Growing Up Brady: I Was a Teenage Greg, Special Collector's Edition (7 page)

After my experience on "Run for Your Life," I was astonished to
find that I'd actually started to get busy, making the rounds as the
troubled kid on a good handful of TV cop shows. For about six
months, if a series needed a runaway/punk/delinquent/from a dysfunctional family/with a heart of gold, it was me.

First up was "Dragnet." I had about four or five scenes in a special "Christmas episode" whose plot was corny even by "Dragnet"
standards. It revolved around a misguided resident of L.A.'s urban
jungle who swipes a plaster baby Jesus out of his comfy churchyard manger. I played an eyewitness, and my task was to inform
Joe Friday about what I'd seen.

Even as a twelve-year-old kid, I was embarrassed by the script,
but it was a job, and a decent-sized part, so I decided to try and
make it work. I studied my role as never before and had my lines
down forwards, backwards, and sideways by the time I got to the
set.

I met Jack Webb and was immediately struck by the fact that
there was no perceivable difference between him and Joe Friday.
They had the same speech mannerisms, the same slouching posture, the same no-nonsense/no-sense-of-humor approach to life,
and of course they had the same bad haircut.

It quickly became apparent that Mr. Webb, who also produced
and often wrote the show, was not a man who could stomach the
wasting of time. He'd kept the "Dragnet" crew hopping, saying
that he liked to move fast to "maintain spontaneity," but he wasn't
fooling anybody. As the show's producer, he was really just trying
to keep his production costs down by every means possible.

The oddest of those means was revealed to me as we got ready
to start shooting my first big scene. I was hanging in the schoolroom down the hall from the set when one of the show's assistant
directors showed up and asked me where I wanted my
TelePrompTer.

"What's a TelePrompTer?" I asked, trying not to sound like a
dope.

"You've never worked with a TelePrompTer?" the AD sputtered
back, while visions of blown lines and blown budgets danced in his
head.

At this point I wasn't sure whether to be insulted or embarrassed, so I answered truthfully by saying "No."

The AD trudged out of the schoolroom like a man walking the
fabled last mile.

As you probably know, a TelePrompTer is a televisionlike box
that's placed very close to the camera lens. Someone sits nearby
and scrolls your lines onto the screen as you read them on camera.
It was sort of like electronic cue cards, and was really only used on
TV newscasts-and, of course, "Dragnet."

A couple of minutes later I was on the set, with that same AD
nervously demonstrating the TelePrompTer for me. I thought it
looked kinda weird but that maybe it was some new kind of acting
accessory that would work even better than line memorization.
Not wanting to seem amateurish, I bit my tongue and never let on
that I already had my lines down cold. Instead, I said that I was
sure I could learn how to use the thing quickly, and would do my
best. The AD smiled at me patronizingly, convinced I'd blow his
shooting schedule all to hell.

We got ready to rehearse. I squeezed in next to Joe Friday, and
the two of us stared into that little black box and delivered our
lines. Immediately I knew why "Dragnet" always had that brusque,
flat, unnatural air about it. It wasn't acted-it was read!

By the time we had the cameras loaded up and ready to roll, I
had come to the conclusion that I didn't like the TelePrompTer at
all, and that no matter what the AD said, I was going to deliver my
lines from memory, the way I knew best. When the cameras finally
rolled, I listened, looked Mr. Webb in the eye, and delivered my
lines pretty well. We finished the scene in just two takes, and Mr.
Webb was impressed. "Hey, kid, how'd you learn all those lines so fast?" he asked me, with Joe Friday's every vocal nuance.

"Well, we did run through it twice," I replied, giving him a
grade-A snow job that practically made me seem like a genius.

"That's fantastic," said Mr. Webb. "I'm gonna have to remember
you."

And he did. Two months later I appeared on another show he
produced, "Adam-12," and from what I heard on that set, Mr.
Webb had requested me by asking for "that egghead kid from the
Christmas `Dragnet."'

Next came "The F.B.I.," another of those hokey, right-wing,
badly written "real-life dramas" wherein all the problems of the
world could be traced back to one of two causes, communism and
"those damn hippies." I came onboard as yet another member of
America's misguided but inherently good-natured youth, and collected another check.

But my proudest early achievement was probably an appearance on a show called "The Invaders," a schlocky sci-fi thriller starring Roy Thinnes and guest-starring a sultry (and not yet basso)
Suzanne Pleshette. I was to play an evil young space alien bent on
global domination, and was really thrilled at getting the part. For
one thing, this marked my first appearance on a show that I actually watched; and it would also mark my first time shooting on location-until now I'd just been on soundstages, squirreled away on
studio back lots.

My task was to pedal a bike to the top of a hill, whip out my
interstellar walkie-talkie/radio thing, call up my home planet (collect), and in a nutshell, plot the destruction of the earth. Sounds
simple, right? Wrong. That one scene took longer to shoot than all
my other acting experience combined.

I learned that day about how shooting on location is nothing
like being on a studio set. On a soundstage, noise, light, weather,
crowds, and basic film-making essentials are all easily,-and artificially-controlled. You need a little more sun? Flip a switch. You
want rain? Turn a knob. Outside, you're at the mercy of the gods
... and the gawkers.

Anyone who's ever hung around a movie crew knows that even
the most straightforward shooting requires a veritable mountain of
equipment, and an army of big guys in flannel shirts and work
boots who eat bagels, complain, and schlepp stuff around. Teamsters multiply like rabbits; generators, cables, lights, and cameras
start to appear; and before long, the locals start showing up to
watch-especially in suburbia. "The Invaders" was shot in a little
town called San Pedro, and by the time I showed up, the crowd
was closing in, and getting huge.

I was, as always, early. I hooked up with the gawkers and passed the time by watching the carpenters swear and whack the set into
shape. I had been watching for about an hour when an assistant
director tapped me on the shoulder and told me it was time to get
ready. I went with her, and I remember hearing the neighborhood
crowd whisper as she led me away, "Who was that?" and "Is he anybody?"

Were they talking about me?

I didn't have much time to ponder the question, because it was
time for the effects guys to turn me into an evil space spy. Luckily,
the script called for me to be masquerading as a human, so the
green paint and latex were spared. This alien did, however, carry
an interstellar walkie-talkie, which had to glow and beep and blip
on command. In short (bad pun intended), they had to run wires
through my underwear.

The wires, batteries, tape, clips, bulbs, and hardware started at
my leg, ran up my pants, through my jockey juniors, up my back,
through my shirt, down my sleeve, and into my little round flashing "communicator." When they got through with me, I could
barely move, and was sure that with all the junk attached to this
thing, it ought to really work. I mean, it looked like I should have
been able to turn the thing on and call up Captain Kirk on the
Enterprise, but all it really did, under all that Vegas-like glitz, was
blink, lamely, on command.

Finally, the communicator and I were ready ... and as if on cue
it started to rain. Immediately I pictured tomorrow's L.A. Times
headline: CHILD STAR ZAPPED BY MARTIAN RADIO-TESTICLES FRIED.

The assistant director assured me that I'd be okay (they always
do), but I wasn't happy.

Adding to my now soaring stress level was the fact that my
scene called for me to ride a bike up a hill, around a corner, and
stop on a pinhead-sized mark. Then I was to pull out my blinky
communicator, lift it into the camera frame, and spew out a halfpage monologue before pedaling back out of frame. That would
be tough under any circumstances, but I was gonna have to do it
in the rain, and, as my pal the assistant director was kind enough
to point out, it had to be done in one take or we'd lose the light
level necessary to shoot (prepping my communicator had taken so
long that now the sun was going down).

"Wonderful!" I thought. "I have to be perfect, in the rain, or ruin
an entire day's shoot ... and my gonads are going to fry."

They got set up. I got my instructions from the director, had my
clothes, props, and makeup fixed, and in the process was elevated
to VIP status among the hundred and fifty or so gawkers who were
still standing out in the rain, staring at the goings-on.

To my great relief, we did nail the scene in one take, my geni tals survived intact, and I was through filming for the day. I left the
set, heading back toward my trailer to change out of my now
waterlogged costume, and was surprised by several people who
came up to me asking for an autograph. With pens and paper ready,
they ran toward me on the set, and I had absolutely no idea what it
was they wanted. Far from being flattered, I was basically scared.

Finally, I put two and two together and figured the situation
out. Now, I knew what they wanted, I just couldn't figure out why.
I mean, just that morning I had been hanging on the sidelines with
these same people; and now that they had seen a camera pointed
at me, they wanted a piece of paper with my signature on it. It was
a strange feeling, but I did manage to smile, and sign 'em all, "Be
groovy ... Barry Williams."

I still shudder when I think of that phrase.

With a solid handful of bona fide acting credits under my belt,
I started auditioning for every role imaginable, and after a
month-long dry spell I got lucky.

I had landed a job on a two-part episode of Robert Wagner's
show "It Takes a Thief," playing a world-class-genius kid-typecasting? My character was working on a complex and sophisticated
mathematical formula with enormous military potential; and, of
course, a horde of bad guys with affected accents were out to
waste me. Robert Wagner's assignment was to save me from the
evil foreigners and reunite me with my sister Joey Heatherton.
Before I go any further, please know that when you're twelve, it's
not easy working with a white-hot, vaguely slutty-looking sex goddess. At twelve, even the wallpaper can make you horny, so you
can imagine how my raging adolescent hormones and overactive
imagination conspired to make my blood pressure rise whenever I
got near her.

Anyway, my role on "It Takes a Thief' was the biggest I'd ever
landed, and the most challenging. Until now, my jobs had called
for only a day or two on the set, playing characters who didn't really have to change during the course of the show. Now I was going
to spend two hours on network TV, playing a featured character
whose entire personality undergoes a makeover. I was scared, with
no idea how I'd ever pull it off.

That's where Robert Wagner comes in.

On our first shooting day, I told him about my concern, and he
immediately came to my rescue by sharing some of the "homework" he'd done in creating his character. He told me about creating a background for him, including where he grew up, where he
went to school, how and why he became interested in a life of crime, and how long he'd spent in prison as a result of his chosen
profession. He said that while he actually used little of this information in the series, it nonetheless gave him a real and grounded
sense of who his character was. He also suggested that I try to
apply these ideas to my kid genius.

Skeptical but desperate, I gave it a shot, and was thrilled to find
that it worked. The technique was a godsend, because once I got a
handle on my character, it was easy to figure out how he'd react in
different situations, and also how he might grow and change
throughout our double episode.

I spent two weeks on that set, and throughout the experience,
Mr. Wagner was patient, generous, and very helpful. He even tested my newly acquired acting techniques with the cameras rolling.
For example, during one close-up, R.J. (we were pals now, so I
could call him that) delivered his lines from off camera, but
changed his line readings and inflections during each take. In turn,
I employed the skills he'd taught me and responded appropriately
(i.e., differently) through the five takes it took to get the shot.
Later, R j. explained that as a pop quiz, he'd changed the inflection
of his lines to see if I'd respond robotically or spontaneously. Fortunately I passed.

But acting lessons aside, the best part of the entire shoot was
the final scene. Sitting in a golf cart and driving away into the sunset with Joey Heatherton's arm around my shoulders, I was in
heaven. By the way, if you ever happen to bump into this particular episode of "It Takes a Thief," look closely at this final shot.
You'll notice that as Joey and I drive away, I'm smiling warmly,
sighing a contented sigh ... and desperately trying to look down
her blouse.

I learned a lot from Robert Wagner. But the strongest, most
painful, acting lesson I ever received took place on the set of the
cult classic film Wild In The Streets. It was a psychedelic, rebellious, heavily sixties movie wherein the basic message was
"Never trust anyone over thirty" and the plot revolved around a
plan to poison America's water supply with LSD, drive all the
over-the-hill people insane, and put the country's young people
in charge of the government.

The film starred Christopher Jones as the organizer and ringleader of the chemical warfare, with Shelley Winters as his mother. My
job was to appear in several scenes playing Mr. Jones as a nasty,
foul-mouthed, incorrigible kid-the stereotypical bad seed. My big
moment in the film involved arguing with Shelley Winters-and
then recoiling in anger and pain as she slaps me across the kisser.