Jeannie Out of the Bottle - Barbara Eden [40]
But All Hands on Deck wasn’t always a barrel of laughs, primarily because the director, Norman Taurog, was a really, really mean man. He was child star Jackie Cooper’s uncle, and when Jackie was a little boy acting in the movies, Norman was notorious for sticking a pin into him so that he’d cry real tears in a scene. During All Hands on Deck, Norman hollered at everybody, with the exception of Pat. On the rare occasions when Pat was late to the set, Norman would take it out on the crew, and on everybody else in the bargain. So we all hated him. And he continued to be so much of a bully that even Pat, who was a really nice, easygoing guy, grew to hate him in the end.
One morning Pat and I were doing a scene on the bow of a U.S. Navy ship. Norman was in an inflatable raft next to the ship, along with the cameraman filming the scene. All of a sudden, Pat and I heard a splash next to the ship. We looked down and saw that the raft with Norman on it was sinking. All of us just watched the raft slowly go down, and I’m afraid I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. We were only just off Long Beach, so the water wasn’t that deep.
I wasn’t laughing much, though, on my next movie, Brass Bottle, with Burl Ives, in which Burl played a djinn, a genie. Working on Brass Bottle is probably my least favorite Hollywood memory. On the other hand, the movie would prove to be a good-luck charm for me: Sidney Sheldon saw it, it sparked the germ of I Dream of Jeannie, and he remembered my performance in it.
On the surface, Burl Ives was genial and kind. He was wonderful on the set, when other people were around, but at the end of the day, when it was dark, I didn’t dare risk walking by his dressing room.
He’d stand by the door like a big bad bear and beckon: “Come here, little girl. Come here.” Then he’d lunge straight at me. Luckily, I was quick enough on my feet to sidestep him, then I’d run like hell.
The first time it happened, I couldn’t believe my eyes. This darling, warm Santa Claus of a man, who was in his mid-sixties (which, as far as I was concerned, seemed like a hundred and ten) was actually making a pass at me. Incredible!
Less incredible, but still intimidating, was Warren Beatty, who was filming The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis on the sound stage next to where I was shooting How to Marry a Millionaire. Whenever I was on my way to makeup, he’d loom out of the shadows and scare the living daylights out of me by whispering, “Barbara Eden! Barbara Eden! I’m gonna come and get you right now!”
I understand that this may sound very sappy, but I genuinely was still wet behind the ears, and so I really did find Warren to be dreadfully scary. I think that he sensed my naiveté and enjoyed the effect he had on me. Every time I’d see him about to spring out at me, I’d run a mile to avoid him.
I suppose that in some ways Warren was darling, but I always think that darling is as darling does. And, to be honest, I wasn’t altogether sure what I’d do if he did eventually catch me, because I was so attracted to his physicality. My salvation, however, was that he didn’t have the kind of qualities I generally look for in a man.
Not at the time, that is. I’ll do a Jeannie blink forward twenty years or so: I’m between marriages and up for a part in a Warren Beatty production. Wardrobe and makeup have finished with me, and I’m now waiting in my trailer to be called to the set.
The trailer door swings open and there, in all his mature glory, is Warren. Without a word, he saunters up to me, kisses me on the lips, and then saunters straight out again.
I didn’t get the part. Nor was the movie ever made. End of me and Warren. End of story. Cut.
JUST BEFORE I Dream of Jeannie swirled into my life like some kind of magical tornado, I did the TV series Rawhide. Clint Eastwood starred as Rowdy Yates and I appeared as Goldie, a dance hall hostess, in a two-part episode, “Damon’s Road,” which