The Boys : A Memoir of Hollywood and Family(77)

Distressingly for me, college deferments were abolished in September 1971. So even if USC accepted me, it wouldn’t provide an out from the draft. Neither my parents nor I ever thought to consult a lawyer to see if there were loopholes or ways to game the system, as so many families of means did during that war. My parents were sophisticated hicks but not Hollywood hustlers. They knew the ins and outs of show business but didn’t move in circles where special favors transpired. So I was on my own.

Then it occurred to me: performers were known to receive special dispensation from the military. As a baseball fan, I had noticed that a lot of pro players, such as Nolan Ryan, Johnny Bench, and Pete Rose, circumvented the draft by joining the Army Reserves. You still had to report to an army base periodically and serve your country in two-week increments. You might be called upon by the league to travel overseas on a USO tour to cheer up the troops. But these scenarios sure beat wearing a helmet and fatigues in the jungle, one ambush or errant footstep away from sudden death.

A regular acting job could put me in a similar position to these ballplayers. A network or a studio would have my back and figure out a way for me to perform some sort of service that didn’t involve being a soldier. As an independent film director, on the other hand, I would be on my own. This may have been another factor in Mom’s wanting me to stick to acting. I can’t know for sure, since talk of the draft was taboo in our household. None of us wanted to openly contemplate the unthinkable scenario of me going off to war.

But one day during my senior year of high school, the depth of Mom’s concern revealed itself. We were having one of our set-tos about my slovenly ways. I had left my bed unmade, as per usual. Mom asked me if, just for once, I could pick up my room like a normal person. I responded petulantly that I didn’t wanna. At this, she erupted.

“You’re going to get drafted, and you’ll go to Vietnam!” she said. “And then the army will finally teach you how to make your goddamned bed!” She burst into tears and ran out of my room, slamming the door behind her.

That was sobering. In my own self-absorption, I hadn’t considered how much fear she was keeping inside. I never got any better at making my bed, but I did get better at being a son. I stopped laughing at Mom’s expense and talking down to her. My teenage smart-ass phase ended right then and there.


IT WAS IN this context that I took a part in a TV pilot that was provisionally titled New Family in Town. It was set in the Midwest in the 1950s, and its central character was a clean-cut teenage boy named Richie Cunningham.

The pilot was written by Garry Marshall, a prolific comedy guy who had worked on The Dick Van Dyke Show and was currently with Love, American Style, an of-its-time hourlong anthology series on ABC that each week included three or four unrelated mini-episodes about love, sex, and grooviness. Tonally, New Family in Town was inspired by a movie called Summer of ’42, a sleeper hit in 1971. Like that picture, our pilot was a coming-of-age story that looked to a more innocent past. But it was gentler and more G-rated than Summer of ’42 or, for that matter, Peter Bogdanovich’s The Last Picture Show, another ’71 hit about high school kids in pre-1960s America. Our show wasn’t going anywhere explicit or raunchy. The most risqué it got was when Richie’s best friend, Potsie Weber, said that the newfangled invention known as a TV set was a surefire way to get action, because you could invite girls over and—cringe alert—“grab ’em right in the middle of Kukla, Fran and Ollie.”

I played Richie. Potsie was played by Anson Williams, an energetic, upbeat guy from my high school’s crosstown rival, Burbank High. Richie’s parents were played by Harold Gould and Marion Ross. It was a good ensemble, and our show was being produced by Paramount Television. By my logic, if this show went to series, Gulf + Western, the powerful conglomerate that owned Paramount, would find a way to keep the young star of its hot new sitcom out of the jungle.

Gary Nelson directed the pilot. He was a relaxed and experienced pro who had directed me in an episode of The Andy Griffith Show and Clint in an episode of The Baileys of Balboa. The pilot’s story centered around the aforementioned TV set. Richie, at Potsie’s urging, used it as a magnet to lure over the girl of his dreams for a date. I had particularly good chemistry with Anson and Marion. As a matter of fact, Marion was the first person with whom I shared my good news: I got into USC’s film school! I happened to be on the set when I opened the envelope, and my TV mom hugged me and wished me the best.

ABC didn’t bite, though. New Family in Town did not get a series order. Instead, the network dumped it onto Love, American Style in truncated form, as a one-off segment entitled “Love and the Television Set.” (It has since been retitled “Love and the Happy Days” for the show’s DVD release.) So there went that potential safety net.

I turned eighteen on March 1, 1972, and registered for the draft, as required by law. I prepared to begin college at USC that September. I was convinced that I was done as an actor.

Then my agent got a call. Universal was financing a low-budget period feature about California teenagers in the early 1960s. It had a weird title: American Graffiti. The film’s writer-director had seen me on Love, American Style and liked my look and performance. His name, when I heard it, rang a bell—he was the young hotshot out of USC that I had read and heard so much about. George Lucas!





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