The Kid Stays in the Picture

by Robert Evans

  At the same time, my plate overfloweth at Paramount; I was readying more flicks for the silver screen than ever before. Can you believe it? At my age, my dance card is filled. It’s a far cry from the Motion Picture Relief Home, where a few years ago I was an odds-on favorite to take up residence.

  In June of 1995, I spoke before a thousand men and women. I let them know loud and clear that guys my age are put out to pasture even if they are very successful. Yet at the age of sixty, still labeled an outlaw, I got up from the canvas and fought my way back to the top. As I continued speaking, my eyes scanned the auditorium.

  “Don’t tell me if I can do it, you can’t. I don’t want to hear cop-outs from a thirty-five-year-old guy who’s just been fired from his job and can’t face the world, or a lady who’s been dumped by her husband or boyfriend and can’t get out of bed to make the day. There’s not one of us here tonight who doesn’t have a problem. We all belong to a very big club—the world. Let’s face it: suffering is overrated. I personally think we developed language because of a deep inner need to complain. If nothing else, please accept this bit of wisdom from a guy whose been through a meat grinder and poured through a Cuisinart.”

  Already on the podium for more than an hour, I slowly took in the room once again.

  “Getting into action generates inspiration. Don’t cop out waiting for inspiration to get you back into action. It won’t! Before I take a hike, I leave you with this thought: It’s not a compliment when someone tells you you’re a survivor. It’s bullshit. We’re all survivors till we die. Get out there, go for it, don’t be afraid. Be a winner—that’s what it’s all about.”

  With that, I left the podium to a standing ovation that would have made Barbra Streisand euphoric.

  Offers from $10,000 north—very north—sprawl across my desk, and that’s for a single appearance. Me? I’d like to accept each and every one. The problem is, the impossible did happen. I can’t fit everything in. There are more flicks on my platter to bring to the screen than I can handle. How’s that for a guy who five years ago couldn’t get past the front gate?

  “Once an actor, always an actor.” That’s what made the audiocassette of The Kid, which I acted out rather than read, the prize-winning audio of the year. It was voted the Best of the Best by Publishers Weekly, the book industry’s bible. How’s this for fantasies realized: The Kid audio has brought me more offers for acting gigs than I had when I was Twentieth Century–Fox’s hottest property.

  January 1995. The bigwigs at Disney called after hearing The Kid audio.

  “Michael Eisner told us it was okay to call you,” said one.

  “You’re just the voice we’ve been searching for to play Hades in Hercules,” said another. “It’s Disney’s most ambitious animated project ever.”

  I took it as a compliment, until the next morning when a totally boarded script arrived at my door. I quote Disney’s description of Hades verbatim:

  “Hades—Lord of the dead. Cool, laid back, sardonic, soft spoken, smooth talking, a con man. Salesman, intimidating, likes to always be in control. Has occasional bursts of fiery temper when things don’t go his way.”

  Disney ain’t successful by mistake. Did it feather my ego? You’re damned right. Am I enjoying it? You bet. Maybe it was them ten years of darkness that makes me appreciate each and every pleasure that comes my way.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Never say never.

  Many years ago I made a promise to myself: no matter how extraordinary a lady might be, commitment was not for me. First and foremost, it would not be fair to the lady. Second, as my life’s travels have proved, monogamy is certainly not my game, nor is obligation. Ready for this? It’s been more than a year now and there’s been only one lady in my life. Obligated? Totally. Monogamous? Yeah. Shocked? More than you can imagine. Now the capper, and it’s a beaut—I’m more than forty years her senior. To make it worse, her father is far younger than me and voices total disdain regarding his youngest daughter’s relationship. I don’t blame him; I would too.

  Hey, maybe she’s with me because I can help her career. Wrong. She’s an equestrian fanatic. She’d rather be in the barn at five in the morning cleaning up horse shit than be front and center on any soundstage in the world. She’d rather foxhunt in cold, rainy Ireland than pose before the camera as the new Revlon girl. The thought of being an actress makes her laugh. Well, maybe she’s with me for my money. She’s too smart—she knows I have none. It must be my wisdom. Wrong again. I’ve learned more from her this past year than she’d learned from me. As strange as it may seem, it’s true.

  Bringing visions to the screen is my calling. The success or failure of those visions are determined not by my generation, but hers. Her insight on two particular screenplays changed my direction in the story’s unfolding. Was she right? Both of them are now green-lit flicks.

  Sure, my ego tells me I’m young. I feel it and act it, but I ain’t. If I depended upon people of my generation for input, my films would never get an audience. How could they? People my age don’t go to the movies.

  Where did we meet? At a reception for the King of Sweden. Her name is Christy Scott. Our pairing so unlikely, she enjoys telling everyone we met through America Online’s newest computer-dating service. It never fails—every reaction is worth filming. Does it cause embarrassing moments? On a plane back from the Caribbean, a kid no older than seven kept passing our seat. The precocious brat kept staring at us. Finally, he stopped square in front of me.

  With no front teeth, he lisped, “Are you guys married?”

  Annoyed he asked the question, I gave him a quick “Yes.”

  The runt just stood there, staring. Then his fucking lisp started again as he looked at Christy.

  “You can’t be. He’s much too old for you.”

  Christy laughed. Me, I wanted to hit the runt square in the face and knock out the rest of his teeth.

  Candor, rather than false humility, makes me wonder why the hell she’s with me. She being twenty-three is embarrassing enough for an over-the-hill Romeo. But even worse, her looks belie her age; carrying her I.D. card is a must, as few believe she’s graduated high school. In many ways we have little in common: she spends her time with her horses, then charges on to ten miles a day split between swimming, biking, and running, followed by three nights a week of bible study. My interests? Film, writing, reading, and meetings, meetings, meetings. Ah! But we share a connective tissue so rare that it makes my day, each day of each week: laughter. From the moment we met, a day hasn’t passed that her laissez-faire attitude toward life hasn’t elicited a smile or a laugh. Whether she’s meeting the King of Sweden or the queen of flicks, her lack of awe never ceases to amaze me. At first I wasn’t sure it was genuine. It is. If nothing else, the shared laughter made me take a step back to reexamine my own priorities. Without realizing it, I began taking life a day at a time, going with the tide. That was little Christy’s gift to me, indeed the gift of a lifetime.

  I’ve never asked her why she’s attracted to me. She wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway. Attraction is always hard to define. For me, timing is most important. If it’s right, what attracts me to a woman could be a crooked tooth, the movement of her hand, her gait, her voice—all are far more important than her measurements. Naturalness to me has always been a turn-on, makeup a turn-off. Age? Hell, they’re only numbers. It’s a style, a spirit, a daring that matter. Beauty? Sure it’s a magnet, but beauty alone disappears all too quickly, and with it so does my interest.

  Well, my interest not only hasn’t waned regarding Lady Christy, it has deepened. Whether we’re together another day, week, month, year, or for decades, one thing is for sure—it’ll never be boring.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  In April of ’93, Jack Nicholson became the youngest recipient of the American Film Institute’s Lifetime Achievement Award. The overflow celebrity turnout honoring the Irishman was, by far, the biggest in Hollywood’s history. At the evening�
�s conclusion, the star-studded audience of two thousand–plus stood in unison, applauding Irish as he walked from dais to stage to receive the award.

  Passing my table on his way to the stage, he made his only stop, put his arms around me for all to see, and whispered in my ear, “Love ya, Keed.” Then, without another word to anyone, he pressed his way through the crowd and onto the stage.

  Gotta say, the nineties ain’t been bad. That embrace, totally impulsive, meant and said more than any I’ve ever had in my life.

  Another thing that’s for sure: the nineties didn’t stop me from making headlines. Damn it, why can’t they be middle of the road? It’s either champagne or sedative time. Before one full moon turns into another, I get it in the front. I get it in the back.

  Splashed across the Arts & Leisure section of The New York Times was a picture more glamorous than any I’ve taken since playing the bullfighter in The Sun Also Rises—not in suit, shirt, and tie, but jumping out of a pool, dripping wet, gazing into the sun. Macho beefcake time! Cruise, Nicholson, Costner, Beatty couldn’t expect a more dazzling display, especially from the Times. But me! Doesn’t make sense. Can’t deny it, though, it was one hell of an ego boost. Across four columns ran the headline: “THE RISE, FALL AND RISE OF ROBERT EVANS.”

  This was followed by a two-thousand-word epistle on “the reemergence of a film giant,” written by Bernard Weinraub, the Times’ ace entertainment journalist.

  Like the foam on the head of a cold glass of beer, the high was short-lived. Two weeks later to the day, the name Robert Evans again blazed across the top of the page. This time, the Los Angeles Times, with an equally large photo. No beefcake here—law cake. The headline? A bit different!

  “THE DEMISE AND RUIN OF PRODUCER ROBERT EVANS.”

  Being hoisted and dumped within two weeks does not come easily. It’s an art form unto itself that few survive. Trust me, I’ve got a Ph.D. in it.

  My life today? The best it’s ever been! Would you believe that on November 12, 1995, “Jesse James” Evans will be the recipient of Blockbuster’s Lifetime Achievement Award at the Tenth Annual Fort Lauderdale Film Festival? Feels good to not only be the first producer to cop one, but to follow last year’s recipient, Martin Scorsese. Can’t deny it, though, the nineties carried some heavy luggage. I’ve been shot down, bloodied, trampled, accused, disgraced, threatened, betrayed, scandalized, maligned. Tough? Sure, but I ain’t complainin’! Nothin’ comes easy.

  Not unlike Popeye: “I yam what I yam, that’s all what I yam.”

  Imperfect? Very! Do I like myself? Finally! Do my detractors bother me? Hell no! It’s their problem, I ain’t gonna change.

  Resolve: Fuck ’em, fuck ’em all.

  Acknowledgments for the New Edition

  It’s been almost twenty years since The Kid was first published, and to my surprise—and probably to the dismay of some in Hollywood—I’m still in the picture. One lesson I’ve learned over the years is that loyalty and friendship are often rewarded in kind, and are more enduring than fame and fortune. Some dear friends and mentors who were key figures in so many of the treasured moments of my life recorded on these pages have passed on in recent years—Helmut Newton, Sue Mengers, Sidney Korshak, David Brown and Helen Gurley Brown, and my own brother, Charles. These losses haunt me, but there is some comfort in sharing my recollections, so that readers who may never have crossed paths with these extraordinary individuals can experience what made them giants among men (and in the case of Sue, a lioness among women).

  I would like to thank Monica Crowley, who named The Kid Stays in the Picture as one of her six best books in Publishers Weekly, calling it “a naughty, outrageous, and wild ride—and perhaps the best Hollywood memoir ever written.”

  Since its publication, this book has been turned into a documentary, inspired an animated series, and now an Englishman and an Irishman are threatening to bring it to Broadway as a play. I’ve received thousands of letters from readers, and I’m grateful to all those souls who have taken the time to read about my own bumpy journey. Those notes and emails come from all over the globe, but the message is the same—we’re all in this together, and if you can make someone else smile along the way or feel less lonely, why not do that?

  Keeping me focused and young at heart is a stalwart crew that I’d like to thank, not only for watching the parade go by for more than twenty years, but for being up on the float with me, waving at the crowd: My executive assistant of twenty-seven years, Michael Binns-Alfred, who has more patience than Mother Teresa; my ever-discreet butler, Alan “English” Selka, who has opened more doors than I could find; my trusted assistant Alex “Rio” Bier, and my angel, Rosie Chavez, whose name defines her.

  At Paramount, Jay Sikura is my right-hand man with a keen intellect and uncanny talent for discovering a great story.

  Hernan De Elejalde, who gave of his valuable time most generously and used his academic eye to strengthen the structure of my life’s story. Ryan Rayston, for her insight, research and constant inventiveness. Darryl Goldman, who has been my friend through thin and thin and kept me fit for more than twenty years. Melissa Prophet, who has always covered my back.

  My legal team consists of the fearless Henry Holmes, who rescued this book from copyright pirates on several occasions, and the charismatic, unflappable Eric George, who is constantly saving me from the illegal threats of illegal people. Their efforts on my behalf give me an all-important peace of mind.

  I also thank Eric for introducing me to my literary agent, Helen Breitwieser, without question the most creative literary agent I have yet to collaborate with. She not only prodded me into giving The Kid a makeover but carefully guided me through the technicalities of the process and introduced me to my current editor, publisher Cal Morgan. Cal’s tenacity and vision beat out all other competitors, and has propelled The Kid into the digital age. His assistant, Kathleen Baumer, has been indispensable in keeping The Kid in line.

  And, last but not least, Jeff Berg, an extraordinary man who personifies everything an agent is not supposed to be. Through thin and thin, he’s always been there, never once asking for anything in return. Including commission! That’s friendship with a capital F.

  Read an excerpt from

  The Fat Lady Sang

  BY ROBERT EVANS

  Available in hardcover in September 2013 from

  “The Kid and J.F.K.”

  (ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN VANITY FAIR, MARCH 2007)

  It was a sweltering Saturday in the summer of ’49. Most civilians were at the many beaches that surround the Big Apple. Me, I was no civilian. I was an actor on the radio, costarring every Saturday morning on CBS’s top show, Let’s Pretend.

  On the sly, I was seeing a girl who was the current “Debutante of the Year.” Naturally, her parents knew nothing about us. If they had, she’d have been on a one-way trip to a nunnery. Why was she seeing me? Rebellion was the excuse she gave to her snot-nosed, pigtailed piglet friends. She knew—and I knew she knew—she was lying. She dug the dirt . . . the dirt of going to Harlem. Being the only white chick in the joint watching shows she shouldn’t be watching. Going to the track with me and my pal Dickie Van Patten, rather than finishing finishing school. Sneaking up three flights of stairs on the Lower East Side to hear Mabel Mercer warble them naughty lyrics.

  The more she whispered her rebellious acts to her pigtailed piglets, the more they too wanted to rebel. She got off on it. Me? I got off on her getting off! Her parents, icons of New York society, would have gotten off, too . . . with a gun!

  In the late forties it was considered chic to spend summer weekends in the Big Apple. Call it inverse snobbism, call it what you want. “With the riffraff at the beaches, we can have the city all to ourselves,” long-drawled them snobs. Those were the days, when heritage, not wealth, was the key to society. Wealth alone would buy you entrance only to what was called “café society.” But thoroughbred heritage was no automatic pass when it came to big bucks. Many families w
hose heritage dated back to Plymouth Rock were driving Plymouths. “How marvelous New York is in the summer,” they’d hoot. The truth was, they’d rather sweat it out than show their hand. Yeah, but Miss Society’s parents had both heritage and wealth.

  Each summer they’d spend the month of July at their villa in the South of France. It was then I was first allowed entrance to their spacious town house, on East 73rd Street. Miss Society was hosting a Saturday luncheon for a friend of the family . . . and I’m invited!

  What a joint! The sitting room must have been, I don’t know, forty feet high. Outside there were beautifully manicured gardens, right in the middle of the city. There must have been twenty-five or thirty people there. I’m thinking to myself, What’s going on? For every guy there’s five dames here. Except for Miss Society. I didn’t know any of ‘em. It didn’t take long to realize their interest in knowing me was nil.

  I wasn’t taking kindly to the change of air, I’ll tell you that. Only an hour earlier, I was signing autographs backstage at Let’s Pretend . . . Now I’m standin’ alone feelin’ like a leper!

  Finally, an Oyster Bay snob gave me the time of day. With his Long Island drawl on high: “I’ve been told you’re an actor.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve never met one before.”

  Was he putting me on?

  “Really,” he insisted.