Stay Interesting

by Jonathan Goldsmith

  Inside, the place was musty, with dark gray drapes and caskets all over the place. I was dressed in a snappy suit, of course, with a flower in my lapel and a pocket square—Flash was a flashy guy. We were late shooting and about to head into overtime, so the grips had to find a coffin quickly. I had to jump in.

  “Open up that one,” the assistant director said.

  The grip lifted the top of the coffin and shrieked. Inside was a woman, elderly, small, and quite dead. She was wearing a gray dress.

  “Sir,” I mumbled respectfully, “can we please get another coffin?”

  I looked questioningly at the assistant director, whom I didn’t especially like anyway.

  “Just get in the fucking coffin.”

  The grips reached in and yanked the woman out, and in I went. I could smell the toxic traces and stench of death, the formaldehyde, old and stale. With the cover closed, I couldn’t help but imagine my own death. I could hear the actresses talking about my character through the coffin’s lid, the showgirls approaching one by one, speaking in nasal voices, as if they’d all been cast in a Long Island nail salon.

  “Oh, Flash, you were the best.”

  “We’re never going to forget you, Flash.”

  I stared up at the lid of the coffin, so dark and confining. Would it be like this? I wondered, letting my mind race while hyperventilating slightly. Who would show up at my funeral? What would they say?

  I’d killed myself onscreen a few times, but my most emotional death happened in Go Tell the Spartans, still considered a cult picture. I starred opposite Burt Lancaster. The challenge was the sound. The location was next to Magic Mountain amusement park, and every time the director called action, along came the roller coaster and the shrieks of the tourists. The soundtracks were all messed up. I ended up dubbing the most dramatic scene of my life, my suicide scene, in an empty studio. No actors, no props. Just an empty studio. It came out all right. The New York Daily News said it was an Academy Award–worthy performance.

  I had mastered the art of dying. The trick was to take the last image I saw and hold on to that scene in my mind, watching it dim, trying to get it back, savoring the last vision of life. A twitch of the leg or mouth never hurt either. I mastered the eye flutter and gasping too. But dying all those times really affected me. These scenes didn’t help my melancholia either. It was hard not to think about the fragility of existence and transience of life when you were the one it was constantly being taken away from.

  If You Want Something Done Right, Do It Yourself

  Mr. Lancaster, can I have your autograph?” the boy said. He had a butch haircut and a skinny frame. He’d sidled up to the booth in the Ranch House restaurant, a diner in Valencia where Burt Lancaster and I had been meeting regularly for breakfast. I had been in awe of Lancaster since I saw him in The Crimson Pirate when I was a kid. And then there I was, actually costarring with one of my idols. In Go Tell the Spartans, he played Major Barker and I played Sergeant Oleonowski.

  Burt had an active and eclectic mind. He was an opera devotee as well as a boxing fan—he was a physical specimen himself. Like many stars I had met, he was tired of the ongoing assault of fans. As we sat having breakfast at the diner, he looked down at this grinning young boy asking for an autograph.

  “No,” he said gruffly.

  I couldn’t believe it. The kid must have been seven, eight years old. How do you turn down a child?

  The boy frowned with sadness, looking confused.

  “Tell your mother to leave you alone,” Burt said. “Just go and be a little boy.”

  The child turned away, upset, and scurried away from the table.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “This kid was born five years ago,” Burt said. “He has no idea who Burt Lancaster is. His mother put him up to it.”

  Stars do get tired of a demanding public. There’s a famous story about Paul Newman, who seldom gave autographs. Once, a woman bugged him to show her his baby blues. Exasperated, he said, “Sure, show me your tits and I’ll show you my eyes.”

  I looked over. In a booth in the back of the diner, I saw the young boy and his mother. Sure enough, she seemed more disappointed than him.

  I remember a game Lancaster and I once invented. We were on set, waiting around for our scene, desperate to kill time. We decided to see how many names for “vagina” we could come up with. In total, we spent at least half an hour going back and forth, soon hitting five, ten, and more. We stopped at thirty-seven. The most unusual was “quatiffi.” That was Burt’s offering, which impressed me, though I have no idea where it came from.

  Your Greatest Teacher Won’t Be Found in School

  I am looking for a crazy motherfucker, and I think you are perfect,” Fernando Lamas told me. He was directing an episode of The Rookies and called me in to meet with him at 20th Century Fox. We were up in the anonymous office used by visiting directors, with the typical posters on the walls and head shots lying on the desk. Fernando, though, was impeccable, wearing a jacket with an elegant monogrammed silk shirt and loafers. He had a deep tan and luxurious, shining hair. He was the epitome of a movie star. Lamas was a product of invention, and the inventor was him. He wasn’t the most well-known Hollywood star in life, but after his death, when the comedian Billy Crystal started to imitate him with his hilarious skit “Fernando’s Hideaway” and the whole “You look marvelous” thing, he became renowned to all.

  Fern, as I came to know him, had an intense energy and an extremely interesting background. He’d come to Hollywood from Argentina, and as far as I could tell he came from modest means. His real name sounded a lot like royalty to me—Fernando Álvaro Lamas y de Santos. And yet, there was another side to him—a tough, raw side. He could be crude and fearless. He was a middleweight boxing champion in Argentina, a country famous for its machismo and its fabulous pugilists, including Luis Firpo, the heavyweight and so-called Wild Bull of the Pampas, whose fights I would follow on the radio, and the middleweight legend Carlos Monzón, whom my father and I would watch brawling on television.

  Looking back on Fernando now, I wonder how we developed such a lasting friendship and how he came to have the incredible influence he would have on my career. I think it was Fern’s overt machismo I admired so much—perhaps because underneath the layers of my own self, that was something I didn’t have. At least not yet.

  I remember him telling me about being on the set of 100 Rifles, the 1969 picture directed by Tom Gries starring Burt Reynolds and Raquel Welch. During the filming, one of the crew members was getting pushy with Raquel Welch. Fernando noticed her discomfort and did what all guys would like to think they would do but don’t always have the courage to do. He didn’t care about getting fired. He didn’t give it a second thought. On horseback, he charged to the top of the hill and challenged the first assistant to combat.

  “Don’t you ever behave like that to a lady,” he admonished. “She’s my friend and you’re nothing but a fucking coward.”

  Then he reared his horse dramatically and galloped off. Fern was really like that. Honor and chivalry were important to him, perhaps more so than anything else. I remember one argument we had, about something so minor I don’t remember what it was. But instead of arguing the point with me, whatever it was, or raising his voice to scream like so many of us do, he put his hands up and got into a boxer’s crouch.

  “You want to hit me?” he said, pawing a lead left in the air. “Do you think you can do it? You want to fight with Fernando? I was in the fucking ring. I was a boxer, you know. You got the guts?”

  Not surprisingly, Fern and I became fast friends. We even formed a production company together, calling it Bravura Productions, jumping immediately into a fun, endless cycle of talking projects, development, casting, all aspects of production, whom we would use as crew, and, most important, our choices for leading ladies. I would star; Fernando would d
irect. We spent hours designing and redesigning our film logo and even secured two hundred thousand dollars in seed money. But mostly, it was just one laugh-filled lunch after another.

  He was Latino, and the most important part of the day for him was lunch. He insisted I join him and Esther Williams, his wife, to eat with them at their home every day. If I missed a day, he’d get upset and call me.

  “Something wrong?” he’d say, hurt. “We were counting on you coming for lunch today.”

  “Well, Fern, I had things to do,” I’d say.

  “Oh, are we no longer friends?”

  He was a demanding friend and a master of passive aggression, so I usually made it for lunch. I’d find my way to their home near the Beverly Hills Hotel, and in the driveway there would be Fern’s Rolls-Royce, which he never drove, always insisting Esther drive him around. The house itself was a mansion in miniature, with brick and stone in the old Hollywood style. Inside, the place was elegant enough—piss elegant, I’d say—for Fern could be a cheap bastard, and the sofas and tables and chairs had that dated and dusty look, probably taken from struck sets. He’d been acting in Hollywood since the forties, and every once in a while these old-time legends—Rock Hudson, James Doolittle, Barbara Rush—would stop by and join us, as would Dane Clark, one of my heroes, and Anthony Newley. And, of course, numerous other movers and shakers.

  Esther loved to cook. She had a heartfelt midwestern way about her, and despite her roles in film (she was once the highest-paid female actress in the world), she was really known throughout the nation as a swimmer. As a teenager, she’d set numerous swimming records and won the national championship for the one-hundred-meter freestyle in 1939, as well as contributing to several relay team wins. She was a shoo-in for the Olympics in 1940, but the games were abruptly canceled with the war in Europe raging, and instead of becoming a star athlete, she became an entertainer in water shows. She helped put synchronized swimming on the map.

  As a younger man, I remember watching the choreographed swimming scenes in films like Neptune’s Daughter. Before Esther’s movie run, she costarred with Johnny Weissmuller in Billy Rose’s Aquacade during the New York World’s Fair from 1939 to 1940. Weissmuller, another great swimmer, went on to play Tarzan. They swam in perfect harmony.

  Once, Ricardo Montalbán starred opposite her as a great swimmer. One small problem: He couldn’t swim. So they built an underwater ramp, and all through the film, while he was swimming, he was actually walking. Fernando called him “the sinker of Fantasy Island.”

  It was wild to me that Esther and Fernando had such a tiny swimming pool, probably the smallest in Beverly Hills. The pool was so small it was impossible to swim a lap of more than two or three strokes. I never asked her about the pool, just relished her sweet nature and the delicious handmade empanadas she baked for Fern, the fresh soups and endless courses that would come out of her kitchen every day for those elaborate lunches. Fern insisted on eating like royalty, and lunch was a formal affair: starched tablecloth, polished silver, crystal glasses and goblets for the wine. The purpose of these lunches was to talk business, to develop our shows and films, but we rarely got that far, passing the bottles of Malbec from Argentina, telling stories, and howling with laughter.

  Fern liked the sun, liked to feel the warmth covering his face, and he’d retreat to the backyard after the meal and sit in his chaise longue to absorb the rays. Before joining him one day, I helped Esther with the dishes. I was becoming like an adopted son to them.

  “Esther, why does he like me so much?” I asked.

  “Because you make him laugh,” she said.

  Fern made me laugh too. After lunch, I’d pull up a chair and sit next to him on the lawn. We spoke about everything, but I remember hearing about his exploits with women the most. I was in awe of this man’s ability to seduce the world’s most beautiful women. Like many stars, he was a perennial at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Once, after a few guests complained about the loud shrieking sounds coming from his room, the house detective knocked on the door.

  “Mr. Lamas, are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, Butch,” he said. “It’s nothing. I’ve got Lana in here.”

  “Okay, Mr. Lamas. Just checking.”

  He was with Lana Turner, a goddess to be sure, the star of Peyton Place and The Bad and the Beautiful, among so many other films.

  “‘Johnny,’ she would yell like a banshee, and when she was climaxing, her feet would flap like a bird,” he told me.

  Then he’d mention his love affair with Anita Ekberg, the star of Federico Fellini’s La Dolce Vita. The list was endless. I was spellbound.

  “Fernando, how many people in Hollywood did you fuck?” I once asked.

  After a moment of careful consideration, he stated, matter-of-factly, “I think I got most of them.”

  He never cheated on Esther, though, and I wondered in part if it was because of the way she treated him. She catered to him like he was a baronial prince, and he loved her almost as much as he loved himself. He could not be bothered or placed in discomfort for even an instant. Once, I remember Esther wanted to leave the city and go camping in the High Sierra.

  “I’m not going up there with the fucking bugs,” he announced.

  “Come on, Fern. I’ll pack your favorite champagne and pâté.”

  “If you insist. But I will do nothing. You’ve got to do everything.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  It was true. She packed up the Rolls-Royce. She packed the picnic basket, stuffing it with rare viands, caviar, pâté, champagne, and all of his favorite snacks. He reminded her that he would not go without his chaise longue, which she dutifully strapped to the roof of the Rolls. Esther got in the car and started driving, with him bitching in the passenger seat mile after mile like the petulant child he frequently was. Finally, after four hours, they arrived. Fern stood in the middle of the campsite, arms folded, the crest on his jacket gleaming in the Sierra sunset, his embroidered slippers covered with a light layer of dust, much to his chagrin. As usual, he was delivering his orders.

  “Esther, set up the tent.”

  “Yes, Fern.”

  “Esther, the mosquitoes are bothering me.”

  “Yes, my darling.”

  “Esther, I need a fire. I am chilled.”

  “Okay, darling.”

  After Esther had lit the fire and hand-fed him his delicacies, the darkness of night had come and they entered the tent, ready for bed. He wouldn’t stop moving around inside the tent.

  “Esther?”

  “Yes, Fern?”

  “I can feel every one of these fucking stones,” he said, complaining about the ground underneath their quilt.

  “Esther, lie still,” he said. “Fernando is going to sleep upon you.”

  And that’s what he did. He crawled over and lay on top of his superstar wife, using his beloved as a mattress. I was frequently very uncomfortable with his chauvinism, but it seemed to work for them completely. Everyone who had the privilege of knowing them had stories that were as legendary as Fern and Esther’s love for each other.

  Fortune Favors the Bold and the Brash

  Fern’s playfulness and lack of boundaries were intertwined with his faux nobility. One day, we were on my boat. The other guests around him attended to his every need and hung on his every word as he regaled us with nonstop stories about his early days in Argentina and his hilarious Hollywood escapades. Suddenly, he got quiet. He was staring off at the horizon, looking a bit peaked. He could never appear weak, and he could never be anything but the epitome of class. So, when it was time to be sick, he stood up, approached me, and discreetly inquired, “Which side of your fucking yacht would you like me to use, Johnny?”

  I can still see Esther, holding her beloved by his belt and asking him if he wanted an anchovy sandwich. She seemed to enjoy his momentary strife.
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  “Boy, we could get a lot from the National Enquirer for this picture,” I said as he hurled for the sixth time. He turned his face to me.

  “That is not fucking funny,” he said, then angled his head to the side and threw up once again. We all enjoyed his rare moment of vulnerability. We felt a little guilty, but it was hard to contain our laughter.

  It was usually Fernando who relished making others squirm. He was a master of manufacturing the awkward moment and using it to disarm and charm all within earshot. One afternoon, we were riding up the elevator in Century City, going to see his lawyer—now mine as well—for our now-struggling Bravura Productions, and we were all jammed in the elevator riding up. He looked like an Italian count, with his ascot and those embroidered slippers.

  “Johnny?” he said in a loud voice, turning to me.

  The elevator was otherwise quiet, and I cringed at what he would say to embarrass me.

  “You know, when I wear these shoes, I always get a blow job,” he said.

  Good God.

  • • •

  Fernando, please,” I begged another time. I had finally been accepted at the very prestigious California Yacht Club. This was years later, after I had started to get a number of steady roles, and I had just been accepted as a member—my first membership to anything other than a gym, so I was on my best behavior in the upper-crust atmosphere. We had driven to the club in the Rolls, with Esther at the wheel like always, and Fern giving the directions.

  “Don’t embarrass me,” I told him in the car.

  “I wouldn’t do that. Why would I do that, Johnny?” he said, looking aghast and hurt that I would say such a thing.

  “Please,” I urged, knowing better. “This is important to me, Fernando. It’s taken me years to be accepted.”