TV Radio Mirror (Jan - Jun 1963)

OF A CHILD scampered gaily toward the bright, shining water. . , . All attempts to revive the small, limp body had failed. And now his wifd was phoning from the Stadium. The police had reached her, too. Though she couldn't believe the word they brought, she had screamed and collapsed. While she was being revived, Mervyn LeRoy had run out to find Winchell, who was wiring items to New York for his column. The heartbreaking task of confirmation was up to Bruce. "Yes, it's true," he told her gently. "Our baby's dead." And, as he waited for Diane Sr. to come home, he thought of all that had happened to bring them to this moment. Not the good times that had seemed to be just starting now, but those earlier years of heartbreak. They had wanted a child so much. But when Diane Jr. actually arrived, it was one of the bleakest Novembers of their lives. Bruce was studying at the Actors' Studio — and driving a cab in a desperate attempt to eke out a living for them both. When the time came he rushed Diane to the hospital. Fifteen hours of labor! And no progress. The doctors decided she wasn't dilating. Decided to operate. Caesarean section, they called it. Finally — after what seemed hours of agony — the words: "Congratulations! You have a little actress in the family." They had their baby. And no money to pay for her. When the usual six days were up, Diane was not permitted to check out until the hospital had been paid in full. It took three more days — with the bills growing daily — before Bruce was able to "ransom" his wife and child. Three days of nightmare he hated to remember. His income from taxidriving simply wasn't enough. And there was no one he knew from whom he could borrow what he needed. No one in New York, that is. At last, he had to do what he'd sworn he would never do. He had to phone his mother in Chicago and tell her of his plight. And his mother agreed to send him a hundred dollars — payable in thirty days. She was that businesslike. Or perhaps it was her way of reminding him how angry she still was at his wanting to be an actor. A funny thing, that. He and Diane had come from such different backgrounds, but they'd both had to give up so much for their careers — and their life together. Maybe he'd given up more, in material things, such as money. But Diane had been excom municated by her church for marrying him — a divorced man. He'd been separated from his first wife, when Bruce and Diane met while appearing in "Orpheus Descending," off Broadway. It hadn't been easy, getting married. For either of them. Not for Diane Elizabeth Ladd (born Ladner), a deeply religious small-town girl from Lumberton, Mississippi. And not for Bruce Dern, scion of a prominent Chicago family, who had to turn over his entire inheritance from his father — $38,000— to get his divorce. That's how they were married. Broke. Without a cent. But that's how he'd been living, ever since he'd quit college and started acting. Once a rich man's kid. His father a famous lawyer. His mother a judge's sister. His grandfather a governor and a member of Franklin D. Roosevelt's cabinet. No actors in the Dern family — until Bruce came along. And, oddly enough, he'd reached his momentous decision while on the University of Pennsylvania track team. The coach had ordered him to shave his sideburns. Angry at this "infringement" of his rights, he'd quit! Later, he enrolled at the American Foundation of Dramatic Art in Philadelphia . . . on his way to (Continued on page 87 ) 39