Waiting on the Moon, page 16
During the day I would rehearse with the band while Faye and Bill went through the script of her new project, The Three Musketeers, an all-star remake of the film based on Alexandre Dumas’s novel, scheduled to shoot in Spain over the following two months. The director was Richard Lester, who filmed the first two Beatles movies and many famous British comedies, along with The Goon Show radio program, which featured Peter Sellers. Faye had her agent negotiate an extra round-trip first-class ticket for me, thereby making it possible for us to be together during filming. I had never been to Spain, so the chance to spend time not only with Faye but also with Velázquez and Goya at the Prado was an offer I just couldn’t refuse.
Faye had a large suite at one of Madrid’s grand hotels, the Queen Isabella, where much of the cast was also in residence. Curiously, Faye was receiving many phone calls from Jack Nicholson regarding a new project, and she, in turn, made endless calls to her tenacious agent, Sue Mengers. Apparently not everyone involved in this mysterious project was as enthusiastic about Faye’s participation as Nicholson was, but the calls kept coming at all hours.
For one week, the shooting location moved from Madrid to a small seacoast town, Dénia, in southern Spain. The hotel options were limited. When costar Raquel Welch secured the suite Faye had requested, I could feel tension brewing. We ended up in a run-down two-story stucco hotel with cracks on the outer walls exposing bent wire and weathered bricks. We had to walk through a little lobby where thin flea-bitten dogs lay about and old men, wearing Basque berets and dressed in black, sat at tables and played dominoes. As we entered, all eyes, even the dogs’, turned toward us. A sense of foreboding filled the air as we were led upstairs by the owner to our room. It was small and painted acid yellow, with two old, sagging mattresses atop rusting bed frames on either side. Above one bed was taped a map of Spain; over the other hung an iron crucifix. In the back of the room were two narrow glass doors that opened onto a tiny balcony overlooking a rocky Mediterranean beach littered with driftwood. We could see black birds picking around the rocks and seaweed. To top it all off, the shower and bathroom were in the hall.
This dismal accommodation sent Faye into an unpleasant downward swing, a trait of hers that I would later come to know all too well.
I enjoyed being on set and witnessing the process of moviemaking. Filming was hard work, and any unexpected delays could make the atmosphere tense, since the stakes were so high and time costs money.
Christopher Lee was playing the role of Comte de Rochefort, and during one of the film’s innumerable sword fights, he had been injured. An imposing figure known for portraying devilishly sinister characters, he was an engaging conversationalist. It was early afternoon, and as I was walking by the open door of his trailer, Lee invited me in. Sitting with him while he rested his sprained shoulder was the eccentric actor and comedian Spike Milligan, a star on The Goon Show. Both men were several glasses into a nearly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker. Lee was ranting that his injury was no fault of his, since he was trained as an expert swordsman, and recounted his many missions as a special forces officer in the Royal Air Force. “Why, I could outduel anyone on this set!” he loudly exclaimed in full theatrical voice to Milligan and me.
Suddenly we were interrupted by one of the director’s assistants, who reported that a near disaster had occurred on set.
According to him, a sailing vessel carrying Charlton Heston, as the Cardinal, was to be greeted onshore by Faye and a group of her armored soldiers. It took the entire day to light the scene and practice securing the rowboats that carried the Cardinal from ship to shore.
The long, hot afternoon was surely sweltering for Faye, dressed in a heavy wig and layered gown with a tightly laced bodice. Richard Lester was worried about losing the light. Eventually, all cameras and lights were in place. The costumed actors hit their marks on the beach as the armored soldiers, with lances and flags, rowed small boats out to meet the ship. Just as Lester was about to shout “Action”—and while Lee, Milligan, and I were enjoying the bottle, oblivious to the drama taking place outside—there was a loud cracking noise coming from the ship. As if in slow motion, it began to sink. Total bedlam broke out. It was obvious that there wasn’t much that could be done. Everyone watched, wide-eyed, as the actors and crew escaped to safety and the ship sank. Plans were made to try to raise it or find a replacement, but that meant a delay of several days and losses on an already tight budget.
Being marooned in our dreary hotel was not something either of us was looking forward to. Faye, fortunately, packed a large case filled with bottles of wine, gin, and cognac. When we arrived back at the hotel, we tried to order room service, but the menu was limited to paella.
We were starving. As soon as the food arrived, I poured us both wine, and we began to eat. I noticed that Faye was staring at me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Peter! You eat like some escaped convict on the run. Hasn’t anyone showed you the proper way to use your knife and fork?”
“But this is how I’ve always eaten.”
“Well, mister, this is not the Bronx, and you’re not on my uncle G.O.’s farm. It’s high time someone showed you the proper way to use your knife and fork.”
For the next hour, I observed then repeated her demonstration. First I learned the correct American style, followed by the English style, and finally the formal European style. I admired her for wanting to better me, but to this day, I still hold my knife and fork as if they were shovels.
Faye was becoming moodier the longer we stayed in this depressing place. Although I couldn’t swim, I thought it would be adventurous to at least put my feet into the Mediterranean. Because I didn’t have a bathing suit, Faye let me wear the only thing she had—a vintage knitted ladies’ one-piece from the 1920s. Not wanting to accompany me, she lit a joint and watched from the balcony. I couldn’t really blame her: I was a comical sight, with my pale, skinny body, biblical rocker beard, and sunglasses, wearing a woman’s bathing suit, gingerly making my way across the rocky beach. Malnourished dogs prowled about, hoping I had food.
As I put each foot into the cold, shallow, murky water, I turned and waved to Faye on the balcony, and she gave an unenthusiastic wave back. I was around two feet from the shore when suddenly an incredible electric pain shot through my entire body. I fell into the water, and when I tried to stand, I realized something was wrong with my right foot. In agonizing pain, I yelled up to Faye, “I don’t think I can move; I can’t move!”
Wondering what was wrong, she shouted back, “I’ll be right there!”
I thought I was going to faint as I saw Faye rushing toward the beach with two men from the lobby. “Ay, caramba! No! No!” They tried to explain to Faye that I must be carried back, for I had stepped on a sea urchin, which shot small sharp needles into the base of my right foot. “No bueno, no bueno—malo, malo!”
They lifted me from the water, carried me back to our room, and placed me on the bed. At the sight of my foot, Faye became worried. The sole had swollen and turned a shiny black-and-blue color. “Is there a doctor? We need to get him help!” She ran to the only phone, in the lobby, and called the production headquarters in Madrid, asking them to urgently notify the on-set doctor and have him come as quickly as possible.
By the time the doctor arrived, the pain was feverishly intense. I had to be rushed to Madrid, where there were several doctors waiting. The urchin’s sharp spikes needed to be removed because the stingers can be poisonous and even fatal.
I felt terrible about the mayhem I was causing. Faye was understandably concerned about me but also relieved, because it gave us both an excuse to check out of that run-down hotel. The doctors numbed my foot and spent more than three hours removing the sharp needles.
The last movie scene I witnessed was a catfight between Faye, as Milady, and Raquel Welch, as Constance. In the script, Faye’s character attempts to grab a piece of paper from Raquel’s hand and pushes her. When the cameras rolled, Faye pushed her so hard that it stunned Raquel and everyone else on the set. This continued with each take, and with every push Faye became even more forceful. It was obvious to us all that this was no accident.
Finally, Raquel refused to do another take if Faye continued to push her with that level of ferocity. Yet on the final take, Faye did it again, and Raquel fell, spraining her ankle. Faye’s aggression toward her seemed out of proportion to the loss of a hotel room. The reason did not come to light until many years later, when Faye married Terry O’Neill, Raquel’s purported lover at the time of filming.
On one of my many days in Spain I happened to look at a Vogue magazine and noticed a striking fashion illustration by Antonio Lopez. I thought it, or something like it, would make a unique album cover. I showed Faye. She, coincidentally, knew Antonio, who lived in Paris. In this seemingly golden time in our relationship, we followed our whims wherever they took us. So when the filming was over, we flew off to Paris and stayed at a small hotel on the Left Bank, not far from Notre Dame Cathedral. I was unaware that Antonio was such a highly respected artist in the fashion world. He shared a spacious apartment with his longtime lover, Juan Ramos, and a visiting guest, a very young and beautiful lady named Jerry Hall, who was just beginning her modeling career.
Jerry had a thick Texan accent. Neither she nor I spoke French, as everyone else did, a mutual awkwardness that connected us, much to the annoyance of Faye. One evening, Jerry and I were gazing out the window to the building across the street, where we could see an elderly man watching TV. This ordinary Parisian turned out to be Jean-Paul Sartre. Only in Paris could one see an incongruous sight such as a great philosopher in front of the television.
Antonio, using actual makeup, drew the eyes and lips of both Faye and Jerry on a large sketch pad. He worked quickly and extremely accurately. His renderings became the cover for the Geils album Ladies Invited.
Faye and I enjoyed Paris, visiting cafés and museums during the day and attending dinner parties at night. One afternoon we lunched with Jean-Paul Belmondo, who was even more striking in person than on-screen. Faye was fluent in French, but I didn’t understand one word of their conversation. Still, I enjoyed watching these two mesmerizing movie stars. After lunch we headed to the Ritz for French 75s, but back at the hotel, late that evening, Faye went into one of her dark moods, the first since we had left Spain.
She took a bottle of cognac and locked herself in the bedroom. An hour passed. I could tell she had fallen asleep. Her moods worried me: they seemed to descend from nowhere, and chasing them with alcohol certainly didn’t help. I decided it was probably best for me to leave her and Paris behind. The night clerk was fast asleep behind the small check-in desk when I woke him to find out how I might reserve a plane ticket and transportation to the airport. I fumbled, mimed, and spoke slowly, but he didn’t understand me at all.
I went back upstairs and quietly opened the door, where I found Faye awake. I explained why I thought it best to leave, but she didn’t want me to go. Instead, she suggested we walk along the Seine. She threw on her fur-lined beige trench coat over her nightgown, slipped on fire-engine-red Louis Vuitton high heels, and took me by the arm, saying, “Why are we in here when all of Paris is waiting out there?” It sounds corny now, but in that impetuous moment, it sounded so right.
We walked arm in arm while the sun rose slowly and the illumination from the streetlamps faded. Faye kicked off her shoes and wanted to dance. We began a slow foxtrot, swinging around and around, but as I dipped her, we almost ended up in the river. Laughing, we watched the sunrise reflected in the rippling water as the bells of Notre Dame began ringing for early morning mass. Faye took my hand and started running toward the church. “Oh, please—let’s both go to mass!” Once inside the gray walls of the cavernous cathedral, with her scarf around her head, she seemed lost in some meditative prayer. The pews were full of faces illuminated by incense-filled shafts of sunlight, and it was then I noticed that Faye was barefoot. As the mass ended, we raced back along the river, hoping to find those elegant shoes, but like the morning sky, they had gone.
Shootin’ high!
16
IT’S ONLY A MOVIE
Alfred Hitchcock
CARE FOR A drink? How about a nice single-malt scotch? Steve McQueen sent me a case of the stuff.”
It was just two in the afternoon. “Well, are you having one?” I asked.
“Me? No. I got two big meetings back-to-back, but just make yourself comfortable. I can have Carlos bring anything you want.”
This was the home of Freddie Fields, who at the time was one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood. His agency represented Faye and many other top stars and directors. We had met at various charity functions and later, memorably, at a dinner party at Connie Wald’s house. Connie was the widow of producer Jerry Wald, who was rumored to be the inspiration for the unsympathetic, hard-bitten protagonist in Budd Schulberg’s novel What Makes Sammy Run? In the early 1970s, intimate dinner parties were still very much in vogue among the old guard of the Hollywood elite.
Freddie spoke with a heavy New York accent and looked as if he had spent his entire day poolside. He dressed “LA casual” while radiating an aura of power. He wore distinctive turtlenecks under partially unbuttoned thin linen shirts, loose chinos, and smart deck shoes. I once remarked how much I liked his turtlenecks and inquired where he bought them. “They’re an Italian cotton lisle–silk blend. Where you staying? I’ll send you a box.”
Turns out they came from Bijan, on Rodeo Drive, and back then each one cost several hundred dollars.
While Freddie was waiting for his two thirty meeting, his stunning and exotic ladyfriend joined him in the bar area. She was somebody I’d recognize years later as the star of Dynasty, Joan Collins. Freddie offered to call the studios and send over any film I might want to see in his private screening room during his meetings. I chose Your Cheatin’ Heart, starring George Hamilton as Hank Williams.
Freddie was taken aback by my request. “You’re kidding! You wanna pick Your Cheatin’ Heart? Of all the movies you can choose from? Of all the movies in Hollywood’s most extensive film libraries, you pick a fuckin’ George Hamilton movie?”
Being a Hank Williams fan, I had always been curious about the film, which at that time was unavailable to the general public because of lawsuits involving Williams’s estate. It was also rumored that Elvis Presley was first asked to star as the lead, but his manager, Colonel Tom Parker, had vetoed it because he couldn’t obtain the publishing rights to Hank’s songs.
Cocktail hour at Fields’s grand château was a gathering of top Hollywood agents, stars, and extremely eager starlets. I was always searching for a way to improve the Geils band’s contract with our label, Atlantic Records, and I thought recording a soundtrack might widen our exposure and enable us to negotiate a better deal. So I chose to stay behind after the band had finished a string of West Coast dates to try to secure such a deal. I asked Freddie if he knew of any directors or perhaps a film that might be in search of a soundtrack.
“I’ll put some feelers out, kid, and let you know,” he said, an unlit cigar and a drink in hand.
Two days later, one of his secretaries called, asking if I could meet with the film director and producer Roger Corman. I was excited at the prospect of meeting the man called the King of the B’s and the King of the Drive-Ins. Corman was known for making low-budget horror, monster, and biker films geared toward the growing teenage market. He was also known for taking a chance on newcomers in the industry. He helped jump-start the careers of numerous actors and directors, including Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, Peter Bogdanovich, Jack Nicholson, and Robert De Niro.
We were to meet at three in the afternoon at his office in West Hollywood, along Sunset Boulevard. Ideas for soundtracks to films like The Wild Racers, Devil’s Angels, and Attack of the Crab Monsters were all racing through my head.
Mr. Corman had a modest but tasteful office on an upper floor of one of the few multistory high-rises on the Sunset Strip. An attractive and studious-looking secretary led me in. As I entered, he stood up to greet me. He was well groomed, with trimmed, graying hair, and he wore lightly tinted eyeglasses. Dressed in a fitted blue sport coat, an open-necked pink shirt, and gray slacks, he projected a smart, even somewhat European air.
“Thank you for coming,” he said in a pleasant voice. “Freddie mentioned you were looking for a film that might need a soundtrack. Usually, it’s an idea that would very much appeal to me. Unfortunately, I’ve stopped producing new works at the moment. I’ve recently only been involved in the distribution of foreign films, but if I do hear of something that might make sense, I’ll surely let Freddie know.”
Perhaps the meeting was just a favor to Freddie, because this was something Mr. Corman could have easily relayed by phone. But by taking the time to tell me in person, he revealed his natural curiosity about people and their ideas. We talked at length about Boston’s many fine-art cinemas—specifically, the Brattle Theatre, in Cambridge, whose owner, Bryant Haliday—someone I’d known—was himself an actor and a producer of B films, including the 1960s works Devil Doll and Curse of the Voodoo. Along with the Brattle Theatre, Bryant owned the 55th Street Playhouse, in New York, and had cofounded the prestigious Janus Films distribution company.
It was an honor to meet with Mr. Corman, someone who had spent his entire career free from the large studios and corporate entities encroaching upon the film world. Like Sam Phillips, the stand-alone force who first recorded a young Elvis, Howlin’ Wolf, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis, Corman remained an independent maverick, and I found him to be intelligent, thoughtful, and a genuine gentleman.
