My Lucky Life In And Out Of Show Busines Part 16

Like Warren Beatty, Fred also had a talent for hearing what he wanted to hear. Even when I refused his offer to star in a spin-off of his show Jake and the Fat Man Jake and the Fat Man, he kept right on talking as if I was going to change my mind, which eventually I did.

"I don't want to do an hour show," I said. "I think at my age-you know I recently turned sixty-five-it's going to be too much."

"Just do the pilot," he said.

"But that could turn into a commitment I don't want to make," I said.

"It could turn into an excellent series if we do our jobs," he said.

In 1991, I went on Jake and the Fat Man Jake and the Fat Man and introduced the character Dr. Mark Sloan, a free-spirited, iconoclastic physician who solves crimes in his spare time at night with his police detective son. Instead of picking up the pilot, CBS ordered three made-for-TV movies they called and introduced the character Dr. Mark Sloan, a free-spirited, iconoclastic physician who solves crimes in his spare time at night with his police detective son. Instead of picking up the pilot, CBS ordered three made-for-TV movies they called Diagnosis Murder Diagnosis Murder. I made them contingent on casting my real-life son Barry as my TV son. The whole thing rode on that; otherwise I would not have agreed.

But they readily wrote him in and we went to work in Vancouver, planning to do the movies one after another. Cynthia Gibb and Stephen Caffrey were cast in the other key roles, and guest spots in the first movie went to Bill Bixby, Ken Kercheval, and Mariette Hartley. You could tell I had a say in developing my character. I had to play myself one way or another. I wanted him to be very human, very vulnerable-a little absentminded, caring, and funny when appropriate. Oh, and lest anyone miss all that, he danced.

For that first movie, I got Arthur Duncan, the great tap dancer from The Lawrence Welk Show The Lawrence Welk Show, to come in and play a janitor. He secretly teaches me tap dancing in exchange for medical treatment. n.o.body knows it, though. They keep hearing something going on in my office and wonder what it is. At the end of the show, we appear in the hall and do our number.

It was such a treat to dance with Arthur. I indulged myself. But while rehearsing, I did a move where I stepped on my heel and toe and all of a sudden my foot flopped. I could not step on my heel.

I called my doctor and he said get back here now if you don't want to lose the use of your leg. It was a pinched nerve, with some minor complications. We had to postpone the other two movies while I returned to L.A. and underwent several weeks of traction. By the time we finished the recast with Victoria Rowell and Scott Baio, there was talk about a series. And before long there was an order for eight episodes.

It was like the old Camel and the Arab fable: An Arab pitches a tent in the desert at night and leaves his camel outside. Complaining that he's cold, the camel asks if he can put his head inside. Then he asks if he can put his feet in. Before long, he's completely inside the tent. And so it was with Diagnosis Murder Diagnosis Murder and me. and me.

27.

DIAGNOSIS FUN.

On a mild afternoon in February 1993, I stood facing a crowd on Hollywood Boulevard, feeling a mix of nostalgia and celebration. I was receiving a star on the city's Walk of Fame, the best part of which was sharing the moment with Mich.e.l.le, who was at my side, as well as my former d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show costars Rose Marie and Morey Amsterdam, and the man responsible for the whole thing, Carl Reiner, who, when I turned to him and said thank you, quipped, "When I saw all of you here, I thought, Hey, we can do a show." costars Rose Marie and Morey Amsterdam, and the man responsible for the whole thing, Carl Reiner, who, when I turned to him and said thank you, quipped, "When I saw all of you here, I thought, Hey, we can do a show."

Given the chance, we might have. At any rate, we laughed and reminded ourselves of numerous good times from the old series. We reminisced about the production numbers we used to weave into some of the shows. Funny how all of us recalled those scenes as our fondest, especially Carl, who reminded us that they meant less writing and shorter scripts. But Morey was a musician, Rosie was a singer, and of course Mary was a dancer, who back in the day continued to do her barre exercises at lunchtime. And all of us were hams.

As we stood on Hollywood Boulevard, I almost felt transported back in time as I remembered rehearsing a dance number with Mary that was set in a prison. Our legs were tied together, and as we practiced, I yanked her too hard and she fell. "Sorry, Mary," I muttered up into the sky now, hoping that wherever she was, she was able to hear me.

Oh, and then I remembered going to a recording studio with Mary after work one night to lay down vocals for a song, but the music had been prerecorded in the wrong tempo, way too fast, and we spent hours trying to get it right. It happened to be my fourteenth wedding anniversary that night and I never called home, sent flowers, or did anything. When I finally walked through the front door, my wife was waiting at the dining-room table for me, wearing a gorgeous evening gown, her candlelit dinner on the table, ruined.

Carl, Morey, and Rosie all felt my pain as I recounted that story thirty-some years later.

"I never knew that," Carl said.

"Boy, I was in deep trouble," I said.

"And so was your marriage," Morey said. "But things worked out. You still got your star."

My star was placed next to that of my idol, Stan Laurel, but when Hollywood's honorary mayor, Johnny Grant, finally unveiled it, there was an unexpected silence, followed by a clap of laughter. My name was misspelled. It read d.i.c.k Vandyck d.i.c.k Vandyck. Embarra.s.sed, Johnny quickly handed me a Sharpie and I drew a line where there should have been a s.p.a.ce and told him not to worry. It had happened before. When I opened in Bye Bye Birdie Bye Bye Birdie, the name on my dressing-room door was Dyck Van d.y.k.e Dyck Van d.y.k.e. I survived-and looking back, I learned not to sweat the little stuff.

Indeed, I rather enjoyed the reminder that even those immortalized are mortal, though there were those who were saying that I was looking more like TV's iron man. I was almost sixty-eight years old and had a show on CBS's fall schedule. Granted, it was Friday night at eight P.M P.M., normally considered TV's dead zone, but I was content in trying to transform the graveyard into an old-age home, and who knows, maybe bring in some younger viewers, too.

It worked. Although the Washington Post Washington Post described described Diagnosis Murder Diagnosis Murder as "prime-time television as it was twenty years ago," they were not criticizing me for that. On the contrary, they pointed out that there was an audience for as "prime-time television as it was twenty years ago," they were not criticizing me for that. On the contrary, they pointed out that there was an audience for NYPD Blue NYPD Blue and one for my brand of entertainment, and added, "Buddy Ebsen didn't need to walk around bare-b.u.t.ted to make and one for my brand of entertainment, and added, "Buddy Ebsen didn't need to walk around bare-b.u.t.ted to make Barnaby Jones Barnaby Jones worth watching." I was pleased to find that viewers felt the same way. As a result, CBS ordered more shows beyond the initial eight. worth watching." I was pleased to find that viewers felt the same way. As a result, CBS ordered more shows beyond the initial eight.

For cost purposes, we'd shot the first round in Denver at a facility that had once been home base for the show Ironside Ironside. I stayed in Raymond Burr's former hotel penthouse, which had un.o.bstructed views of the Mile High City. I could watch the sun rise and set from different sides of the gla.s.sed-in perch. I felt like I was suspended in the clouds, and I probably carried some of that lightness into the way I played this funny doctor who danced and roller-skated when he wasn't solving crimes.

It could not have been easier. But then, I feel as if every role is always a version of me.

The earliest version of me was put back on display on Nick at Nite, the bloc of nighttime programming the cable network devoted to cla.s.sic shows. Some thirty years after its debut, The The d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show was a hit again. I don't mean this egotistically, but I was not surprised. However, others were. A reporter from the was a hit again. I don't mean this egotistically, but I was not surprised. However, others were. A reporter from the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times asked me why I thought the show was popular with a whole new generation, albeit a very different type of viewer from those who originally saw it. asked me why I thought the show was popular with a whole new generation, albeit a very different type of viewer from those who originally saw it.

The question made me laugh. Wasn't it obvious?

The show was funny.

It was the same reason kids still giggled through Laurel and Hardy movies. Some humor is timeless. Clever people like Carl Reiner come along and figure out new ways to find the funny in human behavior, and then all of a sudden you have another hit.

With two shows on the air, I supposed sticking to family entertainment all these years had paid off. I was hot.

And then I got too hot. At the start of November, as I was promoting both shows and an NBC Christmas special I'd narrated, Malibu was engulfed by wildfires. Mich.e.l.le and I watched nervously as the flames danced slowly but steadily down the brush-covered hills. This happened every five or ten years; it was almost like payback for living amid such beauty close to the ocean.

Later that day, the sheriffs evacuated our neighborhood. There was no time to pack up the house, not even to gather more than a few photo alb.u.ms. Mich.e.l.le and I shut the door on all of our furniture and clothing, as well as a lifetime of possessions, artwork, and awards. We had no idea whether any of this stuff would be there when we returned-whenever that would be-or if it would even survive the rest of the afternoon.

Standing on the porch, I looked at her and shrugged. What were we going to do?

"We're leaving with each other," I said. "That's what's most important."

A short time later, I was updating my publicist, Bob Palmer, when he put me on hold to talk to another client, Anthony Hopkins. A moment later, Bob came back on the phone and said that Anthony, who also lived in Malibu, had called from London to get the latest news on the fire. Hearing that Mich.e.l.le and I were suddenly homeless, he offered us an apartment that he kept in Westwood. Fortunately, we only had to spend one night there before we were able to return to our house, which survived the close call, as had all of the other homes in the neighborhood.

We were lucky. The flames had burned right into some of the backyards. It was a lesson for all of us on how much you can control in life, or rather, how little control you sometimes have. As I'd found time and again throughout my life-and would continue to find-you do what you can, say your prayers, and hope for the best.

Defying predictions, we were renewed for a second season, and production for Diagnosis Diagnosis moved to L.A., where we shot at an old mental hospital off Coldwater Canyon Boulevard in the Valley. The place was not haunted, but holes in the walls, urine stains on the floor, and other damage made the torment of its former occupants feel very close by. A moderate earthquake hit one day and shook pieces of the ceiling loose. As they crashed to the floor, it prompted jokes about the show's shaky status with the network. moved to L.A., where we shot at an old mental hospital off Coldwater Canyon Boulevard in the Valley. The place was not haunted, but holes in the walls, urine stains on the floor, and other damage made the torment of its former occupants feel very close by. A moderate earthquake hit one day and shook pieces of the ceiling loose. As they crashed to the floor, it prompted jokes about the show's shaky status with the network.

I turned seventy in the midst of the show's third season. I joked that it was as hard to get out of the business as it was to get in it. That season, Charlie Schlatter joined the cast in place of Scott Baio. He added a personality that was like a missing ingredient. I had spotted him when we were auditioning actors to replace Scott. Fred Silverman had said, "I wish we could get a Michael J. Fox type," and I said, "I've got just the guy. You couldn't get any closer to Michael J. Fox than Charlie Schlatter."

He fit in with Barry and me. The three of us would get all of our laughter out during rehearsal and then play the scenes as straight as possible. It was the same with Victoria. Off-camera, the three of us had a running joke. We used to wonder who was running the hospital while the three of us were out chasing a criminal or looking for clues. Luckily, I suppose, n.o.body ever asked.

I think the primary reason Diagnosis Murder Diagnosis Murder succeeded was the relationship people saw on-screen between Barry and me. succeeded was the relationship people saw on-screen between Barry and me. That That was real. So was the bond I had with Charlie and Victoria. It was not your typical detective show. It felt more like Rob Petrie playing a detective. It may have looked that way, too, when we tossed in the roller-skating, singing and dancing, and wrapped it in a little cat-and-mouse mystery. was real. So was the bond I had with Charlie and Victoria. It was not your typical detective show. It felt more like Rob Petrie playing a detective. It may have looked that way, too, when we tossed in the roller-skating, singing and dancing, and wrapped it in a little cat-and-mouse mystery.

We lucked into something special, something you can't act, and when that happens, people will sense the fun you're having and tune in. They want to experience it, too.

We chugged along, the little TV show that could. When I looked up, we were in our sixth year. Then our seventh. In terms of longevity, the series surpa.s.sed The d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show The d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show. Astonished writers and TV insiders asked how that happened. People People magazine called it "remarkable" that at nearly seventy-three years old I had a show. Was it remarkable? magazine called it "remarkable" that at nearly seventy-three years old I had a show. Was it remarkable?

Not to me. I just kept showing up and having fun.

I added to the fun by inviting many friends and contemporaries on as guest stars, including Mike Connors, Andy Griffith, d.i.c.k Martin, Sally Kellerman, Robert Vaughn, Tim Conway, and even Jack Klugman when he was recovering from throat cancer. I took pride in the easygoing, comfortable atmosphere. In fact, the only argument I ever had during the entire run came when the line producer tried to save money by cutting back on the sandwiches we put out for the crew in mid-morning.

I heard grumbling right away. One thing you do not want on a TV series is an unhappy crew. I went straight to the producer and told him that if he was not going to pay for the sandwiches, I would out of my own pocket. Embarra.s.sed, he had the food back the next day and smiles returned to my crew.

The only other problem I had came when the network brought on two young executive producers who tried to make the show hipper. All of a sudden a show opened with a guy in bed with a naked girl. And gun battles were written into the script. I told them that they were on the wrong show if they wanted to write cutting-edge stuff, and then I took my case to CBS president Leslie Moonves. Mich.e.l.le had known Les many years earlier when he was a struggling actor, and that was probably why this powerful and astute man in TV who would have fit in nicely at the network back in its Tiffany heyday gave me ample time to air my complaint.

Indeed, Les listened as I told him that we did not need the s.e.x and violence. I said that the people who tune in to the show did not expect it from me. Nor did they want it. Nor did I. In fact, I feared we would actually lose our audience if we kept it up.

Les heard me, and once that was straightened out, we chugged along for several more seasons. We finally wound down in 2001. By then we had spent ten years on the air.

But I did not go gently into the sunset. When we shot our finale, I invited a writer from the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times to come on the set for the purpose of giving him a piece of my mind about the poor treatment given us codgers by youth-obsessed TV and media outlets like the to come on the set for the purpose of giving him a piece of my mind about the poor treatment given us codgers by youth-obsessed TV and media outlets like the Times Times, who only seemed to care about the next big-and usually younger, s.e.xier-thing. A few years earlier, I had accused the Times Times of having "it in for us old folks" and sent one of their writers a letter that said, "Growing old is not a leper colony where an unfortunate few are sent to die. It is a precious gift given only to some lucky human beings." of having "it in for us old folks" and sent one of their writers a letter that said, "Growing old is not a leper colony where an unfortunate few are sent to die. It is a precious gift given only to some lucky human beings."

At seventy-five, I thought I was ready to indulge in the gift of my dotage. I had been in the business for more than fifty years. "It's time to go out to pasture," I told the a.s.sociated Press. "Tastes have changed." I often felt like an anachronism because I stood for wholesome family entertainment, the stuff I had practiced and preached for half a century. But if that went out of fashion, well, what kind of society were we?

On the morning after our wrap party, where I had harmonized with the guys one last time, I stood on our front porch shaded in bougainvillea, draped my arm around Mich.e.l.le, took a deep breath of ocean air, and for something like the fifty-seventh time in my career I announced my retirement.

Mich.e.l.le laughed.

"How long do you think you'll be out in the pasture?" she asked.

I checked my watch and raised an eyebrow.

"What time is it now?"

Mich.e.l.le was an excellent cook. She specialized in Italian food. The richer the sauce and the more garlic, the better. But for her, cooking was an artistic endeavor, and if she wasn't in the mood, we ate out. We also enjoyed a rich social life with Dolly and d.i.c.k Martin (they would always pretend to bicker, but it was an act and they were a wonderful couple), Tim Conway and his wife, Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme, Mike Connors and his wife, and Richard Crenna, who was a prince.

For a time, we also enjoyed poker night on Sundays at Barbara Sinatra's, though it was Mich.e.l.le who played, not me. I kibitzed with Larry Gelbart, Jack Lemmon, and Veronique and Gregory Peck, who laughed at me when I said that I was the only one there who didn't play cards.

"Yeah," he said, "but you're the only one here still working."

That was true. After a few months of puttering around the house and checking the calendar to see which couple we were meeting for dinner, I told Mich.e.l.le that I was going back to work. "I knew it," she chortled, her laugh echoing through the house. I made two Diagnosis Murder Diagnosis Murder movies that aired on CBS in early 2002, one of which featured my daughter Stacy in a pivotal role, and the other included my grandson Shane, a budding actor and filmmaker whose energy and creativity made being on the set feel like the playground it had been for me forty years earlier. movies that aired on CBS in early 2002, one of which featured my daughter Stacy in a pivotal role, and the other included my grandson Shane, a budding actor and filmmaker whose energy and creativity made being on the set feel like the playground it had been for me forty years earlier.

After continuing to screw up my retirement with a guest spot on the NBC sitcom Scrubs Scrubs, I reunited with Mary Tyler Moore for the first time since the sixties in a PBS production of The Gin Game The Gin Game, the Pulitzer Prizewinning play that Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn had made a Broadway hit in 1977. Before Mary and I had bid good-bye to the sitcom that made both of us household names, we'd said, "G.o.d, it would be fun to do a play together." Well, neither of us thought it would take nearly four decades.

The two-act play that brought us back together was about a couple of lonely people who meet at an old-age home and play gin rummy. Over the course of thirty-two games, their new friendship turns compet.i.tive, dark, and bitter-and in the end the two stubborn old mules miss the whole point of their second chance at companionship. Someone told me that Jessica and Hume had notes with dialogue hidden all over the stage, and I believed it.

Although Mary and I instantly recaptured our special chemistry, I could tell a couple days into the two weeks we set aside for rehearsal that we might have picked the wrong material. The director didn't give us much to work with, and I had problems with the coa.r.s.e language. It never felt right calling Mary a b.i.t.c.h even though we were acting. We did a lot of takes and in the end it wasn't there, not the way I'd hoped.

Others disagreed. The play aired in May 2003 to mixed reviews, though it got a rave from actress Anne Bancroft. I b.u.mped into her and her husband, Mel Brooks, one night at a restaurant shortly after the play aired and Anne was full of compliments and even a little envy.

"Why didn't you ask me to do it?" she said.

My jaw dropped.

"If you're telling the truth, I'm going to kill myself," I said.

As much as I enjoyed working again with Mary, I also would have loved to have worked with Anne.

Afterward, instead of rushing into more jobs, I tried behaving like an actual retiree for a change. An early riser, I worked out at the local gym, brought coffee to Mich.e.l.le, and then disappeared for much of the rest of the day into the guesthouse, where I had a sophisticated computer setup to indulge my pa.s.sion in computer animation and CGI. Few people realized it, but I had been the computer graphics specialist on Diagnosis Murder Diagnosis Murder.

In my so-called retirement, I made short films, including some in 3D. I was like a mad scientist in his lab. I put my present-day self in an old d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show episode, and I cut and pasted myself into famous movies, which I then showed to my kids and grandkids, though their amus.e.m.e.nt hardly matched mine. I felt as if I had entered my second or third...make that my fifth or sixth childhood. episode, and I cut and pasted myself into famous movies, which I then showed to my kids and grandkids, though their amus.e.m.e.nt hardly matched mine. I felt as if I had entered my second or third...make that my fifth or sixth childhood.

28.

CURTAIN CALLS.

It was Carl's idea to do one more show. For years, we had resisted the idea of a d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show reunion. Although we understood the desire fans and network executives had to see all of us back together, it never appealed to most of us. Those things generally don't strike the right note with actors. Sure, fans get to take a nice, well-produced walk down memory lane and remember everything they loved about a show. They also get to see how everyone looks years later. But the actors don't want to be reminded of what they have lost or who looks more pickled than preserved. reunion. Although we understood the desire fans and network executives had to see all of us back together, it never appealed to most of us. Those things generally don't strike the right note with actors. Sure, fans get to take a nice, well-produced walk down memory lane and remember everything they loved about a show. They also get to see how everyone looks years later. But the actors don't want to be reminded of what they have lost or who looks more pickled than preserved.

We were a different bunch, too. We knew The d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show The d.i.c.k Van d.y.k.e Show was really all about Carl Reiner. The show had started with him writing a full season of scripts and it had succeeded because of his genius as a writer. You can compare those shows with any great work of literature. It started and ended with the writing, and all of us knew it. That's why it ended after five special years. Carl wanted to move on. He was done with those characters. Like any ambitious writer, he had more he wanted to explore. And all of us knew that our roles in the show started and ended with his desire to continue breathing life into the characters he had created for us. We knew great TV began with great writing, not great acting, and that is a distinction that can't ever be ignored or underestimated. TV just won't work any other way. It all starts on the page. was really all about Carl Reiner. The show had started with him writing a full season of scripts and it had succeeded because of his genius as a writer. You can compare those shows with any great work of literature. It started and ended with the writing, and all of us knew it. That's why it ended after five special years. Carl wanted to move on. He was done with those characters. Like any ambitious writer, he had more he wanted to explore. And all of us knew that our roles in the show started and ended with his desire to continue breathing life into the characters he had created for us. We knew great TV began with great writing, not great acting, and that is a distinction that can't ever be ignored or underestimated. TV just won't work any other way. It all starts on the page.

And so when Carl stood onstage at the 2003 TV Land Awards and accepted that network's "Legend Award" by expressing his desire to do one more episode with the original cast, we paid attention. All of us heard about it immediately. Those who were not there in person received phone calls. Since reporters began contacting me almost as soon as he walked offstage, I got more details from Carl, who explained that he was going to write one more episode, the 159th as it were, bringing the characters up to date. He said he had an idea, and he sounded excited. That was enough for me.

"Count me in," I said.

Mary had the same reaction. So did Rosie. Sadly, the ensuing phone calls we made to one another and the rehearsals that followed reminded us of more than just the good times. We had lost some members of our TV family. Richard Deacon, who played Mel Cooley, had died in 1984. Two years later Jerry Paris, who had gone on to direct more than two hundred episodes of Happy Days Happy Days, succ.u.mbed to a brain tumor that went undiagnosed until it was too late. He had called me from the hospital and was gone days later. Afterward, I wondered if the headaches he had always suffered from, as well as his sudden flare-ups of temper, were a result of the nascent tumor. Morey Amsterdam was our most recent loss. He died of a heart attack in 1996 at the age of eighty-seven. On the set, we spent a few minutes recalling some of his jokes, including a favorite-that he had moved into a Beverly Hills neighborhood so exclusive, the police had an unlisted phone number. We also missed Sheldon Leonard, who pa.s.sed away in 1997.

The special, which aired in May 2004, hinged on Alan Brady hiring Rob and Sally for one last writing job, helping him prepare his funeral. He wanted a joke-filled eulogy written before he died. As for everyone's lives, Rob and Laura had moved into New York City, Ritchie was grown up (and bald), Sally had finally gotten married, and Millie was a widow who was dating my brother, Stacy (my brother, Jerry, reprised his role, too).

TV critics were kind and respectful, but most called it average and urged fans to revisit the original. I agreed with that a.s.sessment, too.

The show was just all right. But my att.i.tude was this: If Carl, in his mid-eighties, wanted to tidy things up, I was going to help. At seventy-nine, I was still Rob Petrie, just like Mary was still the only one who fans wanted to hear say, "Oh, Rob!" As long as we were able to enjoy ourselves, we had to do it. Rosie said it was like a conversation we had picked up forty years later, and she was right. We had waited long enough.

All in all, I was glad we took the curtain call.

I liked to joke that I kept in shape to avoid a.s.sisted living, but I maintained a pace that would have had people half my age liked to joke that I kept in shape to avoid a.s.sisted living, but I maintained a pace that would have had people half my age hiring hiring an a.s.sistant. I made three detective movies for the Hallmark Channel and then I put my limber limbs to work on an a.s.sistant. I made three detective movies for the Hallmark Channel and then I put my limber limbs to work on Night at the Museum Night at the Museum, an innovative family-oriented movie that came about when its star, Ben Stiller, and director, Shawn Levy, called and said they not only wanted me but needed needed me as well. I was beyond flattered-and ready. me as well. I was beyond flattered-and ready.

In the movie, which starred Ben, Carla Gugino, and Robin Williams, I played a security guard trying to acquire the secret that enabled the museum's creatures to come to life. He was supposed to be the bad guy, but I played him as if he was misunderstood. Who wouldn't want eternal life? But after I did a dance scene, Ben began referring to me as "Dorian Van d.y.k.e." The crew also joked that I must have found the secret to eternal youth when I insisted on doing all my own stunts-except for one that would have required me to fly on wires, stop myself against a wall, and drop down.

Having done that kind of stuff in Mary Poppins Mary Poppins, I knew better. But by doing as much as I did, I surprised myself, and better still, I impressed the picture's young stuntmen, who cheered me on.

Awesome!

Would you look at that guy!

Did you see what that eighty-year-old dude just did?

They saw the part of me that only performers really understand. It was the part that came alive when the cameras were on and the director yelled, Action Action. Without a microphone, a camera, or a stage of some sort, without an audience to entertain, I withdrew into a place where I was more comfortable and recharged. I was aware that others saw me as private. On an A&E Biography A&E Biography, I was called a loner. People said that I was tough to know. If this was true-and I am not denying anything-it was not by design, not anything I did consciously. It's just that I have always been like Stan Laurel and Buster Keaton-very shy and wary of exposing too much of a sensitive gooey center, that is, until an opportunity arose to put a smile on someone's face.

Let me give you an example.

A few years earlier, I was sitting in my local Starbucks when a young man came up to my table and introduced himself. In his early thirties, Mike worked for director James Cameron, who had an office nearby. He had seen me around, he said, and always wanted to meet me. It turned out that he and a couple of other guys regularly got together to harmonize and, knowing that I also liked to sing, they wanted to know if I would join them sometime. I had them up to the house that same night.

Their repertoire was mostly hip-hop, which I could not do, so we tried some old barbershop things off sheet music I found in my piano bench. From there we improvised, added tunes from Mary Poppins, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Mary Poppins, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and other Disney films, and you know, it was the darnedest thing, but these three guys and I sounded pretty good together-so good that we made our get-togethers a habit. Soon we formalized our group as the Vantastix and sang at dinner parties and charity events.

My favorite venue, though, was the City of Hope, where we went room to room, singing for kids battling cancer. In fifty-plus years of show business, I never had a better audience. Most of those little kids were bald, and a fair number of them could barely sit up in bed, and there was a sad handful who could not even do that. We stopped at the bed of a very sick fifteen-year-old boy. We tiptoed into his room and quietly sang a song. He did not react. Thinking he was asleep, we began to file out when suddenly we heard a thin voice ask, "Could I hear another one please?"

We turned around and sang a whole bunch of songs. He barely opened his eyes, but after we finished "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," I saw his mouth curl into a faint smile.

As far as I am concerned, applause does not get any louder.