Dean and Me_ A Love Story - Jerry Lewis [26]
Marie and I did the scene. She was cute, she was bubbly—but she was thirty-two years old to my twenty-two, ten years that really made a difference. And I, having never acted before, was trying hard to pretend to be someone I profoundly was not.
Neither my partner nor I could figure out why Dean was essentially playing himself and I was supposed to play someone else altogether. What had Hal Wallis seen at the Copa that made him want to sign us? Where were the two guys he saw that night?
Good questions!
I had a sinking feeling the next afternoon when we sat down in the executive screening room. Dean’s screen test with Diana was wonderful, as we all knew it would be. Cy Howard was thrilled. George Marshall was ecstatic. Hal Wallis and the Paramount executives in the room were slapping him on the back.
Then came the scene with Marie and me.
It limped onto the screen, and finished even limper. When it was over, it was so quiet in that room, you could have heard a mouse piss on a blotter.
Wallis suggested we meet in his office. We all gathered there—Dean and I, our agent, press agent, and lawyer; Wallis and his minions— around twenty people in all, and the atmosphere was not lighthearted. “Gentlemen, I think we all agree we have a problem on our hands,” Wallis said. “I think we must move ahead with great care, given the very significant commitment we’ve made to Paramount on Martin and Lewis. We have to deliver on that commitment. Now, my suggestion is that we all sleep on this, and reconvene at the end of the workday tomorrow to begin to formulate a plan.”
My heart sank even further. I was a sharp kid, and I knew what Wallis was up to: He wanted to spend the early part of the day on the phone conferring with Paramount executives in New York, seeing what his options were. Maybe cut the Monkey loose and make the Crooner a star? I had to think that was on somebody’s mind. Nobody but Dean would really look me in the eye.
The driver took us back to our hotel. “Sleep on it,” I muttered. “Sleep on what? Sleep on the fact that they took what we were and changed us!”
In our suite, Dean and I sat in silence. Finally, he said, “Hey, who the hell wants to live in Los Angeles, anyway?”
Oops, I thought. Here we go. He’s gonna do it. He’s about to make the grand gesture.
“Listen,” Dean said. “If they just put the camera on what we did at the Copa, it would’ve been great!”
“But that’s not what movies are about,” I said. “Movies are about personalities playing characters. Movies are about story.”
“Well, I say bullshit,” Dean said. “I say it’s Martin and Lewis or nothing.”
I loved him for it, and I was torn. There was no way in hell I could watch my partner throw away what might be his chance of a lifetime; at the same time, I agreed totally with what he was saying. There was no way in hell I could watch Hal Wallis throw away Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis.
We decided to forget our worries and go see what the Hollywood nightlife was all about. We called a Paramount car and told the driver to take us to Ciro’s. He smiled . . . and drove us straight across Sunset Boulevard, about sixty-five feet. Who knew?
Jack Keller had set us up with a couple of terrific chicks, and we spent the evening drinking, dancing, smooching . . . having a great time pretending we were having a great time.
I don’t remember exactly how we got back to the hotel, having been at the chicks’ respective apartments, drinking champagne, and doing all the things two guys on the town do. . . . Married or not, you do them— certainly at that age you do.
Dawn