Watching Doris Again

I was looking for something to pass the time before dinner and “Love Me Or Leave Me” was just starting on TCM. Sure, I thought. Why not? The biographical musical came out in 1955 when I was just 12, on the cusp of adolescence. I’m still trying to sort out the effluvia of thoughts and feelings while watching it.

It quickly awakened the memory of my early intense attachment to Doris Day. By 12, I was totally enamored and continued to be for several years. I saw her films enough times to lose count, devoured every movie magazine article about her, and listened to her records repeatedly. I learned to sing by accompanying her on all her albums. Her framed 8X10s were all over my bedroom walls. What was it about my life that compelled the need to immerse myself in someone else? What did I hope would happen?

My best friend and I would sometimes take two buses into Beverly Hills just to walk past her house, always an exciting prospect. On one occasion, we stealthily made our way down the alley behind her home, all in the hope we’d get a glimpse of her – or, better still – meet her.. If someone I knew had seen her somewhere, I was crazy with envy.

My fantasies were neither sexual nor romantic. I wanted to be her, inhabit her charmed life, crawl inside those movies and meld into the songs. Why the drive to escape into that gossamer world?

Watching the film was mesmerizing. The sound of her voice permeated every neuron, an ironically painful reminder of a predictable sense of comfort so elusive now.

That loss is due in part to growing up, leaving behind a childhood where fantasy was abundant. But it’s most certainly abetted by the equally intense performance era when I did all the things I had wanted to do when I was standing in my 9X12 coral bedroom singing to her records. I recorded some of those same songs, performed them live in public. I devoted an entire show and CD to her and to her life. I wrote about her in fiction and nonfiction, even a monologue, and a performance piece about “our” relationship.

Doing that put a period on lots of things. By then, I had come to realize the costs of being Doris Day.  Direct personal experience made clear the hard work involved in making movies, and in perfecting an art form like music. During some of her later interviews she said she never thought much of her singing, was afraid to listen to herself, thinking she was out of tune. How incredible. But I understand.

Though I have no interest in listening to her music, several of her CDs are on my iPhone, just in case. I remain surprised at the power she and her music still hold over me, and the speed with which they call up some of my most intense moments. After watching the film, it’s clear that catalyst will never go away. The emotions are complicated and mixed, including admiration not only of her extraordinary talent but of my own chutzpah. Still, there is an ill-defined melancholy and sadness about all of it. The tears come easily, without any accompanying explanation.

*****

Pam Munter has authored five books including When Teens Were Keen: Freddie Stewart and The Teen Agers of Monogram, Almost Famous, and As Alone As I Want To Be. She’s a former clinical psychologist, performer and film historian. Her essays, plays, book reviews and short stories have appeared in more than 200 publications. Her play, “Life Without” was a semi-finalist in the Ebell Playwriting Competition in Los Angeles, nominated for Outstanding Original Writing by the Desert Theatre League and she has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She is the winner of the Sara Patton Prize for nonfiction. Pam has an MFA in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts. Her latest book, Fading Fame: Women of a Certain Age in Hollywood, was published in 2021. Pam is a member of the Authors Guild and is a frequent guest on podcasts. Her work can be found at www.pammunter.com.