How I Got This Way (28 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

STEVEN SPIELBERG

O
ne night during my L.A. sidekick years on ABC’s
The Joey Bishop Show,
Joey sent me into the studio audience to ask young people about their future dreams. As in what did they want to do with their lives? (Sometimes, even on big network shows, you have to fill time any way you can!) So down into the audience I went. Immediately, I zeroed in on one kid, a typical teenager, who caught my eye for some reason. He looked a bit shy, but I put the microphone right in front of him and asked the question anyway: “What do you want to do with your life?” He didn’t answer. I got a little uncomfortable. Did I pick the wrong kid? Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe the mic in front of him on a live TV show was spooking him. Gently, I repeated, “Joey just wants to know what the young people are thinking about doing with their future lives.” He still didn’t speak. I could tell he truly wanted to say something. But the words just wouldn’t spill out. I tried one more time: “You know, something you dreamt about your whole life. . . .” He looked like a good kid and I could tell he was trying hard—but the camera and the studio lights and the attention had frozen him stiff. Finally I said, “Well, keep thinking about your answer and good luck to you. I hope you get whatever it is you want one day.” And then I moved on to another young person.

Who knows why, but I never forgot that moment.

I felt for the young guy and wished him well. Most probably, I think he reminded me of myself as a teenager and how difficult it was for me to tell anyone what my own dreams were.

So flash forward to one night about forty years later: Joy and I were attending a movie premiere courtesy of one irrepressible New York showbiz publicist who was in charge of that event. She is a ball of fire, this woman, and also a good friend, and that night she wanted me to meet the great film director Steven Spielberg after the screening. When I approached Spielberg for our introduction, he was surrounded by five people. I waited for a few moments, then felt foolish and finally decided to quietly take my leave. Steven Spielberg probably had no idea who I was anyway, I figured.

But as I edged away, I heard him say, “Regis, wait a minute.” He pulled me over toward him and continued, “You know, there’s something I always wanted to tell you. Anytime I see you on TV, it reminds me of a night that has haunted me my whole life. Once when I was about eighteen, I went to see
The Joey Bishop Show
in Hollywood, and you came out into the audience to ask a tongue-tied young person about future dreams. Well, that was me. I froze. I couldn’t answer you, couldn’t tell you and the whole world that I wanted to be a movie director. I stood there and wouldn’t say it. It was embarrassing and humiliating. Finally you had to move on to someone else, and I sat down stunned and a little angry with myself. And that’s what I invariably find myself remembering every time I see you on TV.”

Well, as I’ve said, I’ve always kept that same awkward moment wedged somewhere deep in my memory bank. And for this man—who went on to create and direct some of the most important blockbuster films ever made—to remember it too . . . it simply amazed me. He quite obviously had gone on to realize that “embarrassing” dream of his and in the process became revered for his many great visionary achievements. Yet there we were—maybe the only two people alive who vividly recalled that night, and that question, and that moment of sheer panic. Now, at least I know this much: I actually did pick the exact right young person in that studio audience, after all.

He didn’t tell me his dream then, but he’s shown the world evidence of that dream ever since.

Chapter Twenty-five

GEORGE CLOONEY

B
elieve it or not, there once was a time in America when many cities and even medium-size towns had their own locally produced hit television shows. It was a new and exciting world in those days, and the TV stations took great pride in creating programs of all sorts—their own local newscasts, of course, but also hour-long variety and talk shows as well as entertaining daily after-school series for the kids. More often than not, those who fronted the kids’ shows became the most popular characters in their regions, but the men and women who hosted those daytime and late-night programs were also well-loved personalities—
stars,
even—in their areas. I knew what it was like, just from having my own local Saturday-night shows in San Diego and later in St. Louis. But most of that great local action would change forever once the likes of Oprah and Phil Donahue—and yes, even the rest of us who started as “hometown sensations”—became syndicated forces around the country. These prepackaged daily series, complete with built-in national sponsors, made it easier and cheaper for each individual station to simply buy programs and forget about the expense and headaches of producing its own shows.

Anyway, for the longest time in Cincinnati, one of the hottest personalities on the scene was a guy named Nick Clooney, whose midday show on the CBS affiliate WCPO-TV became a local staple. Sometime in the early seventies, not too long after
The Joey Bishop Show
had ended, I was invited to pinch-hit for Nick while he took a weeklong vacation. Happily, I jumped at the chance, since I always loved going back to the Midwest—especially to someplace within driving distance of Notre Dame, so I could make a visit to the campus and feel that old glow again. So one Sunday morning, Joy and I boarded a plane at LAX for a flight to Cincinnati and a week of fun doing Clooney’s show, followed by a drive across the Ohio-Indiana state line and up to South Bend.

Now, if you have seen Joy Philbin over the years on my various TV shows, you must know that she is a meticulous dresser. She cares
deeply
about the way she looks, whether on camera or off, and especially when traveling. Keep in mind, too, that this was still the era when people actually got dressed up for their plane trips. And I’ll always remember how beautiful she looked that day as we took our first-class seats on that Cincinnati-bound American Airlines jet. She wore a very pretty orange dress with white polka dots. We both felt excited about the week ahead, so we ordered some drinks after takeoff and sat back to enjoy the flight. But somehow, even before she had taken a sip of her Bloody Mary, the drink slipped from her hand and splashed all over that lovely outfit. This was not good. She was furious. Trapped on a plane . . . with no chance to change into something else . . . no, not good at all. She could only just sit there and let that Bloody Mary sink into her beautiful dress and ruin my—excuse me, I mean,
our
—flight across the country. Not the greatest way to start our weeklong adventure: with the seething furies of an immaculate woman drenched in tomato juice mixed with vodka. It’s the kind of thing you remember for the rest of your life, to tell you the truth. I mean, it still gives me chills.

Meanwhile,
The Nick Clooney Show
was a live daily noontime full-scale variety show anchored, as the name suggests, by the dashing Nick Clooney himself. It regularly featured an array of talented, well-known Ohioans, as well as celebrities passing through town, and often welcomed Nick’s own singing sisters. Rosemary Clooney, of course, was already a major music star who’d occasionally return from Hollywood and visit on camera with her brother. But Nick’s other sister, Betty, also had a great voice and would, in fact, be my cohost during my fill-in week. Immediately, I was surprised to see a full band on the set, keeping the atmosphere always lively. The audience was even treated to lunch before each broadcast, and everybody was in a good mood, welcoming me in their gracious midwestern way. This wasn’t the rat race I experienced in Hollywood or later on in New York—it was absolutely smooth, easygoing fun.

And oh yes, there was somebody else who would regularly hang around on the set, especially during the summertime when school was out. He was a sweet little guy, I was told, that everybody liked as much as his father. His name was George. I never saw him—he was away with his family for the week—but everybody who talked about Nick inevitably also mentioned George and what a nice-looking young boy he was. Yes, it was the same little George who would later, more than once, be named
People
magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” Let’s face it: Those Clooneys had a great gene pool.

As it was, we had a terrific week of shows, and every night, Joy and I ventured out on the town: One night we went across the river to Kentucky to see Woody Herman’s big band in concert; the next night we had dinner at the city’s top French restaurant, Maisonette; the following evening we headed to the new Riverfront Stadium to watch the Cincinnati Reds in action with their superstars Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Tony Perez, and the rest of that legendary Big Red Machine team; and on still another night we enjoyed the famous city zoo where the Cincinnati Opera gave one of its special summer performances, a favorite seasonal event in that town. And yes, that weekend we did return to Notre Dame, where my old classmate Jim Gibbons, who by then was the school’s vice president of protocol, showed us around—and of course I simply inhaled it, loving every moment. The campus was even more beautiful than I remembered, and through the years it has just continued to expand and improve in every way, a place everyone really ought to see and experience before they leave this earth. Or have I mentioned that already?

Then it was back to Hollywood, where over the years Rosemary Clooney had become a regular repeat guest on my morning show and also a dear friend. I liked to remind her that the first time I saw her perform was, in fact, back at Notre Dame where she sang one Saturday night with the old Vaughn Monroe band. In those days, there were no girls on campus—but suddenly here was this gorgeous twentysomething blonde in a yellow dress walking so sprightly into the old fieldhouse to give us that big swinging show. We saw a lot of her from the seventies onward—both in interview situations and off camera as well. She spoke of her ups and downs, of her deep depression after divorcing Jose Ferrer, of how her old friend and
White Christmas
costar Bing Crosby swooped in and took her on tour with him, giving her a huge boost and fresh outlook on life again. In later years, every time she appeared here in New York, Joy and I would be there on opening night and then always visit with her backstage afterward. She was one of our truly great singers, a wonderful woman whom we miss terribly.

What we didn’t know until much later was this: When her handsome young nephew George had first decided to leave Ohio and try his fortunes in Hollywood, he moved into his aunt Rosie’s house in Toluca Lake, helping her out as an assistant and chauffeur while looking around for acting jobs. Obviously, he found his acting jobs. Did he ever! There was, all of a sudden, now another Clooney in town. He picked up early work on some sitcoms and then became that heartthrob doctor on the NBC smash medical drama
ER
. But next he did something that doesn’t happen very often. He walked away from a hit TV show to take a whack at the movies. Most often, a change like that doesn’t work out so well for television actors, but it didn’t stop George. There was lots of speculation—much of it rather doubtful—about whether he could pull it off. Hollywood, of course, is rampant with that sort of jealousy and envy. But George proved them all wrong, and then some. He even got better looking while growing into a finer actor with each new film he made. And soon enough he was right up there, a bona fide major star with a suave persona as close to Cary Grant as his generation will likely ever produce.

But now, cut to one special summer, just a few years ago:

Joy and I and our friends Barry and Susan Glazer were invited to spend a week in an Italian villa formerly owned by the late designer Gianni Versace, located on Lake Como, outside of Milan. Our pal Ed Walson, a cable TV big shot, had won this exclusive stay at the villa at a charity auction in New York. And I’ll tell you, this was quite the grand home, complete with statues and paintings and exotic chandeliers. You get the idea. While there, I received a phone call from Stan Rosenfeld, a longtime friend and a publicity agent for some of the biggest big stars, including George Clooney. We’d heard that Clooney owned one of the great villas that ringed the lake, and that’s what Stan was calling about. “George would like you and your gang to come to his villa for dinner and wine some night while you’re here,” Stan informed me. “He even lives fairly close to where you are, and believe me, you’ll have a good time.”

A private dinner at George Clooney’s Lake Como villa?
How do you turn that down? And why would you? Absolutely, we all looked forward to this night—with Joy and Susan seeming maybe even a little
too
excited
about it, if you know what I mean.
He’s George Clooney, after all, isn’t he?
George met us at the door. He couldn’t have been more charming, showing us around the house and telling us how it came to be that he found and then bought this gorgeous place. It was, he said, practically fate: He’d been on one of his many motorcycle trips through Italy when one day his bike broke down right smack in front of that house. He knocked on the door to ask if he could use the phone to call for help. The family welcomed him in and gave him a tour. He fell in love with it immediately—on the spot. And bought it. Just like that. Ever since, his summers there in Lake Como have become what he loves most about his life. He showed us the improvements he had made, the plans for future adjustments—he was a man who enjoyed every aspect of his house, especially on those perfect Italian summer nights.

And why not? We all looked around and couldn’t believe that we were there—on this gorgeous starry night in the spectacular home of one of Hollywood’s top leading men, living it up right on the banks of gleaming Lake Como. George had invited some of his friends there for what became a big lavish dinner, and we all began drinking wine and eating all that great Italian food. And then more wine. And then even more wine. It was an exuberant kind of night, and we began swapping stories.

I told him about that terrific week years ago in Cincinnati when I filled in for his dad. He talked about coming to Hollywood and how he finally broke into the business, first on TV, then the movies. And of how he had first lived with his aunt Rosie and how she once banished him from her house for a little bad behavior and how they of course made up later. One story led to another, each one funnier than the last. I told him all the backstage Joey Bishop stories and started recalling all the crazy guests I’d encountered over the years. And the laughs became howls. George himself was a scream. He could tell a great story and he had plenty of them to tell. We laughed through the night and finally somehow got ourselves home to our own villa on the lake.

The next morning I woke up with a serious hangover and was feeling the fog. I had to ask Joy if we’d truly just had one of the best nights of our lives or were we just imagining we did? You know, the old morning-after game of second-guessing everything that happened the night before, especially following wonderful parties like that one. George had been such a gracious host, but then you start wondering: Did we stay too long? Did we bore him with those silly stories? Did we completely empty out his wine cellar? Did we leave him any wine
at all
? Sometimes you’re never sure. I must tell you that I wondered about it for a long time.

And then two summers later, at a New York movie screening, I took a seat next to a woman I had never met but whose name—Amy Sacco—was familiar from getting frequent mentions in the
Post
’s Page Six column. Her popular nightclub, Bungalow 8, was a site where all sorts of celebrity goings-on made for a steady flow of boldfaced gossip items. We shared some small talk, and it turned out that she’d just returned from Italy, where she had spent time at Lake Como. I told her about our unforgettable trip there, and to my amazement, she said she’d just heard all about it—
directly from George Clooney.
She, too, had visited that beautiful house of his. In fact, she reported, George had said that ours had been “the most fun night he’d ever had there.”

I didn’t let on that I had often worried about what George had thought about that night and whether he’d had as wonderful a time as we all did. But I couldn’t help asking her, “Did he really say that?” And she replied, “That’s
exactly
what he said.”

I can’t tell you how relieved I was. Just one more doubt erased from the corners of my mind, thank God. By the way, she also reported that George still seemed to have had plenty of wine left over to keep his future guests happy. Never mind his success in the movies—that kid from Cincinnati really knows how to throw a party.