Yvette Mimieux
A wonderful free spirit whom I've sadly lost contact with over the years. She's survived treks into every nook and cranny of the earth and multiple relationships with all sorts of people from show business to big business. We went out from time to time in the sixties. I distinctly remember her jaguar—not the car, the animal. A fully grown adult named Zareen who lived with her off Benedict Canyon. Zareen was a dividend from a relationship she'd had with an animal trainer at Jungleland. The big cat was missing his front fangs (thank God), but when he latched onto your calf or ankle, he could gum you to death. He loved to play, which usually meant you falling backward along with your chair when he jumped into your lap.
Leslie and Evie Bricusse gave a large party one night in Beverly Hills. Yvette and I went. So did Zareen, on a leash. When we entered the living room, everyone took a cautious step back. Yvette reassured them: “Don't worry, he's friendly and housebroken, he loves everybody.” She unhooked the leash. Zareen immediately went under Leslie's piano and took a dump—the kind steam rises from. He glared defiantly at the guests, then hissed at them, exposing the impressive teeth he still had. Everyone gasped. The room was silent. Then Peter Stone said, “All right, who's going to rub his nose in it?”
Anthony Newley
Tony Newley was an explosive bundle of talent, energy, and humor. He was a magnetic performer and first-rate composer and lyricist, mainly in collaboration with his longtime partner, Leslie Bricusse. By the 1960s they'd already assembled an impressive catalogue, from the lyrics to “Goldfinger” to the words and music for “What Kind of Fool Am I?” and “Who Can I Turn To?” Tony had a unique voice, unmistakable in its affectation and idiosyncrasy, but warm and friendly, with great range.
He'd been in show business his entire life. As a child actor in the forties he played the Artful Dodger in David Lean's Oliver Twist. His little girlfriend in the film was Petula Clark, later famous for singing “Downtown” and many other hits. Tony made a huge impression on Broadway playing Littlechap in Stop the World, followed by The Roar of the Greasepaint—the Smell of the Crowd. Both musicals were written with Leslie Bricusse and directed by Tony. He had married the gorgeous Joan Collins. She was about to deliver a child. So when Tony arrived in L.A. to begin work on Leslie's film Doctor Dolittle, all systems were definitely go.
I met Tony and Joan through the Bricusses. We became friends. They bought a large house on Summit Drive, and Joan loved to entertain. She'd been on the verge of becoming an important actress without ever having really made it. It wasn't until she played Alexis in the TV series Dynasty more than a decade later that she truly became a recognizable star. For now, Joan was gregarious and popular, had a wicked tongue, and could entertain lavishly and often. Tony, on the other hand, had no stamina for parties. Most nights he would disappear upstairs around ten o'clock, never to be seen again. He was an introspective sort and I think personally tortured by many insecurities, which actually played to his advantage in his warm and touching performances. He always seemed to be reaching out to the audience for reassurance and love, and they always responded enthusiastically.
Among Tony's personal demons was his predilection for teenage girls. It had to have been a factor in his soon-deteriorating marriage to Joan. I remember a knock on the door of my Malibu beach house one day, early in the morning. It was Tony and a young girl who looked no more than fifteen. They'd spent the night at the Madonna Inn in San Luis Obispo and were on their way back into town. Tony asked to use the powder room. The young girl and I sat facing each other in my small living room. She was chewing gum and staring at me. After an uncomfortable moment or two she said, “Can I ask you a question?”
I said, “Sure.”
She gestured off at the powder room. “Did he write ‘What Kind of Fool Am I?'”
Later on, when Tony was making his outrageous, semiautobiographical musical film Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness? (a truly bizarre film), he asked me to collaborate with him on the screenplay and lyrics. Leslie Bricusse was up to his ass in his own projects. My screenwriting career was just starting to take off, and I felt the material was so autobiographical that it was too difficult to relate to. In retrospect, it would have been great fun to work on. Tony didn't lack for confidence. There's a scene in the film where he stands on the edge of a high cliff in a flowing robe and sings to God: “It's me, I'm all I need.”
Tony semiretired after an acrimonious divorce from Joan. He'd starred on Broadway and in films, cowritten songs that were genuine standards, and played to sold-out rooms in Vegas, but seemed oddly disillusioned by the whole thing. I remember running into him before he died at much too early an age. He was remarried to a warm, pretty woman named Dareth. She was a flight attendant he'd met on an airplane. They had me over to dinner one night. They seemed so happy. I hope that toward the end Tony found some of the peace he seemed so desperately to be seeking. He was such a major talent, and so kind to me.
Merle Oberon
One summer during the sixties, Merle Oberon rented a house in the Malibu Colony. I used to see her walking on the beach, clearly past her prime, but still stunning. She always wore huge picture hats, scarves, and dark glasses and was accompanied by a very large dog and/or her much younger boyfriend, a man named Rob Wolders. One day while I was writing on the patio, Rob walked up my steps. He explained that someone had told him I'd gone to the Yale drama school and that I had hundreds of plays in my bookcase. Merle wanted to tour in summer stock. She needed an ideal part for herself. Could I think of one and if I could, would I please call? That night I took a look and decided on Shaw's Candida. The title role is a sensational one for a mature woman. Rob seemed to be an actor, and if he was, there was a great part for him as well. I called him. He dropped by to pick up the play. Merle had never read it. The very next day, Merle Oberon walked up my patio steps. She had the copy of Candida in her hand. She sat down and said: “I read the play. It's a great play and a great part, but frankly I don't have the talent. I couldn't begin to play a character this complex, but thank you anyway for suggesting it.” I remember thinking I'd never heard an actor or an actress say they weren't talented enough to play a certain role. Indeed, I've never heard it since. It's simply not in their nature.
J. D. Salingers
Earlier I said the only celebrity I ever accosted, spoke to without an invitation, was Willie Mays. There was one other. I was in New York, drinking with friends at P. J. Clarke's. It was packed every night then, and usually sprinkled with famous people. Our waiter came up and said: “You'll never guess who's sitting at the little table in the corner. J. D. Salinger.”
My head whipped around. Son of a bitch, it was him. That was the face on the back of my literary bible, The Catcher in the Rye. Fortified by several shots of Jack Daniel's, I got up and walked over to him. I cleared my throat. He looked up: “Mr. Salinger, I'm sorry to bother you, but I just wanted you to know I think you're the greatest living American writer.”
He nodded. “That's very nice of you, kid. Now why don't you get the fuck out of here.”
I smiled and left. On the way back to my table I started to grin. What a perfect reaction. I'd have expected nothing less from my hero.
Edie Sedgwick
Andy Warhol's “It” girl of the sixties, the star of many of his films. Edie was exquisite-looking with fine, elegant features. She was also deeply troubled and came from a largely dysfunctional family. When I first saw her at a party, my radar for distressed actresses started beeping in overdrive. There was a fear factor involved with her. I could tell it would only take a little something to light the fuse. One night we went to a large gathering at Gil and Susan Shiva's in the Dakota. Halfway through the evening I glanced over at Edie. I could see a major storm on the horizon. I asked her if she wanted to leave. She nodded. She took me to the Factory, Andy Warhol's famous headquarters. I thought of myself as a reasonably hip guy at the time, but I was unprepared for the absolute z
oo I saw in there. Weird, really weird music, all kinds of drugs in the air, and open sexual activity between consenting adults and some semi-adults. I survived. Unfortunately, Edie did not. She eventually committed drug- and alcohol-induced suicide even though she'd tried to clean up many times with the help of friends and family.
One night during the time I knew her, she accidentally and mysteriously set fire to her apartment. Paramedics wheeled her out the front door of her building on a gurney. There was a picture of it on the front page of the New York Daily News. I was back in California. Peter Stone tore off the front page and sent it to me with the handwritten inscription: “There, but for the grace of God…”
David O. Selznick and Jennifer Jones
Question: Who produced (to name just a few) King Kong, Dinner at Eight, A Star Is Born, The Prisoner of Zenda, Anna Karenina, Intermezzo, Rebecca, Spellbound, oh, and Gone with the Wind? Answer: David Ogden Selznick.
Shortly after arriving back in L.A. in 1963 I was fortunate enough to become a frequent guest at the beautiful Tower Road home of David Selznick and Jennifer Jones. It was its own world, in which David was the ringmaster and impresario. Everything that went on there was conducted under his personal direction. If you engaged in sport, swimming in the pool, or playing croquet on the huge back lawn, David was there to officiate, sometimes with a whistle around his neck, calling a “foul” as Louis Jourdan or Jean Negulesco hit a ball out of bounds. One day there was an improvised water polo game going on in the pool. Hope Lange, who was merely swimming at the opposite end, was actually whistled out of the water by David when he mistakenly thought she'd committed an infraction of the rules.
David's primary passion was the game of charades. He would often organize charade evenings in advance, handpicking the teams. Or if he was at home, bored, and suddenly got the urge, he would call restaurants like La Scala and Chasen's, find out who was eating there, and get them to come up to the house for an impromptu game. No one else that I ever knew in Hollywood had that kind of residual power. Since I had some talent at the game and lots of free time, David asked me over frequently. The games were spirited. Many famous people played, sometimes for stakes up to a dollar a second. David never played. As usual, he was the “official” in charge. He made up all the topics to be acted out for both sides. He kept the time.
One night, the writer-director Richard Brooks was among those playing. Richard could be extremely crusty, and this particular evening he stopped the room cold by suddenly asking David: “David, why is it that you never play? I think you ought to play tonight.”
Everyone in the room started to applaud enthusiastically. David was reluctantly convinced to play. Richard took over the topics and the timekeeping. The one that David had to act out was “Checkpoint Charlie.” The Berlin crisis was in full swing at the time. Checkpoint Charlie was the gate into the American sector. He got up and signaled: “Two words.” Then he gave a silent Nazi salute. His team responded: “It's German…” David started turning an imaginary steering wheel. “You're driving in Germany…” He gestured at supposed buildings around him. “A German city…Berlin? You're driving in Berlin…” David gestured up at an imaginary curved structure and ducked. “You're driving under an arch in Berlin…It's a gate in Berlin!” David nodded. All of this was done in thirty seconds or so. David was really quite good. Someone yelled out, “The Brandenburg Gate!” David shook his head angrily. “The gate…the gate…”
David suddenly blurted out: “It's Checkpoint Charlie, for Christ's sake!”
He sat down. The room was totally silent. Richard Brooks looked at his watch: “That's very good, David. Forty-three seconds.” No one said a word.
I remember a party at David's when I told him Natalie Wood was going to be directed by Serge Bourguignon in an upcoming film called Cassandra at the Wedding. Serge had directed the Oscar-winning (Best Foreign Film) Sundays and Cybele. The script for Cassandra had been written by Natalie's former secretary and close friend Mart Crowley, later to write the barrier-breaking play The Boys in the Band. Natalie, her then fiancé Arthur Loew Jr., and I watched Sundays and Cybele at a screening set up for her. When Bourguignon's name came up on the screen, Arthur remarked, “How about that. This picture's been directed by an entrée.” It was wonderful.
I told David I thought Serge was a “brilliant” director.
“Why do you say that?” David asked.
“Have you seen it?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Didn't you think it was brilliantly directed?”
“I did,” he replied. “But you called him a brilliant director. I only call a director that after seeing four or five of his films. Tom, if the only movie you'd ever seen in your life was I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang, you'd think Mervyn LeRoy was a brilliant director.”
David's parties were legendary. I felt lucky to have been invited to so many. It was a chance to meet celebrated people, not merely in show business but in politics, the other arts, medicine, almost any field. I met and talked to Aldous Huxley and Igor Stravinsky at David's. He seemed to know everyone, and no one seemed to turn down his invitation. He doted on Jennifer like an old bull mastiff with a beautiful puppy. Jennifer had a few quirks of her own. She would sometimes disappear in the middle of the party and then reappear twenty minutes later dressed in an entirely different outfit. Some nights she'd change clothes two or three times. Jennifer was one of the first people in Hollywood to get into yoga in a serious way. When engaged in conversation with you, she had a habit of suddenly dropping into a yoga position on a chair or a couch with her legs screwed up at all angles. It was disconcerting but also quite endearing. One day I came over and was ushered out onto the patio, where David joined me. He said, “We have to stay out here till Jennifer's finished with yoga. She's inside with the ‘Pure Souls.'”
“The ‘Pure Souls'?” I asked.
“Those are the people who teach her. That's what they call themselves, the ‘Pure Souls.'”
We went on talking. Finally, Jennifer came out. “Oh, David, we had such a beautiful time again.” She turned to me: “You know, these people are genuine altruists. They want nothing from anyone. They have no ambition, no sins, no greed.”
“How did you find them?” I asked.
“Well, they sent me this brochure,” she replied.
David told me one night that at one of his parties in the forties, Samuel Goldwyn arrived late, having just previewed one of his films. David asked him how it went. Goldwyn said: “Fantastic. David, I've never gotten such a wonderful reception to any film I've ever made. They were cheering, they were laughing, they were clapping.”
David looked at him and said: “Sam, I was there. I sneaked into the back. I just got home myself.”
Goldwyn quickly replied: “Don't worry, we can fix it.”
David was extremely protective of Jennifer. He and Dad had never worked together. They had a healthy mutual respect but no real affection. In the early sixties David wanted to make F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender Is the Night. He thought Dad would be the ideal writer-director for it and was probably right. They discussed the project. Dad was very interested. He wanted William Holden to play Dick Diver. Dad thought Bill was the ideal casting for any Fitzgerald hero, including Gatsby. The main stumbling block was that David insisted on Jennifer playing the colead, the emotionally troubled Nicole Diver. Dad frankly didn't think she was a good enough actress to handle the part. He strongly urged David to let him hire a young actress named Joanne Woodward. David made it plain that using Jennifer was a condition of making the film. Dad backed out.
David then offered it to a talented young director named John Frankenheimer, who agreed to Jennifer but wanted to offer the supporting part of Rosemary to Natalie Wood. David was close to Natalie personally, but he and Jennifer balked at making the offer. Natalie was an up-and-coming star, and they were afraid she might overshadow Jennifer. Bill Holden was eventually eliminated too. Then Frankenheimer backed out of the project. David
settled on Henry King, a good, competent director who'd directed Jennifer in Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing (oddly enough, costarring Holden), which had been a hit. Jason Robards Jr., a superb actor, was dreadfully miscast as the handsome, dashing, and charismatic Dick Diver. Jennifer's last film had been five years earlier, A Farewell to Arms. She played opposite Rock Hudson, who was much too young for her. John Huston started the film as director but quit early on because of what he thought was excessive interference from David. A press release was issued. In it, David modestly declared: “On my films I think of myself as the conductor of the orchestra. The director is my first violinist.”
Huston replied, “What Selznick really wants is a piccolo player.”
David could be gruff, but he also had an insecure streak when he didn't feel in control. I was keeping company with Tuesday Weld at the time. She had a house near mine up the Old Malibu Road. David was coming down to the beach one day, and I asked him if he wanted to meet her. Tuesday had a reputation of being somewhat of an enfant terrible, and David was interested. I'll always remember this giant of a man sitting on a little couch in a small beach house, looking extremely uncomfortable. Tuesday was charming with him. David spotted a framed drawing of a tree on the wall. Very intricate, with dozens of branches and many more leaves. “Who did that drawing?”
“I did,” replied Tuesday.
“I'll give you a thousand dollars for it.”
“It's not for sale,” said Tuesday. “But I'll give it to you.”
She took it off the wall, handed it to him, and kissed him on the forehead. David blushed. He left without taking the drawing with him. If David couldn't pay for it, it wasn't really his.
David's eye for young talent was remarkable. He remained enthusiastically involved in discovering people until he died. One day he told me: “I just read a wonderfully smart and funny story about a girl going undercover as a Playboy Bunny. The young woman who wrote it is a first-class writer. Her name is Gloria Steinem. I'm optioning it for a film.” David died before he could move the project forward.
My Life as a Mankiewicz Page 17