The Ear of the Heart: An Actress' Journey From Hollywood to Holy Vows (9 page)

I knew Miss Barnelle would not permit a frosh to be cast over one of her senior girls. So I didn’t ask permission but went to the audition in secret. I got the part. Miss Barnelle was not pleased
.

Rehearsals, which occupied five nights a week, all but canceled Dolores social life, but she didn’t care. She admired the play and thought the part of Joan was perfect for her. The director was a priest from Hungary, Father Andrew Viragh, only recently liberated from behind the Iron Curtain. The cast included a young student, Bob Denver, in the role of the dauphin. Bob would make his mark in television a few years later as the star of
Gilligan’s Island
.

Barbeau did not take lightly his promise to help Dolores land a movie career. He invested in a camera and took some head shots to include in the letters he wrote to studio executives, inviting each of them to a performance of
Joan of Lorraine
during its one-week run beginning December 11, 1956.

As astonishing as it sounds, there were some takers. Representatives from Warner Bros. and Twentieth Century-Fox responded to Don’s invitation to see the play. I was asked to interview at both studios. The Fox possibility especially interested me because Daddy had been under contract there
.

Neither studio followed through, but there was another name on Barbeau’s list of invitees—Hal Wallis, one of the top producers in Hollywood. During his years at Warner Bros., Wallis had been involved in the production of over one hundred films, personally producing over half of them, including
Casablanca
. In the mid-forties he moved to Paramount, where he would rack up a total of sixty films, including
Come Back, Little Sheba, The Rose Tattoo
and the successful Martin and Lewis comedies.

Wallis was taken with the genuineness of Barbeau’s letter and thought the girl in the photograph was fresh and pretty, so he asked the Paramount head of talent, William Meikeljohn, to check her out in the play. Meikeljohn’s reaction was positive, so Paul Nathan, Wallis associate producer, made a call to Dolores’ home to invite her to come in for an interview. Since Dolores hadn’t told her mother of Barbeau’s plan, Harriett thought it was a gag and hung up on Paul. His secretary tracked Dolores down at Marymount. She was called from class to take a telephone call from “a Hollywood producer” and dutifully marched to the dean’s office. She picked up the phone, and her life changed.

Nathan explained that she might be right for the new Elvis Presley movie that was about to go into production and asked her to come to the studio that very afternoon.

I nearly froze on the spot. I told him I would have to get my mother’s permission. He said she had hung up on him. With heart pounding, I somehow managed to track down Don Barbeau, who excitedly agreed to drive me to the studio immediately
.

As we approached the studio in Don’s hearse, I recognized the Paramount gate as the same one through which Erich von Stroheim drove Gloria Swanson in that Isotta Fraschini in
Sunset Boulevard.
Wow, some difference! I had on my usual school costume—navy skirt, white blouse, white bucks and, of course, my ponytail. Mr. Wallis and Mr. Nathan met us in a reception room
.

A few minutes later, she got her first look at the Wallis inner sanctum. Beautifully appointed, the huge room was full of trophies attesting to his lofty position in the film industry—twelve framed Oscar nominations for best picture plus the statue itself for producing
Casablanca
—and a number of original Remingtons and Russells reflecting his personal passion. He had a sense of humor too. At the threshold of his private john, there was a doormat with a caricature of Jerry Lewis.

Several executives joined us. Introductions were made, and we all sat down. The room fell into an immediate and prolonged silence. I could feel each man studying me. Mr. Nathan leaned over and whispered, “I didn’t like your photo, but I like you.” I began to blush
.

The blush, which began at the roots of her hair, spread downward. Years later Nathan recalled, “Her ears looked like they were on fire. Everyone laughed, and the tension was broken. Her blushing had captivated us.” The meeting ended with Wallis giving her a scene from his current production,
Hot Spell
, to study for an audition in a few days.

Don insisted that I needed to get an agent fast. He knew of one, Carlos Alvarado, who had a good reputation. Mom wasn’t so sure that was the right move and asked friends—the Duncan Sisters—for advice. The Duncan Sisters, who were appearing at the country club Pop managed, had been headliners in vaudeville. They counseled against signing with Alvarado because they feared that, with a name like Dolores and an agent named Carlos, I would get offered only senorita parts. But both Don and I knew I wasn’t in any position to be choosy, so we met with Mr. Alvarado, who agreed to represent me
.

Mr. Alvarado got an acting coach and an actor to help me rehearse the scene. Just before Christmas, we presented it to Mr. Wallis in a Paramount rehearsal room called the “fish bowl” because of a large see-through mirror on one wall through which he could watch auditions without being seen. I got through the scene and waited for some comment. Nothing. Not even “Don’t call us; we’ll call you
.”

There was no call during the entire Christmas break. With midterms coming up, my attention went back to the books. On the first day back at school, as I was being raked over the coals for taking my shoes off in charm class, Mom arrived clutching a telegram from Paul Nathan. I was going to be given a screen test for the Elvis Presley movie
.

A letter agreement for a test option was drawn up on January 8, 1957, giving Hal Wallis the right to screen-test Dolores Hicks and lock her into a six-month contract, should that option be exercised. The test was set for the following week. There was one major bugaboo in this too-good-to-be-true scenario. The test was scheduled the same day as the drama class finals. There was no way around Miss Barnelle this time.

I had to ask to reschedule my exam. “Forget it”, Miss Barnelle warned. “If you miss the exam, you will not pass, and if you don’t pass, you can forget the scholarship.” I was a wreck and went to see Mother Jean Gailhac. “For Heaven’s sake, go for it”, she said. “This is what all the girls in the acting class would give their right arm for.” Did I ever love Mother Jean Gailhac!

The test confirmed that Dolores was photogenic and projected an open, natural quality that Wallis liked. The option was exercised for a six-month period beginning on January 16, 1957—exactly one month from the date of the final performance of
Joan of Lorraine
.

It was all turning out exactly as Don had promised. When we finally came down from cloud nine, I tried to put my gratitude into words. Nothing I could say seemed big enough to let him know how much I owed him. Then I felt his arm, gentle and tentative, around my waist. I had been afraid that Don’s interest was more than professional, but I couldn’t respond. I simply didn’t think of Don that way. But I couldn’t hurt his feelings, so I merely moved from his embrace, and we looked away from each other in silence. A while later Don gave me a beautiful wooden crucifix that he had had for a long time, with the most thoughtful and expressive note promising he would always have my best interests at heart. Then he moved out of my life
.

But I never forgot that Don’s faith in me was greater than my own. I tried to repay him in the only way I could: I made sure that he was identified by name in all of the articles about the way I got into pictures. Even years later, when the story was repeated at the time I left Hollywood, Don Barbeau’s gift to me was acknowledged
.

I took the midterms and did well in every class—except one. Miss Barnelle, true to her word, failed me
.

The Wallis contract was offered. Drawn up and signed before the six-month period was up, it was for seven years with a salary starting at $250 a week and going to $3,500. There would be an option pickup every six months, at which time Wallis could keep her or let her go. In addition, he could loan her out to any other studio or producer, paying her the weekly salary and pocketing the fee he charged for her services. Everyone celebrated, but no one more than Carlos Alvarado, who without having to pick up a telephone now represented a contract actress who would be paid forty out of fifty-two weeks a year.

I guess I was the only girl in America who wasn’t insane over Elvis Presley. I had never been interested in rock and roll—it all sounded much the same to me. So when our director, Hal Kanter, introduced Elvis to me, I wasn’t meeting ELVIS!!!, but a very charming, soft-spoken and polite young fellow who was immediately on his feet. He took my hand and, in true southern-gentleman style, called me Miss Dolores. He called me that the whole time I knew him. He was the only one who did—except for Gary Cooper, but that was later. I thought Elvis was quite sweet, but truthfully, I was much more impressed meeting Wendell Corey and Lizabeth Scott. They were real movie stars
.

Just before we started shooting, Mr. Wallis asked me to change my name. In his opinion
, Hicks
wouldn’t look good on a marquee. For my first name, he favored Susan, the name of the girl I was to play in the movie
.

That same day, Dolores went to Westwood’s Village Delicatessen, nicknamed the VD by the students, with Sheila Hart and Maureen Bailey. Sheila had news. She had just become engaged to her Loyola boyfriend, Bob McGuire, and was deliriously happy. In the midst of the girls hugging and shrieking, Sheila had a brainstorm. Since she was going to get a new name, she said Dolores could have her old one.

That’s how I got the Hart. Mr. Wallis liked it and thought it went well with Susan, so I was introduced to the press as Susan Hart—“the girl other girls will hate”—because I was going to give Elvis Presley his first screen kiss. When Mom saw that in the newspaper, she exploded. She didn’t object to the last name—after all, she had gotten rid of Hicks too. But she made such a fuss about my given name that Mr. Wallis backed down on Susan and I became Dolores Hart
.

Dolores would legalize that name later, a move that pleased Grandpa Kude, who had always said that no Hicks would ever amount to anything. Her father, however, was displeased. Bert had not seen his daughter for almost a year and had become aware of her budding career through family members.

Production began on
The Lonesome Cowboy
, the title of the
Good Housekeeping
story it was based on. The film was renamed
Running Wild
during the shooting. It would subsequently be called
Stranger in Town
and then
Something for the Girls
before getting its final title from one of the songs in the film,
Loving You
. Dolores played Susan Jessup, a young singer who falls in love with a truck driver (Presley) who becomes a rock-and-roll singer thanks to a bandleader (Wendell Corey) and a clever press agent (Lizabeth Scott).

From the very first day, I felt I was surrounded by a new family. Mr. Kanter couldn’t have been kinder or more helpful. And he was funny to boot. Everyone was wonderful to me—makeup man Wally Westmore; our choreographer, Charlie O’Curran; and the lady who did my hair, Nellie Manley. Charles Lang, our director of photography, actually took the time to tell me that I was picking up movie technique in a snap. He wanted to know where I had studied. I told him nowhere. That night in a dream, Grandpa showed up and said, “Hey, kid, remember me? I showed you a thing or two.” From then on, whenever I was asked about early training, I would give Grandpa his due
.

Edith Head did the costumes for the film and took a shine to me. She nicknamed me Junior. She had six Oscars in her office then (she would win eight in all). Time had taken its toll on their glossy finishes as it probably did to most things in Hollywood. I picked one up. It was named
Sabrina. “
God can be good”, I thought, remembering nights I lay awake in the dormitory dreaming of holding my own Oscar
.

Edith once took me on a tour of the costume department, and as we passed the forms of the actresses she had dressed at Paramount, she had a running commentary. “Ingrid. Do you think that’s her bust? I gave her that bust. Grace had a very flat fanny, but not when I got through. My motto, Junior: ‘What God has forgotten, I fill with cotton.’ ”

Oddly enough, Edith never padded me. Not that I didn’t need it. I think she just liked me as I was. She also approved of my homemade wardrobe: “You re so cute the way your mama put you together”, she said with a smile. “We’ll take advantage of that.” She designed my movie wardrobe like the clothes Mom made for me
.

Edith Head voiced the feelings of the rest of the studio personnel who came in contact with Dolores: “That girl had such a way with her that we were all pulling for her. We wanted her to be a success.”

Two people at the studio were more than special. Edith’s assistant, Pat Barto, who actually did a lot of the designing but got no credit, was someone I took as a role model. She had elegance and the charm of true womanhood, and I wanted to be like her. The other was the studio publicist, Jim Stevens, he of the dry wit and sly smile, who was largely responsible for my becoming known even before
Loving You
was released. Jim remains a friend to this day
.

My first scene in front of a camera was my last scene in the film, the clinch with Elvis. The set was small but hardly intimate with the crew, of course, and all of Elvis “boys”—four or five young guys; I think most of them were cousins—who followed him everywhere. Mr. Kanter stressed that we hold the kiss until he called, “Cut!” During the take, it seemed as if we held that kiss for ten minutes. Elvis himself finally broke away and called, “Cut!” He apologized but said he had to come up for air. Mr. Kanter said it was all right because the take was no good. It seems I began to blush, and my ears got bright red
.