Excerpt from Playgirl, February 1977. “To really get into this role, you’re going to have to relax a little.” The director shifted his bulky frame toward the edge of the leather couch. “The only way you’re going to ever let go is to take your clothes off and do this whole scene in the nude.”
“I can’t do that,” the young actress stammered. “Besides, what does my being naked have to do with the scene?”
“Shut up and get undressed.” Abruptly he stood up, unzipped his pants, and after pulling them down below his knees, started masturbating. “Come over here and help finish me off,” he ordered. “That’ll loosen you up… and maybe get you the part.”
For those who live outside the glitter-world of the entertainment industry this little “casting couch” scenario is as outdated as a Busby Berkeley production number or a Cecil B. DeMille epic. And just about as believable. The well-worn sofa in many a casting director’s inner office — on which actresses are expected to exchange sexual favors for a chance at “the big break”— is a mythical institution buried in the Hollywood past of cigar-chomping moguls, outrageously pampered film idols and decadent Gatsby-like parties where the champagne and scandalous rumors never run out. At least this is what many veterans of the Old Hollywood — and the image-makers of the New —would have us believe. But this ghost of show biz past —despite disclaimers to the contrary — is alive and well. The style may have changed somewhat, but the gambit is still getting people jobs.
In addition to popular “tell-all” autobiographies and biographies, tales continue to circulate freely within the industry and at its fringes. Composed in equal measure of truth and fuzzy secondhand information, the buried “blind items” of trade rags and fanzines are only a shadow of the big picture to which knowledgeable insiders are privy. When asked for story sources, those in the know reply scornfully: “My God, everybody knows that Mr. X, the producer, likes all his little starlet girlfriends to wear white anklet socks when he fucks them. It’s common knowledge.”
Which seems to be the problem. The stories are all common, all variations, albeit true, of dirty jokes. Generally, the standard one — as true then as it is now — goes something like this:
“If you really want to hear some tales,” jokes “Chris,” “Stick around for a few days. By then I just might cover an eighth of them. And those’ll just be stories about agents. There’s this one big fat bald producer — a real charmer — who hires little girls as readers and then tries to get into their diapers. That’s about how old they are. Or we could talk about the director who specializes in television commercials — and ‘threezies.’ First he promises the little muffin a job, and then he brings his wife into the act. They get the kid away on location and lure her into their house trailer. The really sick thing about this fun couple’s scam is that they then make the girl think that she — not they — was responsible for setting up the lewd situation. I know one girl they kept preying on several years ago who finally committed suicide. I don’t know if there was a direct connection but that sort of thing doesn’t exactly contribute to one’s mental health.”
Other more fortunate starlets have lived to tell their tales. But because of the pervasive fear of being blacklisted for their outspokenness, there are few Liz Rays in Hollywood. And if there are those willing to talk about their professional prostitution, they will do so only anonymously. One young actress, who wished to remain nameless — as they almost all are — was very anxious to talk about sleazoids who take advantage of ambitious starlets. “But I really can’t talk names,” she cautioned, “because the game is survival. If I want to work, I can’t afford to piss people off. Besides, I don’t want to get my legs broken. And if I do get my name mentioned in Variety, I want it to be for an award — not for an overdose of sleeping pills.”
A little too melodramatic? Not when you’ve talked privately to scores of industry hopefuls who know which side their bread is buttered on.
“Of course the casting couch exists today,” one experienced television actress confided. “There are hundreds of performers who’ve had their careers sparked by fucking the right industry heavies.” The couch is different today, says “Gloria.” “It’s not owned by the director or producer personally anymore, it’s owned by a huge corporation, like Gulf and Western, so it’s a little harder for the big boys to fuck around any time they feel like it. But they do manage. I heard a story just the other day about a casting director who managed to tuck away a little part for a pretty girl with some mob connections in Vegas. Naturally the guy was also having an affair with her, but what’s new?”
On the surface, nothing much. “The casting couch business today mostly goes on with casting directors,” one gutsy actress volunteered. “But everybody knows there are also scores of agents who are involved in this seamy scene. Generally, they pimp for casting directors — or anyone else in this industry who likes to sway a deal with an easy lay. They’ll call up a casting director and say something like, ‘Hey, I’m sending you a very competent girl. Now what you two do together is your business.
One young actress new to Hollywood — and newer still to the bizarre workings of the couch game — told the story of her first and most unusual audition, which was conducted in the Bel Air mansion of an agent as famous for his successful clients as he was for the even grosser sexual games of his private life.
“He told me we could read the script over dinner at his house,” recalls the actress, “which seemed like a really weird way to read for a part.”
Arriving at the agent’s home, the actress was buzzed past the Perma-Life flame torches and through the massive iron gates. “The place was a palace, for God’s sake,” she said. “By the time the butler had smoothly deposited me in the living room to stare at the producer’s impressive array of autographed photos, I was a nervous wreck. All I wanted to do was find the bathroom and quietly throw up. I had no idea, at that point, that the bathroom was where I was going to spend the remainder of the evening — although for entirely different reasons.”
“After about twenty minutes had elapsed, I was startled by another buzzer followed by the producer’s familiar, though disembodied, voice. ‘Come on back here, honey,’ he said. ‘Just take a right at the end of the corridor.’”
“So, I followed the little yellow brick road,” she continued, “right to the producer’s bathroom. The door was open and, God what a scene! There was the man himself decked out in nothing but a big grin and his gold Gucci chains, happily splashing around in a bubble bath with a matched pair of glassy-eyed teenage blondes. I just stood there feeling really stupid, like my eyes were bugging out of my head and my feet were glued to the floor. ‘Uh, didn’t you want me to read?’ I sort of mumbled. ‘Sure, sure I do,’ he smiled. But there’s plenty of time for that, sweetheart. I like to do things really laid-back. So, why don’t you just get undressed first and join us.’ I wanted to tell the creep to fuck himself, but I kept thinking about this big wonderful role he had for me. So I just kept standing there looking shocked and he kept on offering me what he called motivations — a little wine, a few ludes or, if my trip was chicks, one of the two hoppers could loosen me up. You would have thought he had enough to contend with –with the one girl giving him a hand job and the other licking his tits. But after a few blissed-out minutes, he again remembered my presence and began to get very angry. ‘Hey lady,’ he yelled, ‘Get over here and give me some head. Why the fuck do you think I invited you here?’ With that, he lurched halfway out of the tub and I sprinted out of the bathroom…
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