Hollywood (Hot) Dog Days

When Hugh Hefner is the social draw in Hollywood, it is obvious that there have been great changes in lotus land. From his 30-room mansion, New Arrival Hefner stages Sunday barbecues replete with Playboy bunnies, while Hollywood oldtimers seem to be making do with hot dogs and sangria. Some of the established hostesses, Roz Russell, Denise Minnelli, Mrs. Gregory Peck, still stage conspicuously sumptuous affairs now and again. But in the new Hollywood such lavishness seems almost ostentatiously out of date.

The change has come about both by necessity and choice. Partly it has resulted from the economic depression hanging over the movie industry, partly from a desire to shuck the formal, gaudy pastimes of old in favor of a more casual lifestyle. While stars who once made a million dollars a year are now frequently making less than half that, they are hardly hurting for a meal. But the economic crunch has taken its toll. Discotheques are closing, servants are being let go, and psychiatrists have more leisure time. Private jets and yachts are up for grabs. Hostesses are turning from expensive fresh-flower arrangements to polished fruit to adorn their tables.

At-Home Matches. "The recession in the film business has affected everyone," says Anne Douglas, wife of Kirk. The Douglas home is on the market, priced at $750,000. Nor is it languishing alone up on the block: there are twice as many houses in the Beverly Hills, Bel Air and Holmby Hills areas listed this year as last year. George Hamilton sold his 39-room manor for $300,000, then squeezed himself into a nine-room house.

"They're not draining the pools yet," says Producer Jack Haley Jr. Tennis is perhaps the biggest pastime. "It's a good outlet now when there's so much tension," says Anne Douglas. Indeed, there are still plenty of backyard pools and private tennis courts. But instead of holding a tennis tournament at the exclusive and expensive Beverly Hills Tennis Club, followed by a lavish buffet, tennis fans like Dinah Shore and Efrem Zimbalist Jr. are settling for simple at-home matches with pizza and hot dogs served up afterward.

When Henry Fonda threw a party some months back to celebrate the opening of his ABC television series (The Smith Family), he served all-American fare: hot dogs, sauerkraut and potato salad. "They no longer tent the whole damned yard," says Ronny Clint, manager of Chasen's, whose catering business is off 30% from last year. Says Chuck Pick, one of Hollywood's professional car parkers, "I used to do theatrical parties two or three times a week. Now, if it weren't for doctors, lawyers and businessmen, I'd be out of business."

The reason for all this is simple: the sagging movie business. This has been going on for a long time (during the late 1940s, Hollywood produced almost 500 films a year; the figure is about 100 now), but lately things have taken a sharp turn for the worse because of the recession, declining profits, rising costs, and audience boredom. Millions were lost when lavish imitations of moneymakers flopped: Hello, Dolly! cost $20 million to make; it is still in the red. After the phenomenal success of Easy Rider, studios rushed in with imitations, this time to catch the youth market on the cheap; so there are now cans full of little Easy Riders that will never be distributed. To cut down Hollywood overhead, more movies are shot on location and lots continue to be sold off. Last week James Aubrey, president of MGM, announced the sale of 68 acres of the MGM back lot to real estate developers Levitt & Sons, Inc. Columbia will move in with Warners to share spatial expenses.

Unemployment in the craft unions --technicians, stagehands, propmen and the like--runs about 80%. Of 634 screenwriters in Hollywood, only 110 are actively employed. Although it always has a high unemployment rate among its 23,000 members, the Screen Actors Guild now has a record 90% out of work. Theatrical agents are feeling the pinch: CMA, one of the biggest agencies, recently cut its staff by 30%. Other agencies are following suit.

Salvation Army. A big boon to hungry movie stars is their archenemy television, referred to in Hollywood these days as "the Salvation Army." Last year actors earned a mere $18 million from movies, while television brought them $61 million. One-shot guest appearances on television series, which used to bring in as much as $10,000 per segment, are snapped up at $2,500 or so each. More and more stars--Shirley MacLaine, Tony Curtis, James Stewart, Glenn Ford, Anthony Quinn, James Garner, Rock Hudson--are signed up for their own TV series. Ninety-minute television movies, once scoffed at by many stars, are another staple and stable way to keep busy. Among the high-class faces appearing this season will be James Earle Jones, Sandy Dennis and Jane Wyman.

Even peddling products on the home screen is not as declasse as it once was. Commercials may not be exactly old-age pensions, but it is veteran performers who are especially drawn to them. Ray Milland is selling encyclopedias and Betty Grable is touting Geritol. Jack Benny is on for the Savings and Loan Association, Tony Martin plumps for his own brand of pantyhose, and Van Johnson sells oat flakes.

Star Moonlighting. The stars are doing whatever else they can to make expensive ends meet. Elke Sommer has opened an antique shop, Peter Lawford started an organic food company. Zsa Zsa Gabor snips ribbons at shopping-center openings at $4,000 a clip. Mervyn Leroy is writing his autobiography. Yvette Mimieux is drafting scripts--for herself, she hopes. Gene Kelly is set to direct a company of clowns for a cross-country tour. Even Georgie Jessel has announced that he is going back to nightclubs to make a living. "There's nothing left to this town," he figures, "not even for a toastmaster."

In some quarters, there is scant pity for the fallen stars. "My heart doesn't bleed for the guy who was making $100,000 and is reduced to $40,000," says one screenwriter. Few worry that Charlton Heston, who used to command a cool million a picture, now has to make do with $300,000. "There aren't stars any more. We're all up for grabs," says Sally Kellerman, who made her name in MASH, but lives in a "regular-size house with not enough view to be depressing. From here we can't see the city or the studios falling apart." Which in her view is only their just reward. "Film makers here are finally being forced to dig deeper and come up with statements that people will come to see. If the old right guard of the studios just keeps putting old stuff in new wrappings, they deserve to fail."

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