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THE 1960SPART 1

The 1960sSkittering HomeMy second day back in New York starts with a visit to the orist shop across the street from my apartment. With a bouquet of tiger lilies in hand, I head towards Tony’s house.After ringing the buzzer at 137 West 55th Street, the unmistakable sound of Skitter galloping down the stairs comes through the door.Helen Merrill’s voice isn’t far behind. “If that’s Grover out there,” she shouts, “I’ve got a puppy who can’t wait to see you!”Click, click. Buzz, buzz. e security system is triggered. e door swings open.Skitter, leash already attached, leaps into my arms. After the rst round of hugs, treasures are ocially exchanged. Helen gets the owers, I get my puppy.“Tony will be home in two days,” she advises me, unaware that he’s already installed in my apartment on 56th Street. “He’d probably like to hear from you.”“Believe me, he will, Helen,” I respond, lowering Skitter to the sidewalk, relishing that she doesn’t have a clue Tony and I have already spent a night together.“He’s booked on a ight to London this weekend,” she adds, “to meet with Orson Wells. You guys won’t have much time to share.”

Grover Dale • 131“No problem,” I reply, tightening my grip on Skitter’s leash. “Rehearsals for Sail Away don’t start until Monday. at’ll give us twenty-four hours.”Skitter tugs at the leash. She knows where her home is. As we run towards 56th Street, I shout, “anks, Helen, for taking care of my little guy.”Anchors Aweigh!Following Sail Away’s tryout in Boston, critics agree that Elaine Stritch’s portrayal of Mimi Paragon and Joe Layton’s choreography is a perfect match for Noël Coward’s light-hearted romp of a musical. Concerns, however, surface about the show’s top-billed star, Jean Fenn, an opera singer with no previous Broadway experience. Hmm. What are Coward and Layton gonna do now?Joe Layton keeps the ship from sinking. “What would happen,” he suggests to Coward, “if we eliminate Jean Fenn’s role and just give everything to Elaine Stritch?”Coward buys it. Stritch buys it, too. Within a dozen performances, Joe’s suggestion is in place. By the time Sail Away opens at the Broadhurst on October 3, 1961, Jean Fenn is gone. Elaine and the cast dazzle critics enough to justify a ve-month run in New York followed by a year at the Savoy eatre in London.

132 • a Boy like ThaTPlaying Barnaby Slade to Patricia Hardy’s Nancy Foyle was smooth sailing!

Grover Dale • 133An opening night gift arrives in my dressing room. It’s a watercolor of Barnaby Slade painted by Coward. Wow. e party is just getting started. Patricia Hardy and I celebrate opening night with Noël Coward. Working with him was a pleasure and an honor.A personalized watercolor from Sir Noël Coward. Does it get any better? I write a quick note.Dear Mr. Coward,Four months ago, you invited me to step into the shoes of Barnaby Slade. ese months have been the most joyous of my life. Tonight is Oct 3, 1961. We nally made it to Broadway. I’m grateful for the guidance, care, and patience you gave to a skinny tap dancer from McKeesport, PA.ank you, GroverP.S. I still have the cork from the bottle of wine we shared with Marlene Dietrich.

134 • a Boy like ThaTA “Nauti” NightSix weeks later. New Year’s Eve.It’s a Sunday. No performance. No six-block walk to the Broadhurst eatre. No updates on Tony except what gossip columnists are reporting: He’s been seen hanging out with another Hollywood actor, Tab Hunter.After an improvised dinner, Skitter and I settle down in front of the TV, preparing to watch the ball drop on Times Square.At 11:00 p.m.: an aggressive knock at the door. Who the heck is that?Bam. It’s Elaine, wearing a full-length mink coat over annel pajamas. Two bottles of Dom Pérignon are nestled against her chest.“Can you believe it’s New Year’s Eve and I didn’t get invited to a friggin’ party?”“No way!” I gasp, swinging the door open.Cautiously, she peers inside.“No, Elaine, Tony isn’t around tonight.” I chuckle. “He’s shooting a movie somewhere on the West Coast. It’s just me and Skitter holding down the fort.” I open the door wider. “Get your butt in here—the ball’s going to drop in forty-ve minutes.”rusting both bottles of champagne at me, she barks, “I don’t give a cat’s ass about balls dropping.”She ops her lanky body on the sofa, striking a know-it-all-yet-seductive pose.“You must give a cat’s ass about something, Elaine,” I say, peeling the foil o the rst bottle. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”“I’ve heard a rumor that Barnaby Slade goes both ways,” she muses.Pop goes the cork. Meeting her questioning gaze, I pour her a generous glass.“Happy New Year, Elaine.”

Grover Dale • 135“Nineteen sixty-two could be an interesting year,” she says, easing her bare legs out of the annel pajama bottoms and daintily covering her private parts.Provoking laughter is one of Elaine’s most valuable weapons. Her insinuations always bring down the house. Colleagues (the smart ones!) don’t bother competing. Just let the queen of sassy innuendo have her victories and enjoy the ride.For the next six months, as long as Tony isn’t around, Elaine and I party, play, and push each other’s buttons, completely unaware of the messes we’re accumulating. Pitching It Out of the ParkBut I’m also accumulating miracles.Ready or not, it’s time to look at my bank account. What makes the numbers so promising? After two years of selling Sour Lemon Chewing Gum in a national TV commercial, I was hired for twelve more spots, pitching everything from cola drinks to Chevy convertibles to Polaroid Swinger Cameras. anks to the SAG/AFTRA residual system, the skinny dancer from McKeesport is seeing exceptional gains in his bank account.While ve gures look good to anyone (especially in 1962!), the truth is, I’m a mere breath away from the six-gure mark.If this keeps up, how far o is seven gures?A million dollars is blissful thinking for any twenty-six-year-old.Elaine Stritch was quite a character—on and o stage.

136 • a Boy like ThaTLushing into LondonNoël Coward oers us his guesthouse in Jamaica.“A month in the sun,” he proclaims, “will prepare you for the success that’s waiting for both of you at the Savoy eatre.”Who could resist an invitation like that? Blue Harbour, here wecome!Each day begins with a drinking adventure: bull shots, margaritas, or green hornets. Relatively new at boozing, I gallop into it. Occasional bull shots don’t hurt anyone, do they?Two weeks into our stay, Coward’s gardener gives me a tour of the property. In a storage shed, he points out a collection of empty liquor and wine bottles, citing them as evidence that Blue Harbour attracts some pretty impressive drinkers.“You and Elaine,” he assures me, “are nowhere near the top of the list.”Before Sail Away opens at the Savoy, Elaine and I rent two duplexes in a Chelsea brownstone next to a pub that oers draught beers, ales, tasty British food, and Sunday afternoon sing-a-longs. Perfect weekend options, right?A Regrettable RepeatJune 21, 1962. Opening night at the Savoy.e after-party takes place on a yacht on the ames River. Surrounded by celebrities, reporters, and Coward fans, Elaine grabs her “Broadway-star” moment, boozing like it’s going out of style.

Grover Dale • 137Wisely, I retreat to the back of the vessel.Two hours later, Elaine staggers down the gangway swinging a nearly empty bottle of champagne. Leaning against a cab, she drains the last drop and tosses the bottle towards the river.“You’re drunk, Elaine,” I grumble, making a big deal of her “disposal” technique.“Stop preaching like my father,” she barks.“I’ll do that,” I shout back, “if you stop drinking like mine!”She spits in my face.“Get your ass in the cab,” I demand.As she attempts to walk away, I shove her towards the door and kick her butt. She falls into the taxi.Behind me, a voice shouts, “Grover Dale just kicked Elaine Stritch!”Holy smokes. It’s Noël Coward’s press agent.She leans out of her window. “What did Elaine do to deserve that?” she demands.“When she sobers up,” I respond, “ask her.”Suddenly, Elaine’s cab pulls away from the curb. I run after it.“Hey!” I shout. “Where the fuck are you going?!”She displays a sti middle nger through the back window.Memories of other back windows replay in my head. e kid who fell to his knees on Stewart Street swearing he’d never put himself in that position again just put himself into the same position. He’s in big trouble.I stare in silence as Elaine’s cab disappears around a corner.Coward’s press agent drives past, wishing me luck getting a ride home. I handle that moment badly, too.Sti middle ngers only feel good in the moment. ey never get you a ride home.

138 • a Boy like ThaTThe Royal TreatmentMeanwhile accolades for the show abound. Not the least of which is being tapped to do a Royal Command Performance at the Savoy.Paintings, Pubs, & Other PerksAs life unfolds on Anderson Street, late-night gatherings include local artists like Jason Monet, the grandson of Claude Monet. Like me, he is enchanted by Elaine. He often stays in the lower duplex, paying his share of rent with drawings. I still have one.

Grover Dale • 139Lunches at the pub? For two shillings (28 cents), plates of braised liver and chicken hearts are among the best deals in the neighborhood. Others include shelling out eighty dollars at the Portobello Road Flea Market for a horsehair mattress. Horsehair, I soon learn, provides the most restful sleep anyone could wish for.For reasons that defy any reasonable form of rationality, Elaine and I apply for a marriage license. What the heck are we thinking?A Ripping SendoffWeeks later.My bags are packed.Elaine and I sit face-to-face at the kitchen table. No bull shots, margaritas, or green hornets in sight. Elaine is dgeting with the marriage license.e doorbell rings. A voice outside announces, “Your taxi to the airport has arrived.”As I stand, Elaine rips the license in half and drops both pieces to the oor. In silence, we stare at each other.As the driver rings the doorbell again, I collect my bags, kiss the top of Elaine’s head, and exit. Not a word is spoken.Twelve hours later, I’m in my New York pad sifting through papers on my desk. Aha. I nd what I’m looking for: the scrap of paper with Mildred Newman’s number on it. Within seconds, she answers my call.

140 • a Boy like ThaTUnsinkable & Unthinkable!Two days later, the phone is pressed against my ear. But it’s not Mildred Newman I’m listening to; it’s my agent, Eric Shepard.“I’ll repeat it again, Grover.” He chuckles. “Listen carefully: You are Peter Gennaro’s rst choice to play Debbie Reynolds’ brother ‘Jam’ in e Unsinkable Molly Brown. No audition or screen test necessary. You’ve been approved by the director, Chuck Walters, as well as the star, Debbie Reynolds. Projected schedule is ve months in Los Angeles, two weeks on location in Colorado. e terms are $750 a week, featured billing, and a studio apartment with a balcony at the Chateau Marmont in Hollywood. I need to know right now if you accept these conditions because the producer is on the other line and needs a response before moving on to Peter Gennaro’s second choice for Jam!”Twenty minutes later, the grind of a key in my front door signals the arrival of Tony and Skitter. ey’re returning from a walk in Central Park. I stammer through sharing the news.As I lay out Molly Brown’s ve-month schedule, Tony quickly reveals he’ll be circling the wagons, too, in London.“You have your gigs,” he responds, “I have mine. at seems to be the way we’re always going to do it.”Laughing, I make the mistake of summing up our relationship in a sentence: “You and I are never really going to live together, are we?”“Probably not,” Tony arms, tossing a rawhide bone towards Skitter. “Guys like us have careers to protect.”Shake, Rattle, and Rolling at MGMRehearsing with Peter Gennaro is a picnic. No one but Chita Rivera shakes butt better than him. His speech pattern is unique. Everyone in the room loves his “squishy” S’s.

Grover Dale • 141For the rst time ever, I’m dancing in front of real pine trees, corn elds, wooden fences, sweaty horses, and clattering wagons. Even the mud I shove Debbie’s face into is real.What’s unreal are MGM’s paychecks. e numbers they produce in my savings account would make Grandma Ammon proud.Eric Shepard encourages me to invest in the stock market. On a September afternoon, I commit half my savings to a portfolio of mutual funds. Yep. Like another gambler in my family, I’m rolling the dice.In a real setting with a real actress: Shaking things up with Debbie Reynolds in e Unsinkable Molly Brown.

142 • a Boy like ThaTA Juicy OpportunityIt presents itself in the backlot of MGM. After hours of shooting the “I Ain’t Down Yet” number in a corneld, the assistant director pulls me aside to ask if I can handle the task of hitting Debbie Reynolds in the chest with a rotten tomato from a distance of twenty feet?“Before you accept,” he cautions, “be aware it has to happen in one take because there’s only twenty-four feet of lm left in the camera. You understand that kind of pressure, right, Grover?”Despite a voice in my head reminding me I wasn’t terric at aiming softballs across home plate in McKeesport, I say, “Yes, I understand, and yes, I can do it.”“Great,” he replies, turning towards the crew. “Listen up, every-body—Jam says he can do it. We’re a go. Let’s nail this sucker,okay?”As the crew sets up the shot, I realize the position I just put myself in. If I fail, MGM will ridicule me. If I win, MGM will adore me. Lillian Jasper’s voice arrives out of nowhere.“If you ain’t taking chances,” she whispers, “you ain’t dancing hard enough!”I’m glad I said yes.“Heads up, Jam,” yells the AD, carrying a tray of tomatoes towards me. “C’mon,” he says, “pick your poison.”I juggle the tomatoes, implying I know something about the right weight, feel, and balance it takes to win the game.Yep. I nd the perfect rotten tomato.Debbie taps me on the shoulder, warning me of the consequences of hitting her in the face. “You don’t want to do that, do you, Jam?”“Once in a while,” I assure her, “your brother knows what he’s doing.”“at once-in-a-while moment is now, right?” she responds, heading for her starting position on the roof twenty feet away.

Grover Dale • 143“Yes, it’s right now, Debbie.”Poised for the countdown, I spot both my “brothers” quietly protesting to the AD that the wrong brother was picked for the tomato toss.Extra grit rises up inside me.Debbie is on her mark. e clapboard is poised. Lights are activated. Sweat is rolling down my forehead.“Action!” cries Walters. e clapboard is slammed.Chickens are chased across the foreground. I race around the corner of the cabin, aim, shout Molly’s name, and throw the damn tomato.Splat. It explodes perfectly on Debbie’s chest. She collapses and slides o the roof.“Cut! It’s in the can!” shouts Walters.e whole crew celebrates the victory. I just got what every kid who grows up in a shack on a dirt road longs for: on-set recognition at a major lm studio. Sock it to me!Where I Was When…Friday, November 22, 1963.It’s 10:00 a.m. Debbie Reynolds, Gus Trikonis, and I are about to perform “He’s My Friend” for the cast and crew.Peter Gennaro cues the playback. We leap onto the oor. Within seconds, the music is stopped. Molly Brown’s producers, one of them carrying a portable radio, apologizes for the interruption. Major news is breaking in Washington.

144 • a Boy like ThaTe entire cast is wondering what kind of news justies stopping a rehearsal at MGM?In a corner, Debbie’s seven-year-old daughter, Carrie Fisher, ignores the silence, continuing her own version of “He’s My Friend.”“Walter Cronkite,” claims one of the producers, “will say it better than we can.”e volume is turned up. e urgency in Mr. Cronkite’s voice gets everyone’s attention:“President Kennedy was shot as he drove from Dallas Airport to downtown Dallas; Governor Connally of Texas, in the car with him, was also shot. It is reported that three bullets rang out. A Secret Service man was heard to shout from the car, ‘He’s dead.’ Whether he referred to President Kennedy or not is not yet known. e president, cradled in the arms of his wife, Mrs. Kennedy, was carried to an ambulance and the car rushed to Parkland Hospital outside Dallas.”Shock and silence dominate the room. Little Carrie’s song is the only audible sound.“He’s my friend, to the bitter end,” she warbles sweetly, “doesn’t matter what the other people say.” She’s unaected by the tension surrounding her.No one moves. A president has been shot. A national tragedy is underway. Making movies doesn’t matter anymore. Nor does Peter Gennaro’s choreography, the Chateau Marmont, or personal investments in the stock market.What is America going to do?e producers release everyone from the day’s schedule. As belongings are collected, someone on the production team suggests staying close to family and loved ones. If I can’t be with Tony, I better go back to the hotel.Nearby, Debbie Reynolds silently listens to her daughter singing: “…and the bitter end is just a million years away.”

Grover Dale • 145If only that were so. I hug Debbie and Carrie on my way out.e drive to the Chateau Marmont feels endless. On Sunset Boulevard, seeing people entering a church, I pull over to the curb and roll down the window. Feeling lost and alone, I need to be near someone who’s praying.Wait a minute. Two people on the sidewalk look familiar. Is that Chita Rivera? It is. She and her brother Armando are climbing the stairs to a church. I jump out of the car and rush over to them. Words aren’t necessary. Within seconds, we’re clinging to each other and crying our brains out.“Who Said You Could Wear Red Socks?”at’s exactly what Debbie Reynolds asks the moment I walk onto set a week later. She demands an explanation. As the star of Molly Brown, she has every right to send a dancer back to the wardrobe department if a costume choice bothers her.I decide to tell the truth.“e wardrobe department didn’t provide any socks,” I admit. “ey expect me to dance without them. Bare feet inside shoes get sticky. I’ll dance better wearing socks. I brought these from home, Debbie. ey’re mine. Is that okay with you?”She continues staring at my feet. “And they just happen to be bright red, right?”“Yes,” I say, looking down. “If you’d like, I’ll switch them out for normal black ones, but Jam wouldn’t wear anything normal.”“He’d wear bright red—is that what you’re sayin’?” Debbie punches me in the shoulder. “I know you’re trying to act like a nasty brother and I appreciate that, but let me tell you something,” she warns. “You better dance your ass o or those red socks will be jammed down your skinny throat. You got that?”“Got it, Debbie,” I respond. “Jam is going to dance his ass o.”

146 • a Boy like ThaTFor ve hours straight, I deliver every head-pop, bark, kick, squeal, and leap that’s in me. I don’t hold back. If anyone thinks I should tone it down, they’ll tell me. No one says a word. I keep going for it.Six months later, e Unsinkable Molly Brown secures six Academy Award nominations. Debbie’s performance is among them. If the category of choreography had been restored, Peter Gennaro would have been recognized as well.ere’s no toning down this red-sock-wearing kid as Debbie Reynolds and I perform Peter Gennaro’s award-worthy choreography to “He’s My Friend.”Accenting the PositiveBack at West 56th Street, I nd a note on my bed. It’s from Tony, informing me the deal with Orson Welles nally came through. He’s on his way to France.

Grover Dale • 147e phone rings. Unfortunately, it’s not Tony. It’s my agent. Eric informs me that the only show coming up with a role for a dancer is Half a Sixpence. “Are you interested?”After seconds of silence, Eric asks why I’m stalling. I admit that what I really want is to spend time with Tony.“If you want to validate the win you just landed at MGM,” he says, “you gotta get your name on another contract.”Eric’s right. Instead of paying attention to the love I want, it’s time to pay attention to the career I want.“Okay,” I say, “what do I need to do to book Sixpence?”“Convince Gene Saks, the director,” he replies, “that you can handle a Cockney accent.”Hmm. Okay. My Midwestern twang has gotten in the way more than once. “I hear you, Eric.”I make a decision.“Please tell the director,” I respond, “that I’m getting professional coaching. In a couple of weeks, I will absolutely deliver the accent he expects me to have.”A month later, Sixpence rehearsals are underway. I’m squeaking by with my Cockney accent. Rehearsing with my new Sixpence buddies.Left to right: NormanAllen, WillMacKenzie, Tommy Steele, and the guy with the twang.Grandma Ammon, wherever she is, is probably the only person in the world who would say I’m in for another beautiful ride!

148 • a Boy like ThaT“Steeling” the ShowSixpence has a cheeky, devilish, and fun-loving star named Tommy Steele. As soon as a certain “twinkle” appears in his eyes, I know shenanigans are about to begin. Nothing is too sacred to have fun with: dialogue, staging, lyrics, wardrobe, gender, height, weight, you name it.When shenanigans surface, there are three choices: dodge ’em, ditch ’em, or dance along with ’em. For me, Tommy’s antics called for the latter option.Soar, baby. Boost the Sixpence experience.I love going the distance with Tommy. I’m sure that explains why I hear audible gasps every time I kick my way through the “Money to Burn” number.Kicking it up with Tommy Steele in Half a Sixpence.

Grover Dale • 149Satisfaction is alive and well on the stage at the Broadhurst. Ditto on West 55th Street, where Skitter and I are nally living in Tony Perkins’ house.A Storm of WorkMinutes after an audition at CBS, my agent calls with good news. I’ve secured the role of a dope dealer on the long-running daytime soap opera, e Secret Storm.My acting teacher, Mary Tarcai, wastes no time announcing that one of her students (a dancer, no less!) beat out an established actor by the name of Dustin Homan for the role. My win is rewarded more than once with appearances on e Merv Grin Show.In the ’60s, soap operas air live, one day at a time. During hour one, actors receive scripts and read through them. Scenes are blocked by lunchtime and the live broadcast is underway by 4:00 p.m. Somehow, everyone knows their lines. No teleprompters needed.Until an on-air catastrophe occurs.As the dope dealer, I’m being interrogated by a police captain who’s been a regular on the show for ten years. In the middle of aggressive questioning, he goes blank. His eyes glaze over. He stammers and freezes. Sweat breaks out on his forehead.e sound in the studio is turned o. From the booth, the director hisses: “Here’s your line, you dumb-fuck.” She feeds him the line. e sound is rebooted. He says the line. Within seconds, the episode is over. And so is his ten-year job. He’s informed he will no longer be needed on the show. e shouting match that erupts isn’t pretty.is experience rises to the top of my survival list. If you go blank on camera, keep talking, make something up. You never want to hear a director say “Here’s your line, you dumb-fuck.”

150 • a Boy like ThaTBlack and White Opinions1966.Sixpence is still packin’ em in at the Broadhurst. Tony is still shooting a movie in France. Will these gigs block me from doing what I need to do for myself? Not a chance.I invest twenty-ve hundred dollars in a 16mm camera, editing tools, and acquiring the skills to use them. My bedroom in To-ny’s recently acquired Chelsea brownstone on 21st Street has a new purpose. Within weeks, my fourth-oor mini-studio delivers a ve-minute documentary called Douglas, James and Joe.Focused on three neighborhood pre-teens—two white, one black—I lm them painting each other’s faces in opposing colors and strutting fear-lessly in front of the camera. Without a word of dialogue, they express conicting opinions about skin color.Tony suggests submitting the results to lm festivals. ankfully, I take his advice. Within six weeks, I have an award-winning lm on my hands. But what the heck am I supposed to do with it?Tony’s new digs on 21st Street provide the perfect work area for creative expression.

Grover Dale • 151Together Time?A month later.On June 25, I leave Sixpence, pack my bags, and pile into a rental car with Skitter. e anticipation of spending the summer with Tony has me tingling to get to Cape Cod. e Welleet cottage is only a ve-hour drive.After four days of stocking the shelves with essentials, I’ve got one last chore to complete before Tony’s arrival. With Skitter by my side, I harvest clams at the bayside beach for a welcome-home clam-fest. A blissful hour later, I’m navigating the driveway with a loaded-up bucket when I hear a phone ringing. Hoping it’s Tony, I race to the cottage and grab the call just in time.It’s not Tony. It’s Eric, my agent.“Grover,” he asks, “Do you have a passport?”“Of course.”“Get your hands on it as soon as possible,” he orders.“I’m on Cape Cod, Eric.” I laugh. “e passport’s in New York.”“Too bad,” he responds, “because a passport is the only thing that’s going to get you to London where you’ve been invited to costar with Gene Kelly in a French musical.I gasp. “What are you talking about?”“I’m talking about a job with Jacques Demy who’s directing e Young Girls of Rochefort. If you show up on set tomorrow,” Eric goes on, “you’ll not only costar with Gene Kelly, you’ll perform alongside Catherine Deneuve, Françoise Dorléac, Jacques Perrin, and George Chakiris.”I’m abbergasted. “How did this happen?”“It’s one of those rare situations,” Eric explains, “when a lead actor drops out at the last minute and the director needs an immediate replacement.”“How did Demy pick me?”

152 • a Boy like ThaT“Roger Eden screened Molly Brown for him at MGM. Before the screening was over, Demy said he wanted the dancer in the red socks. No audition, interview, or screen test necessary. Just make sure he arrives in London tomorrow morning!”I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Sight unseen, I landed a dreamjob!“We nalized the deal ten minutes ago,” Eric adds. “Five months on location, costar billing, a thousand dollars a week. Plus a three-picture option with Seven Arts. All we gotta do,” he repeats, “is get you on Air India ight 101 departing Kennedy at six-thirty tonight. You’re in rst class and the script will be waiting on your seat. Can you manage that, Grover?”“Right now, it’s, it’s, it’s...”“Please say you’ll manage it, Grover. It means a lot to both of us.”“Okay, okay, Eric,” I grumble. “But…what if I can’t nd the damn passport?”“Without it,” Eric responds with a touch of hysteria in his voice, “you’ll miss out on the best role you’ve ever been oered.”e knot forming in my gut is overwhelming.“Either come up with the passport or waste a summer on Cape Cod. What’s it gonna be, Grover?”After ve seconds of silence, Eric says: “I can’t help wondering what Tony Perkins would do in your position?”“He’d nd the friggin’ passport,” I admit.“So what are you going to do, Grover?”Dream downtime with Tony in Cape Cod or a dream job with Kelly in France?

Grover Dale • 153“I just remembered where I put it,” I assure him.“Call me as soon as it’s in your hands.”Eric exits the call.Six hours later, I call him back. “I have everything I need…the passport and two packed bags. I just talked with Tony who assured me a couple of months in France works for both of us. His agent is negotiating a project that will be lmed less than a hundred miles from Rochefort. I’m on my way to Kennedy Airport.”Les Demoiselles de RochefortAs promised, when I board the airplane, the script is waiting on my seat. But I can’t study it, because it’s in French! I chuckle, certain that when I arrive in London, they’ll provide me my English script.Guess what? It doesn’t happen!Rochefort, I learn, will be rehearsed, staged, and shot entirely in French. So much for the best role I’ve ever been oered.On day one, I fumble my way through every scene without understanding a single word coming out of anybody’s mouth, including my own. e panic on Jacques Demy’s face says a lot. He realizes what he’s gotten him-self into.Day one in Rochefort with Jacque Demy (right) didn’t go as doucement as hoped.

154 • a Boy like ThaTI’m assigned a dialect coach. I’ve got another whole language to learn. Luckily, I do better with Norman Maen’s choreography.Every day, I’m motivated by a single thought: I better dance my ass o if I wanna keep this job.

Grover Dale • 155

156 • a Boy like ThaTTen days in.While shooting a sequence in the town square, George Chakiris whispers that Gene Kelly has his eyes on us.Holy moley. e one-and-only Gene Kelly has his eyes on us!“Where is he?”“Standing next to the camera,” responds George, “selling an idea to Jacques Demy.”In seconds, we learn that Kelly wants to stage a “dancing-down-the-alley” sequence with George and me.Somebody pinch me. Dancing down an alley with Gene Kelly?Strutting (and starring) with my idol, Gene Kelly (right). Does it get any better?Less than an hour later, George and I are strutting alongside the Hollywood legend who proved that stormy conditions never got in his way.Magic time.

Grover Dale • 157Our rehearsal is interrupted by an AD informing us that Jacques Demy loves the dance but needs to share a concern with Gene Kelly.“Tell Demy I’ll be there in a second,” Gene responds, polishing o the alley dance with a ashy nish.Go right ahead, Gene. Consult with the director!George and I listen carefully as Demy enlightens Kelly.“As the plot is written,” he explains, “there’s no way for you, George, and Grover to interact with each other. e story will suer and the ending we’ve already shot won’t work.”“So I guess you’re ditching the new dance?” laughs Gene.Demy enlightens him further. “ere might be a way to includeit.”“I’m all ears,” replies Gene.“If we replace George and Grover with two chorus boys, the dance won’t interfere with the storyline.”Everyone gets it. A simple switch protects the plot and still includes the number. e deal is done. Without a word, George and I step aside, yielding our positions to a pair of Norman Maen’s dancers.“I knew it was too good to be true,” George groans. “It’s over.”“It might be,” I respond, “but no one can take away from us the twenty minutes we danced with Gene Kelly.”“You’re a hopeless romantic, Grover,” chuckles George, yanking me out of the alley.Dancing with Gene Kelly for twenty minutes? Still a dream come true.

158 • a Boy like ThaTShattering ExpectationsSensing George’s and my disappointment, Jacques Demy approaches us at dinner. “Michel Legrand,” he announces, “is writing a new song for the movie. It has both of your names on it!”A week later, George and I begin lming our duet in the town square café.I jump so high my head shatters the Plexiglas ceiling. Production shuts down for hours while the panels are replaced.During lunch, Gene Kelly directs Jacques’ attention to the lump on my head, joking how often dancers’ energy goes through the roof. While everyone laughs, Catherine and Françoise rush over and kiss the top of my bruised noggin.My roof-raising duet with George Chakiris.

Grover Dale • 159How often does camaraderie like this happen?As a newcomer to the lm industry, I don’t really know. What I do know is, a family vibe dominates this movie. With Jacques Demy and his wife, Agnes Varda, leading the way, everyone welcomes it.“Family time” with Cathererine Deneuve (top & bottom), and GeorgeChakiris and FrançoiseDorléac (center).

160 • a Boy like ThaTImagine this: Jacques wants a traveling camera to record sixty continuous seconds of a dance. After tracks are laid out, he realizes he doesn’t have enough crew members on hand to step in and pull plugs as the camera passes by.Plug-pullers! Where are you when needed?Everyone pitches in: actors, dancers, dressers, hair stylists, producers, extras, you name it. We all become plug-pullers.If team eorts like this happened in Hollywood, American unions would shut down production in a minute. You have to pay for plug-pullers.Meanwhile, at the B&B…Catherine doesn’t hesitate sharing her beverages. Wow. If only Sunny Cox could witness me on the receiving end of Catherine’s pour. Astonishment and envy would be written all over his face.How do you like me now, Sunny Cox?Hello Dolly, Goodbye KellyEveryone knows Gene is set to direct Barbra Streisand in the upcoming Twentieth Century Fox production of Hello Dolly! As

Grover Dale • 161glasses of champagne are poured at his departure dinner, he pulls me aside to ask if I’ve made a decision about playing the role of “Ambrose”?Seven stupid words spill out of my mouth: “My agent says I can’t do it.”“What?” gasps Kelly.“Your oer means a lot to me, Mr. Kelly,” I plead, “but Eric Shepard claims he can’t get me out of a contract to do Half a Sixpence for Paramount Pictures.”“Have Eric call me,” Kelly oers. “I know how to handle Paramount.”“Eric’s afraid to deal with Paramount.”“en get yourself another agent, Grover,” quips Kelly before returning to his chair at the head of the table. “You either want to play Ambrose or you don’t.” He turns away, engaging in another conversation.I want to play Ambrose, I mourn, but I can’t bail out on my agent. I sink into my chair, realizing the price I just paid for loyalty.Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s Françoise. She and Catherine just secured four seats to a Jacques Brel concert in Limoges. It starts in an hour. Are George and I interested?“You betcha,” I shout, jumping to my feet. “Let’s get our butts outta here!”Sixty minutes later.Jacques Brel’s brilliance unfolds in front of Catherine, Françoise, George, and myself. I’ve never witnessed any performer like him. As each song ends, he leaps into the next one. Apparently, applause doesn’t matter; he’s more interested in expressing himself. Completely captivated, I’m unaware that Françoise and I are holding hands.

162 • a Boy like ThaTen reality returns.“Brel’s performance is over,” Françoise whispers, extracting her hand from mine. “If we hurry,” she adds, “we’ll get back to Rochefort so we can pack up for the next part of our journey.”“Françoise,” I respond in a dream state, “why don’t we just stay here with Jacques Brel for the rest of our lives?”“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” she replies, reaching for my hand again.A Goodbye Unlike Any OtherBack at the B&B, George and Catherine have retreated to their rooms, leaving Françoise and me alone in the hallway. With a sparkle in her eye, she rhapsodizes about attending Jacques Brel’s next concert.“Where’s it gonna happen,” I ask. “And when?”“Tomorrow night!” She chuckles. “In Paris.”“You gotta be kidding!” I respond.“I know you’re booked on a morning ight to London,” she replies, “but aren’t you the guy who just said we should live the rest of our lives with Jacques Brel? Why don’t you drive to Paris with me?”Instantly, I’m a blithering mess. “My travel arrangements are already in place, Françoise. I can’t change them.”She extracts her hand from mine.

Grover Dale • 163“For a minute,” she coos, stepping into her room, “I thought we could enjoy another adventure together. Sweet dreams, Grover.” Her door is closed.Six hours later.e morning sun is rising over the ocean. I’m in the parking lot loading my bags into a taxi. Looking up, I spot Françoise watching me from her window.Eager to restore the aection between us, I fall to my knees, clasp my heart, and toss all the passion I can muster in her direction. Laughing, she retreats behind the sheer curtains. I wait for her return. Where the heck is she?My driver turns on the ignition, signaling it’s time to leave. I jump in the cab. e fantasy between Françoise and me has stalled. She’s nowhere to be seen.As my driver steps on the gas, I relax. My eyes are drawn towards the ocean in front of us. e time I spent in Rochefort will never be forgotten. I drift into a state of sleep.Minutes later, I’m startled awake by a honking horn. A familiar-looking car zooms by. It’s Françoise! Flying by, she blows a kiss at me. My driver slows down to accommodate her aggressiveness. As Françoise disappears in front of us, he rants on about women driving vehicles that fast.Returning to a nap state is the easiest way to ignore his tirade. Iclose my eyes, feeling every bump in the road beneath us.Nonstop MovementBy lunchtime, I make it to London. My bags and I are delivered to e Black Horse Hotel overlooking the ames River. Running on the late side, I’m delivered to Stage D at Shepperton Studios. By two p.m., I exit the wardrobe department dressed as the Cockney

1960S, PART 1