by Robert Evans
Al Pacino had signed for another picture, The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight, and was contractually unavailable. A second call from Korshak—Pacino became available. Why was he now giving me heat?
“C’mon, Sidney. It’s a fuckin’ movie. It’ll be a bash—the biggest opening of the decade!”
“Yeah, and he’ll make it bigger.”
“So what. It’s my coming out party. He wants to be there. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing and everything.” Silence. “How’s Ali?”
“Fine.”
“Is that all you can tell me?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just asking. Did you fuck her yet?”
“No . . .”
He hung up.
I looked in the bedroom. Ali was still asleep. Or at least pretending to be.
The night before, she had flown in from El Paso on the Gulf + Western private jet without a moment’s rest—starting with a six A.M. wake-up call on Sam Peckinpah’s The Getaway. It was after one in the morning when she finally landed at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, during the worst March snowstorm in New York’s memory.
For the past hour I’d been on the phone to Marlon Brando’s agent, Marlon Brando’s lawyer, Marlon Brando’s manager, trying to persuade Marlon to fly from L.A. to New York for the world premiere of The Godfather.
Brando had never gone to a premiere in his life. But months before, he’d agreed to godfather the premiere of The Godfather. It would be his “fuck you” to the world—his comeback in spades.
What a coup! It didn’t last long. Anna Kashfi—Marlon’s crazed ex-wife—kidnapped their son, Christian. Marlon canceled out. Two days before the premiere, Christian was found. I tasted the drama. It had to work.
Only one person could persuade Brando to make the opening—Christian’s psychiatrist. I was waiting for her return call when the loudspeaker announced the arrival of Ali’s plane. I rushed to the gate to greet my lady who but two months earlier, against her strong wishes, I’d packed off to Texas to star with Steve McQueen in The Getaway.
Two months had passed, and I hadn’t once bothered to visit her on location. The very lady who but hours before we married had whispered, “I love you, Evans. I love you . . .”—then, curling up beside me—“forever.”
“Forever,” I whispered back.
“Never leave me. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Not even for two weeks.”
“Not for one.”
“I’m a hot lady, Evans.”
“Never change.”
“Then never let anything get between us, promise?”
“Promise.”
Pale and windblown, she entered the terminal. Quickly, we embraced. Instead of kissing her, I whispered, “Wait here. I’m expecting a call.”
“I’m exhausted, Evans. Can’t you call from the hotel?”
When I told her I couldn’t chance missing it, because it was a call from Brando’s kid’s psychiatrist, she looked at me as if I were the one who needed a shrink.
She was asleep before she hit the bench. Ali MacGraw, the biggest female movie star in the world, curled up in the waiting room of a freezing, two-bit airport, while her husband waited for the fuckin’ phone to ring.
It rang! For the next hour Ali could have been back in El Paso as I went back and forth with Christian’s psychiatrist, trying to make her an offer that even Marlon couldn’t refuse—a private jet for him and Christian. Father and son sharing the accolades together. What better reunion? The doctor wavered.
“I’ll call you back.”
“I’ve got him. I’ve got him,” I said to myself, pacing back and forth, waiting for the phone to ring. It did. Anxiously, I grabbed the receiver. Brando? He passed!
By now, it was almost three A.M. I hustled Ali through the falling snow, into the waiting limo. Before the door closed, she was asleep again—this time on my shoulder. I was glad as my thoughts had little to do with her—only, “How do I better Brando?” Would you say I was sick?
The next morning, the alarm blasted at 9:30. Instead of turning over to make love, I rushed to the phone in the living room. Weeks ago I had invited Henry Kissinger to the premiere. My timing couldn’t have been worse. The North Vietnamese offensive had just begun. Naturally, he begged off.
“Hello, this is Robert Evans. May I please speak to Dr. Kissinger?”
“Dr. Kissinger is with the President, Mr. Evans. He’ll have to call you back.”
“Have him call me as soon as possible, please. It’s urgent.”
Quicker than a junior agent at the William Morris agency, within ten minutes, Kissinger was on the phone.
“Bob, what’s the urgency?”
“I need you in New York.”
He laughed, “When?”
“Tonight.”
“The Paris peace talks—they’ve just blown apart.”
“I know—it’s on every channel. But I need you with me tonight, Henry—real bad.”
“Why?”
“The Godfather.”
“What?”
I couldn’t tell him I was calling because Brando flaked out.
“Tonight it’s for me, Henry. It’s the premiere. Win or lose, it would be worth it if I could walk in with you.”
“We’re in the middle of a blizzard. . . .” He paused. “I’m in with the President all day.” Again, he paused. “I have a seven-thirty breakfast that I can’t get out of.” A cough. “I’m leaving the country tomorrow.”
“Henry, I need you tonight.”
Only later did I learn that his “leaving the country” was in actuality a secret mission to Moscow; that his 7:30 breakfast was with Joint Chiefs of Staff to resolve the mining of Haiphong harbor.
A long pause. “I’ll get back to you.”
The phone rang. It was my boss, Charlie Bluhdorn, chairman of Gulf + Western, the conglomerate that owned Paramount Pictures. As usual, Charlie wanted to take my head off for something I had no control over. Life and Newsweek were on the stands with cover stories about The Godfather. Where was Time?
“We need a triple blitz, Evans. A triple blitz. You can do it. I know you can.”
“I’m trying, Charlie.”
“Try harder. For me, Evans, for me.”
The Carlyle operator interrupted, “Mr. Evans, the White House on the line.”
“The White House? What White House?” Bluhdorn screeched.
“Call you back, Charlie.”
It was one of Kissinger’s assistants. Blizzard and all, the doctor was flying in to be with me.
“What time?” she asked.
Protecting myself, “Six-thirty,” I said.
“Would you mind if the doctor changes at your hotel?”
Quickly, I dialed Bluhdorn back.
“Charlie, Kissinger’s coming!”
“Kissinger? Kissinger? Evans, I love you! I love you!”
The management of the St. Regis Hotel rued the day they accepted to take on the opening night party. Celebrated, highly profiled? Yes. But nothing was worth the grief of having to deal with the likes of me!
With less than twenty-four hours till post time, I called for a full dress rehearsal. On inspection, I made them change the napkins, silverware, candles, and—oh yes—the food.
After tasting it, I shook my head, “No, it’s too bland. Get me a new chef. A Sicilian.” Then I took on the orchestra leader. “Play The Godfather theme over and over until everyone is seated.”
“But Mr. Evans—”
“Don’t argue!”
He didn’t. He knew I’d fire him.
Finally, I gathered together the eighteen security guards I’d hired to protect the party from crashers. In keeping with the spirit of the night, all were dressed in double-breasted, striped gangsters’ suits and large-brimmed hats, rented from Strock Theatrical Costumes.
The fire ordinance of the St. Regis ballroom would not permit more than 470 people at the post-premiere bash. When
more than 2,000 people are invited to the premiere, “the Crash Factor” becomes the paramount factor in protecting the bash from a potential disaster.
Protection being only as good as its weakest link, one by one, I placed each striped suit at his immovable station—starting with the outside revolving doors, then to the lobby itself, to every elevator, back and front, every staircase, back and front, to every lavatory and terrace. Did I plug every hole? I’d know in twenty-four hours.
I shook Ali awake. “Better get some breakfast, baby. There’s a car waiting. You’ve got to make it to Halston and back by four. Gotta go. Love ya.” She crawled back under the covers.
There was a rap on the door. It was Mary Cronin, a reporter from Time. She was there to see Al Pacino. Since Pacino lived in a cellar—no joke, a cellar—I’d arranged for them to meet in my suite for the interview.
Al showed up a few minutes later, unshaven, wearing a Navy pea coat and a knit hat pulled down over his ears. A second-story man? Possibly. But not the subject of a Time cover.
Quickly, he pulled me aside. “Can you loan me a fiver? I need it for the cab tonight.”
I slipped him two crisp C notes, which he pocketed without blinking. With that, I left, scratching my head. This kid’s the star of The Godfather?
Was my ass on the line! It was me who fought the entire Paramount organization to cancel the Christmas opening, give us time, get it right, touch a bit of magic. Not unlike a parachute jumper, a picture gets one shot—if it doesn’t open, it’s dead.
“Come on, fellas, back me!” No one did except Bluhdorn. Even my so-called loyal cabinet begged me not to press my luck. “Fuck luck, fellas, it’s instinct. If I can’t press it, I should fold.” Luck fucked me—a blizzard in the middle of March.
Outside, the storm was getting worse. I trudged to Meledandri, my tailor, for the final fitting of my new dinner suit—black velvet jacket and gray flannels. Then to the St. Regis, where I completed the seating plan as well as tasted the new chef’s rigatoni. Then by foot all the way across town to Loew’s State, where I was greeted by Al Lo Presti—Paramount’s ace acoustic guru.
“Is that you, Evans? You look like a fuckin’ snowball.”
“Fuck you too. Let’s get the sound right, okay?”
“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna show anyway. There ain’t no way to get here.”
Both of us burst out laughing. How could this be happening to us?
Not trusting anybody but ourselves, we planned our strategy to ensure that the sound levels would be correct for our now questionable night of triumph. (During the premiere, Al would bicycle between the two projection booths, listening to my instructions from the walkie-talkie neatly tucked in the inside breast pocket of my velvet dinner jacket.)
Back at the hotel, Ali came in from Halston’s. Being tired did not stop her from being accommodating, as she tried on various outfits for my appraising eye to pick. After settling on black feathers over a simple black sheath, we added a tight-fitting black “ostrich” hat, since she didn’t have time to get her hair done.
The Bluhdorns, my brother, Charlie, and his date, and a few others were invited over at 6:30 for a taste of caviar and champagne. My first guest arrived early—Henry Kissinger.
At 7:45 Ali and I joined Henry in the backseat of the limo. Pulling up to the theater, Henry leaned over. “Bobby, will there be a lot of press?”
“A lot.”
Somberly, shaking his head. “The President’s going to love this.”
The doors opened. Enough flashbulbs went off to light up New Jersey. On one arm—Ali MacGraw—the ravishing Mrs. Evans; on the other, the most charismatic statesman in the world. Was this really happening to me?
The paparazzi became so unruly that extra police were called in to physically push them back.
“Dr. Kissinger, why are you here tonight?” one of them yelled.
“I was forced,” he smiled.
“By who?”
Looking at me, “By Bobby.”
“Did he make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”
“Yes.”
When the lights went down and Nino Rota’s music swelled, my whole life seemed to pass before me. Here, sitting between Henry and Ali, watching this epic unfold, I felt that everything my life was about had led up to this moment.
Two hours and fifty-six minutes later Diane Keaton asked Pacino if he was responsible for all the killings.
“No,” he lied, then walked into the family library, leaving her behind to watch two of his hit men, Richard Castellano and Richard Bright, come in to kiss their new godfather’s ring. The doors slowly closed on Keaton’s face—the screen went to black—the credits started to roll. No applause—not a sound—just silence. Scary? No, eerie.
“It’s a bomb,” I said to myself. I looked at Ali, then Henry. Their faces too were solemn. “Let’s get out of here.”
In the backseat of the limo, Henry shrugged. “Reminds me of Washington; just different names, different faces.”
No compliment. He must have hated it.
Squeezing my hand, Ali whispered, “Evans, I’m so proud of you. It’s brilliant.” What else could she say, she was my wife.
Am I an idiot giving a party? It’s a mob picture, not a musical.
Wrong again. It was a blast! I played master of ceremonies, introducing anyone and everyone. From Mario Puzo to Francis Coppola, they all made it to the stage.
The screaming, the fights, the threats that never let up since day one of filming, were worth it. Even Francis Coppola, the director whom I’d hired over Paramount’s objections and then personally fired four different times during the post-production editing, came over to hug me, closing the book on two years of terrible battles—from casting to music and the final edit.
Two jarring moments put a slight dent in the evening. Spotting Sidney and Bernice Korshak at a table across the floor, I rushed over and kissed Bernice.
“Without the big man, none of this could have happened. Join our table, will you?”
Not cracking a smile, he shook his head. “No.”
“Why?”
“And give the fuckin’ press a field day?”
“Come on, Sidney, it’s your night too.”
Like a vise, he grabbed my arm. “Don’t ever bring me and Kissinger together in public. Ever! Now go back to your table, spend some time with your wife, schmuck.”
I hadn’t been back at my table for more than five minutes when Jimmy Caan, who exploded into stardom that night, rushed over. An embrace? No! He grabbed my other arm. “You cut my whole fuckin’ part out.” Did I hear right?
Sure. An actor is an actor is an actor is an actor.
Ali never looked more radiant. For the rest of the night we danced as one. Holding her tightly in my arms, I felt I was the luckiest man in the world. It was the highest moment of my life.
Was I dreaming it? I was. It was all a façade. The beginning of the end.
Chapter Two
“Hey, pretty boy!”
Six staccato punches—that’s all it took for Jimmy Cagney to finish off Humphrey Bogart and his two henchmen. Then he straightened his tie, flashed his cocky grin, and walked out as if he’d just left church. . . .
I had Cagney’s strut down perfect as I came out of Angels with Dirty Faces at the Regency, sauntered up Broadway, then turned into my block on West Eighty-third Street.
“Your wallet, pretty boy!”
He must have been a half foot taller and eighty pounds heavier, but, thinking I was Cagney, I punched him in the gut before he had a chance to grab my lapels. From behind, the other guy grabbed my hair. I let out a scream that could have been heard in Yonkers. Flash! A blade slashed down my left cheek. They took off like lightning.
I ran down Eighty-third Street, past Mike the doorman, into an empty elevator. The door closed. Before my eyes in the mirror, blood gushed like a fire hydrant down my face.
My mother took one look at me and screamed, “Archie! Hurry!”
She burst into tears. “Bobby, Bobby, my poor baby!”
Pop ran out in his undershirt and shorts.
“What happened?” His face ashen. “Who did it? Who did it?”
Cagney would have stayed mum. So did I.
“Florence, get Dr. Anderson!”
He pulled me into the bathroom, pressing the wound with a towel to make the bleeding stop.
“Florence,” he called out, “don’t get Anderson. He’ll want to put stitches in. Bobby doesn’t need them. Bring me some ice.”
Pop was right. The bleeding stopped. Thanks to Jimmy Cagney, the thugs didn’t get the seventy-five cents in my pocket. Thanks to Jimmy Cagney, I still have that scar running down my left cheek. As for Dr. Anderson’s stitches—I think I needed them in my head!
I was born in New York City on June 29, 1930, in Women’s Hospital just as the Depression was sinking in. My name was Robert J. Shapera, the J sounding good but standing for nothing I know of. After a few days I was brought home to live at 825 West End Avenue with my parents and my brother, Charles, who was four years older.
I don’t remember much about the Depression except that my pop had to work seven days a week at his dental clinic in Harlem to keep us housed, fed, and clothed. He was always the provider—not only for us, but for his mother and three sisters as well. Both my parents were second-generation Jews. That was all they had in common.
Pop grew up with a father he never saw and a mother and three sisters needing him to bring home the bacon. He was a brilliant pianist, talented enough to play duets with Rachmaninoff. But he never gave himself the chance to become the next Rachmaninoff. Instead he paid his way through Columbia University’s dental school giving piano lessons. Rather than using the brilliance of his fingers to fill concert halls, he used them to fill cavities. Because his father had been an indigent, a nonprovider, his family always came before his dreams. Responsibility, rather than fantasies fulfilled, became his life. Poor Pop, he was dealt a hand he couldn’t win.
Conversely, my mother’s family rolled in green, but was empty on education. One of nine children (five boys and four girls), she was the beauty of the Krasnes. While others went without food during the Great Depression, her brothers were driven around in chauffeured limousines.
