What I Found Out From Debbie Reynolds!

As far back as I can remember, my favorite actress has been Debbie Reynolds. The first

time I saw her was in “Singing in the Rain.” It was in 1952 and I was seven years old and we were living in Weisbaden, Germany. My father’s a major in the Air Force so we move around quite a lot.

From that day on she became my idol and since then I’ve cut out every picture of her I can find in magazines and newspapers—I’ve boxes full—and when we’ve moved house, those boxes have always been the first thing I’ve packed.

When I was younger (I’m fourteen now) I used to dream about her. I’d imagine all sorts of ways I could possibly get to see her. But never once did I dream that someday I’d really meet Debbie Reynolds.

The day I saw all those newspaper headlines and big stories about Debbie, Eddie and Elizabeth Taylor, I felt like running and telling her how sorry I was. But I reasoned that it would be foolish to try and get to Debbie when every important writer in the country would probably be standing in line waiting to talk to her. But I did live nearby, in Inglewood which is only a few miles from Hollywood. Maybe I could see her . . .

I found out who Debbie’s agent was and wrote him a letter. It took me ever so long before I finally got what I wanted down on paper. I explained that I’d admired Debbie for years and then I practically told him my whole life story! I thought that maybe that way he would understand that I was sincere. I promised him that if he could arrange an interview, I’d be very appreciative and vowed I’d not say a thing which would make her feel bad. And I added as a P.S. that I’d love to meet her on the set of a picture most of all.

Two weeks passed. I ran home from school every day to check the mail. After fourteen days I began to give up hope. On the morning of November 7th, I was in the school library studying for an exam. I just happened to look out of the window when I saw my mother coming down the school walk! What had happened? I darted out of the library and caught her by the arm. She turned around, didn’t say a word but just held out a powder blue envelope addressed to me. I ripped open the envelope—it was the letter. Debbie Reynolds had written to me!

I stood there in the hallway and began to read. At first it just seemed to be a bunch of words, handwritten ones. “Mommy, it’s personally handwritten,” I screamed. Then I let out a groan.

“What’s wrong?” Mother asked.

I was almost in tears. “Mommy, Debbie invited me to come to the studio Thursday, November 6th, at four o clock—that was yesterday!”

We looked at the postmark on the envelope—it was dated November 3rd. There was only one answer, somehow the letter must have been lost. It had taken four days to travel twelve miles. We stared at each other, speechless. Then Mother put her arm around me and said not to worry. She promised to go straight home and call the studio and try to find someone to deliver a message to Debbie explaining what had happened. “I’m sure when Debbie realizes it wasn’t your fault,” she said softly, “she’ll give you another appointment.”

I went back to the library but just couldn’t concentrate. When lunch time came I couldn’t even look at food. Then in algebra class, a monitor brought a note asking me to come to the principal’s office. My heart began to beat very fast. I was told that my mother had just called to say that she’d been able to get a message through to Debbie. The person taking the message said she’d see to it that Debbie got it right away. The studio promised Mommy they’d call her back as soon as they could. It only took ten minutes. Evidently, as soon as Debbie learned what had happened, she had them call Mother back and say I could come over that afternoon at four. I couldn’t believe it! Since this was more or less a school project—I planned to use the interview in a term paper—I was allowed to go home right away. Everyone at school was darn nice—they even let me miss a test.

By the time I reached home I was in a panic. I had gone swimming in gym class that morning and my hair was still damp and straight as a board. Mother handed me some bobbies and a can of hair spray. I put my hair up in pin curls and rushed into my bedroom to find something to wear. I wanted so much to look nice. I chose my favorite plain cotton dress.

We were out the front door when Mother realized she didn’t know how to get to M-G-M. We went back in and called a neighbor for directions. When we told her why we wanted them, she offered to come along for the ride and show us. She was excited too.

I was so nervous by this time I couldn’t sit still in the car. And I kept leaning forward and looking in the driver’s mirror to see if I looked all right and not too flustered. All sorts of thoughts kept spinning around in my head. Would Debbie be as pretty in person? What would she say? Would she look very sad? Would I be disappointed? Would she be easy to talk to? But more than anything else I worried . . . would I know what to say? I had questions ready, but would I be calm enough to ask them?

The next thing I knew the car had stopped.

“We’re here,” Mother said. Then she took me aside and whispered, “Don’t be scared and good luck.” She kissed me.

I walked along Washington Boulevard looking at the high stone wall that prevents people from being able to see into the studio. Then I noticed a sign that said, “Casting Dept.” I had been told to pick up my pass there. I walked in, trying very hard not to be too nervous.

There was a uniformed policeman sitting at a desk. I walked up to him.

“I’m Pam Larner. I have an appointment with Debbie Reynolds. There should be a pass for me.”

He smiled, then pulled open a drawer under the desk and drew out a long white sheet of paper. As he looked down the list I had an awful feeling that maybe Debbie had forgotten.

“Yes, Miss Reynolds is expecting you. Here’s your pass. Go right through that door. Miss Reynolds is on Sound Stage 3. Just follow the signs. You can’t miss it.”

I turned and walked back towards the door.

“Just a minute, Miss,” he called.

“Is that a camera you have in your hand?”

“Yes. I thought I could get a snapshot of Debbie.”

“I’m sorry, you aren’t allowed to take cameras on the lot. You’ll have to leave it with me and pick it up on your way out.”

I reluctantly put my camera on the desk and left by way of a door which leads onto the lot. The studio stretched before me for miles. I didn’t know which way to go. Then a boy rode by on a bicycle.

“Can I help you?”

“Tm on my way to Sound Stage 3 to see Debbie Reynolds. She expects me.”

“Well, follow the sign,” he said, pointing.

“What sign?” I asked. I was so nervous I couldn’t see anything. I’m sure it must have been right under my nose but I couldn’t see it. I guess they’re used to handling excited tourists because the boy grinned and said, “Follow me.” He hopped on his bike and peddled slowly right up to a door marked Sound Stage 3. “Have fun,” he called as he rode away.

The door was partly open. I could hear voices. One was Debbie’s, I’d recognize it anywhere. I walked inside. I saw a man with his back to the door talking to a girl. All I could see was the top of her head. I stopped and stood very still. Was that Debbie’s head! The man turned around. It was Dean Jones and it was Debbie! Then Debbie saw me and came over.

“Hi. I’m Debbie Reynolds. (As if I had to be told!) You must be Pam. Come on across the set with me while I do this next scene.” She led me to a chair. “Sit here, Pam. You’ll have a good view of us working from this spot. And I’ll be right back.”

I sat down and watched. I didn’t know where to look first. There were so many people running around. Some were fixing lights and moving furniture. Then a lady came over and ran a comb through Debbie’s hair. It took a long time before the director called “Action.” Every few minutes Debbie looked over at me and nodded reassuringly. When the scene was over she said, “Come on, let’s find a corner that’s a little more private. I can’t leave the set because I’m in the next scene. But at least we can get away from some of the noise.”

She led me across the huge stage until she found two chairs in a corner where there was nobody else around. And when I sat down opposite her, I realized for the first time how very beautiful Debbie is, so much more than on the screen. I adored her dress. It was pink with a scoop neck. Around her waist was a pink cummerbund embroidered with daisies and she also had on pink very high heeled shoes.

Her eyes were green—just like they said in the magazines. I thought they looked a little sad, though, although she was smiling and I knew that I was looking at a very brave person because no matter what she felt inside she obviously wasn’t the type to go around with a long face so that everyone would be sympathetic.

I pulled out my list of questions from my purse. But they didn’t include the questions I so much wanted to ask. I wanted to know how she really felt. If her big house seemed terribly lonely. If she had seen Eddie at all during the past few weeks. I wanted to ask but I’d promised. So I looked down at my question No. 1 which said “Biographical Details.”

She began telling me about her childhood and explained that those sort of facts were all on a printed biographical sheet which was put out by the studio publicity department and perhaps I’d like to have one. I said yes.

Then she added, “But I’m going to give you a scoop. Tell you something that’s not on that sheet. It says that my height is five feet one and one-half inches. That’s wrong. I’m only five feet and one-half inch tall.”

I wrote that down as the very first fact that was all my own. I was on my way. But as I looked at her I couldn’t stop myself thinking of her all alone with her children in that enormous house with the large rooms and the pillars . . . and the servants. I wanted to say, are you lonely? But instead I asked politely, “What are your hobbies and sports?”

She said that her children came before anything else, but that she enjoyed tennis, swimming and bowling. She also said she loved colors and her favorites were red and blue. “I have a mad passion for Mexican food, any style, any time and can eat it three times a day,” she confided. I laughed.

I thought I’d try one serious question. “Debbie,” I said, “if you could have the choice of living any place in the world, what place would you choose?”

“That’s easy. There’s no place in the world I’d rather live than in Southern California.”

So I tried another. “Did you always want to be an actress, even when you were little?”

“Heavens, no,” Debbie answered. “My biggest aim in life was to be a gym teacher. It looked like a lot of fun and seemed to be the thing I was most suited to. Even when I did take drama lessons I was considered strictly no-talent Reynolds in those days. And when I did get to Hollywood I was so nervous every time I had to meet someone important that often I would sit and fiddle with my shoe just as you’re doing now.” I hadn’t realized she’d noticed. I grinned sheepishly.

Debbie continued. “One day I remember accepting an invitation to a home for dinner from a woman in the studio who set a formal table, and had the meal served by a maid. I was shook up for weeks after this experience. I was completely confused by all the silver in front of me and I didn’t know which side the maid would serve from next or what to do with what she had when she presented it. I juggled, fumbled and blushed.”

We both laughed at this story, but as we laughed I couldn’t help wondering how she could be so gay. I know I’m only fourteen and not very worldly and I don’t want to sound as though I can fully understand people inside out. But I do know that as I watched Debbie I saw a courageous woman. She wasn’t going to let me know if she felt sad or tired and I admired her so much for this. But it wouldn’t be right to say I was finding out more from Debbie from the things she didn’t say than from what I put down in my notebook. But if seems to me that talking isn’t the only way to speak to someone else. You can speak with your eyes, your facial expressions and your actions, too.

Then she said, “Tell me a little about yourself, Pam.” And I explained that as my father used to be a major in the Air Force we’d lived in many many different parts of the country and abroad too, but since August of 1958 we had lived in California. My father is now a civil engineer working on the ballistic missile program. I told her also that I was a very keen drama student at school.

I was ready for another question when the assistant director came over and said, “Okay, Brigitte, back to work.”

“That’s my latest nickname—Brigitte—after guess who,” Debbie joked. “At least I’m making some progress. On my last picture they kept calling me George.”

Once again I sat and watched Debbie work. If ever I’d had any ambitions to be an actress I would have lost them right then and there. I never realized how hard it was to make a movie. Everything takes so much time. There are so many tiny details that the average moviegoer never is even conscious of. It took fifteen minutes until they were ready to start filming. The .scene was a hard one. It must have been, because they kept doing it over and over and over.

It was almost six o’clock. Debbie had told me that she’d been up since five that morning, and arrived at the studio a little before seven a.m. Now, almost twelve hours later, she was still going strong. After that last scene, I walked Debbie back to her dressing room. There were at least a dozen people waiting to see her, all asking questions about one thing or another, all demanding immediate answers. Patiently she took care of as much as she could. The phone kept ringing. Debbie seemed calmer than any one of us around her. Then she went inside and made a quick change. A few minutes later out came Debbie in capris and a cotton shirt. Seeing her dressed this way, I noticed how really tiny she is. I’m inches taller!

Debbie walked me across the set to the exit. On the way I had her sign my autograph book. She wrote, “To Pam, a very sweet girl. Love, Debbie Reynolds.”

There was only one more thing to take care of before I left. I extended an invitation to Debbie to come to our high school on June 6th, to be the guest celebrity at our annual drama assembly.

“June sixth? Why, who knows if I’ll even be alive on June sixth?” she answered.

The disappointment must have stuck out all over me.

“Oh, I was only kidding. That’s just an expression. Look, Pam, it would be easy to say I’’d love to come. But I never like to make a promise where people will be counting on me unless I’m sure I can keep it. That’s awfully far ahead. I really have no idea what my schedule will look like in June. But I can tell you that if it’s at all possible, I’d like very much to come. Tell you what,” she went on, “I know it’s pretty hard to get through to me sometimes. Here, lend me a sheet of paper and a pencil.”

I gave her the paper and pencil and watched her scribble something.

“This is my folks’ home address. If you write to me there then I’m sure to get it the same day. Why don’t you drop me a note around the third week in May? By then I’ll surely know what I’m doing on June 6th. Besides,” her eyes twinkled, “that will still give you two weeks to invite someone else if I can’t come.”

t was six-thirty as I walked across the almost deserted studio lot and down a side street to Washington Boulevard and our car where Mother was waiting.

I thought of all the things I had wanted to say to Debbie but was unable to because I felt shy about them. I think I’m just like any one of thousands of other Debbie Reynolds fans who admire her so much and want to let her know their feelings. I could never have said to Debbie’s face all I’ve said just now. I wouldn’t have had the nerve to tell her how important it is to girls like me, just entering our teens, to have someone like her to look up to. I wish I could have told her how happy I felt inside because when I met her after seven years of reading about her there wasn’t any disappointment.

I wonder if Debbie realizes that to a lot of us the word fan means friend as well as admirer, or that her fans, people like me who’ve looked up to her for years, are capable of feeling hurt when she feels it? Does she know how we clip pictures of her and her darling children and put them in our wallets or on our dressers right next to pictures of our own family? I feel there are so many girls who would have loved to go on that interview with Debbie that just by telling my story I hope they’ve been able to feel like maybe they were almost there.

—BY PAM LARNER

—AS TOLD TO HOPE MARSHALL

DEBBIE’S IN M-G-M’S “THE MATING GAME” AND HAS RECORDED. THE TITLE SONG FOR M-G-M RECORDS. SHE CAN BE SEEN, TOO, IN 20TH’S “SAY ONE FOR ME” AND IS NOW FILMING “THE RAT RACE” FOR PARAMOUNT.

 

It is a quote. PHOTOPLAY MAGAZINE APRIL 1959