The Kid Stays in the Picture

by Robert Evans

  The phone went down, his eyebrow up. “We’re in makeup, Keed, we’re goin’ eye to eye.”

  The executive suite’s game of musical chairs, indigenous to the “new” Hollywood, soon propelled Diller to the chairmanship of Fox; Eisner became the chairman of Disney. Replacing Diller at Paramount was Frank Mancuso, who was previously head of marketing and distribution. Frank was, and to this day remains, family. Our careers span back several decades, and I was thrilled that my pal was now head honcho of “the mountain.” Ned Tanen, a top producer and extraordinarily bright studio executive, took over for Eisner. To celebrate his elevated position, Mancuso toasted The Two Jakes as his big flick for Christmas 1986. Martin Davis—the numero uno cheese of Gulf + Western, who controlled Paramount—made a rare appearance at the studio. A luncheon was given in his honor. Surprisingly, I was seated by his side. Beatty, Nicholson, and Harrison Ford were also at our table.

  I’m thinking to myself, What am I doing here?

  Marty gave me the answer: “You’ve always been an actor, Evans. How else could you have gotten away with being such a fraud?”

  Did he say it in jest? I was afraid to ask. I still don’t know.

  “Make this work, Evans, and you’ll be a hero,” said Davis. “When you get the above the line working for scale and are really partners with the studio, that’s where the future lies. If the picture works, everyone gets rich. The above the line get real rich. If it flops, none of us go to the poorhouse. It gives us a chance then to make double the amount of films. More people will be working. I’m proud of ya.”

  Wow, did I feel good that day. Call it “welcome back to the fold.”

  Getting a script from Robert Towne is akin to closing a deal with the Japanese (it took him eight years to finish writing Shampoo). To have the picture ready for the following Christmas, we had to start shooting that spring, which meant I needed Shakespeare to turn over his script in two months. He was madly in love and engaged to marry a ravishing Italian beauty, and she wanted the wedding of the year.

  “Dear Robert,” I said, “finish the script, and I’ll throw the wedding of her dreams.”

  In October 1985, 180 people sat under the shade of the old sycamore. Robert and Louisa had declared their vows. Towne’s best man was Pat Riley.

  His present to me was the script of The Two Jakes. Great businessman I am, the wedding was not in the budget. Dom Pérignon or Cristal was not good enough; a special Italian champagne was imported. At $200 a bottle, it set the tone for the party.

  Robert didn’t quite keep up to his end of the bargain, because the script was 80 percent complete. (Now, almost a decade later, it remains 80 percent complete!) A month later, I heard Bob was pissed that I didn’t give him a wedding gift. Maybe I skimped on the party; it only cost me over 100 Gs.

  Towne was writing and directing, Nicholson and myself starring and producing. “We get equal billing, Keed. I’ll take first billing in my racket, you take first in yours. Okay with you, Keed?”

  What other guy would insist on giving equal billing above the title to an actor who hadn’t made a picture in twenty-five years?

  The film was to commence principal photography Tuesday, May 6, 1986. The Sunday before, Frank Mancuso was throwing a party for the cast, crew, and studio honchos, toasting the launching of his first production as chief. By now, Chinatown was cinema folklore; everyone in distribution was panting for its sequel. Maybe the black cloud hovering over me for five years will open, and I’ll see a bit of sunshine again.

  Friday afternoon, four days before shooting, Bob Towne—who just six months earlier had referred to me in the preface to his leatherbound, limited-edition Chinatown screenplay as “one who in memory and in life remains a standard for every kind of human generosity and one I have yet to see matched in this town”—paid me a visit.

  Silently, he sat in a chair, his eyes to the floor, rabbinical in thought. With a verbal baseball bat, he gave me a full swing to the balls. “Bob, you should drop out of the cast. I haven’t had enough time to rehearse you.”

  I know the feeling of being shocked. I’m a pro at it. But Towne’s words were a new sensation . . . an electric shock.

  “Robert, the picture starts in four days. Are you crazy? Forget Evans the actor. Evans the producer won’t accept it. Who the fuck are we goin’ to use in my place?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The wounds of The Cotton Club were still open; I couldn’t afford another catastrophe.

  “What about Nicholson? Did you tell him?”

  “I just left him.”

  “What did he say?”

  Not looking at me, “It’s okay with him.”

  Quickly I reached for the phone and seven-digited my co-star.

  “Jack, I’m here with Towne. What the fuck’s going on?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Uh-uh . . . you tell me.”

  “Is Towne there with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get your ass up here . . . now! Alone!”

  “What about—”

  He cut me off. “Fuck him. Just get up here.”

  Without a look at Towne, I raced out of the house, up to Mulholland. There stood Jack.

  “I’ve got some pain in the ass . . . hemorrhoids. Don’t need another one. Why ya backin’ out?”

  “Backin’ out? Towne tells me he doesn’t want me in it and that you said fine.”

  “You’re makin’ my head hurt as much as my ass! Get him on the horn. . . . Listen, Beener, Evans is playin’ Berman or I ain’t playin’ Gittes. You left your game in the locker room, huh?”

  Slamming the phone down, he looked up. “Towne tells me you don’t want to play a Jew?” Both of us burst out laughing. Jack had to stop—his ass hurt too much.

  “What about Shakespeare?”

  “Fuck ’im.”

  The next day Jack was rushed to the hospital with severe hemorrhoid problems. Though his pain was excruciating, his resolve on the Keed remained adamant.

  That night, an altercation ensued between Shakespeare, the Irishman, and the Keed that lasted till 4:00 A.M. Monday morning. Poor Irish: his pain was such that he couldn’t sit, lie, or stand, but his resolve was intransigent. Meanwhile, Towne ranted on how I would ruin his prose.

  “Hey, Bob, I didn’t ask you to do it, you insisted.”

  Nicholson hit it on the nose. Towne left his game in the locker room. Who better to blame it on than me? A guy who hadn’t been in front of the camera for more than a quarter of a century.

  Being the victim, I had the least to say of the three. Watching them, I couldn’t help but think the difference between loyalty and loyalty. At three in the morning, I awakened my new counsel, Alan Schwartz. Poor Alan had been my lawyer for a year now, and we hadn’t been able to put two weeks together without a problem. This was a big one. The picture was to start in thirty-six hours or be canceled.

  Driving me from Mulholland back to my home, Alan begged: “Please, Bob, you can’t afford it, back away.”

  Neither of us slept that night. Till the sun came up in the morning we discussed our options; there weren’t any. Again my back was to the wall.

  The phone rang—it was the Irishman.

  “The Beener’s goin’ down to see the honchos at Paramount, tell ’em he don’t want cha. Sure you haven’t slept, but stand strong. My asshole’s killin’ me. Don’t know how, but I’ll get down there, be with you. The Keed’s gonna be in the picture, got it?”

  The bombardment started. Mancuso had his ass on the line, The Two Jakes being his first gig as head honcho. He left the studio and rushed up to my home, Ned Tanen right behind.

  “Bob,” said Frank. “You’re family. We’re like brothers. I beg you to drop out. You can’t afford to throw snake eyes. Not again.”

  Tanen and Alan Schwartz quickly agreed. Nicholson’s plea rung in my head.

  “If it’s okay with Jack, it’s okay with me, gentlemen.”

  “What’s his number?” aske
d Frank. His face was pale as Jack gave him the score.

  “He’s coming down,” said Frank. “Says he can’t put his pants on, he’s got such pain in his ass. But he’s coming down and he’s fighting mad. Ned, you know what he told me? ‘Without the Keed, you ain’t got the Irishman.’ ” Mancuso was stunned! “What the fuck did you get us into here, Evans?”

  Tanen, Mancuso, Schwartz, and I stood there. The four of us thought the same thing at the same time: the guy’s jinxed (meaning me). I have to be—wherever I park my hat, there’s a snake under it.

  “We need this picture real bad,” said Frank. “Please, I beg of you, don’t blow it.”

  “What have I done?”

  Both Tanen and Mancuso shook their heads and took a walk outside around the tree, leaving Schwartz and myself alone in the projection room.

  Alan shrugged his shoulders. “I never thought I’d have a client too hot to handle—I was wrong.”

  Like Hopalong Cassidy, in limped Nicholson. Within half an hour, it was resolved. Tanen and Mancuso embraced me. I was the second Jake. By dictate, not necessarily by desire. Ahhh . . . act three had yet to begin.

  Three hours later, around my circular oak table sat Ned Tanen; Frank Mancuso; Robert Towne with his attorney, Bert Fields; Jack Nicholson with his attorney, Ken Kleinberg; and Alan Schwartz and me. Heated? No, on fire.

  The phone rang. It was for Ned Tanen. Urgent. Quickly, Tanen picked it up. His hands began to shake. His lips quivered. His ex-wife had just committed suicide. His two little daughters had just discovered their mommy’s body. A nightmare? Worse. Quickly he left.

  Mancuso wanted to reconvene the next day. Towne refused. Three hours later, with every insult imaginable thrown at me by my dear friend, Robert, Jack stood up.

  “Listen, Beener. With Evans, I take nothin’. Is that clear? Without him, I want my six mil against fifteen percent of the gross. Is that clear?”

  Picking up a piece of paper from the table, he grabbed a red Magic Marker, he filled the 8-x-10 white sheet with a big 2, then next to it, he then spelled out seven letters, M-I-L-L-I-O-N.

  “From me to you, for your cockamamie script, I’m payin’ you two big ones for an eighty-percent job. I’ll get it back from first proceeds. If you wanna direct, I ain’t gonna stand in your way. We’re supposed to start tomorrow. Too many guys here have their ass on the line. Hey! The kid stays in the picture. Clear?”

  It wasn’t.

  Needing the $2 million more than Mike Tyson needed a good lawyer, Towne couldn’t take being out-machoed by Irish. The Two Jakes circa 1985 never got made.

  That ended the first half of the eighties. The good half.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Barry Diller hosted a political get-together for Michael Dukakis. At the time, Dukakis was one of the many hungry hopefuls looking to get the nod to head the Democratic ticket down the line in 1988. A Barry Diller bash gets out all of Tinseltown—everybody who was anybody was there.

  I was cornered by Swifty Lazar, who goggled me. “Only Diller gets you out, huh? Two weeks from Saturday I’m giving a dinner for Deborah Kerr and her husband, Peter Viertel. You and Peter go back to the ole Zanuck days, don’t you?”

  Nodding my head yes.

  “Then this one you’re coming to. I know I’m just an agent, not head of a studio, but no ‘out of town’ excuses this time.”

  “An agent? You’re the biggest star here, Swifty. Can’t think of an evening I look forward to more.”

  A double goggle take from mighty Swifty. Then he rushed off to meet the evening’s new Democratic hopeless.

  The first order of business the next morning was to RSVP. Poor Swifty had no idea that he made me an invitation I “couldn’t refuse.”

  Quickly scanning Swifty’s living room, Ray Stark quipped “A-plus all the way! Not a civilian in the joint.”

  Except for myself and a few other renegades, the crème de la crème of the establishment was there in full attire. Eight candlelit tables filled the dining room–patio area. Swifty, his wife, Mary, Deborah, and Peter each hosted a table. For supposed sentimental reasons, I was one of the lucky to be seated at the Viertel table, my date, Sue Mengers, at my side. On the other side sat Nicholson with his lady, Anjelica Huston. Completing the rest of the table were Fran and Ray Stark, Felicia and Jack Lemmon, and Carol and Walter Matthau.

  When dessert was served, I rose, clicking my glass. “May I make a toast to our guest of honor?”

  It was the first—no, the only—toast of the evening. Mengers winced, “Veh iz meer . . .” Surely thinking I was stoned, but she was wrong. I was determined!

  “A toast to you, dear Peter, the only man I’ve ever met who shrunk me from six to three feet in less than thirty seconds.”

  My eyes slowly panned the room.

  “It’s true! Thirty years ago, I met our guest of honor in Morelia, Mexico. Me, a half-assed actor picked to play the bullfighter in The Sun Also Rises. Peter was Hemingway’s choice to write the screenplay. Remember, Peter? You invited me over to your bungalow to meet you. I knocked at your door, you opened it, you looked at me, just looked. Then, you began laughing. ‘You play Pedro Romero? Uh-uh, not in my film.’ Then you slammed the door right smack in my face.”

  Picking up my glass.

  “To you, dear Peter, the single most intimidating man I’ve ever met.”

  Nervous laughter filled the room. Viertel wasn’t laughing. He immediately stood.

  “Bob, let’s face it, you were all wrong. We needed the real thing for the part, a bullfighter, not a—”

  Interrupting Viertel, Nicholson jumped up.

  “Yeah, Peter, but the Keed got all the reviews. Ain’t it the truth?” he roared.

  The room roared too. Viertel’s face turned the color of his wine. My toast? Well, I don’t think it went over too well with the Lazars. I was never invited back, even for a fund-raiser.

  Lew Wasserman, the patriarch of our industry, invited me to be one of the select group of forty to celebrate his fortieth wedding anniversary to his wife, Edie, at their home. Quite an honor!

  What a difference a decade makes. Ten years later, when the Wassermans celebrated their fiftieth anniversary on the back lot of Lew’s studio, Universal Pictures, fifteen hundred people were invited. They must have lost my number, I wasn’t one of them.

  The Harmony Club in New York hosted four hundred luminaries, who flew in from around the world to celebrate Henry Kissinger’s fiftieth birthday; I was Tinseltown’s only invitee. It was table and place card only. Me? I was seated at Henry’s table; only one seat separated us.

  Ten years later, the same club, with the same aplomb, the same luminaries, toasted Henry’s sixtieth. Damn it! This time my place card wasn’t at his table, it wasn’t at any table. How could it be? I wasn’t invited.

  Hurt? Not really. If I were him, I wouldn’t invite me either. Sliding from famous to infamous is not a person who fit the Kissinger agenda of the 1980s and 1990s. I understood it, I respected it.

  Love lost between man and man is no different than love lost between man and woman: when it’s over—it’s over. Yet the decade of memories we shared will stay with me forever.

  The flip side.

  It was the day of the Academy Awards for 1987. Jack Nicholson was nominated for his performance in Ironweed.

  Two nights earlier, the two of us finished off a bottle of Cristal at his Mulholland home. We talked about everything and nothing. One thing we did conclude, this wasn’t his year to cop the Oscar.

  Six hours before the big night was to start, my butler drove up to Nicholson’s home. His mission? To personally deliver to Jack a locked, leather satchel with the key to open it. Inside, it was filled to the brim with stacks of enlarged one-hundred-dollar bills. On top was a note: “Yeah, you’re a long shot tonight, Irish, but fuck it! By mistake, you’re gonna cop more awards than any actor in film history. Money talks, and my money is on you.”

  I was out of breath, in the middle of a t
ennis workout with my pal and tennis pro, Darryl Goldman. An urgent call interrupted our match.

  “The green, is it real?” heckled Nicholson.

  Both of us burst out laughing.

  “As real as my tennis game.”

  “Tell Darryl to let you off easy. Hit the shower, will ya, put on your blacks. You’re my date tonight for the awards.”

  “Your date?”

  “Yeah, was goin’ alone, there was no one I wanted to walk in with. Lookin’ at them stacks of green, I’m thinkin’, who’s a better armpiece to walk in with than you, Notorious.”

  These words were coming from the most respected film star in the world, inviting me—at the time an industry leper—to be his arm piece at the Academy Awards!

  My immediate reaction was no. “Not up for it, Irish.”

  “Then get up for it. Let all of ’em see us nose to nose. Can’t hurt, Keed.”

  “Can I call you back?”

  “Call me back! We gotta be there in three hours, doors close at five thirty.”

  “I’ll call you right back, promise.”

  Hanging up the phone, Darryl looked at me.

  “Are you nuts? He’s inviting you to be his date for the Academy Awards and you say no.”

  In a cold sweat, I stood there, desperate not to go.

  “It’s tough to understand, Daryl, but the last time we went to the awards together, I was top guy in town.”

  I called Sue Mengers for her opinion. She quickly cut me off: “If you don’t go, never call me again.”

  I dialed Irish.

  “You got me, on two conditions.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You gotta pick me up. Have a bottle of Cristal in the backseat.”

  “Yeah, what else?”

  “You can’t try to fuck me. It’s our first date!”

  Irish kept each promise, and the reluctant debutante enjoyed the best night of his dark decade.

  From our klieg-lit entrance and throughout the entire evening, arm in arm we were. In his inimitable style, Nicholson made it clear for all to see that Evans is back, and Irish is with him all the way. Suddenly, people began taking my calls.