The Fat Lady Sang

by Robert Evans

  Suddenly the Kid became the darling of the European circuit, and off to London we went for the black-tie premiere at the Odeon, Leicester Square. At the post-premiere party, the topic of conversation was Graydon’s introduction of the film.

  “I have spent so much time with this subject,” he said, “that when I die, Robert Evans’s life is going to flash before my eyes!”

  How exciting the time! And how exhausting! Its first weekend, opening in limited release in New York and Los Angeles, saw The Kid tops in per-screen average—better than any other film at that time. The quote from Variety’s front page? “Bio doc reaping an incredible $22K/venue, the best per-theater average for any specialty title to date this summer.” Sounds good, huh?

  Me? I was ecstatic—momentarily, at least.

  “We’ve got ourselves a mini-blockbuster,” echoed Graydon.

  27

  Darling, whose bed do you think I’m on? Take a guess. At the moment I’m lying on a mink bedspread and I’m being served a cheese soufflé. I only wish you were here to have it with me.”

  Laughing into the phone.

  “That’s right, I’m at Evans’s. In ten minutes we’re watching the Lewis/Tyson fight. It’s on HBO and I forgot to order it. Talk to you after the fight.”

  It was Warren Beatty, speaking to his better half, Annette Bening, who was on location shooting a film.

  Shaking my head. “What a gal.”

  “Only the best,” he smiled back. “Who do you like in the fight?”

  “It’s a tough call.”

  “That’s why I asked. They’re both over-the-hill, both great fighters. One is just slightly further over-the-hill than the other. It makes a difference. Age catches up to you.”

  “It sure does.”

  The fight started. Both fighters looked lethargic.

  “Told you—age catches up.”

  Round two was no better. “Five years ago it would’ve been a brawl.”

  “Speaking of brawls,” I said, “who’s the oldest above-the-line star you ever balled?”

  I had just broken the unspoken rule Warren and I had shared for decades: never to ask about one another’s amours unless they were widely known by the public—and, even then, when it came to the intricacies of the relationship, no questions asked.

  Our reason? We feared the disillusionment of discovering that we’d been brothers-in-law too many times over. Underneath it all we had the same emotion—don’t ask . . . you don’t want to know—and we lived by that. Continued silence is the greatest insurance policy for continued friendship. And it worked.

  Until now. Suddenly, Warren turned the DA act on me.

  “Who’s the oldest above-the-line diva you ever balled?”

  We both burst out laughing as round four began. The fight was getting interesting. For the next few rounds, we concentrated on the action.

  Finally, Warren said, “Maybe it’s true. Age is only numbers.” Then he DA’d me again. “Come on. Give me the last initial of the last name and I bet I can guess who it is.”

  I quickly responded, “You give me the last initial and I bet I can guess.”

  The seventh round drew to a close. A minute into the eighth round, Lewis flattened Tyson, bringing the fight—and our little sparring match—to an end. To this day there’s been no rematch between Lewis and Tyson, nor for that matter between Warren and the Kid.

  Do I remember who the diva was? You bet your ass I do! But it’s for no one to know, including the reader. However, the story itself has gotten me out of many a depression with a smile.

  The year? Nineteen fifty-eight.

  Flying back then was pre-jet, mucho luxury, and comfortably slower. TWA’s red-eye was no red-eye. Three times a week, the airline had a flight from Los Angeles to New York at 11 P.M., landing in New York at 7 A.M. the following day. The tail of the plane consisted of six sleeping berths: three upper and three lower. Behind that was a small bar serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres—a luxury afforded to only the select.

  At that moment I was one of the chosen, flying in to New York for the premiere of my first costarring role, in The Sun Also Rises. Playing opposite Ava Gardner didn’t do me any harm. For five minutes I was considered Twentieth Century Fox’s new hot property—hence my spot among the other five notables on TWA’s super-deluxe flight.

  All six berths were occupied. One by my mentor Darryl Zanuck, head of Twentieth Century Fox and producer of The Sun Also Rises. Another by Walter Winchell, America’s most dangerous and influential journalist. His 1,400-station, 1,000-newspaper reach could make or break any career in politics, show business, or industry. No one today can touch his influence. And he was one vengeful mother, always on the prowl for the next scandalous headline.

  Peter Viertel, the author and friend of Hemingway’s who’d written the screenplay for the film, was also on the flight. As was an over-the-hill blond movie diva who’d been famous worldwide for decades. And the starlet who broke his virginity in lush flying: me.

  Once the plane was in the air and we were in the clouds, we were given our assigned berths. The lower berths were the most comfortable. Naturally, I was in a middle upper. Below me was the movie diva. Twenty-four inches across from her, the feared Winchell.

  As night fell, an arm with a bejeweled hand crept up from the lower berth. Was I dreaming it? No. But I sure as hell was scared. Is this what goes on in Hollywood? What am I supposed to do?

  Her fingers beckoned. I peeked out the curtain. Everything was dark. Winchell’s berth was curtained in. Impulse overcame prudence. I took her hand, gesturing for her to climb up. She pulled back, beckoning me to come down. Call it a seductive tug-of-war if you wish, but who was I to be demanding? I quickly peeked out again and the flair of the dare made a midair affair—two feet from the most dangerous man in the country, who could ruin my career forever—an irresistible proposition.

  For Walter Winchell to be twenty-four inches from the sex scandal of the year . . . and sleep through it? Who could resist such a suicidal liaison?

  I stealthily slipped down the few feet needed to enter her airborne boudoir. What happened is not for me to say, except for this: When I crept back to my upper berth my heart was pumping through my chest, not from the sexual experience, but from the knowledge that danger, especially when it’s potentially lethal, is one hell of an aphrodisiac. And this was potentially fatal-plus.

  The next morning, totally unknowing, Winchell approached me with a wide smile, shook my hand.

  “Very glad to have met you. You’re going to go far, young man.”

  I wanted to say I did, Mr. Winchell, but I kept my mouth shut. Thinking If he only knew was far more exciting than anything I could say.

  Who the lady was, no one will ever know—including Warren.

  28

  Splashed across the front page of the Wall Street Journal of October 24, 2002, was the biggest surprise of my print career. Me on the front page of the Journal? With one of those engraved portraits usually reserved for the captains of industry? But no captain of industry was I—rather, a pirate of broken rules who’d paid the consequences of his own more-than-cavalier life.

  Written by one of their aces, Bruce Orwall, the article detailed the next chapter in my bumpy road: Kid Notorious, a cartoon series.

  “On a late summer afternoon, Woodland, the estate of the legendary film producer Robert Evans, was infused with the feeling that anything can happen here.

  “Former Guns N’ Roses guitarist Slash strolled by the pool. MTV Networks Chairman Tom Freston arrived in tennis togs, heading for a lesson on the court out back. And as the 72-year-old Mr. Evans greeted visitors for lunch, he was interrupted by a striking young blond woman dressed in a red cashmere bathrobe. She gave Mr. Evans a languorous kiss.

  “Life, it appears, is good for Mr. Evans, the former Paramount Pictures chief who in the 1970s brought films including The Godfather and Chinatown to the big screen.

  “Until recently he was still battling the
hangover from the brutal 20-year run in which he was virtually driven from the film business and laid low by a series of strokes.

  “Today, he is in the midst of an improbable comeback. That’s mainly because of the overwhelming response from show-business insiders to The Kid Stays in the Picture, a new documentary film based on Mr. Evans’ tell-all 1994 book of the same name. The film, narrated by Mr. Evans in a seductive baritone, paints him as a smooth-talking, fast-living, skirt-chasing Hollywood maverick of the kind that has largely vanished since major corporations took control of the movie business.

  “The result: Robert Evans, washed-up mogul, has been reborn as Robert Evans, living symbol of a time when Hollywood was a lot more fun. He’s at work on a sequel to his book, dictating it in all-night sessions to an assistant from his bed. Comedy Central recently won a bidding war to develop an animated series about the semi-real adventures of Mr. Evans, his butler and his cat. The Producers Guild of America plans to give him its David O. Selznick Lifetime Achievement Award at a ceremony next spring, honoring him as ‘one of the most vital and passionate advocates of our craft.’

  “Mr. Evans’ informal family—[including] his butler, Alan Selka; and Kid co-director Brett Morgen—were all on hand at Woodland recently to help him nail down what may be the biggest of the opportunities he is chasing. On that day, a half-dozen cable and TV networks angled for the opportunity to produce a cartoon series about him.

  “Unlike most TV pitch sessions, which take place in sterile studio offices, the idea this time was to parachute the executives directly into Mr. Evans’ world. ‘They stepped into the cartoon,’ says Mr. Selka, a veteran butler who says his outlook as a ‘devout surrealist’ has served him well during his 10 years with Mr. Evans. Dressed in a formal suit each day, Mr. Selka is so perfect for the his role that he is slated to do the voice-over work for his character in the cartoon series. ‘I’m the straight man, so to speak,’ he says.

  “The pitch meetings were carefully scripted. Each group of executives was greeted at the door by Mr. Selka, who gave a tour of the house and grounds. Then the executives would meet with Mr. Morgen and executive producer Pam Brady in the pool house that Mr. Evans uses as a screening room. Mr. Evans would make an appearance near the meeting’s end. While one network was in the meeting, the next group would tour the estate. ‘We like them to run into each other,’ Mr. Morgen said.

  “A bidding war broke out, with Comedy Central and TNN vying hardest to land the show. In the end, Mr. Evans made a deal with Comedy Central.”

  What started out being potentially the greatest celebrative coup of my career ended being far more contentious than any of my divorces. Little did I know that the series’ original title, “Pussy Power,” was a dramatic foreshadowing of what awaited me.

  For the next several months, I labored with a lot of talented people to put together what was considered one of the most innovative, intelligent, and funny cartoons ever aired on television. Comedy Central backed us with an advertising campaign that cost more than I spent publicizing Chinatown.

  The result? Let the reviews speak for themselves:

  Los Angeles Times: “It is Evans’ own weird charm, which radiates through his low, lightly graveled voice, that makes the show work.”

  New York Post: “Kid Notorious is the drop-dead-funny new animated series on Comedy Central! Four stars!”

  Bravo Online: “The show of the month!”

  There were more. Reviews on a par with any of my films. And for an animated comedy? Doesn’t seem possible, but fact’s fact and that’s a fact. High is high, and no one was higher than this Don Quixote. How could an animated cartoon meet with a critical embrace that none of my films had received in many a year? Sad but true.

  But clouds were gathering . . . and they were jet-black.

  “Creative differences” is a phrase Hollywood uses to describe the murderous hatreds, ferocious fights, and terrible misunderstandings that occur when too many supposedly creative people are put in the same place. The real culprit? Too many egos, including mine. Before we even hit our stride, “differences” began to arise between some of the people responsible for The Kid Stays in the Picture and the people of Kid Notorious. Being the Kid, I had to choose between them. Since my mantra has always been loyalty, I backed my original team for The Kid Stays in the Picture, who could no longer work with the Kid Notorious people. Where would I have been without them?

  I let it be known that I could not support some of the creative team from Kid Notorious. In the blink of an eye, one of the writers on the show—a very talented woman I liked a lot—got the ax.

  The payback was swift. I felt like the new girl in town who gets a date on Friday and the guy flips for her. The next night, same deal. Monday night? No one calls. Kid who? Despite its burgeoning cult status, Kid Notorious was relegated to the scrapheap of one-year wonders. By acting on those infamous “creative differences,” I had inadvertently put a spike through my own heart.

  Media coverage and audience appreciation are a rare combination—especially for a sophisticated, racy comedy with all the signs of a decade of staying power. What an idiot I was not to be a team player. You can’t fight city hall and you can’t fight the front office. If I’d used my brain and not my ego, Kid Notorious could still be on today. This half-hour interlude of cable cartoon is a constant reminder that you gotta play ball with the guy who owns the team—that’s if you want to bat again. Instead of the home run I thought I was hitting, I struck out. I never got up to bat again. Damn it! I loved that show and the characters in it. I had more personal response from this supposedly insignificant half-hour show than almost any picture I’ve ever made. Does it bother me? You bet your ass it does! Who am I angry at? Not Comedy Central but yours truly.

  29

  Each day, when I awake, I’m reminded of one of the dearest friendships of my life. On the wall opposite my bed hangs my favorite piece of art in my collection: a six-foot-by-four-foot photographic image of two of my secretaries, nude and entwined, under a two-hundred-year-old sycamore tree in my garden. The photographer titled the piece Lunch Break. Across the bottom he inscribed it, in thick blue crayon: “for my friend, Robert Evans—Helmut Newton, Beverly Hills 1991 ‘In Robert’s Garden.’ ”

  In the many lectures I’ve given around the globe about the world of film, the one question I get asked most is: Who are the most talented people you’ve worked with? My response is always the same: I’ve worked with many who have touched brilliance, but there is only one I consider a genius. It’s Helmut Newton. He is the true master of the still frame, who elevated the art of photography to the heights that make it the dominant art form of the twenty-first century.

  In the fifties, Helmut’s work was considered scandalous. In the sixties, it was considered provocative. By the seventies, he was recognized as a master. My opinion of Helmut’s genius does not stand alone. Every major European nation bid for his archive, culminating in the building of the Helmut Newton museum in no less than the center of Berlin. Imagine: He is the first artist of photography to have a major museum devoted to his master works, thus breaking new barriers for the genre. The fact that Helmut took hundreds of portraits of me was not necessarily a compliment. “Bobby,” he’d say, “you have a regal decadence in your facial bone structure that I cannot find in anyone else.”

  I threw many parties for Helmut and wife June Newton over the years, and soon came to realize that it was folly to invite anyone more than two days before the event. He had a greater allure than anyone I knew. His draw was so powerful that, as soon as word of a new party leaked, I would have needed the National Guard for crowd control. Girls wanted to meet Helmut more than anyone else, hoping to be immortalized by his infamous lens.

  Not too many years ago, I gave a Christmas bash in my new offices at Paramount. What a turnout! More above-the-title flick stars filled the suite than cumulatively graced the studio all year. Helmut showed up late—yeah, but not too late. Them macho male sex stars? Th
ey faded into the background quicker than love at first sight. Not them ladies. They pitter-pattered into the foreground. All of them—from Movie Star to Ms. Society. All of ’em vying to get Helmut’s eye.

  Helmut was my hero. Gave guys like me, carrying far lower numbers, the shot of adrenaline we needed. With Helmut, I was suddenly a juvenile again, looking for danger. And I wasn’t the only one: Just as many guys as dames were looking to meet him. Some of them were looking for the kink in his armor. They knew all about him, they thought, and they didn’t like what they knew. Women? That was a different story. They didn’t feign their attraction to him. When he was nearby, their headlights were always on high. Every one of them wanted to meet up with him, big. Get to know him better. Be dominated by his whims.

  On the twenty-second of January 2004, my lady and I went out for dinner with Helmut and June. As we were leaving the Palm, a photographer caught me kissing Helmut good night. It turned out to be our last good-bye. The next morning, news of Helmut’s death flashed across television screens. What seemed like just moments later, June, his extraordinary love and collaborator of fifty-four years, had me on the horn. “I know Helmut would want me to call . . . to tell you he beat you to the barn.” Then, softly, she added: “No one loved you more than Helmut.”

  Well, dear Helmut, no one loved you more than I.