Sandra Dee and Bobby Darin:

"Why I Fight With Bobby"

This article, written by Rose Perlberg, appeared in Screenland Magazine July, 1963

For several months now, newspaper and magazine articles have consistently spelled one word for the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Walden Robert Cassotto, better known as Bobby Darin and Sandra Dee: T-R-O-U-B-L-E !
"That wasn't an explosion on the Eastern Seaboard; it was Bobby Darin arguing with wife Sandra Dee," columnist Sheilah Graham reported last fall. She added, "I wouldn't give odds on the longevity of this marital union."
"I had the first story on your marriage plans and the first story when you expected your baby, but I don't want any story on you two separating," Louelta Parsons publicly declared, when she heard the Darins were having trouble.
"Universal will spend a mint ballyhooing Sandra Dee in her role in 'If A Man Answers' ... (They'll) also try to keep her glued maritally to Bobby Darin--to preserve the image until after the film is released," Dorothy Kilgallen wrote, shortly before the end of last year.
Her attitude was echoed in an interview with an "old friend" of the Darins, who reportedly said, "I'm convinced, like Kilgallen, that this marriage is headed right for the rocks and only a miracle can save it."
With all the pessimistic publicity, you'd expect a flat "No Comment!" or a heated denial of the slightest squabble from the principals involved. But Mrs. Bobby Darin, surprisingly, offered neither when we visited her at home during a recent day off.
We arrived at 2 p.m. Sandra, wearing her "relaxing-at-home outfit"--blue silk capris with matching overblouse, multicolor booties and chunky blue, green and pink glass beads--was sprawled on the couch in the living room, watching TV with son and heir Dodd Mitchell, a 14-month-old, strapping youngster.
She turned Dodd over to the baby nurse, to give us a guided tour of their modern hillside home. Dodd promptly howled his disapproval. She sighed, "Oh, junior!," and took him along. There was Dodd's room; a bedroom turned "wardrobe room" for Bobby's clothes, filled with racks and racks of suits, sports jackets, slacks, shirts and ties--enough to serve as a men's furnishing outlet--and their bedroom, with her huge clothing closets.
"It's really much too small," Sandy frowned, as we returned to the living room with its heavy white and black furniture and white rug. "We're looking for a bigger house with at least 14 rooms." She deposited a none-too-eager Dodd back on the couch with the nursemaid and vainly tried to convince him that the man spieling a commercial on the TV was "Daddy." Dodd didn't fall for the trick, but he substituted a silent pout for the earlier yowling and we made our hasty retreat into the next room, a den converted into a pool room, with low-slung furniture. It looks out, as does the living room, onto their big rectangular-shaped swimming pool.
Sandy led us into the dining room where she stopped to point out proudly a shiny chrome soda fountain attached to a little bar. "My Christmas present to Bobby," she beamed. "Isn't it wild? We have the most fun with it. We use it much more than we ever used the bar."
She settled onto one of the big, white leather armchairs by the heavy, black dining table, lit a cigaret, and considered the rather thorny question of whether or not her marriage was on shaky grounds.
"Look," she snorted with a deprecating wave, "we were supposed to be splitting up a month after we were married (in December, 1960). I understand that some people took bets that our marriage wouldn't last six months! I was supposed to be pregnant months before my doctor knew. I recently read somewhere, that I was pregnant with my second child! People talk. What are you going to do?
"Do we fight?" She grinned devilishly. "We certainly do! I love to fight. I absolutely adore it! I start fights about anything. Bobby can look out the window and say, 'Gee, honey, isn't the view pretty?' and if I'm in an arguing mood, I'll say, 'No, it's too smoggy' and then we fight about whether it's clear or hazy. We can have a terrific fight about what TV show to watch, or what the baby should wear, or ... just about any stupid, little thing. Bobby yells back, but he usually ends up laughing at me, which makes me boil. I stalk off in a real snit and pace the living room or the dining room, doing my martyrish bit to the hilt and waiting for him to come up and say he's wrong--which, of course, he never does!
"He isn't mad, really. He knows it's just in fun, it's an outlet for me--and he indulges me. Up to a point! She grimaced wryly. "Right in the middle of one of our most marvelous fights, he'll say, 'Okay, that's enough. I've got to sing tomorrow' and it's all over.
"Bobby has the patience of a saint. He really does. I'm the kind of person who can't keep things inside. If I'm bugged at something, I'll sound off, loud and clear, and get it out of my system. I don't care where we are, or who's there. Bobby understands this and he lets me blow off steam in public. We may argue when we're out but by the time we get home, we're the happiest two people you ever did see!
"Of course, this may mislead many people. They see us going at it tooth and nail in some club or restaurant. They don't know it's just for fun, and they probably think, 'Oh, boy! Those two are at it again!'
"I've only seen Bobby mad once. We had our only real clash--a very personal thing that came up about a year ago, right after the baby was born. It was a major crisis--but we got through it. He got mad then," she shook her head ominously, remembering. "Wow! Did he ever. It lasted for about ten minutes. I never realized until then just what a temper he has. I hope I never see it again!
"A lot of people have the wrong idea about us," she continued. "Very simply, I'm not all that good and he isn't all that bad! The most misconstrued thing is that Bobby is the King Leader of the house and that he keeps me in the background and dictates everything to me. This is ridiculous! When it comes to the major things, Bobby makes the decisions. But he certainly doesn't rule me. In fact, if anything, he's always after me to be more independent. He says that I lean on him too much."
"When we're out in public, Bobby's the one who does the talking and who carries the ball. This may confuse people. I don't know. I am quiet when we're together. I'm his wife and I do tend to stay in the background. But away from Bobby, I'm very much like he is. You can't shut me up.
"Our careers are separate from our life together. We settled that in the beginning. After we were married, Bobby didn't want me to do any more fan magazine stories. It took a while, but he finally understood this is an important part of my career. We agreed that I'd handle my career--unless, of course, he doesn't want me to work... Would I quit if he didn't? Yes," she nodded slowly. "Yes, I would. You see, if he would ask me to, knowing how much I love it, it would mean that something was wrong at home. And I would want to fix that right away.
"That has never come up. Bobby wants me to do anything that makes me happy. If it made me happier not to work, that's what he'd want. Now, I enjoy acting very, very much, so he's all for it.
"He's actually a very mellow person. He takes a lot of things in stride that would absolutely infuriate me. I'd have a royal fit, for example, if one of my musicians got drunk and missed a plane for rehearsal, as one man did, for Bobby's opening in Las Vegas last month. He just shrugged it off.
"See," she gestured impatiently with the cigarette, "people confuse Bobby's actions. He happens to be very sure of himself. He knows he's no-Rock Hudson, but at the same time, he knows he has talent and he knows how to use it. A lot of people mistake this for conceit.
"Bobby also happens to come on pretty strong; he has a very dominating personality, and he's an extremely honest person. To the point almost, where it's no good... I mean, you could be wearing a hat that Bobby doesn't like. Now, he could say, 'I hate that hat,' or he could say, 'That's a nice hat, But I'd prefer to see you in another style.' Bobby would always say, 'I hate that hat.' He doesn't color things for tact's sake. He's terribly blunt. Some people take offense at this kind of honesty... Do I? Heavens, no! I hate phonies of any sort. Bobby, whatever his shortcomings, is not a phoney.
"The one thing most people aren't aware of is Bobby's sensitivity. He feels very deeply and he's extremely perceptive. About anyone and anything. That's the main reason he puts up with my yelling and carrying on--which must embarrass him at times. He humors me, because he realizes this is part of my make-up, and if fighting makes me happy, then he'll go along with it-even though he really hates to argue.
"That's not to say," her lips twisted fully, "that Bobby isn't temperamental in his own right. He sure is. But he controls it better than I do.
"I'm just learning to control my outbursts. I used to be terrible. I'd fly off the handle at the slightest thing. I was packing to go home to mother four times a week! Of course, mother had nothing to do with our fights. A few people thought she did. That," she scowled indignantly, "is so far from the truth it's ridiculous! Bobby--and this is a fact--is better friends with my mother than I am! They get along marvelously.
"In the beginning, of course, mother didn't want me to get married to anyone. If President Kennedy had been single and proposed, she'd have said, 'No!' She just thought that I was too young and that I didn't have enough dating experience, so she opposed it. I, naturally, went ahead and did it!"
A typical Sandra Dee reaction?
She made a wry face and nodded. "You might say so. I'm pretty headstrong. When I make up my mind to do something, I have to do it. I'm also an extremist-either on cloud nine or in the dumps. That was what started a lot of our early fights. I'd get mad if I couldn't have my own way about every little thing.
"Bobby was pretty patient. But there were times, when even he couldn't take my tantrums. He wouldn't fight back. He'd just walk out of the house. And you know where he'd go?" She stifled a giggle. "He'd go to mother's! He'd go out and buy some cheeseburgers and take them up there and they'd both have supper. I'd get even madder, because I knew I couldn't go home to mother--he was there! A lot of times, I would go anyway, and that's where we'd make up!
"Lately, I've been doing pretty well. I'm really quite proud of myself." She nodded with deliberate immodesty. "I'm much more lady-like, much more understanding. Things that would send me off in a blue funk a year ago hardly faze me at all.
"There was one time in particular--I'll never forget it. We'd been married about a year, and I was still somewhat of a spoiled brat. I decided to surprise Bobby and cook dinner. In those days, I rarely went into the kitchen. When we ate in, Bobby played chef. He's a fantastic cook. I could hardly boil an egg. Well, I spent the whole afternoon making some kind of a casserole. I was really working over that stove! At about 5:30, he called and he said, 'Start packing, we're going to Palm Springs for the weekend.'
"I wailed, 'But, Bobby, I just finished cooking dinner.' "'Put it in the freezer,' he ordered. 'I'll be home in half-an-hour and we ought to leave right away.'
"I was stunned. What did he mean? I icily informed him that I didn't cook every day and the least he could do was come home and enjoy my efforts this once."
"He ignored my sarcasm. 'I'll be home in half an hour, honey,' he repeated. 'You'll be ready, won't you?'
"That did it! I had a fantastic tantrum right then and there on the phone. I was yelling so loud, I didn't even know when he hung up!
"He came home in ten minutes and he wasn't in the best of moods himself. Before I could say a word, my precious dinner was in the freezer, my suitcases were out, and Bobby was going through my dresser drawers like a madman. Needless to say, we went to Palm Springs, I picked fights about everything all weekend. He humored me along. When I look back on it, all I can say is that he displayed fantastic control!
"Now, I'd never dream of carrying on like that. Now, I've even turned into a pretty good cook! This week, I made more things," she ticked them off on her fingers, "meat loaf, chicken, chops, stews ... And control--let me tell you! The other day, Bobby called up and he said, 'Hey! Let's have dinner with your mom and her date tonight.'
"I said, 'Great. What time and where do you want to go?'
"He suggested 7:30 and La Scala. Mom said that was fine with her, so I called and made reservations for four. Bobby had a recording session which he said would be over by seven.
"At 7:15 he called and said, 'Honey, I'm going to be a little late. Why don't you tell your mother that we will meet them there.'
"I said, 'Do you want me to come down and pick you up?'
"He said, 'No, I'll be home in a few minutes.'
"At 8:30, he called to report, 'We're still going strong.'
"'Mother's waiting for us,' I reminded him. 'What should I tell her?'
"'Gee, honey,' he said, 'you'd better tell her to go ahead without us. I'm sorry.'
"I said, 'Okay, I'll fix something here for us. When will you be home?'
"He said, 'In an hour for sure.'
"At 10:30 he called again, 'Honey, keep it hot. I'll be home in 15 minutes'
"Well, believe it or not, at two in the morning, I finally went down there and dragged him away from that studio!" She shook her head, wide-eyed. "They'd recorded from something like 4 p.m. until 2 a.m. That's almost unheard of, but Bobby is such a perfectionist, he sometimes insists on as many as 37 or 38 takes for just one song!
"By the time we got home to the dinner, it tasted something like stale shoe leather. But I wasn't the least bit upset about that. I really wasn't. I was just worried about Bobby. He was so exhausted he could hardly talk.
"That's one big thing marriage has taught me--to think about another person first. Bobby was pretty mature person when I married him. I wasn't. I had a lot of growing up to do; I still have. But I'm getting there. I'm learning to give more, to think and react in terms of we and us, rather than I and me.
"I was used to doing everything for myself, by myself--or with mother. Mother, naturally, gave in much more often and easier than any husband! Bobby and I do practically everything together. He even goes clothes shopping with me. He has definite ideas of what I should wear-which sometimes do not exactly coincide with mine."
She stifled a reminiscent giggle. "The last time we were in New York, I went shopping with my hairdresser. Bobby had some business meeting or something. I don't know exactly what. He's always got his finger in 49 different pies. He keeps a schedule that makes my head swim. I don't know how he does it. I don't pretend to be able to understand a fraction of the deals he makes. When he comes home at night and starts telling me about 'his day' he knows he's just talking to the wall. I sit there, but he doesn't expect any intelligent comments from me!
"Anyway, this one particular day, Helen and I went shopping and we just fell in love with these adorable shoes-the latest style, you know, with the kind of flattish Cuban heels. I got a gorgeous pair in lizard. I wore them the next morning. He took one look--he notices everything, even when I think he hasn't so much as glanced at me--and he rasped, 'What the hell have you got on your feet?'
"I flexed a foot and I asked coyly, 'Do you like them, honey?'
"'Like them?' he fairly bellowed, 'My God! They're awful. They make you look bow-legged. Take them off!'
"I steeled myself for the fight. 'I will not!' I said. 'I happen to like them!'
"Bobby started getting red in the face, but he controlled himself. He called Helen in from the other room. 'Look at those clodhoppers she's got on her feet!' he fumed, pointing. 'Are they ridiculous or not?'
"Before Helen could answer, he looked down at her feet and did a double-take. She was wearing the identical thing! With no mediator, there was no possibility for a truce. We argued heatedly for a few minutes, then he clinched it, by announcing that be wouldn't walk on the same side of the street with me in 'those things!'
Helen marched right back with both pairs!
"Other than that, Bobby has excellent taste. He likes me in very feminine things. I prefer more tailored clothes-but I dress mainly to please him. I've even discarded a few dresses, because he insisted they're 'too low.' That's kind of funny," she chuckled, "because if I wore a low-cut dress when he was courting me, I got compliments all evening. The minute we were married, he practically vetoed anything lower than a simple scoop neck. I wore this gray lace evening dress-which had a vee neck, rather low, but certainly very decent-to one of his Copa openings shortly after we were married and he almost had a fit. When I took off my coat, his eyes popped and he gulped, 'Honey, don't you think that dress is a little low-cut?'
"I said, 'No, I don't think so.'
"He snapped, 'Well, I do!'
"I barked right back, 'Well, I don't care. It's my dress!'
"We would have had one of our 'scenes,' but he had to perform and I didn't want to upset him.
"When he ordered, 'Put on your coat, or I won't do the show,' I did.
"It was a heavy mink and by the time he got to his third number, I was roasting to death. We were sitting a good 50 feet away from the stage, on the terrace level, and I didn't think he could see me, so I figured I'd be safe in slipping the coat off. Boy, did I hear about that on the way home! Things like, 'If you ever wear that dress again... I was so surprised that he had seen me, that I didn't fight back. I really didn't care. I never liked the dress that much anyway!"
"I've compromised in a lot of little things like that. I mean," she shrugged, "if it pleases him to have me wear such and such, why not?"
She musingly fingered her necklace, "Don't let anyone tell you it's easy to adjust to marriage," she said slowly. "It isn't! But I'm getting there. I feel closer to Bobby every day. I feel more relaxed, more in control of things. More as if," she paused groping for the right words, "... more as if we really have a solid thing going for us... Dodd is partly responsible for this. Don't get me wrong," her eyes widened earnestly. "Our marriage was pretty solid from the beginning. The baby hasn't made us that much closer. Except that now, we both love something equally as much and we both worry equally about him."
Her face and her tone softened perceptibly as the conversation centered on "the kid," as she calls him. "He's too much. Absolutely. He has such a beautiful disposition. He sure doesn't get it from me!" she said ruefully. "He doesn't get it from Bobby, either! I hope he doesn't change. He won't have it easy, you know, when he gets older." Her lips pursed soberly. "He'll have problems. He's got two strikes against him to begin with--with both his parents being in showbusiness. He'll probably be in a fight a day, once he gets into school--if they print one more article like some of the recent ones about his father. When he gets old enough to read these things, it'll be," she shook her head bitterly, "no picnic!"
"It's really a shame. He's so happy now. He's a good kid. A real ham-bone, too."
She smiled tenderly. "That he gets from his father. Bobby's the type who'll stop the car in the middle of the Sunset Strip and start belting out a song at the top of his lungs. It used to embarrass me, but I'm used to it now. I'm even getting to like Bobby's kind of music. Talk about adjusting?" She grinned broadly.
"Anyway, Dodd is fourteen months old now--and gets around... Gets into things, you wouldn't believe it? Bobby doesn't believe in hitting children, but I've got to swat him 14 times a day to keep him from killing himself. You give him a tap and holler 'No!' at the same time-this he understands. The 'No' alone, he wouldn't.
"He adores Bobby. He absolutely worships him. He's completely mesmerized when Bobby shaves. He just stands at the door to the bathroom, staring, with those little eyes as wide as saucers. You should have seen them last Sunday. Sundays are our visiting days. We go visiting other little babies-most of whom he maneges to beat up. I worry about his fighting sometimes... Well, last Sunday, he and Bobby had on identical outfits, Levis and leather jackets and cowboy boots. They looked so cute? They were walking together ahead, and I brought up the rear, lugging the movie camera, the diaper case and the bottles. . . What a sight!
"Bobby can do anything with him--it's amazing!" She shook her head solemnly. "He just has to say a few words, quietly, and Dodd listens beautifully. I can scream my head off-and all I get is a tantrum in return! It's like getting a dose of your own medicine!" She chuckled grimly.
"This week-whew! He's been getting into mischief. Maybe that's why I haven't had a fight with Bobby all week. (It was then Wednesday.) She made a mock frown. "I was beginning to wonder what was wrong with us? I was going to mention it tonight. He'll say, "Well, pick something, honey.' And I've been thinking all day what we could fight about!"
Sandra grinned quickly, lest her jesting be misinterpreted. "Really," she added, softly, "I have a hunch that we're going to prove all those darned gossips very, very wrong. I can't say for sure what's going to be in ten years, or even a year from now. But I can tell you this: I love Bobby; Bobby loves me; we both love the baby. What more can you ask for?"

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