The assistant director came over and said they were ready for us.
“I gotta take a leak,” Mitch said. “I’ll be in my trailer for about an hour.” He glanced at me as he got up.
“MGM’s producing this turkey too,” he said.
“This piss is gonna cost ’em another million.”
PRINCESS DIANA
Being completely true to the spirit of this book, I should not include Princess Diana. But her death touched my life on a day I will always remember. It forced me to reassess this unfortunate woman and to wish I had in fact been able to meet her.
Up until the tragedy, I had paid very little attention to her. She was not, in my opinion, a great beauty. At certain angles pleasing to look at. Stylish, yes. A good body for clothes. But not a drop-dead stunner like Julie Christie or Lesley-Anne Down. And I was not sympathetic toward her problems, which struck me as fairly typical: spurned wife, insensitive husband, clever mistress. Pure soap opera. But fate intervened, and I had, at last, to take notice.
I sat down in an oversized comfortable chair in the living room of my suite at the Regent Hotel in Berlin where I was finishing a film; the first for the famous Cirque du Soleil. It was 2 a.m. and I began to channel-surf. First I saw Diana’s image on German television. Then French. Then Italian. And still it did not dawn on me. When I hit CNN, the words “The Princess died at . . .” were the first I heard. I woke my companion, and she came and curled up with me in the same chair as we watched till sunrise. We had been planning to go to London on the weekend to spend time with our friends, the producer Fred Zollo and his wife, Barbara Broccoli, producer of the James Bond franchise, who were planning a possible dinner with Diana and Dodi Fayed. We kept those plans, with the exception, of course, of the promised dinner.
The morning of the funeral, September 6, 1997, we woke at 7 a.m. and from our windows at the Savoy Hotel, saw over the Thames to Big Ben, a rare early morning sight in London: a completely blue sky. Not a cloud in sight. It was going to be a brisk, sunny day. Fred and Barbara were going to watch the coffin move through the streets from the balcony of Barbara’s offices on Piccadilly and asked us to join them. We left our hotel at 9 a.m. and began to walk the barren streets.
Most of the cafes were empty, the proprietors staring out the windows at us as we passed by. Few cars. As we walked along Piccadilly, the crowds grew more and more dense. Fred and Barbara were standing on their balcony and waved down to us; we went upstairs and from there we could see people streaming across Green Park toward Constitution Hill.
In an open triangle of road we would be able to see the horse-drawn gun carriage, carrying Diana’s body, move by us. A dozen or more people came in, quiet and somber, and on the floor a small five-year-old girl sat coloring pictures in front of the TV. On it we could see the coffin beginning its journey, and we watched as it came closer to our location, then we moved onto the balcony again moments before it passed. There was total and utter silence on the street. In the basement of Barbara’s offices was a screening room with some twenty-five seats. Some of us went down there to watch the coffin make its way to Westminster Abbey on the large screen. These are the sights and sounds I remember:
The broken faces of her sons.
The quiet determination of the pallbearers.
Luciano Pavarotti leaning on his children.
Diana’s sisters’ dignified readings.
The hymns.
The almost unbearable heartbreak of Elton John singing “Candle in the Wind” as those in the screening room wept uncontrollably.
The heroic and passionate speech of her brother, Earl Spencer, in his last noble public moment.
But most of all the sight of the word “Mummy,” written in a young boy’s hand on an envelope resting on her coffin as it slowly moved through the streets of London in a human silence so profound that the clip-clop of horses’ hooves became the only audible sound.
When it was over, I went outside alone and tried to get as close to that triangle as I could to watch the hearse go by on its journey to Althorp, Diana’s country home. My companion wanted no more part of this spectacle and returned to the Savoy. I made my way toward Buckingham Palace, and for the next two hours I was able to experience firsthand this historic day up close and personal. As I walked through Green Park, I stopped at a large tree that had, all around on the ground, messages, drawings, and flowers from a class of children. I picked up one poem, and read its last two lines:
“Now Diana’s in heaven with all the good, and Jesus is loving her like he should.”
Once near the palace, I wandered into the crowd and got as close to the flowers laid against the gates as I could. Here are a few of the things I overheard:
“She’s dead, love. We’ve got to get used to it.”
“You know, an enterprising bloke could gather up all these flowers, sell them, and be a millionaire overnight.”
“I like the Queen.”
“So do I, but she’s got nothing to do with my life.”
A large woman had gathered around her a crowd of some thirty people, her King Charles spaniel seated in a baby carriage: “A complete stranger loaned me this,” she said to the crowd as she picked up the dog and posed for photographs. Everywhere were black plastic bags blown against the barricades, photographs and posters of Diana, discarded blankets and coats, bottles, newspapers, fast food boxes. I stopped to listen to two young girls who were sitting on the ground holding a book and singing “Amazing Grace.” One had shaved her head on both sides, her punk top dyed a bright red. The other in a bedsheet-white pageboy. When they finished, a few people applauded as they smiled and one said to the other, “Pretty good, love.”
Approaching Admiralty Arch, I saw four stepladders facing toward the palace, each with a professional photographer perched on top taking photos. Behind each ladder, there was a short line of more photographers waiting their turn. Walking through Admiralty Arch, back toward Trafalgar Square, up the Strand toward our hotel, I noticed the pubs beginning to fill, the shops opening, and people speaking in normal tones again. Almost everyone was holding a camera.
Once back at the Savoy, sitting in the window seat of our River Suite, I thought that but for the heavy foot of a driver named Henri Paul and a pack of wild animals in pursuit of her, she’d be alive on this lovely day. And I thought of the expression on her face as she came out and reentered the Ritz Hotel in Paris before going to its back door and stepping into her waiting coffin. There was a look of sad resignation in her eyes as she moved in and out of swinging doors, turned quickly this way and that, seemingly like a blind person, without a stick or a guide dog, being steered in someone else’s direction.
Diana had lost not only her virginity to an English prince but her innocence, her anonymity, and her way. Now, a thirty-six-year-old divorced woman, made unhappy by an insensitive husband in love with someone else, she was grasping at an ambitious playboy, making a run for her life, and about to lose it.
RODDY McDOWALL
I doubt it exists now as strongly as it once did, but there thrives in Hollywood and New York what is known as the “Gay Mafia.” And it helps if one of your agents or your manager or someone on your team plays for the other one, so to speak. I can remember in my young years my gay agent telling me not to be as concerned with my acting audition, as to be certain not to wear underwear when I was going up to meet a renowned producer/groper.
Roddy McDowall, although secure in his position as a member of that mafia, was nonetheless congenitally concerned with his place in the Hollywood firmament. As a child actor he was adorable, somewhat winsome, growing into a lithe and androgynous teenager, and a somewhat effete man.
His social connections, more than his acting chops, were what kept him working constantly—not to mention his lack of concern for what he did or who he did it with. He was a charming, willing, and adaptable mate to many a diva, including Eliz
abeth Taylor, Lauren Bacall, and a very-old-timer named Anna Lee. “Isn’t she beautiful!” he would say of whatever woman he was walking or wheeling. His dinner parties were sought-after invitations and his ability to ride the waves and occasionally the husbands or boyfriends of some of the ladies made him the all-purpose Extra Man of his set.
Roddy was impossible to dislike. Rather like Peter Lawford with his crowd, he was able to facilitate secret meetings, clandestine love affairs, and introductions to just about anyone. Through him, needy luminaries could find each other in the secret shoals of a town where still waters run shallow.
One other important quality that did not appear on his resume but was certainly in his basket of goodies was the fact that he was very well hung. Never hurts—unless in a good way. He was available, ready to serve in any way he could, and agreeable to the disparate needs of both sexes. Perhaps growing up on a film set, and from an early age being trained to please, had made him such an adaptable companion.
One evening at the home of composers Marilyn and Alan Bergman sometime in the early 1980s, I watched him work the room like a cordless vacuum cleaner, sucking up celebrity droppings. At one point he came up behind me, put his chin on my shoulder, and cooed seductively. I picked up a shrimp, popped it in his mouth, and he contentedly moved on.
His work ethic was phenomenal. He’d happily throw himself into every role with complete conviction. He was, unfortunately, a mediocre actor and an average photographer, an avocation he used as a catalyst to get more connections and guaranteed dinner invitations.
“I’ve got to photograph that face,” he would say about a prospective A-lister.
I don’t know that his particular brand of smoothing the waters is required in today’s Hollywood. While still a provincial company town, the lines between gay and straight are far less drawn than when he or I was coming up. The Bi-Brigade is a lot more populated than it was, and the younger generation seem less interested in needing to define themselves sexually. Orientation is, rightfully so, of little concern on the current battlefield. Everyone is swimming in increasingly treacherous seas of doubt and imminent demise. Being gay is no longer a secret shamefully kept within the industry. The public is still somewhat protected from the naughty truth, but mostly for fear of shocking that most lethal judge of all: the box office.
Since most of today’s biggest stars cling to being boy/men and girl/women, it does seem a bit disingenuous to go on protecting the ticket buyers. Like pubescent girls wetting themselves over androgynous rock stars, the general public these days seems to care less about indisputable heteros and more about the somewhat all-purpose packaged pinups. Male movie stars are less clearly macho than they used to be and the females have grown tougher and more aggressive.
Roddy would have had no trouble in today’s climate scampering in both directions sexually and platonically and would certainly manage to offend no one while doing it. A dear-hearted man and a clever chameleon, he had developed an ability to appear available and agreeable to the needs of his colleagues.
As I sat next to him one evening at a tribute to the acting teacher Stella Adler, he never referred to himself or his career but offered anecdotes about each celebrity’s love life and career choices as they passed through. Never bitchy or cruel, just deliciously entertaining, pleasant, and often compassionate, he would say: “And you, dear Frank, tell me how you are?” This was a man who, no matter what the occasion, clearly wanted a return invitation.
One evening at Hugo’s restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard in the mid-1980s, he spotted me sitting alone, waiting for friends. Leaving his table of semi names for a brief spell, he came over and said: “Hello, darling Frank. Look at that face. I’ve just got to photograph it.”
He never did. I’d had my picture taken enough times by then to satisfy my curiosity about what might develop.
PAUL MELLON
Paul Mellon owed me money and Jackie Onassis was determined to see to it that he paid up. This had been a long-forgotten memory from the early 1970s until driving back from Washington, D.C., on April 7, 1999 when I had attended Paul’s memorial service in the East Building of the National Gallery of Art.
It was a perfectly glorious afternoon. The cherry blossoms were voluptuously in bloom and a steady breeze sent them wafting gently across my face as I leisurely strolled toward the gallery. The sun was shining brightly, the air clear and fresh. It was the sort of day that would not have meant very much to Paul, who, no matter where he was, seemed totally unaware of the elements. Whether dressed in a suit and tie or open polo shirt and slacks, he appeared always to be sealed up in the safety of untold wealth, classical music, horses, and fine art.
He was, after all, the son of the legendary Andrew Mellon, who, along with the Rockefeller and Carnegie families, had amassed a huge personal fortune before those pesky income taxes.
The ceremony was to begin at 5:30 p.m. and I arrived about forty-five minutes early. The mourners were gathering around a very long table with the letters of the alphabet printed on cards tacked to the wall behind. I went to “L” and was given a yellow ticket indicating my section. Center-Row 2. There was virtually no one seated there as I came to it. On its aisle hung a small cord around which were tied fresh yellow flowers. I stood for a while, but as people began to move to their seats, there was no one I recognized, so I stepped over the cord, sat down, and perused the program.
Like everything to do with the Mellon family, it was exquisitely produced and understated. No doubt overseen by Bunny, his wife of fifty-one years.
On its rough-edged, thick, pale white cover was a replica of Cézanne’s Boy in a Red Waistcoat, the first painting Paul had purchased as a young man. He would eventually amass one of the most extensive art collections in the world, beginning modestly by paying a mere $500,000 for it.
Above it in a tiny gold circle was the emblem of the National Gallery of Art USA. A blank page followed. When I turned it over, on the left was a portrait of Paul, looking to be about sixty, sitting in a chair in a suit, pale pink shirt, dark tie with pink stripes, showing just enough pink French cuffs above stubby fingers. The light blue suit also had faint pink stripes in wide square boxes. His legs were crossed and his expression was benign. The painting gives him the air of a sturdy, sexless businessman with just a touch of cruelty in the set of the mouth.
Two other works graced the pages: Degas’ sculpture Horse with Jockey; Horse Galloping on Right Foot, the Back Left Only Touching the Ground, and Georges Braque’s Aria de Bach.
When I was a young man, Paul would take me into the private rooms at the National Gallery followed by two silent men who pulled out gigantic metal racks some forty feet high, on which hung painting after painting.
“We have no room to display them all, so we rotate them,” Paul said.
Gigantic works of art down to small little sketches: horses, landscapes, flowers, dogs, and portraits. His efforts to pique my interest in great art, in those days however, failed to take hold.
Among the speakers at the ceremony would be David Rockefeller and Paul’s son, Timothy. The music, mostly hymns, would be played by the National Gallery of Art’s Chamber Players. And the ceremony would end with John Philip Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever.” It appeared there were going to be no surprises and nothing out of order. Exactly as Paul would have wanted it. Waiting for the ceremony to begin I thought back to a hot summer night in Cape Cod in the late 1960s. And of a totally unexpected occurrence that lightly disturbed Paul and Bunny’s ordered life.
I frequently spent long weekends with my friend Eliza, his stepdaughter, at the Mellons’ incredible farm in Osterville, Virginia, or at their beautiful house on the Cape. Various people came and went during those times: Jackie O, David Rockefeller, Senator John Warner, then married to Paul’s daughter, Cathy, among them. The days were lazy and luxurious. Paul and Liza tried unsuccessfully to teach me about life on the water. I could
barely row a boat, but Paul was unfailingly patient with me as I tried to become a competent sailor. And worse, I was, as I have written, not much interested in great art or classical music. We were going to need some form of common ground, it would seem, if a friendship was to develop.
Sunday evening at the Cape was servants’ night off. Which meant the family was on its own. Which meant that in the Mellon household all the food for dinner was prepared that afternoon, labeled, wrapped in tin foil, and set next to pre-chilled bottles of white wine on the kitchen counter. All that remained was for the food to be put into the oven, heated, removed, and placed on the preset dining room table. And it would be left there to be cleaned up by the servants on Monday mornings. Breakfast was usually served in bed along with the morning papers.
This particular Sunday it was just Paul, Bunny, Liza, myself, and Paul’s son Tim. A few years younger than me, Tim was profoundly shy, introverted, and awkward. He also had no real idea yet of his options in life.
One afternoon at lunch, Paul, at Bunny’s behest, indicated some of them to him. Tim could have his choice of going into one or more of the family businesses, that is: heading up Shell Oil, or U.S. Steel or perhaps involving himself in the horses or art collecting. Timmy pushed his food around his plate and finally said:
“I’d like to build a boat,” which he ultimately did.
At any rate, on this particular Sunday, Tim declared he was prepared at least to be in charge of dinner.
He went into the kitchen, put the food in the oven, and returned to his book in the living room. Liza was on the floor drawing, Bunny was knitting. Paul and I had found a mutual passion: the Scrabble board, and were locked in a fierce competition.
About twenty minutes went by and Bunny said: “Hadn’t you better see if the food is hot, Tim?”
He got up, went back to the kitchen, and a few minutes later came a very loud noise. Not a gunshot, not thunder, but a heavy boom.
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