It’s Not Who You Are That Matters, It’s When

Fifteen years old, the original ink in my bar mitzvah fountain pen yet in need of a refill, I was transplanted from the gray city of Chicago to the sunny planet of Los Angeles, where, in a tanosecond, unpronounceable Polish streets were replaced by ones in equally unpronounceable Spanish. (The J is silent? To one raised as a Ew?)

To me, the then-Eden-like atmosphere of L.A. took a rumble seat to the fact that I’d been dropped down in the place that had spawned every marvelous (and terrible) movie I had sat through at least twice on every single Saturday of my young life (including the Saturday I received the above mentioned pen). Now a student at Fairfax High, majoring in Indifference, all I really ever thought about was becoming the next Donald O’Connor.

I couldn’t sing, I couldn’t dance and I couldn’t act, but I did have a God-given gift for imagining my name in lights. That, and some inexplicable ability for writing what passed for comedy sketches that were performed at the high school auditorium. In due time, one of my classmates, a budding actress (I couldn’t help noticing), asked me to write some material she might use when auditioning for various studio talent scouts. (In those days, it was the function of people called scouts to pick out the talent their bosses would later give chase to around their massive desks, always adorned with family photos.) What I put together was a short comic scene that we could perform together. And to my amazement, I was offered a screen test for a film that had begun shooting at 20th Century Fox. (Sadly, my classmate was told that she had a great deal more budding to do before she could think of a movie career or even do laps around anyone’s desk.)

The movie--my passport to Donald O’Connordom--was a frothy ‘40s comedy, “Junior Miss,” and its director, a man with a lengthy string of movie hits, was George Seaton. He arranged to test me acting my teenage heart out in a short scene with a real, live Hollywood starlet, Mona Freeman.

Came the day. Came the test.

My character (Sterling Brown) is trying to get a goodnight kiss from his date, Lois Graves (Ms. Freeman). The script calls for him to lean in close and for Lois to bring her lips close to his. (Oh God, wait till they see this in Chicago!) The camera’s rolling. I lean toward her. She likewise leans. Only in place of a lip lock, Ms. Freeman bursts into sudden laughter. The take is ruined. Mr. Seaton is not amused. Waiting around in the movie business is very expensive idleness. Harry Graves, Lois’ father in the film, clears his loud, impatient throat.

Mr. Graves is being played by the esteemed character actor Allyn Joslyn, who, oddly enough, shows absolutely no sign of recognizing me in spite of the countless Saturday afternoons that I sat in the audience just a few feet from where he was doing his work right in front of me, on the screen.

When Seaton asks Ms. Freeman what’s wrong, why did she break into laughter, she takes the director to one side and tells him (not quite softly enough) that she couldn’t help it. Why couldn’t she help it? “He’s just so funny-looking,” she answers.

Telling her to control herself, Seaton orders a second take. We return to our places. Trying hard to conceal my herniated ego, I lean in once again, feeling a lot more silver plate than sterling, in the hope of getting my very first screen kiss. This time, being a pro, not wanting to waste any expensive camera time, Ms. Freeman laughs out loud a whole lot faster.

Mel Torme got the part. While a lifetime fan of his voice, I always thought Mel Torme was a whole lot funnier-looking than I ever was.

Flash forward: The time: 1973. The place: a Directors Guild of America meeting.

Now in my own frothy 40s, and acting as writer, co-producer and occasional director of the “MASH” series, I was introduced by a mutual friend to a fellow guild member, the very same George Seaton. To my surprise, he immediately launched into a rave, offering one superlative after another about my work on the series, going on at some length, employing the most lavish of terms.

When I told him that we had first met when he turned me down for the role in “Junior Miss” some 30 years earlier, Seaton, without missing a beat, shot back: “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”