Bio - 199 - Elizabeth Taylor: There Is Nothing Like a Dame

by Darwin Porter

  “Well, it’s about time,” she said. “We’ve already kissed on camera, so we can get over that kiss-on-the-first-date shit and move on to the next stage.”

  “That’s the best offer I’ve had since I returned to Hollywood,” Stack told her. “I gave Deanna Durbin her first kiss, and didn’t get anywhere with that one.”

  “Your luck is about to change,” Elizabeth said.

  ***

  On her first date with Stack, he picked her up at her home in Beverly Hills at ten o’clock in the morning. He was not an actor that Elizabeth had to conceal from either Francis or Sara. The Taylors knew Stack’s mother, Elizabeth Modini Wood Stack, who had long been a Hollywood socialite—in fact, she’d been part of Rudolph Valentino’s wedding party early in the 1920s. Stack’s father, James Langford Stack, was a powerful advertising executive who had created the slogan, “The beer that made Milwaukee famous.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Stack had previously visited Francis’art gallery and had, over the course of two years, purchased three valuable paintings from England. The Taylors had also gone to A-list Hollywood parties at the home of the Stacks.

  Before Elizabeth dated Stack, Sara had told her, “Bob might make a good match for you, a fine husband. He comes from good stock. I think young girls should marry older men, as a means of giving them stability in life, instead of running off with some wild young thing.”

  “In that case, maybe I should marry Errol Flynn,” Elizabeth said.

  “Oh, my dear,” Sara said, her face reflecting a look of horror. “We’re not talking about a sexual degenerate.”

  Stack had planned the day, beginning with a trip to a skeet-shooting range. He told Elizabeth that at the age of seventeen, he’d won an award as the national champion of skeet shooting.

  “What in the fuck is that?” she asked, using what had become—and would remain—her favorite expletive.

  He explained that trapshooting involved clay targets which are mechanically hurled into the air in a way that simulates the movement of wild birds in flight.

  That particular description didn’t impress her, as it sounded like something to be practiced in a penny arcade. Later, however, on a target range, she was surprised by his skill. In rapid fire, he hit each of his fifty targets. “So what do you think of the sport now?” he asked.

  “I’ve got to tell you the truth: I can’t stand it. I’ve always abhorred fox hunting and the shooting of birds. I saw men do this on the estate where we lived in England. I always ran into the house screaming. A bird in flight is so beautiful. Who in his right mind would want to take it down?”

  “Well, obviously, my skeet shooting didn’t awe you,” Stack said. “Perhaps if I told you who we are having lunch with at the clubhouse, you’ll be awed.”

  “Who might that be?” she asked.

  “Clark Gable,” he said. “He’s a skeet shooter himself. I taught him everything he knows about the sport.”

  Seated at table in the clubhouse, Elizabeth spotted Gable at the entrance, making his way to their table. Stack whispered to her, “At the age of thirteen, I fell in love with his wife, Carole Lombard.”

  Elizabeth didn’t need to be introduced, as previously, she had talked very superficially with him at the MGM commissary. She didn’t know if she could confide in him that she’d once harbored a schoolgirl crush on him. As she’d later relay to Roddy McDowall, when she gave him a detailed description of the day’s event, “I’m glad I didn’t bring up the subject of that crush. The man sitting across from me was not the Clark Gable of the early 1940s. He had aged badly over the war. I feared he might soon be playing grandfather roles.”

  Much of the luncheon talk centered on skeet shooting, of which Gable was a devotee. “He’s a pretty good shot—not as good as me, though,” Stack claimed.

  “Like hell, you say.” Gable protested. “I can wipe your eye any day.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” she asked.

  “Wiping your eye means shooting a bird that someone has missed,” Stack explained.

  At long last, the King of Hollywood, occupying a shaky throne, turned to her. “Little girl, I have some news that might startle you. I talked Thursday with Mayer. He told me you’re a pain in his ass, but he still has big plans for you in spite of your insolence. He wants to star you in pictures with some of MGM’s leading male stars, although we are far older than you are. Yes, he’s actually suggested that you and I play on-screen lovers. I might go for it, but I don’t want to appear onscreen looking like I’m chasing jailbait. Therefore, I’ve suggested that we voluntarily submit to a screen test to see if we can blow up any chemical works. I don’t want to be laughed off the screen.”

  “I’d love to do that test with you, Mr. Gable,” she said.

  “If we’re going to be making love on the screen, you call me Clark. Of course, Spangler Arlington Brugh has also been suggested as your screen lover.”

  “I don’t know him,” she said. “Is he new?”

  “That’s Robert Taylor’s real name,” Stack said. He then told a joke about going on a hunting trip with Robert Taylor and Andy Devine. “We’d had a lot of beer as we traveled along a backroad in Colorado. With all that beer in us, nature called. Andy and Bob stood next to each other irrigating the wildflowers. Andy checked out Bob’s pecker. He said, ‘That thing doesn’t look like it belongs on the world’s greatest lover.’ Without missing a beat, Bob shot back, “I know, but don’t tell my wife. She thinks they’re all the same size.’”

  Gable laughed at that, before telling a self-deprecating story about himself. “At Hollywood dinner parties, Carole [Lombard] used to tell guests that if I had once inch less, I’d be known as the Queen of Hollywood.”

  Elizabeth seemed amazed that Gable was so secure in his manhood that he could reveal such a remark. As she would tell Dick Hanley the next day, “The thought of doing a screen test with Gable—a love scene, no less—scares the hell out of me. I hope I don’t faint.”

  “Give it hell, Elizabeth,” he said. “After all, do you want to be the only female star at MGM who hasn’t had Gable’s tongue down her throat?”

  The night had not even begun, and the date with Stack was stretching into one long day. After a morning on the skeet-shooting range, and lunch with Gable and that promise of a screen test, Stack told her, “I’m taking you to the polo grounds. Spencer Tracy will be there.”

  “I’ve seen him checking me out in the commissary several times,” Elizabeth told him.

  Dating Judy (and Jane, and Elizabeth) left to right: Robert Stack, Jane Powell, Elizabeth Taylor, and Scotty Beckett

  “Don’t be too flattered,” he said. “He’s always checking me out, too.”

  “You mean, he’s a homosexual?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Actually, bi.”

  “What about Katharine Hepburn?” she asked.

  “She’s into girls,” Stack said. “Better give her wide berth. Remember, in Hollywood, image is everything. The fan magazines want the myth, not the truth.”

  On their way to the polo field, Stack told her that he’d been introduced to Tracy through Gable. “Spence admired my skeet shooting, but when he heard I’d been cast in First Love with Deanna Durbin, he said, ‘We’ve lost a good shot and probably gained a lousy actor.’”

  Elizabeth patiently watched as Tracy and Stack played polo, and was more fascinated by that sport than skeet shooting because of her love of horses.

  Hot and sweaty, Tracy come up to her after the game. “Hey, kiddo, I hear Mayer is going to start casting you with leading male stars. What about it? Want to try me out?”

  “Mr. Tracy, you are the greatest actor on the screen,” she said. “I wouldn’t dare appear in a picture with you. Besides, you’ve got Katharine Hepburn as a co-star.”

  In one of those amazing Hollywood coincidences, in 1950, Elizabeth would be offered a co-starring role with Tracy and Hepburn. Elizabeth accepted, and so did Tracy; only Hepburn turned it down. The picture was Fathe
r of the Bride.

  For dinner that night, Stack took her to Chasen’s, where she surprised him with her order. She bypassed the elegant French dishes on the menu and asked for chili con carne, a dish she’d heard much about in America, but had never tasted. That night marked her life-long passion for chili con carne. In the years to come, when she was in such remote locations as alpine Switzerland, she would have Chasen’s chili flown to her.

  After dinner, as she relayed later to Roddy and Dick, she was mildly surprised when Stack drove her to Errol Flynn’s “farm” on Mulholland Drive. “Errol’s away, but I have the key. He lets me use his place when I want to.”

  “How convenient,” she said, not disguising the sarcasm in her voice.

  While she sat in the living room on the same sofa where she’d made love to Flynn, he disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with a bottle of champagne—not pink this time.

  On the sofa, Stack and Elizabeth talked for about an hour about Flynn and about their movie, A Date with Judy.

  “Errol told me he was a Tasmanian devil,” she said. “I didn’t want to appear stupid, but what in the fuck is that?”

  “It’s a carnivorous marsupial known for its extreme ferocity,” he said. “What a learned definition,” she said. “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be—those words were taught to me by Errol himself. There’s no one like him. He got so mad at what your friend, Hedda Hopper, wrote about him that he went over to her house and masturbated on her front door while she hid behind the curtains laughing. It probably excited the old bitch.”

  As he began to kiss her and fondle her, he said, “Don’t be afraid. We don’t have an audience tonight. We’re in the house alone.”

  “What do you mean, not have an audience?” she asked.

  “See that mirror on the ceiling?” He pointed overhead. “That’s a two-way mirror. Any guest in that upstairs bedroom can look down on whatever’s happening on the sofa.”

  “Hell, Errol and I had a heavy session here,” she said. “I hope no one was watching. How embarassing.”

  “I don’t think there were too many Peeping Toms that night,” he said. “Maybe only Bruce Cabot and David Niven…perhaps Tyrone Power.”

  “Oh, ONLY THOSE!” she said, heatedly.

  “There’s more,” he said, taking her hand and leading her into the downstairs bedroom. “Errol got the best technician at Warners to install a hidden camera in this room. I’m sure he documented his boudoir performance with you. He likes to show these loops to his party guests on movie night.”

  “I’m ruined,” she said, “Even before I get started in Hollywood. That god damn Tasmanian devil would do that to me! Wait till I get my hands on him and his film!”

  “Congratulations,” Stack said. “You’ve made your first blue movie!’

  “I can’t let this happen,” she said. “He tricked me. I’ll threaten him again with statutory rape.”

  “I’ll speak to him about it,” Stack promised, trying to soothe her. “There are no cameras on tonight. Let’s make our own blue movie.” He began to smother her with kisses, and she finally succumbed to him, especially when he told her, “I think I’m falling in love with you.” She seemed desperate to hear words like that.

  When he’d taken off his clothes, she told him, “You have a chest as perfect as Errol’s. You can star in the remake of The Perfect Specimen.”

  Before midnight, they were back in the living room drinking more champagne. She felt very tipsy.

  “I’ve got another surprise for you,” he said. “One of my best friends is coming to town. I told him about you. I was shocked when he said he knew you. He met you in 1939.”

  “I was just a little girl in London then,” she said. “Who in hell could he be?”

  “He said you had this awful crush on him. He’s like a fisherman who catches a fish too small and takes it off the hook and returns it to the lake until it grows bigger.”

  “Come on,” she said. “The suspense is killing me. “Who is this guy?”

  “John F. Kennedy. You know…the ambassador’s son.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  So Many Men,

  SO LITTLE TIME

  For Elizabeth’s possible screen test with Clark Gable, Louis B. Mayer issued one of his strangest orders: “To make her look older,” he told Benjamin Thau, his vice-president, “have make-up paint a Joan Crawford mouth on her.”

  When Gable heard that, he called Elizabeth and suggested that he should take her over to Crawford’s home for some career, dress, and make-up advice. “She’s helped many a young actress in the past, and no one knows how to become a star better than Joanie.”

  “I’ve always wanted to meet her,” she said. “She’s the kind of star I’d like to be. I asked Michael Curtiz to arrange an introduction, but he never did. He was too busy fucking my mother.”

  If Gable were taken aback by a teenager talking this way, he made no comment about it.

  Two hours later, Gable called Elizabeth back and told her that Crawford had also invited Adrian, whom Elizabeth already knew, since the designer was her father’s lover.

  Gable drove Elizabeth to Crawford’s home where she was ushered inside by a maid. In all her life, Elizabeth had never seen such an immaculately kept house. Gable said he “had a little business to conduct upstairs with Joanie,” and that she’d be down later.

  The maid ushered Elizabeth out onto a terrace, where Adrian was waiting with a warm embrace. It appeared that the designer had been drinking heavily with Crawford before her arrival.

  The subject of Francis was obviously on both of their minds, but only one comment was made about him. “I’m meeting your father around five for cocktails, so I hope Joan and Clark don’t take all day.”

  “You’ve known them for a long time, haven’t you?” she asked.

  “I met them both in 1931, when pictures were still learning to talk. Joan told William Haines, ‘Adrian for gowns, Gable for fucking.’”

  While waiting, Adrian amused her with stories of his early days at MGM. “I go back to the Silents, when I designed some wardrobe for Rudolph Valentino,” he said.

  “At MGM, they still talk about those shoulder pads you designed for Miss Crawford,” Elizabeth said.

  “There was a reason for that,” he said. “Her hips were too broad, so I padded her shoulders to distract from that. It became known as the coat-hanger look. Bette Davis claimed that I made Joan look like Johnny Weissmuller.”

  “I’m so honored that you’re going to design a gown for my screen test with Clark.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” he said. “It’s important to remember that with you, the face is the most important thing. Therefore, don’t wear anything that will compete with your photogenic face. Your dresses should be elegant, tasteful, even sexy, but remember, in your case, it’s face, face, face. You’ll want to look as mature and sophisticated as possible, which means we should make Clark look younger.”

  “He’s still a handsome man,” she said.

  “He owes a lot of that to me,” Adrian said. “I didn’t think much of him at first—decaying teeth, acute halitosis, jug ears, a loutish personality, and large ‘Jack the Ripper’ hands. But with new teeth and a new wardrobe, he was transformed.”

  “Any tips you have about transforming me from an awkward teenager to an MGM harlot will be much appreciated,” she said. “Of course, I’m joking about the harlot remark.”

  “The trick is to emphasize a woman’s most attractive feature,” he said. “In Joan’s case, her large eyes and her showgirl legs are dynamite. With Harlow, I brought out her sensuality; with Norma Shearer, her sedate elegance; and with Garbo, her mystique. If you’re properly made up, your face can dominate the screen and actually create a sense of wonder that any woman can be as beautiful as you are. And those eyes! They’re really blue to me, but with the right wardrobe, you can make them violet, which is far more dramatic.”

  Two views of Joan Crawford in dresses by
Adrian. Inset photo: Clark Gable

  When Gable and Crawford descended an hour later, Gable excused himself to go play golf, telling Elizabeth that he’d pick her up later that afternoon.

  Crawford kissed Elizabeth briefly and gently on the lips and gave Adrian a passionate hug. She assured Elizabeth that she thought “one day, somewhere in the 1950s, you’ll be the Queen of MGM.”

  Adrian told her he’d brought along a gown he’d designed for her to wear to an upcoming premiere.

  “Let me try it on,” Crawford said. Right in front of them, she pulled off all her clothes. The panties were the last to go. “All the MGM cows were jealous of me because I wore the smallest panties at the studio,” Crawford told Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth tried to look away, but was drawn to checking out Crawford’s nude body. Without her “Joan Crawford fuck-me high heels,” she was a very short woman, standing only five feet, four inches. She looked taller because she was long-waisted. Her legs were perfectly formed, but out of proportion to the rest of her body. Elizabeth noted that her own breasts were much larger than Crawford’s.

  Adrian had designed a stunning gown in champagne colors for Crawford, and she paraded around the living room in it just like a professional model.

  “You’ve still got it, Joan,” Adrian assured her.

  “You look stunning, and the gown is spectacular, Miss Crawford,” Elizabeth said.

  After Crawford had changed back into a dress of cabbage roses, she offered drinks to her guests. She and Adrian preferred vodka, but Elizabeth settled for a soft drink.

  Sitting on a sofa whose surface was covered with plastic, Crawford said, “I believe in helping young actresses who are struggling for recognition. Back in the 1920s, no one helped me. Norma Shearer hated me. But I made it, and I know you will, too. I gave Gail Patrick a big push, lending her my make-up man and hairdresser when she tested for a role in No More Ladies. I even gave her a gown designed by my lovely friend here.”