All My Life (7 page)

I didn’t know a single soul when I took the train in that day. Talk about getting out of my comfort zone! I was relieved when I met other aspiring actors and models at the restaurant. Most were professionally way ahead of me, so I used the opportunity to pick their brains about how to get started as an actor in the Big Apple. Almost immediately, the owner of the pageant and two very kind girls I met took me under their wing. They told me how to pull my portfolio together and about the Ross Reports, which provided names and addresses to various agencies around New York. They explained how to get a good professional head shot, how to create a résumé, and all of the other “must-haves” if you are going to make it as an actress in New York.

When I went back to class the following day, I shared my exciting new findings with my classmates and with Mr. Weyand. He was very understanding and encouraged me to soak in everything I was learning. But he also reminded me that his job was to educate me. His hope was that I would graduate from Marymount and go on to pursue my master’s degree at the John Houseman School of Theater, a part of the famed Juilliard School, one of the most prestigious performing arts conservatories in New York, or go on to audition at the Yale School of Drama. Mr. Weyand fully believed that I had the talent to become a very fine actress. He was always supportive of me even if he didn’t always agree with my choices. I told him I didn’t have a desire to attend graduate school. I just wanted to find my wings and go to New York and act. I was through studying in school. I wanted practical and real-life experience. I knew he was disappointed with that decision, but he agreed to help me write my résumé. It was clear that he felt I should have a career in film or in the theater. Television was certainly not in his game plan. And daytime television? Well, that never even came up.

Back in the 1960s, television was considered by many to be a lesser form of entertainment—but not by me. As a little girl, I would often take my pillow and lie on the floor of the hallway outside my parents’ bedroom and watch their television when I was supposed to be asleep. I watched the Armstrong Circle Theatre and Playhouse 90, and saw all sorts of things I wasn’t supposed to see. I especially remember watching For Whom the Bell Tolls with Maria Schell, particularly the scene where she shared a sleeping bag with a man. That was the first time I had ever seen anything like that, and was completely fascinated. I really don’t know what it was about that movie that stayed with me all of these years, but I have never forgotten watching it. Those amazing shows are what kept me glued to the television set and piqued my interest to watch even more. I was hooked from that point on. So, every time one of my professors would talk down about television, I knew in my heart that I loved it, and as it turned out, someday, it would become my destiny.

The father of one of my girlfriends from Garden City was very good friends with Robert Dale Martin, one of the top executives at CBS. My friend’s father asked if he could help me get a meeting with Mr. Martin. Luckily, and for reasons I will never know, he agreed to see me. When I went to his office, Mr. Martin offered me some of the best advice I was ever given. He said that if I wanted to be an actor in New York, I needed to give myself a year before taking a job out of town. He explained that a lot of young aspiring actors make the mistake of taking the first job they’re offered, which is usually some national touring company of a Broadway show. While it’s great work and can mean really good money, once you’re out of the loop, it is extremely difficult to find your way back in.

“If it’s New York that you want, Susan, then stay here and work,” he said. And he was right. It was excellent advice that I have never forgotten.

“And, there’s one more thing, Susan. You may run up against some issues because you might be considered a little too ‘ethnic-looking’ for television, as you don’t have blond or red hair and you don’t have blue eyes.”

Ethnic-looking? I knew I didn’t look like everyone else when I was growing up, but I had never heard the word ethnic applied to me before. When I was a little girl, my mother and I would watch the Miss America pageants together on television. My mother always pointed out the brunette contestants to show me how beautiful and exotic-looking they were. She always picked one of them to be the winner. I never forgot her descriptive words. Her comments helped me maintain my self-esteem throughout my early years, and now, for the first time, as an aspiring actress, I would pull confidence from those memories to help get me through the inevitable challenges.

While it may seem a little odd to talk about ethnicity in today’s more liberal world, back then Mr. Martin had a valid point. We were a nation tuning in to watch color TV. No one wanted to watch a brunette when they could watch a fiery redhead or golden blonde. Not since I was cast as Cindy Ellen had it occurred to me that my looks would be a detriment to my career. After all, many brunettes such as Sophia Loren and Raquel Welch had made wonderful careers for themselves. I shared my views on the subject and then asked Mr. Martin what he meant by ethnic-looking.

“Those women are exceptional and few and far in between,” he said.

It was strange because I didn’t take his comment to be negative or as a setback. I don’t know if that was because I was young and naive and simply didn’t know any better or if I just didn’t believe that he was right. I probably didn’t take it to heart because I didn’t think he was necessarily talking about me. And besides, I believed in myself. I understood what he was saying, but deep down, I just knew it wouldn’t matter. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that my “look” would become my calling card.

I ended up getting involved in the New York State Miss Universe Pageant, but only for a while. My father never wanted me to become a professional actress. He didn’t believe that it was a wise career choice. Of course, my parents knew nothing about show business. Everything they knew was based on the sensationalized stories they read about in the newspaper. Still, my father was proud that I was asked to be in the pageant, so I went ahead with the competition. I made it to the finals, which was the bathing suit competition. That round of the competition was set to take place in the Catskill Mountains in upstate New York. When I gave my parents the good news, my father didn’t share my happiness. You see, the final round of competition took place the same week as my comprehensive finals and oral exams for school. My father made it utterly clear that I needed to finish school and graduate. Plus, he didn’t love the idea of me parading around in front of a bunch of “dirty old men” in a bathing suit. Of course, he didn’t know any of the men who were judging the competition, but in his mind, they were a bunch of old guys staring at his daughter, and that made them dirty old men. Deep down, I knew my father was right, so I quit the competition and finished school.

Although my academic grades were very good, in order to graduate I was required to take a series of oral exams. Mr. Weyand administered these tests. His first question was posed as an analogy I had to complete:

He said, “Iced tea is to a glass as…”

“A painting is to a frame,” I responded.

“Very good, Miss Lucci,” he replied, expecting things to go as smoothly as I did.

I thought, Okay. This is going to be a breeze. These types of questions went on for four hours. His final question was about a certain character in a play. He wanted to know what “type” I thought this person was.

Type?

I’ve never been one to put labels on people. I vividly remember meeting one of my dad’s coworkers, an ironworker, who had the thickest New York accent I had ever heard. These men were in construction and sounded very rough when they spoke. “Dis, dat, fuhgedaboudit!” That’s what I heard when they bantered with one another. But one afternoon, when my father and his friend picked me up from college, I sat in the car and listened to the two of them discuss everything from free will to dance and art. My expectation was that they would talk about sports or news, but certainly not ballet or opera. That experience taught me never to put labels on people because they just might surprise you.

So when Mr. Weyand asked me about “type,” I was reluctant to answer. I certainly understood that he wanted me to give him a sound bite that would put the character into a box. I refused to do it. I thought about my response for a minute because I wasn’t sure I wanted to risk not graduating over taking a stand. But I had to. I recalled something one of my philosophy teachers had taught me about the concept of both/and. He made it clear that we don’t have to live in a world of either/or because things can be both/and. We have the ability not to choose exclusion. We can also choose inclusion. Yes, it was deeply philosophical, and certainly arguable, but to me, it made perfect sense. I have always wanted to live in a world where both/and was possible. I’d resisted having to make a definite choice since the time I was a little girl playing my favorite board game, the one that required I choose between “Money, Fame, and Love.” It’s not a generational thing, thinking I could grow up to have everything. I really didn’t think one had to make choices that involved sacrificing something else you liked or loved. That was the philosophy of both/and—so I expressed what I felt.

“There are just too many surprises about people. I cannot say that this person is one type or another. The character may be both. This character may embody all types. We don’t know the answer. It’s something to explore.” I held my breath and my ground. Mr. Weyand was frustrated. It was meant to be a simple question. I had made it complex. I didn’t want to be combative. I never want to be argumentative, but I felt I needed to say what I was thinking.

Mr. Weyand refused to pass me. He was so upset about my answer that he stopped the exam and threatened not to graduate me. When the word got out, some of the other department heads spoke to him on my behalf. I was carrying a 3.9 grade point average in my major. The other department heads said there was no real reason for me not to graduate other than the personal opinion of this one man. Thankfully, he compromised and allowed me to take the exam over. This time I passed. I received my bachelor of arts degree in the spring of 1968.

Nineteen sixty-eight was one of the most volatile years in American history. These were tumultuous and changing times for our country and for the world around us. It was a time when nearly everyone my age was examining the establishment. College campuses all over the country were exploding with protests over the Vietnam War. Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were assassinated within two months of each other, and after Lyndon Johnson decided against seeking another term, Richard Nixon was elected president. Women’s rights movements were making strides, but were nowhere close to where they needed to be. I’d heard stories on the news about students at Columbia University burning their books. And women in Manhattan were burning their bras. Things had changed quite a bit since I had started college. When I first got to Marymount, the nuns were in habits and we had to attend a mandatory charm class. We were required to wear white gloves and pearls to mass. By my sophomore year, the nuns were out of their habits and in miniskirts, with dangling earrings. I was rather conservative when I began attending Marymount, but by the time I graduated, even I was different. I remember making the rounds in New York City right after college. I wore a green jersey halter-style dress and no bra. I was so moved by Gloria Steinem and the message she was spreading that I decided to forgo wearing one. So much of what she was saying made complete sense to me. Equal pay for equal work. Hello? How could anyone not get that? Still, it was a different time, where men were the sole breadwinners and therefore made more money. That night, I walked into a restaurant wearing a green halter and no bra. There was a table full of men who stood up and applauded when I walked by.

I spent the summer of 1968 running around New York City and trying whatever I could to land a job. When I wasn’t making the rounds, I was continuing my studies, having enrolled in more acting classes. I studied with the wonderful Wynn Handman, the artistic director of the American Place Theatre, which he cofounded with Sidney Lanier and Michael Tolan in 1963. His role in the theater had been to seek out, encourage, train, and present new and exciting writing and acting talent and to develop and produce new plays by living American writers. Wynn’s classes were very accessible and easy to get to because they usually took place in the afternoon. He taught at a small studio across the street from Carnegie Hall. Someone had told me that Wynn was an excellent drama instructor for women, whereas Uta Hagen, the legendary actress and teacher who was an inspiration for generations of aspiring actors who studied with her at HB Studios in New York City was known as a better teacher for men. As teachers, they followed the studio’s interpretation of the Stanislavski Method. The Stanislavski Method of acting involves a set of techniques meant to create realistic portrayals of characters. The major goal of the Stanislavski Method is to have a perfect understanding of the motivations and objectives of your character in each moment. The technique is most often used for realistic plays, where the goal is to create an accurate idea of normal life.

Now that I was out of college, my parents insisted that I get a real job to earn some money while I pursued acting. I primarily worked as a temp because I knew employers wouldn’t have high expectations of a girl who was there for a day or two. I also knew I would have the necessary flexibility to audition. I worked in offices all over the city, including a grout company. I didn’t even know what grout was, but I did whatever they wanted me to do. I mostly sat in an empty office and waited for someone to ask me to type a letter or answer the phone. A few people called and asked me about grout. I’d have to put them on hold and find someone in the office who could answer their basic questions because I surely didn’t know what I was talking about.

My first professional job was handed to me through Robert Dale Martin. I was asked to be the color girl at the Ed Sullivan Theater. I’d sometimes go there in the afternoon while they put the cameras on me and adjusted their lights. Ironically, I got the job because I didn’t have red or blond hair. My dark eyes, olive skin, and brown hair made it easier for them to set their color codes.