Ten minutes with Debbie Reynolds

“Hi, this is Debbie. If you are over 30 and have been inactive or have any ankle, knee, or back problems, you should have a medical checkup before starting any exercise program.”

The preceding disclaimer appears under the opening crawl of Do It Debbie’s Way, a star-studded exercise video led by Debbie Reynolds. There was no need to Google it for accuracy. I've seen Do It Debbie's Way more times than Citizen Kane, Duck Soup, His Girl Friday, Hot Rods to Hell, and Casino combined. The entire preamble remains forever soldered in my brain.

Cousin Ruthie lived in Van Nuys and knew how much Scotty wanted to “be near the movies.” She arranged through a friend for a job as a video-tape duplicator at the long defunct offices of Video Associates. I arrived in Los Angeles on October 21, 1984, the day Francois Truffaut died, and stayed until June 26, 1985, the day after my father died.

For eight months I was paid to sit in a dark room and run off copies of The Jane Fonda Workout Tape and Do It Debbie’s Way. The job consisted of staring at a 25-inch monitor, eyes searching for even the slightest glitch or imperfection in the transfer. The moment a flaw was detected – and it was rare – a call was placed to the videotape room. With the press of a button, the bank of 250 VCRs clicked to a halt before the quality-control team manually ejected the cassettes to be degaussed and reused.

Debbie was friends with the owner, a wild-eyed Hungarian named Judy. Imagine you’re sitting at work, watching Debbie Reynolds hold calisthenics court, and then you turn your head and out the window see the real deal walk past. It was a Targets moment, and if the reference to Peter Bogdanovich’s first film doesn’t register, shame on you for not owning a copy.

Unable to leave my taping shack in mid-dub, I ran to the window and gave it a couple of taps. Using a keycard, the door sprung open and in sailed Judy and her pedigreed pal. Judy introduced us with, “Debbie, I’d like you to meet Scott. He knows everything about movies.”

“Really?” smiled Debbie. “Is there a favorite one of mine that comes to mind?”

“Of course,” I replied. “How did you manage to keep a straight face when Don Rickles tried to play pimp to your good-girl taxi dancer in The Rat Race?”

It got such a big laugh out of her that I offered up use of my throne and wheeled the only other chair in the room in Judy’s direction. Pulling up a floor, I spent the next ten minutes parked at her feet while Debbie held court.

She talked about Rickles breaking up the crew between takes. Occasionally she would look at the monitor and crack wise about one of her background celebrity exercisers. The cast included Teri Garr, Shelley Winters, Jaye P. Morgan, Rose Marie, Virginia Mayo, Terry Moore, Dionne Warwick, and Florence Henderson. When pressed, Debbie would not reveal the personal significance behind Rose Marie’s black bow.

This Hollywood giant was gracious enough to spend ten minutes reminiscing with a videotape duplicator trapped in a booth at Sunset Boulevard, just east of Western. In the eight months I spent in her service, Jane Fonda never once showed her face.

Alav ha'shalom, Debbie Reynolds.