My Life as a Mankiewicz (15 page)

“Could I get some more money?”

“How much?”

Herb got that little smile again. “How much
could
I get?”

Entratter paused. “Well, it's Saturday night, the banks are closed tomorrow so we can't check on anything…I'll give you a million dollars for now, okay?”

Herb blinked. “How about…a thousand?” Entratter smiled, pulled the money out of his pants pocket, and handed it to him.

A&M had bought the former Charlie Chaplin Studios on La Brea and Sunset. There was a huge gold trumpet over the studio gates. The former sound stages had been redesigned to become the finest recording studios in town. Herb and Jerry were on a roll. They'd already signed Burt Bacharach, Quincy Jones, and Sergio Mendes and Brasil ‘66, and the hits and new acts just kept on coming. Two young kids who won the All-American Talent Show became the Carpenters. Herb wanted to sing a song in the special. He had a musical voice, but with limited range. We decided on a song by Burt Bacharach called “Close to You.” At the last minute Burt came up with another idea. He'd written a ballad for the musical
Promises, Promises
, which he loved, but there wasn't room for it in the show. The song was “This Guy's in Love with You.” It was gorgeous, and Herb sang it wonderfully, playing on the record as well. “Close to You” was given to the Carpenters. Both were smash hits. Herb and Jerry couldn't lose.

Jerry had a house at the beach near mine. We'd play gin rummy at night, and he'd put on the new records they'd just cut at A&M. “Stuck in the Middle with You,” by Stealers Wheel, was later a particular favorite of mine. We were playing one night shortly after Jerry had just returned from London. He'd just signed two relatively unknown acts. Their names were Cat Stevens and Joe Cocker. The
Mad Dogs and Englishmen
tour added Leon Russell and Rita Coolidge to the list. It would continue that way for decades, right through Styx, Peter Frampton, Janet Jackson, and the Police and Sting, among many others. Jerry commonly signed the acts with a handshake, an absolutely impossible way to do business today. But his word was as good as his bond, and A&M was the place to be. They even dabbled in movies, and guess what? They were successful, backing such hits as
The Breakfast Club
and
Birdy.

I've had a continuing relationship with Herb. Most important for me, Jerry Moss became as close a friend as I've ever had in my life. From 1968 to this day I don't suppose a week's gone by when we haven't talked or seen each other at least once.

Liza Minnelli

When I first met Liza, she was a frenetic cocktail of talent about to explode, Krakatoa before a major eruption. She'd been a minor sensation on Broadway in
Flora the Red Menace
and was about to perform in Las Vegas for the first time at the Riviera Hotel. She asked Jack Haley and me to help her out with any ideas we could come up with. We all went up to Vegas together. The entertainment world was waiting to see just how much of an entertainer Judy Garland's daughter really was. There must have been enormous pressure on her. The brass at the Riviera didn't consider her a “head-liner” as yet—she'd have to share the marquee with someone, preferably a comedian. An old Vegas warhorse, Jack Carter, was selected. His name was just big enough to advertise without distracting the audience from Liza's debut. Carter proved to be a problem. He'd been a Vegas fixture. He wanted top billing on alternate days. They had to flip a coin to see who would close the show on opening night. Liza won, thank God. The entire audience had come to see her anyway. Carter performed interminably. I thought he'd never get off. There were even audible calls of “Liza! Let's see Liza!” She finally came onto the stage and knocked ‘em dead. When one fan yelled out, “Sing ‘Over the Rainbow'!” Liza yelled back, “It's been sung, pal!” Clearly, this was a young lady to be reckoned with.

We got to know each other well in those days. After she'd won the Oscar for
Cabaret
, Bob Fosse put together a show called
Liza with a Z
, which may have been the best nightclub act ever. It was beautifully paced and brilliantly choreographed, an hour and a half of singing and dancing with one show-stopping number after another. She toured Europe with it. When I was writing the screenplay for
The Eagle Has Landed
in London in 1975, I flew to Hamburg, Germany, and hooked up with Liza and her troupe for the final few European concerts. Hamburg was famous for its Reeperbahn district—reportedly the most sexually free-fire zone on the continent. After her concert we were taken on a private tour. I remember the two of us being taken to a club where a naked woman did strange and wonderful things onstage with a python. It was followed by live intercourse between two attractive people which never seemed to end. At one point, the man (extremely well hung) lifted his partner in the air with his penis still inside her and carried her down into the audience. They must have been tipped off about Liza, because they headed straight for our booth. They sat down next to us, naked, with the coitus still uninterrupted. Liza remarked, “Oh, dear, this is more than I expected.”

I said to her, “We don't see enough of the Schmidts, darling. We should do this more often.”

The last stop on the European tour was Barcelona, a toddling town, complete with all-night flamenco dancing, great fun. Then a flight out of Lisbon to New York. The pilot invited Liza and me into the cockpit and let her fly the plane for a while before kicking us out as we reached the eastern tip of Long Island. God, flying was fun back then. Believe it or not, people actually dressed up to get on a plane, and you could walk right on without taking off your shoes or handing over your eyedrops.

Liza had a steel backbone and a dedication to performing that was unshakable. I remember staying with her in Vegas for a few days while she was playing the Riviera. We'd eat at McDonald's around five o'clock in the afternoon. She'd devour orders of french fries and milkshakes, anything loaded with carbs. She had two shows to do, and
Liza with a Z
was so exhausting to perform that she sweated away several pounds a night. After the late show, her dressing room was packed with well-wishers and celebrities. Liza would shut herself inside her private makeup area to wind down. I joined her in there. She'd whap back a triple brandy, check herself in the mirror, then go out and join her guests.

Liza married Jack Haley Jr. at the same tiny church in Santa Barbara where her mother had married Vincente Minnelli. The wedding party consisted of five people: Jack, Liza, me, the great lyricist Fred Ebb
(Cabaret, Chicago
, and many more), and Sammy Davis Jr. Fred was Liza's semiguru and her “best man” for the day. Sammy and I shared the same duty for Jack. We drove up together in a limousine. When we got to Oxnard (about halfway), Sammy had to take a piss. We stopped at a gas station. He got out dressed in a psychedelic Indian blouse with multiple strands of love beads, something of a culture shock to that community. As he exited the men's room he caught the attention of a young couple in a convertible, getting gas. “Hey! Are you Sammy Davis?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Really?”

Sammy immediately started to sing and dance for them. He might as well have been at the Copa. When he finished, everyone in the service station gave him an ovation. As he returned to the limo I lowered the window and threw a handful of loose change out into the street. “Congratulations, Sam. You just made the Arco Hall of Fame.” Everyone in the car laughed loudly. Sammy, bless him, didn't think it was quite that funny.

I always thought the main reason Jack didn't marry Nancy Sinatra was that his career had barely started. His house was action central for young Hollywood, and he was eager and ambitious. Clearly, Nancy would want children and a relatively normal, if privileged family life. Jack didn't want kids. He adored Nancy, but he had places to go where he hadn't been yet. Liza was another matter entirely. Their marriage always seemed to me to have been a happy, convenient partnership of sorts. They were both constantly on the go. Her career had exploded. He was starting to direct features. They caromed from coast to coast like out-of-control pool balls: New York, L.A., Studio 54, Halston, Europe, premieres, Vegas, the whole spectrum of “being there.” They were sometimes together, but progressively more often by themselves or with an escort. Their careers were taking on different arcs. Jack's movies were indifferently received, and for good reason. Let's face it, neither
Norwood
nor
The Love Machine
is taught in film schools these days. For a creative guy with his talent and acumen, I couldn't believe the kind of material he picked out for himself. Liza seemed unstoppable, the toast of (fill in the blank). When she filmed
New York, New York
with Robert De Niro for Martin Scorsese, things started to take an ominous turn.

In the seventies, between the Bond films,
The Eagle Has Landed, Superman
, and
Superman II
, I was practically commuting from London to L.A. Most of “happening” Hollywood was into cocaine by then. Marijuana was almost passé. I didn't do coke much. It made me incredibly hostile for some reason. Someone would say, “Hey, Mank, how are you?” I'd say, “What the fuck do you mean by that?” My friends begged me to stick with my Jack Daniel's, and I took their advice. During the filming of
New York, New York
, I remember one large party in particular where there were lines of blow on almost every table. Famous noses were scarfing them up. As I looked around the room I spotted someone I knew—Sergeant Rudy Diaz of the LAPD. Rudy'd been attached to many cop films as a technical advisor. I'd worked with him twice. Somehow his name had wound up on the guest list. He looked at me, smiled, then took a seat at the coke table. As the famous noses introduced themselves, Rudy took out his badge and identified himself. The instant look of sheer terror around the table was palpable. Rudy: “Lucky for you guys I'm Homicide, not Vice. How all you people can have so much talent and be so fucking stupid at the same time is just incredible.”

Shortly afterward I was in Calgary, Canada, where we were shooting the Smallville sequences from
Superman.
Liza was doing a new Kander and Ebb musical called
The Act.
Surprise, surprise, it was being directed by Marty Scorsese. I had heard and read rumors that he and Liza were having an affair. I checked in regularly with Jack by phone, but he never brought it up. I never asked, feeling that if he wanted to talk about it, he would. The phone rang in my Calgary hotel room very late one night. It was Liza. She was in San Francisco where the show had opened to less-than-sparkling reviews. She wanted to know if I'd stop by San Francisco on my way back to L.A. and give whatever thoughts I had on how to help it. They were next headed for the L.A. Music Center and then on to Broadway. I told her I would. “Does Marty know I'm doing this?”

“Yes.”

“Do Kander and Ebb?”

“Yes.”

“How about Jack?”

“No, he's seen it, he's busy at home. We'll get a car to pick you up at the airport and a suite in our hotel.”

I had to let Jack know I was coming. He was my friend. I told him over the phone. He seemed fine with it. He said he couldn't make it himself but whatever ideas I had would be more than welcome.

I arrived in San Francisco and saw the show. Boy, were there problems. Not the least of them was that Marty, one of the master film directors of our age, didn't seem to be ideally cut out for staging a Broadway musical. While he was giving notes to the rest of the cast and crew, Liza and I returned to her dressing room. She sat at her mirror and matter-of-factly told me that Jack had decided to come up after all. He was taking a late flight and would be there any minute. Then we got to the show: “What do you think it needs most?”

“I think you should close it.”

“Don't say that.”

“Liza, that's my honest opinion. There's so much work to be done and you're opening in L.A. in less than two weeks. Shut it down, rework it till everyone's happy, and put it on when it's ready.”

She stared up at me, grabbed my forearm, and squeezed hard. “Don't tell Marty that. Whatever you say, don't tell him that. Promise?”

“I promise.”

Jack arrived. We all went to dinner at Ernie's. There were so many levels of tension around that table I could barely count them. The show was in real trouble. Jack must have made suggestions previously that were rejected. The opening conversation was painful: “Gee, it's cold up here for this time of year, isn't it.” “How's
Superman
coming, how's that kid, Chris Reeve?” “Have the steak, it's the best in town.” Everything but “How about those Dodgers?”

Then a silence. Marty looked over at me. “You think I should close it, don't you.” Liza had obviously told him my opinion after making me promise not to.

“Yes, but on the other hand, I haven't directed
Mean Streets
and
Taxi Driver.”
It was the most uncomfortable dinner I'd ever been at. I could have kicked myself for having seen the show in the first place. I returned to Canada and then to New York for more shooting on
Superman.
Sometime before the L.A. opening, Marty left the show. Gower Champion took over directing in L.A. and then on to Broadway, where it received very mixed reviews. Everyone loved Liza (what else was new?), but it closed after a short run.

Jack and Liza's marriage deteriorated quickly. He began drinking heavily, finally destroying his liver. The grin was still there, the snappy remark, but there was a deep sadness too. His career had a brief resurgence when he put together the brilliant history/compilation of the movie musical
That's Entertainment
, still the bible for any enthusiast of the genre. It was released as a feature and was deservedly a big hit. He finally needed a liver transplant if he was going to stay alive, but couldn't get a new one because of his advancing age. He became somewhat of a hermit, not even seeing close friends that often. A few times when I called him in the morning he was already obviously drunk. I felt so sorry for him. Shortly before he died, Dick Donner and I went over to the house to see him. Jack was in bed, barely “there,” but God, did we laugh a lot. We reminisced about the good old days, the women, the projects that flew and those that didn't. It was the Three Musketeers having a final reunion. As Dick and I were leaving, Nancy Sinatra arrived. She had been so loyal and loving to him during those days. It would be Oscar time soon. Nancy told me she asked Jack what screener he wanted to see. She suggested a film starring Michael Douglas called
The Wonder Boys.
“They just left,” he replied. He died several days later.