Lessons from the Mountain Page 16

  Ralph himself finally came into the makeup room and asked if I was ready. When the director goes looking for his actors, you know things are getting serious.

  “I’m ready, but my hair isn’t done,” I told him. I felt stupid even as I said the words.

  He looked at me sitting in front of the mirrored wall. With measured words, he said, “Well, who do you want to be—Betty Grable or Bette Davis?”

  Like a cattle prod, his words stunned me into action. I stood up, ripped the rollers out of my hair, and ran to the set, thinking Bette Davis.

  In the movie of the week A Wedding on Walton’s Mountain in 1982, Paul Northridge proposes to Erin. I had a similar decision to make, much to the dismay of our producers. We were filming at the house on the backlot, and Erin is preparing to see Paul and agree to marry him. My hair was nowhere near ready, and we were losing time.

  I thought of myself as a no-nonsense actress by then, very practical and production savvy. I decided I would just stuff my hair under a hat. We shot the scene and got on with the day’s work.

  Later in the week, we were shooting the following scene, and, of course, it had to match the previous one, so again I had to wear the hat. Well, when the footage of me in the hat with no hair showing was discovered, the set was not happy. I must have looked really bad, or maybe I didn’t look as pretty as Erin should when getting betrothed, so the order came down: no hat.

  How did we fix it without reshooting the entire scene? With creativity. In the final cut, Erin approaches Paul. She removes the hat, and multitudes of perfectly curled hair cascades out. At last, Erin had fabulous, flowing hair—perfect for a marriage proposal.

  “WOW, OH WOW”

  Because of my acting classes, I started to ask a few questions at work and wanted to understand and participate more in what I was doing in the context of the story lines. I began to act on my impulses, speak about my character, and collaborate about how a scene could be played. Sometimes these baby steps toward expressing my voice were accepted, but not always.

  In “The Legacy,” Erin encounters Ashley Longworth Jr. for the first time. After flirting with him in the living room of the Baldwin sisters’ house, she lets herself out. The script had Erin swooning against the door and saying the line, “Wow, oh wow.”

  I hated this line and I loathed the “swoon.” I felt my character would never speak or act this way. I didn’t know how to make it work. Erin was strong and confident; she worked around men in the defense plant and had reached a level of maturity that didn’t fit what the director was asking for. I tried to explain, but our director, Gwen Arner, insisted I do it as written. I protested, then felt bad for resisting and belittled for trying to express myself.

  If there was an attempt at explanation, I would have accepted the decision. Instead, the AD made it worse, took me behind the set, and gave me a verbal lashing. He told me to stop disrespecting our female director and do what she said. How dare I ask questions or think I knew better? “Don’t ask questions, and do as you’re told!” he screamed.

  So much for having a voice, for working to improve my talent, for growing up in a business that expects you to know everything, then punishes you when you try to be a part of your own journey. I went back to the set so upset I fought to hold back tears at the complete humiliation. Here I was playing a happy scene about being smitten by a gorgeous man, and I had to fake my way through. It went against everything I was trying to accomplish. I felt a failure all over again. Squashed.

  Years later, Earl’s sister Audrey Hamner, the real Erin, said in an interview she liked my portrayal of her, and how I played Erin. “However,” she said, “there is one thing I don’t like that Erin did. I would never have swooned over a man and said ‘Wow, oh wow.’”

  NUMBER ONE

  Erin’s favorite love interest was Ashley Longworth Jr. That’s because Jonathan Frakes, who played Ashley, is one of my favorites as well. In “The Legacy,” a script written from a story idea by Michael Learned, Miss Emily mistakes Ashley for his father and believes he has come back for her. Erin, rightfully so, thinks he is her cup of tea, and the games begin.

  As hard as this episode was for me to shoot, I couldn’t help noticing how completely gorgeous Jonathan was as Ashley in his dress whites. You know, a man in uniform. I could go on and on, but…need I? You get the picture.

  Jonathan, who later went on to fame as Commander William T. Riker, or Number One, in Star Trek: The Next Generation, was my number one favorite love interest on the show. He is a gracious man whom I adored working with. We had chemistry, fun, and shared many laughs.

  I was about seventeen when we did our first episode together. There was a kissing scene, never my favorite thing to do. However, Jonathan is such a confident, good person, he was the first actor I felt totally comfortable kissing in a scene, in front of twenty crew members. As it turned out, we even had a good laugh over it.

  We were outside one chilly morning, filming the romantic scene leading to our big kiss. Trouble was, when we spoke, you could see our breath, only it wasn’t supposed to be winter in the scene. We learned a little movie magic trick that morning; they had us put ice in our mouths to equal the inside temperature to the outside temperature. Voilà, no more fog breath.

  As with many romantic scenes, it was very technical, and we both laughed at how unromantic it was to hold ice in our mouths until “action,” then spit it out and resume the scene. So there we were, spitting ice and kissing. This was truly an icebreaker. But that’s not all.

  The scene called for Miss Emily to catch us kissing and watch from afar. The camera setup was like this: us in the foreground, and Miss Emily in the background. Then the camera panned over to Miss Emily, revealing her standing there spying on us. At that point, we were out of the shot. Well, we started to kiss and just kept going, even after the camera focused on Miss Emily and we were out of the shot.

  We were “acting” our hearts out. (How could we see that, anyway? Our eyes were closed. Hello?) The crew started clearing their throats; then their coughing got louder and a bit more, well, insistent.

  Finally someone said, “Excuse us, but you can stop now.”

  We broke apart, and I looked up. I smiled innocently (okay, I admit, maybe I blushed a little) and said, “Oh, are we out of frame? Do we need another take?” Jonathan laughed, and for the first time, I felt like a working actress, not a schoolgirl.

  The crew gave us a hard time and teased me, but I held my ground, mostly because of Jonathan’s solid persona as my scene partner. He helped me step into that role. His grace, class, and humor showed me I could play Erin as she matured.

  The second time Jonathan visited the mountain was the following season. I had turned eighteen, and overnight that birthday changed how I was treated on the set. I was able to work longer hours; I no longer needed a guardian; and the “adult” label must have been stamped across my chest, because all bets—at least the rules about how minors could be treated—were off.

  While I often had felt uncomfortable whenever there was any sexual tension on the set, it was a surprise to me that simply my being of age brought on a different attitude from those around me. Walter Alzmann was now directing us while we filmed “The Lost Sheep.” Walter, who had known me since I was a child, grabbed me and planted his lips on mine to demonstrate how he wanted Jonathan to kiss me. I couldn’t scream, push him off me, or even move. Not only because he had me in his grips, but he was the director and to be “respected.” Another land mine inside me exploded. He had violated boundaries that made me feel safe and protected. I was embarrassed and terrified.

  Someone attempted a joke to lighten things up. We went back to work. The red flag signaling fear waved in my gut. It was amazing how unsafe I felt now that I was an adult. There was no daddy or Cori to protect me. That daunting task fell on me: a girl with no voice to speak up for herself. This was not the first sexual harassment I encountered, and it wouldn’t be my last.

  A few years later, I wou
ld audition for a movie where the director kept asking me to go to his beach house to rehearse. I wasn’t stupid enough to go, but he was angry with me for insisting on rehearsing in his office. On the set, he became abusive and screamed at me during the entire shoot. He cursed at me and yelled, “You suck. You suck. If you had come to my beach house, you wouldn’t suck.” He tried to get me to wear see-through clothes and to do nude scenes. It was horrible.

  Later, I heard there were complaints registered against him at SAG, and if he had tried something at his beach house, and I’d reported him, there would be enough to take formal actions against him. Why I didn’t feel I could tell anyone is beyond me. But more disturbing was why I felt somehow it was expected or I deserved to be treated that way.

  It took some tough blows, some literal, to help me learn to protect and stand up for myself. I’m not sure why it had to get so bad for me to learn, but sometimes it did. A few years later, I was working with an actor who called himself a reactor. He “reacted” how he felt, whether it was in the script or not. During a scene that didn’t call for violence, I suddenly felt the side of my face burn as a loud crack sounded in my ear. He literally slapped me so hard, it knocked me to the ground. The next thing I knew, I came to on the ground, dizzy, with my head ringing. What did I do? Yell? Scream? No, I went numb, sucked it up, and finished filming the scene.

  The director kindly asked the actor not to hit me again, and we did another take. I ended up in the hospital a few hours later. I recounted what happened, and the nurse said, “This is serious. I have to ask you something. You have been assaulted. I need to call the police. Do you want to file assault charges?” I started to shake and stammer. How could I do that? She looked me dead in the eye and repeated the question. I was so upset, and my duty to guarding secrets, the show must go on, and my own lack of self-care spoke for me. I avoided her gaze and meekly said, “It was only a movie.”

  I wasn’t the same for months. I was advised to go to meetings and talk about it—I didn’t. I did spend months going to a neurologist after the filming was completed. Unfortunately, it took something like this to teach me that no one gets to hit me. Not literally or figuratively anymore. I picked myself up off the mountain with a new resolve not to allow myself to be a victim anymore.

  The journey for women to grow has been a long climb. All I can think now is that women were still treated differently in the 1970s when I started to work. I carried some tired beliefs that affected me greatly. Now there is a heightened awareness about violence and sexual harassment; back then, women took it and kept their mouths shut, and so did I.

  Luckily, with Jonathan Frakes, I felt safe. He was a calming presence. Working with him was a complete delight.

  LOSING FAMILY

  Richard Thomas left the show in 1978, and Michael Learned and Ralph Waite soon followed. Tremendous change propelled us into adulthood. We “kids” relied on the lessons we’d learned from our “parents” to carry the show.

  Losing Richard was hard on us. The show just wasn’t the same, and we missed him terribly. They recast John-Boy, but while Robert Wightman was a very nice man, Richard left big shoes to fill. I heard the producers thought people would get used to the idea; after all, it happened in soap operas all the time. But this was John-Boy—the show centered around his character, and Richard had defined the role. Anyone else just wasn’t believable.

  There were also many hugs and tears shed when Michael left the show in 1979, her tears as well as ours. I have a picture of her with the entire cast and crew on her last day, and she is wiping her eyes. I knew Michael wanted to move on with her career, but I couldn’t help but remember what Will had told me so many years ago in that headlock about this being the best gig we’d ever have.

  Richard was gone; Will was gone; Ellen was recovering; I was fighting deep feelings of loss. Another rock from this mountain was about to roll away, and her departure would leave a gaping hole.

  Ralph stayed with us for a while to lead the way. At least, we had one parent still in place. Then he, too, left the show, in 1981. That left Judy, Jon, Eric, and me as the “adults,” and Kami and David to carry on with the teenage story lines.

  In some ways, being the “adults” on the show was an honor. We wanted to make the shows as great as they were before, but the format kept changing. A lot of other characters were added, and it seemed diluted. I wished they had let us just continue on with the Walton lives and their mountain, town, and community.

  DON’T LEAVE THE MOUNTAIN

  I wanted to broaden my range and work on stage, as my role models had done, so I expanded my training to local theater and joined the Camille Ensemble when I was eighteen. Doing a straight play was one thing, but a musical was a whole different ballpark for me. I loved to sing, but had limited training, and when I compared myself to those around me who were musically talented, I didn’t think I was very good.

  I had taken piano and voice when I was younger—you’ll recall my “interesting” singing teacher who’d told me what it’s like to drown—but I never used my pipes other than to sing on the show or an occasional church hymn.

  My parents had generously provided us with all kinds of extracurricular classes and lessons. My brothers even went to my dance studio and took gymnastics and Polynesian classes. They realized I needed to keep up with what might be expected of me professionally, but I was so busy, I learned very little about a lot of things. Just enough to get by.

  For a girl who wanted to be perfect, this left me timid about doing things in public if I didn’t feel ready. I knew I would be judged on the basis of being a “professional,” and not just another kid trying her best.

  By joining a stage acting troupe and doing Godspell, I challenged myself to stretch out of my comfort zone. Theater and television are two different beasts. Working a show every night for a period of time was completely different from memorizing scenes for a day’s work, then forgetting them and moving on to the next script.

  Singing “Day by Day” was scary for me every time I took the stage. At times, I had paralyzing stage fright. My desire to grow and improve my craft helped me push through my fears.

  The Camille Ensemble had a very long and successful run of Godspell. When the reviews came out in the papers, I was singled out. It said something like “McDonough should have never left the mountain,” or some such crap. The theater directors knew how sensitive I was, and that I would be upset. One even asked me if I was able to go on. Of course, I would! I would never have allowed myself to be driven from the stage—hell, I was usually frozen to it, anyway.

  Seriously, I cried and wished my critic ill, like any actor who gets a bad review does. I wondered if he could possibly understand what a huge risk stage acting and singing was for me, or at least acknowledge I was doing something to better myself. Why didn’t he just shut up? Why couldn’t he appreciate my attempt to leave “the mountain”? Idiot.

  I was glum on the set the next day and told Michael Learned about my bad review. She said, “You know, I wish these critics were more original and clever in their comments. That is so obvious a thing to say, ‘she shouldn’t leave the mountain.’ A reviewer said the exact same thing about me. So don’t worry, he’s just not very smart and took the easy jab.”

  Just like a mother should, Michael made me feel so much better that day. I resolved to keep working hard.

  I learned a lot from Godspell, and continued to work in theater over the years. I also continued to get some bad reviews. One day, the actress Dana Hill, my dear friend, bought me the book No Turn Unstoned, by Diana Rigg. It is a compilation of actors’, playwrights’, sets’, and costumes’ worst reviews. It has terrible reviews of award-winning actors ranging from Sarah Bernhardt to Lord Laurence Olivier. I pored over the pages, comforted to know at least I was in good company.

  This experience taught me something about myself, though—an even better lesson. I realized I had stored up and placed down-stage, front and center, all the negative reviews I
’d ever received in my life, while I’d pushed the positives upstage, hidden behind the scenery.

  Eventually I would have to find my way out from behind the backdrop.

  THE DUMB WITCH

  In my teens I wasn’t asked out on many dates, so I often spent Friday nights in my Northridge home watching the scary ABC Friday night movie. I loved them and always wanted to be in a horror film. I got my chance when Midnight Offerings came my way, even better because I longed to work outside the show.

  I met with the movie’s director, Rod Holcomb. I was so nervous going in for the interview. This was a whole new arena, because I hadn’t auditioned since I was ten. Rod looked me over, and we talked for a while. He was nice and funny, and I hoped everyone in the room liked me.

  I had prepared a scene from the movie to audition. I walked the plank again, worried they’d realize I wasn’t worthy. Without hearing me read from the sides (part of a script used for auditions), Rod thanked me and said good-bye.

  I asked him if he wanted to hear my scene, but he smiled and said, “No, we just wanted to meet you, see what you looked like.” Then he made the “camera lens” with his thumb and fingers and “focused” in on me. He winked, and the meeting was over. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I got the part of Robin Prentiss, seventh daughter of a seventh daughter born with the “gift.” Yes, I was a witch! How far away from Erin can you get?

  Yeah, woo-hoo! I was thrilled to work on an MOW (movie of the week) as we call them in the biz (yes, I’m hip and part of the in crowd now), especially since it took place in modern day. I got to wear jeans and cords and sweaters that didn’t smell of mildew and mothballs. I felt like I had won the lottery.

  They worked around my Walton filming schedule, and I felt even more like a real actress. When I found out I was working with Melissa Sue Anderson, who played Mary Ingalls on Little House on the Prairie, I was even more amazed. She had done a lot of MOWs, and I was so excited to be working with her. She was beautiful, really talented, and you know how TV-struck I am.