Perfect Casting

* The Role Called for a Dapper Guy Who Could Schmooze With
Hollywood's Rich and Famous as They Arrived at the Academy Awards.
Enter Army Archerd. The Rest Is History.

Sunday March 21, 1999

By ROBIN ABCARIAN, Robin Abcarian is a former Times columnist. Her last feature for the magazine was on Steve Soboroff

So
far, the columnist has written only two words on his computer screen.
They are the same words he always begins with: "Good Morning." He is
not visibly nervous, but he is not relaxed. Despite his gracious
welcome and genteel air, a visitor feels like an intruder. Deadline is
a mere six hours away.

From his mid-Wilshire corner office, the
clarity of winter has produced a postcard view of palm trees, mountains
and sky: what people in Peoria might imagine when they dream of
Hollywood. The columnist hasn't noticed. His back is to the window.
"Mind if I roll up my sleeves?" he asks. The phone rings. He picks it
up, takes a sheet from a tall stack of yellow paper at his right elbow
and positions it just so. He grabs his pen. His tone is convivial and
clipped. In an industry that invented the dilatory art of schmooze,
Daily Variety's Army Archerd is a model of verbal economy.

Hello?
Hi, Paul, how are you? OK, thanks. Not too shabby! Whose company is it?
Uh-huh. So it's to be released as a feature, or on tape? I see. This is
directly from the play? Who did the script? Oh, that's great! So he
doesn't have to complain about the changeover from the play to the
movie. Is he on the set or anything? I see. Sorry you didn't get to put
Mira in the picture, though. She's terrific.

A second line
rings. Hold on a sec, please. Hello? Yeah, are you still with the actor
Benigni? I have a terrific story on him that I just found out early
this morning and I HAVE to talk to him, so could you reach him for me?
You know, of course, he knows me from Europe and so on. So could you
please have him call me? It's about the lady whom he and his wife had
dinner with last night, and I was wondering how that all came about.
Thanks. Goodbye.

Sorry, Paul. So, where are you shooting?

If
you're a civilian, as those in The Industry call those who are not, you
may know Army Archerd as the dapper gentleman who interviews the stars
as they arrive at the Academy Awards, a task he has performed each year
since 1958, or perhaps as a co-host and associate producer of the
annual People's Choice Awards since its inception in 1974, or, more
recently, as a contributor to the E! channel's "Gossip Show."

If
you're an insider, the 77-year-old Archerd is a household name, maybe a
daily presence. Since 1953, he has churned out his "Just for Variety"
columns at the rate of five a week, cutting back to four a week only in
the last year. With a circulation of 35,500, Daily Variety, which
chronicles the wheelings and dealings of Hollywood, is a minnow in a
media ocean. But look who's reading: According to a survey commissioned
by Variety last year, the average reader has a household income of
$404,000.

Archerd's readers don't look to his Page 2 column for
attitude or poetry. They want information, and his "just the facts,
ma'am" tone fits the bill. The column–replete with the slangy jargon
peculiar to Variety (where films are lensed, not shot, and helmed, not
directed) and a soupon of French–is a three-dot stew of celebrity
items (restaurant sightings, couplings and uncouplings, births, deaths
and illness) and industry information (deals, shoots, fund-raisers,
lawsuits, parties). Archerd says his only criterion is newsworthiness.
And, preferably, exclusivity. Some of his items may read like press
releases, but you can be sure he had them first. And, perhaps
understandably, given his age and experience, the folks who populate
his column are more Chasen's than Sky Bar. "He's not writing a lot
about Cameron Diaz," says one industry observer.

Daily Variety
editor in chief Peter Bart calls him "one part community bulletin
board, one part community conscience, one part cheering section."
Archerd's energy and dedication amaze (and gratify) his boss: "He never
comes close to burnout," says Bart. "I wish some of our younger
reporters got as excited as he does when he lands a big story. He is
genuinely an example of someone who loves what he does. It is perfect
casting."

"He clearly likes most of the people he writes about,
but he doesn't fawn over them," says Damien Bona, co-author of "Inside
Oscar: The Unofficial History of the Academy Awards." "For anyone
interested in the film industry, he's invaluable."

Archerd is so
reliable that when a severe bout of flu in 1983 forced him to miss work
for the first time in 30 years, the Associated Press reported that
"confusion and consternation reigned [in Hollywood] when the column
failed to appear for three days."

"What shakes me up about his
columns is that in most of them he must have 18 different things," says
producer Aaron Spelling, a longtime friend who briefly shared his house
with Archerd in the late '60s after Archerd's first marriage broke up.
"How in the hell does he find out all these things?"

Don't
forget, says Archerd, "I've been doing this for a while. So I have a
lot of friends and people I know in the business. And publicists, of
course, always want to see their clients in the column."

Although
Archerd receives tips in a constant stream of phone calls and faxes, he
says he always tries to speak directly to the players. His friendships
lead to items as well. (So, for instance, in August 1989, amid a swirl
of rumors that their marriage was on the rocks because of wifely
wandering, he sat down with the Spellings. "These stories make me out
to be a slut," a tearful Candy Spelling told Archerd. The wire services
loved it.)

Should you catch him on television this evening, it
is unlikely you will notice that Archerd had trouble sleeping last
night. And though it is possible that he passed the night in blissful
slumber, it is also extremely unlikely. For just as it is an annual
tradition that Archerd greets and interviews Hollywood's bejeweled and
bespoke as they arrive at the Oscars "kudocast," so it is a tradition
that Archerd is too nervous to sleep well the night before.

At least that is what he would have you believe.

And
there is no reason to doubt him. A hallmark of Archerd's longevity is
his reputation for keeping his word. It is a quality rivaled only by
that extraordinary work ethic, a thing so ferocious one suspects it is
partly fueled by fear: Fear of getting scooped. Fear of missing a
deadline. Fear of blundering in front of an audience, or, worse, in
print.

Bart says it took a long time to get Archerd to agree to
drop one column a week. "The first thing he said was, 'But someone may
scoop me!' "

*

Archerd was given his first break by Bob
Thomas of Associated Press, the only reporter Archerd can think of
whose Oscar attendance record exceeds his own. (Thomas, 13 days younger
than Archerd, will be attending his 55th show tonight.) The pair had
attended UCLA together, but did not meet until after Archerd was
discharged from the Navy in 1945. Thomas hired him as a "leg man" to
help compile Hollywood items for his AP wire column.

"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Bob," says Archerd.

In 1947, Archerd left AP and hired on as leg man for another Hollywood columnist, Harrison Carroll of Hearst's Herald-Express.

Six
years later, in 1953, Daily Variety hired him when columnist Sheilah
Graham left. His column debuted on April 27: "Good Morning: Here's the
public's answer to the future of 3-D: nine out of 10 want to see more."
He ended the year on a poignant note: "An over-dressed gal, waiting for
a table at a Las Vegas supper club: 'Isn't this disgusting, isn't this
awful–waiting.' A soft voice behind her: 'I don't mind–I can remember
waiting in line for bread.' Happy New Year!"

Over time, Archerd
has been criticized for accepting fees from studios to emcee premieres
and for taking first-class studio-paid junkets to movie sets. A
double-standard in the Daily Variety newsroom?

Archerd, says
Peter Bart, "has done this work over decades. I think one has to allow
for the fact that someone doing something over generations does present
a circumstance that is different from someone who's more recently
hired."

Asked if he accepts gifts, Archerd replies, "I don't ask
for anything, but I don't insult people." And though the tone of his
column is generally sunny and informational–one mid-level studio
publicist says "people use him because he's kind"–he is capable of
stinging criticism.

He's knocked Jerry Lewis for "mimicking
people by being grotesque and making fun of their deficiencies . . .
and he's involved in that charity."

He has taken on Charlton
Heston over gun control. In 1995 and 1996 in at least five columns,
Archerd, who is Jewish, slammed Michael Jackson hard for using
anti-Semitic slurs in his song "They Don't Care About Us."

Jackson called Archerd to apologize and to announce that he would be changing the lyrics.

Recently,
Archerd waded into the controversy surrounding the honorary Oscar that
is to be presented tonight to Elia Kazan. In one piece, he recounted
the professional wreckage that followed the director's 1952 appearance
before the House Un-American Activities Committee and concluded: "I,
for one, will not be giving him a standing ovation."

Writer
Larry Gelbart, who has known Archerd for nearly 30 years, says the
columnist's opinions get respect "because most people know that Army
does not use his position as a vehicle of revenge or for
self-promotion. He knows his place is secure and recognized and he
doesn't have to wear all his medals to impress us."

Those
"medals" include a star in front of Mann's Chinese Theatre on the
Hollywood Walk of Fame ("My mother was very pleased," says Archerd.)
and a special plaque from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts &
Sciences for his Oscar arrival emceeing. He has also played himself in
countless movies and TV shows.

When asked to name his friends,
the short list is composed of names from Hollywood's old guard: Paul
Newman, Gregory Peck, Sidney Poitier, Kirk Douglas.

"He really
is the straight arrow by which all other columnists should measure
themselves," says Paul Newman. "He's painfully honest and he does his
homework, and he never publishes anything without getting double
verification on it."

"We all know he is absolutely trustworthy,"
says Gregory Peck, who calls his longtime friend Armand. "If you tell
him something off the record, he will never betray you. He keeps a
confidence, and I think that's why he has been able to write this
column for so long. He doesn't grind axes."

"Here is a guy whose word is his bond," says Sidney Poitier.

Archerd
is gracious and courtly with stars and big names, but not every
industry insider loves him. Some publicists who refuse to be named say
his terse telephone manner is rude and intimidating. "I don't think
anyone looks forward to calling him," says one.

"He should be
respected when he's been doing something as long as he has," says a
former studio executive with decades of experience. "But he isn't
breaking news the way he used to." Although Archerd prides himself on
never having printed a retraction, some of his industry sources say
this is because he refuses to acknowledge his mistakes.

Don't
tell that to Selma Archerd, who fell in love with her husband at 16 (he
was 19 and they met at a party) and married him 28 years later after
both of their first marriages ended in divorce. Between them, they have
four children and five grandchildren–one of whom, to his delight, has
nicknamed Archerd "Honey." Selma is as outspoken about her husband's
career as he is modest.

"I am very proud of him and I am very
fierce about protecting the status of what he is," says Selma, an
actress with a recurring role of Nurse Amy on "Melrose Place," which is
produced by Aaron Spelling. "He isn't the richest man in the world, or
the most powerful . . . but what he has, I want respected. And I'll
take the title of pain in the ass so that he will be respected."

And he does get respect.

Occasionally,
Archerd's juicy celebrity items are worldwide scoops. He was the first
to report in 1991 that Julia Roberts had flaked out on Kiefer
Sutherland three days before the wedding, first to announce in 1992
that Annette Bening had secretly removed Warren Beatty, the father of
her infant daughter, from the active list.

"He was first to report that my salad dressing was outgrossing my movies," says Paul Newman.

He
broke the biggest story of his career on July 23, 1985: "The whispering
campaign on Rock Hudson can and should stop. He has flown to Paris for
further help. His illness was no secret to close Hollywood friends, but
its true nature was divulged to very, very few. Doctors warn that the
dread disease is going to reach catastrophic proportions in all
communities if a cure is not soon found."

The story rocked the world.

"It was a thunder strike," says Bob Thomas.

For
two days, Hudson's spokespeople maintained that the actor had flown to
Paris to be treated for liver cancer or unexplainable fatigue.

"Someone
had anonymously mailed him a photocopy of the doctor's records," says
Selma Archerd. "And he'd had them for months, but it was so devastating
to print it. It was so shocking–someone that you actually knew! But he
waited until Rock was really out of it. The press agents tried to
discredit Army. His [previous] editor said he might have to retract it.
And Army said, 'Please don't do that to me. The story is right.' And,
of course, it proved to be right."

Archerd is so well-connected
that, if a star takes ill, chances are he will reach a family member
for a bedside quote. "He knows all the numbers of all the nurses on
every floor of every hospital," says Bart.

Each day at the
office, an intern delivers to his desk a stack of gossip and Hollywood
columns from New York newspapers, which he reads, he says, "to see what
they've stolen from me or if someone has double planted an item."

*

If
all goes as planned, Archerd will have spent Saturday observing Oscar
rehearsals at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. This morning, he will
write the bottom half of his Monday column and arrive downtown at about
2 p.m. He'll chat with the director of the show, check outside to size
up the crowd. Around 4 p.m., he'll mount the platform that puts him
close to the star-struck civilians who have camped out in temporary
bleachers.

"Good evening, movie fans!" he will say, paraphrasing
his famous column opening. And the movie fans, he says, chant his name
and "go berserk." ("It always amazes me that anyone knows who the hell
I am," he says.) For the next 90 minutes, assisted by two Oscar
staffers, he will greet and interview the stars. Around him, controlled
chaos will reign: paparazzi, mainstream photographers and reporters
will jostle for space along the roped-off red carpet as boisterous fans
scream the names of arriving stars. As news helicopters hover, the
fringes will teem with police officers, security guards, scantily clad
has-beens or never-weres vying for attention, anonymous, unglamorous
academy members, perhaps a few protesters with placards.

Archerd,
his head crammed full of names and facts, will be above the fray. In
his Armani tuxedo, silk tie from Harrod's and black velvet smoking
slippers gilded with his initials embroidered on the toes, he will be,
promises his wife Selma, "sartorially perfect."

He will be a
picture of cool as he interviews the Gwyneths, the Toms, the Billy
Bobs. But he will not be relaxed. Because as he's asking, say, "Saving
Private Ryan's" Steven Spielberg how he's feeling tonight compared to
how he felt when he was nominated for "Schindler's List," he will be
keeping an eye on who is arriving and needs to be interviewed and the
dwindling time. "That clock," he says, "waits for no one."

Moments
before the show begins, he will take his seat. Now his job will be to
report for his readers what happens in the auditorium, the tidbits they
won't see on TV. As the Best Picture Oscar is being announced, the
columnist will slide out of his seat and make his way to the aisle.
He'll wait to see how the audience reacts, then will dash to an
elevator and compose a lead on his way up to the pressroom. He'll file
the top of his column by phone, grab a sandwich, then a notebook, and
head to the Governors Ball, then into the party-filled night. He is,
needless to say, invited to everything.

Monday morning, he'll be
at his desk. He will sit with his back to the window, his yellow paper
neatly stacked, his pen at the ready. He will type the words "Good
Morning." The phone lines will ring. And the conversation will go
something like this:

Hello? You're where? Paris? Coming back to L.A. tomorrow? My God. Who? Oh, great. I beg your pardon. Hold on a sec.

Hello?
So are you on budget and on schedule? How many days now? Oh, that's
great! Wonderful . . . I gotta put that down exactly. So have you got
any other things you're trying to direct? OK, well, let me know about
it when they do happen. Don't let me read about it, OK?

Hello?