A few days later we took a boat trip up the river to Aberdeen, a large floating city where all the people live on the water in boats and never go on land. Some inhabitants have never been on dry land and believe something really bad will happen if they do. The entire city is a giant web of small and large fishing and houseboats, barges, and walkways, with bamboo bridges connecting the thousands of floating boats that include a very large restaurant and shopping markets that sell everything you could imagine, all on the water.
Charli and I kid about that first night walking around Hong Kong every time we go to New York’s Chinatown.
Moreton Binn, John Revson, Eddie Gilbert
As I have said before and will say again, I’m lucky to have had the same phone number for over thirty years. Another ball was on the line, this time from my old advertising associate Moreton Binn, the Barter Baron. He invited me to the ballet at Lincoln Center in April 1977. That night he also invited and introduced me to John Revson, heir apparent to Charles Revson of Revlon Cosmetics. I must say I was impressed with who John was. He and I became friends instantly, having something in common: getting high. John invited Charli and me to spend July 4 weekend at his house. We took a limousine to New Bedford, Connecticut. The long, winding driveway was perfectly manicured, with huge apple and pear trees and a greenhouse. John’s gardener once worked in China for the Chinese Emperor, Chiang Kai-Shek. From the terrace at “North View” you could see several states. All in all, the estate was magnificent.
At the time, Revson’s beard and long hair were fairly new to him, as he had always had a very straight collegiate look. Now he styled himself a symbol of change and development after the death of his father. On several occasions we would meet at his office or his apartment on Fifth Avenue, and then go out for dinner. The young heir was eventually fired from Revlon. Apparently his newfound freedom and work ethic didn’t conform to their plans.
The first time Charli and I arrived at the North View Estate, white-gloved servants escorted us to the breakfast dining room and served us coffee and biscuits. Then John came down the winding stairs, looking and acting strange in this environment, sort of playing a part. This was much different than sitting on our living room floor getting high. I still have an audio tape recording of a spaced-out Revson reciting his acceptance speech for when, as he prophesied, he would become mayor of New York.
He always seemed to be on fire, running to play tennis and then running from tennis to somewhere else, disappearing and reappearing, always in a huff.
Weekends at North View were interesting. Everyone did whatever they wanted. John took absolutely no responsibility for anyone. He had a style that made everyone feel at home. He had several personalities and always presented different versions of himself, so you were never quite sure who you were talking to. In spite of that fact, Charli and I thought and still think he was a great guy; he was lots of fun, enjoyed life, and very generous.
One weekend during one of our rages we decided to take apart the engine of one of the many vintage cars he owned. There we were in the middle of the driveway disassembling the entire engine piece by piece and placing them in no particular order on the ground. After several hours houseguests began coming by, wondering what the hell we were doing. We didn’t know either, but the one thing we did know was that we had no clue how to put it back together. We ended up just leaving the parts scattered around, and the last image I have is of the white-gloved servants picking up the parts from the driveway and gently putting them randomly back under the hood.
On another occasion, while sitting far away from the pool, wearing a jacket in ninety-degree weather, I was working on the treatment for the Broadway musical Neville and I were writing, “The Pink Teacup.” I was sitting in protest of Revson’s lie: he promised that if Charli and I would come for the weekend he would not invite other guests. The place was full of people, though—young, old, kids. Then a short, stocky, middle-aged mustachioed man dressed in a white short tennis outfit with knee high socks and dark sunglasses, swinging a tennis racket, walked over and sat next to me.
“Hi, what are you doing?” he asked. “Sitting alone with your jacket on?” I answered flippantly, “Writing a hit Broadway show!”
I was prepared for that question and the one to follow. I don’t do so well at parties or among crowds of strangers who ask a million questions and force me into small talk conversations. “Where are you from, what do you do?” I’m not good at hiding my true feelings, especially when drawn into dialogue about politics, philosophy, art, or religion, but other than those issues I have nothing to else to say, so I generally don’t start conversations. It keeps me out of trouble. And I’ve never been good at staying in touch with people. Some people work their phone book, but once I finish a project like a painting I’m on to the next. I’m trying to get better at it.
I’m also not a social networker, even though I’m well aware in today’s world it’s expected and I don’t recommend or condone what I do. Today you must use all the tools available to succeed. I do look at my social networking sites just to spy on others and see what they have to say or what they are up to but I don’t Tweet or Facebook. When I’m asked about it, I say I have “no face page.” It is a similar answer I give when asked what sign I am. I usually answer with “I’m a stop sign,” although sometimes I make one up just to hear them say something silly like I knew you were a Cancer. Actually I’m a triple Scorpio and on the rare occasions I tell the truth it often scares the shit out of them.
I don’t exactly know what my problem is and I’m not saying anyone should have my attitude or react the way I do to people, but I suppose I generally just don’t like them. Over the years of meeting a variety of characters it’s mostly been incompetent bullshitters who don’t have what they say they have or can’t do what they say they can. So I have become somewhat tainted, mainly because I am the opposite—looking back at what I have accomplished I can say I am what I say I am and do what I say I can do. Now that I think about it, my attitude must have something to do with my artist mentality—I don’t feel a sense of entitlement and I don’t like to beg for candy, sex, or money. I guess when it comes to most people, you can say I drop the ball. But luckily some bounce back later.
Back to the guy at the pool’s next question: “Do you play tennis? What’s your name?”
Aha. I was ready. I whipped out from under my jacket a small gold trophy that was tennis pro John Newcomb’s. I never returned it after working on an ad campaign for his tennis school in Atlanta.
“I’m Ilie Nastase,” I said.
He smiled and seemed entertained by my answer. “What’s it about? Your hit Broadway show.”
He seemed genuinely interested so I told him the plot. After listening to my story he asked, “What is your Yellow Brick Road?” I didn’t know what the hell that meant so I made something up until he cut me off.
“No, what is it that winds through the story that guides you to the end, holds it together, and delivers the moral of the story? Think about it, and when you figure it out come by my office.”
I had no idea who he was, so I asked John. It turns out he happened to be Emanuel (Manny) Asenberg, who had just produced A Chorus Line and The Wiz and he was about to produce Ain’t Misbehavin’.
The next day, having learned my lesson, I tried to be friendlier, realizing now there might be some balls in the air here. We were having a poolside breakfast, sitting at a table with a man who had a large scar on his chest from open-heart surgery. I had never seen that before and now today, thirty-five years later, I have the same scar. He tried to cover it with gold chains and a giant mezuzah during the conversation. Max, as I believe he was named, described one of the worst deals he was involved in, a chain of department stores in chapter 11. He wanted them closed in order to get back the real estate, which had become more valuable than the 150 stores’ total inventory.
“I couldn’t stop them,” he said. “I chased these guys all over the country. They kept tu
rning the Arlan’s stores around. Cost me millions …”
At that point John interjected, “Hey Frank, wasn’t that you?”
I sank in my chair. Max looked like he was having another heart attack. “You’re Frank Yandolino?” He then said, “Listen Frank, I’m about to do the same thing with the Savarin Coffee chain. This time I’m gonna hire you to keep you away and make sure you don’t fuck that up.” We all laughed. I wondered if he meant it.
Soon after, I was in John’s office, where he introduced me to his partner. I had no idea that he was the same seemingly nice little man I had once met at John’s pool wearing a cowboy hat to cover his bald head. It was the notorious Edward M. Gilbert, John’s partner in crime. Eddie was a known crook who had embezzled millions of dollars from investors via fraudulent stock manipulations at Conrac Corporation. He’d gone to jail for two years, made a deal to pay back a few bucks to investors, and kept millions for himself stashed in the Cayman Islands. I bought into their hype and their job offer to work at their failing companies and loaned John $100,000. I never liked the idea of putting Eddie’s name on the loan agreement, instead of it being a personal loan to John. But I thought, How could I go wrong, here? He is the heir to Revlon, after all, and he owns a multimillion-dollar mansion and Park Avenue condo. Boy was I naïve. John had told me he needed the money personally and would pay it back in a couple of months, but it ended up being used for his and Eddie’s TV production company, Mobile Video Systems (MVS). This was a sign John could not be trusted. As part of a payback arrangement I accepted a job as marketing director for their three ski resorts in Aspen, Colorado, and their MVS facility in Los Angeles. Charli, Bruno, and I temporarily moved to Beverly Hills, where I drove a convertible sports car.
As a director of the company, I had the opportunity to purchase a one-of-a-kind piece of mobile editing equipment called the Squeeze Zoom. I made a deal to purchase it for $90,000 and built in a clause restricting the company from selling another one for nine months. Thanks to that move, we got a slew of TV projects. We produced the Winter Olympics, Grammy Awards, Tony Awards, various HBO and Showtime TV specials, and early rock videos. Just like with Guccione, though, my success didn’t matter to Eddie; he had a big ego problem. One day he called me into his office.
“You are fired,” he said. “I can’t take any more. No one knows who I am. I own this place. All the restaurants know you, not me; you get all the press, not me.”
“Are you kidding?” I shot back. “I don’t get it. Isn’t that my job? If not, let’s switch. You be me, I’ll be you.” He fired me anyway, that little five-foot short bald cowboy-hatted shit. With the help of my father and his convincing way of explaining why it would be a good idea to pay me, I did eventually get my money back. I was happy to hear their business folded soon after. I never saw Eddie or John again and have no idea what became of them. Again the lesson was reinforced that sometimes you may have to placate your employer and let him be king. Or at least let him think he is.
In Charli’s Words
John Revson was the heir to the Revlon cosmetic dynasty. He had a certain charisma about him. His father, Charles Revson, started the business from his basement. John’s mother came over to America from Europe without a passport, on a private yacht, and was considered to be one of the most beautiful women in the world. John was married in his early twenties to Ricki, whose parents owned Restaurant Associates and were jet setters at Hippopotamus and other discos. John and Ricki grew up very spoiled and their families hated each other. Charles Revson once caused a scene at the Four Seasons, which Ricki’s family owned, annoyed when he did not get a discount. John and Ricki had one child, a daughter, Jill.
Their marriage didn’t last. Ricki, who had emotional problems, took Jill to Las Vegas and lived with one of the owners of the hotel. Sadly when Jill was five, Ricki died, supposedly in the bathtub. Why do so many people die in bathtubs? Linda Kornfeld, Whitney Houston, Surratt. I’m not sure.
I thought Jill really needed a mother, but that seemed to scare her the most. Jill felt threatened by any woman that got between her and her father. Having lost her mother already, she was afraid she would lose her father as well. It’s a terrible fear for an eleven-year-old girl to deal with.
That winter John had fallen in love with his new girlfriend, Valerie, after his failed affair with actress Jennifer O’Neal. Jill stopped eating, just as her mother did. It developed into hepatitis. On one occasion John was away with Valerie, leaving Jill with the nanny and maids. I liked that sweet little girl so I called her to see how she was doing, and she sounded so sick I ran over to their apartment on Park Avenue and made her chicken soup. I didn’t realize at the time she wasn’t eating because it was her way of getting back at her father. She must have been very lonely because John seems to always be on fire taking care of himself.
Jill was curious to hear the music from our musical, “The Pink Tea Cup,” which Frank described as a totally different type of musical, one that Broadway had never seen before. Eleven-year-old Jill’s blunt response was dead on.
“Is that good or bad?”
We had to step back and think. I never forgot that innocent comment. I ask that question many times in analyzing opportunities.
The Revsons were a perfect example of what you see is not always what you get. They appeared to be a wealthy, deep-rooted, loving family—the American dream, coming to this country with nothing and building an empire. As in most American dreams it is the founder, in this case the father, who builds the dream, and usually their kids screw it up. Or maybe the dreams of the parents just aren’t the dreams of their children.
CHAPTER 16
Mode International
Shortly after the Riviera festival, in 1977, Ken Partiss from Atlantis fame invested in an avant-garde, hard-core French fashion magazine, Mode International. His plan was to bring it to America for distribution and hire me as marketing art director. Charli and I met with Ken in New York and he showed us the latest issue. At that time Mode was a great-looking, extremely innovative black-and-white publication without any color pages at all except for the provocative cover. Gunner Larsen, Ken’s partner, was the original creator, owner, editor, publisher, and chief photographer. Gunner was great at all jobs, especially his choice of models and the clothes or lack thereof he posed them in. He would concoct combinations of designer clothes with bizarre accessories like wool embroidered leg warmers, jeweled jean vests, military gear, gas masks, and combat boots, along with waffled and braided hair, eye and face makeup with glitter and painted colors you’d never seen before, and plenty of exposed breasts. This was coupled with his distinct style of erotic photography: positioning extremely sexy, provocative, vulnerable women in unlikely positions. I thought Charli would take issue with this project, what with the models, Paris, and Ken, but as usual she didn’t show any concern and she welcomed my next opportunity to do what I wanted and sent me back to Paris.
Arriving in Paris this time around was a bit more flamboyant than when I came for the Riviera festival. I was now living in a large, three-bedroom penthouse apartment on the Champs Élysées, with at least three models at a time. I would go out to clubs like Le Preve at two in the morning and stay out till dawn. Life was great. I designed the Cat Girl Campaign to promote the new look of the magazine and announce its arrival. I rented eight giant billboards on both sides of the Champs Élysées and several newsstands and magazine street kiosks all over Paris. The billboards had a large photo of the Cat Girl biting the magazine with a block of type in French that read “Mode International—The Fashion That Bites The Fashion. Our Magazine is 182 pages and now in color and only 80 francs.” Then in bold letters, “If You Don’t Like Our New Magazine stick your fish in it.”
The campaign was a success. Everyone was talking about it. You could not help but notice the Cat Girl, whose image was everywhere. After two weeks the first posters were replaced with a new poster, just a color photo depicting a dead fish on a plate wrapped in a Vogue mag
azine. No copy, just that image. That visual told the story and I won a French Art Directors Award for that campaign.
Charli and Ann Partiss, Ken’s wife, decided to surprise Ken and me by coming to Paris for a visit. The girls moved in to our apartment on the Champs Élysées. After a week or so in that environment, surrounded by the Paris nightlife and sexy models, I began to worry about Charli and how she felt about all this. I was hoping she realized there was nothing I would ever do to embarrass her or put her in an awkward position or, more importantly, jeopardize our relationship and the love we have. I couldn’t help but wonder, though, if doubt were creeping? Are the other women taking their toll on her? I wanted her to know that down deep I would never let anyone replace her. She sits on the throne and wears the crown. Charli doesn’t have to prove her position to other women; they feel it from both of us. She is a proud and confident woman, but still I knew it was key that I send her a message. That no one could ever take her place. I always try to include her in whatever I do and whomever I meet and make sure she doesn’t feel left out. Dali taught me that. Always invite her, he said, and then she will pick and choose when and where to go, knowing she doesn’t have to go to protect her position.
In Charli’s Words
Ann Partiss and I decided to go to Paris, where Frank was designing Ken’s new project, a magazine called Mode International. We arrived and surprised Ken and Frank at the Mode office. I think I was more surprised than anyone. What a sight! Frank was spending all of his time with French and European models, probably the most beautiful women in the world. Even today, thirty-five years later, if you look at the photographs in the magazine you would say they are the most innovative pieces of art you have ever seen. I must say I could not blame Frank and I told him so. I spent my days in Paris with Ann shopping, sightseeing, eating and drinking wine in fabulous French bistros, and we all stayed at Frank’s magnificent apartment near the Eiffel Tower.
Frank & Charli Page 18