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  I walked in, introduced myself, flung my arms to the heavens, and exclaimed, “Oh God . . .”

  “Next!!!”

  Oh God, indeed.

  Jean Seberg got the part, but I couldn’t be stopped. Once my desire to perform had transformed from lonely pep talks in front of the mirror into full-blown, on-stage singing in front of an audience, I knew my life was about to change, even if I couldn’t say how. That feeling of being up on a stage with other people, people like me who had something to say, something to share, was exhilarating. I loved being able to connect with them and with an audience, to belong. As high school drew to an end I began to explore Los Angeles, to soak up as much theater as I could.

  ONE NIGHT I WENT WITH FRIENDS TO THE PICO PLAYHOUSE IN the Cheviot Hills neighborhood. When we exited I saw a vision of 1950s cool: Eddie Byrnes, who would soon go on to play the comb-wielding valet sidekick on TV’s 77 Sunset Strip. He was just standing there in a slick monogrammed shirt, leaning back against a powder-blue T-bird convertible. Dreamy.

  Somebody introduced the two of us, and that was that: I had my first proper boyfriend.

  It was right after high school, and I was living with my older sister Diana on Havenhurst, near the legendary Garden of Allah Hotel and bungalows and across from the Chateau Marmont, even then a place to be seen and a playground for movie stars. The Garden of Allah was party central for Hollywood’s Golden Age royalty—John Barrymore, Ernest Hemingway, Orson Welles, Marlene Dietrich, Dorothy Parker, Greta Garbo, and many more actors, writers, and so on. It was torn down not long after we lived there.

  As I’d gotten a little older, Diana found me more interesting, so we grew closer. Sometime after we’d moved in together, she apologized for picking on me so much when we were little. By that time I couldn’t have cared less; it was all a memory and we were living a whole new life. Eddie used to come over to our apartment and play practical jokes on Diana and me, hiding under the covers in my bedroom, pretending he was dead. And we’d neck. I knew he wanted to sleep with me, but I was still a virgin. He would tease me about that fact and sometimes get angry with me, and that made me like him more—a relationship pattern that would later play itself out in a variety of ways with a variety of men.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I told Diana one day. “I’d really like to sleep with Eddie. What do you think?”

  “I wouldn’t know anyone who would do anything like that,” Diana said.

  I listened to her. I still admired her and valued her opinion. And after all, this was the 1950s, the repressive postwar “wait until you’re married, no matter what” era, when the line between “good” girls and “bad” was very clear and usually defined by your virginity. Eddie soon broke up with me and began dating my friend Asa Maynor. But I rebounded just fine. I already had a much more important man in my life. A man named Jeff Corey.

  “THE DAY YOU MET JEFF COREY WAS THE DAY YOU RUINED YOUR life,” my darling mother liked to say.

  My father grumbled that Jeff Corey’s class was where I learned to say “fuck,” a word my mother would never have used.

  As for me, there was no question in my mind that the day I met Jeff Corey was the day my life began.

  The Professional Actors Workshop, as Jeff’s class eventually became known, was up Cherokee and off Franklin Avenue in the Hollywood Hills. I had started studying there right after graduating high school. For a while I also attended LA City College, mostly for my parents’ sake. At LA City College they made me take pantomime. I didn’t like it. Jeff didn’t like pantomime either. No more college.

  Jeff’s classes were initially held in the garage/theater behind his house. At the time he was in his early forties, with deep-set eyes and dark, wavy hair that had begun to recede a little. He had been working in movies since the early 1940s and was building quite a career as a character actor in films like My Friend Flicka, The Devil and Daniel Webster, The Killers, Brute Force, and Home of the Brave. Things looked good for Jeff until he was named as a former member of the Communist Party and subpoenaed by the House Committee on Un-American Activities. After he refused to name other supposed Communists, he was blacklisted and unable to work as an actor, so he began sharing his skills with a new generation.

  Norma Jean Nielsen had told me that Jeff’s garage was the place to be if you wanted to get serious about acting. For one thing, he’d worked with James Dean. James Dean had died in a car crash the year after I graduated high school. We were all devastated, for as kids we totally related to his on-screen suffering, to his need to be appreciated and acknowledged. Instead he was ignored. Misunderstood. Treated like a disappointment through and through. James Dean was the embodiment of an entire generation—my generation—the expression of all our frustration at 1950s repression, the lack of communication we were raised with, and all the angst that we could no longer hide.

  I continue to think of Jimmy Dean as Cal in Elia Kazan’s East of Eden, a performance to this day I still find so heartbreaking.

  “But dad . . . I gotta way to do the lettuce . . .”

  Marlon Brando, that brooding, powerful, sultry chameleon, changed our art forever, by bringing Method acting to Hollywood. He was our hero, but James Dean was our spokesman, pouring all our 1950s confusion out all over the screen.

  That first night I went to Jeff’s I was so nervous, all baggy sweaters and jeans, plopping down in the middle of the floor and trying not to be noticed. I had the classic actor’s syndrome: “Don’t look at me! . . . Wait! Wait! Look at me!”

  We did a scene from William Saroyan’s play Beautiful People that night. Later Jeff asked me, “Have you ever acted before?”

  Oh God. . . .

  I told him about my limited experience, Meet Me in St. Louis and the Joan of Arc auditions. “Well, you have talent,” he said. That was nice to hear, but there was something more. There was something about Jeff that immediately put me at ease. He was so sincere, so understanding. He understood that we were all searching, emoting, trying to make sense of our lives.

  I remember that, after I’d been working with him in class for a while, Jeff told me during a private session, “You’re just beautiful.”

  His remark struck me in an entirely new way. I was sure the beauty he was talking about was inside me, not surface beauty. The idea that I could be beautiful on the outside still felt strange. No matter what anyone saw on the outside, I still felt too gawky and uncomfortable in my skin to let any compliment on my appearance sink in. However, Jeff saw things in me in those classes, things that were buried. Maybe I still felt fat, but he made me feel as though I had something to offer.

  Jeff’s concept of beauty was one of the most compelling aspects of the way he worked. At the time “Method” was the word where acting was concerned, but Jeff didn’t limit himself to one style. He gave us many tools, and it was up to us to choose the one that worked best. Most of all, to him acting was about seeing the beauty, the importance, the meaning in everything. One night he showed us photos of broken-down fences and weeds, all dilapidated and overgrown.

  “See,” he said, “that’s beautiful.”

  Everyone looked at the photos, nodding. They were all so serious. I felt more truly, deeply alive in that moment, in those classes, than ever before in my life.

  JEFF ATTRACTED AN INCREDIBLE, FASCINATING GROUP OF STUDENTS at every level of ability. There were a lot of men, but the women were an impressive gang too. Carole Eastman was acting then, but would soon go on to write Five Easy Pieces. She was fiery and spunky, with such confidence. Jeff’s class is where I met Luana Anders, one of the dearest friends of my life. Luana had a Doris Day look, and we bonded immediately over acting and how we just did not understand boys. When Shirley Knight—later an Oscar nominee—joined the class, Luana and I hated her because she was so pretty and could already cry on cue. Though my friend, the television producer and director Larry Arrick, used to say, “If crying is acting, my Aunt Fanny would be a star!”

  But I hadn’t met Larry
yet, and all I knew was that I couldn’t cry on stage. (In real life, however, it seemed I never stopped.) Shirley appeared to have it all together. When she invited Luana and me to her house, we were stunned by how grown-up it seemed. She had a fireplace, she had a husband, and she was knitting, while Luana and I were these doofuses in our jeans. She was only one year older than me, but she was married and could sob on stage. Clearly I had to get my act together.

  But in a way I have the men in Jeff’s class to thank for sticking with my studies. If I was tired and not feeling motivated to go, I would think of the cute guys in class, and that got me out the door. When I first arrived at Jeff Corey’s, James Coburn, eventual Academy Award winner and star of The Magnificent Seven and The Great Escape, was there, and so was Richard Chamberlain (I would later swoon madly over him in the television series The Thornbirds). Irwin Kershner was a classmate who went on to direct films like The Eyes of Laura Mars and The Empire Strikes Back. I thought he looked a bit like a button salesman.

  Then there was Roger Corman. Saying that Corman later became a film producer is like saying that Walt Disney dabbled in amusement parks. Roger remains one of Hollywood’s most prolific producers ever as well as a writer and director. He has done everything from westerns to horror films and will be remembered for movies like Little Shop of Horrors and Fall of the House of Usher. He mentored people like Ron Howard, Francis Ford Coppola, and Martin Scorsese. Back then he was already making movies but was in the class to learn more about actors. He was funny to watch—he often kept his eyes closed while speaking or turned his back to the rest of us.

  Roy Thinnes, who would go on to star in the TV series The Invaders, was in our class too. I had such a crush on him. Robert Blake, television’s Baretta, was also there. Bobby was quite insightful in his way, a little angry, and oh-so talented. He had grown up in front of cameras, starring as Mickey in the Our Gang television series when he was just five years old. I remember working on a scene with him for two months, in which we had to embrace. The day before we were going to do it in front of the class, right in the middle of our embrace, he tore away and yelled, “Fuck ’em! We’re too good for ’em. They can pay us or we’re not going to do it!”

  Looking back, I was probably relieved. And a part of me understood. I find it much harder to do a scene in class than to do a play in front of an audience. In class you feel much more exposed, more vulnerable. On stage you can sink into at least a little anonymity, knowing the audience is “out there” beyond the lights. In class it’s up close, personal, and you’re there for criticism. To this day I would be scared to death to go back to the Actor’s Studio, where I later studied, and perform for that crowd of professionals.

  And then there was Jack Nicholson. Jack was in Jeff’s class, but I remember first connecting with him at the Gallery Bar along with Dick Chamberlain, Carole Eastman, and writer Bob (Robert) Towne. Both Carole and Bob went on to be nominated for Academy awards, Bob winning for Chinatown. The Gallery Bar was so intimate, like a womb, tiny and dark and a whole world unto itself. This was the place to be before the coffee house scene really took off. There were two theaters across the street as well, so it was always full of up-and-coming actors. Others would drink, but I sipped a 7-Up.

  Jack’s personality sucked you in the moment you met him. He was from New Jersey, but to talk to him and listen to his easy, folksy delivery, you would have thought he was from somewhere like Texas. I thought he was so cute, with his dark brown hair and bright eyes. Such a devilish grin.

  That night I asked him if he wanted to go to a beach party with me. When he said yes, I went straight over to my parents’ house to make fried chicken and potato salad. There was no romance—I didn’t long for Jack the way I did for Eddie—but I decided after that party that we should be best friends.

  And great pals we were. Once he and his then-girlfriend Georgianna—a real stunner from acting class—came with my family and me to Balboa Island. Balboa Island, south of Los Angeles in Orange County, has long been a vacation spot attracting locals and tourists alike. I loved the pier and the pavilion, eating ice creams, and riding the ferry. That was the weekend I found out that Verve Records wanted to sign me based on the demo that Lincoln and I recorded before graduating Hollywood High. Dawn got the demo into the right hands, and now it looked like I would have a real shot. I was giddy, so Jack and I were goofier than usual. Georgianna was mortified when Jack and I stood at the edge of the water yelling, “Boobs!!!” across the bay into the night air. We vowed that “boobs” would forever be our secret word. Boobs. Years down the line, if one of us wanted to know if the other still cared, we would just say, “boobs,” and if the other answered, “boobs” back, we knew everything was still the same between us. That’s how racy we were back then. However, I haven’t tested the theory in years.

  In class it was almost always impossible for me to work on scenes with Jack because I’d be laughing so hard. If we had to kiss, forget about it. I’d fall off the couch in hysterics. That’s what I did when I was embarrassed, as I often was with boys. I preferred to sit in Jack’s lap and tell him my problems. “You like my devil eyebrows, Sal?” he used to say during class, with a smile.

  But the man who kept me coming back to those classes was Jeff, with his infectious enthusiasm. He showed us that there were so many different ways of going about your life and career as an actor. You had to make choices, but you could live life on your own terms if you worked hard and were willing to accept the consequences. Jeff had certainly done that.

  I admired people who lived on their own terms, especially women. Women who had the courage to follow their own instincts, like Katharine Hepburn. Here was a woman who, after enduring some commercial failures in the midst of an otherwise remarkable career, was labeled box office poison. So she left Hollywood and returned to the stage to do The Philadelphia Story, written for her by her friend Philip Barry. But she bought the rights. When the play was made into a film, she cast herself in the lead role of Tracy Lord, sandwiched between Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart. And she went on to be nominated for an Oscar.

  Jeff offered a safe place for us to be ourselves—bad, sad, confused, or just giggling—and to be a part of something. That sense of belonging was becoming essential for me. The day I went to Verve Records to sign my contract with their A&R guy, famous jazz guitarist Barney Kessel, I went alone. I didn’t know him; I didn’t realize I would have to record with a band I’d never met. There was no Hollywood High trio—my friends weren’t there with me. Maybe eighteen-year-olds today have it all together, but I was flat-out scared. Once I signed on the dotted line, I walked out the door and never followed through, never asked what we were going to record and when. I walked away from Verve and let the world of acting envelop me, let that magic take me away. There I could release all my fear; there I had encouragement. There it was safe to be me.

  At Jeff’s we were insulated from glitz and glamour, not thinking about Hollywood or stardom. For us, all that mattered was learning to act, to become good at our craft. But on breaks from Jeff’s class in the Hollywood Hills, we would all step outside for a talk or a smoke. Some nights we could see the giant klieg lights of the movie premieres below. Looking at those lights grazing the night sky, it was as though I was back in the bathroom mirror again: Someday . . .

  But I had a lot still to learn.

  CHAPTER 2

  Make Believe

  AFTER ABOUT SIX MONTHS OF BREATHING AND SCENE STUDY and sitting in the middle of the floor looking like a frump, Jeff Corey took me aside one day after class. He could see how uncomfortable I was with myself, how I couldn’t take a compliment. He told me in no uncertain terms that I needed to see an analyst and start to deal with some of my self-esteem issues. It was quite clear to him, he explained, that I didn’t like myself.

  I waited for him to finish, then began to wail like a child.

  “But I don’t want to hate my parents!!”

  I was sure that was what would happen if
I went into therapy. Who would ever want to hate Edith and Jack Kellerman?

  My mother, a dispenser of treats and unconditional love, is probably responsible for the sugar addiction that I have to this day. She made three different kinds of fudge and always iced her cakes too early. She brought them to parties like that—cracked. But they were delicious. She came from the tiny town of Portland, Arkansas—one of those towns that you were leaving the minute you entered it.

  She was tiny and adorable and sometimes a little plumper than she would have liked. But in her teal blue housecoat with black velvet piping, I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  My mom was a piano teacher with a daughter—me—who could not learn to play, no matter who was teaching her. But I sang everywhere and all the time—grocery stores, church, alone—and I always got all the best laughs at all the recitals. My parents had met in a piano store, where my mother, then nineteen, was giving demonstrations.

  My father was handsome in that man’s man kind of way. He had a winning smile and was born to wear a suit, tie, and a fedora. He could be stern but he was funny. Not knowing which side of him would show up was tricky sometimes.

  He’d wanted to be an actor. That lasted two minutes. When he couldn’t get a job, he became a traveling salesman instead, at first for Shell Oil. Two sides of the same coin, I guess—acting and sales. My dad had no problem quitting jobs when he wasn’t promoted as quickly as he thought he should have been, but he was never out of work and excelled even at jobs he didn’t like that much. He bloomed where he was planted. Move on. Reinvent.

  Daddy got up at six every morning to read the paper and came home at around seven each night, poured himself a drink, and read Time magazine before dinner. He liked to brag that he weighed 175 pounds all his life. Beyond that, he never talked about himself. Never. Not a word, except maybe about work.