Even though the beginning of spring was but three weeks away, sub-zero weather still plagued New York. Arriving at my new apartment at 2 Sutton Place South after a fourteen-hour day at the office, I looked forward to only one thing—a hot bath. Lying on my bed, I must have fallen asleep, clothes and all. Two hours later, the ring of the phone awakened me.
“Bob, where the hell are you! It’s after midnight.”
“I’m a basket case, Charlie. Get me out of it, will ya?”
“I can’t, the broad’s a countess. It’s below zero. She came out specially to meet you. I’ll look like an idiot.”
Twenty minutes later, unbathed, wrinkled suit and all, I made my entrance into El Morocco, New York’s plushest supper club. Charlie Kahn, the guy who was on the other end of the phone, ran over.
“She’s royally pissed, Bob.”
“Fuck her. Where are we sitting?”
At the table sat Countess Christina Palozzi, whose Harper’s Bazaar cover, and the multipage, bare-ass layout inside, had made her the talk of the country. She could have been a nun for all I cared. I wanted to be back in bed, under my covers, taking a long Z. Downing two martinis, in the hope that it would be a shot of adrenaline, didn’t work.
To say she was less than thrilled with my company would be self-serving. “It’s only another fifteen minutes,” I said to myself, “talk or dance.” Conversation wasn’t coming easy, so: “Let’s dance.”
Impress her I didn’t. We sat down. I was about to say au revoir, when Charlie quipped, “The guy in the corner with the big cigar—he’s been staring at you all night. Do you know who he is?”
I looked around. “No.”
“It’s Zanuck, Darryl Zanuck. He’s only the top producer in Hollywood.”
“So what!”
“He hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”
“Cut it, Charlie, will ya? He ain’t no fruit. If he’s been looking at anybody, it’s her” (referring to my turned-off countess).
And with that, it was adios.
Sixteen hours later, my secretary interrupted me with a note: “Call Joe Pincus. Urgent.”
“Joe Pincus?”
“He says he’s with Twentieth Century–Fox.”
“I’ll call him later.”
I didn’t. But two hours later he called me.
“Mr. Evans, we don’t know each other but it’s imperative that we meet tonight. I’ll wait as late as you wish, but it must be tonight.”
An hour later, I was sitting across the desk from Joe Pincus, who was Twentieth Century–Fox’s top honcho of talent. His reputation was notorious—that of an iceberg.
Strange, I thought, Cary Grant couldn’t be more charming.
Graciously smiling, he got up from his desk. “Have you ever acted?”
“Just finished a picture opposite Jimmy Cagney.”
“D. Z.—he’s amazing, what an eye. Well, young man, now how would you like to play opposite Ava Gardner?”
Is this fucker nuts?
“You were in El Morocco last night, right?”
“Right.”
“At noon D. Z. called me to his office—‘I saw a kid on the dance floor last night doing a tango. He’s perfect for the part of Pedro Romero. The captain gave me his name. Find him. Today!’ ” Excitedly, Pincus picked up the phone and dialed Zanuck. “I found him, D. Z. You’re right. He’s perfect. He’s a pro too; just finished a picture opposite Jimmy Cagney. What an eye, D. Z., what an eye. Leave it to me, D. Z., I’ll work everything out.” Hanging up the phone, “Who’s your agent, kid?”
I eyed him. “Don’t have one. What’s going on, mister?”
“What’s going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on. You’ve just been set as Ava Gardner’s Latin lover in the biggest picture we’re making this year, The Sun Also Rises. D. Z. himself is producing it.”
“I never read it.”
“It’s only the best part in the picture. You steal Ava away from Tyrone Power, Errol Flynn, and Mel Ferrer. Not bad, huh? Ever see a bullfight?”
“No.”
“You’re playing a bullfighter.”
“Me? A bullfighter? Why don’t you use a real one?”
“They don’t look real. We’ve been testing for a year. The ones who looked like bullfighters can’t speak English and the ones who speak English don’t look like bullfighters. You’re it.”
“I’ve never seen a bull in my life.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll teach you.”
“Sure!”
By Friday, I was back in California in makeup at Twentieth, testing for the part of Hemingway’s Latin lover, bullfighter Pedro Romero.
Because it was a star-making part, the studio insisted I sign a “test option” agreement, giving Zanuck the option to use me for two pictures a year over five years. Knowing Norma’s feelings about options, I called her.
“As long as the contract is nonexclusive, I’ll approve it,” Norma said. “Bob, let’s not forget The Last Tycoon. Lew Wasserman is a close friend. As a favor I’ll ask him to personally handle your contract to make sure it’s nonexclusive.”
Within two days, more paperwork was shuffled on an option contract than on the Versailles Treaty. Nonexclusive contracts for young actors were unheard-of. Once the studio invested in you, they owned you lock, stock, and barrel. Because of Norma and agent Lew Wasserman’s muscle, I was the exception. I was to be paid $25,000 for The Sun Also Rises. My subsequent commitments, if used, would escalate north to $150,000 a flick.
There was a problem. A big one. First I had to get the part. When I heard John Gavin was also being tested, I felt my chances were slim to none. At the time he was very hot, very handsome; he was also half Spanish and spoke the language fluently. Also testing was a well-known Spanish movie star, plus a new entry—the real thing: a matador who looked like one, and spoke English as well.
When I met Henry King, Twentieth Century–Fox’s top epic director (The Song of Bernadette, The Gunfighter, and The Snows of Kilimanjaro), he was professionally cordial but far from impressed. Of the four potential Pedros, in his mind I had to be fourth.
It’s a long story, so I’ll cut to the chase. I got the part. Why? I found out later: after Zanuck looked at my test, he never bothered to look at the others.
“The kid’s perfect. Sign him.”
It’s what’s known as “sense of discovery.” An emotion so important, yet so unheralded. As beauty is in the eye of the beholder, discovery is in the eye of the brain. It has little to do with you, the object, but has all to do with the ego of its discoverer.
After a 5½-hour drive from the Mexico City airport, I arrived in a town known as Morelia, which more aptly should have been called “Nowhere.” Though it was only March, the temperature soared past 100 degrees every day in the shade.
Rising out of a shantytown, the hacienda-style hotel at the top of a scrubby hill looked like Xanadu. Zanuck had taken over the entire facility for his all-star cast.
Ushered to my hacienda on the grounds, I met Bill Gallagher, who was my bunkmate and Tyrone Power’s longtime personal assistant. Awaiting me was a message from Peter Viertel, the ultrachic screenwriter of Sun, asking me to drop by for a visit. He was looking forward to meeting me, and me him. After all, this guy’s words were going to make me a star.
Our meeting didn’t quite turn out the way I had hoped. He opened the door, looked at me, didn’t invite me in, just looked, not even hello. Till this day, he is the only person I have ever met who cut me down from near six feet to three feet without even saying a word.
With a shit-faced grin, he started laughing. “You play Pedro Romero? Uh-uh, not in my film.” With that, he slammed the door in my face.
“Dinner’s at nine. Fuck Viertel. He’s a snob. You’ll meet the whole cast tonight, they’re a hell of a group. You’ll enjoy it. Promise,” said well-meaning Gallagher.
Everyone was there—Ava, Tyrone, Mel Ferrer with spouse Audrey Hepburn, Errol Flynn, Eddie Albert, Henry King, the director, and my new good friend, Peter Viertel.
Was I embraced? I might as well have been invisible.
“Where’s Zanuck?” I nudged Gallagher.
“Oh, he’s in London making another film.”
“Great, just great.”
“Sit down, old boy. Have a drink!”
It was Errol Flynn. He was tanked, but so what, it was still an embrace.
“Fuck ’em,” he said, “they’re all jealous. Tyrone, Mel, both of them played bullfighters.”
Then, loudly, “Now, they’re just too fuckin’ old.”
Then he burst out laughing. But no one looked up. No one wanted to talk to Errol because by two in the afternoon, every afternoon, he was drunk. Certainly, no one wanted to talk to me. Together we made a great combo.
“Boring here, isn’t it? Show you a bit of the local color.”
As we got up to leave, in a voice loud enough so everyone could hear, “As long as you’re here, ole chap, don’t forget—don’t touch the food, the water, or the ladies. They’ll all give you dysentery.”
Roaring with laughter, he led me out to his car and driver. Down the hill we went directly into the red-light district. Ordering the driver to stop in front of a hole-in-the-wall club, he told him to jump out and take care of business. Then he pulled out what looked like a bottle of gin, taking a long swig of it.
Handing it to me, “Go on, go on, it’s the only way to stay alive down here.”
Why not? I took a good-sized swig myself. A bomb went off inside me. This ain’t gin; it’s mustard gas.
Slapping my back, Flynn couldn’t stop laughing. “The fun’s just starting.”
“I think I’ll pack it in.”
“No way, ole boy.”
Twenty minutes later we were back at his bungalow. His driver must have closed the deal. Three girls were waiting for us.
“Undress, undress,” he laughed.
Sweeping everything off the table, he switched on a phonograph. Hot Latin music blasted out.
“Now, on the table my little sweet muchachas”—he continued to laugh—“on the table, on the table, that’s it, dance, dance!”
Settling back into a chair, hysterically laughing, he turned on a tape recorder and began speaking into the microphone.
“I’m doing my autobiography, ole boy.”
The wilder the music, the wilder the dancing, the wilder Flynn’s memories became—none of them printable. But it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Alfredo Leal was among Mexico’s best-known bullfighters. He never smiled, nor did I blame him. He was very handsome, a top matador who was commissioned to make me look like him. What I didn’t realize is that he was tested three times for the part, but no cigar. Desperate to suck up as much knowledge as I could, I stuck to him like a cheap glove, but with one eye always checking my back. I knew everyone wanted me off the film. And who could take me out better than Alfredo?
Between the 100-plus temperature and the rubber girdle around my midsection, I dropped close to twenty pounds. Next to Alfredo, I was still a plump-in-the-middle Jew boy. It hardly mattered; even the director didn’t bother to come and see if I was making progress.
A Neanderthal would know something was brewing. Ten days before I was to start shooting, a cable was sent to Zanuck in London. The gist of it could not have been more clear: “With Robert Evans playing Pedro Romero, The Sun Also Rises will be a disaster,” signed Henry King, Ava Gardner, Tyrone Power, Mel Ferrer, Eddie Albert, and lastly, my good friend Peter Viertel. Errol Flynn refused to sign it. Word came back that Zanuck would be arriving in Morelia in five days and I was to report to the bullring in my suit of lights, so that my mentor could view his new discovery in full regalia.
Knowing about the cable worked the wrong way—not for me, for them! By the time Zanuck got to Morelia, Zanuck’s folly was ready to take them on.
“Action,” yelled Henry King through the bullhorn.
Stride by stride, with a real matador on either side, I crossed the ring, finally stopping at the barrera in front of me. Was that D. Z.? I couldn’t tell. The cigar in his mouth was half the size of his body. On one side were Ava Gardner and Tyrone Power, on the other Henry King, Mel Ferrer, Eddie Albert, and Errol Flynn.
Doffing my hat, I looked up. “For you,” in my most baritone voice. Quickly turning my back, I threw the hat over my shoulder into his hands. Then into action I went. Doing my various quites and veronicas, swirling my muleta, all of course to a fake bull. Then bowing to him again, I took my muleta and turned to face death in the afternoon, but I was stopped. Zanuck, all five foot three of him, stood—bullhorn in hand.
“The kid stays in the picture. And anybody who doesn’t like it can quit!” With that he turned, walked up the steps, and left.
It was then I learned what a producer was—a Boss. It was then I learned I wanted to be D. Z., not some half-assed actor shitting in his pants, desperate for a nod of approval.
That night a fiesta was given honoring D. Z.’s arrival. I walked in late, alone. Errol immediately came over, putting his arm around me. “I told you, sport, once D. Z. gets here you’d be in like Flynn. Come, say hello to your mentor.”
“I’ve never even met the guy.”
“You will now,” laughed Flynn. “Remember, don’t say yes until he finishes talking.”
There sat Zanuck, cigar and all. Ava, who in two months hadn’t said two words to me, was by his side. She wanted to enchant Zanuck into replacing me with Walter Chiari, her boyfriend, an Italian movie star. I use the word “enchant” since Ava never stopped talking about Zanuck’s pride and joy.
“The only thing bigger than his cigar is his cock,” she always laughed, “which he’s not shy to show or put into use.”
My hello to Zanuck was indeed brief. I wanted it that way.
The music started. The mariachis did their turn. Now the music really heated up. I made my move. I walked to Zanuck’s table and, without asking, took Ava by the hand and onto the floor. The Barefoot Contessa was somewhat shocked, but not for long. For the next forty minutes we danced as one. In a total sweat, without a single word between us, we made it back to Zanuck’s table. The silence was eerie; so were the stares. She sat. I left. From that moment, it wasn’t only Zanuck who thought I was Pedro Romero.
Suddenly it was tennis with Tyrone Power, driving for antiques with Mel and Audrey, playing the guitar with Eddie Albert; but best of all were the nights with Errol. If I were to be reborn, however, I’d like to come back as Tyrone Power. Not for his extraordinary black Irish looks, but for his complete lack of narcissism. Tyrone was a man’s man, a ladies’ man, an adventurer, artist, athlete, compulsive reader; competitive, but never boastful; genuinely, not theatrically, concerned; never afraid to admit his fright. Over dinner one night he told me how scared he was when he appeared on Broadway in John Brown’s Body.
“A movie star on Broadway is suicide.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because, damn it, I’m selfish. I wanted to beat the odds.”
Without knowing it or acting like one, Tyrone Power was a true aristocrat. Conversely, Ava, the world’s most beautiful woman, was a haunted soul—haunted by her poor childhood, stormy romances, fading beauty. She, unlike Tyrone, never inhabited her beauty, always feeling nondeserving of it.
There were two weeks when my ego thought we were in love. In reality, Ava, the professional, was just trying to make our onscreen chemistry more convincing. Not that she lorded it over me. Ava was wide open about Ava, blaming herself for her failed love affairs, telling me the most bizarre stories about how she’d screwed up her marriage to Frank Sinatra. I think she was still madly in love with him. Was I nuts about her? Who wouldn’t be?
Ava had a thing for matadors. They weren’t movie stars, they were gods who played with death. She’d recently ended a torrid romance with one of the supreme bullfighters, Luis Dominguin. We shot our interior scenes together in Mexico City. Afterward we’d go to the bullfighters’ hangouts. When Ava walked in, she got a matador’s cheers.
A great Spanish bullfighter was there one night. Ava recognized him, leapt to her feet, clicked her heels, and with her scarf executed several perfect veronicas. The matador got down, his knees nearly touching the floor, and charged her like a bull. Snorting, laughing, sweating, they did the first two acts of the corrida—everything but the kill. Finally he stood up, faking a terrible pain in his back, and she finished him off with a laugh and a kiss. It was by far the most exciting bullfight I’ve ever seen.
Tossing back her triple vodka, straight, Ava wiped her brow. “Pedro?” she said. “You know who sent the first blast about you to Zanuck? Me. You looked like a fool.” She leaned close, playing with me. “Hate me?” she whispered.
Six months later we celebrated her thirty-sixth birthday at the Harwyn Club in New York. It was sure in hell different from the smelly, steamy matador hangouts. And it sure in hell was a different Ava.
“It’s over, Pedro.”
“It was never really anything to begin with. You were just using me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, I wasn’t even thinking of you.”
I raised my glass. “Happy thirty-six, Lady Brett.”
She closed her eyes. “Happy! I’m over the hill—I know it, you know it, the industry knows it.”
She was right! In 1958, it was over for a leading lady touching her mid-thirties.
Wild! Women have grown into their own in the last thirty years more than they have in the last three hundred. In the mid-sixties I met Faye Dunaway in Miami. She was starring in her first flick, The Happening. No high school cheerleader she, rather a femme fatale. Now thirty years later, still a femme fatale. A working one too. Things do change—today most every top leading lady on the big screen is north of thirty-five.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it!
“How can I meet Lana Turner?” I pressed Joe Hyams. Both of us were at Universal Studios. Me to do an afternoon of post-production looping with Jimmy Cagney and he to interview the glamour queen herself, who was starring in a flick called The Lady Takes a Flyer with Jeff Chandler.
“After you finish looping with Cagney, come by Stage 7. I’ll be there all afternoon catching her between takes,” said ace Hollywood reporter Hyams.
Three hours later, there I stood beside him watching fake clouds blow into a fake cockpit hooked twenty feet in the air. In it was my fantasy lady since I was a teenager—the Lana Turner. The take now completed, the cameras and clouds stopped rolling. Being helped down the ladder from the cockpit and walking toward us was my fantasy come true. Not to see me, but to pick up with Joe on his interview.
“My name is Lana Turner,” greeting me with her hand.
My legs shook. My voice hardly audible, “Robert Evans.”
“I know.” A seductive smile. “How is Ava?”
Wow, if ever there were cat claws, that was it. But who cared? Certainly not me. She cared as much about me as Ava did—nothing. But she didn’t know how Ava really felt toward me and I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her. It was a unique key to a very short-lived romance. Before my first flick’s release, my name was all over the tabloids dating two of Hollywood’s most glamorous legends. Both considerably older. Both considerably infamous. Did it help catapult my newfound career? You bet your ass it didn’t. A gigolo possibly. A playboy for sure. An actor? No way!