The Fat Lady Sang

by Robert Evans

  The three of us left together through the backstage exit. While Miss Bounty was congratulating Dickie on his performance, I clicked my fingers and a horse and buggy appeared. The Bounty and I climbed in, and off we trotted down West Forty-Fifth Street.

  Dickie? Knocked on his ass way past the count of ten.

  The Bounty? Some wannabe named Grace Kelly.

  My first royal snub. Did it bother me? Not at all. I was with the real thing, not an actress playing the part but a princess whose mystique, beauty, and wealth-by-mistake went toe-to-toe with my old dancin’ pal Kelly.

  Kept thinkin’, Bad thinkin’, Gracie. I was your good luck charm! From the moment we met, your life traveled north. In those days, you looked at the Barbizon for Women as lush livin’. Scoring a cigarette commercial made you big-time euphoric. Bein’ underwhelming in your first flick didn’t stop you from express-trainin’ it west to heavenly filmic stardom.

  What you didn’t know, Irish, was that all that success set you up as the perfect mark for one of our century’s most masterfully conceived plans. A plan so entrepreneurial and Machiavellian that it went unnoticed in the world’s most sophisticated capitals. A road full of treacherous intrigue, promises unkept, romances by order, deceit by command, marriage by design, all led to one road: Catholic Grace Kelly, now Queen Bee of Fickle Flicks.

  While you were pluckin’ your first feature flick, many worlds away Prince Rainier was heir to the bankrupt house of Grimaldi, the ruling family of an empty monarchy, a minuscule principality less than half the size of New York’s Central Park. A comic opera figure living on a tiny rock in the Mediterranean, the desperate possessor of a throne of anonymity.

  With tourism slipping away to the south and scandals within the monarchy running rampant, Rainier’s sister Antoinette launched a coup d’état to overthrow her brother, only to have it stifled the morning it was to happen. Rainier’s smarts told him it was nothing more than a temporary fix.

  Something had to be done. And then, into the void, came a Greek . . . with a vision.

  Aristotle Onassis was a penniless Greek immigrant whose ruthless ambition and brilliant vision catapulted him into the international world of finance. By the 1950s, he was one of a small circle of men whose wealth and power gave him a celebrity status in every capital of the world. Onassis’s magnetism was overshadowed only by his mystique, a mystique strong enough that it would later mesmerize Jacqueline Kennedy into becoming Jacqueline Onassis. His rise from steerage passage out of Turkey to ownership and control of half the world’s shipping had made a giant of this strange, five-foot, five-inch brooding Greek peasant.

  What few knew was that Onassis had a partner: The Société des Bains de Mer, a mysterious consortium that had operated the Casino de Monte Carlo for close to a century. Acting under secret concessions granted by Rainier’s ancestor Prince Florestan, they controlled the monarchy lock, stock, and barrel for more than a hundred years. By this point, though, the Société was bankrupt, and they fell captive to Onassis’s ingenious plan to use their distinguished heritage as an umbrella for a tax-free base.

  With his insightful eye for the future, Onassis seized ownership of the Société in 1953. The Casino was his first step in a vision that became an obsession—taking a forgotten jewel, a tiny, impoverished principality, and royally transforming it into a fuckin’ money machine.

  Well, it didn’t quite work out that way. He gambled on them gamblers gamblin’ . . . and they weren’t showing! Along the Riviera, glitzy new casinos sprang up like McDonald’s franchises, while Monaco was shrinking into a prune, suffering its worst year ever. Tourism was off by 70 percent, and without them punters puntin’, catastrophe loomed large. The dulled ambiance of Monaco’s pebbled beach was beginning to take on the aura of a legend in decline, looked on by many as nothing more than a sunny place for shady people. Onassis’s jewel was starting to tarnish.

  “What this joint needs is a good crap game,” quipped the late, great Edward G. Robinson.

  By demand, Onassis gave his Serene Highness his fuckin’ flyin’ papers. “Get off your royal ass,” he told Rainier. “Find yourself a bride.”

  He was right: The right bride could do the same for Monaco’s tourism as the coronation of Queen Elizabeth did for Great Britain. Problem was, pickings were slim. Most every European throne had collapsed by war’s end. In looking for a royal hook, the brooding Greek’s insight was pure genius, pulling out of the deck the one ace that could bring back the heavy hitters.

  What’s more royal than film royalty to bring glamour back to the table? Get them punters puntin’, them hitters hittin’. Light up them skies with enticing excitement, glamorous galas, wondrous wealth!

  Protecting his back, Onassis counseled with Father Francis Tucker, Rainier’s personal chaplain and most trusted friend. Though at first he was shocked by Onassis’s entrepreneurial gall, the good father was quick to realize that money was Monaco’s main industry. Without the prince knowing, Onassis had pocketed Rainier’s Rasputin. Allowing pragmatism to overrule patriotism, the good father approached Rainier in a most fatherly way. “My Lord Prince, why not consider a film star who at least would be able to play the role?”

  The Greek’s next move was to seek the help of his American friend George Schlee to find a box-office star for his unmarried prince. Mindful of Onassis’s sober resolve, Schlee called in a long-standing chit on Gardner Cowles, publisher of Look magazine. Using his publishing celebrity, Cowles approached the top candidate: Marilyn Monroe.

  “Is he rich? Is he handsome? Is he from Africa?” she purred excitedly.

  The prince? Who the fuck is he? Monaco? Never heard of it. “Give me two days alone with him,” she giggled, “and he’ll be on his knees wanting to marry me!”

  Told ya diamonds are a girl’s best friend! Ah, but timing made her a giggle late. At the same time, in the spring of ’55, Grace Kelly and her lover, Jean-Pierre Aumont, were in the south of France enjoying the Cannes Film Festival. At lunch one day, she told him that she intended to skip a photo shoot with the young prince of Monaco. It conflicted with her hair appointment. Appalled, Aumont insisted that she cancel it.

  “Grace, he’s the reigning prince of Monaco. He’s deserving of better manners. You can’t be a no-show!”

  Poor Jean-Pierre! His princely manners cost him his lady fair!

  Our elegant Grace was no stranger to romance. Her white-glove aristocratic exterior elegantly covered a lady. But that didn’t stop her costar Gary Cooper from not-so-elegantly labeling her “a cold dish until you got her panties down. Then she couldn’t stop exploding.” Our Serene Highness was well-known in Hollywood for playing summer camp with most every leading man she flicked with. All but one fell madly in love with her: Ray Milland, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Clark Gable, and yes, Gary Cooper.

  The exception? Cary Grant. He was in love with himself.

  Grace was willing. But her wicked ways made her wickedly worry about the medical exam she would need for royal acceptance. Assuring the crown that she could bear an heir was not the problem. Assuring them she was a virgin? That was another story. Giving another Academy Award–worthy performance, she copped to the fact that she was not. But she was Catholic! She was fertile! She was rich! And she was a big fuckin’ movie star! Four out of five was good enough to close the royal deal.

  To the outside world, of course, assumptions were assumptions. Laughin’ inside were many who knew all too well that there wasn’t a microscope on earth powerful enough to find a virginal spot on her soon-to-be-royal anatomy. But gentlemen were gentlemen, and the lady’s reputation, at least, remained intact.

  Onassis oversaw every aspect of the wedding. Couldn’t afford to fuck it up. On the day of the nuptial bliss, April 12, 1956, he stood on a shady deck of his yacht with the ship’s captain, watching Grace step ashore on Rainier’s arm. “A prince and a movie star,” he said. “It’s pure fantasy.”

  Speaking of royal snubs, not one of the royal houses in Europe acc
epted an invitation to the wedding. Equally insulting, not a major nation in the world sent a significant dignitary.

  I could have done better on my fourth marriage!

  The closest approximation to royal guests at the Monaco wedding were ex-king Farouk of Egypt and the Aga Khan. In true comic opera tradition, Rainier designed his own uniform for the occasion, an assemblage of gold tassels, epaulets, ostrich feathers, and sky-blue trousers. Not so Grace: Hollywood’s Best went to MGM to commission a bridal gown with singular style, one that befitted a princely profile.

  The royals? “Fuck ’em,” laughed Onassis. “The only thing they bring to the party is excess baggage. With or without ’em, my nuptial production will make history.” He was right, big-time! This connubial knot between film and royalty caused the first media superblitz of the electronic age. Onassis wasn’t just another pretty face. His one ace, “seduction by demand,” flipped the dazzlin’ deck, jump-starting a beach pebble into the Hope Diamond, turning Monaco into a Magic Kingdom.

  As one decade dissolved into another, Grace’s fairy-tale marriage to the prince slowly eroded into a nightmare. What started as Onassis’s seduction by demand snowballed into duty by demand, birth by demand, smiles by demand—all preempting her tears of unhappiness. Rainier’s ever-worsening moods scuttled their chances for a loving relationship; a lack of communication gave way to indifference and, finally, animosity.

  Eerie the irony: A tarnished tiara brings with it many a tearful year. Haunting, the parallels between the two most glamorous royals of our century, Princess Grace and Princess Diana.

  Both nonroyal themselves.

  Both from privileged backgrounds. Both sparking wide popular appeal.

  Both brought warmer, more human touches to their respective royal houses.

  One ushered fame and glamour into a penniless principality, catapulting it into an era of great fortune. The other lent glamour and innocence to an emotionless House of Windsor.

  Both provided heirs to the throne. Both were imprisoned by their positions.

  Both were victims of failed marriages.

  One allowed her crown to prevail . . . the other, her feelings.

  Each killed in a car crash, before her time . . . the one prerequisite for pop culture immortality. Being trapped forever in eternal youth suspends one’s being. Elvis, Marilyn, James Dean, John F. Kennedy—both the president and his son—demonstrate it best. Each enshrined in the stained-glass windows of pop culture’s cathedro-theque.

  Royal as them tiaras may be . . .

  Heavy are them heads that wear ’em.

  Wearing the crown is far more glorious for those who see it . . . than for those who bear it.

  6

  For weeks, I allowed no visitors in to see me. None. That included my only son, Joshua; my only brother, Charles; my only sister, Alice; and my dear ex-wife Ali MacGraw, a lady I love, and whom I consider one of the closest friends I have had in my life.

  Call it ego, narcissism, self-pity, horrendous pain, shame at my distorted face—I knew that seeing them see me, and knowing what they were thinking, would create emotions I was not strong enough to take.

  I took some consolation in the steady stream of well-wishes that arrived on a daily basis from the outside world. As soon as the bad news hit the papers and newscasts around the globe, the hospital had been forced to put on an extra operator to handle the overload.

  In intensive care, you’re not allowed to receive flowers. In the first five days alone, the hospital was deluged with more than a thousand handwritten notes of encouragement. And they kept up, at a rate of hundreds a day, for the entire month that I was there. The one I savor most is possibly the shortest:

  Dear Bob,

  Just heard about your penis implant in hospital. Congratulations on pulling thru.

  Liam

  Liam Neeson knew how to cheer a man when he was down.

  After my interminable residence in intensive care, being examined, reexamined, and re-reexamined, the neurological prognosis came down. It was far from cautiously optimistic; rather, it was closer to aggressive pessimism. Every now and then, some muttered comment would reach me: “With his flair for life? Death might have been kinder.” At best, they saw, I’d be one impaired cat.

  That was their opinion, not mine.

  My unimpaired mind knew one thing: I may have had a tennis court, but I’d be watching, not playing. Forget holding a tennis racket. I couldn’t hold a knife, a fork, or a spoon. The MRI tests showed slight brain damage, and when it comes to the brain, slight can have huge ramifications. And only time, not doctors, can tell.

  The control centers that blanket the brain cause each and every stroke to be different. No matter what the diploma, it is all guesswork under the prestigious title of nuclear medicine. Why? Because brain damage doesn’t heal. Like the Man Who Came to Dinner, once it’s invited in, it doesn’t leave.

  The doctors who treat stroke victims can see, but they can’t do. They can’t touch the organ they care for, and they can’t stop a stroke once it starts. Comforting, huh?

  My invasion occurred smack in the middle of my cerebral artery. Almost instantly, it atrophied the entire right side of my anatomy. From my eye, nostril, lips, and tongue, to my shoulder, arm, leg, fingers, and toes, I was in deep freeze. My genitals? Forget about it.

  Miraculously, there was good news: My thought processes were fine. In fact, they were on full-time overdrive. Luck be it, my brain missed the bullet.

  This was both a blessing and a curse. Thoughts of death outweighed those of life. As the weeks passed, I still refused to see anyone. The ICU assigned their top three specialists, the ones I came to call the Therapists Three: a physical therapist, a speech therapist, and an occupational therapist. They devoted their complete attention to me. Each day I awakened to torture, to hours and hours of rehab, grueling and exhausting. By the end of the day I dreaded one thing: tomorrow.

  Finally, a new sensation: my right big toe developed movement. Could it be? The next day, the toe next to it moved. By the end of the week all five of my toes had movement, slight though it was. But at that moment I began to believe that the Guy Upstairs was looking out for me. He gave me the adrenaline to try harder, to not give up. You’re a gambler, I thought. Gamble on yourself. Redstone was right, you can make it.

  Within a week, with the help of the Therapists Three, I could take steps. To me, it was the stairway to Heaven.

  Walking all the way to the bathroom, I looked in the mirror. I saw someone I never knew. I was a shadow of the living dead. I tailspinned it to bed, put my head under the pillow, and cried like a baby.

  My night nurse gently touched my shoulder. “I’m sorry to wake you, Mr. Evans, but there’s a lady outside who says she must see you. You’ll understand why.”

  “I can’t see anyone,” I slurred.

  “A Miss D’Angelo. She’s dressed as a nurse and says it’s very important.”

  “Beverly D’Angelo?” I slurred.

  “I believe so.”

  My first instinct was to say no. Suddenly I broke into a half smile—a half only because my other side was still on hiatus.

  “Have her come in.”

  I knew why she was there. The year before, I’d caught her at the worst time in her life, and now she was reciprocating. If she’d called ahead of time, I would have shook my head no. She knew it. That’s why she was standing at the doorway.

  What a difference a year makes.

  7

  Jack Nicholson and I had flown into Paris from the Venice Film Festival to spend a week with our pal Roman Polanski. Close friends were the three of us, but circumstances being what they were, it had been close to a quarter of a century since Nicholson, Polanski, and Evans had been in the same room together. We spoke by phone often, and we’d all seen each other many times, but always on a one-on-one basis. Every time Jack went to Paris he met with Roman; every time I went to Paris I met with Roman. With Roman ensconced east of the United States
on a permanent basis, our complicated schedules never allowed the three of us the luxury of being in the same spot at the same time.

  It felt as though it had been twenty-five minutes, not twenty-five years, since we were last together. That’s what friendship treasured is all about. It’s a rare luxury that few share. We did.

  We partied the night away, hitting the sack at four thirty in the morning. Fully clothed and intoxicated beyond the hilt, I passed out on the bed, neglecting to tell the operator to shut off the phone in my room until further notice.

  Ring-ring-ring went the phone. I didn’t pick it up. It didn’t stop. I grabbed my watch, but I couldn’t reach it because my head was beating harder than my heart. Hangover Plus. With my eyes closed, I pulled the phone off the hook.

  “Who the hell is it?”

  “It’s Nikki.”

  It was Nikki Haskell. Shoeless, she barely touched five feet in height. It mattered little. She was always “Big Nick” to me. No one walked taller.

  “Nikki? Am I dreamin’? Where are ya?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “Traced you down.”

  “Who died?”

  “No one.”

  “Can I call you back?”

  “No, I’m leaving for New York in an hour.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s seven A.M. your time.”

  “Are you fucking crazy? Call me later.”

  “I can’t, I’ll be in the air.”

  “Call me when you get there.”

  I was about to hang up when I heard: “Beverly D’Angelo.”