In the Company of Legends Page 3

  DH The first number was “Top Hat, White Tie and Tails” from the film, Top Hat. We’d been told that brief excerpts of his dances irritated him, so throughout the program we tried wherever possible to show complete performances, and this was one of them.

  About a minute in, I could hear him humming along to the music and then noticed he was tapping his feet, completely glued to the screen. I must have been holding my breath up to that point, because I suddenly realized I was breathing again.

  Near the end of the sequence, when the chorus of male dancers is lined up behind him and he starts “shooting” them with his cane, he half-turned to us and said, “Remind me to tell you a story about that last guy.” A few seconds later, he said, “He wound up as the head fireman on the Warner Brothers lot.”

  It wasn’t much of a story, but it was music to our ears at the time.

  JK and DH We knew that among his many solos, he was especially proud of “Bojangles of Harlem” from Swing Time. However he had also become somewhat embarrassed by it; this performance from 1936—a tribute to the legendary tap dancer, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson—although brilliant, was in “blackface.”5 We had decided to take a risk and include it, and both of us were expecting a reaction from Astaire when the sequence started. He had been making comments on almost all the numbers, but he was silent during “Bojangles.” We took his silence as approval and to the best of our knowledge, there were no negative calls or letters from viewers when the show aired.

  JK During “I’m Old Fashioned” from the film, You Were Never Lovelier, he said, “Look how much better I’m dancing with her.” The “her” was Rita Hayworth. I was particularly struck by that remark because up to that point, all the film clips in the program had him dancing only with Ginger Rogers. Anyone who has done any research into Fred Astaire knows that he always avoided answering the question, “Who was your favorite dance partner?” Yet, here he was, giving us a very broad hint that Rita was probably one of them. Was he also saying that he felt his own dancing changed from partner to partner? It’s quite possible, since I know from my own days as a dancer that a good partner can make a significant difference in your own performance.

  DH With the screening over, it looked as though we’d come through it without any scars. And, miraculously, my cold felt a lot better! Now was my last chance to ask Astaire if he’d agree to a brief interview we could put into the show.

  “The film is perfectly good as it is,” he said. “You’ve done a wonderful job. And you don’t need me.”

  It was a much-appreciated compliment, but not the answer we wanted.

  JK Fred Astaire: Puttin’ On His Top Hat and Fred Astaire: Change Partners and Dance premiered on PBS in March, 1980. Both programs were nominated for Emmy Awards, and Change Partners won.

  However there is another postscript to these shows. During our interview with Jerome Robbins, he said about Astaire: “He infused our souls with the visions that he made.” It was a reflection by one of America’s great choreographers on the work of another. And although Robbins was talking about Fred Astaire’s work as a whole, we decided to use that comment to lead into the film clip, “I’m Old Fashioned.”

  Soon after the programs aired, Jerome Robbins’ assistant at New York City Ballet called. “Could Mr. Robbins borrow a cassette?” “Of course,” I told her, and immediately called a messenger to have it delivered the few blocks from WNET to Lincoln Center. In less than a week, the cassette was returned. Then, within a few days I heard from Robbins himself, asking to borrow the cassette again. And again it came back promptly. Two days later, another call from him, and another request for the cassette. By then I couldn’t contain my curiosity.

  “I’m honored that you like the program, but have to ask why you want to keep borrowing it?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be secretive,” he said. “I’m creating a piece for New York City Ballet based on “I’m Old Fashioned.” Every time I watch your show I see more details in it, and I’ve been calling Astaire to ask questions. He’s been very helpful and supportive.”

  “Variations on ‘I’m Old Fashioned,’” with a score by Morton Gould and based on the Johnny Mercer song, premiered at the New York State Theater, Lincoln Center on June 16th, 1983. David and I were invited to the opening night and were given seats next to Joanne Woodward, Paul Newman, and Morton Gould. All of us went backstage afterwards, where Robbins greeted everyone with handshakes and then said to us, “See what you’ve done. It’s all because of where you placed me in the program. You’re responsible.”

  I remember saying, “Thanks for the compliment, but we didn’t do anything. You did. Congratulations. It’s a masterpiece.”

  JK and DH In a New York Times interview the previous Sunday, Jerome Robbins was asked what ballet dancers could learn from Fred Astaire. He replied, “Everything.”

  Jerome Robbins and David Heeley after filming interview for Fred Astaire: Change Partners and Dance.

  New York, 1979. Photograph by Brownie Harris.

  Katharine Hepburn.

  Old Saybrook, CT, 1980. Photograph by Len Tavares.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “That Won’t Work—They’re All Dead”

  Hers was a carefully constructed public image and, by her own admission, the “creature” she created needed a great deal of attention. Smart and intuitive, Katharine Hepburn knew what was right for her down to the socks she wore under what she called her “rags.” Near the beginning of our 1993 program, Katharine Hepburn: All About Me, she says, “It’s my job to keep her fascinating. Have I succeeded? Who knows? Who knows?” The question may have sounded like an admission of self-doubt. In fact, it was the opposite. She was aware that, just by asking, she was nurturing her creature and, indeed, adding to its fascination.

  That she chose to include us among the few people she trusted is still gratifying. Throughout our eighteen-year professional and personal relationship with her, she enriched our lives. And it all started almost by accident.

  DH The two programs about Fred Astaire had not only been well received, but also brought in a bundle of money for the stations across the country. Soon after, my phone rang.

  “Congratulations on the Astaire shows,” said Ron Devillier, an executive at PBS in Washington. “So, who are you going to do next?”

  We hadn’t thought about a “next,” and I said so, which in retrospect wasn’t too bright. However, our boss at WNET, George Page, had more sense. Maybe another star profile wasn’t such a bad idea, especially since PBS was prepared to put up the money.

  It didn’t take long to come up with the perfect subject: Katharine Hepburn, a woman who lived by her own rules, was strong-willed and well known for protecting her privacy. She never went to premieres, parties, or awards ceremonies, and seldom appeared on television.

  The response from Devillier was immediate. “Great. Why don’t you call her?”

  JK I was never a shrinking violet when it came to contacting celebrities. But, even though I already had Katharine Hepburn’s number in my phone book, my instincts told me not to use it. Instead I called Pandro Berman, whom we’d met in connection with the Astaire profile. He’d also been Hepburn’s boss at RKO during the early years of her film career, and the two of them often butted heads over scripts, directors, co-stars—in other words, just about everything.

  However, when I asked for his help, he said, “I’m not the right person to talk to her. We were never really friends and I haven’t seen or spoken to her in years. You need (director) George Cukor. They’ve made a lot of films together, are very close, and she respects him. I’ll get in touch with him and tell him to expect your call.”

  DH Unlike Joan, I am definitely not a phone person. But I knew that it made most sense for me to be the one to approach Cukor, director to director, and a few days later I reached him at his home in Los Angeles.

  “I think it’s a splendid idea,” he said. “As it happens, I’m going to be in New York next week and I’ll
be having dinner with Kate. Let me discuss it with her, and I’ll get back to you.” It seemed that we were in luck.

  Two weeks went by without any word from George Cukor. Eventually I knew I had to contact him again. “Oh,” he said. “She told me she’s not interested. But I think she should do it. Why don’t you call her yourself? Here’s her number.”

  This was not going to be easy, and I had to steel myself before picking up the phone and dialing. After two rings:

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  That unmistakable voice. I hadn’t expected her to answer the phone herself.

  “Miss Hepburn, this is David Heeley. I’m calling from Channel Thirteen1. I think George Cukor mentioned to you recently that PBS wants us to produce a profile of you.”

  “Can’t do that. Much too busy. I’m going on the road with West Side Waltz2. Won’t be back until the end of the year.”

  “That’s not a problem,” I said. “We could film you wherever you are in the country.”

  “No, no. There won’t be any time.”

  The “No” was hardly a surprise. But she hadn’t yet told me to get lost. So I took that as an opportunity to keep talking and try to change her mind.

  “I understand, Miss Hepburn. But there might still be a way to do this. For the programs we just produced about Fred Astaire, he gave us his co-operation, but didn’t appear in them. We told his story by talking to the people around him. We could do a program about you the same way, interviewing people who know you and have worked with you.”

  “That won’t work. They’re all dead.”

  For a moment I was thrown. Until I realized she’d given me an opening.

  “No, they’re not,” I countered. “There’s George Cukor, Lauren Bacall, Sir Ralph Richardson, Peter O’Toole, and Henry Fonda, whom you’ve just worked with, and of course your friend Laura Harding, who I know went to Hollywood with you in the thirties.”

  I hadn’t reached the end of my list when she interrupted me.

  “You mustn’t forget Tony Harvey. He directed me in The Lion in Winter. Did a great job, and he lives here in New York. And is Pandro Berman still alive?”

  I felt a sudden rush of excitement. Did she realize that she had effectively said “Yes”?

  “Pandro is definitely alive,” I responded. “We interviewed him about Fred Astaire. He’s a nice man.”

  She laughed. “Nice? I’m not sure I’d say that. He was tough as nails when he ran RKO. Now he probably walks around with a halo over his head. But I’m sure he’d have a lot to say about me.”

  I knew I needed some sort of confirmation that she was really giving her consent.

  “Do you have any photographs or other memorabilia we could use?” I asked.

  “When you’re ready, call this number and arrange with Norah, my housekeeper, to come over and take a look at what I have here.”

  I couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. She’d gone from a “No” to giving us her blessing in the space of a few minutes. My heart was racing, but I tried to sound calm.

  “Would you like to see cassettes of the Astaire programs?” I asked.

  “Do you mean I’d have to put them in a machine and watch them on television?”

  “Yes, exactly,” I replied.

  “No thanks. Much too busy. And I don’t even know how to turn on the set. Never look at it.”

  I called George Cukor to thank him, and also to ask if he’d give us an on-camera interview.

  “Leave it to Kate,” he said. “Everyone else has to put themselves out while she’s off on tour. But that’s her. We’ve been friends for almost forty years, and made a lot of films together—and somehow we’ve managed not to kill each other.”

  JK and DH Licensing clips was a constant struggle, especially the ones we needed from MGM. We’d asked for excerpts from five of Hepburn’s films. The studio sent word that they wouldn’t allow us to use anything from either The Philadelphia Story or Adam’s Rib. While we could have made do without the latter, we couldn’t live without The Philadelphia Story, which had been a major turning point in Kate’s career. After making a number of unsuccessful pictures in the late 1930s, she was labeled “Box Office Poison.” However, just about that time, writer Philip Barry approached her with a play he’d written about a divorced socialite on the brink of getting remarried. It was tailor-made for her—a starring vehicle that brought her back to the stage for the first time in many years. She was then dating Howard Hughes, who bought the movie rights to the play and gave them to her as a gift. She sold the rights to MGM with a few strings attached: that she’d have the starring role in the film, that George Cukor would be the director, and that she’d have approval of her co-stars3. The Philadelphia Story, released in 1940, was a big hit; Hepburn was nominated for an Oscar as Best Actress, and her career was back on track.

  DH I found an excuse to call her. And during the conversation, I asked if she still owned any rights in The Philadelphia Story.

  “No. I sold them all to Metro at the time. Why?”

  “Well, MGM is allowing us to use excerpts from three of your films, but they’ve told us we can’t have any from Adam’s Rib or, worse, The Philadelphia Story, which, as you know, will be a glaring omission in the program since it was so important in your career.”

  “Hmm,” she said. Then after a moment of silence, she asked, “Who’s the head of Metro these days? Is it that man who got himself in trouble?” She was, of course, referring to David Begelman, who despite the fact that he was caught forging Cliff Robertson’s name to a check for $10,000, was now, indeed, the President of MGM. “Why don’t I try reaching him?” she said. “But I’m not sure he’ll take my call.”

  “I have a strong feeling he will,” I told her.

  The next day, she tracked us down in an edit room.

  “Well, I’ve spoken to Begelman. I told him, ‘These nice people are doing a program about me for PBS and you’ve said they can’t use any film from Adam’s Rib or The Philadelphia Story.

  “‘Of course, they can,’ he replied.”

  It had taken her less than one minute. We then called Peter Kane, an MGM lawyer who’d become our friend through the Astaire programs. He laughed and said, “Great news. And you should know that the person who originally said “No” was the Chairman of the Board. So David Begelman was going over his own boss’s head by giving Hepburn permission to use clips from those movies.”

  JK and DH We soon discovered exactly how important her stamp of approval was. Every person we asked to do an interview called her before saying “Yes.” No one was going to risk ruining their relationship with her by participating in an unauthorized program.

  DH Our first interviews were in Los Angeles with Jane Fonda, Henry Fonda,4 Mark Rydell, Pandro Berman, and John Houseman, among others. George Cukor was working on what turned out to be his last picture, Rich and Famous, so we had to plan a separate trip later to film him.

  I’d met Jane Fonda briefly in the early seventies when she and her then-fiancé, Tom Hayden, appeared on a late night TV show in New York called Free Time, which I directed. Produced by Fern McBride, it was a radical and outspoken series, which tried to expand the boundaries of conventional television, and that particular edition was devoted entirely to the Vietnam War. When I reminded Jane of it she told me, “That program was what really cemented my relationship with Tom.” They married soon after.

  JK Jane Fonda both produced and starred in On Golden Pond, and she and director, Mark Rydell, were in the midst of post-production. It was clear that she relished having worked with Hepburn, who plays her mother in the film. They sparred a little at first, but soon developed a very close relationship. The script called for some very emotional scenes between Jane and her father, in which she had to say words that she’d never said to him in real life. As she told us, “It was a terrifying, getting-up-in-the-morning, wanting-to-throw-up, kind of experience.” And although Kate was not needed on the set when those scenes were being sho
t, she agreed to be there in order to give Jane moral support.

  DH The next day we interviewed John Houseman, who lived in the hills above Malibu. I have never before, or since, seen a swimming pool in the middle of someone’s living room. It was beautiful and impressive, but I noticed that there was no protective rail or fence around it to prevent unplanned dips. I wondered how often that must have happened.

  He was his usual erudite self, very much like the professor he played in The Paper Chase. In the fifties, he’d been the artistic director of the American Shakespeare Festival in Stratford, Connecticut, when Katharine Hepburn starred in several productions there. He talked about how brave it was for an actress of her fame to open herself up to criticism by taking on “the classics.” As she told us years later, she had to prove to herself that she could play more than just “Katharine Hepburn.” She knew the material would test her, and wanted to know that she was up to it.

  JK Leaving Malibu, we headed to Pandro Berman’s home on Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills. It was comfortable, but relatively modest. He was already an ally, and soon became a friend. In subsequent years, David and I would visit him and his wife, Kathryn, whenever we were in LA. That day he welcomed us warmly and led the crew to set up in his back yard near the pool. He had a deadpan way of talking in real life, and even more so on camera, seldom smiling. But that demeanor belied an intelligent wit.

  He said, “It was one thing to deal with Wallace Beery and even Fred Astaire. But Katharine Hepburn was much different—much more difficult.”

  DH It was an exhausting day. We had booked four interviews, at four different locations. By the time we left Pandro’s home, it was about 4 pm, and we still had one more to go: Walter Plunkett, the famed costume designer, who created Hepburn’s wardrobe in several of her films5.

  David Heeley, Pandro Berman, and Joan Kramer.

  Beverly Hills, CA, 1980. Photograph by John Haggerty.