American Prince (33 page)

At Nicholas’s funeral, a local minister got up and talked about Nicholas’s poor mother and the loss she suffered. He never mentioned my name or even indicated that Nicholas had a father, and by mentioning his mother in so many ways, the minister seemed to be implying that I had abandoned Nicholas. Not surprisingly, he was Penny’s minister. After the service, I wrote him a letter asking, “Why didn’t you even mention my name?” He wrote back with some poppycock about religion. Fuck him. He couldn’t have been much of a minister or a father if he’d so completely lost sight of the Golden Rule.

Nicholas had been a child when Penny and I got divorced, so he had spent years flying back and forth across the country, going back and forth like a yo-yo between me and his mother. I think he might have been strongly affected by that. I say this because at the age of twenty-three he showed no signs of a direction to his life. He should have had a job or hobby to keep him occupied, a steady girlfriend, a good-looking car, but he had none of that. He was broke, living over his mother’s garage.

Nicholas is gone, and I miss him terribly, but his death has helped me to appreciate how lucky I am to still have five wonderful children. Kelly, my firstborn, was always remarkably practical. One of my favorite memories of Kelly’s childhood took place when she was four years old. I had brought home a television, and she had never seen a television before. So she got up from the couch and walked behind the set. She was there for a long time, so I finally asked her what she was doing. She told me with great seriousness that she was looking to see where the pictures and sounds were coming from.

Kelly wanted to be an actress, and she eventually had some chances to work in films, but it never made her truly happy. She liked the theater, so she joined a couple of theater groups in San Francisco, but she didn’t pursue a stage career much further than that. The life of a professional theater actor is almost impossibly difficult. She married a theatrical producer, and together they formed a company, but nothing came of it, and the marriage itself didn’t work out either. Kelly is living in Los Angeles now, working for her sister, Jamie. Kelly is a remarkably generous and compassionate person, sweet and giving.

Jamie was more of a firecracker. I have always called her Jamie, not Jamie Lee, because to my mind you can spell it any way you want, it still comes out “Leigh.” Jamie always sought out the excitement and joy in life, and she’s intelligent, gifted, and ambitious. She’s been that way all her life. As a kid, she wanted to go everywhere, do everything. I knew she would succeed in whatever she wanted to do, and sure enough, she became a fabulous success as an actress.

As a kid, Jamie didn’t smile too much. She was serious, and it was hard to get her to drop that seriousness. Kelly would be playing around and laughing while Jamie sat quietly, keeping her thoughts to herself. As she got older, I realized that her attitude toward life was very different from mine, and from Kelly’s. Jamie was practical, thick-skinned, and aloof—at least that’s the way she was around me. But you have to remember I wasn’t around much. I was always in an airplane or on a set, and my hectic schedule often had me working pictures back to back. Sometimes I’d go six months at a time without seeing Kelly and Jamie, so when I finally did see them, they were often angry with me for being away from them for so long. Jamie was usually more upset than her sister.

One time in my apartment, when Kelly and Jamie were still kids, Kelly read me the riot act for not being around when she needed me. Jamie said nothing, but I knew that her feelings toward me were at least as strong as her sister’s. I felt terrible that night, but I didn’t know what to do about it. And the truth is, I don’t know what to do about it now. After Janet and I divorced, Janet filled their heads with all sorts of negativity about me. I was the villain. To prove it, Janet had only to point to the articles about their monstrous dad in the movie magazines. There was nothing I could do about that. But it doesn’t stop me from taking pleasure today in the people that Kelly and Jamie have become.

Jamie is married to the talented actor and director Christopher Guest. He seems to share Jamie’s belief that she deserved more from a father than I gave her, and I don’t blame either one of them for that feeling. Jamie’s friends made me feel insecure too, and I didn’t enjoy being in their company. I wish I could rewrite the past, but I know that’s not possible. Frankly, I wish I could do a better job right now of enjoying my children and grandchildren, and I know I’ve fallen short on that score too. But I’m getting better.

In Jamie’s case, I still struggle to get past her coolness toward me. I know I can sound formidable, but inside I’m as fragile as ever. And sensitive as I am, I’m not at my best when I think someone doesn’t like me. I’m working on this, but progress is slow.

I have few regrets about my life, but chief among them is my failure as a father. I hope that in whatever time I have left I can do better in one role that never came naturally to me.

Alexandra, one of my two daughters from my marriage to Christine, has become a child therapist who helps parents of newborns. She is quiet and serious, and she’s very good at what she does. Allegra, the younger of these two daughters, is a firebrand. She wanted to make it on her own, so she left school and tried all sorts of things. She got into designing clothing and jewelry, and now she’s designing jewelry for a home-shopping company in Germany. She has a son named Raphael. I met him when he was tiny, and I’m planning to see him again soon.

Benjamin was my second son with Penny. He’s always been good with his hands, and after working as a carpenter, he’s working on getting his contractor’s license. Sadly, Benjamin and I don’t talk, which is fallout from disagreements we’ve had over his son, Nicholas, who is twelve years old. I’m doing what I can to help make sure Nicholas thrives. Nicholas is a wonderful child: smart, a good student, very perceptive, and an all-around fabulous boy.

I
first laid
eyes on Jill VandenBerg in 1996, when I went to Nicky Blair’s restaurant alone one night for dinner. I was single and enjoying it. As I walked toward my table, I saw a couple at another table. The man looked like he might be Middle Eastern, and the young woman, a blond, had a beautiful face and a magnificent body. I hadn’t seen anyone that appealing since Marilyn. I tried not to be rude, but I literally couldn’t take my eyes off her.

At one point my chutzpah (my inner Schwartz) kicked in and propelled me over to their table. I had never seen the man before, but I pretended I knew him. “How have you been? We haven’t talked in ages. How’s your family?” He was dazzled by all the attention from a famous person. Where could he possibly have met me?

Then I paused and leaned over to the beautiful woman. “Hi, I’m Tony,” I said with a little smile on my face.

“Hi, I’m Jill,” she replied, “and this is my friend Matt.”

I felt a surge of joy from the knowledge that those two weren’t married. I said, “I’m so happy to meet you, Jill.” During the conversation that followed, I found out that she lived in San Diego and drove up to LA on weekends. So this guy might be her boyfriend, but they weren’t living together. I took heart from this news and ramped up the charm a notch. They say all’s fair in love and war, and when Schwartz is falling in love, you’d better look out.

I told Jill I was in San Diego a lot. Then I looked at her friend, and I said, “Matt, do you mind if I get a number where I can reach Jill when I’m in San Diego?”

“No, not at all,” he said. I was so relieved I wanted to jump up and click my heels. I got Jill’s number, put it in my pocket, and walked away like a gunslinger who’d just outdrawn Jesse James.

Jill had told me she was returning home Sunday night. I calculated when she might leave LA, and how much time the drive home would take her. Once my estimated time had elapsed, I called her and said, “Hello. Remember me?” During that phone conversation, she let on that she had been a big fan of Marilyn Monroe and that she had been upset with me for saying that kissing Marilyn was like kissing Hitler. It wasn’t the first time I’d had to explain my way out of that one, but this time there was more on the line than ever before. No way was I going to let this amazing woman’s loyalty to Marilyn cause a problem for us! I took her through my explanation and apologized profusely, which satisfied her.

The next time Jill came to Los Angeles, she called me up, and we started going out. After a couple of weeks of dating, I invited her to spend the night at my apartment, and she did. It was a wonderful experience, which told me that what I felt for Jillie wasn’t just an infatuation. By this time, I finally knew the difference. What I felt for this woman was truly serious. To my everlasting wonderment, Jillie felt the same way.

I’m still crazy about her now. There’s something about Jill’s beauty that touches me very deeply. It glows through from the inside rather than being a more typical beauty. I don’t know how she avoided all the issues and hang-ups that beautiful girls so often fall victim to, but she did. She never wanted to be a model and never wanted to be an actress. She just wanted to live a happy life, and when we met, we both believed that our best chance at happiness was to spend our lives together. We’ve been married for ten years. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I finally got it right.

Seven years ago, Jillie and I moved from LA to Las Vegas. I no longer wanted to live in the shadow of Hollywood. It reminded me of how much of my life in the last decade had been spent waiting for the phone to ring with a call to make a movie. Jillie found that she didn’t like living in LA either. She didn’t enjoy going out to lunch with the wives of so many unhappy, unemployed actors. They significantly outnumbered those who were working. And everywhere I went around town, I ran into actors like me who used to have a career but no longer did.

I think there was a shame that went along with that—I know I felt it—and a lot of people who used to be the biggest names in Hollywood became afraid to even show their faces in public. I knew that feeling too. In the years before I met Jillie, if I wanted to eat out in LA, I would go to this boxcar that had been turned into a diner and have a hamburger. It was the only place where I wouldn’t run into somebody to whom I’d have to make excuses for why I wasn’t working. In that diner, nobody compared me with present-day working actors. People left me alone.

I have lived beyond my golden age. When I think back to the beginning of my career and my meteoric rise, I still wonder how it happened. For a long time, when I made a movie I created a wonderful commotion. Even after
The Boston Strangler,
later in my career, I received tremendous acclaim and applause. And now, sixty years after I began, despite all that success no one will give me a chance to show what I can do. I know, I know, there aren’t many parts in movies for octogenarians, but for some reason that doesn’t provide me much comfort. What helps most is knowing that never for a moment did I take my success for granted. When I could set aside my insecurities, I appreciated—and was grateful for—each and every second of my good fortune.

Another reason for moving to Las Vegas was that I had a great friend there, a man named Dean Shendel. Dean had been a stuntman, and I enjoyed his company tremendously, so Jill and I had made frequent trips to Las Vegas to see him. Finally we decided we’d rather be in Vegas with him and his upbeat, fun-loving group of friends than in LA surrounded by disappointed actors.

It was on one of those trips to Vegas in 1998 that I went to see a longtime friend of mine, Kirk Kerkorian. Kirk owned the MGM Grand (and in 2004 his company purchased the Excalibur, Luxor, and Mandalay Bay hotels and casinos). When I told Kirk that Jill and I were planning to marry, he suggested we hold the wedding at the MGM Grand, and he generously offered to pick up the tab for the entire affair. One of Kirk’s troubleshooters was a wonderful man named Gene Kilroy. I was told that Gene had once been Muhammad Ali’s manager, and when I met him, I quickly saw that he was a real go-to guy who knew everyone in town and Las Vegas was his office. Gene took care of all the arrangements for our November 6 wedding that year, and over the years I’ve called on him for tickets to fights or shows or just to talk. In addition to everything else, Gene, who is a remarkably generous person, gives great advice. He has been a good friend, and I am grateful to him for that. If you have Gene for a friend you want not.

I have a wonderful life here in Vegas. Everybody treats me with dignity and respect, and I strive to do the same in return. And living here in the desert has allowed Jillie to pursue her dream. Two or three years ago, we were riding together in the car when she mentioned to me that she had learned that racehorses, including some of the best-known winners of Triple Crown races, are routinely slaughtered for human consumption overseas once their glory days are over. As a girl, Jill had always had an affinity for horses. As she grew older, she owned horses and felt very strongly that they should be well treated; when she learned how even championship horses ended their days, she decided to do something about it.

“I’m going to save these horses,” she said.

“Okay, let’s do it,” was my reply.

We decided that Jill would build a horse farm in the California desert about forty-five minutes from where we live. Once she got the horse farm built, she bought her first retired horses and housed them on the farm. She hasn’t stopped since. At last count, we had 130 horses on our farm, which we call Shiloh. I’m her silent partner in this noble venture. If any of you would like to adopt a beautiful Thoroughbred, you can reach Jillie on her Web site at Shiloh
horserescue.com
. I am also available.

T
his is one
marriage in which the bride didn’t change after we got married, and she didn’t want me to change either. A lot of things keep our marriage alive, including Jill’s sweetness, her strength, her resolve, and her all-important sense of her life’s purpose. I don’t know anyone more beautiful than Jillie. And if we spend a little more dough than we should to save Jillie’s horses, that’s okay; I have enough to keep us going. I own parts of lots of pictures, and they generate enough money to comfortably meet our needs.