by Robert Evans
“He was one helluva sore loser too. When the picture opened in the summer of fifty-seven, the little Jew boy copped all the reviews. A month later, I’m at Yankee Stadium watching the seventh game of the World Series. Who’s sitting two boxes away from me? The man himself, Papa Hemingway. Feeling pretty good about myself, I walked over to him like an idiot, telling him how great it was to see him again. He gives me a quick look. He didn’t even say hello, and turns his head to see if Mickey Mantle struck out.
“And here I am enjoying the best birthday since I started shaving. Can’t lie to you, Margaux. I don’t know which is more of a turn-on, being with you or thinking of Papa Hemingway turning over in his grave knowing this little over-the-hill Jew boy and his favorite of favorites are not only together, but in love.”
Expecting the worst, I once again learned that when it comes to a woman’s mind, I know nothing. Did she get up and walk out? No. Did she slap me across my face? No. Was she angered by my duplicitous thoughts? I’ll never know. She never said a fuckin’ word about it. Instead, she bit my earlobe, then kissed it. Me? I wouldn’t be surprised if for some sick reason, the more I put Papa down, the more it turned her on. I’d never ask her; she’d never tell me anyway. It sure proves, though, telling the truth doesn’t hurt. Together, we spent one long, hot summer.
Chapter Forty-Nine
The impossible dream is possible, but like life itself it is only temporary and must be protected as well as respected. If not, the dream can easily turn into a nightmare. And turning a nightmare back into a dream is impossible. Well, almost.
It was that thought that impelled me to put my bumpy road of life onto paper. Many a publisher embraced the thought. Why not? If told honestly, it would read like fiction. There was one problem—when the nineties rolled in, I was the Jesse James of the film business.
Though I was never even called as a witness, the Cotton Club Murder was still unresolved. And me? I slid from famous to infamous. Once revered, I was now a renegade. Five major publishers were hungry for my story, but each insisted on a prestigious eastern editor and a cowriter to legitimize and document my roller-coaster ride, which read more like pulp fiction than autobiography.
After a half-year search to find a legitimate “Mr. Right,” Charles Michener, a past editor of Newsweek and current editor of a top publishing house, came front and center as a candidate. What a natural, I thought. I’d known him for years and was an admirer of his style, both personally and professionally.
Though the advance was more than generous, it was the least of my concerns. After all, Michener met all the prerequisites—an intellectual, a Yale graduate, and certainly fashionable with the literary set. He was my man. Money never came into the equation.
With Michener in place, I had no choice but to finally face the moment of truth. Our first work session was set for 9:30 A.M., March 6, 1991. Michener arrived at my doorstep, tape recorder in hand, prepared to undress every remembered moment of my life.
A sudden wave of paranoia flashed through my cerebellum. “Am I nuts, revealing myself to a comparative stranger; no, to the world?” I needed time to think. Call it parachute shy, stage fright . . . call it what you want, but I froze.
A lifelong instinct took over: in time of crisis, pull the unexpected. (I beg of you, don’t try it.) Picking up the intercom, I buzzed Alan, the majordomo of my abode.
“Give Michener the ‘A’ tour,” I whispered. “The history of the house, the grounds, the trees, the whole thing. Stall him as long as you can. Then serve him breakfast in the projection room. No rush. Got it?”
I hung up the phone in a cold sweat. A sigh of relief escaped my throat. I’d bought myself another hour. Now what? Every possible excuse went through my mind as to how to get out of it. There was one problem: it was too late. Like the parachute jumper making his first dive, there was no way out but down. An hour later, I made my jump. I landed in the projection room, where Charles was finishing breakfast, anxiously awaiting my arrival. What he didn’t know was that I had a trump card up my sleeve, one I hoped would scare him the hell away forever. Would you say I was terrified?
The gardeners were cutting the grass; the pool man was setting the fountains; two tree surgeons were wiring forty cypress trees, keeping them erect, to serve as a perfect backdrop for the winding road that leads to the entrance of my home. In the background, the tennis pro was giving my son, Joshua, a lesson.
“How glorious. It’s like being in a different world,” marveled Charles. “It reminds me of the Loire Valley or the south of France. Not like California at all.”
Setting him up for my one-two knockout punch, I agreed, casually asking him, “Is the tape recorder set to go?”
“Yes,” he said. “Shall we start?”
“Test it,” I suggested. “Let’s be sure.”
We did, and at last we were ready to begin. He was about to ask me his first question. Instead, I pulled my trump card, jarring him with, “How much money do you think I’m worth, Charles?”
A strange look crossed his face. “How would I know? I’m a journalist. We come from different worlds. I don’t live this way. I have absolutely no idea what you’re worth. And what’s more, I don’t care.”
He’s falling for it, I thought to myself. “It’s important,” I urged. “Take a guess.”
“Well, it’s not important to me,” he chided.
“It is,” I said, “more important than you may think. Go ahead, take a guess.”
Feeling used now, and rightfully so, he grunted, “Fifty, a hundred million? I don’t know.”
I could sense his irritation building. It was working perfectly.
“No. Less. Much less. Take another guess,” I taunted.
Angered now, he walked over to me. “We’re starting off on the wrong foot, Bob. I’m here to interview you.”
It’s working! It’s working! I cheered to myself. The angrier I saw him getting, the longer I stalled.
“Take another guess,” I said.
He was ready to explode. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, Bob. It really has nothing to do with any of our story. I’d like to get started now, please.”
“Take another guess,” I pleaded. “Honestly, it’s important.”
Wow! He didn’t like me at all.
“Thirty, forty million? How do I know? Furthermore, I don’t really care. Please, Bob, I implore you. Let’s get started.”
Feeling him ready to crack, I pressed him again. “No. Less, Charles. Take one more guess.”
Did I say he didn’t like me? He must have hated me by now. It was just what I wanted.
“Ten, twenty million,” he muttered indignantly. “Are you satisfied now?”
I hooked him, I said to myself. He’ll be out of my life forever within the hour.
Slowly I took off my glasses. As I sat facing him, I began to chew on one of the glasses’ temples. In silence I sat, stretching it out as long as I could. Then, with measured deliberation, I set him up for the first of my one-two punches.
“It’s Wednesday, March 6, 1991. Is that correct, Charles?”
“Yes,” he hoarsely whispered.
“Well, as of nine-thirty this morning, my accountants informed me that my tangible assets, cash and all, equal a grand total of thirty-seven dollars.”
He was stunned, in shock. And speechless. The first punch worked. Now, the verbal right cross, the knockout punch that was sure to get the ten count.
“By Friday, I’ve got to make payroll.”
Shaking my head, still sucking the temple of my glasses, I looked into space without saying a word. He thought either he was going crazy, or I was crazy. My every instinct told me, It’s working! It’s working!
With purpose, I began to laugh. “You know what’s really wild? It sounds crazy, I know, but I’m not even worried.” As he stared, I continued to chuckle.
I’ll never forget the look on his face. Ever!
“You don’t get it, do you? That’s the story
of my life.”
Rarely has a generalization proved to be so true. Eighteen months and $200,000 later, it became sadly evident that though it was possible to take Michener out of Yale, it was all but impossible to take Yale out of Michener. Similarly, it was possible, but not easy, to take Evans out of the street, but it was definitely impossible to take the street out of Evans. We were the quintessential odd couple. With respect and affection, I have to say there was no way the Yaley could capture the street. We both knew it. We parted as friends and I started from scratch, retelling, rewriting the tale of the longest, bumpiest, most fucked-up road a guy could travel. But at the very least, it was truth time all the way. No cop-out. Letting the cards fall where they may.
Chapter Fifty
With purpose, for more than a decade, I shunned Henry Kissinger’s every call, which came with far more frequency than those from many of my closest peers. Whether it be my ex Ali or the Beverly Hills Hotel barber, Henry told all our mutual friends how disappointed he was over our loss of communication.
The older the eighties became, the further south my persona traveled. Every time I thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. Though my infamy didn’t faze Henry in his desire to make contact, it sure as hell fazed me. Our friendship was such that I knew Henry would be there no matter what the consequence. But I stood firm in my resolve. No way would I allow my notoriety to tarnish a man whom I not only loved but equally respected.
When and if my slate became clean, I planned to fly east for a sit-down with dear Henry to explain to him in gory detail the pain behind my elusive behavior. It was not until July 21, 1991, that the Cotton Club Murder case was finally put to bed and Robert Evans was at last exonerated.
I immediately phoned Kissinger’s office. By coincidence, he happened to be in Los Angeles staying at the Hotel Bel-Air. By even stranger coincidence, I was invited by a Kennedy clan lady to escort her to a small party Irving Lazar was giving for Henry. Refusing her invite, I stayed at home putting my pent-up emotions, which I’d harbored for years, onto paper. The letter, though short, took hours to compose. I then had it hand-delivered to Henry’s hotel.
My Dear Henry,
New Year’s Eve, 1984, at Lowell Guiness’ home in Acapulco, a beautiful young lady brought you over to me. We embraced . . . Our eyes met with questionable indignation. You said, “Why haven’t you returned my calls?” A festive night it was . . . I doubt you remember my answer . . . Surely my charm must have covered the pain . . . I put my hand to the side of your face and whispered . . . “Because I love you . . . don’t ask me any more.”
How many times, dear Henry, I have wanted to call you . . . embrace you . . . enjoy stories . . . laughter . . . a quality of human relationship towards one another that, until this day remains singular in my life . . . far closer than I have ever shared with my family . . . nor for that matter, with any of my wives.
How sad that this letter has taken over a decade to write. How haunted I was at the thought of never being able to write it. For the entire decade of the 80’s, dear Henry, was not dark . . . it was black. I wanted you to have no part of it . . . nor of me.
How proud I am to be a citizen of the United States of America. How disturbed I am that it took eight years of degradation to prove myself innocent. How naive I was not to be aware of the inverse justice that prevails in our country, making one “guilty until proven innocent.”
Currently, I am writing my autobiography, “The Kid Stays In The Picture,” for Simon & Schuster. May I quote to you one of the paragraphs in its preface . . .
“Hopefully the story you are about to read will convey a spirit that ‘The impossible dream is possible . . . but like life itself . . . is only temporary . . . and must be protected as well as respected . . . for if not . . . the dream can easily turn into a nightmare . . . and turning a nightmare back into a dream . . . is impossible . . .’ . . . well, almost.”
The almost happened! For the first time in more than eleven years, the anguish is gone . . . self-esteem returned . . . Hopefully the future will allow us once again to share magic moments, months and years, being part of one another’s lives . . . Let’s help each other make the last decade of the twentieth century our best.
At seven the next morning, Henry was on the horn. For nearly an hour we spoke, laughed, and even cried. It was like old times revisited. He was off to Washington that morning.
“I’ll call you as soon as I return from my trip to Russia,” he promised. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Yeah, check out the Russian girls. I’ve been told they’re Russia’s greatest natural resource.”
Laughing, he said, “At least you haven’t changed, Bobby.”
How odd! It was the last time we spoke. Possibly it’s better that way. Our worlds have grown too far apart. Let the wealth of remembrances past be the link to friendship treasured.
Chapter Fifty-One
In 1979 I produced Urban Cowboy, starring John Travolta and Debra Winger. To this day it remains the one film on which I was forced to pay a 10 percent agency commission. Why? The agency controlled the basic material, an eight-page Esquire exposé written by Aaron Latham. The Young Turks who had just started the agency were that sharp: if they controlled the source material, they insisted on commissioning every tangent connected with its making. Their theory must have worked. The agency? Creative Artists. Its young honcho boss? Mike Ovitz, who personally represented this particular package, as it smelled of big money all the way.
At that moment in time, I had the richest deal in town: a gross percentage from dollar one. My partner in the enterprise was Irving Azoff, the music tycoon who had bought the original material and given it to CAA to package. Our deal was simple, a fifty-fifty split from all film and album revenue. The film was a big hit, the album even bigger. It sold an unheard-of six million double albums at eighteen bucks a crack. I didn’t know it then, but Urban Cowboy was my last big gusher before the roof caved in.
From film revenues, Irving and I split more than a cool $4 million.
Late one night, my then good friend, David Geffen, was on the horn.
His opening words: “Bob, you’re being fucked.”
“Who is she?” I joked.
“It’s no joke, Bob. What’s your cut of the Urban Cowboy album?”
“It’s heavy, David. Azoff worked out a great deal for us—forty-two and a half cents per album. Not bad, huh?”
Geffen laughed, “And I thought you were being fucked. You’re being royally fucked. Azoff pockets a buck and a quarter and you’re ending up with forty-two cents.”
“That’s impossible, David. We’re fifty-fifty partners.”
“With Azoff, anything’s possible.”
“David, between Paramount, my lawyer Kenny Ziffren, and CAA, who represents me, he couldn’t be.”
Geffen laughed again. “Azoff could eat all of them for breakfast, and they wouldn’t even know it.”
“David, just because you can’t sleep, you’re trying to give me a sleepless night too, right?”
“Don’t kill the messenger, Bob. I’m being your friend. First thing tomorrow, check it out.”
“Sure, David,” I responded sarcastically. “Sleep well. I won’t.”
Naturally, Geffen was right. With all my suits protecting me, I was being raped. It’s no fluke that today Geffen is a billionaire and I’m a thousandaire.
Ballistic over Azoff’s duplicity, I got him on the horn and told him to get over to my place, pronto.
Not only was he not shocked with what I’d accused him of, he nonchalantly nodded his head. “It’s true, Bob. I fucked you.”
Did it bother him? Quite the opposite—it gave him great joy. Though our fifty-fifty partnership on the film was distributed equally, Azoff had eeled a different scenario regarding the double album. He pocketed close to eight million, while his fifty-fifty partner got six million less. No one likes to be taken, especially when you’re fifty-fifty partners.
The angrie
r I became, the more he wide-smiled me, getting his nuts off on his brilliant scam. Everything Geffen said about Azoff, naturally, was on the button. This little fucker was smarter than all my agents and lawyers put together. It was for that reason that I refused to pay any further commission to CAA.
As the eighties passed into the nineties producer Evans spiraled from legend to leper, while Ovitz went from agent to legend.
In the summer of 1993 I was back in action negotiating with CAA for one of their top clients. A sudden grab of my arm, followed by a whisper from one of CAA’s lieutenants: “Bob, I’ll give it to you straight. If you want to close this deal, pay Ovitz the money you owe him.”
I looked at the guy in total disbelief.
Shrugging, he continued, “That’s why he’s Ovitz. It could be a thirty-year debt, but he knows to the dollar what’s owed him.”
This guy Ovitz ain’t lucky, I thought to myself. He deserves whatever success he has.
That evening I wrote him the following letter and enclosed with it the following check.
August 16, 1993
Dear Michael,
With rare exception, there are three sides to every story . . . This be the exception . . . you were right . . . I was wrong.
Certainly, many a larger check has crossed your desk. None however, signed with more pride. For the entire decade of the 80’s, not a dollar dropped into the till, leaving Evans on empty. Then . . . at last . . . a bit of blue sky. This be the first of many a payback. By years end, hopefully the ledger red will be totally erased. Thank you for your indulgence.
Respectfully,
Two days later, the check was returned with the accompanying note.
Since that time, Ovitz and I have brushed shoulders on many occasions, yet never has the subject of the returned check surfaced. That’s called style with a capital S.
