by Robert Evans
Peter and I caucused in Palm Springs for a full week trying to strategize how an actor and a journalist could turn a white elephant into a contender.
Patience was a quality neither Bluhdorn nor Davis claimed to have and the clock was already ticking.
“Let’s go back to basics, Peter. If you build a house, no matter how well you paint it or furnish it, if the structure’s not there, it doesn’t hold up. It’s no different in film. You can have stars up the ass, but if it’s not on the page, it’s not on the screen. Enough fuckin’ around making half-assed announcements just to be fashionable. It’s no mistake Paramount’s been in ninth place for five years. It’s time to pick up new dice.”
With the little experience we had, we knew one thing—the property’s the star. How the hell else would I have had a suite of offices at Twentieth as a producer if I hadn’t owned The Detective?
“We can’t get lower than ninth, so what’s the worst that could happen? They’ll fire us!”
Peter laughed. To his credit, it was far easier for me to be cavalier than him. What did I have to lose? I had no wife. I had no kids. I had plenty of green and was holding the dice as well. For me, the worst thing that could happen is that I’d crap out. Luckily for me, Peter had no idea the gambler his partner-in-crime was. Nor, for that matter, did anyone else at Paramount.
From the day I arrived, the rumor mill had me packing my bags. Time ran a story saying my firing was imminent. Friends, columnists, agents, lawyers, all let me know that they were sure I wouldn’t make Christmas. When Variety printed a front-page headline confirming the reports that my tenure would be over by the end of the month, I called Charlie Bluhdorn. He was in Spain.
“Charlie, I hate to bother you like this, but on the front page of Variety it says I’m being fired by the end of the month.”
“That’s why you pulled me out of the meeting?”
“It’s that or not sleep, Charlie.”
He didn’t laugh. “Get this straight, Evans, and I’m only telling it to you once—as long as I own Paramount, you’re head of the studio . . . unless you call me like this again!”
Down went the phone, my eardrum a bit battered.
Ten days later Bluhdorn was in Los Angeles. I picked him up at the Beverly Hills Hotel and drove him to the studio for a meeting with Clint Eastwood. Clint was known in Europe for spaghetti westerns, but he had not yet become a giant on the American screen. Convinced he had the makings of a big international star, I wanted Bluhdorn to meet him and persuade him to make his home at Paramount. On the way to the studio, Bluhdorn talked nonstop.
“I’m going to be spending more time out here. I just closed a deal to take over a California oil and gas company. Evans, I’m losing a fortune at Paramount. Get yourself a house where I can have meetings. I need privacy. Build a theater in it. I want to look at everything we’re making without anyone asking me for a job.”
Heading toward my office now to meet Eastwood, Bluhdorn turned the wrong way.
“Charlie, my office is this way.”
“Don’t think I don’t know it, Evans, but if I don’t take care of what I have to do, you won’t be in an office.”
I followed him down the corridor to the office of Bernie Donnenfeld, head of business affairs. Quickly, his feet were off the desk. Just as quickly, he hung up the phone. Even quicker, he stood at attention.
“Yes, Mr. Bluhdorn.”
“Get the Evans contract out now.”
“Yes, Mr. Bluhdorn.”
Am I getting fired? He just told me to get a house.
Bluhdorn grabbed my contract from Donnenfeld’s hand. “From this moment on, I want his contract to stipulate that for every day that he’s in Paramount’s employ, he has a chauffeur on call twenty-four hours a day. I’m not gonna let this kid spend hundreds of millions of dollars of Gulf + Western’s money to have him killed in a year. He’s a menace. It was less dangerous getting out of Germany before the war than making it to Paramount this morning. Take his license now and put it in the vault. A chauffeur, twenty-four hours a day. Is that clear?”
For eighteen years, twenty-four hours a day, I had a private chauffeur gratis from Paramount. It was by far the most generous gesture—and for the wrong reasons—the hierarchy of Paramount ever extended to me during my tenure. Though he was on the ledger as chauffeur, this arrangement gave me the opportunity to hire a top majordomo to run my home, David Gilruth. That hour drive to and from the studio was the most constructive hour of each day. In that era before car phones, Peter and I could discuss the thumbs-up or thumbs-down of the day without interruption. The silence of the car gave us the luxury to do everything—from cogitate to altercate. Without Peter’s figurative chauffeur’s cap, The Sterile Cuckoo, True Grit, and Harold and Maude might possibly have never made it to the screen.
A decade before, Norma Shearer took me for a short walk. Within ten minutes of the Beverly Hills Hotel we entered a hidden oasis, protected by hundred-foot-tall eucalyptus trees. It was Greta Garbo’s hideaway whenever she snuck into town. The French regency home was owned by James Pendleton, considered one of the finest interior designers in the country. His wife was heir to the Paragon oil fortune.
Designed in 1940 by John Woolf, the “court architect of Beverly Hills,” the miniature palace combined French classicism with California casualness. The house, a formal pavilion with a mansard roof, was beautifully proportioned. But what really got me were the grounds—nearly two acres of towering eucalyptus, sycamores, and cypresses, thousands of roses, and all behind walls.
If Bluhdorn wanted privacy, this was it. Was it for sale? No. But in L.A., there’s nothing that’s not.
The real estate agent called Mr. Pendleton, who was now a widower, living there alone. “A young man he had met with Norma . . . could he come by?” Mr. Pendleton was gracious.
Since his wife’s death, the house had deteriorated, but it still had great style. More important, the setting was as I’d remembered it—a world away from Beverly Hills. When Mr. Pendleton told me how lonely he was, I didn’t waste words.
“Would you like to sell it?”
“Why not?”
For $290,000 the place of my dreams was mine.
Paramount took over. Under Bluhdorn’s orders, an army of studio engineers, carpenters, painters, electricians, and plumbers expanded the pool house into a luxurious screening room with state-of-the-art projection facilities, including the largest seamless screen ever made—sixteen feet wide. A new, winding driveway was installed off Woodland Drive to create a second, more private entrance. A greenhouse was constructed. A north-south, day-and-night tennis court was designed by Gene Mako, the premier designer of hard surface courts.
Nature couldn’t be improved on when it came to the garden’s prize. Standing among over two thousand rosebushes was an enormous spreading sycamore, several centuries old, with branches covering half an acre. Anything that’s been breathing that long needs lots of help. It’s been operated on more times than the Pope. For the circumference of the half acre, every three feet the roots are intravenously fed. Many a time I’ve given it an anxious look: “You’re one hell of an expensive lady.” But it’s more than a tree—it’s a piece of art. I’d take a night job to keep its leaves aglow. Twenty-one weddings have been blessed under its far-reaching branches. I’m sure its batting average is higher than any altar in the world. Nineteen for twenty-one. Not bad, huh? Only two have failed—mine.
I couldn’t afford the upkeep of being bicoastal. With a bit of sadness I rid myself of my little corner-of-Paris town house in New York, selling it to Alan Jay Lerner and shipping a truckload of French antiques westward. Paramount offered me the key to their Gold Room—a huge soundstage filled with a fabulous assortment of signed antique pieces acquired over forty years. It wasn’t me they were doing it for, it was by order of the Führer, Herr Bluhdorn. What I didn’t realize was that it wasn’t for me to enjoy either. It was background for clandestine meetings for historic deals—bo
th legal and illegal.
Everyone has a dream; mine was to be the proud possessor of great art. While in New York closing up my town house, I ventured over to the Wildenstein Gallery, the most prestigious in New York, seeking to find the love of my life—a canvas that I could spend nights alone looking at. Paul Mano, one of the gallery’s honchos and a personal friend for years, opened room after room, each one filled with canvases of celebrated artists.
After Mano unlocked another door, before me hung my new bride—a six-by-twelve-foot canvas of water lilies.
“This is what is known as an original,” Mano chimed in. “In art, there’s no price on an original. It’s Monet at his best.”
Was I in love? Very. Was it an expensive love? It was tagged at $580,000. Having learned something from Bluhdorn, I was not timid to negotiate. After two hours of cat and mouse, Paul called his boss, Mr. Wildenstein. Even Mr. Wildenstein was not shocked by the word “negotiate.” From $580,000 we settled at $436,000. I was now the proud owner of Monet at his best.
Abruptly, my stay in New York was cut short. By order of the Führer, I was ordered back to Los Angeles to host a very important lunch under the sycamore. Though the setting was very French, the cuisine was not. German wieners, with sauerkraut and mustard, served on heated onion rolls, with cold tap beer was the menu of the day.
The cast, well, that’s a different story. The table under the tree was set for eight. Each of its guests had flown in to L.A. in his own private jet. Each at a different time. Each minutes apart. Each a bit concerned as to the privacy of his surroundings. I was the host, yet I was not introduced to the other seven men, nor was I invited for lunch, I wasn’t even allowed near the table. Every time I got close, Bluhdorn quickly ushered me away.
With lunch now over, the men began leaving one by one. Each shaking my hand at the door thanking me for my hospitality, though not one gave me his name. The last to leave put his arm around me. “You’re a charming young man. Sorry you couldn’t join us.” Then he whispered, putting his finger to his lips, “Don’t tell Charlie. I’ll fill you in. Put some bacon and eggs on for breakfast. I’ll be here Monday at eight.”
At breakfast Monday, Santa Claus told me the purpose of the lunch. The eight men were part of new corporate America—the go-go conglomerate giants of the sixties. The purpose of the lunch? To architect the gobbling up of United States industry. Each one assured the others he would not infringe on their meals.
Gobbling up the last of his breakfast instead of America, my entrepreneurial friend whispered, “Got any cash?”
“Some. Why?”
“It’s private!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He leaned forward, “I’m General Host; name’s Kliener. Listen carefully. Our stock opened this morning at forty-three and an eighth. Next week I’m buying Kennicot Copper, then Pittsburgh Iron and Steel. In a month I’ve got clear sailing to pick up, dirt cheap, Pan Am Airlines. Even taking over something in your business, kid. This Canadian, Tommolison, doesn’t know his ass from his elbow, owns MGM. Has no idea what it’s worth, but it’s up for grabs. As of Saturday, it’s in Kliener’s pocket. Six months from now,” he laughed, “my stock will still be selling at forty-three and an eighth, only it will have been split, four for one. Shhh . . . don’t say a word to Bluhdorn. Thanks for the breakfast, kid.”
Well, it didn’t take long for the idiot, me, to cancel the Monet. Within twenty-four hours I was the proud owner of 11,500 shares of General Host.
Three years later, General Host was taken off the board of the New York Stock Exchange and Kliener, well, he moved to India to become a guru. The General Host certificates? Oh, they’re in a Kleenex box in the attic. The Monet—forget the fact that for a quarter of a century my eyes would have feasted on the lilies of my life. The canvas, considered one of Monet’s greats, has been resold twice. Its last bidder paid a mere 36 mil for the lilies’ fragrance.
Quoting the great Oscar Hammerstein’s lyrics from South Pacific: “This nearly was mine.”
Chapter Sixteen
It had to happen. I was ready now for Hitler himself—Otto Preminger—a man whose dictatorial skills far overshadowed his directing abilities. He was about to start shooting a zany comedy called Skidoo! Not only wasn’t it zany, but it was a zero on every level. Preminger doing a comedy was akin to George Foreman dancing The Nutcracker.
In my most persuasive manner, “Otto, we need bigger canvas films from you. Distribution is desperate for a Preminger Christmas film.”
His bald pate turned scarlet. “Who do you think you’re talking to!” He stormed out.
“Marty, the kid’s crazy . . . taking on Preminger,” Bluhdorn chuckled.
“Better him than me, Charlie. I’ll pick up the pieces tomorrow.”
“I’m not going down because of Preminger, Marty. The guy’s cost us a fuckin’ fortune. His new entry belongs in the sewer, not on the screen. He’s such a prick; he gets his nuts off seeing us sink. I don’t mind him calling your money vulgar, Charlie, but then he shouldn’t take it.”
Silence, then an almost inhuman growl. I knew Charlie was about to explode.
“Hey, I’m just a kid, maybe I’m wrong about the script. Read it yourself—I’ll get it off to you tonight.”
Bluhdorn slept only two hours a night. He had time to read everything. Preminger’s script hit the bull’s-eye.
Apoplectic? “I want to vomit,” he screamed. “I won’t put Gulf + Western’s name on it.”
“Not so easy, Charlie. I’ve checked it with legal. It’s too late. We can’t stop it.”
Now close to cardiac arrest, “Marty was right. We should have closed the studio down.”
With little regard for my eardrum, he hung up.
I made sure the word “vomit” got back to Otto. It was a big mistake. He retaliated by accelerating the starting date of Skidoo!
Peter and I couldn’t help laughing. The third world war was now in full gear. This time it was kraut versus kraut.
Looking at the rushes of Skidoo!, I was the one who almost had cardiac arrest.
“Go back,” I told the projectionist, “I want to see it again.”
There in a prison scene was a face I’d never seen on screen before. But I knew to whom it belonged: Jaik Rosenstein, publisher, editor, and writer of Hollywood Close-Up. The guy who’d coined the phrase “Bluhdorn’s Blow Job” was getting a weekly paycheck from Bluhdorn. It was so sick, I had to laugh. I couldn’t tell Bluhdorn. If I did, he would close Paramount down before I could zip up my fly.
We had come to a standstill in a do-or-die negotiation for a major project at the studio. Only his nod, which he refused to give, could make it work. I knew that the only way I could get him to California was to finally tell him of Preminger’s play. When I did, all I could hear was heavy breathing. It didn’t sound human. An hour later I got word he was flying out from New York with Marty Davis. Neither knew I had other plans for them.
I’d like to say it was me, but it was Howard Koch who acquired an option on all the plays written by the most prolific playwright of our time, Neil Simon. Barefoot in the Park was the first of Simon’s plays that Paramount had the rights to. A big success on Broadway, and a respectable film. Simon’s next at-bat was an out-of-the-park home run, The Odd Couple.
Bluhdorn had seen the play a dozen times. Such was his pride of ownership that he laughed harder every time. For the film version, Charlie wanted to use the Broadway stars. Howard and I wanted to use movie stars. We’d come up with the perfect odd couple: Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau. And the perfect director, Billy Wilder.
As every good gambler knows, the only way to be a winner is to press your winnings. The Odd Couple was the studio’s one asset—it had to be pressed. It became my first major stand at Paramount. If I couldn’t get Matthau, Lemmon, and Wilder, I would quit. Never make a deal unless you’re prepared to blow it, and I was prepared.
Char
lie and Marty thought they were coming out to throw Preminger off the lot. First, I wanted them to resolve The Odd Couple. For Bluhdorn, it was a brand-new battlefield against a new enemy—agents.
He arrived on a Friday afternoon. To read the one-page deal memo, he took off his glasses, as he always did to read anything. The more he read, the whiter he got. Finally, he put on his glasses. “Three million dollars and fifty percent of the profits? Evans, I’ll go back to coffee futures before I accept this blackmail!”
Bluhdorn was like a bronco. To stay on, you had to know how to ride him. This was a tone of voice you didn’t argue with. Instead, you massaged it. Then challenged it.
“Charlie,” I said, “you’ve negotiated the most complex deals in America. Are you telling me you can’t sit down with a bunch of agents and make a deal for two actors and a director? Do it for me, Charlie, for Christmas. Please.”
Then he growled, “You really want it, huh?”
“Badly, Charlie, badly. Make it happen. I know you can.” He too was a kid and I knew the buttons to push.
The seventy-two-hour war started. The battleground was Charlie’s suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The chambermaids must have thought the suite had turned into a miniature brothel as one male agent after another came in and out morning, noon, and night. Bluhdorn was unrelenting. The more he negotiated, the more turned on he became.
“I want everybody to get rich, but don’t rape me.”
After the first day, everybody was exhausted except Charlie. The real love of his life wasn’t family, sex, or even business. It was negotiating. Charlie would negotiate for anything from an airline to a potato. His edge was his energy. The one thing he never accepted was “no.”
After the first all-nighter, he said with disgust, “Hollywood—I thought it was glamorous. Everyone I meet is under five feet tall!”
