Steve McQueen

by Greg Laurie

  A king needs a castle, and in 1963 McQueen bought his. The three-and-a-half-acre estate at 27 Oakmont drive in exclusive Brentwood cost him a quarter of a million dollars. Today the place is worth about six million.

  Back then the big studios ruled the town, as well as the actors who were under contract to them, tightly controlling their public images and especially their wallets. Byrnes says he found this out when he got into a contractual dispute with Warner Brothers after three years on 77 Sunset Strip. Though he was the reigning TV heartthrob of that time, he was paid just five hundred dollars a week to appear in the show. Other studios came to him offering $250,000 to do a movie, but Warner Brothers wouldn’t let Edd accept any of them. When he demanded a higher salary, Warner Brothers nixed that too.

  His plight didn’t get much sympathy, however, from fellow actors. He remembers at a party one night being confronted by entertainment legend Lucille Ball, a person he’d never met before, who read him the riot act for bucking the studio.

  There was one star, though, who supported Byrnes. “Hold your ground,” read a telegram Steve McQueen sent to him. Such defiant solidarity led to their becoming friends, naturally—enough that McQueen once invited him out to his new mansion after bumping into him on the street. He’d just purchased the Castle and wanted to show Edd his latest acquisition.

  Most people are a bundle of contradictions. Steve McQueen was a mountain of them.

  “He [Steve] confided to me, ‘I have no idea how I’m ever going to pay for this place. You’d better believe I’m going to show up early every day for work,” recalls Byrnes.

  That was in the early ’60s. And as often happens, life and work conspired after that to keep both of them busy and out of contact. Edd hadn’t seen McQueen for years until one day in the mid-’70s, when Byrnes was standing outside an antique shop on the Sunset Strip, window shopping. He heard a voice behind him ask, “Do you own this shop, Edd?”

  Byrnes turned and saw a bearded fellow who “looked like a hairy version of the Old Spice Man.” They began to chat, and it was several minutes before it dawned on Edd that he was talking to Steve McQueen.

  “He looked so unlike himself,” says Edd. “By then he had reached a level of superstardom that only a few in our industry have ever occupied, and he needed a little anonymity.”

  Most people are a bundle of contradictions. Steve McQueen was a mountain of them: never satisfied with what he had, always wanting to impress himself more than anyone else with how far he’d come in life, never achieving the security and peace that was supposed to come with it, and determined to satisfy his every whim as a distraction from the emotional insecurity that made him a sort of Jekyll and Hyde.

  And let’s not sugarcoat the fact that he was less than chaste in his moral habits. By all accounts he loved his wife and children, but he was not a faithful husband who enjoyed nights in front of the family hearth.

  What he did enjoy was patronizing the Whisky A Go-Go, the famous nightclub on the Sunset Strip, where I’m off to next for another rendezvous. That’s the word you use when the person you’re meeting is glamourous Mamie Van Doren.

  Mamie in the ’50s was a sex symbol second only to Marilyn Monroe. And now at eighty-five, she must have had a drink or two from the fountain of youth because to a large degree she has successfully defied the aging process.

  That night with McQueen was Mamie’s first acid trip, and it was a bad one. She says the bizarre hallucinations haunted her for weeks afterward.

  Except for workers prepping for the evening crowd, we just about have the venerable Whisky to ourselves at midafternoon. Sad to say, unlike Mamie, the iconic nightclub has not weathered the passing years so well. The legendary venue that launched the Doors, Johnny Rivers, the Buffalo Springfield, the Byrds, and so many other classic rock acts of that era now derives most of its revenue from renting out a large billboard on its roof. The club itself is rented out to pay-to-play bands anxious to brag about appearing at what was once the hottest spot in town when it opened its doors in January 1964.

  McQueen was a regular back then in the halcyon days, and that’s where Mamie first met him. One night after some dancing, McQueen suggested they get out of there and have a private party at Mamie’s place.

  “It was the ’60s,” she says with a smile and shrug.

  Because Mamie had a young child at home who kept interrupting them, nothing happened that first night. A few nights later, though, McQueen took Mamie to a swinging party at the home of one of his best friends, hairstylist Jay Sebring. She says they ended up dropping acid.

  McQueen chased after every worldly pleasure once he realized how fame widened his sphere of female admirers. He picked up women everywhere he went.

  “You could get LSD over the counter then,” says Mamie. “I had a carpenter who was always doing LSD.”

  That night with McQueen was Mamie’s first acid trip, and it was a bad one. She says the bizarre hallucinations haunted her for weeks afterward. She never did acid with McQueen again, but they did pop amyl nitrate, also readily available back then.

  Mamie says McQueen reminded her a lot of her dad, “a mechanic who rode an Indian motorcycle just like Steve and was a grease monkey at heart.”

  McQueen, she adds, “was a lot like all the mechanics I knew. He preferred T-shirts and jeans and always had a little grime and grease underneath his fingernails. He was just a guy in the movies and treated it like a regular job.”

  In their conversations he frequently alluded to problems in his marriage, but any hope for the two of them to enjoy a meaningful relationship was ended, she says, by his increasing drug use. “Steve was constantly on the edge and looking for something higher,” she says. “He was on drugs a lot, and I just did not like them at all.”

  McQueen chased after every worldly pleasure once he realized how fame widened his sphere of female admirers. He picked up women everywhere he went, usually taking them to an office he rented in Santa Monica expressly for that purpose.

  One of his best friends, Bud Ekins, told one McQueen biographer, “To Steve, the world was just a giant sexual supermarket. He constantly had women chasing him, and he couldn’t say no. He just couldn’t control himself. When he saw something he wanted—a woman, a motorcycle, a car—he’d go for it. Everything he did was extreme. He liked an extreme amount of sex, an extreme amount of marijuana, and an extreme amount of cocaine. Everything he did was extreme.”

  That approach to life would surely bring its consequences.

  Steve would discover the truth of the passage from the Bible that speaks of the “Fleeting pleasures of sin ” (Heb. 11:25 NLT). Forbidden things are often the most attractive, but there’s a reason why they are forbidden. What we don’t think about is the cold, dead feeling these pleasures ultimately lead us to.

  And yet Steve could tell a reporter with a straight face, “When I’m not making a picture, I spend all of my time fixing my car. My wife doesn’t have to worry about other women; she knows where to find me.” He also could (and did) show genuine concern for others, such as the residents of his reform school alma mater, which he supported through scholarships and visits whenever he could manage. And unlike the other, that was no sham.

  A mountain of contradictions? Mountain range was more like it.

  MOTHERLESS CHILD

  _____

  I’m at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Glendale, California, standing next to a large cypress tree on a hill. Before me and shaded by the tree’s limbs is a brass plaque that reads:

  Julian Crawford McQueen

  BERRI

  1910 – 1965

  Loved By Your Son Steve

  The death of McQueen’s mother at age fifty-five on October 15, 1965, came as her son’s mighty star was still on the rise. McQueen had just about found a comfortable groove for himself where almost everything in his life was in balance. But real life is not like it is in the movies.

  Steve and his mother had never fully come to terms with each other. Aft
er he became a TV and movie star, he installed Julian in an apartment in San Francisco’s hippie haven of North Beach, paid her bills, bought her a Volkswagen convertible, and underwrote her latest venture: a boutique store filled with antiques. The faded blonde now had an Earth Mother aura about her, but for all her new interest in herbal remedies and fad diets, Julian still liked anything with alcohol best.

  The death of McQueen’s mother at age fifty-five on October 15, 1965, came as her son’s mighty star was still on the rise. McQueen had just about found a comfortable groove for himself where almost everything in his life was in balance. But real life is not like it is in the movies.

  Steve kept her at arm’s length. The four hundred miles between Los Angeles and San Francisco was just about the right distance they needed between them. Close but not nearby.

  When she visited the Castle, she would invariably get antsy and then tipsy after a day or two, quickly wearing out her welcome. But Julian was fiercely proud of what her son had become, and friends said she always saw his movies at least twice, displayed photos of him in the house, and kept a scrapbook of his cinematic accomplishments. She was also a doting grandmother, sewing clothes for Steve’s children, Terry and Chad.

  Steve resolutely refused to talk about her to the press. “Whatever thing I’ve got with my mother is a private thing I’m not about to discuss with anybody,” he told one reporter. “If it means hurting her feelings to give a good story, I know which I’m going to choose.”

  Julian collapsed after suffering a massive cerebral hemorrhage. Steve and Neile were notified of her hospitalization as they were getting ready to fly to New Orleans for the premiere of The Cincinnati Kid. They went instead to Mount Zion Hospital in San Francisco to be by her side.

  Whatever animosity Steve had for Julian, he put it out of mind. He kept vigil, never leaving her side. When a fan approached him in the hospital for an autograph, his chest heaved in anger, but he quickly caught himself, shook his head, and gently said, “Sorry, but the timing isn’t too good.”

  He stayed with Julian throughout the night. She quietly slipped away at 5:00 a.m. Steve wept uncontrollably.

  He stayed with Julian throughout the night. She quietly slipped away at 5:00 a.m. Steve wept uncontrollably.

  I know this story well because it closely parallels mine with my own mother. She could be a delightful person when she was sober—except she was rarely sober. She drank herself into a stupor every night for most of her adult life, usually passing out before bedtime, when she came home at all. Even after suffering a horrible head-on collision while driving drunk, she found it hard to give up her hard-partying ways.

  Yet as a boy, I felt a real responsibility to take care of her, even protect her. And as an adult, I continued trying to look for ways to normalize our relationship, but it was challenging. We used to let her watch our son Christopher on Monday nights when I was leading a Bible study near her house, and it became such an important event to her. She absolutely spoiled her grandson, showering him with affection and attention. Their first order of business was always a trip to the toy store. Clearly she was trying to compensate for what she never did with me. I was glad for both of them.

  But it couldn’t remove the sting of being forced to live without her approval. She never told me she was proud of me or even that she loved me. In her own way, I suppose, she did love me. She just never bothered to tell me. Whenever I tried to give her a hug, her back would remain rigid.

  I couldn’t understand it, of course—her inability to express affection or interest in me, her own son. But my Aunt Willie told me about the newspaper clippings my mother saved whenever I’d be featured or mentioned in an article. Maybe it would be a report on one of our stadium events or an interview I had given. Mom would say, “The kid’s in the paper again,” with great pride. But never to me.

  She never told me she was proud of me or even that she loved me. In her own way, I suppose, she did love me. She just never bothered to tell me. Whenever I tried to give her a hug, her back would remain rigid.

  As the years went by, of course, I became more concerned about the condition of her soul. Near the end of her life, she was on dialysis three times a week and was miserable. At the age of seventy, she looked ninety. But whenever I brought up the subject of spiritual matters, she would immediately shut me down. Her default line was, “I don’t want to talk about it!”

  One day I sensed a strong leading from the Lord to go and have “the talk” with Mom. I asked my wife to pray for me, then I drove to her home.

  She was alone when I got to the house and looked surprised that I was there. I didn’t usually drop in on my mom, and she knew something was up.

  “I want to talk to you about your soul, Mom,” I said.

  She quickly shot back, “I don’t want to talk about it!”

  My response was, “Well, today, we are going to talk about it.”

  Mom could be strong willed and usually got her way. But for better or worse, she also had a strong-willed son who was not going to be rebuffed this time. I was on a mission from God.

  “Do you believe you’re a Christian?” I asked. Much to my surprise, she said she believed she was. It was then I realized—for the first time, I guess—instead of thinking of my mom as an unbeliever, maybe she was more of a prodigal daughter who’d been running from God for more than sixty years.

  My pain was not about her failing me as a mother, but because I felt I had in some way failed her as a son. I felt guilty for not being there with her. I wept for what could have been between us but never was.

  After more dialogue, I asked her if she wanted to make a recommitment to the Lord, which to my shock and delight, she did. My mind raced with hope, thinking our relationship could actually become, even after all these years—I don’t know—better, healthier.

  I even recall, less than a month later as I was leaving on a trip with my wife and some friends, I took her some DVD’s of me preaching, as well as a few others, like Billy Graham, someone she greatly respected. I believe she was truly appreciative.

  But while we were out of the country, my executive assistant Carol called with the unexpected news: my mother had died.

  Seized by the deepest pain and sorrow, I wept for days. My pain was not about her failing me as a mother, but because I felt I had in some way failed her as a son. I felt guilty for not being there with her. I wept for what could have been between us but never was.

  So when I learned the details of Julian McQueen’s death, I could readily understand—at least to a certain degree—both the distance Steve kept from his mother, as well as his vigil he kept at her bedside. I also understand his deep sorrow.

  “Steve took great care of his mother, but every time he mentioned her, it was with great hostility and anger. It was, ‘That drunk! She messed up my life! She never gave a crap about me’—then, ‘Here’s another check for her.’”

  No doubt he, too, wept for what might have been but never was.

  David Foster is with me at the cemetery. He was Steve’s publicist in the Wanted: Dead or Alive days and later coproduced The Getaway, the 1972 smash film pairing McQueen and Ali McGraw. David was also one of a handful of people at the brief graveside service for Julian.

  “We kinda grew up in this business together,” he says of McQueen and himself. “He had this rebel image, and we just connected. We were the same age, and our wives were the same age. We had kids who were the same age. My kids would go to his kids’ birthday parties and vice versa.”

  But that didn’t mean his friendship with McQueen was smooth sailing.

  “He was a difficult personality to get along with,” says David. “A psychologist would have a field day with him. One day he would be your best friend, the next day your enemy. Let’s just say he was moody.

  “Quite truthfully, he would fire me three times a year, I would fire him three times a year, then our wives would say, ‘You guys are jerks,’ and then they’d get us back together. This went
on throughout our relationship. It was definitely a love/ hate thing.”

  Multiply that a few zillion times, says David, and you’d begin to get an idea of the complicated, ambivalent, and explosive dynamic between McQueen and his mother.

  “Steve took great care of his mother, but every time he mentioned her, it was with great hostility and anger. It was, ‘That drunk! She messed up my life! She never gave a crap about me’—then, ‘Here’s another check for her.’”

  Yet Steve was so broken up over Julian’s death that his wife had to make all the funeral arrangements. What Steve did, David recalls, was issue a blanket order to Julian’s friends: “No interviews about my mother’s death. No interviews. No reporter’s going to be allowed to know anything.”

  Comprising the sparse contingent at Julian’s graveside service were Steve, Neile, their two children, Foster and his wife Jackie, and Steve’s agent Stan Kamen.

  No clergyman spoke. Steve managed a brief eulogy that Foster recalls as heart-wrenching. “Julian liked shade,” McQueen said. “She would have liked this spot . . . shady, with no sun.” Then he folded his hands and prayed.

  “Steve might have been a bastard, literally, but he cried at the funeral,” Foster says. “He was a lost soul.”

  A lost soul, indeed.

  Losing a parent is a major passage of life for anyone. It’s a reminder that we are all transient figures on the human stage. For Steve to lose his mother so soon only added to that pain. For though he’d in effect been an orphan all his life, now McQueen, at thirty-five, was truly one. And the knowledge that there would never be a true reconciliation or at least a clearing of the air with his parents opened up another fissure in his psyche he would try to fill by whatever means possible.

  The question of why he could insult and dismiss Julian while she was alive yet weep uncontrollably at her grave is not difficult to understand. When she was alive, Julian could still hurt Steve, so he put on an “I don’t care about her” suit of protective armor. But he did care, and that’s why he wept.