Dial File: Taking a bubble bath in soap land

Thursday, June 25, 1998 | 9:46 a.m.

"Say your lines and don't bump into the furniture"

-- Spencer Tracy on acting

OL' SPENCE had it nailed.

That was learned firsthand in 1992, when I famously guest-starred -- well, to be more precise, made no impression whatsoever -- on the ABC soap opera "One Life to Live."

The demoralizing details sullied my memory anew as I heard that the show gets a special prime-time airing tonight at 8. ABC is also set to launch All My Soaps, an all-soap opera channel that will rerun soap episodes. It will be test-marketed in Chicago and Houston. I pray that the episode saddled with my distinctly forgettable walk-on doesn't surface on a "best-of" retrospective -- an enormous improbability, given the pall I probably cast on my castmates' efforts.

Working for a New York newspaper in '92 -- "OLTL" is taped in Manhattan -- my cringe-worthy cameo was simply quid pro quo: I got to be on TV -- a critic putting his laughable acting ability where his big fat mouth is -- and they got a published story, and publicity.

To set the scene ("OLTL" aficionados, note that this was six years ago, before innumerable cast and storyline changes): At Giorgio's restaurant in fictional Llanview, blustery business tycoon Asa Buchanan (Philip Carey) accuses wife/ex-madam Renee (Patricia Elliott) of bedding evil Carlo (Thom Christopher). Harsh words are exchanged ("You don't deserve to live!") and fisticuffs erupt, with con man Cain (Christopher Cousins) trying to stop it. Enter editor/town witch Blair (Mia Korf, late of NBC's "Players") and "Photographer" (that noted thespian, me) of a rag called The Intruder (dignified, no?) hiding near a potted palm tree.

(Hey, every editor I know has oodles of free time to cruise for news with photographers, and every editor I know is as drop-dead gorgeous as Mia Korf ... Saliva test for Mr. Bornfeld, please.)

My big line? After Mia-as-Blair tries to block my picture-taking -- yes, principled tabloid editors are forever preventing paparazzi from snapping incriminating photos (where's that saliva test! -- I utter those immortals words: "Don't you know a headline when you see one?"

Right up there with, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a rat's patootie."

Later, I nod while Blair whispers stern instructions ("Get down to the lab and tell them to put a rush on it!"), then trot out of the restaurant and the scene.

After "blocking" the scene in a dry run, some line refinement ("Don't you know a HEADLINE when you see one?" Nah -- "Don't you KNOW a headline when you SEE one?") in the dressing room I shared with the guy who played Nigel the butler, and squirming in the makeup chair (should a guy wear eyeliner and blush?) it's showtime -- for nearly four hours. For one fight scene:

Asa throws punch. ... Carlo snaps head back. ... Eyes turn to overhead monitor. ... Not in sync. ... Again. ... Carlo hits floor. ... Arms turned the wrong way. ... Again ... Again ... Again ... Carlo needs "blood" applied to his mouth by a makeup artist. ... Stop. ... Asa must change into "blood-stained" shirt hanging neatly nearby. ... Stop ... And go ... And stop. ...

"My legs are killing me," Mia says as we wait behind a cardboard restaurant wall, nervously chewing on candy and hopping up and down. Suddenly, our turn approaches.

Mia stands rock still, whispering to herself. In that moment, she's got it down-- the scene, the emotion, the dialogue, the character. I'm handed an overcoat and an umbrella. Since this scene features violence, it is, in the not-so-subtle symbolism of soaps, a dark and stormy night.

And that's when Spence's words return to haunt me.

C-L-A-N-K! Rrrrrrraaaatttttle! BOOM!

One barstool down, victim of my clumsy entrance onto the restaurant set. Camera swaying unsteadily around my neck, I swing around to catch up to Mia. Turning on cue, I aim the camera toward the ersatz fistfight and start clicking away, as per the script.

"What are you doing?" Mia-as-Blair asks, throwing me a cue.

Blank stare. Silence.

"Ah, nuts! I forgot my line." (I only had three -- how hard could it be to remember them?)

"Just what you pay me for, boss," Mia whispers gently.

"Just what you pay me for, boss. Just what you pay me for, boss," I repeat.

Chaos descends. Voices collide and arms thrust forward, pushing, pulling, positioning me like a rag doll.

"Whatever else you do, you HAVE to hit this mark," says the stage manager, Ray, pointing to criss-crossing tape marks on the floor.

"OK."

"You can speak up when you talk to Blair, but it has to be like a conspiracy, you see?" says director David Pressman, a short, bald man with nervous energy to burn.

"Right. Yeah."

"When you hold the camera, don't grab it like that. Put it flat against your palm," says Steve, an ABC photographer.

"Huh? Whaddaya say?"

"When you move to the left and toward the exit, come around just like this," says cameraman Gene, whose hand-held camera is going to shoot the scene over-the-shoulder style. "I have to follow you on every step."

"OK! OK! OK!"

Ray the stage manager rattles off instructions: "Mia, you lead into the restaurant and around the bar ... Steve, you must lead over to the mark by the palm tree ... Steve, is your mike taped securely to your lapel? ... Steve, isn't your overcoat covering it when you lift your arms to take the pictures ... Steve, not so much clicking, OK? ...

"Steve ..."

You get the idea. The episode finally aired, I endured the expected ribbing ( "a star is Born-feld," yuk, yuk, yuk) and then waited for that Emmy -- which never came.

I called Susan Lucci to see if she wanted to commiserate over a beer, but she never called back.

CROON A TUNE: "The chores! ... The stores! ... Fresh air! ... Times Square!" Henny Trichter! Alex Jeanos! The last two knew that the first four came from "Green Acres." Congrats, Henny and Alex, who tied -- she on the phone, he via e-mail -- as the first readers to ID that wacky fish-waaaaay-out-of-water sitcom about urbanites Oliver and Lisa Douglas (Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor) among the rural residents of Hooterville.

As Eva might have put it: "Dahlings, I love you, but gimme a Croon-a-tune."

Next? What theme noted that " ... it is run by Kate, come and be her guest ..." What was the show? And what was run by Kate? As usual, be the first reader, via phone or e-mail, to show off your TV theme prowess and you'll swoon when you're named in Croon-a-Tune.

Don't worry, we'll catch you.

STAT CHAT: A new survey concludes that there are reality gaps between real life and TV. (Does this mean that I'll never bump into "Xena: Warrior Princess" at 7-Eleven?)

Among the nuggets dug up by the advocacy group du jour, The National Partnership for Women & Families: Proportionally, there are fewer female executives, teachers and technicians depicted on TV than actually exist.

Can you imagine? Personally, I've been yearning for a penetrating series on the death-defying lives of technicians. And I wonder if there aren't even more insidious reality gaps that have slipped under the statistical radar.

Despite their societal value, CPAs are not getting their due on TV, an appalling omission that deprives us of edge-of-the-seat mysteries ("Diagnosis: Audit") and riotous reality shows ("America's Funniest Home Tax Returns").

How about morticians? Certainly indispensable, but where are the high-octane action series ("Walker, Texas Embalmer") or wacky comedies ("Corpse Meets World")? What about TV critics? Neither valuable nor indispensable, I'll grant you, but why should that rule out searing family dramas ("Party of Jive"), compelling magazine shows ("Hateline: NBC") or eerie, sci-fi cult hits ("The Kvetch Files")?

Clearly, TV producers have wasted too much time on the basic elements of entertainment, at the expense of Statistical Correctness.

For shame. For shame.