Sandra Dee and Bobby Darin:

"Leave Us Alone"

This article, written by Mike Connolly, appeared in Screen Stories Magazine April, 1963

"Well, I'm not really surprised that so many people are saying our marriage is breaking up, because Bobby and I have probably given them good reason for believing it," Sandra Dee said, the brown eyes flashing in their peaches-and-cream setting, the toes tapping nervously in those amazingly tiny Italian shoes, the graceful hands leaping constantly to brush her new long bob back from her forehead. "But I am surprised that so many so-called responsible reporters don't check their facts before they rush into print with their definitely-absolutely-positively bust-up stories! Why can't they leave us alone?"
The reason for the rumors, I suggested to Sandy, looking around the handsome red-and-white living room of her home in the Hollywood Hills, with the huge ceramic heads of a happy, smiling Shakespearean King and Queen on the mantel, might be that they are selling their house.
Or maybe because the Darins aren't always available to reporters seeking to check the status of their marriage?
Sandy: "Selling a house isn't necessarily a 'catasterstroke,' as Jimmy Durante would say. How many other couples have to read about their marriages in the obituary columns just because they sell their homes? Sure, we plan selling our home. Why shouldn't we sell it? We need a bigger one. Little Doddie is a year old now. He's spoiled rotten, so Bobby and I plan giving him a baby sister, maybe next year. Then another baby sister. Or brother. Altogether, we want three children. We're planning on that many. And I wouldn't be surprised if that'll mean an even bigger house, followed by even bigger headlines spelling out The End for the Darins!
"The people we bought this house from had four children. I don't know how they managed. It has only ten rooms--"
Me "Ten rooms! That's big enough for a medium-sized army !"
Sandy: "I beg your pardon--not the Darin army! Only one of the rooms in this house is a real bedroom. Three of the others are filled with our wardrobes alone. Just our clothes! The rest--well, Doddie's getting bigger and the bigger he gets the smaller they look to me.
"So we'll be moving. Does that help?" That, I said, answers the question beautifully, completely and simply. But why haven't the Darins answered The $64,000 Question in the same manner when queried by other reporters?
"I've had hours-on-end discussions with Bobby about that. I've told him time and again to give out the story when reporters call. But he's been burned, apparently by misquotes. Even so, my argument is that the reporters can't come out with those horrible stories about us if we just talk to them! I try to put myself in their place. The stories some of them write sound like they hate us. How can they hate us when they've never met us? So there you have my own personal theory about how to stop all the buzz-buzz; just talk to them, tell them the truth, and then they won't come out with stories that show they don't like you!"
"It's a good theory," I said. "Will you be my personal press agent, too?"
She laughed. The eyes quit flashing and started twinkling, the toes quit tapping, the hands quit leaping. She relaxed.
"We can't really blame some of the reporters, I guess," she said. "I think the trouble is that I would much rather fight with Bobby at the time something happens, whatever it is that starts the argument, instead of waiting till we get home to blast him in private. And it always happens when we're out somewhere; because we've had to spend so much time in public, Bobby working in the nightclubs, both of us making personal appearances to plug our pictures.
"Why do we fight? Who knows? I blast off and get angry about something, and two seconds later I can't remember what it was all about. But then I get home and remember, and then I think of how silly it all was, and then everything is lovely again.
"In the beginning, we had at least three fights a week. We even had some of them at home--the nice quiet at-home type! Get us! We were kids, so it was the usual kidtype thing. Bobby would holler, 'Make some coffee!' And I would holler back, 'Tell the maid to make it--that's why we have a maid!' And he would snap, 'You make that coffee, hear me?' And I would stomp out shouting, 'Make it yourself---I'm nobody's slave!' Silly, kid-type arguments, like I said, all of them, and all of them over in a flash, after we sat down and thought about what started them. Then we would kiss and make up."
That--talking things over--is what has solved all their problems, Sandy said. "Bobby's a pretty fast talker, you know, and he always used to say nobody could outtalk him. But then he found me! We're always talking, about everything from the Russian-Chinese situation to Doddie's crooked toe. That's the big toe on his right foot. Have you got that down? Get it right, I always say.
"Well, in those early days, I was always doing 'First Year' jumbled-up June bride bit, grabbing an armful of laundry or whatever clothes I could get my hands on, throwing them in a suitcase or a hamper or wherever they happened to fall, pretending I was going home to Mother. And then-never go!
"Wait. I did go, once. Or maybe twice. Then, when I got to Mom's house, I sat there, waiting for Bobby to phone me. But he never did. So I always came home. Would you say Bobby knows how to handle me?"
Now that they're an older, more sensible married couple ("I'll be twenty-one in April of this year and able to vote," said Sandy, "and then will this great nation of ours get the shock of its life!"), Sandy and Bobby realize they made a mistake in buying their glamorous hillside home, not only because there isn't enough room but because the hills just aren't safe for children.
"I was six months pregnant at the time, and we had to move from the house we were living in because that one was too small, too. So Bobby rushed out to buy one. I think he bought the first one he found. That's Darin--Old Impulsive himself. Now he's calling himself Old Repulsive because he picked this one. I swear the only reason he chose it was because it had that silly playground out there"--she pointed to the window--"with the swings and the slides and the teeter-totters. Did you see it when you came in?"
I said I had.
"Doddie wasn't even born yet, and Bobby was buying him a playground! The Proud Poppa Bit.
"Well, Bobby came dashing home to tell me he'd found this dream of a house and I just had to see it, right that second. We jumped in the car and made a mad dash to the house. On the way, we stopped at the home of my producer, Ross Hunter, to pick up Ross and take him along. That's what I thought. Instead, Bobby grabbed my arm and dragged me up to the front door of the house right next door to Ross' house!
"I thought it was a joke. It wasn't. It was our house. Bobby had bought it. And Ross, my boss, was our next-door neighbor.
"Yes, I know those stories. About my being such a kook, I had to live next door to somebody who could control me. But that isn't why we've been living there. We've been living there for the plain and simple reason that Bobby, out of the 5,000,000 people who live in Los Angeles, accidentally picked Ross as our next-door neighbor.
"But we've had the hills. Our realtor keeps calling us about this four-acre estate in Beverly Hills and about that five-acre estate in Bel-Air. They're all in the hills.
"What we want now is a ranch. With horses. Bobby likes lots of land and horses. I saw him putting on dungarees and a cowboy hat one day. I knew right then he had the yen. And I knew I was in for it.
"With ponies, too. I like ponies."
"It'll probably be out in the San Fernando Valley somewhere, in the flatlands. At first, I wouldn't even consider living in the Valley, even though Universal, my studio, is out there, because it's too far from Beverly Hills--meaning Magnin's and Saks! But now I'm looking forward to it. I still love pretty dresses but I've also developed a passion for bluejeans and Stetsons. And the ride to Beverly Hills isn't that long.
"Bobby loves being a homemaker, did I tell you that?"
I said she hadn't. I recalled his enthusiasm for singing in the nightclubs, when I had first met him at the old Mocambo, and how I had dragged Walter Winchell to hear the fabulous new singer.
"That's all changed," she said. "Bobby's discovered a new world now. He's not a 'night person' any more, he's a 'day person.' Last year we were home only four months out of the whole year but this year he'll work the clubs only four months and we'll be home eight. Together."
She lingered lovingly over that "together."
"Eventually," she continued, "he plans quitting the clubs altogether. He hates night life. When he's home, we go to bed at ten p.m., when the clubs are just starting to swing, and get up at seven a.m. We like it. "Traveling--we hate it!"
Most girls her age, I said, love it and would love to be in her position.
"I've always hated it, even before I got into pictures," said Sandy. "It's because I was continually on the move when I was a child, switching from one school to another. My father was in the real estate business and forever on the run.
"It's always such a big production when we travel, even for such a short distance as Las Vegas. The Darin troupe always consists of at least eight people--Bobby, the baby, the baby's nurse, my hairdresser, Charlie Mafia (Bobby's road manager) and Steve Blauner (Bobby's personal manager).
"When we made our personal appearance tour with our picture, If a Man Answers, we had to drag along five hundred pounds of luggage. It was awful. All that packing. Why so much ? Not because of vanity. The studio bosses insist on our taking what seems like a ton of wardrobe because they like me to make a lot of costume changes when I'm facing the public. The star image, you know?
"I wonder if those girls who love traveling would love it so much after years of the same old hotel rooms with the same old room service? Funny thing--I never ask for a menu in a hotel any more because I know what's on the menu of every hotel in the country, by heart! Well, every other hotel then. I'm not knocking the menus, I'm knocking the sameness. When we got home from our last tour I cooked for a whole week--and I hate cooking!
"It's gotten so I cry every time I have to pack a suitcase. Sure, it's a glamorous business and sure, I love meeting people, especially the fans, and sure, I love every minute of being a star. But can you imagine anything more frustrating than being in a fabulous town like New Orleans and not having time to go to Antoine's or any of the other famous French restaurants you've always heard about? Where did we eat? Room service! It's all we had time for, between rushing from newspaper interviews to TV shows to radio tapings.
"I'll tell you how 'glamorous' it all is. They gave us the International Suite at our hotel in New Orleans. Everything was pushbutton. You pushed a button and a phone popped out or a bar slid out or the house mother came running. It had, I swear, seven divans. Seven, honest. I counted them. Well, I can't describe it. It was too elegant for words, and I've got a few words.
"Then, all of a sudden, I was alone. I was worn out, after another one of those rush-rush-rush days. Bobby was still rushing--out for a publicity interview. The baby was home in Hollywood. I was alone.
"I sat there in that gorgeous suite, looking around at the gorgeous decor and at the pushbuttons and the seven divans, and I thought to myself, 'With all this, kid, nobody would believe you if you said you were unhappy!'
"So I pushed the button for room service, ordered up one of those beautiful Louisiana shrimp cocktails, ate it, and went to bed--at eleven p.m. Glamor? Haw!
"Then there was another gorgeous suite, in our hotel in Atlanta, on the same tour. It was all in lavender. Scarlett O'Hara in her heyday in Atlanta never had it so good.
"The hotel also furnished me with a secretary, for free, and I didn't even need a secretary! I never need one because whenever I want to get a message to somebody I pick up the phone and call.
"The secretary kept asking me if there wasn't something I wanted her to write-and maybe I'd like to dictate to her? I told her about my liking for phones and my phobia against writing or dictating. So guess what happened? I wound up talking into tape recorders from one p.m. to seven p.m., six hours straight, until I was hoarse! But I was happy because the secretary was happy and people got letters from me who hadn't heard from me in years--and haven't since."
Sandy paused. "So you think the readers of SCREEN STORIES will get the idea that I'm unhappy about being a movie star?" she asked. Then she answered her own question (no wonder she gets hoarse--she asks her own questions and then answers them). "I don't think so. Maybe it'll be good for them to know it isn't all champagne and caviar."
When Sandy wasn't talking I managed to write a few side notes to myself about the vibrant young star, like: "Real star stuff--only twenty years old but smart as Joan Crawford."
Also: "Uses lot of Bobby's hip phrases. Don't remember Sandy talking like this when first met her. Imitates husband--must be love!"
But then the two-ring circus ended and a three-ringer began. Mary Douvan, Sandy's mother, emerged from the nursery with one-year-old Dodd Mitchell Darin in her arms. Big-eyed, bright as a button, gnawing a finger, the curly-headed Doddie wore red boots, a red-striped sweater--and dungarees.
Sandy and her mother were both exclaiming about the baby at once. Out of the welter of my notes, I've been able to piece this together:
Sandy: "He weighs twenty-six pounds and he started walking when he was only eight months old--imagine!"
Mary: "He already has seven teeth--isn't that marvelous?"
Sandy: "He never cries but he talks his head off, just like his old lady, so I give him a slice of lemon to shut him up, so that I can have a chance."
Mary: "He loves salmon and bagels--and spaghetti!"
Sandy: "We were over at Ross' house the other day, just visiting, and all of a sudden Bobby jumped up and said, 'I've got to go home right away--I just remembered I left my spaghetti sauce on the stove!'"
Mary: "Bobby makes beautiful spaghetti sauce."
Sandy: "There's nothing of me in this baby!"
Mary: "Don't be silly, he's got your nose."
Sandy: "All Bobby does is look at Doddie's legs and say, 'He's bowlegged, just like his mother.'"
Mary: "Doddie loves music, just like his Daddy."
Sandy: "There has got to be some of me in this kid!"
Mary: "Dig those dungarees. We've got to get him a pony."
Sandy: "Wherever we take him, Bobby points to him and tells people, 'He's mine, he's mine! I've never seen such a proud father. Hey, I just thought of something-he's mine, too !"
Mary: "When you and Bobby get that ranch--"
Sandy: "When we get that ranch, I don't think I'll ever go to work again."
Mary: "When you get it--"
Sandy: "This time, we'll take our time picking out a home. But Bobby's motto is Do It Today and mine is Put It Off Till Tomorrow, so we'll probably end up with a one-acre ranch on the corner of Hollywood and Vine!"
Mary: "I forget what I was going to say about the ranch. Why don't you show Mike the gold identification bracelet Jimmy Durante gave Doddie for his birthday?"
Sandy (showing it to me): "It has Doddie's name on it, and Jimmy's too--a real keepsake---because Jimmy is one of the all-time greats of show business."
Mary: "And that antique chair in Bobby's den--"
Sandy took me to the den and showed the chair to me: a throne-like antique, the top of which almost scraped the ceiling. It stood behind Bobby's desk. I don't know much about antiques but I think I can recognize quality. The chair had quality. I said so.
"It was hopeless when Bobby found it," Sandy bragged. "I fought against it but he insisted on buying it. He spent hours fixing it up, scraping it, polishing, painting, varnishing. Beautiful, huh? Like I told you, he's a real homemaker."
We went back to the living room. Little Dodd tumbled from his grandmother's arms into his mother's.
"When he was born," said Sandy, cuddling her son, "I was out like a light, but then I remember Bobby calling me, through this fog--'It's a boy, Sandy, it's a boy!' And then I remember saying, 'Go away, darling, I know it's a boy--but the next one will be a girl!'
"As for this one. Well. Well, I'll tell you--Doddie will be okay if he only grows up to be just like his father!"
It doesn't sound like a marriage that's breaking up, does it?

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