Danny Kaye
One of the most wildly talented performers ever. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty and The Court Jester (among others) are still comedic classics. Everyone knows of his prodigious talents for singing, acting, and dancing, but Danny's other accomplishments cast a wide net as well. He was a pilot—not just a putt-putt pilot: by the sixties he'd been checked out on jet airliners.
He loved sports and bought a minor league baseball team in Seattle that eventually became the Mariners. Whenever I went to Dodger Stadium I'd always see him engaged in deep conversation on the field before the game with Walter Alston, the Dodger manager at that time. Players were showing him their batting grips or sliding techniques. From time to time he actually sat in the dugout. Danny had to know everything, had to speak from real knowledge. He was also as close to being a physician as you could get without having gone to medical school. He studied all diseases, trivial or exotic, and how to cure them. He even had the American Medical Association's huge physician's dictionary, which pictured every conceivable pill in the world and explained its proper use. Dad knew Danny well and was something of an amateur doctor himself. He was jealous of Danny's AMA volume. When a doctor on Aunt Sara's side of the family passed away, Dad asked her to pretend to the AMA that he was still alive and had merely changed his address, so he could get his hands on that book. For years it was sent to a “Dr. Emanuel Aaronson” at Dad's house.
Danny's real passion was cooking. He was a world-class chef and had the diplomas and culinary awards to prove it. My good friends Leslie and Evie Bricusse lived just across the street from him. Danny was an admirer of Leslie's music and lyrics. He and Evie became regular dinner guests, and they brought me along with them on occasion. The dining table was in the kitchen. Danny would cook over the huge wrought-iron stove in his chef's outfit, aided by uniformed sous-chefs. He would keep a nonstop monologue going, filled with funny reminiscences, as one piping hot dish after another was transferred to the table and was instantly devoured. His favorite cuisine was Oriental. I've never had better Chinese food in my life.
Danny had a variety show on television at the time. I knew a couple of his writers, who told me that he was a demanding prick. But he paid top dollar and knew good work when he saw it. He was also reputed to have had a roving sexual appetite. His wife, the wonderful lyricist Sylvia Fine, had apparently learned how to live with it. I never met anyone so intent on learning everything about everything and so proficient at it. Had Danny lived more than a thousand years earlier, he truly would have been a Renaissance Man.
Gene Kelly
Along with Fred Astaire, the singular talent of the American musical film. One sat back and marveled at Astaire, at his dazzling style and grace, but there was something almost patrician about him. Gene was everyman, a brilliant dancer and choreographer, but someone the average guy could identify with. His contributions to the musical were singular and inventive. Gene was the first to dance with himself onscreen (Cover Girl), the first to do a major number with an animated character (Jerry the mouse, in Anchors Aweigh), and the first to seriously inject ballet into the genre (An American in Paris). He codirected and starred in Singin' in the Rain—by near unanimous consensus, simply the best musical ever made.
He was also the most competitive man I've ever met. Whether it was at charades, Scrabble, tennis, or dancing—he had to win. He was so kind and generous to me, an irascible Irishman with a quick grin forever giving me paternal advice. I met him through Jack Haley Jr., the godfather of his daughter, Bridget. Gene was also a great friend of Robert Wagner's, whom I'd worked with. The three of us played tennis several times a week with Pierre Groleau, the assistant manager of the celebrated Hollywood eating mecca Ma Maison. Many of our games were held on the court of Joe Pasternak, who would later produce my first screenplay, The Sweet Ride. Gene was obviously athletic and covered the court with grim determination. If you aced him with a serve just inside the line, he'd say: “I'm not sure. It might have been just out. Take two.” This usually worked with me, but not R.J., who'd say, “I don't want to take two, Gene, I just aced you.” I'd grin. Gene would drop his racket in frustration: “Well, if we're not even going to play fairly…” Sometimes rackets were thrown, insults were hurled across the net, but we always had a great time.
We played for bottles of Lafite Rothschild wine. R.J. and I were always going for the big play and too often missing. We'd insist on going double or nothing, then blow it again. After a couple of years we owed Gene and Pierre thousands of bottles of the world's most expensive wine. They insisted we pay up, so we decided to take them to the Bistro in Beverly Hills for dinner. We ordered one bottle. The sommelier brought it and poured. Gene tasted it, wrinkled his nose, shook his head, and sent it back. The next bottle was deemed acceptable. When we left the restaurant, the maître d' handed Gene the first bottle we'd ordered. Gene turned to us: “I knew you cheap bastards would try to get away with one bottle. Well I'm giving a small dinner tomorrow night, and this one will go down exquisitely.” Gene had won again. He had to.
He was equally competitive at Scrabble. Gene had memorized dozens of bizarre words from the dictionary and would use them, hoping you would challenge him and lose your turn. We were in a tight game one night. He put down the word xyst. I frowned: “I challenge.” Son of a bitch, it was in the dictionary, part of an ancient Greek portico or something. I lost my turn. We were virtually tied. Gene put down another totally unrecognizable word. I didn't challenge, not wanting to lose another turn. He won the game, then said: “You should have challenged. That word doesn't exist, I made it up.”
“Gene, that's cheating.”
“No, it isn't. The rules say you can challenge. If you're right, I lose my turn and have to take back the letters. I'm just playing by the rules.” Technically, he was right. But as to being fair…
Gene was rapidly losing his hair at that time. He was almost bald. He had three different toupees made for him. One was quite modest, his “I'm just sitting around with friends” toupee. The next was slightly fuller, his “I'm going into Beverly Hills or having lunch in a public place” toupee. Finally, there was what I called the “Looms of Mohawk” rug. That fuller-than-full toupee was reserved for awards ceremonies or television appearances and made him look twenty years old. After playing tennis one day we returned to Gene's house on Rodeo Drive. Gene was in shorts, sans any toupee at all. As we were talking on the sidewalk a car suddenly stopped. Two women inside were staring out at him. “Excuse me, are you Gene Kelly?”
“Yes, I am.”
They weren't entirely convinced. Gene smiled, then suddenly hopped up onto the top of a four-foot wall that ran along the side of the house. He started singing “It's Almost Like Being in Love” from Brigadoon as he incredibly tap-danced away down the wall in sneakers: “What a day this has been, what a rare mood I'm in…” The women swooned.
But dancing had always been a deadly serious business to Gene. One night at Jack Haley Jr.'s house, Debbie Reynolds told me that when she met with Gene about Singin' in the Rain, he told her: “You can dance, but not as well as Donald (O'Connor) and I. You're going to have to keep up. I'm not dumbing down any numbers to accommodate you.” Debbie rehearsed and worked until her feet bled. She kept up. What a talented, wonderful performance she gave in that film. At another time later, he performed with Julie Andrews on television. She'd already starred and danced in musicals on Broadway and in film, but her dancing was apparently not quite up to his standards. Julie told me: “We rehearsed and rehearsed until I actually began to resent him. Then I saw the number on television and called to thank him. I'd never danced that well in my life.”
Gene told me that when he was in London casting An American in Paris, he interviewed an enchanting young British/Dutch actress who hadn't played a major film role yet. Her name was Audrey Hepburn. “I knew she was magic. And she could dance a little. But she was a hoofer. I needed someone who could also dance ballet. The next thing I know, Willy Wyler casts her i
n Roman Holiday and the rest is history. Damn.”
His favorite partners? For all-around dancing, Cyd Charisse. The most fun to dance with? Rita Cansino (Rita Hayworth to you), Judy Garland, and Shirley MacLaine. Best hoofer? Donald O'Connor, hands down.
Arthur Loew Jr.
Legendary playboy, sometime producer, friend, and one of the funniest men ever. He was the son of Marcus Loew, film pioneer and founder of the huge theater chain. Arthur was well known for his affairs with Elizabeth Taylor, Janet Leigh, Natalie Wood, and Joan Collins—among many others. After a divorce from Tyrone Power's widow, Debbie, Arthur finally married a delightful young actress named Regina Groves and stayed this way for the rest of his life. The story (perhaps apocryphal) was that she had refused to sleep with him until they got married. The wedding party was held at the Daisy. Arthur acted as his own emcee. After having introduced several others who spoke, he finally zeroed in on the man who was definitely the guest of honor, the legendary Adolph Zukor, founder of Paramount Pictures and former partner of Marcus Loew. Zukor had been very close to Arthur, who referred to him as “my grandfather.” Zukor, who was then in his late nineties, rose to tumultuous applause and started for the microphone. There was one small problem: while his legs were pumping up and down, whatever muscles he needed to make him go forward weren't functioning. He was walking and walking, but only painfully inching his way to the mike. The applause continued interminably. Zukor finally arrived. As he was about to speak, Arthur leaned in front of him and said: “Thank you. My grandfather gave up a lot to be here. Tonight's his bowling night.”
While Arthur was engaged to Natalie Wood, the three of us were sitting around her living room one day. There was a lull in the conversation. Suddenly, a repetitive loud noise. We looked: one of her dogs was vigorously licking its private parts. The dog kept at it and at it. We stared. Arthur turned to Natalie and said, “You know, if I could physically do that, I'd have never asked you out in the first place.”
Sophia Loren
In the mid-sixties David Wolper sent me and Jack Haley Jr. to Rome to do a documentary on Sophia Loren for prime-time television. Sophia was everything one expected and more: earthy, funny, smart, self-taught, and fluent in several languages. She was so stunning to look at your hair hurt. She and her husband, Carlo Ponti, had seen the Nancy Sinatra special that Jack and I did and for which Jack had won the Emmy for Best Director. I was sent on ahead with a cameraman to gather material. Jack was to join us later.
I covered Sophia as she was shooting a film on nearby locations in Rome. She was practically worshipped by the public, who routinely called her “La Madonna.” Several brought their babies and small children to be blessed by her. My cameraman was a very young John Alonzo, whose talent with our 16 mm Éclair camera was so evident I was hardly surprised when he later became a major cinematographer and shot Chinatown. Sophia watched him work from the corner of her eye and asked to see our rushes, which she was thrilled with. Nothing got by her.
Ironically, “La Madonna” and Carlo were having major problems with the Catholic Church. The Vatican did not recognize Carlo's Mexican divorce from his first wife, so his marriage to Sophia was not legal in their eyes. Carlo was lobbying the College of Cardinals in the way special interest groups lobby our Congress—different red hats were constantly being invited to their beautiful palazzo in Marino, a small town outside of Rome, for a little “friendly persuasion.” As fate would have it, one of the most powerful and conservative princes of the church was Cardinal Frings of Cologne, a relative of Kurt Frings, a major Hollywood talent agent whose clients included Elizabeth Taylor.
The situation came to a curious head one day at the inauguration of a small soccer stadium in Marino for which the Pontis had provided most of the funds. Sophia was to preside at the opening game when the local Marino team was to play Naples, one of the major soccer powers in Europe. This matchup would be the equivalent of the Harvard baseball team playing the New York Yankees, but since Sophia came from Pozzuoli, a suburb of Naples, it was arranged. The inaugural ceremony was in the middle of the playing field. A small but capacity crowd was held back from the field by fences. The mayor of Marino gave a rousing speech lavishing praise on Sophia, who looked staggeringly beautiful in a deep-red turtleneck sweater underneath a black fur coat. The local monsignore was asked to bless the field with holy water. He hesitated. The crowd began to mumble. Sophia walked up to him. He turned away. Clearly, he didn't want to bless a location in the name and company of someone whom his church regarded as living in sin. The crowd started to boo him, yelling angrily. Sophia smiled broadly, walked straight up to him, and extended her hand in friendship. He stared. If it hadn't been for the fences, I think the locals would have torn him to pieces. Alonzo and I were thrilled—we grinned as he kept shooting. What an incredible piece of film we were getting. The game finally started and Naples politely kept it close. Late that afternoon when we returned to the villa, Sophia had already told Carlo what happened. He asked for the film, confiscated it, and had it destroyed. It was his right by contract (they had final approval of everything), and he was already in enough trouble with the church. But I'll always remember Sophia's gesture with the offered handshake. She was a natural-born star.
A short while later came one of the most unforgettable lunches I ever attended. Louis Nizer had just been appointed the new head of the MPAA (the Motion Picture Association of America). He was on an international tour to introduce himself, and the Pontis were asked to give the welcoming lunch for Italy. Sophia asked if I would like to come, and whom I wanted to be seated next to. The guest list was staggering: Vittorio De Sica, Federico Fellini, Marcello Mastroianni, Luchino Visconti, Alberto Moravia, and so on. I told her I thought Fellini was the greatest director in the world. It was settled. I would sit next to “Federico.”
Before the lunch started, Sophia introduced me to him. “This is the young man who thinks you're the greatest director in the world,” she told him in English.
“Aahh!” he replied, and promptly kissed me on the cheek.
During the meal I was absolutely stunned at the dazzling array of talent spread around that table. Could life get any better than this? Sophia was no fool, as usual. She was the only woman at the table. I soon discovered Fellini spoke better English than he let on in public. I began to ask him questions. Why, I wanted to know, since he and the Pontis were such good friends (Carlo had produced La Strada), had he never made a film with Sophia? Everyone coincidentally stopped talking when I asked him. The question almost boomed across the table. Sophia gave a wicked, tiny smile and said in English, “Yes, Federico, why haven't you ever made a film with me?”
“Because, Tom,” Fellini replied, “I am northern Italian; I make my films from here—” He tapped his forehead. “Sophia is southern Italian, Neapolitana; she makes her films from here—” He tapped his heart. “If you want this shit,” tapping his heart again, “talk to Vittorio.” He pointed across the table at De Sica, who laughed louder than anyone.
Unfortunately, this wonderful experience came to an abrupt end. Sophia had a miscarriage. We weren't even aware she was pregnant. Her picture shut down and she took to bed. I later found out it wasn't her first miscarriage. It seemed so sadly ironic—this woman who looked for all the world as if she could drop a baby in a field and keep on working suffering through such difficulties in having a child. She asked to see me to say good-bye. I went up to her bedroom. She was lying under the covers, for the first time looking truly vulnerable and sad. We talked briefly. She smiled and gave me her hand. “Ciao, Tesoro,” she said.
Years later Sophia and Carlo asked me to do a major rewrite on a film they were making, The Cassandra Crossing, costarring Richard Harris, Burt Lancaster, and Ava Gardner. It was at the height of the “disaster movie” craze. In this case, hundreds of European passengers were trapped and sealed inside a train filled with a deadly virus intended for biological warfare. Privately, I called it “the Towering Germ.” While it was certain
ly no one's best film, it was a certified financial hit for its two young producers, Andy Vajna and Mario Kassar, who went on to form the hugely successful Carolco production company. Most important for me, it was a genuine thrill to hear an actress of Sophia's talent, one I remembered so warmly, delivering my dialogue on the screen.
E. G. Marshall
When Dad came up to Williamstown in the early sixties, I had a small part in a play called The Visit. The stars were E. G. Marshall and Nan Martin. That summer, E.G. had earlier starred in The Skin of Our Teeth. Almost twenty years later he played the president of the United States in Superman II. I was down on the set discussing some dialogue I'd written for him when his eyes suddenly narrowed: “We know each other from before somewhere, don't we?”
I smiled. “In a way, yes.”
“From where? No, wait—don't tell me. I want to figure it out for myself.”
For the rest of the day's shooting he constantly looked at me out of the corner of his eye. Just before we wrapped, his face suddenly lit up as if he'd just discovered radium. He came over. “We've actually been onstage together, haven't we.” I was astonished that he'd remembered such an insignificant performance in such a small role so long ago. “Were you any good?” he asked me. “You couldn't have been terrible or I'd have remembered you right away.”
My Life as a Mankiewicz Page 16
