“They Can’t Make Me Behave”—Mario Lanza

There was great anger in the heart and mind of Mario Lanza. He also had a sprained ankle and a severe pain in the neck.

He stood at the desk of Dore Schary, big chief of MGM, and tried to quell the righteous fury that welled up inside him.

Mr. Lanza was being told, politely, but firmly, that a different sort of general behavior was expected of him in the future. Mario listened. He leaned on his cane and wished he could sit down. He shifted uncomfortably.

Suddenly, Mr. Schary stopped talking. He waited for Mario’s reply, but there was none forthcoming. Instead, the seconds ticked on in miserable silence. Inside, Mario Lanza turned deep purple.

Then the explosion came. Mario raised his cane and broke it violently over Mr. Schary’s desk. Ink spilled. Cigarettes bounced high out of a leather desk tray. Dore Schary shoved back his chair, and watched in amazement as Mario Lanza limped away through the outer office, shouting down violent threats and ill wishes for all of the movie industry within the sound of his voice.

“Temperamental? They say I am temperamental? How ridiculous!”

Mario Lanza was telling me about his strange encounter with the big boss. He sat at a long desk in his home on Whittier Drive in Beverly Hills, grinning with high good humor. He wore one of his extra loud sport shirts, with extra short sleeves. Most of his strongly muscled arms were in view, and obviously they did not have an extra ounce of fat upon them.

“You are not going to get me wrong,” he said. “You—I can See it in your eyes—are going to tell the truth about Mario Lanza, so there will be no more trouble with all these lies!”

“No more trouble?” My voice sounded a bit incredulous.

Mario beams as his wife follows Kathryn Grayson’s example in kissing Norman Taurog, Lanza’s director at MGM. Betty is very helpful in creating good public relations for Mario.

“Well, with me, I guess there will always be some excitement. But there will be no more misunderstanding. I am a young man. I have a violent love for living in my veins. I am not going to behave like some people want me to behave. I don’t think they will ever change. And I won’t change, either. So, if that is misbehaving—I will misbehave.

“But, to get back to Mr. Schary. This is a wonderful man. I have lived in Hollywood long enough to know that some reporters might tell the story about how I broke the cane over his desk, and then not tell the truth about what happened afterwards. And the net result of all this would be that Dore would think I am a louse, and I would be.”

Yes, Mario Lanza would look like what he says—a louse—if the truth weren’t told. The lack of such truth is not going to happen here.

A few weeks after the violent collision between Dore Schary and Mario Lanza, it became evident that something had to happen. You can’t have the most exciting new star on a movie lot feuding with the bosses, and expect nothing to come of it. There is always somebody who brings straight thinking to the situation.

In this case, the peace-making was begun by Mario’s wife, Betty.

As Mario says, Betty is a girl who is familiar only with the truth. And Betty has a great thing in common with her husband. She hates lies and liars. She knows that even a small lie gives birth like a guppy to seven dozen other lies, until there are a whole army of them.

So Betty, one day, picked up the telephone and called the director, Joe Pasternak. They faced each other in the living room of the Lanza home, and here, condensed, is what Betty said:

“This has got to stop. My husband is an honest man. He may not be like other movie stars in Hollywood. He may not have settled down to a behavior pattern so that he is acceptable to two dozen minor executives whose names you and I don’t even know. But we have to do something about this, because you are beginning to believe all the lies that have grown up about him, and so has Mr. Schary.

He’s almost cut out impromptu concerts; but he’ll sing any time for the kids. When admiring young musicians like these drop in on the set, Mario is always ready to oblige.

“Mario is hurt, because these lies have grown so big that nobody—even you—even bother to ask if any of them are true. We have to talk about this right now, before you and Mr. Schary think that Mario is no good, as you probably do. And if you do, I can assure you that Mario thinks you are no good, too—even double and triple no good.”

So, they talked, Mario joining them. They got right down to cases, such as the time Mario threw a studio employee bodily out of his dressing room. They examined the case in detail, and Joe Pasternak, a sensitive, emotional man, agreed that he would have done the same thing himself. He might have gone even further, and given the fellow a pair of black eyes in the process, because there are some things you never say to or about a man, if you want to stay healthy.

The matter of noise, and general “hell-raisin’” were also entered into. It was agreed that you can’t take a man like Mario Lanza, with a heart and voice like an erupting volcano, and expect him to behave like an easy-going actor with 10 years of experience in studio relations.

When it was all over, Joe Pasternak said, “I love you both. You have got to talk like this to Dore Schary. Why, he doesn’t even know what makes you tick!”

Shortly thereafter, Dore Schary came to Mario’s house. ‘The production chief and the star faced each other across Mario’s desk, and the favorite son of South Philadelphia said to Dore:

“You are a big shot. You are a no-good stinker. And I will tell you why!”

Mr. Schary retorted in kind, and they went on from there. At the home of Dore Schary, a dinner party waited for hours, then gave up and fell apart. Two men, who normally are busier than a pair of snipers on the battlefront, were learning to know each other. When Dore Schary left the Lanza home, late that night, he left as a lusty friend, for he’d discovered that in his high tower as the mastermind of some 60 pictures a year, involving as many stars, the reports that had filtered through to him about Mario Lanza were highly distorted.

And Mario’s rebellion had centered on this very fact: it had been impossible for him to take his problems directly to the top level.

Why? Because there is jealousy at the lower levels of Hollywood, as anywhere else. And, if Mr. Lanza has an argument with anyone, it sooner or later will blossom into print, largely distorted, to the great glee of the individual who “planted” it with a reporter on the prowl for a sensational bit of copy.

That is what happened on the subject of Mario’s excess weight.

“Look at me,” Lanza said. “I’ve got a big frame. Big bones. All my life I didn’t weigh too much for my size. When I came to Hollywood, I was around 179 pounds, and I could eat everything in sight. Then came The Great Caruso. Imagine, all my life this man is my idol! All of a sudden I get the chance to play him on the screen, I have got to be Caruso! I don’t want to be just an actor who doesn’t look like the man, singing his songs.

“No, I want to be this man, and this man, as he grows older, gets heavier. Everything about him grew bigger. His songs, his build, the little way he strutted. The people around him—he collected them as he went along, more and more of them.

“So, I lived like Caruso, and I ate like him, and I behaved like him, in my private life, as nearly as I could. But, all those at the studio could see, was that I was getting fatter and fatter. Well, I have not the conceit to say I gave the public Caruso, exactly, but I would like to see somebody else do better—and that’s what almost ruined me, for a while.

“I was 230 pounds when I finished the picture—not 240 pounds. Two hundred and thirty. We are telling the truth and we must be exact.

“And then what happened? I didn’t know it, then, but my metabolism began to run away with me. My bones must have been hungry for years, and the corpuscles liked the drunken spree they were on—and didn’t want to quit.”

The truth of the matter was that dropping 40 pounds wasn’t too hard. The weight hadn’t been there six months ago, and it could be tapered off.

And this is where Mario Lanza makes a unique confession of his own:

“I heard the story that while I was up in Oregon I returned the script of Because You’re Mine, without even reading it. That is not true. The truth is that I hadn’t been sent a script. I guess everybody should know that the first version of many great plays are just plain lousy. To get a good story, writers have to work and revise. To get a good suit to fit, you have to keep trying it on for size.

“That’s the way it was e premise of the story—about an opera singer who gets drafted, is excellent. But, with a movie, even more than a play, the idea has to be worked over for a long time. You can’t open a movie out of town and then fix it.

“Well, when I finally did see Because You’re Mine, I wish I had refused to look at it. The script didn’t fit. Even the studio knew that, because they were already revising it while I was reading.

“In the meantime, the mistake I made was that I hadn’t bothered to knock off that weight. I didn’t want to do the picture as it was, so I figured I could just go to the studio and show them how fat I was. Then I wouldn’t have to work until everything was straightened out. But do you know what happened? Because of Caruso, they didn’t care if I looked like a blimp. They just said, ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. We’ll shoot anyway.’

“So you see how much untruth can get around, if nobody corrects it. Half of the columnists said I was feuding with the studio, and they were sore about my weight. The fact is, they didn’t care how heavy I looked. Only I cared!”

So, what happened about his weight?

Just this. Mario spent four weeks on his new ranch, near Medford, Oregon. He rode horseback, chopped wood, took long walks. He ate enough lean steak to feed an army. And when he came back to Hollywood, he had slimmed down from the 230 pounds he carried as the aging Caruso, to an even 200. He had 10 pounds to go, to attain the weight he’s going to carry from now on.

“The truth is,” he said, “that I am not a prize fighter, and I am not going to live like one. It’s just that I have to get that metabolism under control. So, my doctor has been giving me some thyroid extract of some sort. It’s not a big problem, and I figure that after you have told this story, maybe people will know the truth, and the press will stop talking about it.”

Now let’s see what else there is about Mario Lanza that has set Hollywood on its ear, and caused a barrage of the Most fantastic stories ever turned loose in one concentration on a movie star. For one thing, there is the matter of “how long his voice will last.”

This is Mario’s answer: “All I have to do is bend one ear to the wind and I hear that I am ‘already straining on the high notes. Already, ha! Look, I love to sing. It is not an effort for me to sing. And when I hear that I have only a couple of years to go before I start slipping, I laugh. And I can laugh as loud as I can sing.

“This January, I am 30 years old. People who know about these things will tell you that my voice will not reach its full power and maturity until I am 35 years of age. Then, from 35 to 45, the voice will be at its full strength and tonal quality. After that, with a certain amount of care, a singer can do all right until he is 70. So all I can say as far as singing my best is concerned, I am not even born yet!”

This year Lanza will gross more than $400,000 on royalties from recordings, and a total of around $800,000 when his concert tour and movie salary are included. He is doing very well for a young man whose talents have been scarcely touched. He is already working on the “10-cent dollar.” Meaning that out of every dollar he owns, he gets to keep only a dime. But nobody need feel sorry for him—he gets more of those dimes than 95 per cent of the people.

There again, is a reason why he frequently is resented as a Johnny-come-lately. He’s ten times more successful than a lot of people who’ve been around Hollywood for years. They’re not making it. They can’t see why this singing fellow should have it so good. So, when he comes roaring through the studio in high good humor, he is watched (by some) with ever-ready resentment.

If Mario chooses to whack a grey-haired extra lady (who loves it) on the bustle, he is charged with having no respect for womanhood. If he winks at a pretty girl, he is charged with philandering.

Mario Lanza has even been called “heartless.”

Heartless, with a voice like that? It would be the world’s most incredible contradiction. This accusation, doubtless has its birth in Mario’s new-found unwillingness to sing for anyone and everyone, at the drop of a piano lid. If there has been any real trouble with Mario, so far as it concerns him, personally, it has been that he has had too much heart.

He has refused to treat his voice as the major factor of his livelihood. He has always behaved as though he were a writer of the five-thousand-dollar-a-week variety who would sit down and toss off a story for everybody he met. Now he knows that he mustn’t throw away his talent. Most people think that the reason Mario sings so much is that he hungers for the praise that comes, everytime he tosses back his head. The truth is that he likes to be among happy people, and he’d be a fool if he didn’t realize that he spreads a lot of joy with his voice.

Consider the case of Raye Phaseno, the little 10-year-old girl in Newark, New Jersey, who was dying of a rare form of blood cancer. Everything had been done for Raye that could be done. Everything that is, capable of accomplishment by the medical profession.

Little Raye Phaseno was a fan of Mario’s. In semi-delirium, she constantly called for him. She wanted to see Mario before she died. And there, in the hospital, her yearning was translated into action.

A long distance telephone call was put through to Hollywood for Mario Lanza. He could not be located, because he was en route to his ranch in Oregon. Of all the people Mario knew in Hollywood, one secretary was touched by the urgency of the call. She remembered that her boss, who was with Mario, had mentioned a motel at which he once stopped, just above the California border. She secured a list of Automobile Club recommended motels, and systematically began to trace the singer until she found him.

“I hate to put you to all this bother, Mr. Lanza,” she said, “but there is this little girl in Newark,” she explained to him.

Ten minutes later, Raye Phaseno was talking with her idol. “I wish you could come to see me,” she told him.

Mario explained how impossible this was, knowing all the while that Raye might be dead, before he got there.

“But you know how it is with you and me, Raye,” he continued. “I can come right into your hospital room with a song. So you tell me what I should sing.”

Raye told him that he would be ashamed of her, for what she wanted, because of all the great songs he had recorded.

“But I am just a little girl who doesn’t know very much,” she said, “and of all your songs, I like the ‘Teena Lina’ best.”

Mario sang it then, with tears running down his cheeks. And the song, not the tears, soared all the way to that Newark hospital room to give birth to a miracle.

Raye Phaseno lived for many weeks, but that was not the end. It was the beginning of her intimate friendship with Mario who called her on the telephone every day, talked with her, sang to her. And in between calls, he arranged to have the finest record player, with a complete stock of his records, installed in her room. This was the magic that kept Raye alive, from day to day, when doctors could have sworn that she had at best only hours to live.

Raye Phaseno’s parents found it impossible to adequately express their gratitude. In letters they referred to Mario as a messenger from God.

“That is not true,” Mario said, “but in all my life I never had, or will have such a gift as the friendship of this little girl.”

Unfortunately only one man cannot bring solace to all the ill and grief-stricken in this world. There must come a time—many times—when Mario Lanza cannot respond to the requests that are made of him, and this worries him tremendously.

The result is that a considerable portion of the money that an ordinary celebrity would put into various business projects, Mario channels into five favorite charities. As for his songs and his heart, they belong to his family—his wife, Betty, and his children, Elissa and Colleen.

All of these things can be told about a man like Mario Lanza, but the most complete definition of a man can only come from a best friend, such as in this case, Ray Sinatra.

Ray Sinatra, a first cousin of Frank Sinatra’s, and Mario’s song arranger, says:

“You will always hear people say that Mario is temperamental, hard to get along with. Well, that’s a lot of baloney. He takes criticism and advice, without batting an eye. I’ve seen him work five solid hours, recording eight tough arias, and he was stronger when he finished than when he started. And once, when he finished recording ‘The Lord’s Prayer,’ the entire orchestra, 36 professional, hardboiled musicians, stood up and applauded the man, shouting ‘Bravo!’

“I’m telling you straight, Mario Lanza is going to be the greatest of them all. I’m sick of hearing about his being better than Caruso. There was only one Caruso, and there will never be another. And there is Lanza, and there will never be another. But Caruso died before he reached his prime. Mario is just getting started.

“As for whether or not this kid will last in Hollywood is pretty much up to Hollywood itself. So far as Mario is concerned, he’s got 30 years of great singing ahead of him, and it doesn’t make much difference to the world, where he does it!”

Mario? What does Mario say? He says this: “I was born young and alive, and I’m going to stay that way. If this is misbehaving, I’ve made the most of it!”

THE END

—BY CARL SCHROEDER

 

It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE JANUARY 1952