Jeannie Out of the Bottle - Barbara Eden [36]
My second was that I got to act a scene with Paul Newman. He had already made Somebody Up There Likes Me, had been nominated for an Academy Award for his bravura performance as Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and was now one of the biggest male stars in Hollywood.
I was so in awe of him that at the last minute I almost changed my mind about appearing with him in From the Terrace, even briefly. I’d already signed the contract, though, so I had no option but to go ahead, scared stiff or not.
When I walked onto the set and, as my part called for, looked deep into Paul’s eyes (they outdazzled even Jack Kennedy’s), I was in Hollywood heaven. Paul must have been accustomed to evoking that reaction in besotted women, as he knew exactly how to put them at ease. He flashed me his hundred-watt smile and said, “Well, Barbara, you’re the first actress I’ve ever been able to look down on.”
He was trying to put me at ease, but he was also poking fun at himself. At the same time, his remark had a serious subtext to it—it wasn’t just a gag designed to relax me. Although I didn’t know it at the time, if the divine Paul Newman was insecure about anything about himself, it was his height.
How his height might have impacted Paul’s star quality and his vast acting talent, I had no idea, but Paul obviously considered the negative rumors about his height to be destructive to his image. His height became such a big issue for him that when a New York newspaper described him as being just five foot eight, he erupted in fury and bet the newspaper that he’d write them a check for $500,000 if he was really five foot eight—and that they’d donate to a charity $100,000 for every inch of height over five foot eight that he could lay claim to. He was so intent on winning the bet that he even contemplated consulting an orthopedic man regarding how he could make himself taller when the newspaper measured him. Luckily for him, they never followed up on the challenge, but Paul’s height, or lack of it, would always be his overriding insecurity.
That aside, he was a very down-to-earth guy and a great actor, who loved his wife, Joanne Woodward, passionately.
I’d resisted being tempted by Elvis and ignored John F. Kennedy’s invitation to call him, but the truth is that had I not been married to Michael and madly in love with him, I might have been seriously tempted by Paul Newman. But, clever woman that she is, Joanne Woodward starred in From the Terrace with him, was on set that day, and would be on most of his future movies.
Which reminds me of Elvis and his misgivings that Priscilla wouldn’t be able to cope with his pull over other women, and Booker McClay’s warnings to me when I wanted to marry Michael.
I’ve always steadfastly avoided worrying about the man in my life cheating on me with other women, because I’ve always firmly believed that worrying about my husband being tempted by other women simply takes too much time and uses too much of my energy. I’d rather devote that time and energy to loving him instead.
The truth is that no matter how happy a marriage between actors might be, there are always tremendous strains. For Michael and me, the primary strain lay in the frequency of our separations caused by our divergent careers. In fact, our separations were so frequent that in 1967 we spent just four months together, as one of us was always away on location.
Michael, who was always more self-contained than I was, may not have suffered so much during our protracted separations, but I certainly did. Recently I found a 1962 newspaper in which I talked about the sadness I felt whenever Michael had to go away for work.
“He says goodbye—and all of a sudden half of you is gone. You come home and the house seems so awfully big and empty. You find yourself looking around corners,