Some of Shelley's Reds

by Dave Harrison

I met the actress Shelley Winters in 1978 when we were working together in a troupe of Golightly (a Broadway version of "Breakfast at Tiffany's" that originated at the National Theatre), for which I was plucked from an Annandale teen theatre group. Neither of us had especially big parts, a point I understood and Ms. Winters did not.

I was 17, and I portrayed one of two nosy neighbor boys. Shelley was 54, she played my mother, acted like my sister and asked to be my girlfriend. I never gave her a straight answer, a decision I've regretted for 18 years.

Now, as I anticipate my appearance in her third autobiography, Shelley III-- due for hardback release soon-- I can't help thinking back to that lightweight play and that heavy lady, and wondering what the hell she's going to say about it all. I have a few clues.

In a recent Details magazine article, Dame Shelley described the late '70's as her "frisky" period, her "lost adolescence." When a 52-year-old woman discovers her adolescence, it's one thing. When it's a 52-year-old woman who wears leopard jumpers and glitter pumps; discusses the "theatre-of-the-absurd" as though it's a new concept; swigs snifters of Scotch and greets strangers with a Black Power handshake, it's another story. My story. Our story.

It began with an odd episode, during the middle of a relatively laid-back day, when Shelley became obsessed with Scotch. Not with drinking it, but in acquiring a "brand,' which she apparently had yet to do in her 20-odd years of Scotch sipping.

In her quest for ultimate friskiness, she was convinced one could only be a convincing drinker (and for Shelley-- as was true of most sexually-liberated women of her generation-- sex and booze were intertwined in ways that made little sense to sexually-liberated males) if one had a regular brand that one ordered. She was convinced buckaroo/actor Ty Hardin had dumped her 10 years earlier because she would merely order a "scotch" when queried by a bartender of houseboy.

Her solution would require research (the MLK library-- not the Library of Congress, thank God!), taste tests (I was willing, a miscalculation that twice led to Shelley's bed), and on-the-job training (she would cab to Georgetown bars and gauge the bartenders' reactions to each brand ordered. She seemed genuinely surprised that Aristocrat was not a hit at the Pal Mal.)

As my theatrical brother Wit Mitchell predicted, Shelley ended up simply picking the most expensive Chivas Regal. And, as I predicted, she soon began calling her Scotch by its first name.

Shelley and Wit and I often left the National for Georgetown or Dupont Circle as soon as our last scene was over, not even bothering to wait out the end of the play. Linda Lavin had the Audrey Hepburn role, and Shelley couldn't stand her. (I've always wondered what Truman thought of her).

One night, after Dame Linda had complained that Shelley was playing her radio " too Goddamned loud" while getting ready for the show, Shelley taught the rest of the cast a wicked British stage trick, something she had learned in the early '60's with Margaret Leighton.

During their first scene together, Linda was getting no laughs. She was absolutely bombing. At first, we figured it was just a tough crowd, but then they howled at Linda's jokes 10 minutes later, after Shelley had exited. Next time out, though, the same thing happened, and Linda, like us, didn't have a clue.

The next night, it was the same deal. Linda was dying, but only when she was out there with Shell. It took a few Chivas', but after that second show, we finally got Shelley to fess up.

A joke, of course, usually consists of a set-up as well as an answer, and in Golightly, this formula wasn't exactly stretched. Shelley would deliver the set-up, and then would move ever-so-slightly, so that the audience's eyes stayed on her, instead of moving over to Linda. So when Linda delivered the zinger, no one was paying attention. (I learned later that Linda tried the same trick the next spring while filming "Alice," and Polly Holiday damn near smashed her teeth in. A California friend says its supposed to be in TV Babylon III and I sure hope it is!)

When we went out drinking, we were occasionally joined by Murray Head, who had the George Peppard role. (Curt Jurgens, playing my father, rounded out the cast. He drank port and hung out in Bethesda)

Shelley liked Pal Mal, where Wit and I could always drink liquor, and she liked the Childe Harold, where the manager acted like she was a huge-ass deal and always asked her questions about Time of Indifference and Tony Franciosa.

There were punks hanging around Dupont then, and Shelley never quite knew what to make of them. Nor they of her.

I'm tempted to say it was Lyle from Minor Threat that she hit on one night as we were sitting in front of the Mirror Grille next to the old Madam's Organ on 18th Street.

"Young Man," she said. "Where are you from?"

"Reston. Where do you come from?"

"Ma-a-a-a-a-a-a-an...hattan."

"So what you are doing down here?"

"I'm an actress. Of the three or four dozen American women with two pussies, I'm the only one who ever bothered to take acting lessons. Ya' know, Jane Fonda has two, but she never went to acting school."

One of the guys in Lyle's band asked whether Sandy Dennis had two pussies. Shelley had some new friends. A few hours later they joined our table, Shelley promised to take us all up to her pad on the Upper East side that Monday for a "disco-style" party. How could we refuse?

First Class on the Amtrak. Limo service from Penn Station to Lexington Avenue. A bellhop carrying our suitcases. A massive but understated skyline. Haagen-Daz ice cream in the freezer, Grape Nuts in the cupboard, three 6-packs of Michelob in the fridge, and enough wine to get half of Jersey City tipsy.

And when it came to the arts, Shelley's scene was ultra vivid. A deluxe National Geographic globe on the knick-knack shelf; a framed, autographed picture of Shelley and her "dear-friend" Carson McCullers in the main hall; and a not-bad record collection Dylan, Carole King, Theodore Bikel, Station to Station and two racks of space-age Bachelorette Music. Martinis, Mallets, Mottola and Manhattan. Anisette, Accordions and Ample bosom.

Shelley was kind enough to invite three of her younger neighbor ladies (and two bellhops) over to the pad, and she let the building restaurant's manager know that the wait staff were welcome when they finished work. The party was on. Shelley slow-danced with Wit a bit too exuberantly, but she was generally well-behaved. When Lyle's bandmate popped on a punk 45-- I'm guessing the Dictators-- Shelley turned the volume up. She brought out the "grass" from an oriental tin, and it's a good thing I hadn't yet seen Wild in the Streets or I would have hopped the next train back to D.C. and stormed the Senate.

Sleeping arrangements were informal, Shelley informed us. I laid down in guest room #3 at about 245 and by 250 I was hearing that distinctive Brooklyn voice, the one that had lovingly cooed on celluloid to Monty Clift, Ronald Coleman, James Mason and Antonio Fargas. She touched her hand gently to the back of my neck and muttered, "star boy."

"What did you call me?"

"Star boy. You're the one that makes the picture go. I mean the play, the. . . play. I've had so much wine I. . ." She lifted her hand dramatically from my neck to her face, smiled, laid down next to me and whispered the words a few more times. "Star boy." It rolled off her lips with a surprising lilt, and that's probably the only reason I didn't bolt.

At 52, Shelley was hardly a bathing beauty, but I'll give her this the woman could still wear leopard. Still can. She looked (at the moment) more like the sexpot that titillated Michael Caine in Alfie than Ernie Borgnine's dearly beloved in The Poseidon Adventure. Still . . .

We laid more or less still in bedroom #3 for about 15 minutes while the music got louder and the smell of grass became stronger. Then there was a knock on the door, and then the creaking of the hinge. It was actor Farley Granger-- the man whose photo (I would notice the next day) adorned the nightstand in bedroom #3-- and he began laughing in a very controlled manner. I instinctively lifted my torso from under the cover to get across the idea that I had my trousers on, and Shelley loudly asked where the hell I thought I was going. I hadn't spoken for 15 minutes, I didn't speak then, and I wouldn't speak until morning.

Mr. Granger began muttering a few words, one of which was either "goofball" or "lovedoll." The other was definitely "starfucker."

"No one has actually been fucked in this room tonight," Shelley slurred, very inappropriately, leaving open far more possibilities than were possible.

"Not even the star?" he asked.

"He's the goddamn star," Shelley said, meaning to pat me gently on the head but instead giving me two good chucks. "Get out," she half-hollered at Granger, knowing just how loud she could yell without derailing the disco train out front.

Then she made the only truly film noir move I've ever seen from an actress. Her personality changed completely. In two seconds, she transformed herself from hellcat to kitty cat.

"I'm sorry baby. I shoulda told ya' about the party. But I didn't know it would get so crazy out there. I needed to get away and I thought I'd talk to my little actor friend here."

I had to think. A flush was higher than a full house, and a lieutenant tops a sergeant, but does "starboy" outrank "baby"? I doubted it.

Time had been a bit kinder to Farley than Shelley. His hair was thoroughly silver, but he was only about 10 pounds above his playing weight in Rope. He looked distinguished. He was probably still pulling in enough "McCloud" guest spots to hit the Y every day, and he was taking off his jacket, and I thought he was gonna kick my ass. Shelley's honor was at stake.

"What's your name, kid?"

I said earlier I didn't speak through the entire ordeal, and I didn't. Shelley spoke up for me.

"His name is Demetrious. He's in Golightly. He's a nice kid, Farley. A nice kid."

Mr. Granger dove into the bed between me and Shelley, and we parted a bit to make room.

"What's your role?" Farley asked me, nonchalantly beginning to strip, backlit by a Donald Duck nightlight.

"He plays Falstaff, and he's very funny," she answered. "Perfect timing. You should hear the audience howl."

"Do you know who you went to bed with tonight?" he asked. Again, I was about to speak. He answered his own questions "The only Academy Award winner that has two pussies."

"Hey, what about Gina Lollabridgida?" Shelley blurted, and they both giggled. "Twice nominated, never a winner," Farley said.

It was a sick act. I expected better from Hollywood pros. Linda Lavin's Betty Ford impressions were at least as funny.

When the sun came up, we were still a trio; Shelley, wearing flannel PJs, on the left; me, fully clothed, on the right; and Farley Granger, wearing silk boxers and a Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, in the middle.

I left the room quietly and fixed a bowl of Grape Nuts. Then I crept into guest room #2 and slept next to Wit until noon.

The rest of the day was cheery in a New York kind of way. Touch football in Central Park. Shelley jumps. Shelley lunges. Shelley slaps butt. It was the kind of lazy day that never makes it into Shelley's autobiographies.

We palled around after we got back to D.C. for our Wednesday night show, and I even took Shelley home one night to have dinner with my family. Wit and I got to handle the same roles when Golightly moved to Baltimore for a five-night run, but the producers wouldn't pay to put us up when the show moved to Pittsburgh and Cincinnati.

Shelley got a couple of new neighbor boys to play with, and maybe they will be in Shelley III instead of me and Wit. If so, we'll probably all be better off. I didn't tell the whole story about that night on Lexington Ave., and I'm betting she won't either.

--- Dave Harrison