My Life as a Mankiewicz (20 page)

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 in
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 certainly 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.”

Yvette Mimieux

A wonderful free spirit whom I've sadly lost contact with over the years. She's survived treks into every nook and cranny of the earth and multiple relationships with all sorts of people from show business to big business. We went out from time to time in the sixties. I distinctly remember her jaguar—not the car, the animal. A fully grown adult named Zareen who lived with her off Benedict Canyon. Zareen was a dividend from a relationship she'd had with an animal trainer at Jungleland. The big cat was missing his front fangs (thank God), but when he latched onto your calf or ankle, he could gum you to death. He loved to play, which usually meant you falling backward along with your chair when he jumped into your lap.

Leslie and Evie Bricusse gave a large party one night in Beverly Hills. Yvette and I went. So did Zareen, on a leash. When we entered the living room, everyone took a cautious step back. Yvette reassured them: “Don't worry, he's friendly and housebroken, he loves everybody.” She unhooked the leash. Zareen immediately went under Leslie's piano and took a dump—the kind steam rises from. He glared defiantly at the guests, then hissed at them, exposing the impressive teeth he still had. Everyone gasped. The room was silent. Then Peter Stone said, “All right, who's going to rub his nose in it?”

Anthony Newley

Tony Newley was an explosive bundle of talent, energy, and humor. He was a magnetic performer and first-rate composer and lyricist, mainly in collaboration with his longtime partner, Leslie Bricusse. By the 1960s they'd already assembled an impressive catalogue, from the lyrics to “Goldfinger” to the words and music for “What Kind of Fool Am I?” and “Who Can I Turn To?” Tony had a unique voice, unmistakable in its affectation and idiosyncrasy, but warm and friendly, with great range.

He'd been in show business his entire life. As a child actor in the forties he played the Artful Dodger in David Lean's
Oliver Twist.
His little girlfriend in the film was Petula Clark, later famous for singing “Downtown” and many other hits. Tony made a huge impression on Broadway playing Littlechap in
Stop the World
, followed by
The Roar of the Greasepaint—the Smell of the Crowd.
Both musicals were written with Leslie Bricusse and directed by Tony. He had married the gorgeous Joan Collins. She was about to deliver a child. So when Tony arrived in L.A. to begin work on Leslie's film
Doctor Dolittle
, all systems were definitely go.

I met Tony and Joan through the Bricusses. We became friends. They bought a large house on Summit Drive, and Joan loved to entertain. She'd been on the verge of becoming an important actress without ever having really made it. It wasn't until she played Alexis in the TV series
Dynasty
more than a decade later that she truly became a recognizable star. For now, Joan was gregarious and popular, had a wicked tongue, and could entertain lavishly and often. Tony, on the other hand, had no stamina for parties. Most nights he would disappear upstairs around ten o'clock, never to be seen again. He was an introspective sort and I think personally tortured by many insecurities, which actually played to his advantage in his warm and touching performances. He always seemed to be reaching out to the audience for reassurance and love, and they always responded enthusiastically.