The Boys : A Memoir of Hollywood and Family(103)
Dad and I pounded out a draft of this story and turned in a script to Roger with the title Grand Theft Auto. Frances Doel came back to us with a few notes. We made adjustments accordingly. A day after receiving our revision, Roger called me.
“Ron, Roger here!” he said, his voice full of cheer. “We like your second draft of the script and we’ve budgeted to produce the film for $602,000, which is a lot of money for New World Pictures. We’ve already designed the poster. Your first shooting day will be March the second. Congratulations. You’re going to direct your first film!”
All I could muster in my relief and shock was a wobbly “Thanks.” It was the fastest green light I have ever received in my filmmaking career, up to and including the present day.
In the moment, I was too euphoric and future-focused to see the parallels. My career as an actor began with a providential nudge from Rance Howard. “By the way, I have a son who is a fine actor,” he told the receptionist at MGM. Had Dad not come through twenty years later—basically saying, By the way, I have an idea for a fine screenplay—I’m not sure I would have been given this first opportunity to direct.
THE HAPPY DAYS gang was ecstatic at hearing my news. Henry, Anson, and Donny told me they were proud of me. Marion Ross agreed to take a part in the movie, working for scale and playing against type as the pushy, entitled mother of Collins Hedgeworth. Garry Marshall requested a cameo, so I gladly gave him a small role as a gangster. Jim Ritz, one of the show’s writers and a friend of mine, signed on to play a bumbling cop and has since appeared in a dozen more of my movies.
They were all well-versed in my ambition to direct because . . . well, because I never shut up about it. I’m sure my nonstop babbling annoyed the folks on Stage 19 sometimes. But none of them ever cast aspersions on my dream. Their spirit was best summarized by Garry, who more or less bestowed a benediction upon me as I was about to undertake the project. “Go get ’em, Ron,” he said, a hand on my shoulder. “Go get ’em.”
I really appreciated this support because I felt that ABC was continuing to heap indignities upon me. At the start of the fourth season, Henry signed a new contract. He had them over a barrel because his original contract, unlike mine, was for only three years. When he signed it, Fonzie was just a supporting character. If Happy Days hadn’t made it as a series, Henry would have happily returned to New York and acting in the theater. Now he was the hottest star on television. The network gave him a huge raise, to somewhere in the neighborhood of $20,000 a week. Meanwhile, I was still under contract for another four years and had been offered only incremental raises. I was making $5,000 a week and still putting in the same amount of work as my friend.
Season Four of Happy Days began in 1976 with a three-part episode entitled “Fonzie Loves Pinky,” in which the Fonz competes in a demolition derby against two hoods known as the Malachi Brothers and rekindles a romance with an old flame named Pinky Tuscadero. Instead of following our usual routine and starting out the season at Paramount, we reported first to a movie ranch in Malibu Creek State Park to shoot the derby scenes. Henry called me and asked if he could hitch a ride out to Malibu. He wanted to have a talk.
As we rolled west in my Bug, I could sense that he was uneasy, avoiding eye contact and restlessly bouncing his knee. “Ron, I gotta ask you a question,” Henry said. “How do you feel? Because look, I know what’s happening. The Fonz is taking off and the show was designed for you to be the star. And they just gave me a big raise.”
He told me about the terms he had reached with ABC. “I don’t know what’s going on with your contract, but I want you to know how much I respect you,” he said. “You’ve handled this all incredibly well.”
I made plain to Henry that whatever beefs I had were not with him. “You’re not doing anything wrong, Henry,” I said. “You’re not letting this go to your head or change who you are. You’re a great team player. What you’ve created is incredible and great for the show. But I have to admit that the whole situation bothers me in some ways.”
We talked about the Fonzie’s Happy Days fiasco. Henry revealed that the idea had come from the very top. He had been approached about it by Leonard Goldenson, the president and founder of ABC. Henry had pushed back against the title change. Goldenson then suggested that maybe Fonzie should have his own show. Henry pushed back against that, too—“I’m successful because I’m in the middle of this show,” he said.
I had not been waiting for Henry to come to me and clear the air. We were friends; whatever anger I had in me was never directed at him. But it was so gracious and thoughtful of him to make this conversation happen.
“I don’t want anything to change about our friendship,” Henry said. “I love you, Ron.”
“I love you, Henry,” I said.
We still do. He is the godfather to all four of my children.
CLINT
The 1976–77 school year was my last at John Burroughs, and I treated it like a victory lap. I had piled up a bunch of summer-school credits so my workload was minimal. In the fall, I wrote for the Smoke Signal and convinced the athletic department to let my friend Gig and me take over the public-address duties for the home football games, a task we carried out with relish and a little ham. During the spring semester, I was left with only two real classes, leaving me plenty of time to enjoy my final season on the varsity baseball team.