R.I.P. James Darren, always a regular guy

We’ve lost another of the South Philly stars of the late ‘50s, and later.

This time it is James Darren, a friend, who died at 88, of heart problems, despite having a huge heart. Here’s a story about his life.

Previously passing were Bobby Rydell, Joey Bishop, Al Alberts, David Brenner, Len Barry, Eddie Fisher and a few others.

Jimmy Darren was not part of the Golden Boys of Summer, but could have been. He was just a few years older than Rydell, Frankie Avalon, Fabian, and Chubby Checker.

I knew all of these guys, and aside from talent, the commonality they shared was a loud affection for their hometown, closeness to fans, and accessibility to the media, something that has gone out of fashion.

Try getting Will Smith on the phone.

Nothing against Will, just an observation that being press friendly is no longer important, and this distance started back when newspapers were still Important.  

The teenage heartthrobs became middle-aged, or senior, heartthrobs, essentially singers with occasional excursions into movies that were light as cotton candy. I am thinking mostly of Frankie’s beach movies with the wonderful Annette Funicello, and others. 

But Jimmy did the first “Gidget” in 1959, four years before Frankie did the first “Beach Party.”

Jimmy then moved into acting in TV series, and persevered and climbed into the director’s chair, while all the time still touring as a singer. He spent his life expanding his talents, so much more than a pretty face.

We had a long telephone conversation last year after Jerry Blavat’s death. Jimmy had a lot of interest about what was happening in Philly.

I called him about three months ago and left a voicemail. I didn’t hear from him, meant to call again, but forgot. I now regret not trying again. 

I saw him occasionally in Philly. Our most memorable dinner was at Ralph’s, the esteemed Italian restaurant on 9th Street.

We were eating at a two-top when a woman dining at the next table with a friend started to choke.

Jimmy arose and asked her, “Are you in trouble?”

She nodded.

Jimmy got behind her and gently lifted her to her feet, slipped his arms around her, and applied the Heimlich.

Out popped a huge wad of food.

She took a deep breath, turned around to see her handsome benefactor.

She thanked him profusely, although she did not know she had been saved by a Hollywood star.

What was I doing, you ask? Taking notes for my column, because I am, first and foremost, a newspaperman. 

So she was in his debt. But so was I — much, much more.

In the early ‘80s I was the TV critic for the Philadelphia Daily News, which sent me to L.A. twice a year — June and January — to cover what was called the network TV tour. That was a two-week long event during which the networks previewed their new product for TV critics, and made stars and executives available for interviews.

Whole books have been written about the tour, or should have been.

My first tour was June 1980, which happened to coincide with the American embassy in Tehran being taken over by Iranian terrorists. I mention that because that tour was 22 days and some critics gimmicked their network-issued plastic name tags to read, “TV Critics Held Hostage — Day 4.” The day changed daily, of course.

It was my first time on the West Coast. I was filing stories to the News every day, and, swear to God, I did not leave the Century Plaza Hotel until Day 15, and that was just to walk around the block.

By 1983, I felt I had to get more out of the trip, especially since I was meeting a lot of Philadelphians in the entertainment business who had relocated to the West Coast.

Here was my brainstorm: The Daily News L.A. Party for Philadelphians.

Since the Daily News always ran on a shoestring, we could not afford to throw the party at a Beverly Hills restaurant, or, God forbid, a hotel.

Jimmy Darren offered his Beverly Hills home.

I don’t remember how it happened, but it had to be his offer because I would not have had the balls to ask.

Or maybe I did. A lot of people say I have more guts than sense. 

To make it Philadelphia, we arranged for cheesesteaks to be air shipped from Philadelphia to LAX on the morning of the party. Also soft pretzels and Goldenberg’s peanut chews, water ice, Frank’s soda. 

It turned out the cheesesteaks had to be heated before the party and the soda had to be chilled and as I recall Jimmy’s beautiful wife Evy took charge of that. The first party had about 30 guests.

I guess I did it for three years, always at Jimmy’s, and I had ex pat Philadelphians all over L.A. calling me to get on the guest list, which grew to 60. I felt like a mini Steve Rubell. (He ran the superhot Studio 54 in Manhattan.)

This was way before cell phones, so I took no pictures, but the News did. Alas, they are all locked away somewhere, but I did retain a photo of me, Jimmy and Frankie.

There are other stories of Jimmy’s kindness to others.

You may read them elsewhere. This one is mine.