Darin’s musical swerves are a large part of his legacy. The guy cracked the rock ’n’ roll market with a few hit singles (the first of which, “Splish Splash,” was also labelled as a novelty record because of its lyrics). Then, less than a year into his fame, he decided to do a 180 and release an album of him performing in the “popular standards” mode (later called everything from “middle of the road” to “lounge”) titled “That’s All.”
Once that particular iteration of Bobby Darin was established on both record and in nightclubs (esp. in Vegas, where he killed), he started performing country songs, influenced not by Dean Martin but by Ray Charles. From there Bobby started doing folk songs (older and foreign folk songs, in addition to the more expected Peter, Paul & Mary/Kingston Trio type of folk).
His final “break,” of which much is made because it was so extreme, was the point in October 1968 when he shed his toupee and tux jacket, grew a mustache, and later started wearing a denim jacket in his nightclub gigs; privately, he soon purged his possessions and moved to a small trailer in Big Sur. Darin did come back to the “Vegas side” of things within after he had major heart surgery in ’71, but he continued to cover songs by newer songwriters (Laura Nyro, Randy Newman, Neil Diamond, et al) and include newer songs he loved in act for the rest of his career, until his early death at 37 in 1973 of the heart trouble
that had plagued him all his life.
The reason I rattled off all the transitions above is merely
to show that Darin didn’t want to make things easy for himself. He seemingly
always wanted to challenge himself and move on, once he had established that he
could do something very well. With acting, he did make three cute comedies with
his first major show-biz girlfriend and first wife Sandra Dee, but aside from
those (and one Western where he’s a pacifist sheriff), Bobby sought out
difficult roles to establish that he didn’t want to be just a pop singer in
actor’s guise. (Which was basically the easiest way for a singer to function as
a movie star; Bobby ended up becoming the anti-Frankie Avalon [whom he was
actually very good friends with]) These performances still impress, even if the
films they are in are uneven or badly conceived from the start.
I should note that of the Darin books I’ve read, two of the best don’t have particularly great things to say about the movies he was in. The books in question are the best biography, Roman Candle: The Life of Bobby Darin by David Evanier (2004), and the best book about Darin’s recording career and his life in the media Bobby Darin: The Ultimate Listener’s Guide by Shane Brown (2023). I found that these books tell Darin’s story in a great fashion, but their summation of his acting talents didn’t tally with what I saw in the films.
Darin began acting with roles in TV series. His first role was in the dramedy “Hennesey” (1959-62) starring Jackie Cooper. At this point Bobby was perfectly willing to basically play himself in a fictional setting. Here he plays a pop star who is drafted into the Navy and then tries to get out by pretending he’s sick.
His character claims to be a hillbilly and Bobby occasionally adopts a Southern accent (and is clearly supposed to be Elvis), but he’s really playing himself, as his character’s biggest hit (which is performed twice in the episode) is “Mack the Knife.” The episode aired Oct. 5, 1959.
Bobby’s second TV acting gig was even odder than the first. The series “Dan Raven” (1960-61) was a cop drama with Skip Homeier that had a gimmick on certain episodes: Guest stars playing themselves getting involved in a crime. Mel Torme, Paul Anka, and Buddy Hackett all played themselves on the show.
Darin is indeed “Bobby Darin” on this episode that is up in parts on YT. An old friend approaches him about possibly investing in a nightclub and — woosh! — Bobby is the No. 1 suspect in a murder case. The role isn’t all that challenging, but Bobby does have a scene where the longtime friend tells him he’s just been lucky, he doesn’t deserve to be famous; not all that many pop-stars-turned-actors would’ve agreed to act out that scene. The episode aired on Sept. 23, 1960.
The first film that Darin was in was Pepe (Dec. 1960). He was merely a guest star in this extravaganza (which was intended as a vehicle for Mexican comedy star Cantinflas), singing a song in a nightclub.
The first of his starring films was a comfortable, easy choice for a pop singer’s debut as an actor: the romantic comedy Come September (Aug. 1961) starring Rock Hudson and Gina Lollobrigida. Here Rock is a millionaire who owns a big villa in Italy; his butler Walter Slezak figures that, since Rock is away for most of the year, he can turn the mansion into a hotel for tourist who want to see the Italian coastal area. Rock returns early one season and Slezak’s plans are foiled — or will Rock play along and allow the teenage girls who are staying at his villa to believe he (Rock) is only a visitor in his own house?
That’s as silly a plot as ever graced a rom-com, but it allows for a “war of the ages” between Rock and Gina and the younger set, which consists of a group of young men (led by Bobby Darin and including a young Joel Grey as the “brainy” member of the group) pursuing the young women staying at Rock’s villa (led by, who else, the super-wholesome Ms. Sandra Dee).
The film is a throwaway, albeit a long and very sumptuous throwaway. Director Robert Mulligan (on his way at this point to dramas like To Kill a Mockingbird and Summer of ’42) keeps the proceedings light and lively, but the 112-minute running time seems to have been a function of the budget spent on location shoots in Italy. (Comedy is best served at 90 minutes or less; every minute over that length is usually forced or bad plot exposition.)
There’s also one musical number, the single “Multiplication” (which he wrote), that Darin sings onscreen in the film. (He also wrote the movie’s instrumental theme song.) He only sang onscreen in this film, his cameo in Pepe, and the failed musical State Fair. The fact that his arrogant-young-man character can swing a number in front of a band at an Italian nightspot is never explained in Come September. Rom-coms don’t need to have explanations for odd events.
Darin really took a chance with his image by next starring in John Cassavetes’ first mainstream film as a director, Too Late Blues (Jan. 1962). The film isn’t a very mainstream one, as it depicts the jazz world through the lens of an ambitious, increasingly bitter pianist played by Bobby. This film gets drubbed in the Darin books mentioned above (plus the Al D’Orio bio), but for me it’s in the first rank of the dozen films discussed here.
It should be noted that the IMDB places Darin in the background during certain scenes in Cassavetes’ landmark Shadows (1958). They list Bobby as being “Man wearing sun glasses, dancing and later chewing gum at rehearsal.” Well, there is a gent in shades watching the dancing girls rehearse (in what was Bob Fosse’s studio, above where Cassavetes’ acting troupe with Burton Lane rehearsed). I’ve taken screenshots of him, and despite his hair looking like Darin’s hair, it’s not Bobby.
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| Not Bobby Darin. (Shadows) |
Back to Too Late Blues: The most interesting thing about the film is that Cassavetes sketches the jazz milieu here without romanticizing it; it should be noted that Cassavetes’ first mainstream directorial efforts were on the TV series “Johnny Staccato” (1959-’60), where he played a jazzman who gets involved in various dilemmas as a sort of unlicensed detective.
The parties the characters attend look enjoyable, but the business itself is depicted as corrupting and lethal, with the capacity to quell the spirit of any talented musician. It’s not too far to go to state that Cassavetes most likely intended to equate the jazz world with Hollywood and its intoxicating atmosphere, which would end up choking a true independent like “Ghost” Wakefield (Darin’s character). Or John Cassavetes.
In the meantime Cassavetes (who also coscripted) doesn’t make “Ghost” an overly likable character; in fact, he challenges you to like his lead figure (just as Darin himself challenged listeners to go on journeys with him from musical genre to musical genre). When Ghost becomes infatuated with a singer named Jess (Stella Stevens), he adds her to his band, initially infuriating the other members.
No matter. What Cassavetes does here is sketch the downfall of a man who thought he had ethics and a professional code but also possessed a giant ego. (Again, surely something JC himself was thinking of while making this film after having written his own ticket with Shadows.) Darin is believable throughout as Ghost and in fact makes a kind of noir figure who is tormented by his options and ultimately decides to take the easy way out. The final sequence shows Ghost watching his ex sing again with his band — but there is no chance he’s going to be accepted back in the group.
Stella Stevens, appearing in her fourth film here, gets to run through a gamut of emotions in her role as the would-be jazz singer who has no confidence in her voice. Of note is the fact that her character makes a stark suicide attempt, in what seems like a dry run for a later traumatic sequence in A Woman Under the Influence.
Also appearing in the film are a number of Cassavetes’ personal friends, who were in more than one of his features. These names include Val Avery, Rupert Crosse, and (making his movie debut here) Seymour Cassel. From this point onward I will include a bonus cast designation to indicate character performers who brightened up a film (or in the case of some of the lesser pics, supplied some enjoyment). Also featured in the film in good supporting roles are future “Ben Casey” costars Vince Edwards (here playing a mean-ass bully) and Nick Dennis.
Bobby was exceptionally busy at the beginning of the Sixties; this is underscored by the fact that four movies that featured him in a prominent role (either starring or key supporting) were released in 1962. The first is a pretty lackluster remake of State Fair (March 1962). This time out, new songs were added to the score by Richard Rodgers (operating alone, since Oscar Hammerstein II had recently died).
The film revolves around the romances of farmer/race-car driver Pat Boone and his sister Pamela Tiffin, who have affairs with the electric performers in the picture, namely Ann-Margret and Bobby Darin. Unfortunately, though, we are indeed stuck with Boone and Tiffin and their parents, played by Alice Faye and Tommy Ewell, for the majority of the running time.
Ann-Margret at least gets to manifest as a devil girl in a musical number (not as much fun as it would’ve been about 4–5 years later; the number needed David Winters on choreography and George Sidney directing). Bobby get one solo and sings along with two other group songs. The movie is wholesome and pretty dreary, but Darin again is “revved up” (more so than Boone in the racing scenes) as a TV newsman trying to move up to a national slot.
Bonus cast: Mr. Peepers himself, Wally Cox, is present in a few scenes as the judge of various foods at the state fair.
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| Bobby with Steve McQueen. |
Bobby’s next role was a supporting part in Don Siegel’s Hell is for Heroes (June 1962). Siegel was a helluva great director, but he had little to work with here script-wise and reportedly had many fights with the film’s star, Steve McQueen.
The film’s plot finds a small infantry division holding back the Germans in France. The one virtue the film has its modest size: It was clearly made quickly and on-budget and thankfully is only 90 minutes long. McQueen plays a surly loner and seems like he’s walking through the film in a trance. Fess Parker is the head of the division, with Darin cast as the wiseass city kid who runs sideline hustles, selling things to his fellow soldiers. Best appreciated by fans of all war pictures, it does boast a great cast, which belongs… below.
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| Bobby with Bob Newhart. |
Bonus cast: The other members of the division are played by, among others, Harry Guardino, James Coburn, Nick Adams, and Bob Newhart, in his movie debut. Newhart is the film’s comic relief and in one scene he’s told to convince the Germans (who have planted a spy device in the division’s territory) that everything is going well. He does this by basically doing a phone routine, similar to the kind of thing that he put on this best-selling LPs of the early Sixties.
Bobby was then paired with his wife Sandra Dee in the romantic comedy If a Man Answers (Oct. 10, 1962). All of these rom-coms had misunderstanding or “liar gets discovered” plotlines, and this one isn’t any different. Dee plays a woman who is advised on romance by her French mother (Micheline Presle), who not for a minute seems like Dee’s mother.
Her mother tells that when a woman’s marriage is failing she should pretend to cheat on her husband to make him jealous. Dee does this, creating a fake lover with the same name of the fake lover her mother used to rekindle the romance with her father. Darin eventually tips to the plot and invites said lover to visit the couple’s apartment for dinner.
Bonus cast: Darin’s invited guest, the supposed lover of his wife is played by… Cesar Romero. Cesar is later revealed to be Bobby’s dad, which is casting as silly as that of Presle and Dee as mother and daughter.
Pressure Point (Oct. 10, 1962; same day as If a Man Answers!) is considered by many to be the high-water mark of Darin’s acting career. In this instance he took a completely unlikable lead role as an American Nazi who is the patient of a Black psychiatrist, played by Sidney Poitier, in 1942.
Stanley Kramer, devoted maker of “message pictures,” produced the film, but it was written and directed by Hubert Cornfield, best known for the evangelical drama Angel Baby and the Brando kidnapping drama Night of the Following Day. According to Sidney Poitier, Kramer was the one who wanted the psychiatrist character to be Black.
The film primarily centers around the mental battles between the psychiatrist and the Nazi. Although an Expressionist series of flashback sequences (where younger Darin is played by Barry Gordon, from A Thousand Clowns!) are truly corny as hell, the sequences between Poitier and Darin bristle, because Poitier’s doctor character can’t let his racist patient know that he’s gotten under his skin and is driving him (the doctor) to completely loathe being in the man’s presence.
Poitier was always rock-solid in his performances, but what is surprising here is how well Darin keeps up with him and is a perfect antagonist for the piece. It was an incredible choice for Darin to have made — risking being hated by the audience, who (with the exception of very racist viewers) were always going to be on Poitier’s side. It definitely stands as one of three truly significant roles that Darin took, making him decidedly the opposite of the pop stars who would never appear in a film where they wouldn’t be loved by the viewers.
Bonus cast: The film contained so much incendiary material and seemed to dwell in such a weird corner of psychodrama hell that it was felt that a frame device would help to explain the situation better to the viewer. Thus, we see an aged Poitier explaining to a young psychiatrist why he should continue to work with a difficult patient; the young shrink in question is played by Peter Falk.
Captain Newman, M.D. (Dec. 1963) was the film that earned Darin a Best Supporting Actor nomination (he lost to Melvyn Douglas for Hud). The film itself is a very bizarre creation, equal parts drama and comedy, with the comedy registering as just ridiculous and the drama being almost lost in the shuffle.
The source for the film’s schizophrenic script was a book by Leo Rosten about the WWII experiences of his friend, a psychiatrist who worked with soldiers’s PTSD (and later, according to the Wiki entry for the film, became a Hollywood psych, working with Sinatra, Marilyn, and Tony Curtis). Gregory Peck, in his most-serious cardboard mode, plays the title character, who is overseeing a psychiatric ward in a military hospital in 1944.
The comedy plot strands almost exclusively revolve around Peck’s orderly, a con man played by Tony Curtis. In this strand, we see Curtis’s character funnel supplies to the ward in various ways, including a salami (yes, there’s a whole sequence involving a salami stolen from an Italian colonel, played by Curtis’s real-life friend Larry Storch). This is where numerous faces TV viewers later saw as regular on weekly series pop up.
The dramatic plot strand should have actually been the only one, as it highlights the problems of soldiers tormented by their experiences in the war. Three particular cases result in memorable sequences: the first involves a troubled colonel played by Eddie Albert (who commits suicide leaping from a water tower; this scene appears in the film sandwiched by comic moments).
The other two soldiers afflicted with traumatic memories provide the best moments in the film, which is way too long for its own good (126 minutes). The first is a Southerner, played by Darin, who feels guilty about abandoning his fellow soldiers when his plane crashed.
Darin has a tour de force scene where he recalls the crash while under sodium pentothol. The scene finds Darin crying, screaming and wailing — Tony Curtis found Darin’s performance to be overdone and awful, but then again Curtis wasn’t the kind of post-Brando/post-Dean actor that Darin succeeded in becoming. Bobby’s performance might seem super-charged, but that’s because he’s an impassioned performer playing against Peck at his stolid worst.
The third traumatized soldier is played by a young Robert Duvall. His character is catatonic because he survived the German invasion and occupation of a town by staying hidden in a cellar, thus never being taken hostage. Duvall’s performance is much quieter than Darin’s, but he too was clearly working with the post-Brando model of acting and his scenes are very wrenching, despite appearing in a film that jumps back and forth between the sublime and the ridiculous.
Bonus cast: Plenty of familiar TV faces show up in the film, including Angie Dickinson, Jane Withers, Dick Sargent, James Gregory, Ted Bessell, and Vito Scotti.
Darin next appeared as an actor in an episode of “Wagon Train,” the eight-season Western show (1957-1965) that had a regular cast of characters but was better known for its guest stars playing people encountering the wagon train — thus making it both a regular Western series and also an anthology drama.
The episode with Darin was part of the eighth and last season of the show; it aired on Oct. 4, 1964. Darin plays an outlaw on the run who ends up with the wagon train after a little girl discovers him hiding from lawmen. His character begins as a hard-bitten gunfighter type, but after a scene or two we realize that he’s actually a good guy in bad guy disguise. He will obviously grow to emotionally respond to the little girl who is a double whammy when it comes to sentimental drama: both an orphan *and* terminally ill!
Thus, Darin’s character has what they now refer to as an “arc,” but what remains most interesting after having read about his life is that as of July 1963 he began having medical issues while touring the nightclub circuit. (In that month he was rushed to a hospital after collapsing onstage at Freedomland in New York.)
It’s not hard to imagine that Darin liked the idea of playing an outlaw but also responded to the script’s being about a terminally ill child. A major part of Darin’s mythology is that he was a frail child who had bouts of rheumatic fever that weakened his heart; as a kid, he overheard a doctor saying that he probably would only live until 16, 25 if he was lucky.
Thus, knowing that Darin was working in a “method” manner, one can only assume that his own medical situation made him connect to a character who bonds with a terminally ill child. The fact that the child dies at the episode’s end and Darin rides off in handcuffs (as he allows himself to be caught so he can carry her body back to the wagon train) was pure tearjerking American TV, but it definitely seems like the correct ending for the drama. The only happy thing about the ending was that Darin’s outlaw bonded with the child and had her buried with his last name.
Only a fragment exists online of Darin’s next performance, on “Bob Hope Presents the Chrysler Theater” (1963-67), an anthology series that boasted some great stars and talented writers and directors. Darin’s episode, “Murder in the First,” was directed by Sydney Pollack and coscripted by Stirling Silliphant, who wrote many episodes of “Naked City” and “Route 66.” It aired on Oct 9, 1964, less than a week after the “Wagon Train” episode.
What we get to see here is a laidback interrogation scene, in which Bobby once again is seen giving an intense performance. The episode looks pretty good from this fragment (in terrible shape), but we’ll never know until we see the whole thing.
That Funny Feeling (Aug. 1965) was Bobby’s last starring role in a mainstream Hollywood “A” picture. It was also his last film with Sandra Dee; the couple divorced in ’67.
Here the rom-com plotting is extremely absurd. Dee’s character works for a freelance maid service and has been cleaning Darin’s apartment. When she meets him by chance, she doesn’t place him as the gent whose apartment she’s been cleaning, so she lies to him and tells him she lives in his apartment (which she has the keys to, thanks to her job).
Bobby doesn’t say anything about this lie, since he wants to see how she can play out the scenario of living there. He moves in with his boss (played by one of Darin’s comic-actor heroes, Donald O’Connor) and changes his life around to accommodate her lie.
The absurdity continues to the point that, when Dee is finally aware that Darin knows she doesn’t live in the apartment, she throws a party for all the women in his little black book and asks them to dress as Parisian hookers. It’s hard to get any sillier than that. The result is a pleasant farce, light as air, but not anything you’ll remember fondly after it’s over. (Darin also composed the full score for the picture.)
Bonus cast: Nita Talbot, Leo G. Carroll (as an Irish pawnbroker), gravel-voiced Robert Strauss, and Larry Storch as Dee and Talbot’s neighbor. He plays an unemployed actor who seems to be “the gay best friend” in certain scenes and not in others.
Darin’s next role was on TV in an episode of “Run For Your Life” (1965-68) that was intended as a pilot for a spinoff series starring Bobby. The premise of “Run” found Ben Gazzara playing a terminally ill man moving through different situations. In the episode in question, “Who’s Watching the Fleshpot?”, Gazzara’s character reconnects with an old friend, played by Darin, in a small French town.
The episode is an absolutely charming one, as Gazzara and Darin had a great rapport. (One can see Gazzara and his wife Janis Rule attending Bobby’s “comeback” to the Coconut Grove in 1966 in newsreel footage found on YT.) Darin’s character is a tour guide, but one who is clearly also a traveler and a charismatic con man. The actual plot of the show follows Gazzara and Darin as they show an American mother (Eve Arden) and daughter around the French town, and opening up the daughter to new experiences (as she is a very prim and proper, no-nonsense lady).
The second half of the episode has crooked Jeff Corey and his sidekick trying to steal a pricey car that Arden left to Gazzara and Darin. Throughout the episode there’s a nice camaraderie between the two leads, which perhaps defeated the idea of Darin getting his own series. (The notion is even planted that Gazzara would guest-star on such a show.) When an adventure succeeds because of the natural connection between the two leads, it’s hard to imagine breaking one lead away for his own set of exploits.
IMDB identifies the scripter of the episode as Roy Huggins, the creator of “Run For Your Life,” but the script was in fact written by John Thomas James. The show aired March 7, 1966. Bonus cast: Nicholas Colasanto plays Jeff Corey’s Italian sidekick.
Bobby’s last starring role in a movie was in the B-western Gunfight in Abilene (March 1967). It’s his only heroic role, but one can see what attracted him to the material: It’s the tale of a gent who shot his best friend by mistake in the Civil War and has thus sworn to never carry a gun again. He keeps up this pacifist decision even when appointed mayor of the small town he comes from — but eventually he’s going to have to use a gun. (This is a Western, after all.)
Interestingly, the “sheriff who refuses to carry a gun” plot was used in an episode of the cult series “The Prisoner,” in the Western episode, called “Living in Harmony.” (Dec. 1967) Darin attended civil rights protests throughout the Sixties and was vehemently against the Vietnam War as the decade wore on; one can easily see why he chose this particular Western to be a part of, but he wound up hating it, labeling it “Gunfight at Shit Creek.” Bobby also wrote the score for this picture and a lovely theme song, “Amy.”
The one notable thing about the plot is that the meanest villain in the piece is played by Leslie Nielsen, who sports a fake hand, as his character supposedly lost his hand in an accident that Darin’s character caused. Nielsen thus sports a giant fake hand that looks like it came out of a monster movie.
Bonus cast: Michael Sarrazin plays the young man who is bound to be killed before long. There is always one of these in a standard-issue Western.
At this point, Darin alternated TV acting roles with very sporadic work in supporting roles in films. Stranger in the House (aka Cop-Out) (May 1967, U.K.; Jan 1968, U.S.) is a very uneven adaptation of a Simenon novel that was first adapted in 1942 by Henri Decoin (starring Raimu) and later on by George Lautner as a 1992 vehicle for Belmondo. Its last adaptation was a 1997 straight-to-video feature that starred Steve Railsback.
James Mason stars as a drunk, disillusioned lawyer who is called back into service when his daughter’s boyfriend is arrested for the murder of a drifter. The daughter is played by a bowl-cut-sporting Geraldine Chaplin, who has nothing to do except be disapproving of Mason and be party-centric; the drifter is played by Bobby Darin.
Darin’s character is a curiosity in this version — an American con-man/drifter (first seen sporting a sailor’s hat, but is he a sailor? Could be…) who ends up becoming part of Chaplin’s social circle and even begins to live in the attic of the house that she and Mason share. His murder sets in motion the third act of the film, in which Mason goes back to being a practicing barrier (and seeming amateur sleuth).
Here Bobby is quite content playing a totally reprehensible guy, who is not “explained” as with the Nazi in Pressure Point. “Barney” is just a guy who latches on to some rich young Brits and is willing to risk his life hitting on the girls in the group (especially Chaplin) and infuriating his eventual murderer. Darin’s devotion to his role is complete, but this is really Mason’s film from start to finish, with his performance being the most striking (mostly because his character is the best written).
The Happy Ending (Dec. 1969) is certainly an odd late Sixties drama, in that it concerns a middle-aged marriage in which all the love is gone. Brooks was best known for tough dramas like The Blackboard Jungle and In Cold Blood and “hot box” Tennessee Williams adaptations (Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Sweet Bird of Youth), but he was also a writer-director who liked to sketch characters (Elmer Gantry, Looking for Mr. Goodbar). He was also married to Jean Simmons from 1960 to ’80, so it was clear he would create a vehicle for her when she was no longer getting as many leading roles.
That said, the film has some interest because of the ensemble of characters he surrounded Simmons’ middle-aged wife with. She may feel no love or sexual attraction in her marriage to John Forsythe, but she does have a number of friends to commiserate with, from a group of wives she meets with at the local gym to her college chum (Shirley Jones) whom she meets again when — major plot point here! — she ditches her 16th wedding anniversary party and flies to Nassau.
In Nassau one of the people she encounters is a gigolo played by Darin. He has a very small role here (barely 10 minutes), but it’s an intriguing one and one that allows him to make fun of this receding hairline. His gigolo seduces Simmons with a fairly good Italian accent and tales of his life as a journalist. He caresses her leg until he hears that neither she nor husband are rich.
At that point Darin drops the accent and tells her about being a “hustler from L.A., down on his luck.” He gives a little speech that is a priceless takedown of himself: “Jesus, lady, I’m 34, my hair’s falling out. You were my long shot. ...Sorry, lady, I can’t afford to waste it. Lady, I used to be a pistol. Bang, bang, load, reload, now… Anyhow, I’ve gotta save it, in case. I mean, what if something finally turned up and I couldn’t make the scene? [shudders] I’d say we both got the shitty end of the stick.” Simmons proceeds to drape on him what looks to be a 100-dollar bill tied to one of her stockings.
I included the above dialogue to show that the film is well-written, despite it being not necessarily a revelation. (Cassavetes’ Faces covered the same turf around the same time and was much harder-hitting in its view of middle-aged married couples.) The film did have one great legacy: The song “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?” by Michel Legrand, and Marilyn and Alan Bergman made its debut here. (It was nominated for a Best Song Oscar but lost; in the meantime it’s been covered by many singers.)
Bonus cast: Lloyd Bridges, Nanette Fabray, and, as John Forsythe’s boss, Dick Shawn, who is openly cheating on his wife, Tina Louise.
There had to be a dreary moment in this “survey” of Darin’s acting work and it definitely came with a viewing of the “Ironside” episode he had a supporting role in. While his performance is indeed fun — he’s a shifty, sleazy professional gambler (right down to the pinkie ring). The show itself, though, was always a bore, in the vein of many late Sixties/Seventies cop dramas.
The plot concerns Ironside’s efforts to discover who killed a cop friend of his. Is it Darin’s sleazy gambler character, his just-as-sleazy (but not picturesque) boss, or perhaps a corrupt cop? It’s none of them, but no one will care by the time the episode is over.
The only noteworthy scene is one that is unintentionally funny: When Bobby races his car to get away from Ironside’s people (who arrive in a mini-van), Ironside himself tumbles out of the back of the van in his wheelchair. He falls to the ground, and one is again found wondering how in the hell an obese man in a wheelchair is supposed to be physically fighting crime. (Ironside made the overweight “Cannon” seem like a bodybuilder.)
One thing that can be said about these late Sixties/Seventies cop shows (with the exception of “Kojak” and “Streets of San Francisco,” which had some great episodes) is that their theme songs were better than the series. That’s definitely true of the “Ironside” theme, composed by Quincy Jones. The episode with Darin, called “The Gambling Game,” aired on Oct. 5, 1971, and is available in perfect condition (why?) on Roku.
In 1970 Darin wrote, produced, and directed a film called The Vendors, which was shelved after being shot and edited. There are a few eye-witness quotes in the books on Darin that it was a terrible film, but one wishes it had at least gotten some kind of distribution so we could’ve made up our own minds about it. As it stands, either Darin’s son Dodd has a copy of it, or no one does.
Darin returned to TV with his last lengthy guest-star role, as a bad guy in the Glenn Ford modern-day cowboy/crime series “Cade’s County” (1971-’72). Bobby is a criminal who believes he is Billy the Kid and so carries out crimes in the old-fashioned way — although in the episode’s first scene he uses a very modern rocket launcher to nail a bank truck.
The episode, “A Gun for Billy,” was directed by later noted movie director Richard Donner and aired on Nov. 28, 1971. It definitely moves along pretty quickly and moves back and forth between “Billy” (Darin) planning another robbery and Glenn Ford and his deputies (who include Edgar Buchanan, from “Petticoat Junction”) trying to identify and then stop him.
This is another instance of Bobby in his villainous guise: lacking the toupee he wore onstage when in “show-biz mode”; dyed back hair; and a small mustache. This episode is by no means a must-see, but again, it moves (unlike “Ironside,” which moved as slowly as its star, Raymond Burr).
Bonus cast: David Doyle plays a psychiatrist Ford quizzes to get info on Billy, and Leif Garrett (!) is Billy’s son, whom he takes on his final job.
Bobby’s very last TV acting appearance was in one of those “time filler” short segments on Rod Serling’s “Night Gallery.” Here he is again in his “bad guy look” as a crook trying to flee the country. Jack Albertson plays a man who says he can deliver Darin to safety and… we know something will go wrong.
The segment was called “Dead Weight,” runs less than ten minutes, and aired on Feb. 9, 1972.
Happy Mother’s Day, Love George (aka Run, Stranger, Run) (Aug. 1973) is the last film that Bobby appeared in. He has a small role and it’s another character part, that of a guy running a local greasy spoon with his girlfriend, played by Cloris Leachman.
The film was released to theaters (in fact, I read about a press party they had for it recently in an old Interview magazine) but basically is a glorified TV movie. Darren McGavin (Kolchak himself) directed, and Robert Clouse wrote the script, which means that it was most likely dreamt up when McGavin appeared in the 1972 horror TV movie “Something Evil” (directed by Steven Spielberg), which had a script by Clouse (who is best known for directing martial arts films, including Bruce Lee’s best vehicle, Enter the Dragon).
The cast McGavin assembled is the only reason to watch the film. It is half a “homecoming” TV movie and half (or perhaps really a third?) a whodunit with horror overtones. A stranger (Ron Howard, just before American Graffiti) comes back to a small New England town. He wants to confront his mother (who turns out to be Leachman), who gave him away for adoption, and find out who his father was. Simultaneous to this a murder spree is taking place — signaled by the appearance of bones and skulls along the coast of the town.
The murder plot is finally reconciled into the Ron Howard plotline late in the film. Leachman, it is revealed, slept with her sister’s husband and thus came Opie. The sister is played by Patricia Neal, who is very good for this kind of “bent” family saga; her real-life daughter Tessa Dahl makes a great impression (in one of her few movie roles) as Neal’s crazy but seductive daughter.
Darin has minimal screen time, but by this time he had truly become a “character actor” and he excelled in that sort of work. (Plus, it probably took nothing away from his nightclub gigs and was less taxing to his health doing a few days’ shoot on a small film/TV project.)
Bonus cast: This is yet another film Darin was in that numerous familiar faces from TV. Among them are Thayer David, singer Gale Garnett, Simon Oakland (Kolchak’s “Vincenzo”), and McGavin himself, seen in photos as the dead “George” of the title.
I don’t recommend seeing every film and TV episode Bobby Darin did unless you are a fan of his music first and foremost, or you’re interested in how a pop idol (who then became a nightclub superstar and was always an interesting pop/rock/folk/country composer) could settle into actually acting rather than being “placed” in prime movie/TV roles as a guest star (or do it as a shell of his former self, as so many pop stars become).
NOTE: There are two other TV acting performances by Darin that are not available online at this time (from “Burke’s Law” and the anthology series “The Danny Thomas Hour”). The films can all (but for the final title) be found in perfect condition on ok.ru. Thanks to Paul Gallagher for his help with finding these titles.
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