If Dozoretz had been wrong about her client never again basking in the Hollywood limelight, she made up for it by getting Allan seated at Doris Day’s table at the HFPA’s 1989 awards ceremony. It was there, in the Beverly Hilton Hotel ballroom, that Allan made his pitch. “I’m doing the most glamorous Academy Awards show ever,” he told the reluctant star during commercial breaks. “So many of your costars will be there.” Doris listened patiently, politely. She found Allan extremely funny and wondered where he got all his energy and enthusiasm. She didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no.
“But as the night went on at the Golden Globes, she got uncomfortable,” Dozoretz recalls. When it came time for the presentation of the Cecil B. DeMille Award, Clint Eastwood took the stage. His was a gracious speech, but as the encomium passed the sixty-second mark, Doris Day’s all-teeth smile began to harden under her equally famous freckles. “It was the length of the clips from her old movies, and the TV camera was on her constantly. She is not one to look back,” says her publicist.
Later that evening, the retired actress told Dozoretz, “I can’t do this again.” Allan never believed those words, and since he didn’t actually hear Doris Day speak them, he interpreted her silence as yes or, at least, maybe. Dozoretz warned Allan, but it didn’t matter what she said. His fantasy had jelled into reality, and the name Doris Day soon made the list of presenters in Variety’s “Oscar Watch.”
twenty-seven
Proud Mary
Shortly after the Academy announced its many nominations in mid-February, Allan decided to give his Oscar rash to all those old establishment “conservatives” in Hollywood who had complained about such a “flamboyant” man producing the Academy Awards. To tweak their squeamishness even further, he hired as the telecast’s one and only writer the Chicago-born Bruce Vilanch, who’d been openly gay from the moment he first set foot in the Hollywood Hills over a decade ago. Since Vilanch had never written any material for the Oscars, much less the entire telecast, it was appropriate that Allan’s protégé be introduced to the big brass at the ABC network by having them all visit Hilhaven Lodge for a meet and greet.
Before the suits arrived, Allan put out several bottles of Cristal on ice. “But they’re coming here to talk business,” Vilanch pointed out to his producer-boss. “I don’t think anyone will be wanting to drink champagne in the middle of the day.”
Allan brushed aside the comment. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just make sure the label shows. I want those bastards to know I have class.”
He also placed a glossy photograph of Ingrid Bergman in the foyer, and slipped it into a silver frame, but not before he inscribed it to himself:To Allan,
I’m glad to see the Swedes are still paying for this house.
Love, Ingrid
For the high-level confab with ABC, Allan wore a caftan. Vilanch wore T-shirt and jeans. ABC vice president John Hamlin played it only slightly more formal in a dress shirt and slacks. Everybody sat down on pillows in the poolside white tent to talk about the Oscars, leaving the Cristal to sweat in buckets of ice, as Vilanch predicted.
“One pair of presenters will follow another,” Allan began. “It is the passing of the baton that keeps the show moving,” he said, elaborating briefly on his four C’s: the “compadres, costars, couples, and companions,” of which he continued to be very proud.
The ABC VPs asked about the telecast’s host.
“There won’t be a host. We don’t need a host,” Allan said, who segued to another controversial subject: the three nominated songs. It was his opinion, which he delivered as fact, that the songwriters’ division of the Academy had rightfully chosen only three songs, and none of them deserved to be performed. “They’re awful,” said Allan. “I can’t get performers for these three turds. So let’s not do them.”
Carly Simon’s “Let the River Run” from Working Girl was the best of the lot. “But Carly has legendary stage fright and won’t perform,” Allan informed them. Then there was Lamont Dozier and Phil Collins’s “Two Hearts” from a movie no one had seen, Buster. “Collins had been nominated four years ago for his song ‘Take a Look at Me Now’ from Against All Odds, and it got turned into a ballet for Ann Reinking and he’s pissed off, so he won’t perform. And, of course, Bob Telson’s ‘Calling You’ from Bagdad Café is no song at all.”
These nominated songs, Allan told the men of ABC, would be announced but not performed. “There’s no reason we have to endure sitting through any B-list singer trying to put over those songs. And besides, it gives us more time for the opening number,” he concluded.
Having dismissed the three Oscar-nominated songs, Allan jumped off the pillows to act out the telecast’s much-anticipated opening number. It was as if Judy Garland had been reborn to perform that bare-bones production number called “Somewhere There’s a Someone” in Vicky Lester’s living room in A Star Is Born. Judy didn’t need costumes and locations to take her fans around the world, and neither did Allan when it came to duplicating what the stage would look like at the Shrine in six weeks. With his gestures and expressions, he re-created the huge headdresses, the palm trees, and the dancing tables of the Cocoanut Grove.
“I’d never seen anyone so excited about his dream coming true,” says Hamlin. “And I’ve worked on over forty Oscar shows. It was truly amazing to see such enthusiasm.”
In passing, Allan mentioned the San Francisco revue Beach Blanket Bingo with its send-up of Snow White, which he wanted to replicate.
Hamlin wondered out loud, “Will that go over the heads of our TV audience?”
Allan said not to worry. “We’ll make it work!”
While no one mentioned anything about copyright infringement regarding the Disney character, there was much talk about keeping the show “young.” The demographics for the Oscars had grown increasingly older over the years, a problem that Allan hoped to solve. “We’ve got a ‘Young Hollywood’ number planned for the second half of the show. It will be young, young, young, and these stars of tomorrow will all be singing and dancing. Hollywood has never seen anything like it since Mickey and Judy put on a show in the barn!” he said.
So much for the ABC brass.
At a meeting later that February, when Allan shared the Snow White concept with his creative team, set designer Ray Klausen worried about how they’d pull it off. He didn’t mention his concerns to Allan, but he wondered nonetheless: “Everyone at the Oscars is in tuxedoes and evening gowns. They’re expecting an elegant evening. And this wasn’t an elegant number.” It was the designer’s opinion that if you’re going to parody something, like having Snow White serenaded by Prince Charming, “You need to tip off the audience that you’re having good fun.”
Klausen hated to puncture the fantasy, since Allan was so clearly in love with Steve Silver’s campy San Francisco concept of the beloved Disney princess and prince. Fortunately for Klausen, Marvin Hamlisch beat him to it.
Allan’s former composer-client would conduct the Oscar orchestra and be musical director for the event. “You know, Allan, I’m having problems with this opening number,” Hamlisch said at the creative-team meeting. “We need to let the audience know that this is a spoof. Otherwise, I’m not sure how they’ll react.”
Hamlisch said it would be a simple thing to accomplish. Klausen also thought the whole concept missed “just one beat.”
Allan smoldered, then nearly attacked Hamlisch. “It’s brilliant! It’s perfect! It will be different!” he said as he quickly segued to the next topic of business: who would play Snow White. After seeing Allan’s reaction to Hamlisch, Klausen wisely chose to remain mute. “There wasn’t any point,” he says. “Allan was going to do what Allan was going to do.”
The production number had its supporters. “It was grandiose,” says the telecast’s director, Jeff Margolis. “Allan thought big, like a film person. He wanted to push the boundaries of television.” Margolis’s recent work on the Emmy and the American Music Awards telecasts had impressed Alla
n, who hired the director for what would be the first of many Oscar assignments. The sheer extravagance of having Snow White segue into a big Cocoanut Grove number followed by a Broadway-like dance routine at Grauman’s Chinese Theater thrilled Margolis, who loved the challenge. “It’s possibly the biggest thing that had ever been attempted in the history of TV. Plus, we were going to be doing it live!” he says.
David O. Selznick took nearly a year to test hundreds of actresses for the coveted role of Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. Allan didn’t have that much time to find his Snow White and Prince Charming. Surprisingly, the latter half of that duo turned out to be the easy part. Allan asked Rob Lowe and Rob Lowe said yes. Four years earlier, the handsome actor found himself a charter member of the so-called Brat Pack due to his appearance in the film St. Elmo’s Fire. In the following years, along with his costars Emilio Estevez, Demi Moore, Judd Nelson, and Ally Sheedy, he had suffered from the media fallout of being labeled a movie-star brat. Perhaps Lowe felt he needed the imprimatur of the Oscars, and if he couldn’t give an Oscar-worthy performance, then an Oscar-night performance would have to suffice. Besides, “[Allan Carr] had produced one of my favorite movies, Grease,” Lowe explained years later. “I figured he knows about musicals. And you have to understand. I’m from the Midwest, and Midwestern values tell you, if someone asks you nicely, to say yes, especially if it is the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.”
Sometime that winter, Lorna Luft also received a breathless phone call from Hilhaven Lodge. “Come over to the house. I’ve got an exciting project I want you to be a part of,” Allan told her. She, of course, wanted to know more, but Allan enjoyed the suspense. “I have to tell you face-to-face.”
The phone call intrigued Luft. She had landed her two film gigs, Grease 2 and Where the Boys Are ’84, thanks to her producer friend, and she hoped there would be a third. “Bring your husband,” Allan added. “We can make a fun day of it!”
When Luft and her husband, Jesse Hooker, arrived at Hilhaven, Allan appeared ready to give birth to an epic endeavor. He introduced her to a pianist, already seated at the Lucite grand, then showed Luft a number of easels, each of which held a sketch of a colorful stage set. It sure looked like a movie. “As you probably know, I’m producing the Oscar telecast,” Allan began. “It’s a dream come true for me. And I’d like you to be a part of it.”
Although not quite the movie offer she wanted, the Oscars is not a shabby second option with its worldwide audience of over 1 billion people. Lorna Luft had never appeared on the Oscars. She listened attentively.
“I want you to play Snow White in the opening number for the Oscars this year,” Allan continued. “It is going to be an extravagant, big number. Like something you would only see on Broadway but much, much grander. And you’ll be singing Tina Turner’s song ‘Proud Mary,’ but with new lyrics and it will be a duet. You will be singing with Prince Charming.”
Allan paused to check her reaction.
Luft paused, too, to take a breath. “And who will be playing Prince Charming?” she wanted to know.
“Rob Lowe. You wouldn’t believe it, but he has a great voice.”
Luft glanced at her husband, who was seated behind Allan and looking a little nonplussed.
“Now here’s the best part,” Allan said. “You will be wearing a wig and dressed up like Snow White, and no one will know it’s you!”
Luft shot her husband another look. “Can I hear the song I will be singing?”
Allan motioned to the pianist, who in turn broke into song: “Keep those cameras rollin’, rollin’ rollin’. Used to work a lot for Walt Disney starring in cartoons every night and day. Late nights keep on burnin’ . . . keep the cameras rollin’.” Yes, she thought, it sure sounded like Tina Turner’s anthem “Proud Mary.”
Even though Luft hadn’t sung a note, she cleared her throat. “What is Snow White doing at the Oscars?” she asked.
Allan tossed the question aside with a flip of his fingers. Instead, he talked about Steve Silver’s revue in San Francisco. Had she seen it? he wanted to know.
No, she hadn’t.
“Well, you should. We can fly you up there,” he offered. Regarding Snow White, “She can’t find her way into the theater,” Allan explained. “So we’ll have Army Archerd from Variety show her the way. And then Merv Griffin will be singing at the Cocoanut Grove and onstage we’ll have some of the great stars who used to go to the Cocoanut Grove—Alice Faye, Lana Turner—and then Merv will introduce you to your blind date, Rob Lowe. He’s Prince Charming. And then you sing the ‘Proud Mary’ song together, which leads into this fabulous number with the ushers of Grauman’s Chinese doing a chorus-line kick right out of A Chorus Line—Marvin Hamlisch is conducting the orchestra—and then the Chinese Theater turns into a big box of popcorn and Bette Midler pops out of it all!” Allan jumped off the sofa. “Let me show you the sketches. The sets are fabulous too.”
Luft tried to match Allan’s level of excitement—never an easy feat. Granted, Ray Klausen’s sketches looked impressive, but she had serious doubts about the number Allan wanted her to perform. “There’s a lot to think about here,” she said.
It wasn’t what Allan wanted to hear. “People have never seen an Oscar show like this. It will be the most exciting, the biggest, the most glamorous ever,” he promised.
Luft repeated herself. “There’s a lot to think about.”
When she didn’t phone the next day, Allan took it upon himself to call her. His voice was major key, hers minor. “I’m sorry, Allan, I can’t do that,” she said.
“Why not?” he demanded.
“I just can’t. I’m so sorry.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to do the Oscars? No one will know it’s you. We’ll put you in a wig, lots of makeup.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
The conversation digressed from there until he let her have it. “I made you!” he screamed, referring to Grease 2 and Where the Boys Are ’84. Many four-letter words colored what Luft considered one of the worst telephone calls of her life. “I finally hung up the phone sobbing,” she says.
If Lorna Luft wasn’t going to cooperate, Allan put out the word to Lucie Arnaz, Ellen Greene, and others. Steve Silver thought it better to go with an unknown and suggested a girl who played Snow White in his Las Vegas production of Beach Blanket Babylon. If one of the celebs didn’t want to do it, Eileen Bowman would. The challenge excited Allan. “We’ll make her a star!” he promised.
While Allan fretted over his Snow White, the first-ever Oscar fashion show began to take shape in Fred Hayman’s imagination. He agreed with Allan that the actresses didn’t dress well enough for the telecast. But it was a problem: How do you tell the most fussed-over, catered-to beautiful women in the world that their taste in fashion sucks?
Mr. Rodeo Drive put out the call, and while many designers were phoned, not many answered. “The designers weren’t eager to loan,” Hayman recalls. “This was before all the top designers fought to get an actress to wear their fashions at the Oscars. There’s been a whole evolution, and it began with Allan Carr.” That first year, most of the clothes came from Karl Lagerfeld, Giorgio Sant’Angelo, and Halston, whom Hayman had championed early in their careers. “We had to promise to return the clothes,” says Hayman. “A few of the actresses bought the clothes. This was before the designers gave the actresses the clothes.”
Allan envisioned a full-scale fashion show, but like so many first steps, the 1989 event was something less than grand. It took place in the restaurant at the tony L’Ermitage Hotel in Beverly Hills, and at 9:30 a.m. movie-musical legend Cyd Charisse found herself leaning against the bar, sipping coffee, with a tray of desserts ready at her elbow if she wanted to indulge. Wanting to look svelte, she ignored the sweets.
Allan stressed to Charisse his concept of using this press event to goose up the fashion quotient of the Oscars, and he’d seduced her into attending his dog-and-pony show by promising h
er an appearance, together with husband Tony Martin, in the show’s opening number at the Cocoanut Grove. It was important to Allan that Charisse look great that morning, and he personally approved her outfit that day: a pale pastel silk dress with a gold necklace and medallion, which, in his estimate, weighed a ton and cost something more. “Angie isn’t here yet?” asked Charisse.
No sooner had that complaint taken wing than Angie Dickinson materialized, bringing a somewhat more business-like tone to the affair in her subdued white blazer. “Joe Namath would approve,” Allan said, patting Dickinson’s padded shoulders. He kissed her hello, and then the two actresses, likewise, greeted each other.
Where the Hollywood press corps had been accustomed to getting their meager Oscar news via printed releases, Allan initiated the more showy route of a series of press conferences, complete with Cyd, Angie, and a free breakfast buffet. On March 8 at 10 a.m., he welcomed the reporters, all three dozen of them, from a small makeshift stage. He didn’t mess around when it came to making promises about the 61st Academy Awards. “It’s a Hollywood industry party and Broadway show! Everything’s bigger than life. It’ll be very much like a Broadway musical. It will be the most glamorous, fun, funniest, and shortest Academy Awards in years,” he bragged.
To show just how big Allan dreamed, Ray Klausen unveiled his sketches and talked up the “thirty-foot-high curtain” he’d designed for the Shrine Auditorium stage. “Enough to cover one whole side of the Empire State Building. I’ve designed it with more than 50,000 beads and sequins, to be hand applied.”
“There will be 11 sets and 106 stagehands,” Allan added. “A red carpet will cover the street in front of the Shrine Auditorium. The second largest banner ever made will hang outside the auditorium.” Allan even gave names to Klausen’s sets, names like “Stars and Diamonds,” “Tiffany Jewels with Crystal Beads and Chiffon Swags,” “Beaded Victorian Flowers,” and “The Grand Drape.”
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