Unsinkable

by Debbie Reynolds

  When we pulled into the reserved parking space behind the Paley Center, Todd’s camera crew met us to capture every moment. I reminded myself to breathe. We entered the building at the back and walked a hundred feet or so down a hallway, to seven steps leading up to a door, where Todd, his girlfriend, Catherine, and his dog, Yippee, were waiting. Carrie, her friend Beverly D’Angelo, Billie, and a friend of hers were already inside the auditorium. Todd told me that people had been lined up around the block by 9:00 a.m. in hopes of securing places; the 150-seat auditorium was packed, as was an overflow seating area in the lobby where part of the exhibition was on display.

  We opened the door.

  There were crowds of press, fans, and friends everywhere. The folks from Profiles in History were fluttering around attending to last-minute details. The auctioneer looked ready to take the stage and his gavel. The air was electric with anticipation.

  I felt like I was in a dream—or a nightmare—sleepwalking through my own life as it was about to unfold in this tiny, unattractive theater. The bright lights dispelled any mystery or excitement I might have felt if I had been there to buy. This was not where I wanted to be, forced to participate in something I’d prayed would never happen.

  The stage in the Paley Center auditorium is at the bottom of the room. DEBBIE REYNOLDS—THE AUCTION was projected in light on two curved panels on either side of a large screen spread across the far wall. Now I was an auction. Well, I’d been just about everything else at one time or another. To get to my seat at the front, I had to walk down a set of stairs, past the audience. All eyes were on me as I made my way along the left side of the auditorium to join Carrie and her party in the second row. Heads turned and people applauded. I waved acknowledgment and sat beside my daughter.

  After everything settled down, Joe Maddalena from Profiles in History went to the Plexiglas podium and thanked everyone for coming. I got up and went to the side of the stage, putting a spring in my step that really wasn’t there, to be ready when he introduced me.

  “This is a good day and a sad day,” Joe said. “But we’re happy you’re here. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Debbie Reynolds.”

  Somehow my feet carried me to the microphone as the crowd cheered and yelled “Bravo.” I hope I made sense as I talked about my collection for the last time from the notes I’d prepared.

  “First of all, thank you all for being here.”

  I blew kisses to the overflow crowd in other rooms throughout the Paley Center.

  “I know that you all feel sad, as I do, because it all means a lot. We really don’t want to let any of this go because it’s in our hearts. I feel very good that you’re here because this will soon be in your hearts.

  “I do thank you, and I thank you for caring about preserving our golden age of costuming and props.

  “I’ve been collecting these for forty-five years—and I’m only forty.”

  The audience laughed and cheered.

  “These precious items, really, I just pray that you who obtain these pieces will love and care for them as much as we do for our future generations.”

  My voice cracked and my eyes filled with tears.

  In a choked voice, I said, “Now . . . I never cry. Only when I love everything.”

  Getting my strength back, I continued.

  “So, on behalf of Profiles in History and Joe Maddalena . . . isn’t that a silly name? Todd, my son, who did all this work. Without Todd all these years, I never would have been able to do it. And my daughter Carrie’s here too. And my granddaughter, we even have another child. Her name is Billie Catherine, she’s right over there.”

  As I waved to Billie, my friend Rose Marie waved to me from her wheelchair in the first row, right in front of my family.

  “Rose Marie, stop that. You’re not my granddaughter!”

  The audience laughed. Rose Marie is famous for having been a regular on The Dick Van Dyke Show and Hollywood Squares for years.

  “I want to say something to Phillip Hoffman, who’s standing back there. He decorated everything . . .”

  I had to wrap this up.

  “I know you love everything as much as I do. I’m so thrilled that I was around to save it because I was so stubborn, I wouldn’t give it up. Thanks for being here.”

  There was no way I could get through that speech without emotion. My knees were weak from it. More than forty years of collecting and preserving my memorabilia was about to end in the next few hours. How many auctions had I been through in my life? Selling the hotel had been painful, but afterward I still had my collection, and all the hopes I’d invested in it. After tonight, it would belong to someone else. No words can accurately describe what I was feeling at that moment; the fact is, I don’t remember. I couldn’t believe it was really happening.

  The auctioneer was middle-aged, stocky, and bald, wearing a dark brown bowling shirt with wide beige vertical stripes running down the front. He went to the podium as the slide for the first item appeared on the screen: a Bell & Howell movie camera from 1915. Two younger-looking men seated at a table to his right handled Internet bids. The reserve opening price had been set at $10,000; after a few moments, it sold for $30,000—a good start.

  The second item up was the “Suit of Lights” matador outfit Rudolph Valentino wore in Blood and Sand. The reserve for this was $60,000. Before I knew it, the suit had sold for $210,000. Excitement rippled through the room as everyone, including me, realized that this was going to be a serious sale. I told myself not to get my hopes up. The subway dress was lot 354. There were still 351 items to be sold before then.

  As the auction continued, I noticed that every time I heard the word “sold” after a high amount, it was followed by “to bidder 249.” We later discovered that bidder 249 was a buyer from Korea who’d come to the auction to purchase as many items as possible. He wasn’t the only one. Buyers had come from around the world, and like bidder 249, most of them insisted on remaining anonymous.

  The auction had been going on for about two hours when I had to use the ladies’ room. As Jen and I made our way there, I realized I wouldn’t last until Marilyn’s dress came up unless I had something to eat. We decided to go to the Cheesecake Factory, just two blocks away. But first we stopped by the greenroom, where friends of mine were tracking the sales.

  Leaving the ladies’ room, Jen and I walked down the hallway behind the Paley Center reception area. As we turned right to go into the greenroom, I could see the crowd in the overflow area of the lobby. The display with Marilyn’s subway dress revolved in its case in front of us as we went to meet our friends.

  The greenroom had been set up with monitors, a couch, and eight chairs. Everyone was excited. My friend Margie Duncan and Donald, my other assistant, were following along in the catalog and making a record of the numbers.

  “The Wizard of Oz dress and the ruby slippers are up next,” Margie said. “Sit down for a few minutes to see what happens.”

  She was talking about legendary designer Adrian’s original costumes for Judy Garland, before Victor Fleming decided he wanted something more contemporary-looking (for 1939). The ruby slippers that I sold were closer in design to the description of Dorothy’s shoes in the book, in the style of Arabian shoes, with pointed toes and accents. Judy wore these in the wardrobe tests for the film. They were her favorite. The reserve for the blue cotton dress was $60,000. I felt a pang as this treasure appeared on the screen. Judy had been my dear friend. I loved every role she played. How could I let this dress go?

  But I had no choice.

  The bidding went fast. In a matter of minutes, the price rose in $10,000 increments to more than half a million dollars.

  “Now we’re cooking,” I commented to my friends in the greenroom.

  Everyone was quiet as I slumped on the couch to take the pressure off my aching back.

  “Eight hundred thousand,” the auctioneer announced.

  “Nine hundred thousand . . .

  “Nine hundred and ten
thousand. Do I hear nine hundred twenty?”

  His eyes searched the auditorium for another bid.

  “Aaaaaaaand sold for nine hundred and ten thousand dollars!”

  I sat up on the couch, relieved that someone else valued this jewel of Hollywood history as much as I did. For that price, I’d gratefully let it go.

  The next item, lot 111, was the ruby slippers. Before I could re­arrange myself in the couch cushions, they’d sold for $510,000.

  In the fifteen minutes between the auditorium, the ladies’ room, and the greenroom couch, I’d made $1,420,000.

  Before I left for lunch, I returned to the auditorium. Facing the crowd from the front of the house, I asked, “Did anything happen while I was in the ladies’ room?”

  Everyone burst into laughter and applause.

  “I’ll be back in a little while,” I announced, waving to the audience. “Let me know what happens next.”

  As Jen drove us to the Cheesecake Factory, I felt distracted and a bit relieved, but I was still in a daze. Delicious as my fried zucchini tasted, I wasn’t in the mood to eat after all. But we were in no rush to get back to the auction. With many of the famous items already gone, there was still a long time to go and lots of lesser-known pieces to be sold before another major piece came up for bids. So we took our time. When we finally left, I tried to retrieve the pain pill from my bra. I made a few swipes at it; the pill had shifted in the few hours since I’d left the house. We were standing in the hallway leading out of the restaurant. Anyone seeing me clutch at my blouse might have thought I was having some kind of spell. I felt a little better once I’d taken the medication.

  Back at the Paley Center, things were moving along. Carrie and I chatted as the bidding continued. Lot 188 came up: the red silk velvet Santa Claus suit Edmund Gwenn wore in Miracle on 34th Street. Gwenn won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his portrayal of Kris Kringle in this classic holiday movie.

  In my early days at MGM, I had seen Mr. Gwenn around the lot. I thought he was so cute. Several years later, one of the trade magazines ran a notice that he was in poor health and would appreciate visitors. I visited him often at the Motion Picture Home in Calabasas. I knew that he loved the caramels from See’s, the popular San Francisco candy maker. So I always brought a box with me, and he’d eat the whole thing.

  “Hello, Debbie. Thank you for coming to see me,” he’d greet me in that wonderful British accent, his mind still sharp. Not only was he a good character actor, he was a darling man. I just loved him.

  Mr. Gwenn’s Kris Kringle outfit meant a lot to me. So many memories and experiences were wrapped up in it. This was true of my collection in general. The pieces in it weren’t only historical artifacts, they had personal associations for me. If I weren’t numb, my heart would be breaking.

  At around seven-thirty, it was time for lot 354. By then, I’d made enough to settle the judgment, pay the taxes, and have some money left over so that I wouldn’t have to work in every honky-tonk in the world. But I was still in a fog and hadn’t really taken it all in.

  This was the moment everyone had been waiting for. People whooped and applauded when Marilyn’s iconic dress appeared on the screen. Then the room quieted down. Through much of the earlier bidding the auctioneer had perched himself on a bar stool behind the Plexiglas podium, hardly seeming to refer to the pages on the clipboard listing the items. He’d gone through so many that the pages were spilling over the front edge of the podium. For lot 354 he was standing.

  He checked with the phone banks in the back to confirm that they were ready.

  “Let me know when we can start,” he told the men at the computers, one of whom said, “I have an opening bid of . . .”

  “I’m not ready for you,” the auctioneer said cheerfully.

  The audience laughed.

  The auctioneer announced what everyone already knew: “Three fifty-four is the Marilyn Monroe ivory pleated subway dress from The Seven Year Itch. Let’s start the bidding at . . .”

  He extended his right arm to the table.

  “. . . one million dollars,” the man with the Internet bid responded.

  Hoots and cheers and applause from the crowd.

  I felt like I was wrapped in cotton, the tension in the air was so thick around me; insulated against the world as I listened to the bidding go up in increments of $100,000.

  At $2,300,000, the auctioneer announced “Going once,” only to be greeted with another bid. At $2,800,000, he said, “Two hundred eight million,” then corrected himself with a smile.

  “Three million.”

  Each time it reached another million the crowd loudly expressed its approval and delight.

  “Four million.”

  No costume had ever sold for this much money.

  Only two bidders were left. Somehow the bidding continued.

  A phone bid came in.

  “Four million, one hundred thousand,” the auctioneer announced.

  The next few seconds felt like an hour.

  “Four million, two hundred thousand.

  “Four million, three hundred thousand.”

  The bidding slowed down.

  “Do I hear four million, five hundred thousand?”

  The auctioneer’s eyes scanned the room.

  “Yes, four million, five hundred thousand. Do I hear four million, six hundred thousand?”

  A pause that lasted forever.

  “Yes! Four million, six hundred thousand. Four million, seven hundred thousand?”

  Silence.

  I stood up to see who had bid, then sat back down.

  The auctioneer repeated the bid, then repeated it again. “We have a couple of seconds,” he said, adding, to the crowd’s amusement, “It’s not your everyday dress.”

  That was when I realized I’d stopped breathing.

  “Anybody else? At four million, six hundred thousand, aaaaaaa-and . . .”

  Exhale.

  “. . . sold!”

  Whoops burst through the room. Tears filled my eyes as Carrie leaned over in her seat and took me in her arms. People were standing up and applauding loudly as the realization sank in that in the last five and a half minutes we’d all just witnessed history being made. As I rose to join them the crowd cheered. Everyone was on their feet. I could hardly see it through my tear-filled eyes. With the addition of the auction-house premium of 20 percent, the total cost to the bidder came to $5,520,000.

  The rest of the auction was a blur. Now that I’d made enough money, I started bidding on my favorite items, to keep from losing them. I decided not to sell Harpo Marx’s hat that I’d shown on Oprah. It’s in my home today. (Todd kept an Indiana Jones hat.) A friend tells me that at one point I turned to a woman in front of me and ordered her to stop bidding on something I wanted. Apparently she obeyed, and I won the bid.

  I stayed for another hour or so, until some inner voice told me it was time to get out of there. I knew that Audrey Hepburn’s Ascot dress from My Fair Lady might do well, but I didn’t have the strength to wait until it came up.

  Jenny drove me home and set up the computer so we could watch the rest of the auction in my living room. I called Carrie, and she and Beverly rushed over to join us. Jen and I drank my cheap white zinfandel, and Beverly had a glass of red wine. Carrie sipped a Diet Coke. Feet up, we watched the thirteen-inch computer screen, leaning in to hear the results.

  When Audrey Hepburn’s Ascot costume, designed by Cecil Beaton, sold for $3.8 million, I was done in. When Todd sent me a text message, I answered him (with help from Carrie):

  “Holy shit.”

  I’d been right about the value of my collection. Everyone who’d rejected it or told me I was crazy to want to preserve it—for all those many, many years—had been proved wrong. Closing my eyes, I said a prayer of thanks that my efforts had been worth it.

  I had saved the collection, and now the collection had saved me.

  Marilyn Monroe’s subway dress, which sold
for $5,520,000, breaking all records for the sale of a motion picture costume. Photo by Lou Bustamante/Profiles in History

  DEBBIE DOES EIGHTY

  MY PHONE RANG AT 9:00 A.M. on the morning of April 1, 2012. It was Carleton Carpenter, calling to wish me a happy eightieth birthday. I’ve known Carleton since I was seventeen years old and we acted and toured together for MGM. He was so excited and sweet that I couldn’t be upset that he woke me out of a sound sleep.

  For me, the hardest part of getting older is that I think I’m thirty. Then I look in the mirror and see somebody else looking back. It still startles me.

  But then I think of my friendships and the loves of my life. I was blessed with so many wonderful friends that I couldn’t possibly mention them all, but my family means the most to me, and among my family was my other “mother,” Lillian Burns Sidney. Lillian raised me during my MGM years and remained my friend and teacher until the end of her life.

  When Lillian died in August 1998, she left me in charge of her estate. Her wish was to be cremated and to have her ashes placed in the Sidney family section of the mausoleum in Beverly Hills. Lillian had been married to George Sidney for thirty years, until he dumped her for a younger woman, but the Sidney family had bought a slot for Lillian’s ashes. So I took them down to the cemetery, where they were interred near her father-in-law and mother-in-law, who’d been so close to Lillian when they were alive. Lillian had taken care of them both when they were elderly. They loved her so much.

  Some months later, I got a call from the director of the cemetery, telling me that Lillian had been evicted from the Sidney slot on the orders of George’s widow. The widow either didn’t know how close Lillian was to the Sidney family or just didn’t care. George wasn’t there—he’s buried in Hillside Memorial Park Cemetery in Culver City. So what was the big deal?

  I drove down to the cemetery to collect Lillian, this time to try to fulfill her alternate wish, which was to have her ashes scattered in the rose garden of her beautiful home on Tower Road in Beverly Hills, where she had lived with George. The only problem was that Lillian hadn’t lived in that house for more than twenty years—and I didn’t know the people who owned it now. Which didn’t stop me from going there.