Ron Howard: From Mayberry to the Moon . . . and Beyond

RON HOWARD

From Mayberry to the Moon . . .

and Beyond

BEVERLY GRAY

Rutledge Hill Press™

Nashville, Tennessee

A Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

www.ThomasNelson.com

Copyright © 2003 by Beverly Gray

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Published by Rutledge Hill Press, a Division of Thomas Nelson, Inc., P.O. Box 141000, Nashville, Tennessee, 37214.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Gray, Beverly.

        Ron Howard : from Mayberry to the moon — and beyond / Beverly Gray.

            p. cm.

        Filmography as an actor (p. )

        Filmography as a director and producer (p. )

        Includes bibliographical references and index.

               ISBN 1-55853-970-0 (hardcover)

        1. Howard, Ron. 2. Motion picture producers and directors—United States— Biography. 3. Actors—United States—Biography. I. Title.

        PN1998.3 .H689 G73 2003

        791.43.'0233'092—dc21                                               2002153251

Printed in the United States of America

03 04 05 06 07—5 4 3 2 1

TO MY FAMILY

my severest critics,

most trusted supporters,

and best friends

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

PART I: THE EARLY YEARS

1 Small Steps (1954–1960)

2 Home Sweet Home (1960–1968)

3 Leaving the Nest (1968–1972)

PART II: FLEDGLING EFFORTS

4 Turning Back the Clock (1972–1975)

5 Revving Up (1975–1977)

6 Flying Lessons (1977–1981)

PART III: FIRST SUCCESSES

7 Getting His Feet Wet (1981–1984)

8 Lift-Off (1984–1986)

9 Small World (1985–1989)

PART IV: UPS AND DOWNS

10 Keeping the Home Fires Burning (1989–1991)

11 Near and Far (1991–1994)

12 A Giant Leap (1994–1996)

PART V: SOARING

13 Fame On You (1996–1999)

14 A Green Christmas (1999–2000)

15 Mastermind (2000–2002)

Epilogue: Full Speed Ahead (2002– )

Appendix A: Timeline for Ron Howard

Appendix B: Filmography as an Actor

Appendix C: Filmography as a Director and Producer

Appendix D: Major Awards and Honors

Source Notes for Chapter Opening Quotes

Selected Bibliography

Index

About the Author

Acknowledgments

I could never have finished a project of this magnitude without help from many quarters. I deeply appreciate the contributions of Kelly Cutts, Selise E. Eiseman, Charles W. Fries, Noela Hueso, Wendy Madnick, Ron Magid, Gary Mednick, Judith Merians, Donie Nelson, Naomi Pfefferman, Jerry Purvis, Henry Seggerman, Gail Shenbaum, Ashley Wrobel, and especially Jim Clark, founder and guiding spirit of The Andy Griffith Show Rerun Watchers Club. Through the magic of the Internet, I located an international group of friendly and knowledgeable Happy Days fans, among whom John Dagley of Melbourne, Australia, and Arianna Bianchi of Milan, Italy, have been particularly obliging. And of course I owe a large debt to everyone I interviewed for this biography.

My research into Ron Howard’s early years was hugely facilitated by Pee Wee Cary, director of the Stephens County Historical Museum in Duncan, Oklahoma. I would also like to thank the following for giving me access to their archives and collections: Albert L. Ortega; Holly Jones and Jeni Rosenthal at AP/World Wide Photos; Beverly Hills Public Library; Burbank (California) Historical Society; Burbank Public Library; Scott Baillie at Celebrity Archive Corporation; Anthony Sullivan at Getty Images; John Burroughs High School; Los Angeles Public Library; Amy Garawitz at the Museum of Television and Radio; Santa Monica Public Library; the UCLA Arts Library.

The Margaret Herrick Library of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was my home base for many months. Donovan Brandt helped me find what I needed among the vast resources at Eddie Brandt’s Saturday Matinee. At the University of Southern California, my questions were answered courteously and efficiently by Justin Wilson and Peter Pampusch of the School of Cinema-Television and by June Hudson in the office of the registrar. For assistance above and beyond the call of duty I must single out Mark Quigley, reference and outreach coordinator for the archive research and study center of the UCLA Film and Television Archive.

James Robert Parish deserves special thanks for sharing his vast knowledge of the publishing world and for never allowing me to rest on my laurels. My agent, Stuart Bernstein, has been wonderfully diligent on my behalf; his words of wisdom and good cheer always prove to be eggs-actly right. At Rutledge Hill Press, Larry Stone has been a model of cordiality and common sense. I also appreciate the help I’ve received from Rutledge Hill’s Jennifer Brett Greenstein, Christy O’Flaherty, Bryan Curtis, Terri Woodmore, and especially Geoff Stone.

Within my circle of family and friends, I’m grateful to everyone who has provided encouragement. My husband, Bernie Bienstock, has been my personal tech support system ever since the day a computer moved into our home. My son, Jeffrey, cheerfully accepted the duties of a research assistant. My daughter, Hilary, was living in Beijing, China, throughout the writing of this book. Nonetheless, she read every word of my text and gave me the benefit of her always-perceptive comments, in spite of eccentric keyboards in far-flung Internet cafes. Heartfelt thanks to all of them.

Introduction

Sizing up Ron Howard should be as easy as pie. After all, everybody knows him. At least, we think we do. He has been coming into our living rooms for the past forty years, first as lovable Opie Taylor on The Andy Griffith Show and then as perennial teenager Richie Cunningham of Happy Days. Viewers too young to have caught his act the first time around have discovered his homespun charm through reruns. Others fell in love with his screen image as early as 1959, when he was first featured on network television. Baby-boomers, in particular, can chart the passage of their own youth in terms of Ronny Howard roles. During their childhood years, he was a plucky little boy. When they began moving out into the world, he was gingerly exploring life in high school and college. Now that Ron Howard is a full-fledged adult, with a family, a receding hairline, and a major career as a Hollywood film director, it’s no wonder that many of us still feel a sense of connection.

So familiar is Howard that members of the media tend to make sweeping generalizations about him. Some praise him as an American genius, while others dismiss him as little more than an overgrown Boy Scout. Kirk Honeycutt, film critic for the Hollywood Reporter, sees in Howard’s directing career the results of a life [lived] entirely within the cocoon of Hollywood. The general view is that Howard, as a highly successful product of the Hollywood studio system, naturally gravitates toward the kind of filmmaking that upholds the system’s strengths, by relying on star power, a high technical gloss, and the assurance of mass appeal through a predictably upbeat ending.

Honeycutt’s use of the word cocoon is apt, because throughout Howard’s years in show business, the protective cocoon has been a recurring motif. Cocoon is, of course, the title of the 1985 film that moved Howard into the big leagues as a director. But even back in his acting days, his best-known roles could be said to cocoon him from the harsh realities of life. The happy hamlet of Mayberry was a cocoon of sorts, as was the whole nostalgia-fueled environment in which Richie Cunningham of Happy Days moved toward adulthood.

But this is only one side of the picture. He’s a lot more complicated than he seems.

I spoke to Ron Howard on January 29, 1999, while researching my book, Roger Corman: An Unauthorized Biography of the Godfather of Indie Filmmaking (Renaissance Books, 2000). He and I had a cordial, unhurried chat about the legendary low-budget filmmaker, who was both my former boss and the man who gave Howard his first directing gig.

When it was time to choose my next biographical project, I found myself intrigued by Howard’s own long career. No one else in Hollywood has so emphatically made the jump from child star to director. And his iconic status from his days as Opie and Richie continues to resonate, even while he directs award-winning motion pictures. Part of his appeal for me was that, in his journey from Opie to Oscar, there has never been the slightest whiff of scandal. As one veteran observer of the Hollywood scene told me, I have never heard a bad thing about Ron Howard. Never. Not that I was looking to write about a saint—but part of the challenge of a biography of Ron Howard would be locating the human core within the pristine image.

My great hope, of course, was that Howard would give my project his blessing. But I was hardly surprised when, speaking through his publicist, Howard politely announced his decision to keep his distance from this book. He said he felt himself to be in midcareer and not ready to participate in a long-range assessment of his accomplishments.

Howard’s reluctance to get personally involved fit my conception of him as modest and self-effacing, as a star who has never wanted a star’s notoriety. But to ensure the accuracy of my work, I tried making contacts within Howard’s company, Imagine Entertainment, taking pains to spell out my credentials and my good intentions. Some of my overtures were simply ignored. I was taken aback, however, by several telephone conversations with Howard’s colleagues who expressed outrage that I would consider writing about Howard without his formal consent. I tried to explain that Ron Howard is known and admired all over the globe. Celebrity confers many privileges, both material and emotional, and the downside is that being in the public eye includes being subject to public scrutiny.

What impressed me about Howard’s associates was how personally they seemed to take my writing plans. Evidently, they regard it as their mission to protect Howard from any intrusion by the outside world. I admire their dedication and see it as one more sign of the loyalty Howard inspires. But in examining his career, I did get help from a variety of sources. Many of Howard’s old friends, former teachers, coworkers, and costars gave me a picture of his early life. To fill in the more recent years, I was lucky to find actors who have appeared in Howard productions and crew members who have worked on his sets. A few asked that their names not be used, and I have honored these requests. All were emphatic in stressing Howard’s graciousness, intelligence, and talent for collaboration.

To supplement the nearly three dozen interviews I conducted, I turned to the archives and discovered a treasure trove. Howard has been speaking to the press since he was six years old. These vintage articles, along with later radio and television appearances, gave valuable insights into Howard’s personality. Ron Howard: From Mayberry to the Moon . . . and Beyond explores the fascinating contradictions that mark his life: how he manages to be public and private, brave and cautious, small-town boy and big-city success story.

To think of him as Opie is far too simple. The cute kid has grown into a man who defies easy labels as he sets out to make Hollywood movies on his own terms.

PART I

The Early Years

CHAPTER 1

Small Steps

(1954–1960)

He’s the most determined person that I have ever met in my life. I think he gets this from his dad.

—JEAN HOWARD

LITTLE RONNY HOWARD WAS AMERICA’ SKID BROTHER. Bright-eyed and gap-toothed, with a shock of red hair that seemed made for Technicolor, he quickly came to exemplify the American virtues of innocence, optimism, common sense, and good humor. In the second half of the twentieth century, when life in America was becoming ever more complicated, Ronny seemed to dwell in a world apart. His signature roles as Sheriff Taylor’s son on The Andy Griffith Show (1960–1968) and as young Winthrop Paroo in The Music Man (1962) conveyed the fantasy of growing up in a better place and time. Whether fishing with Pa in the imaginary hamlet of Mayberry, North Carolina, or joining the marching band of Professor Harold Hill in River City, Iowa, young Ronny inspired in his fans a feeling of nostalgia for a simpler past, as well as hope for the future.

As Ronny passed through his teen years, he shortened his first name, slicked down his hair, and earned his driver’s license. In the role of Steve Bolander, a recent high school graduate much like himself, he spent an unforgettable night cruising Modesto, California, in 1973’s American Graffiti. Then came a seven-year stint (1974–1980) on Happy Days, a candy-coated view of adolescence set in suburban Milwaukee, in which he played perennial nice guy Richie Cunningham. Through these and other roles, Howard was embraced by audiences who saw in his wholesome image a reflection of what American life ought to be.

One key to Howard’s success as a child actor was that he seemed an integral part of the American scene. He could play a California whiz kid or a Manhattan youngster mourning his mother’s death with equal conviction, but his best roles often brought him close to the soil. Included on his long list of credits are many youthful farmers, homesteaders, and country boys. Although he was reared in the workaday Los Angeles suburb of Burbank, California, Howard’s roots are in the American heartland. Oklahoma-born, he can trace his ancestry back to early settlers, including two great-grandfathers who rode in the Oklahoma Land Run of 1893. He also feels a deep emotional attachment to his kinfolk and their values. As a young actor, Ronny Howard often played roles in which he searched for—or quietly grieved for—a missing parent. In real life, however, he enjoyed sturdy family ties. There’s no question that Ronny, like all show biz kids, was subject to the caprices built into the Hollywood system. But unlike many of his peers, he had the support of parents who were remarkably down-to-earth. It is with them that this story begins.

Duncan, Oklahoma, is in the southern part of the state, midway between Oklahoma City and Dallas, Texas. It lies along the old Chisholm Trail, the path taken by Texas cowboys driving their cattle north through Indian Territory to the railroads of Kansas. In 1872, a Scotsman named William Duncan purchased a store close to the trail. When he learned that the Rock Island Railroad was planning a north-south route through the area, he determined to relocate near the depot. He completed his second store in 1890, at what is now the corner of

Seventh and Main in downtown Duncan. This historic location was only a few doors away from where Ronny Howard’s maternal grandparents would later open Speegle Meat Market.

By the time the first passenger train pulled into Duncan’s depot on June 27, 1892, a small community had developed. As a local newspaper would later put it, A Trail, A Rail—A City! Some early arrivals founded businesses that served the cowhands; others opted for ranching and farming, with cotton and wheat as the principal cash crops. A major jump in Duncan’s fortunes came with the discovery of oil around 1918. Though Duncan’s farmers suffered during the Dust Bowl era of the 1930s, oil booms led to sporadic periods of growth. In 1954, the year Ronny Howard was born, the population was about twenty-two thousand. It remains the same today.

Within Duncan, members of the Speegle clan have long played a prominent role. Ronny’s great-grandmother, Mrs. W. T. Speegle, was a pillar of the community, active in social and church circles. The next generation included Mr. and Mrs. W. A. Speegle, better known as Butch and Louise, who were the proud parents of Ronny’s mother, Jean. Jean Frances Speegle, born on January 31, 1927, attended Emerson Elementary School and Duncan Junior High School. By the time she entered Duncan High School, there was no question that this effervescent young lady was going places. She appeared in the junior class play, was society editor of the school newspaper, and held offices on the student council. In her senior year (1944–45), she served as editor in chief of the school yearbook, and was elected student council president. It’s hardly surprising that the junior class named her Outstanding Senior Girl.

After graduation Jean enrolled in Oklahoma College for Women. But the state of Oklahoma was not big enough to contain her ambitions. By October 1946, she had been accepted into New York City’s American Academy of Dramatic Arts, famous for launching the careers of such luminaries as Spencer Tracy and Lauren Bacall. On the evening of February 10, 1947, however, Jean left a dance class and stepped into the path of a speeding truck. The collision left her with a brain concussion, a broken arm and shoulder, and a pelvis shattered in three places. She lay unconscious for ten days in a New York charity hospital, because the wallet containing her identification was lost in the accident. At last she was put on a train for Oklahoma City. An ambulance carried her to Duncan, where doctors warned her worried family she might never walk again.

But Jean, always a fighter, beat the odds. On Easter Sunday, she sat up for the first time since the accident. By May 15 she was walking, and soon afterward she was ready to resume her life. For the time being, she chose to stick closer to home. In the fall, she entered the school of drama at the University of Oklahoma, where she played major roles in a host of student productions. Her crowning achievement was the female lead in Winterset, Maxwell Anderson’s prize-winning poetic drama inspired by the controversial execution of anarchists Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti. Winterset was performed on the Norman, Oklahoma, campus March 18–19, 1948. Jean, who had dyed her strawberry-blond hair black for the occasion, played the tragic role of Miriamne, an idealistic young slum-dweller. A writer for the campus newspaper, The Oklahoma Daily, began his rave review by saying, Last night an audience wept. He had especially high praise for the final love scene between Jean’s tender little tenement girl and the tortured young man seeking vengeance for his father’s death.

The campus reviewer also singled out one of the supporting players: Harold Beckenholdt, as the half-wit hobo, molded a minor part into an important role. Beckenholdt, born in 1928, was a tall, lanky Oklahoma country boy who remembered the Dust Bowl all too well. He had caught a glimpse of a better world when local merchants, hoping to lure farmers into town, began screening free movies on Saturday nights. At age seventeen, Beckenholdt walked off his parents’ farm, bent on becoming an actor. Fellow student and future television star Dennis Weaver first introduced him to Jean, and he renewed the acquaintance in 1948 when they toured together in a children’s theatre troupe, Penthouse Productions. By this time, she was calling herself Jean Allan, and he had adopted the stage name of Rance Howard.

Much Howard family lore stems from these bus-and-truck productions of Cinderella and Snow White. Ron Howard remembers hearing how they only had four dwarves, so my father would occasionally get on his knees and put a beard on and be another dwarf. Most of the time, however, Rance would play Prince Charming to Jean’s fairy tale princess. Years later, Rance told a hometown newspaper that Jean had a great smile and a warm and wonderful personality. . . . She was full of vitality, and I just really fell in love with her.

The long theatrical tour provided the backdrop for their courtship and honeymoon. The wedding took place on October 5, 1949, in the ballroom of the Brown Proctor Hotel in Winchester, Kentucky. A local Methodist minister conducted the double-ring ceremony, at which the guests and attendants were mostly fellow actors. Though the festivities were kept simple, an account in a Duncan newspaper notes that the bride was beautifully dressed in a floor-length gown of rose pink taffeta. This was Jean’s Cinderella costume, stripped of its sequins for the occasion. The marriage that began on that day, between the determined young woman and the dreamy farmer’s son, would survive and flourish for more than half a century.

Once their commitment to Penthouse Productions was over, the young couple settled in New York City and started looking for acting jobs. Jean appeared in an off-Broadway staging of The Passion Play. Rance, though never losing his boyhood dream of starring in cowboy films, scrounged for minor parts on stage and live television, and once even worked as a doorman at the Roxy Theater, a renowned movie palace. But his blond good looks and deep, resonant voice seemed to promise better things. A big break came when he was cast as a sailor in the national touring company of the 1948 Broadway hit, Mister Roberts. Henry Fonda, who had created the title role in the World War II comedy-drama, headlined the tour as well. Then Mister Roberts finished its run, and Rance was drafted.

Even while serving a three-year hitch in the Air Force, Rance continued to act, and tried his hand at directing. A clipping from that era shows Rance and Jean among those entertaining at an Optimists Club gala near Chanute Air Force Base in Rantoul, Illinois. While Rance was stationed in San Antonio, Texas, the Howards’ first child was born. Because Jean had chosen to have their baby in the cozy confines of her hometown, she moved into her parents’ rambling brick house at 1010 W. Chestnut Street to await the big moment.

Ronald William Howard first saw the light of day on March 1, 1954. His proud relatives were soon circulating a birth announcement written in the form of a playbill. It proclaimed in response to numerous demands a new comedy-drama, Life Begins At 9:03 A.M., with its world premiere at Duncan’s Lindley Hospital. The cast of characters included Jean Howard as the Patient Mother and Rance Howard as the Distracted Father. Ronald W. Howard was listed as the show’s leading man, and was also credited with providing Sound effects. A Production Note pointed out: In the first scene, the star appears in the nude, creating quite a sensation.

Jean once told an interviewer that although she and Rance were very pleased to have a baby son, they did not alter their career goals on his account: He lived in our world with us. This meant that young Ronny quickly found himself among theatrical folk, and before long he too was getting into the act. His early start would eventually become Hollywood legend. At the time of Splash, Tom Hanks joked that Howard has seen absolutely everything that can possibly happen on a movie set, because the man started doing it three months before he was born. Pat Morita, who appeared as Arnold on Happy Days, insists with a straight face that Ronny Howard’s little poop-poop was on the very first Pampers commercials. . . . That’s how far back his career goes.

In fact, Ronny’s first screen appearance came at the ripe old age of eighteen months. His father, then still in the Air Force, wangled a thirty-day leave to play the bad guy in a Grade-C Western called Frontier Woman. At one point the filmmakers needed a crying baby, and Ronny—watching from the sidelines in his mother’s arms—was elected. The novice actor was given a little Indian tomahawk to play with. When it was suddenly snatched away, he began to wail. It was the first, though not the last, time that Ronny showed he could cry on cue. He doesn’t count this as his professional debut, however, because he didn’t get paid. He was not to lose his amateur standing until his fourth birthday.

In the meantime Ronny enjoyed his parents’ theatrical endeavors. When Rance began spending summers as an actor and resident director at Baltimore’s Hilltop Theatre, he cast Jean and two-year-old Ronny as his wife and son in a production of The Seven Year Itch. The son’s part was no more than a walk-on, but at least one Baltimore critic was charmed, proclaiming that Ronny stole the show. Even when not needed on stage, Ronny liked hanging around rehearsals, soaking up the actors’ dialogue. His ability to memorize lines, and to deliver them with feeling, was to pave the way for his own big break. At age two and a half, he had learned a comic scene from Mister Roberts. When he played the irrepressible Ensign Pulver at social gatherings while his father took on the Henry Fonda role, he was always assured of hearty applause. In 1958 while Rance was auditioning for a major MGM film called The Journey, he discovered that director Anatole Litvak needed a small boy to fill out the cast. On a whim, he praised his son’s acting skills and was invited to bring almost-four-year-old Ronny in for an interview. The Mister Roberts scene got him the part. It also got him two tickets to Vienna, Austria, for himself and his mother. Because Rance had already been cast in a small role, this seemed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a family trip to Europe. Forty years later, Ron described his parents’ thinking: We’ll take the money and we’ll put it in a separate fund for college, and he never has to do this again.

To Rance, the decision seemed more complicated. The experience, of course, might be a great adventure for young Ronny. On the other hand, moviemaking could put adult pressures on a small child. Rance recalls that we debated about whether we had a right to force show business on a little kid, but here was a chance to see Vienna. So why not? Later we told ourselves, ‘Well, it didn’t seem to screw the kid up any.’ As for Jean, she seemed thoroughly content to put her own ambitions on hold for the time being. Shortly before their departure, she told a local reporter she was dropping out of acting to let the two men in the family make their mark.

The Journey, released in 1959, was an ambitious drama about the aftermath of the failed Hungarian Revolution. It was also a clear attempt to reignite the spark that Yul Brynner and Deborah Kerr had brought to the screen in the 1956 blockbuster, The King and I. The Journey revolves around the fate of sixteen international travelers trapped at a Hungarian inn by Russian soldiers, led by the suavely menacing Major Surov (Brynner). Kerr plays an elegant British aristocrat with secrets to keep. The other key player in the film’s offbeat romantic triangle is Jason Robards, making his motion picture debut. (Thirty years later, Ron Howard would direct Robards in Parenthood.)

Ronny’s part in The Journey is small but crucial. His role is the younger son of an American couple, played by E. G. Marshall and Anne Jackson, who are emotionally torn by the hostilities erupting all around them. Though he’s kept at a distance from the film’s most brutal skirmishes, Ronny is present for several potentially life-or-death confrontations. During a tense bus ride he playfully sticks out his tongue at some Russian soldiers; later he whimpers in Anne Jackson’s arms as she defiantly tells her fellow travelers, I don’t care who lives and who dies as long as my family’s okay.

Ronny’s character, Billy Rhinelander, has only two lines in the film, but one of them is supposed to help viewers understand his family’s travel plans. Today Howard admits that his boyish diction could have used some work: "I watched The Journey a couple of years ago, and I couldn’t even understand what I was saying. Still, he remembers his time on the set with great pleasure: I got to use a Soviet tank as my jungle gym. [Also] Yul Brynner taking a shot glass, which I didn’t know was made of edible sugar, and devouring it before my eyes." Ironically, in the finished film Rance cannot be spotted, and his name does not appear in the credits. But his son, as a highly visible member of a polished ensemble, had made an auspicious acting debut.

Once the Howards returned to New York, they faced a decision. Rance’s bread-and-butter work was in live television, but by 1958 most of the cowboy and detective shows were being produced in and around Los Angeles. Ron Howard recalls that like the Okies a couple of decades before us, we loaded up the car. In their trusty ’52 Plymouth, the three Howards rumbled across the country, stopping to visit Duncan and the farm where Rance grew up. Their route, which also took them through the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest, perhaps inspired Ron’s own later love for driving trips. (As a husband and father, he has enjoyed piling his wife and kids into their oversized car, along with a stack of peanut butter sandwiches, and heading for the open road.) But for Ronny’s parents, the road trip was serious business, because at journey’s end they would need to establish a life