by Robert Evans
One day, in the middle of a tough scene on Marathon Man, Bob approached me in between setups and in his characteristic stage whisper said, “I gotta talk to you.” Motioning me to a darkened backstage area, he held out an eight-by-ten envelope that he previously held behind his back. And the following scene is forever imprinted.
(Breaking into his legendary impersonation of me.)
He said, “You see this, you see what I have?”
“Yes, it’s a script.”
“No, no, no, it’s not just a script.” And, raising his eyebrows: “This is the finest script I’ve read in ten years, maybe fifteen, and you’re the first to get it, okay?”
“Really?”
“I swear to God, you’re the first. Not Warren, not Jack. You’re the first, okay? ’Cause I want you to have it, Star.” Bob liked to call the stars he worked with “Star.” And when he said it, you felt like you’d earned it.
I said, “Thank you. Thanks.”
“You gotta read it tonight, as soon as you get home, okay, Star?”
I said, “I can’t read it tonight, Bob, I’ve got so many lines to learn for tomorrow’s scene, just give me a couple of days.”
“I-i-i-impossible! I can’t. I can’t wait. You know why? Because you’re the first. Not Jack, not Warren. They’re gonna hear about it. It’ll be very embarrassing to me. I need you to read it tonight and you gotta get back to me tomorrow. Okay, Star?”
“I can’t.”
“Tonight. It’s important. You don’t know how important this is. It’s for your career. I’ll be honest with you, it’s for my career. This is gonna be very big. For both of us.”
He pointed his finger at me and I said, “I know. I’m the first.”
“You betcha. I’ll see you on the set tomorrow, my boy.” And as he leaves, with a wink and a smile, “You’re gonna thank me, Star.”
The next day, as promised, Bob was back. He patiently waited for me to finish a setup. I walked over to him.
“Did you read it?”
“Yeah, yeah, I did.”
“You’re the first to read it, you know that.”
“I know, you told me.”
“It’s terrific, isn’t it? I told you, it’s the best script I’ve read in ten years. I’ve never had readers’ reports like it. It’s a home run. We’ll have our pick of directors. What do you think?”
“Well, it didn’t get to me, Bob. I didn’t respond to it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I don’t think it works. I think it’s a bad script.”
“You know what? You’re absolutely right. (Laughter, applause.) It’s a very bad script and you’re gonna make it a good script. You’re gonna fix it. We’re both gonna fix it. Just remember I gave it to you first. We’re gonna fix it, and it’s gonna be terrific, it’s gonna be a home run.”
That’s a true story.
I don’t remember the name of the script, I don’t know if it got made or not. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this was the same engine, the same enthusiasm, that gave birth to all those films you just saw up there on the screen. A producer’s got a dream, it comes with the territory. Bob Evans is simply a man of dreams, a man of heart, a man of passion, a man who loves films, as much if not more than anyone in this room.
In his notes on Death of a Salesman, Arthur Miller said that his play came from images: “The image of aging, and so many of your friends already gone, and strangers in the seats of the mighty, who do not know you, or your triumphs, or your incredible value. Above all, perhaps, the image of a need greater than hunger or sex or thirst, a need to leave a thumb print somewhere on the world. The need for immortality, and by admitting it, the knowing that one has carefully inscribed one’s name on a cake of ice on a hot July day.”
Bob understands this irony. He has always understood it. It’s what makes him Bob.
In his notes to himself, about himself, in his book Bob said, “Where is everyone? Dead? Mostly. Wealthy? Some. Destitute? Many. Retired? Uh, supposedly, I ain’t seen ’em. One thing I do know: I ain’t dead, I ain’t wealthy, I ain’t destitute, and I ain’t retired.”
(A long silence.)
It is with deep pleasure that I present the 2003 David O. Selznick Lifetime Achievement Award to the Kid who stayed in the picture, Robert Evans.
A shock. The entire audience—close to one thousand of my peers—stood up and applauded. I began to tremble. This standing ovation? For Kid Notorious? I didn’t think I’d make it to the stage. Arms embraced me. Kisses, too.
It seemed to take forever to make my way to the stage. I had to stop several times, to consciously stop the tears.
Dustin walked toward me. We embraced. To me, it was the most emotional embrace of my entire career. The picture of that magic moment will remain with me forever.
Dustin moved to the side, looking directly at me, listening intently. The crowd was applauding and still standing. It felt like hours, but it was only minutes before everyone sat and the ballroom was silent.
“It’s a very tough act to follow Dustin Hoffman,” I finally said. “True, isn’t it, Dustin?
“You know, looking at the people here tonight, there are so many who deserve this award more than myself. But truth’s truth. I stand alone in the history of Hollywood as the only man who started his career as head of a studio and ended it as an animated cartoon.” (Laughter, applause.)
“Many’ve said that David O. Selznick died broke. He didn’t die broke. Maybe in dollars, but he was the richest man in this whole industry. What greater wealth is there than to be remembered through all eternity? Do me a favor, David. If I ever see you, accept me for what I am, I ain’t a bad guy.
“There was only one David O. Selznick. How proud I am to get this award.
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
And I walked off the stage.
EPILOGUE
Year: 2013
It was a cold night in February—the fourteenth, to be exact. Valentine’s Day.
Me, I was alone watching television. The clock had just struck eleven.
My eyes were heavy with sleep. It was dark in the room, except for the eerie glow of the large plasma television across from my bed.
Desperate to sleep off the lonely night, I ingested my best sleeping concoction—two Ambiens—and put on an old Jimmy Cagney flick, White Heat. A perfect mix: I passed out before Cagney went on his rant.
Hours must have passed. Then, in the distance, I heard a voice . . . Ava Gardner’s voice, interrupted by Tyrone Power, then by Errol Flynn—and by my voice in Spanish interrupting them all. I was Ambien’d out . . . or so I thought. One thing for sure: I was mesmerized. Where the hell was I?
Them Ambiens can distort the old cerebrum, but good.
What followed was akin to an LSD trip. Ava reappeared. This time she was seducing a young bullfighter: me! I opened my eyes, looked at the plasma screen, which was the only light in the room. Was I hallucinating? Were they really here?
Was I dead?
I closed my eyes, but the voices remained. A soft woman’s touch—Ava’s hands. My eyes fluttered open. Ava Gardner was seducing me!
“Go for it, Kid,” said the long-horned director, Henry King.
I did.
My heart pounding, I staggered from the bed. Was I dreaming? No, it all happened—on the screen, that is, in the spring of 1957. Tyrone Power, Ava Gardner, Errol Flynn, Darryl Zanuck; the man himself, Ernest Hemingway; even a young punk, me. All of us in Morelia, Mexico, bringing The Sun Also Rises to the screen.
And then it hit me: All the cast, and even the crew, were gone. I was the only one left.
Did the Fat Lady sing? Don’t know. Don’t wanna. What I do know is that life is a ticket to the greatest show on earth. . . . And me?
I’m still sitting in a front-row seat.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are so many people I both need and want to thank, who have kept me alive these past few years, enabling me to fin
ish The Fat Lady before she finished her song.
My thanks to Ali MacGraw, a total original. Always the giver, never the taker, and I speak with authority—forty years’ worth. During my darkest hours and happiest moments, she has been there. Together we have but one child, Joshua. Why have another when you hit the jackpot the first time out? Though we have been divorced for almost half a century, our friendship has become ironclad. Ironically, Joshua, Ali, and I make a powerful family. Yes, we have been blessed big-time by the guy upstairs.
To Dickie Van Patten, my oldest friend, who to this day remains the encyclopedia of our all-but-impossible teens. We witnessed each other’s misbehavior, and telling the truth about our indiscretions isn’t easy for either of us. Wow, was I lucky to have a coconspirator of such dimension!
What a lucky day it was when Eric George introduced me to my literary agent, Helen Breitwieser, whose passion for this project gave me a new momentum. With her vast knowledge of the publishing industry, she introduced me to my editor, publisher Cal Morgan, and guided me throughout this process. Cal’s input brought a new clarity to the book. I am truly indebted to both Helen and Cal for all of their work. Their focus and enthusiasm have culminated in ensuring that The Fat Lady Sang shatters new barriers in digital publishing. I would also like to thank Kathleen Baumer for all of her help and support.
For securing my safety in a litigious world, I thank the insightful Henry Holmes. For his advice and counsel, I thank my debonair friend, the erudite Eric George, who is constantly saving me from the mischievous machinations of the malevolent. A very great thanks to my dear friend Bob Shapiro, without whom my life’s trek might have been cut short decades ago.
I am lucky to have survived the aforementioned challenges thanks to a brilliant team of physicians. My gratitude to my doctor Charles Kivowitz, for his careful vigilance and guidance, and not least for the understanding that he shows his impatient patient.
A heartfelt thanks to my cardiologist Robert Siegel, whose insight and skill have saved me more than once. Robert and Theresa’s presence in my life continues a treasured friendship with the Siegel family.
The irrepressible and prophetic David Agus is, despite my best efforts, steadily imbuing me with a newfound optimism.
My trainer, Dion Jackson, keeps both my body and spirits in trim shape.
I want to express my gratitude to my household, a team that has supported me and shared the highs and lows for twenty years or more. First to my executive assistant and confidante Michael Binns-Alfred, my rock, whose protective embrace and keen judgment of people, over these twenty-seven years, has yet to be found wanting. She has become part of Family Evans. To my housekeeper Rosie Chavez, who would “by any other name” still be as sweet. To the youthful Alex “Rio” Bier, who has assisted me with our extensive archive and brings his knowledge of modern communications to the battle, and to Natalia Ravanales, the latest but by no means the least member of my team.
Darryl Goldman, who started as my tennis coach, has proven himself a treasured friend these past twenty years. He is one of the family.
Dan Ramsey’s skills of illumination have given Woodland its magic glow for the past twenty-five years.
At Paramount, my indispensable “Man for All Seasons,” Jay Sikura, keeps the Evans banner flying.
To Ryan Rayston and Toby Burwell, who were my right and left hands in developing the structure of my bumpy ride. And to Hernan De Elejalde, who succeeded them, giving so generously of his time and skill.
I am indebted to the singular talent of my friend Michel Comte, who not only created the image but also, along with Jens Remes, designed the cover of this book. For more than a decade, Michel has put his visual insights at my disposal.
Melissa Prophet, a dynamite lady, who—separating rumor from reality—was there for me in the most dire of times. She has recently opened up the marvels of the online world and guided me into the ether.
In conclusion, I would like to thank Alan Selka, who is not only my butler, “English,” but also my day-to-day brother in arms. Without his affection and creative collaboration, I could not have finished this book.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ROBERT EVANS, the former chief of Paramount Studios, produced many of the most acclaimed and successful films of all time, including The Godfather, Chinatown, Rosemary’s Baby, Love Story, Marathon Man, and Urban Cowboy. He lives in Beverly Hills, California.
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ALSO BY ROBERT EVANS
The Kid Stays in the Picture
BACK AD
CREDITS
Cover photograph by Michel Comte
Cover design by Jens Remes
COPYRIGHT
Article on pages 201–3 reprinted by permission of the Wall Street Journal, copyright © 2013 Dow Jones & Company, Inc. All rights reserved worldwide. License number 3222040489258.
Unless otherwise indicated, all photographs are courtesy of the author.
THE FAT LADY SANG. Copyright © 2013 by Robert Evans. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Evans, Robert, 1930–
The fat lady sang / Robert Evans. — First edition.
p. cm
ISBN 978-0-06-228604-8 (pbk.)—ISBN 978-0-06-222834-5 (ebook) 1. Evans, Robert, 1930–—Health. 2. Cerebrovascular disease—Patients—Biography. 3. Motion picture producers and directors—United States—Biography. 4. Motion picture actors and actresses—United States—Biography. I. Title.
RC388.5.E973 2013
616.8’10092—dc23
[B]
2013018848
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Epub Edition NOVEMBER 2013 ISBN 9780062228345
13 14 15 16 17 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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