Lucy on Lucy

This post is part of the Loving Lucy Blogathon.

By the early 1960s, Lucille Ball was already an American icon. From 1951 to 1960, she played the endearingly (and enduringly) zany Lucy Ricardo on I Love Lucy and its follow-up, The Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour; another series, The Lucy Show, would run from 1962 to 1968. Somewhere in this period, her mentor, Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, suggested that she write an autobiography — partly for the sake of recording her life experiences, and partly to help her work through the pain of her 1960 divorce from Desi Arnaz. She wrote about three hundred pages, detailing her life from her birth in 1911 up until 1964 — and then she put the manuscript away and never mentioned it again. According to her second husband, Gary Morton, she was reluctant to publish it because “it might hurt Desi.”

Fast-forward about thirty years. After Lucy’s death in 1989, her children, Lucie and Desi Jr., took charge of her estate. One day — much to their surprise — Lucy’s former attorney presented them with the manuscript, which he found in one of his file boxes. It was published in 1996 under the title Love, Lucy, and it offers a great deal of insight into Lucille Ball’s life and career. Here, I’ll present a few brief excerpts that shed light on how Lucy viewed herself.

On her willingness to do anything for the sake of comedy:

I’m known among comediennes as a stunt girl who will do anything. Red Skelton flatters me by saying I have the courage of a tiger. I don’t think it’s a matter of bravery; it’s just doing what comes naturally. I do know that if an actress has the slightest aversion to pie in the face or pratfalls, the camera will pick it up instantly. The audience won’t laugh; they’ll suffer in sympathy. Perhaps my willingness to be knocked off a twenty-foot pedestal or shot down a steamship funnel goes back to my earliest, happiest days with my father. I knew he was going to catch me; I wasn’t going to get hurt. (p. 5)

On her unsettled childhood and its influence on her career:

People with happy childhoods never overdo; they don’t strive or exert themselves. They’re moderate, pleasant, well-liked, and good citizens. Society needs them. But the tremendous drive and dedication necessary to succeed in any field — not only show business — often seems to be rooted in a disturbed childhood. I wasn’t an unloved or an unwanted child, but I was moved around a lot, and then death and cruel circumstances brought many painful separations. (p. 26)

On her versatility:

An actress must draw upon her own background; what she has lived, seen, and observed. It’s often been pointed out that Ginger Rogers and I can function on any level: high-society, middle-class, and street urchin. A superb comedienne like Irene Dunne was only convincing in well-bred parts. Ginger could play a finishing-school girl, a housewife, or Kitty Foyle. I can be as regal as a marquise, if the part calls for it, or peel a potato convincingly. (p. 55)

On her realism and her romanticism:

Friends kept pointing out that Desi was a romantic. He lived to enjoy life and never thought of tomorrow. I was a levelheaded realist who never lived beyond my means or went overboard drinking or gambling. Nevertheless, I was emotional and sentimental and romantic, too. I was an actress, wasn’t I?

I can’t do a funny scene unless I believe it. But I can believe wholeheartedly almost any zany scene my writers dream up. No cool-headed realist can do this. (p.130-31)

On her I Love Lucy success:

I did a lot of thinking during our warm and tumultuous New York welcome [in February 1954, when she and Desi were promoting The Long, Long Trailer]. “For ten hot minutes you’re such a great celebrity,” I told myself. “Ten minutes later, you’re just another actress.” Hedda Hopper says that I am one of the few actresses in Hollywood who survived my encounter with success in a single piece, only slightly battered as a consequence. There are many days when I feel more than slightly battered.

For there’s a lot of masochism in the acting profession. We’re willing to take a lot of punishment, but the minute we hit a little bit of success we are liable to run from it. We’re frightened of it and develop all kinds of phobias as a consequence. Outsiders who don’t understand think we have a chip on our shoulder, but it’s not that at all. We’re so used to failure, to being hurt and rebuffed, that we can easily come unhinged by success. (p. 239)

Love, Lucy is a fascinating read, and one of the best sources of insight into America’s favorite redhead. If you’re a Lucy fan (and I assume that you are, if you’re reading this), I recommend finding a copy. You won’t regret it.