The Kid Stays in the Picture

by Robert Evans

  “Hope we shoot in the summer. Robin and I are getting married in the fall. We plan to spend October in Venice. Ever been there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then wait. Only go there when you’re madly in love.”

  That’s it. I grabbed her arm, whispering, “Never plan, kid. Planning’s for the poor.”

  She tried to snap back. “No way—”

  “Let me finish, Miss Charm. An hour ago, Love Story was even money to end up in the shredder. You win, I lose. Got it? Stop being Miss Inverse Snob, will ya? It doesn’t wear well. Don’t turn your nose down to success. If anything goes wrong with you and Blondie between now and post time, I’m seven digits away.”

  Before she had a chance to say anything, I closed the door behind her and took off.

  Four-story walk-up MacGraw must have forgotten the seven digits. She never called. Did I read the script over and over again? You’re damned right. And it still got a tear. If Elaine May were starring in it, forget the tears, it would have already been shelved. Here I am, head of a studio, certainly one of the biggest buyers in a town filled only with sellers. I’m Diamond Jim Brady offering gross percentages to people who don’t deserve them, and I still can’t get a nibble.

  Bluhdorn was right. What kind of crazy business is this? I’ll tell you. All eight actors whose ass I kissed to play the male lead in Love Story turned it down. Each went on to make his next film. Though I batted zero for eight, they did as well—each film was a disaster. Like Larry Peerce, half of the eight Barrymores made pictures that were barely released. Conversely, any one of the brilliant eight would have become “fuck you” rich making this “piece of shit.” Oh, by the way, it was nominated for seven Academy Awards, including best actor and best actress.

  On Paramount’s official agenda, Love Story was one of fifteen pictures in pre-production. On Robert Evans’s secret agenda, Love Story, a picture no one wanted to be connected with, was the one I knew would make it to the screen. I had an idea; I’ll get some young, hot star, pay him gross from the first dollar, something he’s never gotten. Greed will rule, put him up there with the big boys, a gross player. Even if they think the script stinks, their ten percenters will talk ’em into it.

  Michael Douglas, Michael York, Michael Sarrazin, Jon Voight, the Bridges brothers—Beau and Jeff—Peter Fonda, Keith Carradine; all were offered a ten on the dollar. Eight batters—not a hit. They all turned it down.

  A minor miracle! Arthur Hiller reluctantly acquiesced to direct my Angel with a Very Dirty Face. His agent, Phil Gersh, persuaded him to take Love Story as a filler. He would squeeze it in between The Out-of-Towners and Plaza Suite, two other Paramount flicks.

  My first bite and there was no way I’d let him off the hook. “Arthur, we’ll push back Plaza Suite to accommodate your schedule.”

  There’s no director in town more prolific than Hiller. If he ain’t on the set, he ain’t satisfied. Unfairly, Arthur has never been given his proper homage. Never been considered fashionable, though his batting average certainly makes him a slugger in any league. If it’s the bottom line that counts, Hiller’s record should make him a contender for the Hall of Fame. The filler, Love Story, made him a millionaire many, many times over. To me, hooking Hiller was akin to signing John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, Bob Redford, and Paul Newman to do a western for scale. My euphoria was short-lived.

  Suddenly, one Wednesday, Ali remembered my seven digits. Not the charming lady who mesmerized me months ago at Grenouille in New York, but the angry with a capital A actress.

  “The audacity—to sign a director I’ve never heard of without consulting me! It’s my property. I’m doing the picture for slave wages. I’m living up to my option agreement. Have you forgotten the word ‘courtesy’?”

  “Listen here, Miss Grateful!”

  Down went the phone.

  Hyperventilating, I screamed through the door at my secretary to get Ben Benjamin, Ali’s agent, on the phone. “Now! And if they don’t know where he is, find him.”

  Ben, a gentleman of gentlemen, calmed my anger. His client, MacGraw, had no idea of the leprosy attached to her sudsy manuscript. By midnight, New York time, it was resolved that Ali would fly out Friday morning, arriving Friday afternoon, to look at Hiller’s first cut of The Out-of-Towners. To me, this was a bellylaugh flick, from start to finish.

  “He’s good enough for Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis,” I screamed at Ben. “He’s good enough for Walter Matthau.”

  “Calm down, Bob, calm down.”

  “How the fuck can I calm down, Ben? What’s this business coming to when I gotta audition a guy whose made a dozen hits for some fuckin’ starlet?”

  I called him back in an hour, but he was already in bed. “Cancel the whole fuckin’ thing, will ya, Ben? I feel like Willy Loman trying to put this piece of shit together.”

  “Forget Ali, Bob, for me. Let her come out, show her Hiller’s picture. Do it at your house. She won’t be arriving till six and she’s booked out the next morning at eight. If it doesn’t work, cancel. I wouldn’t blame you. She’s really a good lady, Bob.”

  “Good. I don’t know, Ben, but she’s lucky. You’re one of the few guys who could have pulled this chit.”

  The next morning I called Hiller’s agent and Paramount Production. Naturally, I didn’t tell Phil Gersh that I was auditioning Arthur Hiller’s The Out-of-Towners for the starlet. Having all but made up my mind to cancel and wanting to protect myself, I told Phil that I might have to move up Plaza Suite to start production in November. I wanted to keep my word to Arthur, telling him I would accommodate his schedule to film Plaza Suite. Doing this protected me with a legal commitment on Love Story with Hiller. Then I called David Golden, Love Story’s production manager.

  “Don’t spend another dime. Not a telephone call on Love Story.”

  “We’re prepped to go in eight weeks!”

  “We may not be going for eight months. I’ll know Monday. No more questions and, Dave, no more dollars. Got it?”

  Picking Ali up in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel, I drove her to my home and theater. Did it bug me? You bet . . . needing this starlet’s nod of approval. Inwardly, I was hoping she’d not like Hiller so I could tell her she was on a one-way ticket east, her flick canceled. At least I’d finally get my nuts off with her.

  “Miss Charming ain’t gonna charm me tonight,” I said to myself as I walked her through my front doors, out and around my pool to my projection room. Well, it didn’t quite work out that way!

  “I feel like I’m walking through my own private park in Paris,” said Miss Crooked Tooth.

  Prepared for her bullshit charm, it hardly made a ripple. Nor did I want to give her the satisfaction of the plat de jour house tour, which was my M.O. for almost any girl I’d ever met. My little gem of a palace was the greatest prop any guy could have, whether he be a billionaire or movie star. A true Garden of Eden—a “closer” to any lady who entered its gates. It had to be—a .333 hitter doesn’t bat .900 by mistake.

  “Fuck her and her snobbery,” I said to myself, opening a bottle of champagne. “Let her look at the flick and get the fuck out,” as heavenly Beluga caviar was served with baby potatoes and crème fraîche.

  Arthur Hiller’s audition was ready to roll. Well the screen never came down. Ah, but Miss Flower Child soon got wet, very wet, jumping into the egg-shaped pool, totally clothed, from shoes to headband. For a bohemian she sure as hell became comfortable very quickly living behind closed gates with two thousand rosebushes, surrounded by gardenias, daisies, and you name it. She was a flower child, all right, but now they were hers.

  On day three of her “overnight” trip, Ali said, “If you think he’s right, Evans, I don’t have to look at the film. Who’s going to play Oliver?”

  Then I dropped it on her.

  “Whoever you like has already turned it down. Whoever you half like has already turned it down. Whoever you hardly like has already turned it down.”

 
; Instead of being apologetic for her snot-nosed attitude, she giggled. “I knew it. Why do you think I jumped in the pool with my clothes on?”

  That day, Phil Gersh got the nod that Plaza Suite was pushed back and Love Story was a go. Dave Golden, Love Story’s production manager, got a thumbs-up that he was back with the employed: “Get on to Boston, tie up the Harvard campus.”

  Back in L.A., though, we couldn’t find Mr. Harvard. With no actor with any semblance of respectability wanting the gig, like it or not, we were left with only one choice—to test. Christopher Walken, David Birney, Ken Howard—you name him, we put him on the screen. Hoping that one plus one would equal eleven, Ali tested with all of them.

  Tommy Tannenbaum, an agent pal of mine, even persuaded me to test Ryan O’Neal. I told him it was a waste of time. He told me he didn’t want to lose a client.

  “A favor, Evans, please.”

  “Don’t forget the chit, Tommy,” I let him know.

  Who made the best test? Ryan O’Neal. Who did Arthur Hiller refuse to use? Ryan O’Neal.

  “Evans, let’s call a script a script. I’m doing it as a filler, I admit it. I don’t have to move off the Paramount lot. I’m starting Plaza Suite at the end of the year and Ali made a great Brenda. Thought it would be fun working with her. If we use O’Neal, it’s suicide. He just finished a five-year gig on ‘Peyton Place’—a soap. We’re not making the Bible here. Call it Love Story if you want, but it’s still a soap. With Segal’s dialogue, it will be ‘Peyton Place’ goes to Boston.”

  “Arthur, the kid made the best test.”

  “So what, it’s perception. You can’t afford it and I can’t afford it. Let’s use Chris Walken. He’s a legitimate actor.”

  “That’s the problem—he’s an actor. O’Neal, like him or not, he’s a reactor.”

  “O’Neal,” said Arthur, “like him or not, I won’t use him.”

  “Like it or not, Arthur, O’Neal’s in the film.”

  The ball was now in Arthur’s court. If I didn’t fire him, he’d have to quit, which would mean he’d breached his contract and I wouldn’t have to pay him. Knowing Phil Gersh, I took the gamble. Gersh would have had Hiller do the flick blindfolded not to lose the gig.

  It was Friday morning, October 24, 1969. Ali and I climbed into our Mercedes two-seater and headed for the town hall in Riverside. Following in a limousine were our witnesses—my housekeeper, Tollie Mae; my butler, David Gilruth; my brother, Charles; and Peggy Morrison, a friend of Ali’s from New York.

  Wanting total secrecy, I’d instructed Bob Goodfreid, Paramount’s publicity honcho, to be sure there was no press or associates, and no friends were to know. Bob arranged for us to get our marriage license in Riverside, then tie the knot in Palm Springs. It wasn’t a good omen when, a few miles east of Riverside, the bottom of my Mercedes fell out. Everyone wanted to wait for AAA.

  Grabbing Ali, I whispered in her ear, “Fuck the car! Let’s get the show on the road.”

  Leaving the Mercedes right where it was, both of us snuck into the backseat of the limo and off we went.

  There is nothing more personal than getting hitched. There’s nothing less personal than getting hitched before hundreds of people, each one thinking it’s not going to work anyway. The best would have been just me and Ali signing the license and sending it in. We did the next best: a two-dollar judge in Palm Springs and three witnesses. Afterward we uncorked Dom Pérignon on the courthouse lawn, finishing off bottle after bottle, laughing and laughing.

  A two-day honeymoon at Tony Owen and Donna Reed’s home in Palm Springs and off we flew, ending what was to be the last of that ever-lovin’ luxury—privacy. That night we flew with the Love Story group on the red-eye to New York. They continued on to Cambridge, Massachusetts, to begin principal photography in and around Harvard. I flew off to London, Paris, and Rome, not to look for my new fall wardrobe, but to put “the mountain’s” fires out throughout the continent.

  Tears streamed down her face.

  “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

  The camera held the close-up for a few seconds. “Cut!” yelled Arthur Hiller. “Ali,” he said, “don’t rush it. Be a little more halting. Take two!”

  She did it again, then again. Take after take. Every time the tears were real. Every time she was more convincing.

  “Cut!” said Hiller. “That’s it. We’ve got it! Wonderful, Ali. You had me in tears.”

  She smothered me with kisses. “Evans, did you like it? The tears were for you!” My eyes swelled, knowing I was the luckiest man in the world.

  The heat in Ali’s second-rate hotel didn’t work. The Celtics played their only bad game of the season in the Boston Garden. The bar where we shared an Irish coffee belonged in the slums of Dublin, yet that Thanksgiving weekend in Boston with Ali is what magic is all about. Letters upon letters followed. Every morning I would awaken, have breakfast and there waiting for me would be a handwritten letter of love from Miss Love Story.

  “Erich, everyone thinks it’s fluff. Write a novel. I’ll get it published. It shouldn’t take you longer than a week.”

  It took Erich Segal only a little more than a month to write Love Story the book. What took longer was to persuade a legitimate publisher to print it. Finally Gene Young, an editor at Harper and Row, offered to do it as a Valentine’s Day throwaway, with a first printing of 6,000. That was like throwing it away before it had the chance to be a throwaway. I countered with an offer of $25,000 in promotion money if Harper would come out with 25,000 copies.

  The throwaway became a runaway. Not only in America but all over the world, Love Story the book went to the top of the best-seller lists and stayed there all through 1970. When the film opened at Christmas, Erich Segal’s 131-page novella was still number one on both the hardcover and paperback lists—something that’s never happened before or since in motion picture history.

  When Love Story the film moved locations from Cambridge to New York late in 1969, I flew to be with Ali. We spent our first Christmas and New Year’s Eve at the Sherry-Netherland Hotel, ordering in the most romantic food in the world—chilled vodka with miniature baked potato shells stuffed with Beluga caviar, topped with crème fraîche. Though not realizing it at the time, it was by far the most romantic holiday of my life. Camelot was ours; at least I thought it was.

  The only seeming friction was her prize possession, Grounds, a Scottish terrier, her closest confidant and her Hope diamond. Her diamond, however, had a flaw—a crack in his bowels.

  Loving animals, but never believing in indoor pets, it was tough to smile after opening the door to a suite that smelled more like a kennel than a boudoir. Army maneuvers were easier than getting from the bed to the door without needing a new pair of shoes. A small price to pay for the luxury of being with the most extraordinary woman of my life, who seemed to love me, by far, more than any other woman I had ever met. Her lethal embrace, her extraordinary affection, love, affirmation, fetching femininity, caress to family and friends, gave me an adrenaline I never thought I had, to break barriers I never thought could be broken. Few people ever touch Camelot in their lives. Was it a dream?

  When Love Story wrapped in the middle of January, Ali moved back to Woodland, this time as Mrs. Evans. I was nice enough to give her one half of one closet. Her entire wardrobe consisted of scarves to use as turbans, embroidered tablecloths used for wraparound skirts, etc.—naturally, all second-, third-, and fourthhand. Yet, for years to come, her singular style fascinated the world; each year she was on the best dressed list. Style, unlike fashion, cannot be bought nor taught. You either have it or you don’t.

  Butler, chauffeur, personal maid, tennis pro, masseuse, cascading pool, and two thousand rosebushes surrounded my lady fair.

  “This is all much too much for me, Evans.”

  Having lived through this line before, I laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”

  We’d been home a week when her agent called. An offer, $100,000 ne
t after taxes and agents’ commissions, to lend her name to a thirty-second commercial for Love Beauty Cosmetics that would play only outside of America. She turned them down flat.

  “Prostitute myself? No way.”

  “You’re wrong, Ali. Think of your parents. Put the money away for them.”

  Adamant as her initial instincts were, I was equally adamant for her to bank the first big green that was ever offered to her. Finally acquiescing, for thirty seconds she was the Love Cosmetic Girl. The moment the 100 Gs arrived, both of us drove to City National Bank and deposited it, then went to the Bistro for lunch. We toasted the breaking of her virginity into the six-figure world. The interest each month would go to her parents. For laughs, our private phrase was “a dowry in reverse.”

  A Gulf + Western directors meeting was called to take place in my office—real Gunfight at the O.K. Corral time. Before it convened, I told my secretaries, “If Nixon calls, no interruptions. Clear?”

  Then I opened the door to my room of gloom. The agenda was not what films to make, but what date the studio was to close. Everyone was suffering; all the majors were in the red. “Bluhdorn’s Folly” was getting too much attention. Paramount was less than 5 percent of Gulf + Western’s revenue, but was responsible for 95 percent of its publicity—all bad.

  “We’re in the oil and gas business and nobody knows it,” said one of G+W’s redneck directors. “It’s girls, parties, premieres, movies; that’s the business they think we’re in. Even that would be okay, but not only have I not met a girl, I haven’t been invited to one party, nor seen one movie. The only thing I get is flak.”