When I walked into the ABC studios on West 66th Street in Manhattan, a security guard took a break from monitoring the television testimony of Lt. Col. Oliver North before the Iran-contra committees and handed me a key.
”He sure got them boys talking to themselves,” the guard cackled.
”Sign this release and make sure I get the key back when you`re done.”
The key opened the door to my dressing room in the studios where ”Ryan`s Hope” is produced. I was there as what is known in the soap-opera trade as an ”under-five.” According to a wily network publicist, I would have no more than five lines of dialogue, just like Bruce Willis on ”Moonlighting.” Yes, David Addison had once been an under-five security guard on the daytime melodrama, now in its 12th season.
Devotees of ”Ryan`s Hope” (11 a.m. weekdays on ABC-Ch. 7) know that one of the constants in the ever-changing world of the soap opera is a character named Jack Fenelli. He`s an investigative reporter, see, and has been with the show since its debut in 1975.
Spending 12 years with a daytime soap is akin to managing the New York Yankees for a decade, and just about as likely a proposition. But Michael Levin, the actor who plays Fenelli, owns a sense of humor and a background in legitimate theater. The former would aid in him in his afternoon with me; the latter wouldn`t help either of us.
The dramaturgic conceit was that I would observe the making of a network soap opera, and play a small but crucial role in the production. The show`s writers, always prepared for the contractual disputes, unexpected pregnancies and calls from prime-time producers that thin soap-opera casts on short notice, had little trouble finding a scene for your present hero.
In the demanding role of myself, I would espy Fenelli dining with a dishy blond in the Italian restaurant of your nightmares. Typecast, I would descend rudely upon the table, interrupt the conversation, be introduced by good old Jack and ultimately be put down and dismissed by Emily, the lady in question. But first, the dressing room, the makeup department, the rehearsal and the rapid-fire production pace of the daytime soap.
Cybill Shepherd may get her own trailer with hot and cold running attendants on the set of ”Moonlighting.” The stars of ”Ryan`s Hope” get gray, windowless rooms with a view down the hall of the Hudson River. A few minutes spent in the airless confines makes you feel more a nominee for a root canal than an Emmy award.
Trooping through the warren of dressing rooms, you come upon a walk-through rehearsal and a gaggle of actors sparring with director Henry Kaplan and pages of dialogue delivered that morning. There isn`t much talk of motivation as the actors block their scenes and drop-kick lines.
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”There`s definitely a day-at-the-office atmosphere to doing these things,” said Levin, who owns three daytime Emmy nominations for his work at ABC. ”They do get done in a hurry, and you have to be consistent with the work. The demands, the number of scenes and pages of dialogue are a little different than they are in any other format.”
On the July morning in question, Oliver North and talk of an impending strike by the Directors` Guild (which was avoided at the last minute) were the preferred topics of conversation. Kaplan, executive producer Joe Hardy and producer Felicia Behr were shooting and taping scenes from three different episodes; the shouting match between Ben and Lizzie bore little or no relation to the family discussion among Ben, Maggie and Bess Shelby (played by Gloria DeHaven) or the restaurant scene featuring your correspondent, wearing his own suit.
Which brings us, inevitably, to costumes.
The women in soaps, particularly the younger women, are lavished with pricey-looking gear, often the snug and abbreviated variety. My erstwhile colleague Jack Fenelli was supplied with a dashing khaki suit for the restaurant scene and Emily Hall, played by actress Cynthia Dozier, was resplendent in a stylish about-town frock.
On Levin`s instructions, I walked into costume and confronted a middle-aged woman born with a cigarette in her mouth. ”You the under-five in the restaurant?” she growled. Before I could answer, she told me the suit looked fine.
Makeup went about the same way; soap opera is the art of the possible, so dusting me with a little face powder was about as far as the cosmetology crowd cared to go.
I had spent an airplane ride and a frenzied night in a New York hotel room straining to memorize and organize lines like, ”Hey, Fenelli, very impressive series on foster care” and, ”Well, keep up the good words.”
Sitting in with Kaplan and Felicia Behr as the scenes were being taped, it became clear to me that the integrity of the soapy dialogue was a sometime thing.
Making TV shows on the fly doesn`t leave much room for the fine points, and while some actors were scrupulous with the script, others kind of snuck up on the gist of what was being said. As long as the improvised dialogue was connected to the story line and the other actor`s cue arrived in recognizable shape, the cameras keep rolling.
As it happened, my moment in the spotlight came and went quickly when you consider that I had been on the premises since 8 a.m. and it was now 4 in the afternoon.
The process is straightforward: a ”dry rehearsal” to figure out where the bodies are and how to get them from one place to another. That`s followed by much milling about and protracted discussions with cameramen and technicians, and a roll-your-own lunch.
After lunch, with perhaps seven or eight scenes to complete, a dress rehearsal is put on tape, and rarely is it done more than once. Fainting spells, acts of God or a complete memory loss by an actor are about all that will derail the process.
Time is money in the soap-opera trade, and the schedule posted in the morning gets done inside regular business hours. After dress rehearsal and a discussion, or ”notes,” with the director, tape starts rolling and patience starts waning.
At one point in the afternoon, as an actress wandered through her lines, freighted with melodramatic pauses, Kaplan turned to his producer and, only half-kidding, said, ”Tell her not to act so much.”
The answer to the inevitable question is, no. I didn`t mess it up. Fenelli, Emily and I had our little Italianate moment, and we only had to do it once. The director expressed modest approval of my debut, and his assistant told me I could vacate the premises. The actors shook my hand, perhaps already thinking about the next day`s regimen.
I hurried back to Chicago with my mouth shut, curious to see how many of you watch a modestly rated soap opera at 11 in the morning. The episode aired two weeks after the July 9 taping. You called, you wrote, you made fun of my suit and my haircut.
You know who you are. But your secret is safe with me.