TV Radio Mirror (Jul - Dec 1962)

I meet the right young man and get married. Then I'll follow the example of my sister DeeDee, and leave the business to settle down and keep house and raise a family. That's what I want most in life and, for that, college is not needed. I'd rather the money went to one of my kid brothers, who will need a profession because he'll have to support his own family some day. The evening after my birthday party, I was sitting for a little while by my IlllllllllllllllillllllllJ JOHN LARKIN (Continued from page 36) my career a terrific shot in the arm . . . and renewed my faith in myself. It never would have happened — in a manner of speaking — if I hadn't felt forced to close one door first before opening a new one. "For nearly ten years, after I got out of the Army in 1946 and moved to New York, I portrayed an array of characters on radio — including Perry Mason, as a daytime serial. I loved doing radio and always felt happy. Every performance was stimulating and different. "In the midst of this tranquil setup, however, a monster called television reared its magnificent head. Most of us actors refused to believe it was here to stay. But radio drama suddenly went thataway, and I had no choice. '"The Edge of Night' started April 2nd, 1956, and I, of course, started with it — five days a week, for five-and-a-half years. In retrospect, I now realize I should have pulled up stakes when this show came along — popular as it was — and instinctively I knew it. Had I found the time and made greater effort to explore my feelings, I might have recognized the obvious dangers of being tied down to an eight-year contract. "But I chose to play Mike Karr, and each day I rehearsed daily from nine in the morning until four-thirty in the afternoon — the show's air-time. Television was highly experimental in those days, and I guess this aroused my curiosity. No one thought I could maintain the pace and this also presented an irresistible challenge. Last — and far from least— there was the financial security which provided handsomely for my family. "Creatively speaking, however, it was exhaustive drainage. "The whole truth," John says bluntly, "is that, after the first few years, the show got to be a bore and ceased to be a challenge. Working at ^uch close proximity and at such pace, outbursts of temperament and personality clashes were unavoidable. I never wore makeup on live TV, so I had to work-out physically to keep from looking like a sack of meal. "Each weary night at home, it was imperative for me to study my lines for T (he following day. This automatically v ruled out all social activity. The time R element was too demanding, when there were excellent opportunities to do other things. So I lost out. While the show 78 self at the edge of the lake. Mother saw me and she strolled down and sat alongside me. "Penny for your thoughts," she said. I looked at her, and honestly, there were tears in my eyes. I couldn't help it. "Mom," I said, "I'm so — so grateful . . . you and Dad, the family, everybody . . . why do I deserve it — all this kindness and love? I feel it's like the time we bought the piano 'on time.' We enjoyed it, but we still were under a continued to offer a great deal of security for me, it ceased to be rewarding as an actor. "Finally — when my family life began falling apart — my generous contract became meaningless. "Slowly but surely, I was turning into an irritable, hard-to-live-with man. At first, I wasn't too aware of the danger, even though it became impossible to leave the show in the studio when I came home exhausted, tied up in knots. Thank God, my lovely wife Audrey was patient and understanding far beyond the call of duty! There is no way to estimate her contribution, and I know I couldn't have survived without her. "She encouraged me to follow through, whenever I threatened to leave the show . . . but then I'd think of my responsibilities and turn milk-toasty again. Audrey loved southern California and talked about it often. Ironically — although I was born in Oakland, across the bay from San Francisco — I had never even driven down the Coast to Hollywood. "Something seemed to snap" "Finally, everything came into focus. It happened very suddenly. When I came home one night, our adorable little girl, Victoria, ran up and threw her arms around me. Something inside just seemed to snap. I exploded — and chased the poor, bewildered child out of the room! Sick at heart, I saw myself as I really was, and I knew this couldn't go on. I might even lose my wife and child. "Although 'The Edge of Night' had become the number-one daytime show, I had stopped feeling like an actor. Audrey and I talked things over, far into the night. We realized a change would mean giving up a lot of money and position. We had no big investments, and I had no idea where I might go — or what I might do. But one thing was for sure : I had to escape from what I considered confinement on the show." It was Audrey, in her wise way, who managed to set the perfect scene for action. Remembering that she had married a sun worshipper, she persuaded John to try southern California on his precious vacation, "just to see what it's like." They flew out in June of 1961 — and were the only two people on the plane who carried raincoats! Skeptical John was thoroughly prepared not to be impressed. "Instead," he grins, running his strong fingers through his steel-gray mane, "I was astounded that such heavy debt that had to be paid . . ." My mother is one of the wisest people I ever met. She took my hand and squeezed it very hard. "If you didn't actually become a woman yesterday," she said, "you sure have taken a big step toward it tonight. . . ." — as told to Eunice Field Janet Lennon and her sisters sing on "The Lawrence Welk Show," seen Saturdays, 9 to 10 p.m. edt, on ABC-TV. weather existed! In New York, you get up and rush to the window to see what kind of a day it is and dress accordingly. I never particularly cared for New York, even after sixteen years — it's overly big, needlessly frantic, and I could never understand why everyone was constantly in a hurry. In Beverly Hills, every day was a day of beauty." Though John talked to a dozen agents — and finally settled on one, Ray Sackheim — he never said the magic words Audrey was longing to hear . . . until they were on the plane going back to New York. He sat quietly, his head fairly bursting with plans, then suddenly leaned toward his wife and nonchalantly squeezed her hand as he remarked casually, "One thing's for sure, dear. When we move back to California, we're going to leave these crummy raincoats in New York!" Audrey just nodded and turned quickly toward the window, to hide the sudden moisture in her eyes. Although John had two-and-a-half years to go on his contract, he decided to ask for his release seven months hence. Back in New York, his little bombshell created a day of doom for those directly concerned. There was tremendous opposition. They offered more money, more time to John for himself. They even agreed to give him three months off each summer . . . before they realized they were losing the battle and let him go. "It was all done in friendly fashion," John insists, "and we parted the best of friends. Frustrated actors, who had failed to cut the mustard in Hollywood, tried to curtail my enthusiasm. They warned me that Hollywood was a cold, unfriendly town and a death-trap for anyone except the big shots. But our hopes were high, so we still weeded out the stuff we wanted to keep from our apartment and shipped it on ahead. "When the three of us drove across country, it was a glorious adventure. We could hardly contain ourselves, as we came closer to our new life in the land of sunshine. But when the great day came for our arrival in Hollywood, the rain was pouring down in such torrents, we saw automobiles floating down the streets!" The disillusioned migrators were holed up in a Hollywood apartment for five months, while it continued to pour and the wind continued to howl. Their incarceration was especially rough on Victoria, who had no place to play. And, in the meantime, Audrey was pregnant again . . . and John hadn't