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  When we were called in to redo the show, I was unaware that anything had gone wrong with the pilot. For all I knew, reshooting a pilot was routine, so I didn’t ask any questions. Luckily, the second go-round was a great success, and CBS ordered the series.

  In those days, CBS hosted a big presentation for their upcoming fall lineup of shows. They invited press to the Crystal Ballroom of the Beverly Hills Hotel, where they announced every cast member of each show by name. One by one, we filed onto the stage and took our places on a row of bleachers.

  I bought the most hideous dress for the occasion, not on purpose, just an ill-advised selection. It was an unflattering empire-waist number in a homely cabbage-rose print that was more suitable for a set of drapes. What was I thinking? Why did I do this to myself? Was I going for a look? But then you’ve seen the awards shows: Bad fashion decisions happen to the most glamorous women. Envy the guys in their tuxedos!

  My heart was pumping in my chest when they introduced The Mary Tyler Moore Show and then called my name. I walked out onstage, praying not to trip, and took my spot on the bleachers. It felt like a high school graduation. I was struck by the enormity of what had happened to me. There I was at the lavish Beverly Hills Hotel, surrounded by real luminaries—Carol Burnett, Sonny and Cher, and Walter Cronkite. I could not believe that I was being presented on the same stage as Walter Cronkite!

  From the first day on-set, my confidence began to grow. I worked on the character of Rhoda constantly; I may have driven the writers a little crazy. One day after rehearsal I asked Jim about all the sensational jokes they were writing. “Am I, Valerie the actress, saying these jokes, or is Rhoda the character making them up?”

  Jim looked at me for a moment, probably thinking, Is this a metaphysical quandary, or is this girl just insane? Then he explained, “Well, you’re both funny, so who cares?”

  In addition to improving Rhoda’s accent and mannerisms and honing her humor, I was determined to define her style. When we first began shooting, I was convinced that Rhoda should look schlubby. No one ever told me that was necessary, but I thought it would be interesting, next to the well-turned-out Mary and the fussy Phyllis, for Rhoda to have a different aesthetic. It’s a fact that frumpy can be funny! To help me out, my pal Iva, who has the most exquisite taste, gave me a big bright orange mohair sweater that she was sure would add pounds to Rhoda. It did. When we saw the episode on TV with me wearing the sweater, Iva cried, “Burn it! It makes you look like a dirigible.”

  I started paying more attention to how my wardrobe could bring Rhoda to life. At first I wore whatever off-the-rack outfits Leslie Hall, our costumer, purchased. I also wore unflattering sweat suits, bulky sweaters, and bright colors and prints—anything to add more weight. Around the third show, I began to notice that Mimi Kirk, Mary’s stand-in and personal assistant, always came to work dressed in gorgeous bohemian clothes. She was a very beautiful earth mother from Venice Beach, all batik, macramé, handcrafted jewelry, and the most fabulous head wraps. She wore long skirts she had made out of ornately embroidered old jeans. And since Rhoda, a window dresser, could be eccentric and creative, I thought she might dress a little more eclectically, a little more like Mimi Kirk.

  With Jim and Allan’s approval, I started copying Mimi’s look. Before The Mary Tyler Moore Show, I had never in my life worn a head scarf. We started off with a silk scarf tied around my low ponytail, then moved to a handkerchief covering my crown, and finally graduated to one of Mimi’s ornate multiple-scarf head wraps. Rhoda’s gypsy-woman look became an intrinsic part of her quirky character, while providing a little side benefit—camouflage dressing. Flowing skirts, long vests, and cardigans can minimize a multitude of lumps and bumps. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but when I see larger women in extremely clingy clothes, I just want to shout, “Tight is not your friend!” But then the feminist in me counters, “Go on, wear whatever the hell you please. Good for you for not caring.”

  Rhoda’s love of eating and her weight problems were a gold mine of comic possibility—and true to life. One of the writers, Charlotte Brown, told me about an upcoming script in which Mary and I are exercising in tights and leotards. Seeing the look of sheer horror on my face, Charlotte patted my arm and said, “You still have time.” We both laughed at the all too familiar refrain of having to lose weight to get in camera-ready shape. Luckily, I managed to convince “the guys” that it would be funnier if Mary was in tights and Rhoda was in a baggy sweatsuit. In another episode, as our girls nervously await their dates, Mary offers Rhoda some chips and she replies, “No thanks. I’ve got to lose ten pounds by eight o’ clock.”

  Women really identified with Rhoda because her problems and fears were theirs. Despite the fact that she was the butt of most of her own jokes, so to speak, running down her looks and her potential, she never acted defeated. Her confident swagger masked her insecurity. Rhoda never gave up.

  As the first season progressed, I often found myself getting incredibly nervous on show night. When filming approached, I’d become terrified that I wouldn’t be good enough. I was worried that there hadn’t been enough rehearsal, that there were too many changes to the script, that I didn’t know my part. Mary gave me some calming advice. She told me not to think about the entire show but to concentrate on one scene at a time. On show night, standing just off the set, we’d run our lines for the upcoming scene. When we’d finished filming that scene, we’d dash back to our dressing rooms and change our costumes, reconvene, and run lines for the next scene, thinking of only one scene at a time. It was a very simple but valuable tip.

  From the start Mary was professional, supportive, and a delight to work with. She was always on time and always knew her lines. She was a remarkable leader but never acted like “the star.” As Mary Richards, Mary was always “straighting” for the rest of us, who played more flamboyant characters. She would suggest to the writers, “Why don’t you give that joke to Val? It’s more of a Rhoda line.” On breaks between scenes, Mary often did needlepoint. A real expert, she turned out beautiful pieces for her home: pillows and chair seats. When she sewed, she wore tiny reading glasses that made her look like a glamorous young granny. The first year of the show, she needlepointed each of the cast members a lovely rectangular pillow with our initials and the signature Mary Richards beret dangling off one of the letters. She must have used up all of her weekends sewing these surprise gifts. Another treasured gift from Mary was a long gold latchkey with the inscription 119 Wetherly, our fictitious address on the show. Ever the generous girl.

  While Mary imbued her on-screen alter ego with much of her own personality, Mary Richards was truly a created character. The real-life Mary was droller, wittier, and much more sophisticated. Mary Tyler Moore’s humor was dry. Mary Richards’s was sweet and slightly square.

  Although Mary smoked, she refused ever to smoke on the show. She was adamant that she not pass along her bad habit to anyone in the audience. “I’m hooked,” she’d say. “I don’t want to help hook anyone else.” She was ahead of her time with a keen awareness and sense of responsibility.

  Like Mary, Ed Asner brought much of his own personality and prodigious acting skills to his portrayal of the lovably gruff Lou Grant. In the ill-fated first version of the pilot, Lou was tough and abrasive, which didn’t play well. For the reshoot, the writers softened him and smoothed his edges. They wanted him to be hard on Mary Richards but not to eat her alive. Ed played this perfectly. Offscreen, he’s strongly committed to a world that works for everyone. It was Ed who invited me to my very first Screen Actors Guild meeting. And no one has done more charity benefits. His rough and rugged exterior masks such extraordinary sweetness that when he lets his softer side show, he is impossible not to love. When he smiles, his entire face shines from within, where the really tender Ed Asner resides.

  Ed loved seashells. He often talked about his collection and even offered to bring it in one day to show the cast and crew. I always assumed that if he ever got around to it
, he would haul in great big boxes of conch and abalone shells. One morning when I walked onto the set, I saw Mary giggling to herself in the corner. She beckoned me over. “You have to come look at Ed and his shells,” she said. “It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Ed had just returned from a run. He was in his gym clothes and still sweating as he bent over a velvet cloth—the kind jewelers use to display diamonds. He was holding a set of tweezers in his meaty hand, using them to pick up the smallest, most delicate shells imaginable. The sight of this stocky man in a sweatsuit picking up these tiny, fragile shells was both lovely and amusing. Just like Ferdinand the Bull.

  As impossible as it was not to love Ed, it was just as difficult not to adore Gavin McLeod, who was charming, hilarious, and my gossip buddy. He was like that kid in homeroom who made you laugh just by looking at you. And Ted, dear Ted Knight, who, when he donned his black-framed glasses, reminded us all of Barry Goldwater. There were times during rehearsal when Ted was so damn funny that he made everyone on the set laugh until we cried and couldn’t continue working. The writers created a great comedy role in Ted Baxter, but it was Ted Knight who brought this preposterous newsman to life with his willingness to play an absolute fool. Ted used two local anchormen as inspiration for his character—white-haired Jerry Dunphy for his saner moments and George Putnam for his over-the-top mannerisms.

  Ted loved a deli called Art’s that was on Ventura Boulevard near the studio. It wasn’t long before he had Ed and Gavin addicted to their enormous pastrami sandwiches. To this day, I remember the sight of the marvelous trio sauntering down the street on their way to lunch, laughing and joking all the way.

  Every once in a great while, I joined the guys at Art’s, but most often I ate lunch with Cloris Leachman. She was a vegetarian and we shared many a terrific salad. I loved Cloris immediately and we became “girlfriends,” as she has always referred to us. She was fun, intellectually curious, and thoroughly committed to the art of acting. She also had her hands full with five young children, all adorable—Adam, Brian, George, Morgan, and Dinah—which sometimes caused her to rush into rehearsal at the last minute.

  She was unorthodox and outspoken, unable to stop herself from sharing, unsolicited, her tastes and opinions. If she saw someone smoking, Cloris would cajole the cigarette out of his or her hand by the most colorful means. “You don’t need that cigarette. I’ll give you a delightful shoulder massage or a long, loving hug instead.” And she did. The smoker really didn’t need the cigarette after that. Cloris was a whirlwind, but a delightful and charming one, overflowing with talent and enthusiasm. She was so dynamic that at times she appeared to be larger than the space she occupied.

  I felt incredibly lucky to be a part of such a wonderful television community. At Mimi’s cheerful instigation, Sandro, one of the background performers on Mary Tyler Moore, helped Dick and me throw a polenta party for the cast and creative staff of the show in our tiny kitchen. We made enough polenta for all of Sicily! Just like in Italy, we served the polenta right on the table without dishes. Sandro brought his mother’s polenta pot and special stirring stick, and all of us took a turn at the stove. Dick covered the table with a large wooden board that served as our shared plate. When it was cooked, Sandro and Mimi spread the polenta onto this plank and covered it with tomato sauce, meatballs, and sausage. It looked like an enormous pizza and it was unlike anything any of us (except Sandro, of course) had ever experienced. There was a lovely communal feeling to this unusual dinner party. And it was delicious.

  The social and collegial atmosphere continued on- and offset. We were all professional, working adults with families at home and children were often around the soundstage having fun, albeit quietly. Mimi’s three great kids, Lisa, Jonas, and Mia, helped their mother set out fresh fruit and vegetable platters to transform our junk food-laden craft service table. Incidentally, Mimi first initiated that practice that’s now commonplace on television and film production sets.

  After Dick and I moved to a larger house, Leah’s children—Victor, Tony, and Tanya—began spending lots of time with us in summer and were regular visitors at Auntie Val’s workplace. Mary’s teenage son, Richie, and I got on very well. I once caught him and Mary’s much younger sister, Elizabeth, smoking in my dressing room. I told them I wouldn’t rat them out to Mary if they never did it again. After all, Rhoda wouldn’t tell on Bess to Phyllis.

  The Mary Tyler Moore Show was not a “family show” in the traditional sense; however, the writers did a fantastic job of creating material that was wholesome enough for family viewing but was intelligent comedy. While they never did smarmy stuff, they managed to give the characters, especially Rhoda and Phyllis, a bit of bite. In an episode where Rhoda tells Mary that she’s going to stay in a motel, Phyllis quips, “Well, Rhoda, it won’t be the first time.” This amazing team of writers kept it clean enough for ten-year-olds but allowed adults in on the joke.

  They succeeded in creating and maintaining vivid male and female characters who weren’t caricatures—Mary Richards and her equally strong cohorts, Rhoda and Phyllis, were wonderful roles to play. Jim and Allan were serious about striking the proper balance between silliness and strength, including when it came to writing the female leads. The characters were sophisticated. They spoke like actual adults and had real adult problems to which they responded humorously.

  Jay Sandrich, the show’s exceptional director, was politically liberal and brought a terrific sensibility to the set. On breaks, we all sat around and had intriguing conversations about the headlines that day. Jay was extremely well informed and passionate about having a more just society. I had read a lot of Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, Andrea Dworkin, and Robin Morgan, and I was a regular customer at the Sisterhood bookstore in Westwood. During my work with Story Theatre, Paul Sills urged the female cast members “to get wise to this new wave of feminism.” I don’t remember ever consciously imposing any of these ideas on the writers, but Jay credits me with bringing a feminist awareness to The Mary Tyler Moore Show.

  Jim used to say, “I know there’s a world of comedy in my wife’s purse, but I just can’t access it. Allan and I don’t do that panty-hose-and-nail-polish stuff well.” For an expanded point of view, “the guys” went out of their way to hire female writers—Treva Silverman, Charlotte Brown, Pat Nardo, Gloria Banta, Marilyn Suzanne Miller, Linda Bloodworth-Thomason, and many more. Until The Mary Tyler Moore Show came along, comedy writing had been a male-dominated profession. Thanks to Jim and Allan, more women were getting their say in what ended up on television.

  While Jim and Allan were adamant that none of their material be sexist, they steadfastly avoided being preachy. In the early days, Treva, who was often the sole woman in the writers’ room, had to hold the line on occasion. In one episode, the buffoonish Ted Baxter reveals that he keeps a little black book of women organized according to hair color: Br, Blo, Bla, Red. The original script called for Mary simply to stand by while Ted ran his mouth. But Treva stepped in and insisted that Mary give a rejoinder. She explained that Mary could not stand there letting Ted get away with that kind of comment. It was 1971. Our heroine would speak up! Jim and Allan and the boys agreed.

  The first season was not a huge ratings success. It finished the year in thirty-third place out of fifty network television shows. But the young TV columnist for The Hollywood Reporter trade paper, Sue Cameron, a cute little brunette, pulled me aside after filming. She whispered, “Don’t sweat the ratings. This show is gold and will only get shinier.” Sue was right. The show was a critical success and snagged a host of Emmy nominations. Naturally, Mary was nominated for Best Actress in her role as Mary Richards. Ed Asner got a Best Supporting Actor nod for Lou Grant. Jim and Allan were recognized for writing, and Jay Sandrich for directing. And I—Rhoda—was absolutely astounded to learn that my name had been thrown into the ring for Best Supporting Actress!

  Remembering all too well the disastrous dress with the cabbage roses, I wasn’t tak
ing any chances with the Emmys. I enlisted the help of my friend Gene Varrone to find me the perfect gown. Gene had stunning taste. We found a lovely black silk halter dress at a chic shop in the West Village called Chiaroscuro, where everything was black or white. He thought it would look great with a pair of antique gold earrings that Iva had given me. I told Gene that I was too heavy for such a clingy style. “It’s black. The skirt is A-line. Wear it!” he said.

  And I did. Dick and I drove our own car to the ceremony. It was terribly exciting being there, and as cliché as it is, I have to say, “It was an honor just to be nominated.” When they called my name as the winner in the Best Supporting Actress category, my head began to buzz. I could not believe what was happening. Surely there had been a mistake. My thoughts were to make it to the stage without jamming my high heel through the hem of the gown and to deliver my speech without embarrassing myself or forgetting to thank someone.

  Jack Benny and Lucille Ball presented me the award. I can’t think of two people more incredible to find myself onstage with at that moment. I was completely stunned. I was so excited that I unthinkingly blurted out: “Lucy, remember me?”

  Her face froze in a wide smile. She had no idea that we’d ever met. Why would she? I scrambled to clarify. “From Wildcat. On Broadway.” How could I have expected her to remember a chorus dancer from a Broadway show ten years earlier?

  “Of course, Wildcat,” she said. And though she was still at a loss, she gracefully pretended to remember me, playing along for the audience’s sake as well as mine.

  It was a spectacular night for our little show. Ed, Jay, Jim, and Allan all won in their categories. The big disappointment of the evening was that Mary did not win for Best Actress. She was the linchpin of our show, the force that kept us all together. I had been so sure she would win. When I told Mary how disappointed I was for her, she smiled and said, “It’s just show business.”