IF YOU’RE A MAN, AN ACTOR, AND OVER THE YEARS A CERTAIN toughness emerges in your performances, a result of the punches life has given you, you’re admired for having ‘matured,’” observed Billy Wilder. “I saw that toughness in Bill Holden’s later movies. But if you’re a beautiful woman, an actress, hit hard by life, and as you age that tough quality shows through, you’re finished.”
Bill’s newfound hard edge had caught the interest of important younger directors. Although Audrey was tired, she was managing successfully to retain the qualities that made her so appealing. But both Audrey and Bill had by now learned a lesson as old as civilization. Success wasn’t much fun. It had not been all they’d expected. Audrey was not sure what she expected. Happiness, probably—but wasn’t that to be found in success? As actor-director Clint Eastwood noted, “When you’re reaching for the brass ring, all you’re thinking about is the brass ring.”
She accepted an invitation. It came from friends, megawealthy French businessman Paul-Annik Weiller and his dazzling twenty-four-year-old Italian wife, Princess Olimpia Torlonia, a granddaughter of Queen Ena of Spain. (Weiller’s father’s first question to his blue-blooded daughter-in-law had been: “You are Italian. Can you cook pasta?”) Audrey had briefly dated the princess’s brother, Prince Marino Torlonia, a banker. He wasn’t her cup of tea, but she saw eye to eye with Olimpia on the subject of motherhood (the Weillers would go on to have six children). She was happy to join the couple and a select group of their very rich friends on a cruise of the Greek Islands on the Weillers’ immaculate yacht, complete with crew of sailors and a Cordon Bleu chef. “Who knows, Audrey, you might fall in love,” said Paul Weiller.
Sailing on the Aegean Sea was a perfect way for her to unwind, to reflect, to lie in the sun, far from intrusive reporters and the pressures of her suddenly highly complicated life. “There’s a difference between loneliness and solitude,” she often said. Certainly, no screenplay could have offered a more glamorous or romantic setting for her to meet one of her hosts’ friends. He wasn’t tall; at five feet nine, he was Albert Finney’s height. But he was a handsome, sensual, charming, accomplished young man, nine years Audrey’s junior, from a respected and wealthy Italian family. He was a psychiatrist, and his specialty was the treatment of depression. With his sandy hair and outgoing manner, he was in some ways tantalizingly reminiscent of the young Bill Holden.
His name was Andrea Paolo Mario Dotti. Titles, like pasta, were plentiful in Naples, the city of his birth. At the age of fifteen he had seen Roman Holiday—and had fallen in love. “I’m going to marry that girl!” he told his mother. Now, face-to-face with her, he could hardly believe it. He told her they had met at a social gathering a few years back, but Audrey had no recollection of it. She certainly noticed him now, and he was even more impressed. She was delightful, bewitching, intelligent—and that smile! That laugh! Those eyes! The voice! The chemistry between them was undeniable, just as it had been with Holden and, more recently, with Finney. Audrey and Andrea, however, weren’t making a movie. There was no dialogue to memorize, no shooting schedule to contend with.
His riveting dark eyes put him in clear command of the situation. An elemental electricity sparked their mutual desires. She was beginning to think that perhaps she wouldn’t make any more movies. And instead of playing yet another character on-screen who was hopelessly in love, she would live the role—be that woman. Perhaps she could finally enjoy a sane domestic life, have a second child, and devote herself completely to raising her family.
Everything was happening so fast. Andrea’s feelings for Audrey shone from his eyes. The princess, a sweet-natured woman, sang Andrea’s praises. Audrey certainly wasn’t depressed any longer; she looked very happy, always a vision in her seaworthy clothes, sometimes comfortable shiftlike dresses, often white slacks and pullovers in different colors, with her signature huge, dark-lensed sunglasses shielding her eyes from the bright Mediterranean sun. It seemed like a fantasy. Audrey and Andrea drank champagne from crystal glasses, the blue sky seeming to sparkle like the crystal. There were occasional forays into local villages along the route, an opportunity to dine ashore and shop. In the evenings they would hold hands and stroll along the gleaming mahogany deck of the vessel.
The shadow hovering over this fairy tale was the fact that Dr. Dotti was ecstatic to be entering into a relationship with Audrey Hepburn—film star extraordinaire, the perfect partner to accompany him everywhere, to proudly show off to the world. Of course they would have a family, and all that went with it, but nannies and servants would take care of all mundane domestic matters. Audrey could even make films, if she chose to (the offers never stopped coming). Dotti loved showing family and friends home movies he had taken of Audrey on their wondrous cruise. Even then, she’d been nervous about the camera angle and the lighting. Becoming a trophy wife, “arm candy,” was never what Audrey had in mind, although she didn’t know, in her ultra-vulnerable state, that that’s what Andrea basically wanted. Would she have cared? Even now, there was a sort of naïve innocence about her. He had swept her off her feet.
When Prince Aly Khan married Rita Hayworth, he had married the world’s “Love Goddess,” Gilda herself, and looked forward to Rita remaining exactly that. When he discovered that the real Rita was nothing like that image and was eager to abandon her film career and lead an out-of-the-spotlight private life, then as far as her prince was concerned, their marriage was finis. Of course, in Rita’s case, during their courtship she had become pregnant, and the specter of scandal had made the prospect of marriage assume life-and-death proportions.
But that hadn’t been the case with Grace Kelly. Her marriage, with all its drawbacks, was in its twelfth year. Rainier had remained adamant that she not resume her movie career, and Grace had been living a life and raising her three children without Hollywood dictating the terms, although a royal life in many ways dictated even stricter terms.
Perhaps Dr. Dotti would be the answer for Audrey. He seemed to understand her, describing her, years later, as someone who had to have matters under control and was afraid of surprises.
She phoned Givenchy, surprising him with her excitement on telling him that she was in love again. She talked with Capucine about the fears and doubts that are a part of every new romance. Doris Brynner was delighted for Audrey but cautioned her to take her time and not rush into anything. There were, after all, warning signs—Andrea had quite a temper—but romantic Audrey chose to ignore them.
Andrea may not have been a worldwide celebrity, but he wasn’t exactly a nobody. He was a respected psychiatrist and neurologist, an assistant to the renowned Professor Leoncarlo Reda of Rome University. He was also a Catholic, as was Mel, and Audrey would soon be a divorced woman. She hadn’t, however, married Mel in the Catholic Church. Still, the pope would have to issue a special dispensation.
Dotti’s career might be threatened if he married an actress. His patients were supposedly from the highest echelons of Italian society, where show people were regarded as second-class citizens. Audrey, however, had a head start with this group. She was already friendly with, and very well liked by many of them. And, of course, she had a title herself.
It appeared that Dotti’s family would be a problem—when Andrea got married, it was expected that he would produce heirs, many of them. To the family, Audrey was obviously beautiful, talented, and famous, but also close to middle age. Audrey faced yet another obstacle: Her mother didn’t approve. The baroness hadn’t liked Mel, either, and anyone could see how that had turned out. But Audrey’s mind was made up.
On Christmas Eve 1968, Dotti asked Audrey to marry him. They were staying at their romantic weekend love nest, a friend’s home on the island of Giglio, off the coast of Tuscany. He presented her with a huge, museum-quality diamond engagement ring from Bulgari.
Almost all obstacles had been overcome, including any issues with the Vatican. Dotti’s mother, who was only in her mid-fifties and sometimes referred to Andrea as “Dr. Jekyll,” had met and spent time with Audrey. She adored her. She found her shy, self-effacing, charming, and sincere. The rest of the Dotti family—his three brothers and their wives, his stepfather—were all equally charmed. They were surprised at her sense of humor, and all agreed that everything about her was appealing.
Winning over the Dottis had been an anxious undertaking; Audrey knew she would be under scrutiny and approached the situation with the same determination that characterized her film work. One might also assume she called on the same strength she had needed, years ago, on meeting Bill Holden’s wife.
In the meantime, Audrey’s divorce from Mel received as little attention in the press as possible. She had forgiven PR man Henry Rogers for questioning her relationship with Givenchy, they had remained friends, and he was representing her once again; this time his job was to keep her name out of the sensation-hungry media. Some of the older members of the international press corps were friends of Audrey’s, having appeared with her in the press conference scenes in Roman Holiday. Audrey recognized the questionable qualities peculiar to European newsmen, and though she neither liked nor approved of them, she played the game.
Audrey and Andrea were married on January 18, 1969, only six weeks after her divorce from Mel became final, and four months before her fortieth birthday. She was now both a baroness and a countess.
Givenchy had created the perfect wedding ensemble for her—a pink, cowl-necked, short-skirted, long-sleeved dress, combining classic lines with an ultracontemporary look. The outfit would have been at home in the upscale scenes of Two for the Road. A face-framing foulard, a work of art in itself, fastened under the chin, was the finishing touch. She was a vision in pink, down to her stockings and shoes. She carried a small bouquet of flowers. Her makeup, in the same pastel hues as her dress, was flawless, and she looked twenty-five years old.
To avoid the voracious Roman paparazzi, they were married in the town hall of Morges, Switzerland, not too far from her beloved La Paisible. A crowd of onlookers clogged the streets, pushing and shoving for the best view. Obviously, the Swiss, under certain circumstances, were as celebrity conscious as anyone else.
Capucine, a bridesmaid, was smiling, but she didn’t have much to be happy about. Turning forty couldn’t have come at a worse time. Charlie Feldman had died a few months earlier, depriving her of his vital, generous friendship (he remembered her in his will). Whereas Audrey chose not to make films at this point, Cap had no choice, and the pickings were slim—the market for foreign films in America had dried up, and budgets were tight for films produced strictly for the European market. Audrey was deeply concerned about her friend’s well-being.
At least Cap could count on Bill to help her financially. Holden, of course, was depressed that his Audrey was getting married again. He wasn’t staying home obsessing about it, far from it, but he had recently completed Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch, filmed in Mexico and Spain, and confided to co-star Warren Oates that he still considered Audrey the one great love of his life.
In 1971, Bill starred with Ryan O’Neal in the Blake Edwards film The Wild Rovers. Ryan and Bill became buddies, and on one occasion, the young actor asked him if he had ever fallen in love with one of his many beautiful leading ladies. “Yes, I did,” replied Holden. “I fell in love with Audrey Hepburn.” O’Neal was dazzled—that was the one he would have fallen in love with. O’Neal pressed on: did Audrey love him?
“I think so,” replied Bill. “She wanted to get married. . . .”
To communicate his love of wildlife to the world, Bill had gone into partnership with producer David Wolper, who’d produced a recent film starring Holden, The Devil’s Brigade. They planned to produce a nine-part television series on East Africa, to be narrated by Bill. Holden was determined to shatter the myth that Africa was a continent of jungle drums and tribal rituals, a myth largely created, in Bill’s estimation, by Hollywood films.
The series would be called: William Holden: Unconquered Worlds. The scripts would be written by twenty-five-year-old David Seltzer. When they traveled to find locations for the series, Seltzer was not expecting Bill’s sudden changes of personality after having a couple of drinks. The young writer contemplated resigning. Only one episode of the nine was produced: “Adventures at the Jade Sea,” which was aired by CBS in March 1969.
At their wedding, Dotti and Audrey looked very happy; Paul Weiller was his best man, and his good friends Queen Frederika of Greece and Christina Ford, wife of Henry Ford II, were also on hand to support him. Audrey seemed uncomfortable at the intensity of the attention. Reporters asked if she and Dotti intended to have children. “Of course!” she replied, smiling broadly. She also said she intended to end her acting career to become “an Italian housewife.” Her agents must have needed extra doses of Pepto-Bismol on hearing this pronouncement. But Audrey had worked from the age of thirteen, and for over twenty-five years straight. She felt she was ready for “a normal life.”
In fact, she was making a huge adjustment. Few realized what it meant to be a member of that rare breed—“movie star.” Stars were accustomed to attention night and day, from an army of devotees—hair and makeup people, publicists, designers, agents, writers, directors—and, in Audrey’s as in many other cases, she’d had a manager-husband to “take care of things.” All things. And to be a hatchet man when necessary. Suddenly all those elements were gone from Audrey’s life—and they had provided a certain security and camaraderie that was comforting, pleasant, and distracting. Audrey had always been happy to listen to the troubles of those on her team, and to offer advice, and on occasion, help, when needed.
Now there was no team, only Dr. Dotti, their friends, and his family (her mother lived in San Francisco). Not that Audrey was without friends—one of her “dearest chums” was fashionista Arabella Ungaro, who had a beautiful home north of Rome in the choice district of Monti Pariloi. Signora Ungaro’s residence was where Audrey would meet the occasional journalist for a rare interview. The Dotti domicile, and its location, for security reasons, was off-limits to the press.
Thank heaven Audrey’s nine-year-old son liked Dotti, because he’d be living with his mother and new father, and attending the Lycée Chateaubriand in Rome. For Audrey, it was to be a life totally different from the one she’d led for the last decade and a half.
Within six months, she was pregnant. Physically, the next nine months would be very difficult. She would have to remain in bed much of the time.
Before she’d conceived, she led exactly the life that Andrea had been looking forward to. They moved from the Dotti family villa into a fabulous penthouse apartment overlooking the entire city. It was a thrilling vantage point from which to experience the beauty of Michelangelo’s Roman dawn and sunset. At those moments, for Audrey it was as though Rome were a quiet, breathtaking movie set built only for her and Andrea. The couple went to parties, frequented nightclubs, attended special events, and even film premieres. The flashbulbs were blinding, but Dotti always welcomed the attention. Later reports claimed that, to Audrey’s consternation, he would at times actually alert press and paparazzi to where he and his famous wife would be.
But Audrey looked happy; she seemed free at last, as though she had run away and joined the circus, exactly as she’d felt with Bill, before she married Mel. At Dotti’s urging, she consented to a few interviews, in which she said how deeply in love she was. Did she have any interest in getting back on the screen? None—and when she said that Mia Farrow, then twenty-three years old, could have her roles, she wasn’t being facetious.
Regrettably, her happiness was short-lived. There were disturbing rumors that Andrea was being unfaithful—the Italian scandal magazines were worse than the old Confidential. She’d had to cope with rumors all her life, but she could hardly dismiss the gossip with an “Oh, Andrea!” And the stories always stressed the age difference between them.
She was in her seventh month, and it seemed the perfect time for her to return to La Paisible, her home in Tolochenaz, Switzerland, to prepare for the birth. Plenty of time for hysterics, and to read her husband the riot act, later. Being housebound would be difficult for someone who so enjoyed her social activities. But extra caution was essential. It was unlikely she would ever be able to bring another child to term, because of her physical condition after the many miscarriages. She was also facing the onset of menopause. She felt beholden to the Dottis, as well as to herself, Sean, and Andrea, of course, to deliver a healthy child.
It was hardly a secret—nightclubs and discos were Dr. Dotti’s second home, its denizens his second family. He was a party animal, young and sexy, and so were the women prowling the territory. His stepson later described him as “a hound dog.”
The Mod Generation was in full flower. There were no longer any rules. Propriety was an old-fashioned concept. Bill and Mel had been souls of discretion compared to Andrea, who loved to flirt and happily posed for photographs with the women eager to be seen with him. He was headline material now. He was Audrey Hepburn’s husband. Audrey was mortified and angry. This educated and respected psychiatrist she had married, a man supposedly attuned to people’s problems, was apparently too immature, too insensitive, to realize how he was hurting her.
Mel had been a strict overseer, with Audrey’s welfare always of paramount concern. How she felt, what she wanted, her physical and mental well-being—they were what mattered most; it sometimes seemed that was all that had mattered. Dr. Dotti wanted his wife to be happy, but, on occasion, if she wasn’t, why couldn’t she work things out for herself? She wasn’t a teenager but a sophisticated, resourceful, and intelligent woman. What was Audrey complaining about? At least Andrea, like many Italian men of means, didn’t have more than one family—an official (that is, legal) one, consisting of wife and children whom he supported and saw on weekends; and an unofficial one, which he also supported, loved, and often lived with.
Mistresses and girlfriends were another story, a common part of the Italian male lifestyle. Audrey had to have known that when she married him. Wasn’t that what had attracted her in the first place? Did she think she could change him? He loved her, she knew that; was that not enough? Clearly, Mel was not the only one with a double standard.
With Mel, it had been Marisol; now, with Dotti, it was Daniela (was the allure of women with a single name some sort of special aphrodisiac?). In Daniela’s case, there was a punch line: according to many reports, Dotti was giving her psychiatric help. It was hardly a joking matter as far as Audrey was concerned. For the moment, all traces of her sense of humor seemed to vanish. “Poor Audrey” was not a label she was accustomed to. She had always been terrified of scandal, and her deep survival sense took hold. By remaining in Switzerland, she was able to insulate herself from the impact of all the ugly gossip, which she tried to ignore because she didn’t want it to be true.
She concentrated on enjoying the peace and quiet, the invigorating climate and sheer beauty of her surroundings. Whether relaxing on a chaise longue, or tending to her immaculate gardens, or puttering around in the kitchen (friends gave five stars to her delicious salads), Audrey would postpone dealing with Andrea’s behavior until the baby was born. Dotti, in true Italian fashion, was always smiling and attentive when he came to visit her in Switzerland, which he did often. This was his first marriage, and he was looking forward to becoming a first-time father.
On February 8, 1970, Audrey delivered, by cesarean section, a healthy baby boy. They named him Luca, in honor of one of Andrea’s brothers.