by Donald Bogle
Getting the Victory tour into motion was an unabashed mess. Negotiations became involved and intense, with a slew of lawyers and advisers. Local promoters had to deal with one Jackson family representative after another. No one seemed to know what was going on. Hundreds of calls by any particular local promoter were the norm. Perhaps because of prompting by Katherine and also perhaps because of a kind of guilt he felt about having left his brothers behind, Michael finally agreed to the tour and worked on the Victory album, which they completed in early February 1984. But he steered clear of Don King.
Michael saw himself as a gentleman and a class act, which indeed he was; from Michael’s vantage point, King was neither. It was said he came to detest the loud, bigmouth King “whose boisterous obsession with self-promotion does not hide the fact that he has no experience in music promotion,” People magazine commented. “Michael reportedly sent King a letter stating in no uncertain terms that King could not speak or deal for Michael.” Said King: “We have been voted into silence.”
Still clearly trying to break free of professional ties with his brothers, Michael had signed a $300,000 deal with the publisher Doubleday and Company to write his autobiography, which, at age twenty-four, seemed premature. What sweetened the deal was the fact that his editor would be Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, whose children, Caroline and John, were Jackson fans. Michael also hoped plans would materialize for him to star in Peter Pan, to be directed by Steven Spielberg. Of course, these were major players that Michael was thrilled to be associated with. But he no doubt felt his family simply would not let go.
In connection with the tour, a lucrative deal had been struck for two Pepsi-Cola commercials, featuring the brothers. But because of his health food diet, Michael was hardly excited about endorsing Pepsi-Cola. Most grating was the simple fact that he would be at the center of commercials. Eventually, a resentful but resigned Michael acquiesced. He could, perhaps, enjoy the financial benefits that he’d reap. His brothers got about a million apiece. Michael, however, would earn $5 million. He made demands on how the commercial was to be shot, how he could be used. Notably, the Pepsi commercials were the brainchild of Don King. That commercial would ultimately have devastating, lifelong effects on Michael.
• • •
On January 27, 1984, under the direction of Bob Giraldi—a wizard of helming music videos—filming of one of the Pepsi commercials began at Los Angeles’s Shrine Auditorium before a live audience of thousands. During the fourth day of what was becoming a long shoot, Michael—dressed in a sparkly jacket and wearing his now signature sequined single glove and with his hair glistening with the gel that was always so carefully and fully applied—descended a staircase while dancing and singing special lyrics set to the tune of “Billie Jean.” At the bottom of the stairway, his brothers would join him in song. Throughout the set, there were hot lights and flashes, all part of the elaborate paraphernalia that would add to the excitement of the commercial. But suddenly, one of the lights popped, causing sparks to fly, which caught onto Michael’s hair. People in the audience gasped as they saw something that Michael at first was unaware of. His hair was on fire. Then Michael felt an intense pain and cried out. His aide and friend Miko Brando, the son of Marlon Brando, rushed to his side. “I tore out, hugged him, tackled him and ran my hands through his hair,” Miko told People magazine, which reported that Brando’s hands were also burned. Technicians, grips, and others ran to Michael. The fire was extinguished.
Paramedics soon arrived, and Michael was rushed off to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. Through it all, he refused to remove his glove. Even in the midst of excruciating pain, he held on to his professional identity, perhaps the only identity he was certain of. At first, he declined any medication to bring relief from the pain, partly because of his Jehovah’s Witness indoctrination. Medicine was viewed by him as a drug. His own personal health regime—the vegetarianism, the refusal to go anywhere near the greasy fast foods he once loved which had caused the terrible acne, his belief that his body was his temple and had to be kept clean and pure—led him no doubt to view drugs as bodily pollutants. His own belief in himself also led him to feel he could withstand the pain until it ran its course and subsided. But eventually he took a pain analgesic.
Later People reported: “The fire had scorched a palm-sized second-degree burn on his crown, which surrounded a third-degree burn about the size of the hole in a 45-rpm record.” His physician Steven Hoefflin as well as Katherine, Joseph, and Randy Jackson accompanied Michael as he was transferred from Cedars to the burn center at the Brotman Medical Center in Culver City. Ironically, only a few weeks earlier, Michael had visited patients at the center. That evening, calls came from Diana Ross and Liza Minnelli. After a day, he was released from the center, but he visited patients before returning home. Later, in lieu of a lawsuit, he persuaded Pepsi to donate $1.5 million to the Michael Jackson Burn Center at Brotman.
Everyone involved downplayed his injuries, making it appear as if this injury was nothing serious and without long-lasting effects. But that was far from the truth. Part of his scalp was forever damaged. Surgery would be performed to “laser the scar tissue and stretch part of his scalp over the burned area.” He would live with pain from those burns for the rest of his life. It was then also that the drug Demerol came into his life, prescribed to numb some of the pain, to make his life bearable. In the years to come, he would wear wigs to hide his scars and his partially bald scalp. Sadly, too, for the young man who had grown up refusing to take drugs, he would eventually find himself addicted to painkillers, something that Elizabeth Taylor would well understand.
Chapter 11
* * *
IN EARLY OCTOBER 1955, Elizabeth entered UCLA Medical Center. The week before, she had suffered through a bout of the flu. Now she underwent tests to determine her latest illness, which was believed to be a gastrointestinal ailment. Later in the month, she was home again. Though Elizabeth had been advised by doctors to rest, such advice was ignored. In November, she journeyed to Morocco, where Wilding was filming Zarak with actor Victor Mature. Rumors were rampant that Taylor had a dalliance with Mature, something she would never discuss publicly but which made the pages of the scandal-driven magazine of the 1950s, Confidential.
Before she even knew it, she also had an affair with Frank Sinatra, a notorious womanizer, in Los Angeles. For years, there were stories that she became pregnant and that apparently she thought they might marry. And it was rumored that she aborted the child.
Then she met Kevin McClory, a good-looking, dashing, dark-haired Irish screenwriter who was a descendant of the great literary Brontë family. After serving in the military during World War II, he worked as an assistant to director John Huston on the films The African Queen and Moulin Rouge. Social, sophisticated, charming, and intelligent, McClory smoothly swept her off her feet. Spending secluded weekends with him at a borrowed Malibu beach house, she was excited by the secrecy of their affair. Again she thought about marriage. Apparently, McClory did, too.
• • •
Her career was now veering in a new direction. She was about to enter a high artistic phase, capturing roles that challenged her and drew critical attention. Next up for her was an adaptation of Ross Lockridge’s towering Civil War novel Raintree County, in which she would play the troubled Southern belle Susanna Drake who believes she has “Negra blood”—that her father’s Negro mistress, who is her beloved caregiver, is actually her mother. Married to Susanna is a schoolteacher John Shawnessy in Indiana—to be played by Montgomery Clift—who is opposed to slavery and ultimately joins the Union army. He finds himself torn between his bewitching, despairing wife and his former sweetheart, played by Eva Marie Saint.
Believing Raintree County could be an epic on the scale of Gone With the Wind, MGM’s Dore Schary poured the studio’s resources into this big-budgeted drama that would cost $5,000,000, a then huge sum, and would be filmed in the new sixty-five-millimeter process under the direction of Edwa
rd Dmytryk. Part of the film would be shot on MGM’s back lot. But the company would also travel to Danville, Kentucky, for location scenes. Not lost on Elizabeth was the fact that her stock at MGM had risen because of the advance buzz on Giant, the very film MGM had not been willing at first to let her do. Yet MGM still talked of casting her in lightweight fare like Sultana. In early 1956, her MGM contract had little more than two years to go. Already her thoughts were on the future, with or without MGM. But most important now was that she’d work with Clift again.
Though Clift’s career remained in high gear with the 1953 hit From Here to Eternity, which won him another Academy Award nomination, he had dropped out for about three years, appearing in no films. Part of the reason for the absence was due to his search for the right roles. Known to brood while considering a role, he turned down such films as Sunset Boulevard, Desiree, Friendly Persuasion, Bus Stop, Prince of Players (in which Richard Burton eventually appeared). Nothing seemed to pique his interest. When he did work, there could be problems on the set. He had battled with director Vittorio De Sica on the film Indiscretions of an American Housewife and with Alfred Hitchcock on I Confess. Though he was drinking and clearly in need of a rest, he wanted to return to the theater and began rehearsals for a new production of The Seagull. At one point, he had taken a break from rehearsals and had flown to Los Angeles for meetings about possible films. He stayed at Elizabeth’s. Wilding was away. But because of his drinking, even she found him hard to handle and made frantic calls to his friends, asking for advice. Ultimately, she helped him weather his way through the storm of his demons. But once back in New York, he was again at emotional loose ends. He saw friends, including Libby Holman, remained in contact with his psychiatrist, and also broke off a relationship with a young actor. There were again reckless one-night stands with various new lovers. Finally, he realized he should work, focus on something other than himself. Elizabeth persuaded him to do Raintree County. They’d spend time together again. Now he had signed a three-picture deal with MGM.
Spending time with Clift while filming Raintree County helped take Elizabeth’s mind off the sad state of her marriage. Having returned from Morocco, Wilding still suffered from the back problems that had put him in the hospital a few months earlier. He also had a lot of time on his hands while Elizabeth continued to carry the financial weight of maintaining the family and the home and living up to Hollywood’s standards. Godfather to both of Taylor and Wilding’s sons, Clift often spent time at the couple’s home in Benedict Canyon. In turn, Wilding visited Clift often to discuss the troubled state of his marriage. Elizabeth and Clift’s relationship remained complicated as they confided in each other about their problems, their fears, the drift of their lives. There remained, however, a sexual current that could drive Clift crazy. “He wanted her badly—he got very cut up after she married Nick Hilton—and they tried to start up their affair again after she got divorced,” actress Diana Lynn told Clift biographer Patricia Bosworth. “They kept trying until she married Michael Wilding.” For years, she had known that her childhood friend Roddy McDowall was gay, and at one point, she had introduced Clift to McDowall in hopes the two would hook up. But Monty remained troubled and no happier than she was—and his attraction to her was no less intense. “Elizabeth invited me to a dinner party at her house,” Debbie Reynolds recalled of an incident that happened around this time. “After dinner, Elizabeth and Montgomery Clift went for a swim. They laughed and giggled while making out in the water in front of us all. They were having a great time. Even though Monty had boyfriends as well as girlfriends, it was obvious that he and Elizabeth had been intimate. Elizabeth could seduce any man, gay or straight.”
Often Taylor and Wilding were at their best when entertaining with others around, when they didn’t have to face each other alone. To the amusement of some guests, Elizabeth frequently talked about her money problems. Carroll Baker remembered some of those evenings when Elizabeth always served a cold buffet. Though she had a live-in nanny for the children and daytime help, “I can’t afford servants who stay after five o’clock,” she said. “God, how I hate being poor!”
By most Hollywood standards, Elizabeth and Wilding lived well. “Each time I see the Wildings they have found a higher hilltop,” Hedda Hopper said. “Their present home commands the most widely ballyhooed view in the world, the mansion-studded canyons of Beverly Hills, polka-dotted with swimming pools and a sweep of flat land beyond to the ocean.” Carroll Baker recalled that Taylor and Wilding’s ultramodern, four-bedroom home was splendid, “a luxury model fit for the pages of a glossy designer’s magazine.” But Elizabeth didn’t see it that way. “By Hollywood standards” for her, said Carroll Baker, “it was apparently a medium-income compromise. Liz spoke of that dream house as if it were a hovel, and Michael was in complete sympathy with her.” Wilding told Baker: “I do believe MGM might give Elizabeth a bonus soon, and if they do, we simply must get a better house.” “Yes,” said Elizabeth. “I’m fed up with working so hard and having to live like this!”
The evening of May 12, 1956, at the home—or rather its aftermath—would always be remembered as a horror from which there was no escape. Things had started well. Elizabeth and Monty were taking a break on Raintree County, which proved as grueling a shoot as Giant. Location scenes had already been shot in Tennessee and Kentucky. Now they were working on the MGM lot. Evenings like this one were used to unwind, gripe about things that had occurred on the set, and to talk movie talk in general. Lots of gossip. Pretty good food. A time when industry friends could shoot the breeze. Among the guests were Rock Hudson and Phyllis Gates, with whom Hudson would later have one of those “arranged” Hollywood marriages that served as a cover or a beard to brush aside the stories of Hudson’s homosexuality. No one talked about that, but everyone was aware of it, and among the group at Taylor’s home, no one cared one hoot. Along with Monty at the house was his buddy from New York, actor Kevin McCarthy. There was some drinking but no one had a lot, especially Monty. Wilding, whose back pains were driving him to distraction, lay sedated on the couch much of the evening.
As the gathering drew to a close, Clift left in his car. McCarthy left in another. The road from Taylor’s home was long and treacherous with unexpected curves and twists. Carroll Baker recalled that on those occasions whenever she left the house, she always drove slowly and often almost missed one of the curves. On this particular evening, Clift in fact missed a curve, and his car whirled out of control and smashed into a telephone pole. Driving ahead of Monty, McCarthy looked back and could not believe what he saw. He jumped out of his car and rushed to help Clift. The windshield of Clift’s car was shattered, and he lay trapped inside the car. “The motor was still running like hell. I could smell gas. I managed to reach in the window and turn off the ignition, but it was so dark I couldn’t see inside the car,” said McCarthy. “Then I saw him curled under the dashboard.” Immediately, he rushed back to Taylor and Wilding’s home and cried that something terrible had happened to Monty.
The police and an ambulance were called. Then the others ran down the hill from the house. When McCarthy and Wilding had tried to stop Elizabeth from going, she had cried, “No! No! I’m going to Monty!” Once at the car, McCarthy said, “She was like Mother Courage. Monty’s car was so crushed you couldn’t open the front door.” Elizabeth screamed for help and then somehow did what no one else could. She crawled inside the car. Half unconscious, Clift moaned in pain. His teeth were half knocked out. Two were caught in his throat, said McCarthy. “She stuck her fingers down his throat and she pulled those teeth. Otherwise he would have choked to death.” Blood was everywhere. His nose and jaw were broken. Clift’s physician Rex Kennamer arrived at the scene. “He was barely conscious,” Kennamer recalled. “As I peered in at him through the shattered door window, something quiet astonishing took place. Monty regained not only his senses but also his good humor. He opened his eyes and recognized me. ‘Doctor,’ he gasped, ‘I’d like you to meet
Elizabeth Taylor. Elizabeth, this is Dr. Kennamer.’ ” It took about a half hour before an ambulance arrived. But the press—hearing of the accident—got to the scene and snapped pictures.
“Get those goddamn cameras out of here,” she shouted. “Get the hell away or I’ll make certain none of you ever works in Hollywood again.”
Then she rode in the ambulance with him to Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. When he was finally taken into the hospital’s operating room, she broke down.
Hospitalized for weeks and in excruciating pain, Clift had to have his jaw wired, and extensive dental work had to be performed. Later, he had cosmetic surgery. But he never looked the same. And his life itself was never the same. A nerve on the left side of his face had been severed, making that part of his face immobile. Afterward, he found himself often taking painkillers. In a show biz world, where friendships came and went, Elizabeth, however, was a constant for him. Visiting him every day, Elizabeth nursed and encouraged him. “He was the kindest, gentlest, most understanding man I have ever known,” she said. “He was like my brother; he was my dearest, most devoted friend.” Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, and others, who knew Clift in New York, never forgot Taylor’s devotion to him. In many respects, she helped save him to continue with his career, and his life itself. But the accident had robbed him of the joy of living.
• • •
Elizabeth’s own life was about to undergo a dramatic, rather radical transformation: she met producer Mike Todd. Her lover Kevin McClory was then working on producer Todd’s star-studded film Around the World in 80 Days. Enterprising, energetic, and one of the great showmen in twentieth-century entertainment, Todd had been born Avrom Hirsch Goldbogen in Minneapolis around 1908. (Todd never liked telling the truth about his age.) The dirt-poor Goldbogen family moved to Chicago, a teeming metropolis well suited to the grit and aggressiveness of young streetwise Avrom. At seventeen, he was a pitchman putting on shows for Chicago’s Great Fair. He had also audaciously renamed himself Mike Todd. Then he moved on to New York. Through drive and unabashed chutzpah, he launched such hugely successful Broadway productions as The Hot Mikado with the legendary Bill “Bojangles” Robinson; Star and Garter with another show biz legend, Gypsy Rose Lee; and Up in Central Park. With his hit production of Hamlet, he boasted, “I made more money out of Hamlet than Shakespeare did.”
