustle, but instead of being the hard-boiled type with all the answers, I was an unsophisticated poor soul—a chorus girl who was being used and stepped on and was fighting back in her own way.

  Eddie Buzzell put me at my ease, and encouraged me to be myself in a way no other director had done before. I was sick and tired of “drop gag” parts where I strolled through a room, dropped an acidly humorous remark, and left.

  Eddie, who came to Hollywood through the Orpheum vaudeville circuit, used to attend our parties at the ranch. He had seen me do my silly chicken dance with our flock of ancient hens. He saw the potential in me for humor and pathos I didn’t even know I had.

  I had a driving, consuming ambition to succeed in show business but I had no idea where my real talents lay. I was dying to be told, to be shown. Way down deep underneath those brassy showgirl trappings was Lucy, and there she stayed, strangulated, for years.

  Easy to Wed was released to sterling reviews. After knocking myself out, giving my best possible performance in this picture, I expected other good roles to follow. Instead, I was put into a real dog with John Hodiak called Two Smart People. At least the critics knew how to call it.

  The New York Times described Two Smart People as “a dog-eared tale about love and the confidence racket. Lucille Ball plays the beauteous dame who falls for the guy she started out to fleece. She is painfully defeated by the script at every turn. But in addition to its pedestrian plot, Two Smart People suffers from a lack of competent direction.”

  In November 1945, Desi was released from the Army and hurried home to take up his interrupted movie career. He hoped to have an excellent part in a movie called Fiesta, but MGM had been grooming Ricardo Montalban in Desi’s absence and gave it to him instead.

  We talked long and seriously about what Desi should do. Since nothing seemed cooking in the movies for him, he turned to his next love: music. He asked for his release from MGM and started to put together a rumba band.

  Nothing seemed to be working out for either of us. My movie career seemed just as stalled at MGM as it had been at RKO. I was making $3,500 a week, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. The years were speeding by—I was still childless and my dream of co-starring with Desi and working side by side as a team seemed hopeless.

  Whenever I could, I went to Desi’s nightclub openings, but I
didn’t enjoy them much. If I watched him too closely, I was accused of being there “to keep an eye on him”; if I didn’t appear, I was taunted with concentrating too much on my own career.

  * * *

  I blame a lot of my troubles at MGM on the agent I had at that time. Now, I had always been aware that until you get to a certain point in your career, no agent can help you; you have to advance yourself. By this time, however, at $3,500 weekly I was near the top of the heap financially. But I soon learned that my agent had little regard for me as a person or a performer, and when the chips were down, he was not on my side.

  All my affairs were being handled by this agent, and I wanted to have a serious discussion with him about what I was doing, what was going to further my career, what kinds of roles were good or bad for me. But he couldn’t be bothered, and next thing I knew, I had been loaned out to a totally strange studio without my consent or even my knowledge. The movie was The Dark Corner for 20th Century-Fox, with Mark Stevens, Clifton Webb, and William Bendix. Twentieth Century was paying $6,000 a week for my services, but I got only a portion of this; MGM and my agent pocketed the difference. This in itself infuriated me.

  On my first day of work, Harriet and I drove to the 20th Century studios. We passed a place near our ranch where a ragged mongrel pup was chained up. I’m kind of a nut on the subject of cruelty to animals; I was upset to see this dog chained in the hot sun without shelter or water. He raced back and forth in a frenzied desperation as we drove by, almost breaking his neck.

  Harriet noticed that I turned very white and began to tremble. For some reason, that lonely pup really got to me that day. The experience left me oddly off balance.