The Legs Are the Last to Go (26 page)

Being the conscientious, or perhaps
controlling
performer that I am, I called his wife's hairdresser, introduced myself as a supporting actress on the picture, and invited him to see my show at the Plaza. Afterward, he came to say hello in my dressing room, and I introduced him to my hairstylist, who tried to show him what he did with my hair. But this man took one look at the equipment, which was really pretty basic (hot comb, curling iron, and assorted hair products), and he said, “I really don't know anything about any of this,” and left without further discussion.

One evening, months later, we were on the
Hurry Sundown
set in New Orleans. We were shooting the star-studded film about racism, greed, and emotional unrest in the contemporary South on a front porch, and lo and behold, it started to drizzle. I was doing a scene with Robert Hooks, a wonderful leading man. There were several pieces of equipment on the set. There was, in particular, this very large crane that Mr. Preminger was inside of, high above us, which was costing him a fortune to rent for the evening. As we rehearsed the scene, he came floating down with the camera, all very slowly, to almost close-up distance.

While Mr. Preminger was behind the camera Robert whispered to me, “You're getting wet.”

I knew my hair was frizzing up. I could feel it happening; your hair just gets bigger and asserts itself when it's raining. I was wearing a hairpiece, but some of my real hair was showing, and it was changing from moment to moment. And so this little god in the sky, Otto Preminger, in his big yellow crane, started yelling, “Hairdresser!” And this poor New York hairdresser named Leonard came out and started to fuss with my hair. Otto was bright red, beet red, up in his bright yellow crane.

“What should I do?” this hairdresser asked me in a panic. “The hair has to match the previous shot. You know that!”

“I don't know,” I told him. “But when we met in my dressing room at the Plaza, I tried to show you things you'd need to protect yourself in a situation like this.”

He desperately tried to repair my hair, then he ran. “I don't know what else to do,” he said.

So we started shooting again, and the crane was coming down again slowly, and Robert and I were doing our serious scene from this serious melodrama about race and the Deep South, and Mr. Preminger was seeing that my hair was getting larger and larger, in the weather, and sticking out in very unsightly ways, and he became furious.

“Cut,” he yelled. “This isn't going to match. This isn't going to match!”

I couldn't take it all very seriously. Because while we were shooting, the cast was experiencing racism firsthand in Louisiana that was very anxiety-producing. One evening my party had been asked to leave a restaurant because I was black. We
never knew whether or not we'd be turned away when we black actors went out with our fellow cast members Jane Fonda, Michael Caine, Faye Dunaway. I decided to speak to one of the associate producers of the film and find out if he could call restaurants in advance to prepare them so there would not be any scenes. He made sure we were accompanied by bodyguards to prevent harassment.

Eventually, Mr. Preminger calmed down. Then he asked me what to do. He trusted me because he knew how serious I was about my work.

“So are you really asking me what to do?” I asked.

He said, “Yes, I am.”

“Is there another scene you can shoot instead of mine?”

He said no.

“You have to call the day, then,” I said.

And he did. He sent everybody home. And when we were walking back to his car, I said, “I can't tell you how sorry I am that this happened to your production.” He asked me again what I would recommend. I told him it would be difficult getting a black hairdresser into the union quickly who understood what to do with our hair. But I did mention someone from New York, and then an associate producer actually found someone who lived closer. This man turned out to be brilliant at pressing, curling, and styling, and Mr. Preminger thanked me, and everything was fine on the hair front from then on. The movie was another story. I didn't care for it because it really didn't advance anything politically. It just showed poor blacks being kicked around by racist whites. But you know what? One more black man got into the union because of that film, so in a way it did have a positive political effect.

A few years later, on
Julia,
I helped integrate the hair and makeup department at Fox. Again, it wasn't political. It was practical. I simply didn't have time to drive to the hair salon that knew how to deal with my hair at the level necessary for television. And I was too busy learning lines to do my hair at home, which is what other black actresses did. But Fox had never had a black woman starring in a show. The makeup person they had wasn't accustomed to dealing with a black leading lady, either. She thought she knew how to do my makeup because she'd done Lena Horne's. I asked if that meant that she used the same makeup for all white actresses. (We all have different skin tones that grab the camera in different ways, and all that has to be dealt with carefully in a medium as unforgiving as television.) It didn't take long for the studio to realize it had to bring in experts for all types of black hair, and makeup artists, to deal with the likes of me.

And they did.

Eventually, I realized life would be simpler with wigs. I can still remember my conversion. I was performing a couple shows a night at the Americana Hotel in New York. My stylist arrived to wash my hair between shows. One evening we were both stunned as we watched my hair floating down the drain. It was absolutely frightening, but my hair had been pressed and curled and processed to the point of collapse. My stylist told me, “Wait there, I'll be right back!” And he returned with a bag full of wigs. I tried them on, and thought, “Not bad, and we can improve on it tomorrow.” I was just amazed at how much easier wigs made my life. I believe in them enough to put my name on a line of them. But I'll be honest, as I became more discriminating, I started to prefer very expensive ones. Hand-tied wigs are easiest to work with and are my personal favorites.

Looking like a million bucks everywhere you go isn't cheap.

I learned that at an early age. It wasn't just the influence of my mother, who once made me swear I wouldn't tell my father she'd spent a hundred dollars on a pair of shoes. I learned about paying for quality from my dear departed friend Josephine Premice, a naturally elegant woman who had exquisite taste in everything in life. She once eyed my new blue cloth coat with a detachable fur collar. I was thrilled with it.

“Darling, we either wear fur or we wear cloth,” she told me. “That combination isn't working.” It was a lesson I took with me the rest of my life.

When it came time to dress for my nightclub bookings, I steered clear of jewelry and chose couture gowns with simple lines to create the look of a proper chanteuse. It wasn't long before I was wearing designs by Jimmy Galanos, Bill Blass, Arnold Scaasi, and Norman Norrell. Later, Bob Mackie, a creative titan, designed for me, too, and continues to do so to this day!

The first time Norman Norrell along with Ray Agayan invited me to the debut of one of his collections, in the late 1950s, I was an absolute novelty in the room. The women invited to these shows were buyers, editors, and wealthy New York socialites.

What was a young black singer and actress doing among them?

Designers loved me and they wanted me there. I had the slim, long body they loved for their clothes and they liked the way I moved in them. When it came time for me to play a fashion model in Paris, for
No Strings,
I wanted Arnold Scaasi to do
the costumes, and he wanted to do them, too. We had a meeting in 1961, and were all set to go. Arnold loves show business and is a real theater buff, and he was very excited. But his associate would not allow it. She believed that he would alienate all his buyers in the South if he did something so high profile for a black woman. Years later, when I heard this story for the first time, I couldn't hold it against him. You see, Arnold and I understand that business is business. Besides, if I'd taken offense, I never would have had the chance to meet John F. Kennedy while wearing his wonderful, white, tight, double-breasted suit with brass buttons. Arnold recalls the president looking dazzled. And from what I recall, the taupe satin ball gown with navy blue bodice that Arnold put me in when I sang a song from
Yentl
(at the request of Barbra Streisand) for the 1984 Golden Globes dazzled Aaron Spelling enough to put me on
Dynasty
.

I guess I was enough of a style icon when I was younger that JCPenney wanted to put my name on my own clothing line in the early 1990s. Why not? We did upscale looks—suits, blazers, skirts with a little kick—at rock-bottom prices. It was fun, but not easy logistically, and I learned quickly that I'd rather wear clothes than make them.

I loved being on the International Best Dressed list and I still love fashion, though I sometimes have to remind people who I am. Not long ago, I called Oscar de la Renta, who had done some lovely dresses for me in the past. I said, “Hello, Mr. de la Renta, it's Diahann Carroll.” He said, ‘Who?'” It's not the same as it was when any top designer would see me at a moment's notice.

And I have to admit, I can't wear the small sizes I used to wear. Some shops in Beverly Hills are so proud of having all these dresses in size zero. I don't think that size even existed when I was young. I was a size five, and everyone considered that small. So when I find a garment I like on Rodeo Drive, I ask shop clerks, who are always tiny, “Do you know if the designer makes this dress in a size for a real person?”

“What do you mean?” they ask.

“Well, I really love this coat, but I need it in a size twelve,” I reply.

There's usually an awkward silence. Then they tell me the coat doesn't come in such a big size. So I lean in and quietly tell them to do me a favor and get on the phone and ask. And they scurry off, then come back to me with stunned looks on their faces.

“Ms. Carroll! Guess what? They do make the coat in size twelve!”

“No shit,” I say.

And then we laugh.

Now, I'm not saying I plan to get any bigger. God forbid. But I'm not uncomfortable being a size that's normal for women of my age. And there's always the siren call of liposuction. But for now, I'm going to keep up the maintenance by exercising. I love to walk around my neighborhood, which has lots of hills. I enjoy walking to dinner nearby, too. I walk past trees in bloom and gated mansions, and right past the spot where Barbara Sinatra was mugged across the street from my apartment building. If anyone ever tried to mug me, I'd be in shape to either run or deck them. In my building, I have a health spa and gym,
which I use daily unless I'm on the road. I've taken the discipline of my art and applied it to the body and I get help from my expert personal trainer, Romy, who gently puts me through my paces. I run on the treadmill, lift weights, and do yoga and Pilates. Romy says I'm one of her best clients, and I have the stamina of many who are far younger than me. So who cares if I'm a size twelve?

Regular exercise is a must, because no matter your genes, the body starts to break down. Without stimulation and attention, the muscles will deteriorate quickly. I eat well, too, which, of course, can be a bit of a bore at times. And, of course, I've been “on holiday”—at the plastic surgeon's! No, I'm not perfect. I like the occasional bowl of pasta. I guess I should be pushing myself harder to follow through on any number of health resolutions each year.

But you know what? I'm happy enough with myself these days, and that's wonderful.

I've got a good head on my shoulders, and a good wig, too.

Grey's Anatomy
creator/executive producer, Shonda Rhimes, and me. (Lester Cohen/WireImage for PMK/HBH)

HAIR AND MAKEUP WERE VERY MUCH ON MY MIND
when I walked onto the set of
Grey's Anatomy
for the first time a couple of years ago. I was aware that these days, even on network television, actors share hair and makeup artists, which made me a bit uncomfortable. Growing up in film and legit theater, you were assigned your own hair and makeup artist. So when I found out that there would just be a few hair and makeup people for a dozen actors, I immediately called my team, Bruce Hutchinson, makeup, and Arthur John for hair (my team for over thirty years)—which freed me up to concentrate on my work. And when it came time for my first day of shooting, at 5
A.M.
, I brought Bruce in, a man highly respected in the field.

“Oh, my God, Bruce, why are you here?” people were asking him.

“I've been doing this lady's makeup for thirty years,” he said.

I did not make a fuss about it. I was not a diva about it. I
simply knew what I needed, and everybody was happy. When you get to be my age, it's nice to feel secure enough to know what you need and see that you have it, that's all. But you never want to assume that you're entitled to anything because of your age. That gets you nowhere. It was such a thrill to be invited to be on that show, a total delight and surprise. I had been reading about the young creator of
Grey's Anatomy
, Shonda Rhimes, a young African-American woman who came to Hollywood from Detroit and, after working extremely hard, was doing well in television as a producer and writer. I'd been told she would call, and she did.

“God, you're really tearing up the town and it's fantastic,” I told her.

“Yes, and we want to know if you would honor us by becoming part of
Grey's Anatomy,
” she said. She didn't ask me to audition. It was so wonderful. When I was in the prime of my career, nobody asked me to audition. But by the time I was in my late thirties, people asked me to audition all the time. I knew what they were thinking. “Let's see how she looks and make sure she isn't overweight, drinking, or on drugs. Let's see if she's stable and pretty. Maybe we can still use her.” It's always nice to be asked, but it definitely lets you know where you stand when you have to go show your wares.

In the decade after the success of
Julia,
I had become known for my lavish lifestyle and volatile romances. And as much as I loved singing and made my bread and butter in nightclubs, I never had a hit album. So I had to present myself, often for jobs that felt like I was starting over again. In my early
forties, things were not great; I even accepted a booking to perform at an auto show. The audience could not hear me, and then to make matters go from awful to absurd, a dog walked in off the street and lay down on the stage. Everyone in theater knows not to share the limelight with an animal—they will always upstage you. Then again, I was already being upstaged by cars. I looked at my conductor in a panic. “Keep going, just keep going,” he said. So that's what I did. It's what I've done all these years.

That's why it was so lovely when Shonda Rhimes came along and asked me to play the mother of one of her leading men, a
Grey's
cardiac surgeon director named Preston Burke, played by the talented and handsome Isaiah Washington.

“Do you have anything in mind for her? Gray hair? Accent?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “I have Diahann Carroll in mind.”

“I'm absolutely honored,” I said. “But if you want to have someone call me and tell me how you see this character, please feel free.”

“No, no,” she said. “I know exactly how I see her. You are her. She is you.”

I hung up the phone and jumped into the air. This was a stamp of approval from an important player of the younger generation. She was saying “I buy you completely.” She was saying that the dignity that people associate with my approach was something she wanted as part of her carefully hewn roster of characters. You spend your life working hard to make sure you're taken seriously. What could be more gratifying than to
find out that you're still on someone's mind at an age when most actors have been discarded?

I told myself, “You really are fortunate, but don't even bother to think about how this happened. Just keep walking down this road as you've been envisioning it, because this is an industry that will take you to the moon and bury you in the mud in a week's time. Just do this job, and enjoy the ride.”

And that's what I proceeded to do, without a fuss. I was to play the elegant, intelligent, and highly possessive mother of this Preston, who is engaged to marry Dr. Cristina Yang, the character played by Sandra Oh. And this is where Shonda is such a brilliant modern writer. You really didn't know if this mother I was playing was a prejudiced black woman or unable to let go of a son who seemed to need her approval for everything he did. The line she levels at the incredibly ambitious Cristina—“You don't love Preston as much as you want to be a doctor”—struck home with me, of course. After all, I'd been deeply conflicted all my life about juggling love, motherhood, and work.

Shonda knew I could relate. “I've been observing you,” she told me. And I'd been observing her, too, just like I had observed in the days on movie sets with Otto Preminger. Often I found myself choked up around her, a nice young black woman running one of the most successful shows on television, a medium that has become increasingly difficult and competitive. Since my teens, I'd been dreaming of the day I would walk onto a set under complete control of an African-American who would quietly call all the shots. I saw only a moment of it when Susan Fales, the daughter of my dear friend
Josephine Premice-Fales, was a writer and producer of
A Different World
.

At the first
Grey's Anatomy
read-through, I saw Shonda sitting at the head table watching everyone, listening to everything, leaning back silently. She was taking in my work and changing the script in her head on the spot. I thought, “She's producing, directing, and writing her own series. I never thought I would see this in my lifetime.” But there she was, at the head of this table. I loved it!

The work was like nothing I'd ever done before. This was a great role for me, the no-nonsense mother of a successful young man, and I was written into each show for six episodes. But it wasn't easy. I'm used to scenes being set up one shot at a time. That's how we did it in the
Dynasty
era, just like a movie. But the way a series is shot today, with the twelve main characters on the show talking at breakneck speed, was a big adjustment for me. You have to keep moving around and doing your scene even when the camera isn't on you, because while others are finishing their dialogue, the action could be shifting over to you. The very fast-moving camera lends a kind of emergency-room urgency to each scene. So you're rushing down the hall with the camera behind you until it swings off into another scene in another area. It was fascinating. And there was some very fine work being done on that set. Everybody was used to the pace. But I felt like a dinosaur in this strange new world of television, and it helped to carefully watch and learn from the other actors.

It was a privilege at my age to be a part of this.

Then, one day, things took a bad turn. There was a con
frontation between Isaiah Washington, the actor playing my son, and one of his costars. One thing led to another, and Washington ultimately apologized. The apology notwithstanding, he wasn't asked to return to the show.

Now, I've seen and heard all kinds of slurs in my life. Racial, obviously. But I also heard a friend of Vic Damone's ask me why in the world I had wanted to be married to Jewish men. Once, I even heard Richard Rodgers use the word
fag
about Lorenz Hart, his collaborator before Oscar Hammerstein. We were meeting about
No Strings,
the first show he'd written without a lyricist. I can only say I felt his nervousness.

“You can't imagine how wonderful it feels,” he told me, “to have written this score and not have to search all over the globe for that drunken little fag.” I was stunned. This was a man whom I thought was so tasteful and tactful, and yet this remark was so unnecessarily cruel, especially in the conservative early 1960s. We were in show business, after all. Gay men were fully integrated into our world. Larry Hart may have been troubled, but his work with Rodgers included some of the most beautiful songs I ever heard, including “Where or When,” “Manhattan,” and “My Funny Valentine.” I did not dare say a word to question the epithet. But I never really trusted Rodgers after hearing that slur, and that's why I was not shocked when, months later, he told me I wasn't invited to our Detroit opening-night party.

But if Rodgers got away with that kind of behavior, Isaiah Washington was not granted the same privilege. Nor was he given as much berth as a few other public figures who have made insensitive remarks lately. After issuing an apology, they're forgiven. It is today as it's always been, I suppose. The more seats
you fill, the more the hierarchy is willing to look the other way.

I was, of course, mortified when I heard on the news that Isaiah was going to leave the cast. Or perhaps I should say what we now called “news” because this became a story that took on the importance of a national disaster. I had just completed my last episode of the season and was, of course, disappointed. I was looking forward to being part of the next season. Brian Panella, my manager, called and we assumed I would be out of the show. But a script arrived for me the next day. It was one that aired in the fall of 2007, in which I showed up to collect my son's things from his fiancée.

I loved the work and the energy on the set. But let's face it, I'm not the new belle of the ball on television—my career was not in jeopardy. The real loss was for all the fans of Isaiah.

I wish the whole incident could have been resolved the way Tiger Woods handled an unfortunate episode a few years ago. He had just won a major golf championship and was awarded a lifelong membership to a country club in the South, of which he became the first black member. Someone joked they'd have to put fried chicken on the menu for him. Tiger didn't take offense. He just laughed and said he hoped the club would continue on in the same way it always had for years, whether in the dining room, golf course, or locker room. He didn't want special treatment. But more importantly, he didn't want a fuss made about a careless remark.

A little equanimity and humor can go a long way. If you let every slur, racist or otherwise, pull you off your mark and throw you into an angry or defensive position, then you are wasting all the energy you need to move forward.

And I hope I don't offend anyone when I add that people need to give one another a little more wiggle room in general. When I heard that Don Imus was back on the air after calling a team of female college basketball players “nappy-headed hos,” I wasn't as upset as others I know. It surprised even me. What he did was mean-spirited and indefensible. But for heaven's sake, he's an old man who's good at his job and has done his share of humanitarian work with children. And I enjoy him on the air. Maybe as he gets older he's having a harder time figuring out where to draw the line between irreverent and unacceptable. Yet why not give people who have apologized profusely the benefit of the doubt? And since I seem to be in my advice-giving mode here (which is not the same as finger wagging), I would say to Don and everyone else getting swept up into the heat of a moment, “Just slow down, because when you make a major mistake, it will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

Everyone should just take a breath before shooting off his or her mouth, period. I hope I've learned this lesson.

Is a man really a bigot because he erupts once or twice? I would hope there's more room for forgiveness and nuance in our society. I, for one, don't think things are so black and white, if you'll excuse the pun. I'm into shades of gray, as long as they aren't in my hair.

As for me, I'm not going to worry too much about the loss of that job. It introduced me to a new audience. And best of all, it gave me the opportunity to meet Shonda Rhimes, who had invited me to participate in her prime-time show at seventy-one. She's a true force to be reckoned with in Hollywood, a
quiet and gracious talent who cast several black actors in a show that has absolutely nothing to do with race.

The last time I saw Shonda I was presenting a Woman in Film Award to her. I told her I never thought I'd meet someone like her in my lifetime.