My Life in Focus

by Gianni Bozzacchi,Joey Tayler

  Richard was what you’d call a sad drunk. Sad about what? Well, think for a moment about who and what Richard was before he met Elizabeth. He was a classically trained theater actor, well known and in demand—though not much so outside of England—married, with two children. Cleopatra—or, more precisely, the actress who played the legendary queen—transformed Richard’s life overnight, much as my trip to Africa changed mine. He and Elizabeth were truly in love. But the press didn’t give him a moment’s peace from the very start. Once he’d divorced his wife, the actress Sybil Williams, and married Elizabeth, Richard led a very different life. In his heart, he never quite felt he earned the private jets, five-star hotels, and million-dollar checks all by himself. He was never sure if what had made him a major movie star was his own talent or his wife.

  As time passed, I felt increasingly comfortable with the world that now surrounded me. Oddly enough, the person who should have made me feel most uneasy, Elizabeth, the most famous star in the world, was actually the one who made me feel most at home. She had a great sense of humor, was very affectionate, and loved having fun. She never set herself above the people in her entourage. She never harbored the reservations that I did about my class, or lack of it. She liked my style, the way I moved in her prestigious circle without airs. I never felt sexually attracted to Elizabeth. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been asked, “Did you sleep with her?” But the honest truth really is—for whatever reason—that the thought simply never crossed my mind. We became friends so quickly, so easily, that for me she was—and always remained—just a friend.

  Richard was imposing. His voice inspired silence. I didn’t understand what he spoke about in his speech at Oxford. It was Oxford English and I didn’t even understand the English on television. But I was impressed by the way his voice was able to impress itself on that huge audience. Whether you’d known him for a minute or a year, his presence always inspired a certain awe. To me, he was everything I wasn’t: he had class and an excellent education, even though I knew he was the son of a miner. He was a successful and seemingly confident artist, a man who inspired respect even when he said nothing, a man who had no need to impress anyone. I, on the other hand, could barely manage to pronounce his last name.

  Richard and Elizabeth pose in front of an entrance to the coal mine where Richard’s father had worked in Pontrhydyfen, his hometown in Wales.

  We were on holiday, and all I had for a camera was a Kodak Instamatic. (Photo by Kristy Tayler.)

  Chapter 5

  Introverted in America

  Wait . . . What was it that Richard had said about America? Was it just drunken rambling?

  No, that conversation in the restroom about America’s watered-down beer was actually a formal invitation. The Burtons still had some time to kill before their next movie, and Elizabeth hadn’t seen her parents in a while. So they were going to go to the States and wanted Claudye and me to go with them.

  Preparing for my first trip to the United States, my biggest concern was what to wear. I was convinced I had nothing suitable for traveling with Elizabeth and Richard. “You’re going to America,” I kept telling myself, rejecting one item of clothing after another. I wanted to look right, appear like one of them. I knew how much Elizabeth cared about appearances. She was even taking her personal hairdresser with her across the Atlantic. Richard, on the other hand, couldn’t care less.

  The world acquired an entirely different dimension when traveling with Elizabeth and Richard. It was like stepping inside an enormous Technicolor cinema screen. Life suddenly became extremely easy. No waiting in line, no lost luggage, no delays—unless, of course, the delays were Elizabeth and Richard calling the airport to make a plane wait. No one was impolite. If you had a problem, someone solved it. If you forgot something, someone went and got you another. If you saw something you liked, it was immediately given to you as a gift. When Elizabeth and Richard traveled on commercial flights, they bought out the entire first class section which, in the case of our family trip to the States, left four people with a third of the plane at our disposal.

  Generally, of course, the entourage was considerably bigger, as many as forty people on some occasions. And invariably almost everyone in it was gay. Elizabeth and Richard were surrounded by gays. Richard’s personal secretary was gay. So was Elizabeth’s. The man who looked after their yacht was gay. Alexandre, the hairdresser, was also gay. This may have been the sixties, with us heterosexuals liberating like wildfire, but remember—back then, the very word gay, in the sexual sense we now use it, barely existed. Homosexuality in Britain, for example, was a criminal offense until 1967. One day I finally asked Richard why he and Elizabeth had this preference for gays. I wasn’t prejudiced, just curious.

  “Gianni,” he replied, “they don’t have any family following them around. If our staff had spouses and children, we’d have to maintain even more people than we do already.”

  It was that simple.

  When we landed in New York, the cabin crew let us leave the plane before everyone else. The moment we stepped into sight, we found ourselves facing a sea of journalists, photographers, and police. Security guards escorted us to a car that took us to the Regency Hotel on Park Avenue. I was dumbfounded by the extreme kindness shown me by the drivers, the hotel staff, everyone. Their care and attention was as overwhelming as the contrast between my simple street culture and the five-star service that I now received wherever I went. When I woke on our first morning in the hotel, I started to make the bed. Claudye had to tell me to stop. When I got out of the shower, I hung my towel on a hook. Claudye told me I was supposed to drop it on the floor.

  The night before, after we’d checked in and unpacked our bags, we’d gone for dinner with Aaron Frosch, Elizabeth and Richard’s lawyer. He had a penthouse apartment. I’d never been so high up in my entire life. I was used to the view from our Roman basement. Now there I was on top of the world, almost literally. I kept looking right and left, fascinated by everything. After all, I was just a tourist trying to absorb as much as possible, to remember every tiny detail. Being up in those buildings, I felt like I was suspended in air. Everything looked exaggerated and big, yet easily accessible.

  On another night, I was in our room in the Regency when Claudye phoned me from Elizabeth and Richard’s suite, telling me to put on a jacket and tie and join them. Robert Kennedy was coming to visit. The approach to their suite was, of course, swarming with bodyguards. It took more than a moment to convince them that I really was with the Burtons and to let me through. Once inside, I shook Bobby’s hand. But what could I say? I could barely manage to say anything in English to anyone, let alone a Kennedy! I believe he was there that night hunting for Elizabeth and Richard’s endorsement in the upcoming elections. I kept looking at him and thinking, “Wow! This is the brother of the president, who was assassinated in Dallas.” Though, to me, he looked more like a young boy than a political candidate. I was fascinated and, strangely enough, didn’t even think to go get my camera. Elizabeth invited him to stay for lunch. But Kennedy said he didn’t have time, so she called room service and ordered a dozen club sandwiches. When they arrived I wasn’t hungry, which is when I finally realized what a tremendous opportunity I was missing and raced downstairs to get my camera. It took me forever to get down and back. Only one elevator was working, and secret service agents insisted on frisking me and checking my camera on my way back. By the time I reached the suite, Kennedy was already in the hallway on his way out. So I didn’t get a single shot. But at least I got to shake his hand.

  Before leaving New York, the agent Jack Painter contacted me, asking me if I was interested in photographing a young actor everyone was talking about. It seemed like a good opportunity, so I went to the address he gave me, a commercial office building on Fifth Avenue, and got into the elevator with this strange, short guy wearing a long, black coat complete with hood. When we got off at the same floor, he went one way and I went another, but it turned out there were
two separate entrances to the same set of offices. So when a secretary showed me into a room, the guy from the elevator was already there, sitting by a window waiting for me. His name was Al Pacino. Faced with my camera, he was very shy, almost embarrassed. It was raining, and I’d have preferred to photograph him outside. But he refused to move. So, without insisting, I photographed him as he was, with all his shyness.

  Over the years, I’ve met Al on a number of occasions, and he’s always thanked me for being kind to him when he was a young emerging actor. Once, during the eighties, I went to his home with Michelangelo Antonioni, and Al received us wearing nothing but his underpants. Michelangelo was very embarrassed. But I remembered that day in New York and realized that this was the same shy guy from twenty years earlier, despite all his stunning success. Being in underpants was actually part of that same shyness, his way of showing—without being aggressive—that he wasn’t in the least bit intimidated by such an important director.

  A young Al Pacino in New York (December 1968), showing his timid side.

  After our stop in New York, we flew on to Los Angeles. During the flight, I kept thinking, “This could be the trip of my life.” I still had no idea where my work would take me. I was a well-known retoucher, and a major star had appreciated some of my photos. But that was it. I didn’t know if this was the beginning of something extraordinary, or just nothing. In any case, I decided to enjoy the moment.

  When we landed in Los Angeles, the plane stopped a long way from the arrivals gate. I got worried. Had something happened? Then I saw a limousine drive onto the landing strip, followed by a mob of reporters and photographers. Elizabeth and Richard posed for a number of photos and answered all their questions. I was in a daze as we climbed into the limo. I’d never been in anything like it. It felt more like a cruise ship than a car. Valerie Douglas, Richard’s secretary, who’d told me she’d be my “American mom,” pulled out a bottle of Dom Pérignon to toast my first trip to the States. Richard tried to open it, but he couldn’t. The bottle passed from hand to hand, but that stubborn cork defeated everyone’s best efforts. Then someone spotted a bar on the other side of the street, and the limo did a sharp U-turn, stopping right outside.

  Elizabeth and Richard asked me to go see if it was open. I’d barely stepped inside the place when the owner yelled, “We’re closed!” To which I replied, “Are you closed for Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton?” So we stepped outside. Richard was standing by the limo, smoking. The bar owner saw him and promptly went out of his mind. “We’re open!” he screamed. “We’re open! We’re open! Please, come inside!” We all sat down. Claudye and I admired a lamp on our table. The owner gave it to us as a gift. Then an ashtray. The drinks were all on the house. Richard tried to give him $50 for the lamp. He refused, so Richard left the waiter a $100 tip. On our way out, we saw the guy tell two assistants to put aside the chairs that Elizabeth and Richard had sat on. One hour earlier they’d just been two chairs. Now they were holy relics. The whole thing felt like a sketch from a TV comedy show.

  We moved into a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Richard asked me if I wanted a car to get around in. I told him I’d love to drive the new Mustang that had just come out in the States. So he got me a Mustang, and off I went on a high-speed spin around town. I promptly got stopped by the police and—as you do in Europe—I got out of the car. Two policemen sprinted forward, their guns aimed right at me, and slammed me against the car. “Beverly Hills Hotel!” I cried, trying to explain. “Elizabeth Taylor! Richard Burton!” They cuffed me in a flash. Things got better once we were in the police car. I managed to explain who I was and why I was in Los Angeles, so they took me to the hotel. When one of the officers asked Richard if he knew me, he looked at me and answered, “No,” which wasn’t a funny joke. Then Elizabeth appeared. “Gianni, what have you done!” That was my welcome to California.

  I never understood the American frenzy over Elizabeth and Richard. Maybe I’d lived in Rome too long. Romans aren’t impressed by anything, or at least they don’t show it by racing after celebrities, screaming and crying hysterically. Marcello Mastroianni or Anna Magnani could stroll down Via Veneto without ever getting mobbed the way Elizabeth and Richard were in Los Angeles. When the Burtons moved, everyone moved with them, from police and journalists to fans and private detectives. Yes, even detectives. One night I decided to get a breath of air in the hotel garden. To my surprise I saw a large tropical plant move, then stop. A man poked his head out from behind it and smiled at me. He was a detective up to who knows what. But I realized he was interested in Elizabeth and Richard because, before running away, he said, “Bye, Mr. Bozzacchi. Have a good day.” He must have really studied up on everyone to know who the heck I was.

  Whenever Elizabeth made this face, Richard would be butter in her hands and concede anything.

  Elizabeth with the black cat that adopted her (and she it) when she found it abandoned on the terrace of the Dorchester Hotel in London.

  I met an even more absurd individual at a Beverly Hills party thrown in Elizabeth and Richard’s honor. We were in an enormous house owned by one of their friends when I found myself sitting opposite a fat, taciturn stranger with shifty eyes. I couldn’t work out whether he was a producer, a journalist, or what. Finally, at the end of the evening, I introduced myself and he did the same. I apologized for my English and asked if he was an actor. His reply was ice cold, which was pretty much how he came over in general. “I’m an arms dealer,” he said. When I stared back in silence, he added calmly, “Oh, nothing illegal, you understand. I just buy arms from one country and sell them to another.” By way of conversation, I asked if there was much competition in the business, to which he answered dryly, “My biggest competitors are epidemics.” I had no idea what else to say. He chilled me. I looked him in the eye, and his icy gaze made my flesh crawl. I still wonder what that squalid individual was doing in such a firmament of stars.

  We went for dinner with Elizabeth’s parents, Francis and Sarah, at their hillside home in Bel Air. Francis had recently had a stroke and they’d moved from England to Southern California on account of the climate. He’d lost a lot of weight. Elizabeth was very close to her parents, and her British accent blossomed when they spoke together. On our way back, Elizabeth wept almost all the way. You don’t often meet a man as distinguished as Francis. He was one of the world’s leading art dealers. And now he could barely speak. Elizabeth was left emotionally drained.

  During dinner I took photos in the dim light. I realized how important the photos were when I developed them. No one had photographed Elizabeth with her mother and father since she was a child. And, given that no one had said anything to me while I was taking them, I imagined I was authorized to sell them, as I’d already done with other photos of Elizabeth and her family. But when they were published, Elizabeth got angry. I thought she’d appreciate them, that she’d be happy to show that side of herself to the world. But she was furious that I hadn’t been more considerate of her father’s condition. I’ve never again published or shown those photos to anyone, and even now I wouldn’t violate Elizabeth’s wishes again.

  Then there was the day they took me to Frank Sinatra’s place. I’d barely stepped out of the car with my camera when Frank looked at me and said, “He stays in the car.” I was crestfallen. Mia Farrow was there. And Peter Lawford. A photo of Frank, Elizabeth, Richard, Mia, and Peter all together . . . It would have been crazy. Anyway, the Burtons explained who I was and Frank, addressing me in Italian, asked, “You Italian?” “Yes, Italian.” “Sicilian?” “No, Roman.” “Boot boy?” “No! Photographer.” I showed him my bag. “I’m a photographer. That’s why I’ve brought my cameras.” He gestured imperceptibly to a waiter—who looked more like a bouncer—and he took my bag. End of conversation. Then they all began drinking and laughing about stuff I didn’t understand.

  Late that night we went on to eat at one of Sinatra’s favorite restaurants, up on Little Santa Monica Boulevard, cal
led, strangely enough, La Dolce Vita. The place was very dark. They seated us at a table, leaving all the other tables around us empty. It was the first time I’d tasted Italian American cuisine. The portions were enormous. Quantity over quality.

  I wasn’t able to follow the conversation there either, and over the years I’ve come to the conclusion that the fault was definitely more mine than Elizabeth and Richard’s. I’d “won” that bet with my father all those years ago. So now I just had to grin and bear it, and laugh whenever they laughed, whether I understood what they were laughing about or not. Every now and then I’d catch a name, but mostly I had no idea who they were talking about. Sometimes Claudye would try to translate for me. But you need to bear in mind that she was born in Corsica and grew up in Paris; she translated in Corsican dialect, which is basically a mix of Paduan, Genoese, Sardinian, and a dash of French. I’d have been better off pretending to be deaf and dumb. I was confused and embarrassed. I was a street kid in a foreign country, light years from my own world in terms of class and culture. I believe Elizabeth and Richard—Claudye too—were convinced they were giving me a gift, offering me an extraordinary opportunity to spend time with all those fabulous people. Which is true, of course. They were. But it was a gift I wasn’t able to enjoy. All I was able to do was smile, nod, and sit there feeling I didn’t deserve this, feeling like a total idiot.

  Toward the end of the trip, we went to see a screening of Mike Nichols’s The Graduate. Even though I didn’t understand everything, I liked it a lot—the images, the sense of confusion, the abuse of power. And I loved the Simon & Garfunkel soundtrack. I’d never heard pop music used that way in a movie, and no one else had either. It was actually a rare and bold move at the time, and clearly it worked. Other moviemakers quickly recognized the legacy of The Graduate, and pop music soon started appearing frequently in soundtracks, contributing to the success of classics such as Butch Cassidy and Midnight Cowboy. I watched The Graduate again, often—always in English—until I understood everything. It became one of my favorite movies.