by Robert Evans
Alain Delon, the man responsible for getting me Francis Lai for the score, was persistent on this point: “You like breaking barriers, Evans. Make Love Story a French movie—not a dubbed American film. Don’t leave it to distribution to fuck it up. I’ll get you the best French writers, actors, and directors, and it will be a French film, not an American film dubbed into French.”
Alain’s persistence caused the single biggest fight in my entire career at Paramount, going head to head with the top international distribution honchos. Fuck ’em—I put my ass on the line. What’s the worst that could happen—I’d get fired? Instead of costing $18,000 to be dubbed into French, it cost $80,000. And I didn’t stop there; I went all the way—German, Italian, and Spanish. Pissed? Did those European snobs want me to fall on my ass! Well, I ended up on my feet and it was the beginning of a new era of dominance. It is with that spirit I went to the studio each morning.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I met Henry Kissinger in the fall of 1970 at a dinner given for him by Joyce Haber and her husband, Doug Kramer, head of Paramount’s television department. Ali was seated next to the President’s national security adviser. I was at another table. Every time I looked over, she was laughing. Could this guy be that funny? He sure didn’t look it.
Toward the end of the meal, he stood up and thanked his hosts, adding as he looked around the room, “One day I hope I, too, can get a tan.” His timing was terrific.
Ali brought him over. “Henry, this is my husband.”
She was already calling him Henry.
He gave her a smile. “You mean the king of Hollywood?”
I shook his hand. “You can make me king if you star in one of my pictures.”
“I’m always open to negotiate. Which one?”
“The Godfather.”
“For the lead?”
“No, the consigliere.”
“I’ll have to speak with the President about it.”
What charm. He didn’t cut quite the same figure, but he was Cary Grant with a German accent.
The next day I had the chutzpah to invite him to lunch at Paramount. I never thought he’d accept.
Touring the studio, he seemed as awed as I would be on a personal tour of the White House. When I told him Walter Matthau was on the lot making Plaza Suite he said, “Do you think I could watch him do a scene?”
Maybe our friendship started that way—the recognition between two men that inside each of us was a little kid. It wasn’t long before we were on the phone almost every day, three thousand miles apart. Surprise! It had nothing to do with girls.
It’s been said many times before, but politics and show business really are two sides of the same coin. Particularly the kind of politics Henry and I were involved with. After all, as Henry frequently said, working for Richard Nixon wasn’t too different from working for Charles Bluhdorn.
We’d laugh that both our phones were tapped, then shock the tappers. Henry would say, “The Israelis are really difficult to deal with, Robert.”
“It’s true, then. You’re having sex with Golda Meir.”
“Robert, I’m not that much of a patriot. Tell me, are Raquel’s breasts for real?”
Two little kids. I don’t think Henry could ever quite believe his sudden media celebrity, but nobody was ever better than Henry at playing out the courtship.
I believe it was Sunday morning, January 24, 1972, when I got a call from Henry in Palm Springs.
“Thanks for letting me know you’re in town, pal.”
His voice was solemn. “I didn’t expect to be. I know you’re busy, Bob, but if you could spare the time I’d appreciate you’re driving down here. Check into a hotel; call me when you arrive.”
“Sure, Henry.”
“Can you stay a day or two?”
“No problem.”
Strange, he didn’t invite me to stay with him. Henry was staying at the home of Leonard Firestone, the tire magnate. After checking into the Palm Springs Racquet Club, I called, Henry gave me the address of the Firestone home and told me to take a cab. Waiting for me at the Firestone compound were half of the Secret Service. Walking in, there was Henry, front and center, putting a finger to his mouth not to talk. We walked outside and onto the golf course.
“You’re a good friend, Robert, to be here. I wouldn’t have imposed on you if it weren’t important.”
“It’s an honor, Henry.”
He glanced back at the Firestone house. “It’s all bugged, Robert. That’s why we’re on the eighteenth hole.” Then, as if ordering a hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut, he continued, “A week from Wednesday I’m turning in my resignation.”
“What?”
“I’m resigning.”
“Why?”
“Why is not the question. I’m being told to.”
As naïve as a kid in junior high, I blurted, “You’re making history. You’re the best thing they’ve got in the whole administration.”
“That’s the reason. Believe it or not,” he said it with a laugh. “This little Jew boy is getting out of hand. I can’t help it and they can’t seem to contain it.”
In the worst of times, he was telling me of the story of his demise with a sense of humor. Now that’s a great man!
“Haldeman—giving him the benefit of the doubt,” Henry continued, “he looks upon people of our persuasion with, to say the least, little kindness. The President . . . that’s a different case.” He laughed again. “I can’t blame him. The more credit I get, the more he broods. Haig, he works for me, but does he like me? He rates right below Haldeman. The sad part of the whole thing is that the secretary of state, William Rogers, who’s a very bright statesman, has a big problem with me—we are diametrically opposed on every international policy.”
“What about Ehrlichman?” I asked.
“Bobby,” he laughed, “whose side would you be on?” Now at the seventeenth hole, like a kid in kindergarten, he threw me a question. “Can you help me?”
The national security adviser to the President of the United States asking me for help? Maybe he should be fired.
“Me?” I began to laugh. “Why me, Henry? I know nothing about politics.”
“Bob, you said it to me: ‘Politics is nothing more than second-rate show business.’ ”
“It’s a good line, Henry, but this ain’t no joke. You’ve got the most brilliant statesmen in the world at your beck and call.”
“That’s why I’m calling on you. Whatever they advise, I’ve already thought of myself. Maybe you’ll come up with the unexpected.”
“Those are my words, Henry.”
“I know. I copied them.” He laughed.
We walked the golf course until the sun went down. I threw out suggestion after suggestion—from settling the war in Vietnam to making peace with Castro. Even if it were possible to do, it was impossible for Henry to achieve, for the simple reason he was confined to the United States.
“Why do you think I’m in Palm Springs talking to you?” He laughed. “It’s getting dark. Go back to your hotel. Put on your thinking cap. Naturally, respect the confidence of the conversation. Come back tomorrow at ten and we’ll continue walking the golf course. Let them call a cab for you; I don’t trust the cars. And take a cab back in the morning.”
Walking back to the Firestone estate, he whispered, “Don’t forget. Tomorrow I’m down to nine days.”
I didn’t get two minutes’ sleep the entire night. The only words I could say as I paced the floor were “The unexpected, the unexpected, the unexpected.” I wrote down fifteen ideas to throw at him. We discussed all of them when we walked the golf course the next morning. From Walter Cronkite to Katharine Graham, idea after idea either had already been thought of or was impractical or unsympathetic to Henry’s plight—until the last.
“This guy, Hugh Sidey from Life, he’s also Time’s Washington bureau chief—he writes about you like you’re the second coming of Christ. It’s you who told me that from the P
resident to a junior congressman, every Monday morning the first thing read is Time, Newsweek, and the Washington Post. Let’s say, Hugh Sidey praised the brilliant insight of the President in picking Henry Kissinger, labeling it the most incisive appointment he’s made since being elected president.”
A dazed look from Henry.
“Sounds theatrical I know,” I said, “but we’re in the same business, pal.”
In the spirit of confidentiality, I’m jumping ahead. February 4, 1972, Life appeared with a story written by guess who: Hugh Sidey. Its theme? Henry Kissinger and his historic influence on the presidency. The first number two man who has ever wielded such power with such authority. Three days later, February 7, 1972, front and center on the desk of the President of the United States, every cabinet member, and all the senators and congressmen was Time magazine. The cover? Henry Kissinger. The cover story?
PURSUIT OF PEACE AND POWER
Not conducted by Richard Nixon, but by his “triple, secret agent,” Kissinger—on whose “diverse talents, energy, and intellect” the President had to rely.
In the middle of a furious argument with Francis Coppola, I was interrupted by a call from the White House.
“Robert, you can still call me at the same number.”
We both laughed like kids.
Less than sixty days after Nixon’s landslide reelection of 1972, I sat beside Henry in the Grand Ballroom of the Beverly Hilton Hotel. It was the American Film Institute’s first Life Achievement Award. The recipient was John Ford, the crusty director of Stagecoach, The Grapes of Wrath, Young Mr. Lincoln, and The Searchers, the quintessential symbol of American conservatism in the most liberal of liberal community of the arts. President Nixon himself attended, as did Ehrlichman. Haldeman, a true Aryan, strutted by the tables not wishing to pay homage to liberal Hollywood.
Front and center was Henry’s table. Beside him was not young Mr. Lincoln, but young Mr. Evans. Our table, contrary to the others of the White House hierarchy, was a glamorous one. I think Henry and I were the only two Republicans seated. Haldeman, Marine haircut and all, nodded a cursory greeting to Henry. No smile, no handshake. His expression said it all. He wasn’t looking to make new friends.
When Nixon stood to pay homage to Ford, the entire room, Democrats and Republicans, stood applauding their newly reelected President. He and the First Lady received the longest, most enthusiastic, exhilarating applause that I’ve ever heard paid to anyone. It gave the entire room—and certainly me—a chill of patriotism to know that any American could be looked upon with such high esteem.
Within sixty days the scandal of Watergate had turned into a brush fire. The liberal media on the warpath made the American populace question rather than accept Nixon’s legitimacy. His staunch cabinet now shaky, his own presidency in question. The order of the day in the White House was firing. His chief of staff, Haldeman—fired. Ehrlichman was about to get the axe as well. Nixon’s historic breakthroughs now all but forgotten, the only one left—unscathed, no less—was the little Jew boy, Henry.
In May 1973, at Henry’s insistence, I joined him at a White House dinner honoring West Germany’s chancellor, Willy Brandt. Henry had asked me to arrive early so we could schmooze about some girl he had met.
A knock on the door. It was Ehrlichman. Why was he there? His office was now completely empty. He had come by to bid Henry good-bye. Henry shook his hand and wished him luck. No more Ehrlichman.
Now we both started getting dressed for the black-tie state dinner. I was already dressed when Henry was having trouble with his tie. Fixing it right, he then put his jacket on. Smiling, he looked at me.
“You look like a male model, Bob.”
I couldn’t be that much of a liar—he didn’t. He was at least twenty pounds overweight and if he added another two, the jacket button would have popped.
“Losing a few pounds wouldn’t hurt.”
“You won’t tell anyone this, will you, Bob?”
“What?”
“I can’t afford to.” I began laughing. “It’s true, between alimony, child support, and taxes, I can’t afford to lose weight. I’d have to buy a new wardrobe and I don’t have it in my budget.”
“If I told this to anyone, Henry, they’d put me away.”
“Me too, so don’t tell it to anybody.”
“What kind of world is this, Henry? My butler makes more money than you.”
Then he whispered in my ear, “Come on, I want to show you something.”
Like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, we snuck down the corridor into the sacred quarters of the Oval Office. It was empty. Henry knew the President and First Lady were getting attired for their grand entrance to honor their state guest. We Fred Astaired it through the Oval Office, passing the official desk of the President, toward a wood-paneled door. Henry opened it. There we stood, the ambassador and the actor, right smack in the middle of the President’s private john! On the wall, within arm’s length away was the President’s private phone. There for his convenience, a hot button to each of his staff. Only one of the six buttons had a name below it; the others were all empty.
Our eyes met. Beaming, Henry pointed.
“I’m the only name left.” A Kissinger laugh. “Remember Palm Springs . . . Bobby?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“He’s got something. Use him.”
Couldn’t understand the mumbling. “What did you say, Marlon?”
A long silence. “Pacino, he’s a brooder.”
“What?”
He didn’t answer me; did he hang up? No, mumbling again.
“A brooder. He’s my son . . . it’s family. . . . His father . . . a brooder.”
“I’m looking for an actor, not a brooder. He’s tested three times, hasn’t cut it.”
“Nervous.” Silence. More silence.
There was no one on the other end.
I shook my head. Did I dream it? I was asleep when I got the call. I hadn’t heard from Brando since his agent, Robin French, rushed him to my New York office—ponytail and all—to pay homage. His mission? To cop the role of Don Corleone. Sonny Tufts, Troy Donahue, Tab Hunter, Fabian—put them all together—Marlon was colder.
Dino de Laurentiis burst into Bluhdorn’s office.
“If Brando plays the Don, forget opening the film in Italy. They’ll laugh him off the screen.”
The orders from New York. “Will not finance Brando in title role. Do not respond. Case closed.”
Brilliantly, Francis did a silent screen test of Marlon—that’s all it took. With zero green in the till for a major star, it opened the door for Ponytail, who was desperate. For all the wrong reasons, a marriage was consummated. Miracolo! Two wrongs made a right. Marlon won the Academy Award, Paramount won the Bank of America Award and every other award as well.
Bluhdorn was right. “Crazy . . . This business is crazy!”
Concocting a bullshit philosophy that Italians, not Jews, must be the creative tissue to make a Mafia film work was what got the picture made.
The Godfather became the numero uno box-office champ of the world, breaking The Sound of Music’s record, and in six months did more business than Gone With the Wind in thirty-three years.
It drove Brando crazy. Why? When he originally signed to do the picture for scale, for cosmetics, we gave him a gross percentage. Small—but no one knew how small. A month before we started principal photography, his lawyer, Norman Gary, called.
“Bob, you must help me with Marlon. He’s making your flick for scale and he can’t pay his taxes, needs a hundred Gs. Can you help us? Put it against another commitment?”
“I’ll get back to you, Norman.”
Bluhdorn’s face lit up.
“Give it to him. We don’t want his next commitment. Get back his points. They’re worth nothing anyways.”
Bluhdorn’s success didn’t happen by mistake. In theory he was right. Marlon’s gross percentage didn’t kick in till $50 million in rentals. Only Gone With the Win
d and The Sound of Music topped those numbers. Certainly, a Mafia film wouldn’t come close.
Norman Gary bought it. For 100 Gs, Paramount took all of Marlon’s gross points—eventually costing Marlon $11 million. He fired his lawyer, his agent, and everyone else close to him.
I lay in bed until the sun came up. Trying to decipher Brando’s disconnected word, “brooder,” conjuring up thoughts of the two years that preceded his call.
It was an afternoon in the spring of 1968.
“Mr. Mario Puzo is here to see you.”
Seeing him was strictly courtesy time. A favor to George Wieser: “He’s a helluva writer, hungry, and writes your kind of shit, Evans.”
As Puzo walked into my office two things stood out—a twelve-inch cigar and a stomach to match. Schmoozing about our mutual addiction (neither drugs nor girls, but gambling) created an immediate camaraderie.
Poor Mario, he had no wins to reminisce about. Without realizing it, he told me a story that was the key to his head. Only a brother gambler could have understood it.
“Been betting football twenty years, batting one for twenty. I followed the point spread that year till game time. There’s always a couple of shoo-ins—no-brainers. I bet the other way. That’s the fuckin’ year I won.”
“That’s gamblin’, pal. . . .” Nothing more had to be said—we knew each other.
Mario belonged to a big club: Walter Matthau, Dickie Van Patten, and many more. All gamblers, all enjoying the same perverse sickness of losing. Do I understand it? No! But I also don’t understand people enjoying pain.
From a rumpled manila envelope, he took out fifty or sixty even more rumpled pages.
“Thinkin’ of writin’ an inside story on the boys, The Organization—part real, part fiction. Callin’ it Mafia. Name’s never been used.” He laughed. “Kefauver Committee branded it. You got yourself a real original. Could be good.”
I eyed him. “In trouble?”
“Yeah, about ten Gs. They’ve been waitin’ too long for it.”
