Merv (4 page)

The bit was that I would be singing and the spokeswoman would lean over in the middle of my song and kiss me. I’d act surprised and pull out my handkerchief to wipe off the lipstick. Then I’d look at the handkerchief before I turned it to the audience. “Amazing,” I’d say holding it up, “no lipstick smears!”

Because very bright lights were required for those early television broadcasts, we needed to wear a lot of makeup. I rehearsed the commercial without it. That night, of course, I had full makeup on for the cameras.

So the big moment came and the girl kissed me. (Don’t forget, this whole thing was
live
.) On cue, I wiped it off, but when I looked down at my handkerchief, there was a huge, gooey makeup stain on it. I knew immediately that on black and white television screens that smudge would read like lipstick. But I had to do something. I flipped the handkerchief over quickly so that only the white part was showing and, with a terrified deer-in-the-headlights look, said, “See, no lipstick smears!” Then I shoved it back in my pocket as fast as I could. I don’t know how it played at home, but the live audience saw the whole thing on the big screen. They screamed with laughter for two solid minutes.

When I went backstage, the real Hazel Bishop was there waiting for me. She was red-faced and shaking with anger. Hazel didn’t give a damn about her company. All she said was, “You embarrassed me in front of my friends!” My “first blush” of success became a very famous clip, one of the original bloopers from early television.

A side note: the crew of
The Hazel Bishop Show
would go on to enjoy extraordinary success in the years to come. The director was Perry Lafferty, who would later become the West Coast head of CBS. The front stage manager was Arthur Penn, who went on to direct
The Miracle Worker
and
Bonnie and Clyde
, among many great films. And the backstage manager was Bill Colleran, who ended up as the director of
Your Hit Parade
and, later,
The Dean Martin Show
. Bill married Lee Remick, and I became godfather to their daughter, Kate. It was an all-star crew and we became very close friends, never imagining what the future held in store for each of us.

In July of 1952, my own future arrived in the form of a draft notice: “Greetings. Please report to 39 Whitehall Street for your pre-induction physical.” Although I had flunked those ten physicals during World War II, the new slimmed-down Merv (I’d lost eighty pounds since then) was certain to pass muster.

Like a man condemned, I got all my affairs in order. First, I informed Freddy that Uncle Sam had invited me off the bus. Then I sent all my belongings back to my parents. My friends in New York gave me a big farewell party. Finally, the day came and I took the subway downtown to the main induction center on Whitehall Street (made famous by Arlo Guthrie in the song “Alice’s Restaurant”). Sure enough, I was now a perfect physical specimen. As I gathered my clothes and walked back to the desk for final processing, I remember thinking, I wonder how long it will take me to learn Korean?

I was still lost in thought when the desk sergeant looked up at me and barked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Reporting for duty, sir!”

“Reporting for duty my ass, you’re too old. They changed the law six months ago. Twenty-six is the new cutoff.” I had just turned twenty-seven.

Stunned, I managed to say, “What do I do now, sir?”

“Go home. Next.”

What
was
next? I didn’t go back to Freddy Martin, but as a personal favor, I did agree to appear with him in Las Vegas for a two-week booking at the Last Frontier Hotel and Casino when his newly hired singer (my replacement) had a last-minute family crisis.

It was during this engagement that my life once more changed drastically. Again it would happen with dizzying speed, much in the way it had when I was given my own radio show after only three days or when Jean Barry asked me to lunch and, a week later, I was singing with Freddy Martin.

This time the angel of my good fortune was one of the biggest movie stars of the fifties—the former Doris Von Kappelhoff, better known to the world as Doris Day.

I was in my dressing room between shows (we were doing two shows a night), when I heard a light knock on the door.

“Yes?”

No one answered so I went over and opened the door myself. Standing there was a little boy who must have been about ten years old.

“Mr. Griffin?”

“What can I do for you, young man?” I smiled down at him, already feeling for a pen in my pocket to give him an autograph. (People never have their own pens.)

“My name is Terry and my dad wants to sign you for the movies and my mom wants to make a movie with you.” I’d heard a lot of good stories, but this was a new one on me.

Playing along, I said, “Hey, that’s great, kid. So who’s your mom?”

“Doris Day.”

I stared at him blankly for a moment. He might as well have said Queen Elizabeth. When I found my voice, all I could think to say was, “I love your mother.”

He ran out and brought both of his parents back to meet me. Needless to say, his mother really
was
Doris Day, and his stepfather was her husband and manager, Marty Melcher. Doris was under contract at Warner Brothers and she told me that I’d be perfect for the kind of musicals that she was making there. Doris and Marty promised to arrange a screen test for me right away.

Elated, I flew to Los Angeles immediately following my final show with Freddy. After taking my screen test a few days later, I signed my name on a long-term contract with Warner Brothers for the staggering sum of $250 a week. (
“You don’t understand very much about economics, do you, son?”
)

The ink wasn’t even dry when the studio started trying to “fix” me. They began with the name I’d just affixed to my contract.

“We don’t think your name works. How about
Mark
Griffin?”

I said, “Well, I’ve had my own radio show and a number one record with that name, so I think it works fine.”

“Okay, then how about changing the spelling? We can add a second ‘e.’ You’ll be
Merve
Griffin.”

I resisted the temptation to say, “Hey, you guys have got some
merve
.” Instead, I politely thanked them and said that I couldn’t change the spelling because it would greatly upset my father, whose namesake I was. (It didn’t much matter what I wanted. I spent the next ten years telling reporters “I don’t
care
what it says. There’s no second ‘e,’ damnit!” Dan Quayle would later have the same problem with “potatoe.”)

My salary of $250 climbed to a whopping $300 a week after I starred in
So This Is Love
, with Kathryn Grayson. The public didn’t realize it, but as a contract player you could be the star of a major motion picture and when it was over you were still poor.

Today they pay actors these astronomical sums, sometimes as much as $20 million a picture. Even so, I believe it’s smarter to do what Jack Nicholson did on films like
Batman
and
As Good as It Gets:
take a low salary in return for a percentage of the profits on the back end. If the film is a hit, you’ll make far more than you would have as a salaried actor, no matter how much you’re paid up front.

My bookkeeper, Gloria Redlich, who’s been with me over forty years, always tells people about a remark I made to her when we first met: “You’ll never get rich on a W-2.” I still think that’s true.

It turned out that
So This Is Love
was the only serious film role that I would ever have. The press screening was held at the Pantages Theater in Hollywood. Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper were both there, confirming the importance of the event.

It was in that theater that I saw myself, for the first time, on the big screen. I had never watched the rushes (the partial film clips shown at the end of each day’s shooting), so I had no idea what I looked like on film. As the picture unspooled, I found myself sliding further and further down in my chair. By the time it ended, I was under the seat, on the floor. Before the credits even finished rolling, I snuck out into the lobby, hoping to make a quick exit. But Hedda and Louella were there, blocking my path. “Oh, you darling boy,” they cooed at me in unison, “you’re going to be the biggest star in the world.” They kissed me and hugged me and I thought, What’s going on here? Could they be telling the truth? Nah.

That night, I just lay there in bed, unable to fall asleep. Finally, I decided that Hedda and Louella were right. I
was
the biggest star in the world. I drifted off and dreamt that I was thanking the Academy for the great honor it had bestowed upon me.

Unfortunately for my Oscar, I woke up.

To be fair, it wasn’t only
my
performance that sank
So This Is Love
. The day before our picture opened, Twentieth Century–Fox released
The Robe
, the first motion picture ever shot in CinemaScope (“
The modern miracle you see without glasses!
”). For months afterward, all anyone could talk about was “widescreen.”

From then on, I was given small parts and voice-over work in a dozen other movies, none of which meant a thing. Of course you remember that dramatic radio bulletin in
The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms: “Well, folks, here’s another one of those silly reports about sea serpents again.”
That was me.

Finally I called my manager and said, “How do I get out of here?” It got so bad that one day the casting director called my house and I answered the phone as if I barely spoke English.

“Can I speak to Mr. Griffin, please?”

“He no home! He no home! You call back!”

Shortly after that, I bought out the remainder of my contract. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do next, but I knew that I wouldn’t be giving that Academy Award speech anytime soon.

Short-lived as my film career proved to be, it did earn me a small footnote in cinema history. Judged by today’s standards, my achievement seems almost comical. Believe it or not, when I kissed Kathryn Grayson in
So This Is Love
, it was the first time an open-mouthed kiss had ever been shown in theaters. At the time, it was a big deal. Really.

In December of 1953, I found myself back in Las Vegas, the town where, only two years before, Doris Day “discovered” me. (Show business may be the only profession where you can work for years to become an overnight sensation.)

Right after my release from the Warners contract, my agent got a call from the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas. To celebrate their first anniversary they’d brought in none other than the great Tallulah Bankhead herself and asked her to create a variety act especially for the occasion. I was hired as her opening act.

On the second day of our two-week engagement, I developed laryngitis and had to take the night off. I was back the next day, but to my surprise, Tallulah wasn’t speaking to me. I thought she was going to fire me. I finally cornered her and asked her what was wrong.

“You little prick.” She was smiling, so I knew my job was safe.

“You know I hate it when people get sick around me. I start to take on their symptoms, dahling. If I’m around someone who stutters, I stutter. When somebody tells me that they’ve been in a car accident, I feel injured myself. Just don’t cough on me, dahling.”

I made a mental note: find another job where you won’t get fired if you lose your voice.

On our last night at the Sands, Tallulah and I had more than a few too many. Feeling no pain, and in violation of house rules that strictly forbade performers from gambling, we hit the tables. By dawn, I had almost $30,000 in my pocket, including my paycheck. (There was a grim moment later than afternoon when, having spent the night in my car, I woke up and couldn’t remember where my money was. I finally found it pushed down in my shoes.)

I decided to parlay my Vegas winnings into a new start in New York. So when I got back to L.A., I called the girl that I was seeing at the time, a singer-dancer named Rita Farrell.

“I’m out of here, Rita. I’m going to New York to start my career.”

She didn’t try to talk me out of it. “I’m going with you,” was all she said.

I got a deal on a new Ford convertible and the two of us hit the road. Once again I was headed to New York in search of fame and fortune. But this time it would be different (or so I thought). There was no Freddy Martin to answer to, no studio executives to argue with. I was now the captain of my own ship.

Maybe so, but anybody who saw me during that cross-country trip must have thought my ship was a garbage scow. Rita and I were both wearing old clothes and looking slovenly. We barely even stopped for food along the way, so by the time we got to Pennsylvania, I hadn’t shaved in almost a week.

My new Ford convertible blew up at the Harrisburg exit on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The engine block cracked and steam came pouring out; we had to have it towed into the local dealership.

Looking (and probably smelling) like two escaped prisoners, Rita and I were stuck at that Ford dealership in Harrisburg waiting for word about our car.