Not Young, Still Restless (12 page)

I finished the requisite interviews, babbling about how honored I was and keeping my mouth shut about everything else, and was heading down one of the eighty-five escalators when I looked over to see my publicist escorting another of his clients, Michelle Stafford, up to the pressroom. Michelle had just won her first and so well-deserved Outstanding Actress Emmy, and I was thrilled for her. I wasn’t thrilled with my publicist who, after leaving me to my own confused, head-spinning devices all evening, was taking such attentive care of another of his clients.

“Jeanne!” he yelled over. “Where are you going? They’re expecting you in the pressroom!”

“I’ve already been to the pressroom, thank you!” I yelled back. “The box boy in the basement told me where to go!”

Thanks to the bottleneck of people on escalators number seventy-nine through twelve, I was nowhere near the auditorium when
The Young and the Restless
won its Outstanding Drama Series Emmy and the majority of the cast ran up onstage. I’m sorry I missed it, but being hopelessly trapped on an escalator while my show was being honored on international television was a perfect way to end that particular evening. In fact, by then, as far as I was concerned, I’d decided that my real Lifetime Achievement was making it through the previous twenty-four hours without committing a single homicide.

Incidentally, my publicist called the next day. He used his end of the conversation to tearfully apologize for his neglect the night before. I used mine to explain the meaning of the word “fired.”

(See, Charles? I was discreet enough to make it through that whole story without once mentioning your name.)

I
n sharp contrast, one of the loveliest evenings of my life happened on March 9, 2009, at the Millennium Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles, when the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists (AFTRA) presented AFTRA Media and Entertainment Excellence Awards (AMEES) to the brilliant singer-songwriter Smokey Robinson, legendary Dodger announcer Vin Scully, the late, great voice-over genius Don LaFontaine, and me. It was a gorgeous dinner party, not televised, at which each of us was surrounded by friends and family, properly introduced, and encouraged to speak for as long as we felt we had something to say. As an added bonus, the event raised a lot of money for charity, and my daughter, Caren, was given a well-deserved, thunderous standing ovation, for reasons you’ll read about in the next chapter.

Now, seriously, is that kind of fun, familiar, comfortable, touching award night at which the honorees actually feel as if they’re being honored really so much to ask?

Which leads me neatly, I feel, to the Emmy Awards.

O
nly twice have I been nominated for an Emmy and lost when I genuinely believed I should have won. One I mentioned earlier—my portrayal more than twenty years earlier of Katherine Chancellor, Marge Catrooke, and Marge Catrooke pretending to be Katherine Chancellor. The other goes all the way back to my first nomination, for a guest-starring role on the Vince Edwards series
Ben Casey
, in 1962.

Mine was the second episode ever shot, entitled “But Linda Only Smiled.” I played Linda, a strong-willed woman whose personal beliefs threatened to derail Dr. Casey’s treatment of her daughter’s potentially fatal illness. It was a great part, powerfully written, and forgive my immodesty, but yes, I’ll say it: I nailed it. When word came that I’d been nominated, I honestly thought, “Okay, if I don’t win an Emmy for that performance, I’ll never win one.”

Of course, that was in my more naive days when I knew nothing about bloc voting, an East Coast–West Coast rivalry, and all sorts of other political nonsense that I refuse to rant about here because it’s every bit as uninteresting as it is frustrating.

The Emmy Awards were bicoastal in the early 1960s. The primary telecast originated in New York, while we Los Angeles actors, directors, producers, and writers gathered at the then-gorgeous Hollywood Palladium, surrounded by plenty of cameras and microphones on the off chance one of us West Coast people happened to win.

I was gowned, jeweled, and stilettoed to the nines, and the acceptance speech I’d prepared was exactly the right blend of humor and sincerity. My heart was pounding out of my sequined bodice as Walter Brennan appeared on the Palladium’s monitors and arrived at the podium to announce the Emmy nominees for Outstanding Performance in a Supporting Role by an Actress in a prime-time drama series: Joan Hackett, Colleen Dewhurst, Mary Wickes, Pamela Brown, and me.

Then, with the traditional “And the winner is . . . ,” he opened the envelope. I swear he did a double take when he looked at the card, and there was a subtext of “Am I reading this correctly?” as he announced, “Pamela Brown,
Hallmark Hall of Fame
. . . ?”

There was a gasp in the Palladium, and I sat there stunned, frozen in place, knowing my reaction was being caught on-camera. I meant no disrespect to Pamela Brown, nor had I seen her performance. I’ve been told that in its entirety, it lasted less than a minute. If that’s true, it must have been one hell of a minute.

For the record, I wasn’t the only person having trouble grasping this news. My pal Barbara Stanwyck, sitting at a table behind me, whispered, “You were robbed! This is a travesty!” while another pal, Lucille Ball, leaned over from her chair to mutter in her own inimitably delicate way, “What the fuck is wrong with those people?”

All night long friend after friend and colleague after colleague made a point of seeking me out to express their outrage on my behalf, along with their love, support, and respect.

I can honestly say that, in the end, the reactions to my losing my first Emmy were infinitely more rewarding than winning could ever have been. Looking back, disappointment and all, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

B
right and early one morning in 1987 I answered the phone to hear my son Corbin’s voice, so excited he was almost yelling into the phone. “Mom! Did you hear? They just announced it—I’m nominated for an Outstanding Lead Actor Emmy! Can you believe it?!”

Of course I could believe it. Since the fall of 1986 Corbin had been playing the swaggering, maverick, womanizing attorney Arnie Becker on NBC’s hit series
L.A. Law
and playing him brilliantly, I might add without a shred of objectivity. That his work had earned him an Emmy nomination came as no surprise at all, and I think I may have been more thrilled than he was, if that was possible.

I couldn’t wait to get to work that morning to share the news. When I arrived, though, it appeared that everyone already knew—I was getting congratulatory hugs, kisses, and high-fives from the moment I stepped off the elevator and headed toward my dressing room. How wonderful and supportive, I thought, for them to be so excited for Corbin. So it caught me completely off guard when someone finally said, “I saw your episode, and you were fantastic. You couldn’t deserve this nomination more.”

Before I could ask the obvious—“What the hell are you talking about?”—my dressing room phone rang. It was Corbin again.

“Mom, I’m sorry! I was so blown away when I heard I was nominated that I didn’t hear the rest of the nominees. You’re nominated too! Outstanding Guest Performer in a Drama Series! Is this unbelievable?! Congratulations! I’m so happy for both of us and so proud of you!”

It was one of the rare moments in my life when I was rendered completely speechless. My incredibly talented, incredibly gorgeous firstborn child and I both nominated for prime-time Emmy Awards, for work we’d done together, playing, of all things, mother and son—it was stunning, it was overwhelming, it was humbling, and it would have been a dream come true if I’d ever had the audacity to dream something as incredible as this.

I’d had so much fun shooting two episodes of
L.A. Law
that I almost felt guilty being paid for it. (Operative word: “almost.”) My character, Gladys Becker, was an outspoken, aggressive, take-no-prisoners woman who wanted her son, Arnie (Corbin), to represent her in her divorce proceedings against her husband, Arnie’s father. It was neither interesting nor relevant to her that Arnie’s father also wanted/expected Arnie to represent him. In one particularly memorable scene, Arnie and Gladys are having lunch at an upscale restaurant. At the suggestion of the director, Janet Greek, Gladys expresses her displeasure with her steak being undercooked by impaling it on the long bloodred acrylic nail of her forefinger and holding it up for the waiter to see, while Arnie looks around, desperately embarrassed, hoping no one is looking. (In other words, come to think of it, not altogether unlike many of Corbin’s and my restaurant meals together.) I was flattered when someone described the brief, pleasant shock of it to that moment in the film
The Public Enemy
when James Cagney smashes a grapefruit into Mae Clarke’s face, but I had no idea at the time that it would help to inspire an Emmy nomination.

Meanwhile, back at the
Y&R
set, there was a spontaneous party atmosphere among the cast and crew that day, and I was walking on air, surrounded by a group of people who truly do know how to be happy for one another when the situation demands. I had work to do, though, so I collected myself by midafternoon and was in the midst of shooting a scene when suddenly Corbin strolled right into the Chancellor living room, on-camera, and presented me with a huge, gorgeous bouquet of flowers while everyone around me applauded. It quite literally took my breath away.

(I found out later, by the way, that he’d planned to wait until we’d finished shooting that scene, but Lauralee Bell insisted this was far too big a deal for proper on-set behavior. “Who cares if they’re in the middle of a scene? Get out there,” she reportedly whispered. “Your father [Bill Bell] will kill me,” he whispered back. “I’ll deal with my father,” she told him. “Walk in there and give your mother those flowers!”)

Our whole family was there on Emmy night. The Emmy in Corbin’s category went to Bruce Willis, and the Emmy in my category went to Alfre Woodard—both of them well deserved, and who on earth could complain about losing to either one of those spectacular actors?

Of far more importance, September 12, 1987, was one of the most magically unforgettable nights of my life, a night of profound mutual pride between a mother and son, honored not only in a profession they share but also for work they did together. Never in my life will I forget it or stop being grateful.

B
y the time the 2008 Daytime Emmy Awards came along, I’d had a total of eight nominations without a single win. I can honestly say I was completely relaxed that night, enjoying myself and not giving a thought to the outcome of the formidable Outstanding Lead Actress competition between Crystal Chappell, Maura West, Michelle Stafford, Nicole Forester, and me. After eight “losses,” getting your hopes up has a certain Charlie Brown vs. the football feel to it (i.e., at some point you just feel silly falling for it one more time).

My two sons were with me that night, and Collin clearly wasn’t exactly on the edge of his seat about it either—shortly before my category was announced, he headed for the men’s room.

Tyra Banks, looking spectacular, stepped to the podium, read the names of the nominees, and said, impossibly, “And the Emmy goes to . . . Jeanne Cooper!”

We’ve all heard countless people say they weren’t expecting to win. I can’t stress this enough: I happened to be one of the people who actually meant it. In fact, for a few seconds I was sure I’d misheard her. I don’t think it really sank in until, after a kiss from Corbin, I turned to look for Collin and was swept into Doug Davidson’s arms for one of the greatest hugs of my life. (For the record, by the way, there are few people on this earth I love more than I love Doug Davidson.) I vaguely remember making it to the stairway and having to be helped up the stairs because my legs had suddenly turned into well-cooked linguini. I remember spotting Crystal Chappell, who was on her feet cheering at the top of her lungs, and giving her a thumbs-up as I crossed the stage to the podium. I remember Tyra Banks giving me a kiss right on the mouth as she welcomed me and, with a quick glance at my gown, whispering, like a true supermodel, “That’s Icho! I love Icho!” (Toru Icho is one of my favorite designers, in case anyone’s wondering.) And I definitely remember the out-of-body experience of stepping to the microphone knowing millions of people were watching and not having the first clue what I was going to say. So I kicked it off with a simple “I’ll bet you all thought I was dead.”

Having spent the evening listening to everyone carry on about their wonderful castmates and their fabulous crews and their brilliant writers, producers, and directors, I spontaneously decided it might be time for a change of pace and began thanking our lousy actors, lousy crews, and our lousy writers, producers, and directors. It relaxed me a little to hear everyone laugh, and I almost started enjoying myself.

But then, as indisputable proof that I was still out of my mind with shock, I ended with a special thank-you to my children . . . Corbin and Collin. Yes, it’s true, I forgot to even mention that I have a daughter, let alone a daughter I wouldn’t trade for any other daughter in the world. I took it much harder than Caren did. She laughed it off. I, on the other hand, saw a clip of it later and literally yelled at the TV at the top of my lungs, “What about Caren, you idiot?!”

There were more congratulatory hugs and kisses that night than I can count, but none of it meant more than the heartfelt ones from my fellow nominees, Crystal, Michelle, Nicole, and Maura. I hope you all know how much I admire you and consider it a privilege to count you among my most treasured colleagues.

To add to the joy that evening, Anthony Geary, one of my favorite actors and people, was the winner of the Outstanding Lead Actor Emmy. I couldn’t get to him quickly enough when he came offstage, and when we were finally finished hugging and jumping around in a circle, I said, “Let’s do the pressroom together.”

“I’d be honored,” he replied, and off we went, hand in hand, to try to answer an unanswerable question for the media: “How does it feel to win an Emmy?”