Legends and Lipstick: My Scandalous Stories of Hollywood's Golden Era

by Nancy Bacon

‘Don’t wanna go home—got no home—wanna munch up brown body.’ He downed his drink and signaled the waiter for another.

  ‘Let’s get him out of here before he passes out or gets sick on the table,’ George said, and he and Joey told Larry that The Daisy was closing and couldn’t serve him another drink. They helped Larry to his feet and propelled him outside where they tried to get him into a cab. But Larry pulled away and went weaving down the street, alone, mumbling to himself. That was the last time any of them saw him.

  ‘God, he looked terrible,’ Joey told me the next day. ‘His face was ravaged and dissipated and he seemed so damn unhappy—and alone.’ He paused, then added thoughtfully, ‘There’s nothing anyone could have done for him. He seemed to actually resent our offers of help.’

  I heard other stories of Larry and how he was rushing madly downhill to disaster. His homosexual activities became more notorious and his drinking became legendary. I had not seen him for several years, and whenever I read an account of his shocking activities I wished again that he would drop in on me for one of his ‘midnight chats’ maybe I could have helped.

  Larry’s drinking was completely out of control by this time but there were few rehabilitation centers in those days. The common consensus about alcoholism was that it was a matter of will power. If you wanted to quit drinking, you just did. If you didn’t, you were a weak-willed bum. There were no Betty Ford Centers or Hazelden’s to ease the addict into sobriety.

  Larry Harvey died in 1973, still a young man, but aged from within. Just another victim of that lethal equalizer—booze.

  other faces, other parties, other jokes

  ‘Give the public what it wants,’ is an old show biz adage that seems quite appropriate when it comes to the seamy side of our idols. The public greedily and with much horror and delicious shock eats up the star’s misfortunes and smacks their lips for more. Even as they adore them and pay howling tribute, they cannot help but scream for all the gory details when they learn that one of the ‘beautiful people’ has taken an overdose of amphetamines or barbiturates, has had a miscarriage or divorce or illicit love affair.

  Smart producers and screenwriters have taken advantage of this macabre curiosity, and television and movie screens are filled with violence, horror, sex, and loneliness, misery, and pain. In the olden days, movies were so wholesome and idealistic that studios refused to allow their stars to say ‘damn’ or show anything sexier than a bare knee. The ending in those old films inevitably had the chaste stars kiss and clench passionately, then slowly sink down and out of the frame as the music swelled on the sound track and a breeze played in the leaves of a tree and clouds glided symbolically across a stormy sky. In the sixties and seventies, in the first reel our stars are in bed making love, and then they go on to get acquainted for the remainder of the movie.

  What happened to Hollywood? Growth. The founding fathers of the movie industry were a sharp, street-shrewd type who made it the hard way and ruled with an iron hand. They chose their stable of stars well and carefully and ran their lives both off and on the set. But they made one mistake. In their desire to own everything they failed to look ahead to the future.

  The producers and heads of studios (Mayer, Cohen, Goldwyn) had hand-picked their stables, and they were as impressive as hell: Errol Flynn, Bette Davis, Clark Gable, John Barrymore, Greta Garbo, Susan Hayward, Humphrey Bogart, James Cagney—all the old tried and true thoroughbreds—the ones who showed up for work and put in a full day and took all the guff that directors handed down simply because they figured that was the way it was. They really had no identity; they were awed by studio power and the extreme changes in their lives due to the clever manipulating of those feared moguls. They were a part of the glamour mold and if their crowns set just a bit uneasily upon their heads, well, that, too, could be rationalized. They had been tapped by the finger of fate and they were the chosen ones.

  In the early sixties, Old Hollywood was pronounced officially dead. Young blood was coming and taking over. Times were changing. It was a new era. Television was firmly established and was taking moviegoers away from the theaters and keeping them planted at home, watching the little black box. To draw the crowds away from the tube, movie makers started giving their films a big dose of sex and violence—something that television could not compete with. I won’t even go into the Internet and streaming services!

  Actors were definitely stars in the forties and fifties and they had fun—rather childish fun—but fun just the same. In those old days when ‘dope’ was considered to be a dumb person, some of the more ingenious stars took to stashing joints in the tops of the palm trees along Sunset Boulevard. When they were out on the town and felt like getting high, they would simply stop by one of their ‘stashes’ and pluck a joint and fly all the way home. It was good fun and nobody was ever busted or hurt by it.

  When I recall the practical jokes that the stars used to pull on one another in those days, I have to crack up even now. One in particular comes to mind. There was a famous producer who went into ecstasy at the mere mention of an orgy. He was constantly talking about how much he would ‘dig’ being invited to an orgy and see all those young, luscious starlets romping around in the buff. One day Errol Flynn decided to play a joke on him. He told the producer of an orgy that was taking place that weekend and invited him.

  The producer arrived, breathing hard, excited beyond belief that at last he was to attend an honest-to-goodness orgy. It was a grand, mansion-type home in Beverly Hills, and he was met at the door by a butler who somberly asked him to remove his clothes. The producer looked around the foyer and saw a great pile of clothes, coats and shoes stacked neatly in the corner. He hastily removed his threads and added them to the stack. The butler bowed him into the dining room, telling him that the other guests had already arrived and were having a bite to eat before the fun and frolic began.

  Our would-be lecher strode naked into the vast dining area and there he encountered fifty or so guests, all dressed in formal attire, black tie and evening gowns, sitting down to a decorous dinner. You can well imagine his shock and embarrassment—and his vow to ‘get that fucking Flynn’ (who, by the way, was not at the party.)

  Flynn had arranged it with the hostess to have the studio send over all the clothes and underwear and had personally paid for the butler (who was an out of work actor) to assist in the prank. This very same ‘butler’ also had another role in a practical joke that was the talk of the town for months. I’ve forgotten who originally put him up to it, but everyone in Hollywood talked of nothing else for almost a year.

  It seems that this gentleman was very well endowed (some insist that he measured in at fourteen inches!) and perhaps all that weight pulled so hard on his brain that he was left a bit dim-witted. Anyway, he was broke and wanted to be an actor and actors had to attract attention—right? He was hired to entertain at a formal dinner party. Nothing too difficult, he was told, he simply had to walk through the crowd and serve hors d’oeuvres. He was outfitted in a waiter’s uniform and given a large silver tray containing assorted canapes. Right in the middle of the tray he placed his very impressive penis, surrounded by parsley and all that garnish. He walked sedately through the room, holding the tray low, of course, and murmuring politely, ‘Hors d’oeuvres, anyone?’ Naturally it was a shock—and a hit so much so that hostesses all over Beverly Hills began calling to ask him to do likewise at their posh soirees.

  When Jim Henaghan was working at Paramount Studios in the forties, a very amusing practical joke was pulled on him. He was finally given his own office and secretary in the writer’s building and he had a certain amount of security. So he decided to buy a new car. He purchased a shiny new, bright green roadster and proudly parked it under his office window for all to admire. Around noon a producer friend of his called and asked if they could use Jim’s roadster in the Alan Ladd movie they were currently shooting. Jim, thrilled that his new automobile would be in a movie, readily agreed.

  He
worked the rest of the day and when it came time to go home, no roadster. He called the producer and was assured that his car was on the way. He paced his office for a few minutes, looking out the window every so often until he saw a truck chugging slowly down the narrow Paramount street towing a pancake-flat green roadster! Jim almost fainted. He rushed into the street, staring with dismay at the totally trodden automobile and was told that in the movie it called for Alan Ladd’s automobile to be demolished and flattened. Jim was still swearing and pulling his hair out when a laughing producer showed up with Jim’s new car. (They had purchased a similar roadster for the wreaking scene.) Jim was too relieved to be angry.

  In those days Hollywood was filled with characters who enjoyed good, clean fun and crazy, practical jokes. I guess it sounds childish to some that those superstars would behave in such a Peck’s Bad Boy manner, but that was how they unwound after work. They considered the whole thing a huge joke—the fabulous fees they were paid to play-act, the awesome mansions they lived in, the fawning adulation of their fans—all of it was unreal and could end any day. Therefore, they hid their anxiety by poking fun at their lifestyles and the make-believe world that they indulged in.

  One of Robert Mitchum’s droll remarks is typical of the way many stars thought in those days. ‘It sure beats working,’ said the droopy-lidded actor.

  People believed in miracles in those days because they saw them happening all around them. Some obscure stagehand (like John Wayne) would be tapped on the shoulder and whisked away to sudden stardom or a lissome blond teenager (like Lana Turner) would be discovered sipping a soda at the corner drugstore and be magically transformed into a sex goddess with a covey of servants and lovers to answer her every whim.

  These suddenly rich and famous people enjoyed their fame and money with an almost fanatic pleasure—as if they suspected that someone would snatch it away as quickly as it was given. They spent money with a kind of frenzy; chauffeur-driven limousines awaited them twenty-four hours a day; hairdressers and makeup artists were at their beck and call; lavish parties consisting of a thousand or more ‘intimate friends’ were the norm. They changed their names as easily as changing a pair of dirty socks and took on new lifestyles and make-believe backgrounds to go with their current identity.

  Michael Romanoff was perhaps the best ever at making himself over. He hit Hollywood with a pompous attitude and a sincere belief that snobbery paid off. He told everyone that he was a true prince and proceeded to open one of the poshest restaurants that Hollywood was ever to know. Stars actually fought for the best tables and reservations were made weeks in advance for the mere pleasure of dining at Romanoffs. It was clearly understood that no commoners were allowed, and the movie people (with their own humble beginnings and insecurities) bragged to friends that they dined regularly at Romanoffs. Frank Sinatra and Humphrey Bogart had their favorite tables, and God help the poor waiter who unwittingly seated anyone else there.

  When it was discovered that the bogus prince was just that, a fake, the son of a poor, common Brooklyn tailor and born Harry Geruson, all of Hollywood applauded his masquerade. Said one newspaper columnist, ‘Prince Romanoff is Hollywood’s only honest phony’—and Georgie Jessel quipped, ‘Romanoffs is a nice little café—a man can take his family there for dinner for about $3,500.’

  Unfortunately, Mike soon began believing his own publicity (a mistake that plagues most famous folks at one time or another) and his snooty, royal attitude was to become his downfall. He was forced to ‘close my doors,’ he told the press, ‘because people right off the streets began coming in and demanding to be served—commoners!’ He had class (and balls) because he refused to have anyone except the famous and super-rich in his restaurant, and when the times changed and the common folk realized that they too could rub elbows with the stars, Mike calmly locked his doors and closed down the most famous restaurant in Hollywood.

  Another posh establishment was Chasen’s. The late proprietor, Dave Chasen, was aware of the special needs of his famous patrons and made sure that they were not disturbed by autograph seekers while they dined. He was also aware of the fact that many stars were on strict diets and made it a point to carry such special foods. And if a director buddy of his told him not to let a certain star drink too much of the local grog as they had a heavy shooting schedule the next day, Dave would delicately escort the errant actor to the door. He was an understanding, nice guy type. Stories are told of some famous stars who had shaky beginnings that signed the dinner tab for as many as ten years—without one word of rebuff from Dave. ‘They always paid me back,’ he said, ‘no matter how long it took.’ (Schwab’s, the famous drugstore in Hollywood, was another such eatery that allowed between-picture actors to sign the tab.) Chasen’s always catered to the rich and elegant, the famous and infamous, and if they got sad or sloppy or drunk and let it all hang out, Dave protected their reputations.

  More than once, when I dined at Chasen’s, I was invited to the little room off the side of the main salon where I would see Barbara Stanwyck, drunk, crying, lonely, miserably twisting her old wedding ring from Robert Taylor as she lamented her unwanted divorce from him. ‘Read what it says,’ she would sob, thrusting the worn golden ring at me. ‘He loved me, didn’t he? See what it says?’ I cannot recall at this writing just what the inscription was, but it had been twisted, stroked and handled so often that the words were all but gone from the metal. Poor Barbara never loved anyone after her divorce from Robert Taylor. They divorced in 1952, and she never married again. She took his death in 1969 very hard, and chose a long break from film and television work. She sat in her huge, impressive mansion in Beverly Hills, alone, drinking, living on memories. A forgotten product of the star system. (Two decades later, she won an Emmy for her amazing performance in The Thorn Birds miniseries.)

  Elizabeth Taylor helped make Chasen’s a household word because of her love for their special chili. When in Rome shooting Cleopatra, she would have Chasen’s deliver, by airplane, a hearty serving of that heavy dish. I shudder to think what a simple bowl of chili and beans must have cost her!

  Dave Chasen had a sincere love for his infamous clientele and told me an amusing tale of one of his more celebrated customers. He was opening a new room and the talented and wry James Thurber was among the chosen to the private party. Thurber, feeling very benevolent after a few tots of brandy, decided to show his appreciation by sketching a few of his witty and whimsical drawings on Dave’s wall. He sketched a whole mural on the lounge wall and Dave was delighted. He pulled everyone into the room to show them his prize and was already planning how to turn it into publicity, and therefore more business. However, the next day when he arrived to begin the day’s work, he found the walls bare. Not believing what he was seeing he ran through the restaurant, shouting for an explanation. It seems that the cleaning lady, thinking it to be the scribblings of a drunk, had washed the whole thing off! (It was reported that Dave cried for a week.)

  Chasen’s is long gone; it’s a Bristol Farms grocery store. The Cloister, the Interlude, the Crescendo, Mocambo’s, the Brown Derby, the Garden of Allah—they’re all gone; torn down and replaced with high-rise office buildings, banks, or savings and loan establishments.

  omar takes a drag, and i take the plunge

  When I recall all the crazy, wonderful, outrageous nuts I have known and loved I can’t help smiling even as I mourn their passing. All of them were loners of one kind or another. They all had a desire to live it all the way. They were right. They knew that they had to go out and grab any happiness they could because no one was going to hand it to them. We are born alone and we die alone. No one is going to chuck it all and leap into the casket with us when they are planting us six feet under.

  One such person who was constantly taking steps to be and do just exactly as he pleased, was Omar Sharif. I met Omar at The Factory (not to be confused with Andy Warhol’s in New York) in a most unusual way. He was sitting in the main room near the fireplace, watching Sa
mmy Davis sing his heart out onstage. His long legs were propped up on another chair and he was leaning back, his huge, liquid brown eyes half-closed. I recognized him at once and pulled my girlfriend, Charlotte Ronan, aside. ‘Charlotte,’ I said, ‘there’s Omar Sharif. Let’s go sit by the fireplace and order a drink. I’ve always wanted to meet him.’

  ‘Okay,’ said my gorgeous companion and we found a couple of chairs and pulled them up next to the fireplace.

  I have to describe Charlotte for you. She is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known; five-foot nine, long, thick mane of red hair, enormous blue eyes, catlike grace, and the most ladylike manner of anyone anywhere. She reminds people of visiting royalty. Every time we went out together every guy in the place would find some excuse to walk by our table, she is that gorgeous.

  Omar was no exception. He glanced up as we sat down, looked harder, did a double take, then flashed us that famous white-toothed grin of his. He offered to buy us a drink and, of course, we accepted. Soon we were chatting with him as we half-watched Sammy Davis. Omar seemed captivated with Charlotte and even a little shy as we spoke together. He fumbled in his pocket, took out a long, brown cigarette, and fired up. I thought I recognized the aroma and couldn’t believe it. Certainly a world-famous movie star like Omar wouldn’t be that stupid, to smoke grass in a public place? (Remember, this was the mid-sixties) But he contentedly puffed away, gaining confidence for the pass he was to make at Charlotte, until a waiter approached us and said, confidentially, ‘Uh, excuse me, Mr. Sharif, you can’t smoke pot in here.’

  ‘Pot?’ snorted the handsome Egyptian. ‘My good man, I’ll have you know that this is not that wanton weed you Americans seem to favor. This—’ (and he flourished the brown cigarette) ‘is a fine, old, and rare blend of Turkish tobacco.’ With that he took another hit and fixed the young waiter with a scornful eye until the lad excused himself and made a hasty retreat to the kitchen.