The most flabbergasted man in television when that happened was David. On a previous show he’d had a panel of United Nations diplomats, including a Russian. “I’d like to have Mr. Khrushchev himself if he ever cares to come,” David said casually, as much as to say: “If your wife’s coming to town, stop by for a drink sometime.”
One day his telephone rang. The Russians were happy to announce that Khrushchev would be David’s guest. Within a matter of hours anti-Communist pickets were parading outside Talent Associates, David’s family needed police protection, and his own life had been threatened. For the program, he armed himself with a few carefully prepared words with which to prod Mr. K. and prove that David was no red flag waver. But it was like a gadfly fighting back at the swatter. David did no good for himself or America.
He would have been wiser to stick to easier targets like Hollywood, most of whose inhabitants are personally too scared to hit back. He has taken a swing at Dick Powell, Jerry Lewis, Rock Hudson, Gina Lollobrigida, and Tony Curtis, and only Tony has ever come back fighting. “I’ve never met Mr. Susskind,” said Tony, after David had blasted him for having “no talent and no taste.” “And when I do I’m going to punch him right in the nose.”
David, who is unfortunately seldom at a loss for words, had his answer ready: “If I’m not the biggest admirer of Tony Curtis’ talent, I’ve never questioned his virility or strength. He is, in my book, a passionate amoeba.”
Playing in television, which used to be more fun than a picnic, is more like a salt mine now. The latest generation of TV actors, if they click in a hit program, slave six and seven days a week to keep the series going. The new faces soon show signs of bags under the eyes and crows’ feet.
“Ben Casey” is a case in point. Vincent Edwards, who plays the surly, sexy young surgeon in that hour-long, weekly series, enjoyed one day off in the first eight months of production. “We’re in such a bind,” he told me, “we take seven days to shoot a show to keep up the quality. And we’re only four shows ahead of screening time.”
He has the physique of a young bull, and he needs it. He started building muscle as a young swimmer; won scholarships to Ohio State and the University of Hawaii on the strength of his backstroke. Proving again the old axiom that actors are healthiest when they’re out of jobs, his idle years on Hollywood gave him time to go out to the Santa Monica beaches to pick up a permanent sun tan and hoist seventy-five-pound bar bells over his head.
He came in to see me wearing a dark suit, red T shirt, and red socks. His lunch came with him—a mixture of carrot, papaya, pineapple, and cocoanut juice, helped down with yoghurt and a sandwich. “TV’s a marathon,” he said. “I think the grind probably contributed to the death of Ward Bond on ‘Wagon Train.’ I arrive at the studio at seven-fifteen in the morning, and I’m there until seven-fifteen at night. By the time I’m cleaned up, it’s later than that when I get away. On Friday nights it’s usually ten or eleven.”
He has an agent, Abby Greschler, who developed Martin and Lewis in his earlier days and who was responsible for snagging the “Ben Casey” assignment for the thirty-five-year-old giant born Vincent Edward Zoine of Brooklyn. Abby is celebrated in our town for turning away wrath whenever it arises. He interrupts any harsh words from his clients by smiling ingratiatingly and asking: “Now how’re the wife and kids?”
He can’t use this trick with Vince because somehow he’s escaped marriage. “I’ve been at the starting gate a few times, but I rear up and throw my head back. My most serious romances have been with dancers.”