The Fat Lady Sang

by Robert Evans

  “Coffee and a scone, Graydon?”

  “Just coffee.”

  Dialing the kitchen, I ordered two coffees, “down and dirty.” A Carter laugh.

  I couldn’t help but stare at him. Graydon was tan; his eyes and smile glowed.

  “Get dressed, Evans!”

  “Thanks but no thanks, Graydon. I’m not up for the room.”

  “The room is lucky to have you.”

  “I don’t even have a date!”

  “I’m your date.”

  “I don’t wanna go, Graydon. Please don’t make me.”

  He laughed. “You have no choice. You’re walking in with me.”

  “I don’t even have the right clothes! I don’t have a tuxedo!”

  “Turn-downs are not accepted. Especially from you. You’re walking in with me, and that’s it.”

  The party was due to start at five. Finally, I gave in and headed off to put myself together.

  Graydon stood there beside me. “Okay, where’s your closet?”

  And he stayed there with me, helping me get dressed, until I was ready. I don’t think I could have put myself together if he hadn’t been there beside me. Buttoning my shirt, tying my tie, actually helping me get into my shoes and tying the laces.

  “Just one favor, though, Evans?”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t tell anyone I’m your valet.”

  What happened that night was the turning point of my life.

  Sitting beside Graydon that night at the primo round table at Morton’s was dreamlike. Not good dreamlike, just dreamlike.

  On one side of me was Graydon’s boss, Si Newhouse, the owner of Condé Nast. Next to him were Barry Diller, who owned the USA Network at that time, and the record mogul David Geffen. Graydon stood up and made a toast.

  “To the Kid.” He sat down and turned to me. “Be at your house tomorrow at noon.”

  At the stroke of twelve, there stood Graydon. Walking to the projection room, he laughed. “It must have been a year and a half ago, right before your stroke, you came to my apartment and asked if I’d give a look-see to a manuscript you were working on. I said I would—if you came to a party with me on Saturday night. Matthew Tyrnauer was having his thirtieth birthday at the Mercer hotel. At first you didn’t want to go. . . .”

  “Yeah, I remember wondering, What the hell am I going to do there? Everyone will be under thirty. I’ll feel like an ogre.”

  Was I wrong! Entering the Mercer hotel that evening in March 1998 was the most startling lesson in how tilted one person’s subjective view of himself can be. It was among the most shocking evenings of my life.

  I walked into a room filled with bright young men and women in their twenties and thirties, feeling like Grampa Evans—and left four hours later knowing that my irreverent road through life had left its dent with generations far younger.

  Graydon left the party two hours before. Me? I couldn’t get out. They wouldn’t let me. Birthday Boy Matt came over and embraced me. “You made my party, Evans. Thanks for being here.”

  “Matt! Best party I’ve ever been to, kid. It may have been your birthday, but it was my coming-out party.”

  Totally dazed, I walked from the Mercer to the Carlyle. Felt like the longest walk of my life.

  Now, Carter and I stood together by the pool.

  “Graydon, I’m one lucky motherfucker having you in my life.”

  Laughing: “You’re damn right you are! You’re a strange phenomenon, Evans. You’re almost mythical. Just by doing nothing, you multiply your persona by ten. That’s who you are today! That’s why I want to make the movie. Imagine—since the night of Tyrnauer’s party, you’ve had three strokes, flatlined, and come back to life! You pitch me a better movie and I’ll make it!”

  Thus began the greatest odyssey of my life.

  PHOTOGRAPHIC INSERT 2

  Behind my desk at Paramount, 2000.

  A great birthday night for my ageless boss, Sumner Redstone.

  Alan Berliner

  An affectionate moment with the extraordinary Beverly D’Angelo.

  Alan Selka

  Teaching the young John McEnroe a bit of tennis in Players, a flick about Wimbledon.

  Giving tennis lessons to the world’s top tennis player, Novak Djokovic, at Woodland.

  Alan Selka

  With Slash and Jeff Danna, signing DVDs of my movie.

  Alex “Rio” Bier

  Presenting awards to my pals Snoop Dogg and 50 Cent at the Vibe Awards.

  Getty

  With P. Diddy and Francis Coppola on Ron Perelman’s yacht, New Year’s Eve, 2004.

  Tatijana Shoan

  Enjoying an industry party with Serena Williams.

  Brett Ratner

  A generous gesture from my dear friend Helmut Newton.

  Helmut Newton

  My close friends Helmut and June Newton, watching a film in my projection room.

  Alan Selka

  I kissed him good-night. He kissed me good-bye. Outside the Palm restaurant on the night before dear Helmut’s unexpected death.

  Brett Ratner

  Getting the prizewinning laugh at the Aspen Comedy Festival.

  Alan Selka

  What a way to wish upon a star.

  Alex “Rio” Bier

  At a Mike Tyson fight at Caesar’s Palace with Margaux Hemingway.

  With Warren Beatty and Michael Jackson at Woodland.

  Brett Ratner

  Great ad sabotaged by misinformation. It played on Tuesday, not Wednesday!

  Jennifer Howard Kessler

  Me and my shadow, Kid Notorious.

  Receiving the David O. Selznick Award from the Producers Guild of America, with Dustin Hoffman looking on.

  Alan Berliner

  At Woodland with Joshua and Jackson: three generations of Evanses.

  Meeting with Patrick Milling Smith, producer of the Tony Award–winning phenomenon Once, to discuss bringing The Kid to Broadway.

  Alex Koester, New York Times

  Woodland, inside and out.

  Tim Street-Porter

  Addressing a Q&A session at the opening of the new Soho House theater on Sunset Boulevard.

  25

  The next day, the phone rang. “Graydon Carter, sir.”

  I picked up.

  “Bob? I just closed the quickest deal of my career. I called Barry Diller and told him, ‘Barry, you heard what I said the other night? I toasted to it, and you’re my first call. I’m totally committed to making The Kid Stays in the Picture as a film. Would you like to do it with me?’ Diller didn’t skip a beat. ‘You have a deal. Is that a quick enough answer? Let’s not even discuss the finances.’ ”

  Even Graydon’s cool voice cracked. “Bob, it’s the quickest deal I’ve ever made. Exciting, isn’t it?”

  Sure it was. But for some reason I was the least excited of all.

  The next day I called Graydon’s chosen directors, Brett Morgen and Nanette Burstein, to talk over the news. We sat down for our first meeting of what to put on the screen. That’s when the drama started.

  To begin with, to make the film the way we wanted, we would have to get releases from everyone appearing in the film—from the biggest stars to the most powerful and reclusive characters who played a part in my bumpy road. Of the 256 people who appeared onscreen, 255 signed on.

  Me? I hated the thought of making the film. I was impossible to work with.

  My first and foremost demand was one that, if I were the producer, would’ve been reason enough to close the production down:

  I would do the voice-over. But I would not appear in a single frame of the film.

  Brett looked at me as if I were crazy.

  “How can we make a picture of you without you in it? You’re not the Shadow!”

  “Oh yes I am.”

  “So tell me, Mr. Thalberg, how do we make the picture?”

  “I’ve been on camera since I was fifteen. There’s more film on me than Cartie
r has diamonds.”

  “Yeah, but Cartier has diamonds.”

  “Well, they’re a girl’s best friend, aren’t they? Film on me is gonna have to become your best friend. Anyway, you can walk or I can walk, any way you want it. Either way, it’s a deal breaker.”

  “Graydon didn’t tell us this.”

  “Graydon doesn’t know it yet. My voice you got, my face you don’t. And do you know, Brett? You could make it work.”

  The search began.

  The first thing we had to do was review the libraries of film upon film upon film of me. The good news was, the camera was never shy to me. My seemingly cavalier life always seemed to interest Mr. Kodak. The bad news was, this gave us huge amounts of material to review. Conversely, it took us a good six to eight months to realize that we had two problems: Not only would it cost a potential fortune to use the voluminous amount of film we needed, it would also involve asking people to appear as themselves in another’s alarming story. But Brett and Nanette and their talented assistants, plus Graydon’s singular power of persuasion, made it possible for all the elements we needed to fall into place. None of it could have happened without their specific expertise.

  Documentaries are usually made about people who are dead, though no one pointed that out to me at the time. I wouldn’t have been shocked if my filmmakers had thought they were in for such a scenario with me. Yeah, but they needed my voice. From a pragmatic point of view, this was my insurance policy. They kept me in filmland’s ICU till our story’s last frame was put to bed. Finding matching footage and scoring haunting music, they were racing for the finish line—specifically, opening night at Sundance’s premiere theater.

  Did we make it?

  My professional instincts had warned me it would be a disaster. I’d fought with everybody for two years, was embarrassed by many parts, felt raped by the things that were exposed on the screen—you name it, I shuddered at revealing it.

  Did it work? I wouldn’t know till we got to the last ten minutes. Instead of standing in the back of the theater enjoying the hilarity of its play, I was in a cold sweat. Only doom crossed my mind.

  Would it work? The screen turned to black. I actually did not know where I was standing.

  In unison, the entire audience stood. I knew I was dreaming it. The applause began, and unlike any other film I’ve ever been involved with, instead of reaching a crescendo, the applause grew louder. Young filmmakers started to shout my name.

  The film was a cinematic shocker, not merely a documentary but a new form of drama that left the jaded audience of Sundance spellbound.

  Brett Morgen pushed me forward.

  “You hear that? It’s for you, you schmuck. Now go out there and give it to ’em.” In his eyes he had tears of joy.

  Only one who’d been doomed to die in the chair at the Big House could have experienced the jolt of electricity that shot through me. Not being Fred Astaire, but rather a born-again cripple, I fell on the stairs on the way up to the stage. When I got up and stood there, looking out at the audience, my face was totally expressionless.

  From the middle of the theater, a young man’s voice yelled out: “How does it feel, Mr. Evans?”

  The applause swelled further.

  “How does it feel?” the young man yelled again. “Tell us!”

  Scanning the audience, I called it what it was.

  “It’s the second time in my life that I’ve actually hallucinated.” The laughter hit high.

  “It’s the truth. The first time was with Cary Grant.”

  Cary Grant and me: That was quite a story.

  The late Cary Grant was considered the ultimate charmer by all who crossed his path. He was charm with a capital C.

  In the late fifties, incident brought together Mr. Movie Star and Mr. Wannabe. The incident? A young Yugoslavian basketball player. No, not a guy! A five-foot, eleven-inch hunk of woman who was all but an exact replica of Sophia Loren. Her name? Luba Otashavich.

  She was Cary’s protégée but at the same time she became my lady fair. Grant and I shared one lady and one thought. We both knew it was not platonic, on either side. That’s one hell of a way to start a friendship. But it did—big!

  One day he called us together. “Dear Luba, Bob, I’m going to let you in on a big secret. It will be out next month on the cover of Look. I’m the first celebrated person who admits his dependency. I am addicted to LSD, though only under a doctor’s care.

  “It’s changed my life and I want you both to experience its transformational power—only once, as a token of togetherness. You must promise me beforehand that it will be your last and only time. As your mentor, I insist that you make the experience singular. One time and one time only. Do you promise? It’s a weakness of mine, but it should be a source of strength to you both never to use it again.”

  That Saturday morning the three of us lay back on our separate chairs. The doctor put one blue pill on Cary’s tongue, one on Luba’s, and one on mine.

  And do you know what happened? I hallucinated.

  That was almost fifty years ago, and I’ve wanted to repeat the process many a time . . . but I haven’t. That is, until tonight—and this time I didn’t need the pill. I kept my promise to you, dear Cary. Wherever you are tonight, Cary, this time it’s all natural.

  And thus began the most celebrated years of my entire career.

  26

  Once again, Graydon’s vision was on the nose. His choice of Brett and Nanette as directors was instinctively acute. As producer, he knew the right buttons to push to get the right film from the right people. If ever a whole was greater than the sum of its parts . . . It was a tribute to narrative structure, to the magic of film. What vision it took to imagine that the scattered bits of another’s life could render a compelling drama that could bring tears, and laughter—and even, yes, joy to the viewer.

  That night at Sundance, Graydon came up with the idea of using the theater at Woodland—itself a character in the drama—to unveil his latest production for a select group of opinion-makers: twenty-two people per evening for ten successive evenings.

  As usual for Graydon, it became the toughest ticket in town.

  He did the inviting, except for the two opening-night tickets I held back—for Jack and Warren. That night, I introduced the film, then sneaked back to my bedroom while the audience watched in the screening room. When it ended I looked out my window and watched the audience filing out. But no Jack and Warren; they’d sneaked out to knock on my bedroom door, which was locked.

  When I opened the door, they both embraced me. I actually thought I saw a tear in Warren’s eye. No, that couldn’t be.

  Jack hugged me, smiled wide. “Keed, we are so proud of you. The picture ain’t good, it’s great.”

  Warren interrupted. “Can’t believe you pulled it off. You even made us actors look good.”

  The three of us hugged. Those five minutes together were more than worth the two years I’d spent undressing myself emotionally for the world to see. In that moment, there was no one in the world wealthier than me.

  The film opened at Cannes the following month. It was entered into the festival as a special attraction. Graydon pulled out every stop imaginable at the Hotel du Cap, hosting a premiere party for four hundred people.

  As I was getting ready to leave for Cannes, though, what do you think happened? Wham! Bam! Stage fright plus! I just couldn’t face the music, much as I wanted to go. I thought I was ready for everything. . . . Wrong! I couldn’t face the biggest night of my life. There I lay, half-assed, discombobulated both mentally and physically. Four hundred international luminaries had flown around the world to attend Graydon’s gala. Excuse me, three hundred and ninety-nine. I was looking like a no-show.

  Graydon was furious, and rightly so. But my problem was simple: I couldn’t move.

  It was too late to cancel the party; the showing was in two days. Brett Morgen called from Cannes. “Evans! You gotta be here. We’re not allowed to walk t
he red carpet without you! Don’t do this to me!”

  Jeff Berg of ICM grabbed the phone. “Listen carefully, Evans. You’ve become a bigger diva than Marilyn Monroe! I don’t want to hear about any of your cockamamie neuroses! If you’re a no-show, forget my name and move to Palm Springs!”

  I didn’t make the party, though Brett Morgen called me from the event to wish me well.

  What could I do? I called Nicholson.

  Miraculously, he was flying to Cannes for his picture, About Schmidt. He was leaving the next afternoon on a private plane to the festival. I told him my dilemma.

  “No problem, Keed. I’ll take you on my plane. It won’t be the biggest, but it’ll be the best. You deserve it. You gotta be there. Call Graydon and tell him you’re flying in for the showing, with me by your side. I’ll have a car pick you up.”

  And that’s just what happened.

  By the time I got to Cannes, I may not have been at my best—but I made the red carpet the next day, and I got a more enthusiastic response than any of my pictures ever had at Cannes. The picture received a prolonged standing ovation, rare for the festival and certainly unexpected by me. And the one who was applauding most was Barry Diller, the man standing next to Graydon, who’d given the film the quickest thumbs-up of his whole career.

  As we headed to the after-party, I kept saying to myself, How could I have missed that party? How could I have missed all this? I must be really sick—in the head.

  From there we traveled to Deauville for the festival there, where I received another award. Holding up the statue, I was in French seventh heaven. This can’t be happening to me, I thought. I’m doing better in my second life than in my first. On we went to Paris, where I was treated with far more respect and celebrity than I had been thirty years before, when I’d hosted the presidential premiere of The Godfather at the Opera, a rare occurrence for any film. My date that evening had been Romy Schneider, my company the Pompidous and the Rothschilds. This time? The excitement of Cannes and Deauville had transformed me from over-the-hill filmmaker into an international film icon.