by Robert Evans
With Raquel Welsh watching Super Bowl Ten. While eleven cameras were simultaneously shooting footage for my film Black Sunday.
With Marie Sophie Pierson, my first lady that year, attending Henry Kissinger’s fiftieth-birthday party at the Harmony Club in New York.
Celebrating my son Joshua’s eighth birthday while shooting Players in Las Vegas.
My first date with the beautiful Lisa Taylor at the world premiere of The Great Gatsby. Quoting Claude Rains to Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca: “It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Watching a desperate Robert Altman mold Robin Williams’s arm into that of Popeye.
“Get High on Yourself” advertisement.
Nose to nose with Dustin Hoffman . . . Lessons don’t always pay off. Hoffman had the technique of a pro—looked great. Me—a gutter player. Can’t understand, Dustin, why you always ended up on the low end of the score.
Nose to nose with Jack Nicholson as we brought in 1985 together.
Breaking barriers that allowed Cotton Club to be shot in the Big Apple.
“Clockwise: Robert Evans, producer/director of The Cotton Club; George Kaufman, president of Kaufman Astoria Studios; Michael W. Proscia, international vice president of the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees and Moving Picture Operators of the United States and Canada (IATSE); Michael W. Proscia (IATSE); Ralph Cooper II, consultant to Robert Evans. Actresses Marilyn Matthews and Desiree Davis flank Producer Robert Evans as he greets Big Red’s entertainment editor, Don Thomas, following a press conference announcing that New York City will be the site for the filming of the motion picture Cotton Club. The announcement was made by George Kaufman, Milton Forman, chief consultant of Kaufman/Astoria Studios, and Robert Evans, who said, “I look upon the Cotton Club motion picture as a complete integrated venture. Hopefully its success will introduce a new pattern of employment for the Black artists and technicians. Integration is today, and today is where people are, and that’s where the Cotton Club motion picture is.”
Birthday-feasting the family Coppola at Elaine’s in New York. Thirty-six hours later, Francis barred me from the set of Cotton Club. Was it the pasta? No way, it was too good!
A rarity! A quiet moment alone with my son, Joshua. (COURTESY OF ALICE SPRINGS)
Love is better the second time around! Back with brother Charles sailing the Caribbean together.
What a difference a decade makes.
Michael Eisner and myself brought in the eighties together. He—a newcomer. Me—his mentor.
Bringing in the nineties together. He, the top “capo” at Disney and the highest paid executive in the history of flicks. Me—scratching for my next job but not letting it show.
Who said friendships don’t last in Hollywood?
December of ’69, celebrating Boston style, at Sumner Redstone’s theater, toasting the huge success of the Harvard-Wellesley charity premier of Love Story. Today, Sumner not only owns the theater, he owns Paramount as well.
Twenty-six years later, May of ’95, still celebrating Sumner—he being the recipient as The Man of The Year for the worldwide charity Stop Cancer. Me—a lucky onlooker.
Still going strong
Together with Faye Dunaway in the late sixties.
Still together as friends in ’95.
With Raquel Welch in 1970.
Still together as friends in ’95.
My best production . . . by far
Dean Martin singing “Happy Birthday” to my kid on his eighth birthday in Las Vegas.
My kid Joshua starting to imitate me early in life. The runt got me down pretty good.
Thirteen years later, celebrating his twenty-first with the proudest parents in the world.
Back in action in the 90s
Writer Evans and his right-hand lady, Linda Davis, laughing at a scandalous page of The Kid.
My Man Friday, Alan Selka, planning one wicked surprise party.
A quick hello and good-bye to Sharon Stone while filming Sliver.
A rare off-guard picture of myself and Nicholson with daughter, Lorraine, watching tennis action at my home.
Friendship with a capital “F”
Helmut Newton, master of the still frame, with his wife, June, and myself celebrating the opening of my new offices at Paramount.
Robert Shapiro and myself sneaking a quiet moment alone at his fiftieth birthday bash given at my home.
Whether it be a cozy corner embrace in St. Tropez or co-hosting a charity function at my home, Beverly Johnson and I have almost touched the quarter-of-a-century mark together. She—the first black woman to break the color barrier in the world of fashion, appearing on every cover from Vogue to you name it. Ah . . . but I broke her color barrier, being the first white guy she ever had a relationship with. Mixed colors must have worked. Quoting Beverly, “It’s been over twenty years now and we still don’t know which comes first, being lovers or friends.”
Lucky Evans
Accepting to be Jack Nicholson’s formal date for the Academy Awards in 1988, but with two demands: 1. Being our first date, he had to pick me up with a limousine, champagne, and caviar. 2. I’m no pushover. He couldn’t try to fuck me on the first date.
Heaven in 1995 between Alicia Silverstone and Halle Berry.
On my knees in jest proposing to Cheryl Tiegs, ring and all. She turned me down, “Sorry, Evans, you’re just not a long-distance runner.”
Nose to nose . . .
. . . with the beautiful Margaux Hemingway, Papa Hemingway’s favorite of favorites.
. . . with the extraordinary Christy Scott, writer Evans’ favorite of favorites.
(PHOTO CREDIT: VICTORIA BRENNER)
Alone. Alone. Alone.
Preparing the layout for the cover of the book you have just read.
(PHOTO CREDIT: VICTORIA BRENNER)
Chapter Forty-Three
Hey Runt!
Spent over three years writing this. . . . It hurt . . . hurt bad. . . . Reliving your fuckups ain’t easy. . . . Then writing ’em and rewriting ’em . . . that’s the killer. . . . Did it for you . . . yeah you, you little runt. . . . You deserve it! . . . I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you. . . . I know it . . . You know it . . . fuck it! . . . I ain’t ashamed . . . why keep it a secret?
Knew the pain you were goin’ through too . . . showed all over your face. . . . Them pimples you thought of squeezin’? . . . That’s how many sleeping pills I thought of takin’.
You pulled one hell of a hat trick, kid . . . that tightrope, you balanced it like a pro . . . your strength stopped my fall.
We’ve never talked about it, so I’m writin’ it . . . set the record straight . . . Talkin’ disappears . . . that’s why it’s on paper. . . . For better or worse, at least you’ll know who your ole man really is . . . how much he loves you. . . . It’s all that matters.
Joshua was born on January 16, 1971. Before he was two, he was taken away by divorce decree, to know me only as a “weekend” father for years to come. No kid ever grew up with a more affectionate, caring, involved mother. It was Ali’s best role in life. Conversely, my priorities being as fucked up as they were, Joshua was little more than an afterthought for far too many a year. A weekend drop-off rather than the most important parcel of my entire life.
Growing up and surviving the frazzled lives of both his parents was a miracle. Nine out of ten don’t make it. One of ten comes out stronger; he was that one.
The Hollywood Reporter once printed an interview with Gregory Hines:
Perhaps the most famous story of Hines’s stormtrooping tactics is his audition with Robert Evans for The Cotton Club. “I tap danced on his table to get that part,” he says, laughing but nonetheless sincere.
“He wanted Richard Pryor, and the Richard Gere part was earmarked for Sylvester Stallone. Coppola wasn’t involved at that point, and Evans was going to direct, so I went to his house with my hair all slicked back, wearing a ’40s jacket, and I said look,
I know you don’t think I’m right for this part, but if you give it to me I can change. Then I swept everything off his coffee table and jumped on top and did some spins.”
Well, dear Gregory, the truth be it, though your fancy steps did count, you really owe your screen breakthrough to my kid.
In July 1982 An Officer and a Gentleman had just come out and was a huge hit. Getting Richard Gere signed for the lead in The Cotton Club was a coup. At the time Richard Pryor was set for the other lead. In 1982, there wasn’t a hotter box-office star than Richard Pryor. A double coup—Gere and Pryor.
Paramount was still the financier and distributor of the picture at the time. A Saturday meeting—with Barry Diller, Michael Eisner, Frank Mancuso, and Don Simpson, among others, in attendance—was held at my home. We were there to congratulate ourselves for this great casting coup. More important, we met to work out the complicated billing problems and coordinate what promised to be a blockbuster hit. It was the weekend of one of Joshua’s bimonthly visits to his all but absentee father.
The eleven-year-old runt, dripping wet from the pool, interrupted us in the projection room, whispering, “I’ve gotta talk to you, Daddy.”
Angered by his intrusion, I gave him a terse look. “Later, Joshua. Don’t you see I’m in an important meeting?”
Twenty minutes passed and again, dripping wet, he stopped the flow of conversation around the table.
“Daddy, I must talk to you now! It’s important. Please!”
An angered double take, then I asked the knights of the round table to excuse me for a few minutes.
As we walked toward the pool, Joshua’s head hardly reached my waist. Looking down at him angrily, I asked, “What’s so goddamn important? I’m in there with the entire Paramount brass.”
He looked up, “Daddy, do you really think Cotton Club’s going to be as big as you say?”
“Is that what you called me out for?”
Without flinching, “Daddy, tell me, please. Do you really think it’ll be the big one?”
“What kinda question’s that, Joshua?”
Still without a flinch. “Tell me, please.”
Trying to hold back my anger, “Ya. Why?”
“Don’t use Richard Pryor then. If you do, it’ll just be another Richard Pryor movie.”
Stopped cold in my tracks? Never before so cold. Putting my hand through his wet hair, realizing the purity of his instincts had more depth than all of us so-called moguls.
Feigning a left, I picked him up and threw him into the pool. Quickly I walked back into the room and repeated the insight of an eleven-year-old to all. Before the meeting was over, we all reached the same conclusion: the canvas is of an era, not a slice of life. If we’re looking for The Godfather with music, Richard Pryor would hurt it, not help it. Two days later, enter Gregory Hines.
Instinct cannot be bought, taught, or inherited. Less than two years before, Joshua had sat with me during the Thanksgiving holidays while we were working on the final mix, dub, and score of Popeye. Dolby Sound, which was state-of-the-art, was the system we were using.
Two weeks before premiere time, we were still feverishly editing it to completion. Paramount surprised us with a new system called Paramount Sound and insisted we use it rather than Dolby. I bowed to the pressure, agreeing to remix the film with Paramount Sound. Joshua, by coincidence, was there when the decision was made.
“You’re making a big mistake, Daddy,” said the little runt. “Mommy tells me you’re having a big opening . . . the whole town’s going to be there. I wouldn’t take the chance. What if it doesn’t work?”
“I’m not dumb, Joshua. It’s gonna be checked, rechecked, and rechecked before we show it.”
Popeye premiered at the Chinese Theater—the big bash of the year. All the critics and just about the entire industry were invited. Popeye didn’t hit the screen that night, disaster did. The dialogue inaudible, the music clashing with the effects. What started out a night of glory ended up a night of despair. Many of the audience left before the film was over. The next morning and for the next seventy-two hours, we remixed the entire film back to Dolby.
What can you say about a nine-year-old kid who has more brights than his fifty-year-old father? Instinct. Age is not a factor. You’ve either got it or you don’t. It makes the difference between mediocrity and magic.
For an entire decade, my kid stood watching his father’s life fall to shambles. Once I was a king, his mother told him.
As he grew into his teens, he watched his daddy slip from famous to infamous. When he began his eight-year-long education at Crossroads School, his father was royalty. By graduation, though he’ll never admit it, he couldn’t get a date to the senior prom, three yeses had turned into three nos. His father’s an outlaw—maybe a murderer.
It was all but impossible standing next to Ali at Crossroads watching Joshua graduate. That morning, ROBERT EVANS had been in the headlines again. No, I wasn’t buying Warner Brothers. Instead: ROBERT EVANS LINKED DIRECTLY TO ROY RADIN MURDER. There I stood, a shell of the man I once was, watching my son graduate.
May I introduce to you now a film legend. The only living producer who has produced two of the hundred films honored and vaulted in perpetuity by the Library of Congress of our country. His filmography reads like a bible. His talent will be remembered long after he is gone. . . .
And on, and on, went William Wolf, a New York film critic introducing that night’s guest speaker to his NYU film class.
Three years after that graduation, October 1992, Joshua sits by my side in the overfilled classroom. I was in New York producing Sliver. A standing ovation greeted my walk to the podium. It was the proudest moment of my life. My son’s first glimpse of his father being hailed, not chastised.
It was Ali’s fifty-first birthday. Her party? The family three, feasting at Mr. Chow’s. Our connective tissue? Joshua—a spitting image of both, inheriting the best from each.
Hot tea in hand, Joshua stood, toasting his mom.
“I’m the only kid I know who doesn’t remember his mom and dad ever living together.” Then, looking at the two of us, “Were you really married?”
A double take. The birthday lady took him on: “Look at yourself! What do you think?”
A family laugh, but the runt wasn’t finished.
“We’ve sure gone through it.”
Then to his mom, “There’s not one kid I know who’s closer, more open with his mom than you and me. Happy birthday!”
A fat kiss.
“I love you, Mom!”
Then eyeing his ole man.
“You’re somethin’ else—no kid has a Pop like you.”
Facing two of his family three, he couldn’t help but beam. “I’m the luckiest kid I know.”
Chapter Forty-Four
The phone kept ringing, awakening me out of a deep sleep. The fuckin’ button, goddamn it, I forgot to turn it off. I looked at the clock. It wasn’t midnight yet. Should I pick it up? I sure in hell didn’t win the lottery. It kept ringing. Maybe it’s the broad I slipped my number to last night. It’s not too late. I’m up now, I hope it’s her.
Disguising my voice to protect me from bad news or bad company, I English-accented it, “Evans residence.”
Wrong again. It wasn’t the broad, but I sure won the fuckin’ lottery! Only seventy-two hours earlier Stanley Jaffe had been named chief operating officer of Paramount Communications.
“Sorry for not calling earlier. Suddenly I have so many new friends,” Jaffe laughed. “The damn phone doesn’t stop. Did I awaken you?”
“Yeah, but you’re one hell of a wake-up call. Did you get my note?”
“No, sorry, must be a hundred fifty of them here. Haven’t opened one. Haven’t had time to zip down my fly, take a piss. Called to tell you one thing. From this day on, the life of Robert Evans is going to be a better one. You’re way overdue. You deserve it. Now sleep well, dear,” Stanley giggled, “you should.”
* * *
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br /> “Without Robert Evans, the only way we’d be here today, would be if we were dead. That’s right, without him Paramount would have been sold off to the graveyard behind us.”
Jaffe was telling this to his group of top Paramount executives. A few were a bit surprised.
Jaffe made it clear: “I’m not prone to hyperbole—I was there. I know. I made my bones with him. Unless anyone has any objections, and if you do please speak up, because as of now, Robert Evans is back at Paramount!”
A banner headline across the front page of Variety, July 15, 1991:
EVANS BACK TO PARAMOUNT
In a town not conspicuously cordial to comebacks, Robert Evans is making a flamboyant one—and at Paramount, the studio he headed twenty-five years ago. After a decade-long hiatus from active producing, Evans is back behind the Bronson Gate with an arsenal of big-screen titles. . . . “Bob is back,” quoted a top Paramount production honcho. “His success has been a remarkable one, and everyone here at Paramount—from Brandon Tartikoff to Stanley Jaffe to Martin Davis—felt he should be back with us. We think this new alliance will reap some very good movies and some real success.”
From page, to page, to page, the story continued.
Suddenly they were scurrying for office space—a dictate from the top. A week passed. Jaffe called.
“Bob, if it’s okay with you, I’d like you to have your old offices back. Just knowing you’re there would give me a smile every time I come to the studio.”
