by Robert Evans
I sped into town, ran up the stairs of Ali’s hotel, and banged on the door.
“I need time to think, Evans. Please, please, leave. Let me finish the picture and get home—for Josh’s sake.”
Women’s tears always seem to work. On the plane back to L.A., I checked my watch. How could I be so fucking dumb? It’s an hour and forty minute flight and I never once took it till infidelity got me off my ass.
The fracas in El Paso became immediate fodder for the press. Instantly, the affair was common knowledge. One of my first calls was from Henry Kissinger.
“If I can be of any help, Bob . . .”
“Thanks, Henry, but it’s too late.”
“Do you want it to work?”
“Sure, but it’s useless.”
“If I can negotiate with the North Vietnamese, I think I can smooth the way with Ali.”
“Henry, you know countries, you don’t know women. When it’s over, it’s over.”
A few days before The Getaway was to wrap, Ali called, said she was sending Josh and Missy home first. She was going off to the springs to thaw out and think.
How exciting it was seeing Joshua arrive back at Woodland. Five days later, Ali too arrived back in L.A., not to come home to Woodland but to go away and commiserate with herself. Paranoid and nontrusting, I sent my loyal friend, Gary Chazan, a true original whose bite is even tougher than his bark, to check out my questionable lady’s arrival.
“I’m lookin’ at the two of ’em. They’re waiting for their luggage. . . . Should I break his fuckin’ head?”
“Not yet. If they get into the same car, ram ’em. Get him out of the car . . . do what feels worst.”
“Got it.”
“He’s a black belt, Gary, could be tough.”
“He’s a fuckin’ actor.” Laughing out loud.
A few hours later, Gary called back. “They took separate cars. He headed into the city. I followed her all the way to the hot springs. She just checked in. Want me to hang out and see if he shows?”
“Leave it.”
That weekend was both my brother’s birthday and Mother’s Day. I rented a weekend house in Palm Springs for me, Charles, Joshua, and the nanny.
Ali called.
“It’s so good to be away from everybody. How’s Joshua? Is he all right? Is he happy being home? Evans, please come and pick me up. I miss you.”
Maybe Alain was right.
“Bobbeee . . .” a long Mengela giggle, then in a half whisper, “McQueen just huffed out of my office, slammed the door in my face,” another giggle, “told him, I’m trying to convince Ali to stay with my Bobbie. It’s a good thing I’m hot!”
Memorial Day weekend, Sue Mengers, her husband, Jean-Claude, Ali, and I went to Palm Springs. Sue couldn’t have cared less about losing Ali as a client. She wanted her back with me. Sue was my Kissinger—peace was just around the corner. But behind closed doors Ali and I weren’t even holding hands.
I never asked her where she was during the day—I was afraid to find out. Coming home from the studio one day, I was surprised to see Sue and Ali in the living room having a fierce argument. Sue waved me away.
The next day I found out that Freddie the Fraud had given Steve the key to his beach house. Why? To fuck my wife. Nice guy, huh?
I began to tremble. That no-good lying piece of shit. Just the year before I’d saved Freddie’s ass. His wife Polly Bergen owned a cosmetics firm, Oil-of-the-Turtle. Freddie had heard Bluhdorn might be interested in buying into the cosmetics business and had asked me to intercede on his and Polly’s behalf. I knew Freddie had once lied to Charlie—a cardinal sin in Bluhdorn’s book. I told Freddie there was no way I could get them together.
“Freddie, you know Charlie’s feelings toward you.”
“Please, Bob.”
Charlie was in a meeting with the top executives of one of his many companies, Associate Investment. I broke in.
“Charlie, I know you’ve been looking to buy a cosmetics company—”
Bluhdorn exploded, “Hold it! Does it have to do with Freddie Fields?”
Knowing how to get to him, down on my knees I went, hands up, as if I were talking to God. “Please, Charlie, do it for me?”
Charlie slowly panned the other eight men in the room, loving every second of the drama. “These people from Hollywood! I told you they’re crazy. They’re all crazy! See what I have to put up with? I won’t see Freddie, Evans.”
Still on my knees looking up.
“It’s important, Charlie, for me.” Relishing the drama for his cohorts to laugh at.
“Is Polly with him?”
I nodded my head yes.
“Have her here tonight at eight P.M.—alone!”
Within seventy-two hours, for a high seven-figure amount, Gulf + Western was now the proud owner of Oil-of-the-Turtle. A year later “the turtle” drowned. For years, there wasn’t a week that passed where Bluhdorn didn’t throw my bended-knee plea in my face. Did Freddie appreciate it? Sure, he went out of his way to give Steve McQueen the key to his beach house, to fuck my wife.
Click, the fence went up. Click, the fence went down, all $186,000 of it, a hydraulic fence disappearing four feet into a brick slab on a click. Click it again, it automatically rose four feet above the ground, tightly surrounding my egg-shaped pool. A first in its design, it was there for Joshua’s protection. There was one problem. Joshua wasn’t there; he was with Ali.
Did it haunt me? Well, let’s just say I became a total recluse, sitting alone by the pool, night after night, pressing the button, watching the fence go up, go down, up, down. Hard as people tried, no one could break my spell. Those around me were getting concerned that I was flipping out. It didn’t bother me; I was in my own world. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. The hottest new bachelor in town couldn’t bring himself to go to a dinner party, much less to look at a woman. My pleasure was fulfilled by the click-click of the fence going up and down.
In the end, I had no say about it—Sidney Korshak ordered the fence taken out. He was right; it was a crutch that kept me with the past. No matter how hard it hurts, you’ve got to trudge ahead. Stand still—you’ll only get older.
Success breeds strange bedfellows. Sharing history was the key that attracted Coppola to take over where Truman Capote left off and adapt Fitzgerald’s Gatsby for the screen. Quite a coup, since he had just won the Academy Award for writing The Godfather. Waiting anxiously in the bull pen was Jack Clayton, one of England’s finest maestros, set to direct. The impossible became possible. In three months, Coppola delivered a screenplay that really worked. Full speed ahead was the dictate. Paramount now filled a big hole in their release schedule—Gatsby would be the Christmas picture.
From Sue Mengers and Ray Stark to Eileen Ford in New York, everyone extended themselves to find Miss Right for the now reclusive bachelor. No matter how right Miss Right was, in my eyes she would still be Miss Wrong. Call it wallowing in your misery, but never once did I leave the gates of my Woodland hideaway.
A howling bark so eerie that I jumped from my bed, through the front door and out to the driveway. Was it a wolf? Uh-uh, a tall, lanky hunk of lady with a humongous white German shepherd.
“You’re at the wrong place.”
“If I’m at the wrong place, I’ll leave,” a throaty voice answered, as she turned to leave down the long winding driveway. “Big mistake, Evans.”
“Hey, who the hell are you?”
Doing an about-face, she said, “Chiles. Lois Chiles.”
Still not understanding, “Yeah?”
“I’m doing a film with Ray Stark.”
“One of Ray’s jokes, huh?”
“I’ve never been a joke. Sydney Pollack is directing me: The Way We Were. It’s Ray’s. He must be a good friend. He gave me orders to break your spell.”
Ray wasn’t Hollywood’s top producer by mistake. He was right, she was the only one who could have. She did.
Moxie? This dame put th
e word to shame. In two days she moved in, lock, stock, and barrel. She had met Jack Clayton months before in New York. Jack told her that she’d make an interesting Jordan, the second female lead in The Great Gatsby. Being a cocksman, he must have told a hundred others the same. Heifetz’s finesse at the fiddle paled compared to Lois’s finesse with me. It wasn’t difficult, I was an open wound.
“If Ali’s not playing Daisy,” she’d sigh, “why, I’d just love to test for it.”
Schmuck that I was, I thought she dug me. Fuckin’ Gatsby was a double-edged sword. My desire to make it was now totally lost. Coppola’s script, Clayton set to direct, Redford desperate to sign on as Gatsby.
To Bluhdorn, Yablans, and me, Freddie Fields eeled, “I’m making it up to you, fellas. . . . How’s this for casting: McQueen and MacGraw together for nothing? Wants to do it as a gift for his ole lady.”
Bluhdorn panted, “Both of them together, for nothing? Freddie, I don’t like you, but I could kiss you.”
Guns were drawn.
“No way, Charlie. Forget it!”
“Are you crazy, Evans? Gatsby with the two of them? And a Coppola script. Paramount’ll have the biggest picture of the year.”
“I don’t care if it doubles The Godfather. I’m not going through any more hell. It’s them or me.”
The chairman stopped cold in his tracks, his trigger cocked, his glasses off, silently squinting.
“It’s your call, Charlie.”
Two minutes of silence from Bluhdorn. Never did his eyes leave mine.
“No. It’s your call, Evans.”
Moments like this stay with you forever.
The casting of Daisy Buchanan got more press than the search for Scarlett O’Hara. Every major actress wanted the part. Like Scarlett O’Hara, no matter how big the star, they all had to lower themselves to be tested. Not one actress refused. One morning I opened a letter and a pressed daisy fell out; the note read, “May I be your Daisy. Love, Mia.”
We narrowed the list of Daisys down to Mia Farrow, Faye Dunaway, Candice Bergen, Katharine Ross, and guess who? Texas moxie herself.
A few days before Christmas, I flew to New York, where the tests were being shot. Forty-eight hours later, the duel was to start, no holds barred. The setting? Gulf + Western’s screening room. The gunslingers: David Merrick, the film’s producer; his hired gun, Alan DeLynn; Jack Clayton; Frank Yablans; Robert Evans; Charles Bluhdorn. All our pieces were cocked. Making the first move, I stood up.
“Gentlemen, I’m setting the rules. We’re going to look at all the tests, then the order of critique will start with Mr. Clayton, followed by Mr. Merrick, then Mr. DeLynn, myself, Mr. Yablans, and last Mr. Bluhdorn. It’s my only dictate. When the tests are over, everyone can take their best shot. Let’s roll ’em.”
Close to an hour later the curtains closed, the lights came up.
“They’re all marvelous,” said Jack Clayton, “but only Mia has the right vulnerability. She’s spent her whole life being a butterfly. She’s the most haunting—”
Merrick didn’t let Clayton finish.
“They all stink! What are we playing games for? There’s only one person who can play Daisy—Ali MacGraw. It was bought for her, and we get McQueen as a bonus. Am I losing my mind? Why are we watching the minors, when we’ve got the biggest male and female star on a silver platter for nothing?” Fiercely eyeing me, he continued, “Let’s start being professional, Mr. Evans.”
His flunky, DeLynn, stood up. “I totally agree with David.”
Silence is a wonderful weapon. They could have screamed their fuckin’ lungs out, I held the ace. The 250-pound cleaning woman who scrubs toilets would play Daisy before Ali got the part. Bluhdorn’s not the type of guy to go back on his word. Did he love me? Sure. But that didn’t figure in his rationale. McQueen and MacGraw were just a single feature. I represented twenty to forty pictures and he fuckin’ well knew I’d walk. Holding aces, I was somewhat professorial.
“Candy Bergen has a regal quality . . . a breeding—”
Yablans quickly interrupted. “She’s wrong!”
Merrick’s voice cut through, “They’re all wrong! It’s MacGraw. Let’s get down to reality!”
Then Uncle Charlie jumped in. “Hold it! Hold it! It’s too important a decision. Let’s look at the tests again.”
Bluhdorn’s timing personified his success. The room darkened, the curtains opened again, and again the tests began, Mia’s the first to run. On her last line Bluhdorn stood up.
“Jack, I have to agree. Mia Farrow has a certain vulnerability, a mystical quality.”
“You’re right,” I authoritatively echoed, “absolutely right. She has that hint of spoiled arrogance—”
Apoplectic, Merrick jumped to his feet screaming, “Is everybody crazy? We have Ali MacGraw and Steve McQueen working for nothing. And we’re ending up with Mia Farrow?”
“I agree with David,” seconded his stooge, DeLynn.
Now Yablans growled, “You’re goddamn right he’s right! Is this a movie company or a lonely hearts club we’re running? I’d like to know, so I can tell my wife what business I’m in.”
It was tough biting my tongue, but I did. Because Yablans was right again.
Cutting everyone down to size, Chairman Bluhdorn interrupted, “Ali MacGraw is not doing the picture. Is that clear? Paramount owns the rights. Is that clear? If anyone wants to walk, have a Merry Christmas. Is that clear? Mr. Clayton is right. The best Daisy is Mia Farrow.”
Suddenly a hush prevailed. Bluhdorn didn’t make his bones being just another pretty face.
“Thank you, Mr. Bluhdorn,” said Clayton. “Let’s talk about the part of Jordan. May I suggest Lois Chiles? She has a wonderful throaty voice, a certain . . . masculinity.”
“I’ve had enough of this shit!” Yablans interrupted. “Evans’s wives! Evans’s girlfriends! Are we running a brothel or a movie company?”
“Hey, Frank, hold it! I didn’t suggest Lois Chiles for anything,” I said. “It’s the director who wants her, not me!”
“The only reason the broad got tested is because she spread her legs for you!”
Bluhdorn jumped up. “Apologize to Bob, Frank!”
Yablans apologize? He walked out. He was right!
“Jack,” said Charlie, “you want Lois Chiles for Jordan Baker?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, settled. Now can I leave for my Christmas vacation?”
“Lois, I’ve got a Merry Christmas for you. Get your ass up here real quick!”
She was at the Carlyle in twenty minutes. If I ever felt like a mogul it was then.
“You got the part of Jordan, Lois. Congratulations.”
She pulled away as I bent over to kiss her.
Her voice was one I’d never heard before. “Jordan? You’re telling me I’m Jordan? I want Daisy, do you hear me? I want Daisy!”
From seductress to witch in a blink. Shocked? Yeah.
“Thanks, kid, you just put me through college, you got the part. You earned it.” I walked to the door, opened it. “Now get the fuck out!”
She didn’t get it. “But we’re leaving for Acapulco tomorrow. . . .”
Cutting her off with the warmth of an iceberg, “You’re lucky the elevator’s near. Listen real close. I’m a memory. Got it! If we’re in the same room, you don’t see me. Got it! Now get the fuck outta my life. Got it!”
Chapter Thirty
I’d been kissed enough. Bluhdorn’s Golden Boy now wanted some gold of his own. In 1966 when I started with Charlie, there were eight major companies. Paramount was ninth. In 1971, we ascended to number one and were only getting stronger. By that time, I had charmed Lucille Ball into selling her Desilu Studios, which she had bought from RKO, adjacent to Paramount. Their film library came with it as well—“I Love Lucy” and “The Untouchables” being two of the many. Not bad, huh? The price wasn’t bad either. A fire sale couldn’t have gotten it for less.
Whether it be fortuitous
or not, Charlie’s Golden Boy was delivering results, not weather reports. Our relationship was indeed strange. Akin to husband and wife—he the man, me the woman. Lover Bluhdorn wanted his lady to live well, but not too well. Never wanting me to earn big green—to become independent or have “fuck you” money. No different than husbands are to wives.
I’ve never had a girlfriend nor wife who was more jealous than Charlie of any affection I showed toward others. He was even jealous of my affections to the other Charlie in my life—my brother. For better or worse, that’s where I stood in Bluhdorn’s heart and mind. While others in my very position were compensated times three, and not bringing in results, Charlie never even gave me a bonus. Not for Love Story or The Godfather. For that matter, not for Desilu, which was beyond the call of duty, and happened only because of my close relationship with Lucille Ball. It was a billion-dollar gobble for a ten-million-dollar check. Not a bad meal, huh? But not a crumb was left over for schmuck Evans.
Forget being kissed, I was being fucked! My brother Charlie, an astute businessman, kept prodding me to confront my boss Charlie.
“You’re borrowing money from me to pay taxes while you’re building his empire into megabillions. Doesn’t make sense to me. Schmuck, they’re keeping you in the closet when it comes to green. Wake up. Your head’s in the clouds.”
It came to a head when my direct involvement was responsible for Charlie’s gobbling up the prize package of the decade, Simon & Schuster. The price? Eleven million dollars. Its worth today? North of three billion. Marty Davis was covered when Bluhdorn, through Davis’s ingenuity, purchased Paramount at a bargain-basement price. What about me? What about nothing!
Locking horns with Charlie on financial matters was akin to my challenging Pete Sampras at Wimbledon. He had more shrewdness in his toenail than I had in my whole body. Without question, my years at Paramount were the quintessential good-news and bad-news situation. The good news: the entire candy store was mine to run; Charlie rubber-stamped my every dictate. The bad: “Keep ’im broke; it keeps ’im around.”
