by Robert Evans
Chapter Twenty
The Alfred Eisenstaedt photograph ran across two pages in the March 3, 1969, issue of Life. It showed me in bed, surrounded by film scripts and breakfast on a tray, doing business on the phone. Over it was the headline:
WHY SHOULD HE HAVE IT
Robert Evans is an outrage. He has no more right to be where he is than a burglar. He has no credentials, none of the requirements for membership. Robert Evans has never even produced a film, doesn’t know that about movies, and so why should he be a boss of Paramount, with control over 25 pictures a year, costing $100 million, influencing the cultural intake of millions of Americans? He is entirely too good looking, too rich, too young, lucky and too damned charming. The playboy peacock of Paramount. Who the hell does he think he is? If there’s anything Hollywood wants out of Robert Evans, it’s to see him fail.
It went on and on—five thousand words, eleven pages illustrated with Eisenstaedt’s pictures of my princely lifestyle. If I had been the new chief justice of the United States, they wouldn’t have given me one-tenth the space.
I had cleared the article in advance with Charlie and Marty, but I should have known I couldn’t control Jim Mills. Notoriety in the fashion business sells clothes. In show business, it sells tickets. For an executive in a conglomerate like Gulf + Western, it’s suicide. I called Bluhdorn to see if I still had my job.
“Evans, from now on stay home. Keep your name out of the papers. I can’t take it any longer.”
“Charlie, that’s all I do is stay home.”
“Evans, why is it that since I’ve met you, I have no life anymore? Half my day is spent defending you—the other half is praising you. Why did I ever meet you?”
“If I’m too hot to handle, Charlie, you’ve got no problem. I’ll make an exit. I’ll even—”
“Did I say anything about you leaving?” Bluhdorn screamed. “You leave, I close down the studio. Is that clear, Evans?” Again, slamming down the phone in my ear.
I’ve never been an office person. Call it habit. Call it picking up traits from your mentor, mine being Darryl Zanuck. He always did business from wherever he was living. Ah, but Zanuck was the employer, the largest stockholder of Fox, a real boss. Me? Though my title was prestigious, I was still an employee. My idiosyncratic behavioral patterns—working from my home, working from my hotel suite, starting late, working very late—have always been looked upon as suspect. One is never independent in this business unless it’s one’s own money at stake. When you’re overpaid, as I’ve always been, not unlike everyone else in the business, you’re up for grabs when it comes to criticism.
I’ve lived on Woodland Drive now for quarter of a century. More deals have been conceived and consummated in my projection room than in all of Paramount; not in numbers possibly but certainly in importance.
Three years ago, the six leather chairs I had in my projection room for more than twenty years were worn through. Even though I had turned the seats over two years before, cotton was coming out from the arms and the seats as well.
“I can’t keep them any longer,” I said to my secretary. “Business ain’t good, but this ain’t the Salvation Army.”
I didn’t want to replace them with merely ordinary chairs. Naturally, that would be the right thing to do. Me . . . I had to design my chair of delight—six of them to be exact. Five months and many arguments later, they were finally delivered.
There is no chair on any airline in the world, or any private aircraft for that matter, that is half as comfortable or as beautiful as the ones I designed—all in black Italian leather; tufted on the back, the seats, and the sides; with a side button that makes the chair turn into all but a bed. The only negative about them, if you could call it one, is that they offer such comfort that if the film ain’t good, your eyes close quickly.
A few days after my six prizes arrived, Nicholson came over to see Silence of the Lambs.
“Them blackies, whaddya do with ’em?”
“Tryin’ to give ’em away as a tax deduction. The Motion Picture Relief Home won’t even take ’em. Try this chair, Irish, it’s pure heaven.”
When the flick was over and the lights came up, the Irishman gave me a wink, not about the flick.
“Can I have ’em?”
“Sure, if you pick ’em up.”
By 9:00 A.M. the next morning, a truck was there to pick up the blackies.
Three nights later, when the lights came up after watching Kevin Costner’s new epic, Dances With Wolves, the Irishman gives me a wink—not about the flick.
“Them blackies, Keed. The greatest gift I’ve ever palmed. More people have called me begging for one than have ever called for seats for the Laker playoffs.”
A raucous laugh. “Don’t get it, do ya? Them blackies, Keed, made history, changed all our lives.” Shaking his head on full smile. “Ain’t it the truth, though?”
Irish looks at life like no one else. Many a time, I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Whether it be politics, social issues, sports, or business, his rationale confuses the brightest. Though hard to comprehend, his instincts, with rare exception, are no less than brilliant.
What better example than Sandy Bressler, his agent for the past three decades. I’ve been around this racket for close to half a century, and Irish is the only star I’ve known who’s had but one agent throughout his entire career. When Irish and Bressler were young upstarts, Sandy was let go by one of the top agencies in town. Rather than stay with the big shots, Irish opted to stick with Sandy. As his star ascended, many questioned his choice. Why not align himself with one of the many power brokers whose muscle promised him the world? But Irish bet on Sandy’s loyalty and talent not to promise the world, but to deliver it. The rest is history. Call it loyalty, call it insight, but the Irishman’s belief in Bressler paid off in spades. Not one star I know is represented with more passion, respect, and protection. Once again, instinct prevailed over pressure, and to this day Sandy’s relationship with Irish remains singular in this fickle world of flicks. Proving again that staying power is what a winner is all about.
Chapter Twenty-One
On a Clear Day You Can See Forever came as part of Bluhdorn’s acquisition of Paramount. An Alan Jay Lerner and Burton Lane Broadway musical with one great song in it—its title number.
As we fervently searched for a brass-ring musical, it was brought out of the cobwebs when Barbra Streisand agreed to play the lead. The very girl, mind you, whom the Paramount distribution frauds from around the world called “suicide” only two years earlier was now the hottest ticket in town.
Turning down Funny Girl haunted Charlie until the day he died. In Charlie’s mind now, Streisand could do the Yellow Pages and he’d make the deal.
Did I like On a Clear Day? As close as Alan Lerner was to me, I couldn’t help but tell him that I hated it. My feelings were equally blunt about not making it into a film. It didn’t matter. Charlie was haunted by Streisand. Not only did I have little to say, I had nothing to say about bringing it to the big screen. Charlie was so excited to have Streisand on the Paramount lot that he himself flew out to L.A. to deliver 2,600 shares of Gulf + Western stock to her; this was a sentimental birthday gift from the chairman of the board to the star, 100 shares for every year of her life. With Paramount selling at $34 a share, it was nearly a $90,000 hello. In those days a big number.
On a Clear Day, the plush musical extravaganza, turned out to be everything I thought it would: Streisand’s first flop—a total disaster.
But it was all worth it. When it came to casting, there was never anyone more impossible than me. Possibly it was my background as an actor. No part, no matter what size, could be cast in any Paramount picture without my approval. Was it autocratic? Yes. I wasn’t running a democracy. Among half a dozen pictures that were in preproduction casting, I couldn’t help but turn down everybody I had seen film on who was a contender for the part of Tad, Barbra Streisand’s stepbrother in the flick. Produ
cer Howard Koch, director Vincente Minnelli and my head of talent, Andrea Eastman, all of them thought I was impossible. It ain’t their money, but it was my ass.
“Next!”
“Hold it!” I stood up. “That’s the guy.”
“I think he’s terrific too,” said Eastman. “Could be the next Jimmy Dean.”
“No, not him. The other guy. The one who didn’t talk. The smile.”
“I never saw him before.”
Before she had a chance to go on, I shouted, “Find him!”
At 9:00 the next morning, Andrea Eastman was in my office.
“His name’s Nicholson, forget him, he’s some nut who works for Roger Corman, writes, directs, acts, cleans toilets . . .”
Cutting her off quick, “I didn’t ask for his credits. Find him!”
“Okay, okay.”
Two hours later, Eastman’s back in my office.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your future star is out of the country.” She began to laugh. “Tryin’ to sell two of his cockamamie films at the Cannes Film Festival. Together, they both cost under ten Gs. Do you still want to meet him?”
“Did you hear me say different?”
“Okay, okay. Well, if he doesn’t cut it in acting, put him in sales, we could sure use him there.”
“Good-bye, Andrea, find him.”
A week passed. After looking at more than fifty other possible contenders, I sounded like a parrot: “Not right, not right, not right.”
Suddenly I was called to New York for an emergency meeting. Was it an emergency? I’d say so. They just wanted to close the studio down again, that’s all.
The phone rang in my suite at the Sherry-Netherland Hotel.
“Hi, Bob. It’s Bernie Sohn.”
“Nice to hear from you, Bernie.” I hadn’t seen or heard from him in fifteen years.
“I’m with the Morris office,” he said with as much pride as if he were the U.S. secretary of state.
“Good, Bernie, good for you.”
“Jack Nicholson just came back from the Cannes Film Festival. He’s in town for the day.”
“Jack who?”
“The guy you saw film on for the part of Tad. I heard you wanted to meet him.”
“Oh, the guy with the smile?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
I looked at my watch. It was 10:15. In two hours I had to be at the Gulf + Western Building for an S.O.S. meeting with the board of directors to stave off closing the studio gates.
“Can you make it over here in the next hour?”
“Are you kidding?”
At 11:00 on the dot, in walked Bernie Sohn. Wow, had he gained weight in fifteen years. Next to him was the Smile.
“Thanks for getting here so quick, fellas. Come on in.”
In typical agent form, Bernie had diarrhea of the mouth, telling me how brilliant his client was. Nicholson had already lost his smile, he was so uncomfortable.
“Hold it, Bernie,” I said, putting up my hand. “What’s the last picture you made, kid?” Imagine me calling someone else kid.
“I’ve just finished a flick that could be a real winner.”
“Really. Tell me about it.” I wanted to hear him talk.
“Been in the can for just a month. Somethin’ about it’s real interestin’.”
“Who’s in it with you?”
Back came the smile, “Hoppy; the Pete.”
“Hoppy? Hoppy who?”
Then a wink. “Dennis the Menace.”
“Oh! I see.”
Blasting off with a laugh, “It’ll turn ya upside down.”
I didn’t understand a fuckin’ word the guy was saying, but it didn’t matter, the guy was an original. He must have been. It sure in hell was a first for me, mesmerized by another guy’s smile. I didn’t even know if the kid could act. Imagine, signing a guy to a leading role opposite Streisand on a smile.
“Listen, kid, put the motorcycle pictures behind you, will you? How would you like to co-star with Barbra Streisand—play her step-brother.”
“Don’t know. Haven’t read it yet.”
Bernie Sohn was ready to explode. “He’d love to play it. Are you making us an offer?”
The Irishman just looked at Bernie, shaking his head, smile and all.
“Yup,” I said, “ten thousand buckaroos for six weeks, plus two free.”
The most the Irishman had ever been paid for a flick was $600. Suddenly I was “Mr. Evans” to agent Sohn.
“Thank you, Mr. Evans, thank you.”
The Smile interjected, “Bernie, I’d like to speak to Mr. Evans alone.”
Angrily, Bernie looked at him. “Jack, stop it!” Then, turning to me, fake smile and all, Bernie said, “Thank you, Mr. Evans. It’s confirmed?” I nodded my head yes. “I’ll wire the Coast immediately.”
“Hold it, Bernie, hold it,” I said. “If your client wants to speak to me, let him speak to me.” Anxiety crossed his face, thinking, I’m sure he’s gonna blow it, he’s gonna blow it.
Together, the Irishman and I walked to the window. My suite had a panoramic view of Central Park. It was a clear day.
“Pal, you don’t know me, but I sure know who you are. Could you do me a big favor?”
“Shoot.”
“Ya see, I just got a divorce. I gotta kid, gotta pay alimony, gotta pay child support and I’m on empty. Could you make it fifteen?”
“How about twelve-five?”
His billion-dollar smile lit up. “Thank ya, pal, I’ll never forget it.”
The beginning of a remarkable friendship.
Chapter Twenty-Two
To anyone who didn’t know me (which was everyone), Evans had it all. The only bachelor in Hollywood running a studio. Power, glamour, money. In reality I was in the hot seat seven days a week eighteen hours a day working my ass off not to get the boot. A week never passed without a knock from the press that the axe was about to fall on Evans’s neck.
My social and sex life were next to nil. To protect my reputation as a stud rather than a spud, even midnight rendezvous were put on hold. News travels fast when you fall asleep before dropping your pants.
On a Saturday night in the middle of November 1968, the gates were closed and the phones shut off. It was script-reading time. I was in the middle of reading a real winner by James Poe, a top Hollywood writer, when I noticed the red button on my phone blinking. Fuck it. English accent and all, “The Evans residence.”
“Good thing you gave up acting,” said the voice on the other end. It was Lee Anderson, Hollywood’s top socialite, inviting me to a last-minute get-together.
“Thanks, but I’m in bed for the night with a script.”
“Sure,” she laughed. “Too bad. It’s for Princess Soroya. She’s here for one night. A stopover from Hawaii to Paris.”
Why did I pick up the phone? She must have known this was the one broad I’d crawl over broken glass to meet. Divorced from the Shah of Iran, she was the most sought after woman in the world. Her wealth enormous, her beauty more. Why waste my time? Why not?
“When and where?”
“It’s already started.”
“Thanks for the notice.”
“You never show anyway.”
“Okay, okay. Where?”
“Two hundred yards from your house . . . you can walk it.” She laughed, giving an address on Alpine, the next street over.
“Pajamas okay?”
“Sure, if you want to be left out in the cold.”
“Black tie?”
“Black socks.”
Eighteen minutes later I rang the doorbell. More than a hundred people were already there. Yet there wasn’t a face in the room I knew. A first; still is. Old money filled the room, rather than Hollywood glitz. Making a U-turn out, I caught a royal glimpse. A quick 180 in search of Miss Society Anderson. Found her, kissed her cheek.
“No pajamas,” I said, lifting my left pant, “black socks too—dressed to meet the princess.�
��
Shaking her head, she took my hand, guiding me to meet the lady of my life.
“Soroya, dear. This is Robert Evans,” then in half a whisper, “boy genius of Hollywood.”
Interrupting her quickly, “I’m no boy and I’m no genius.”
A royal smile.
What the princess didn’t know was that I, and I alone, held the secret key to her royal highness’s weak link.
“Ah, but what I am is a wand, a magic one, who grabs a shooting star and makes it light up the screen. . . .” She looked at me as though I was crazy. “I saw your film in Rome.”
Suddenly, there was no one else in the room.
“You couldn’t have. The film’s never been released. I wouldn’t let it be. No one has seen it.”
I interrupted, “But me. Dino de Laurentiis asked me to, told me of your demand, asked my opinion—I gave it to him. You were right; the picture’s unreleasable”—a purposeful pause—“but you were unforgettable.”
A forty-carat emerald couldn’t have made her face more aglow. Then I completed my one-two punch, throwing in a white lie. “Dino sent me the only print he had; I asked him to. I still have it, show it to all my execs at Paramount, tell them this is what a movie star is all about. Now go out and find me someone like her. And here you are.”
Jim Poe’s script? Never finished it. Paris? Soroya didn’t quite make it. Woodland became her home away from home. From tennis bum to movie star, all my guests were treated royally. After a month, it was time for her to go. She, the world to travel. Me, a ladder to climb. We toasted to St. Moritz at Christmas time, but both of us knew it was a fucking lie, rather our last good-bye.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The big honchos, Harry Cohn, Louis B. Mayer, Jack Warner, were all gone now. They had been owners, not employees. Now the new game to play in Hollywood was musical chairs. No longer moguls for decades, rather kings for a day. Power was not ours to dictate, but rather be dictated to us. Film was no longer an art to be nurtured, but a commodity to be sold. The Zanucks were gone—the boards of directors were in. Making announcements to save jobs came before the passion to create.
