“No problem, baby,” he said. “I’ll sell you the house for $9,000, plus the two empty lots next door for $3,000. Twelve grand for the lot. It’s a steal. Whaddya say?”
I looked at Dale and thought about it, but felt despondent. I just didn’t have the cash. Nor did I have adequate assets, collateral, or income to approach a bank for a loan. It was a great price, a near giveaway, but I couldn’t cut it. When I told this to Dale he sat me down, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “No problem, buddy boy. I understand. Give me a thousand now and then a hundred bucks a month.”
However, even at those ridiculously low prices, I still couldn’t quite manage it and had to walk away from the deal. I was brokenhearted, but what could I do?
As it turned out, Dale never did move out of the house. Then, in 1952, he passed away, and in his will left the property to a mutual friend of ours by the name of Jack Gard. Jack lived in it for a couple of years, then rented it out, and in the early seventies he decided to sell it. By then the asking price had gone up to $60,000. And that’s when another good friend of mine, the actor, Beech Dickerson, came into the picture.
Beech had been in The Dunwich Horror and a bunch of Roger Corman cult classics, such as Attack of the Crab Monsters, War of the Satellites, and Creature from the Haunted Sea. In the course of his career he had invested wisely and had made a lot of money. He already owned a dozen or so houses in the area, which he rented out. When he heard that Jack was selling his prime real estate on Kew Drive, plus the two adjoining plots and the little guesthouse below the main property, he immediately snapped it up. He and I had known one another for many years, and I had done the odd handyman job for him so he hired me to do general maintenance on most of his properties, including this latest acquisition on Kew Drive. Whenever there was a faucet leak or a broken hinge or an electrical circuit that needed attention I was called in to take care of it. Beech himself moved into the Kew Drive house and subsequently developed both adjoining properties. I sometimes used his guesthouse, located just below the 2114 lot. When I wasn’t in it I would help find him short-term tenants for it. I was so grateful to be able to spend time on that property. It was like living out my fantasy. Eventually I landscaped the garden for Beech and personally dug a hole and installed a tiled swimming pool for him there. It was situated in front of the living room, off of which I added a small terrace with tables, chairs, and a barbecue. This made it possible for folks to swim or sunbathe and enjoy a unique view overlooking all of L.A. below. It really was stunning. We had many skinny-dipping parties and evening get-togethers there.
In 1977 one of the short-term tenants who rented Beech’s little guesthouse off and on was the Spanish-born cinematographer, Néstor Almendros. He was in L.A. for a month from New York. Néstor and I had known each other for a couple of years; he was a quiet, unassuming man who moved from Spain to Cuba at the age of eighteen to be with his father, who had been exiled because of his anti-Franco political activities. Néstor had discovered his love of cinema in Havana. He founded a film society there and began to write film reviews. Further studies in film took him to Italy, and then, on his return to Cuba, he began to make short, experimental films. He was noticed by the critics in New York and so he went to the Big Apple to make a couple of acclaimed shorts. In 1959 his life changed dramatically. The Cuban Revolution took place. Fidel Castro came to power and Néstor returned to Cuba. Two of the films he made there were banned by the new Communist regime so he moved to France, where he soon began shooting films for major French directors such as François Truffaut. Néstor rapidly gained a reputation as a master of motion picture lighting. He didn’t use light to illuminate his subjects, he painted with it. He liked subtle light sources such as candles, oil lamps, the rays of a weak late-afternoon sun, diffused shafts of light as they shone through lace curtains, dark skies, twilight, the delicate play of light as it reflected off surface textures. His images were masterful, every frame of every film a true work of art. It wasn’t long before Hollywood noticed him, even though Néstor much preferred living and working in New York.
In 1978 director Terrence Malick hired Néstor to shoot his epic romantic drama, Days of Heaven, starring Richard Gere, Brooke Adams, and Sam Shepard. Néstor spent a lot of time in L.A., especially during the preproduction and postproduction processes. He shot camera tests, checked out color filters, oversaw the laboratory work as the film was processed, and supervised the color timing and printing of the film. Néstor was gay and, even though he was a fairly shy and private person, there were times when I would arrange tricks for him with other guys or even trick him myself.
In March 1979 an extraordinary thing happened. To Néstor’s absolute shock, when the fifty-first annual Academy Awards nominations were announced, his name was on the list for Best Cinematography for Days of Heaven. Néstor could not believe it. What’s more, he was in the running against four of the giants in the world of cinematography, Oswald Morris for The Wiz, Robert Surtees for Same Time, Next Year, Vilmos Zsigmond for The Deer Hunter, and William Fraker for Heaven Can Wait. Every one of them had either previously been nominated or had won an Oscar, whereas Néstor was the new guy on the block. He didn’t think he stood a chance of winning.
The awards ceremony was scheduled to take place April 9, that year. If memory serves me correctly, I was puttering around Beech’s garden that day while Beech sat on a deck chair reading the morning newspaper. At around noon Néstor came sauntering up from the guest cottage below, dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. He greeted us and then lay back on one of the chaise lounges on the lawn at the side of the pool. Nominees, presenters, and guests at the Oscars were required to arrive at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in downtown L.A. by around four that afternoon. The pomp and circumstance of the so-called “red carpet” arrival was scheduled to take place at five o’clock and the actual awards ceremony at six. The timing was crucial, as it was going to be televised live, starting at five o’clock local time and at eight o’clock on the East Coast. Yet, here we were, all three of us hanging around the garden as if we didn’t have a care or a concern in the world. Time was ticking relentlessly into the afternoon hour yet Néstor was behaving as though he didn’t intend to budge. I noticed that he hadn’t even shaved yet.
“Aren’t you going down to the Dorothy Chandler for the awards tonight, Néstor?” I asked.
“You crazy?” he replied. “You know I can’t beat any of those other four guys.”
Beech and I immediately ganged up on him, scolding him for not wanting to go. Then Néstor came up with the lame excuse of not having anything decent to wear. Beech and I looked at each other in disbelief. Here was this guy who had come all the way from Spain, Cuba, and Paris, made it big, and then become internationally recognized for his first major Hollywood feature film. How could he not go to the Academy Awards? He had been nominated for the highest goddamn award that the world’s film industry could bestow on anyone. He had to go.
“C’mon, Nessie,” I yelled. “Inside. Now!”
Suddenly Beech and I were in sync. We managed to drag him inside, pulled off his shorts and T-shirt, bundled him into the shower, and got him cleaned up. As Beech rubbed him down with a towel I ran a razor over his beard stubble. Beech rummaged through his wardrobe and found him a dark suit and a nicely pressed white shirt. We forced him into the clothes, then found an appropriate tie and some black socks. We shoved his feet into the socks and a pair of shoes, combed his hair, and looked at him.
“You’ll do,” said Beech. “Scotty, start the car.”
Before I dashed outside I realized that they would never let Néstor into the auditorium without a ticket. I shook him, demanding to know where it was. He said he thought he had left it in the glove compartment of his rental car.
I dashed out to his rented car, rummaged through a pile of old papers in the glove compartment, and, miracle of miracles, there it was. I dashed back into the house, grabbed him, and, with Beech’s help, shoved him into my own car
. With the engine spluttering we pulled off, kicking up a cloud of dust as Beech stared after us, his hands on his hips.
How we made it down Kew Drive to Outlook Mountain Drive and then onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard heading south without careening over the edge of the cliffside or slamming into any other traffic I have no idea. We screeched onto Hollywood Boulevard and gunned it towards the 101 Freeway, often tearing through traffic lights split seconds before they turned red. Thank heavens the cops weren’t around. Most of them must have been downtown at the Music Center directing a steady flow of stretch limousines to and from the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. As we swerved onto the 101, exceeding the speed limit by at least twenty-five miles an hour, I yelled to Néstor to think of something to say in case he won. Clutching the dashboard as though he were on a rollercoaster hell-bent on his way to certain destruction he merely whispered, “I won’t.”
“Won’t what?” I yelled back at him.
“Win,” he squeaked.
I left it at that and concentrated on my wild ride downtown. By the time we pulled up outside the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion the crowds had thinned. The press corps had left and taken their places inside the auditorium. The hundreds of fans who had stood outside were drifting away. The ushers were closing the main doors. On one of the monitors in the courtyard I caught sight of the master of ceremonies, Johnny Carson, beginning his opening gambit to the awards proceedings. Shit! Were we too late? I flew out of the car, yanked Néstor out of the passenger seat, bulldozed him toward the entrance, shoved his invitation into his hand, yanked open one of the doors that an usher was trying to close, and pushed Néstor into the foyer.
With a few dozen people staring at me in my shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops, I yelled at the usher through the glass doors. “He’s a nominee! Please get him to his seat!” Then I raced back to my car and, with my head pounding like a sledgehammer, I drove back to Beech’s place.
When I got there Beech was in the living room watching the ceremony.
I was just in time. As the commercial that was airing faded out the cameras cut back inside the auditorium and the next category was announced. It was the one for Best Cinematography. Beech and I shot a nervous glance at one other. The name of all five nominees were called out, short extracts of each of the films were shown, and then the envelope containing the name of the winner was torn open.
“And the Oscar goes to . . .” announced the presenter and then, for a moment that seemed like an eternity, time stood still.
Everything froze. I couldn’t believe it as Néstor’s name was called out. Beech and I looked at each other in utter shock. The complete outsider had beaten out all his seasoned competitors.
In the wee hours of the following morning as Beech and I dozed in front of an old movie a cab pulled up and Néstor crawled into the house, drunk and exhausted. He promptly passed out in the living room. In his hand he clutched a magnificent thing, a beautiful, gleaming, gold-plated Oscar statuette. Beech and I were so proud of him. I grabbed him by his feet, Beech took him by his arms, and we dropped him on the couch. He slept for hours. When he awoke he begged for coffee and then proceeded to proclaim that the Oscar belonged more to us than it did to him. He said we were the ones who believed in him, far exceeding his own faith in himself. As far as he was concerned, he thought it was essentially my win for getting him downtown. He couldn’t thank me enough.
Néstor went on to carve out a spectacular career for himself. He photographed films as diverse as Kramer vs. Kramer, The Blue Lagoon, Sophie’s Choice, Places in the Heart, Imagine: John Lennon, and Billy Bathgate. Sadly, he passed away in March 1992. While the newspapers called it cancer, the real cause of death was complications due to AIDS.
Not long after he died a letter and a package arrived from a lawyer in New York. The letter explained that in his will Néstor had left his Academy Award to me and in the parcel was the carefully wrapped Oscar statuette. I treasure it, but I confess that I regard myself purely as its custodian. It still belongs to Néstor and it always will. What it does do is remind me constantly of my close friendship with him and with all those other wonderfully creative and talented people in the motion picture and television industry whom I have known over the years. Fabulous people, all of them.
SOON THE SEVENTIES turned into the eighties. Movie genres had under gone a metamorphosis. The great romantic musicals had virtually disappeared. For want of a better term, the movies had lost their innocence. A new type of in-your-face violence was becoming popular. I didn’t care too much for the overt cynicism and darkness that defined so many of the newer films. I longed for movies that underlined life, love, and lust rather than death, doom, and destruction. Nevertheless, the town that I adopted as my own remained the creative capital of the world and fantastic motion pictures were still coming out of it. Despite what are known as “runaway productions,” when films are shot in places such as Vancouver, Toronto, and states on the East Coast where tax breaks created new incentives for cheaper location filming, Hollywood continued to thrive.
I was in my sixties and as active as ever. I was blessed with good health. All my physical attributes were still functioning at peak efficiency. Praise heaven, my libido was as strong as ever. I was arranging tricks for others, of course, but happily still tricking people myself, as well as bartending and serving folks at dinner parties. Life was good. Fresh young faces graced the screen and the social scene. New people were in town. However, a lot of my friends from earlier decades were gone by then, reduced to names carved in white marble on mausoleums and on gravestones around town. The names of some were now enshrined on the sidewalk along Hollywood Boulevard’s “Walk of Fame.” But a lot of the people I had known for many years were still holding on. Even though their careers had not made the transition in lockstep with the changing times, they were still around. Some clung to the past, others to their dreams, and a few just kept a tight hold on their memories. Sadly, however, one guy who had simply let go of everything was my old pal, actor William Holden.
I’d known Bill since 1950 when he rocketed to stardom playing opposite Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. He and I had met on the set when Gloria invited me over to watch filming. Ever since then we had seen each other at numerous parties and, on occasion, Bill had called me up to arrange for a nice young bit of tail to be sent over to his place to keep him company. Bill was as straight and as masculine as they come. He had a daughter out of wedlock with actress Eva May Hoffman in 1937. In 1941 he married actress Brenda Marshall. The marriage lasted thirty years but it was never a happy union. They both had many affairs and there were periodic separations. They had two sons together, and Bill also adopted Brenda’s daughter from her first marriage. The couple divorced in 1971. Ever since, Bill had played the field. Most women found him exceptionally attractive.
Bill was the quintessential all-American male movie star. His list of credits was astonishing. He made more than seventy movies and was good in every single one of them. He won an Academy Award in 1954 for Best Actor for Stalag 17 and was nominated for one in 1951 for Best Actor for Sunset Boulevard. He also starred in Golden Boy, Our Town, Love is a Many-Splendored Thing, Picnic, The Bridge on the River Kwai, The World of Suzie Wong, The Wild Bunch, and Fedora. He was tall, athletic, intelligent, good-looking, had a great voice, and was always an asset to have around at parties and social gatherings.
In 1952 he was the best man at the wedding of Ronald Reagan and Nancy Davis. Both Jacqueline Kennedy and Grace Kelly were hot for Bill. In fact, I personally saw him visit Princess Grace once when she was out here from Monaco and staying at my friend Frank McCarthy’s place. He arrived in the late afternoon and didn’t leave until the following morning. Bill had a lovely home in Palm Springs where he kept his collection of Oriental art, but he also had a little pad in Santa Monica. He would use it when he was shooting on soundstages at various studios around town. In later years he would simply go there to escape and hide, to chill out. As Bill’s career wound down he became a
somewhat wounded and reclusive man.
As starring vehicles became fewer and fewer and as loneliness began to take its toll on him, Bill began to drink. There were times when he called me up to arrange for some young lady to go over to his apartment in Santa Monica and when she got there the place was in total darkness. It would often take ten or fifteen minutes before Bill answered the door, usually staggering and swaying. He was sometimes wearing little more than a soiled pair of boxers or had a dirty sheet or towel draped around his waist. He invariably reeked of alcohol. I went around there a couple of times to see him and the place was a cesspool. Empty bottles lay cluttered all over every room. It was obvious that there were moments when Bill had bowel and bladder movements but hadn’t even bothered to go to the bathroom. He just did what he had to do on the floor or in bed. It was painfully sad to see. There were periods when he didn’t bother to wash or bathe for days or weeks at a time. It was a terrible tragedy. He had no friends. Nobody called on him anymore. The only people who came around were those girls I sent over to trick him. But often he wouldn’t even answer the door to let them in.
Eventually he accused me of emasculating him by denying him the right to see women when I had no other alternative but to stop sending them over. Besides, even if he did let them in he was in no condition to do anything with them. He had become totally impotent and he was always drunk. He couldn’t get it up if he tried. Bill died in November 1981 at the age of only sixty-three. I was notified about his death by, I think, someone who worked in film producer Howard Koch’s office at Paramount Pictures. The coroner said that Bill had suffered a severe laceration to his forehead and had bled to death. It looked like he tripped over a rug and hit his head on a table or the floor. Details about whether that was true and whether he was drunk at the time were never made public. Bill’s death was a real loss, not only to me as his friend but to the industry he loved, to his colleagues who had worked with him, and to the worldwide audiences who adored him.
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