Waiting on the Moon, page 17
I spent ten days hanging out in LA, hoping for some promising meetings. Fortunately, my good friend Earl McGrath, president of Rolling Stones Records, had a house in the city. Earl, one of the wittiest people I knew, never liked to be alone. He insisted that I attend his late afternoon cocktail gatherings, which always preceded the most memorable evenings. Dinner guests were an illustrious mix presided over by Earl’s warm and engaging wife, Camilla. It wouldn’t be unusual to find Joan Didion and her husband, John Gregory Dunne, painter David Hockney, actor Harrison Ford, author Christopher Isherwood, agent Swifty Lazar, and notable couple Anjelica Huston and Jack Nicholson among the guests who gathered there. However, in spite of my starry socializing, I still had no firm leads.
I was planning to fly back to Boston when one morning a call came from Freddie. “Peter, hold on to your hat. I just arranged a meeting for you with Alfred Hitchcock!”
My complete disbelief resulted in several seconds of dead air.
“Peter, are you there? I’ve gotten you a meeting with Hitchcock!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. I had once been briefly introduced to Hitchcock in passing while dining at Chasen’s with Faye. He had been keeping a low profile in Hollywood since the disappointments of his previous two films.
“What could possibly make him interested in me?” I asked.
Freddie explained, “He’s working on a project that he hopes can attract a younger audience. Who knows? Your soundtrack idea might appeal to him. He can be so unpredictable. Whatever you do, though, don’t be late. Hitch is a stickler for being on time.” Freddie said the meeting would be at Hitchcock’s home in Bel Air at two o’clock the following afternoon.
In my hotel room I sat dazed, visualizing his face stepping into the line-drawing caricature at the start of his television show. Flickering images from his many classic films ran through my mind. What I needed was a Valium and a good stiff drink. I canceled my plane reservation, sent out my only suit to be pressed overnight, and, since I didn’t know how to drive, ordered a limo for early the next day. I passed on the stiff drink, but I did take the Valium.
In the morning I called the concierge and asked to have my pressed suit delivered to the room. “Mr. Wolf, your suit won’t be ready until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! It was due back today!”
The concierge responded in a dry, clipped voice—the kind you’d expect from a frustrated dealer of fine French porcelain—“I’ll check, sir, but I don’t believe you marked next-day delivery on your ticket.”
I panicked. He was right; I didn’t remember marking the slip. I swallowed my pride and asked, “Well, then, where can I buy a black suit? I’ll need it early this afternoon.”
He mentioned Giorgio’s, on Rodeo Drive. Little did I know that it was one of the most expensive clothing stores in the country. For the cost of one suit I could’ve lived in Paris for a month. Instead I took a cab to a tuxedo-rental place and thought, If Cary Grant can wear one, so can I. Well, obviously, I’m no Cary Grant. As soon as I saw myself in the rental-store mirror, I was hit with a stronger anxiety attack than the one I had the day before. A tux was not for me.
I finally found a suit in a thrift shop. I was thoroughly exhausted by the time I returned to my hotel.
The limo came early, as ordered, and we headed out toward Bel Air, following Freddie’s firm directive to not be late. We arrived near Mr. Hitchcock’s house, on Bellagio Road, a full hour before the appointed time. I asked the driver to pull over to the curb and wait. As the two o’clock NPR news came on the radio, we drove through the gates and up the path to Hitchcock’s home.
It was a modest and tasteful two-story English country house that would have been the perfect setting for a classic Agatha Christie mystery. The house and garden stood in stark contrast to the grand estates that populated Beverly Hills and Bel Air. The limo driver let me out. Then the front door to the house opened wide, and rather than a butler or maid to greet me, there he stood, the master himself.
I was in awe, unprepared to meet this icon, yet I tried to appear as relaxed as possible. When I approached the doorway, he bent his head forward and greeted me with that recognizable and often imitated voice: “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming.” He pronounced each word distinctly and extremely slowly, exactly as he did in his many movie trailers and on his popular television series.
We walked together through the vestibule, filled with freshly cut flowers. The walls were hung with important paintings in gilded frames, among which was a Rouault (one of my favorite artists). We entered a small, sunny sitting room carpeted with a light-blue-and-pink antique rug, with two windows that framed a view of an idyllic manicured garden. A couch and two chairs, upholstered in a delicate flowered pattern, furnished this genteel room. Centered on the polished cherrywood coffee table was an art deco vase holding a neatly arranged bouquet. Around it, magazines were carefully stacked in several piles.
He sat on one end of the couch, I on the other. “What can I get you to drink?” he asked.
I sensed that this was his way of checking to see if I was one of those hard-drinking, drugged-out, unreliable rock-and-rollers.
“Nothing—thank you, Mr. Hitchcock. I’m okay.”
“Nothing? Not even a little nip?”
“Oh, no. Just plain tea with a dash of milk or cream would be fine.” I hoped that such a distinguished Englishman would deem this proper.
“Tea, Mr. Wolf? Nothing to spike it up a bit?”
Now I was convinced he was testing me.
“Tea is fine, if it’s not too much of a bother. Was that a Rouault that we passed in the hallway?” I asked, trying to start a conversation. “And is that a Klee over on that wall?”
“You seem to have an interest in painting.”
“Yes. Before I got into music, I studied painting. And speaking of Klee, I studied with the son of Lyonel Feininger, who taught with Klee at the Bauhaus.”
“What styles did you paint?” he asked.
“I guess the German expressionists are my biggest influences. My first painting, which I did at age eleven, was a copy of an Emil Nolde work. From there, I went on to Kirchner and Beckmann. I also have a great fondness for Soutine.”
“Soutine? You love Soutine? Why, I own a Soutine!” he exclaimed.
“A Soutine! I’d love to see it.”
“I’d like to show it to you, but perhaps some other time. It’s in the next room, where I think my wife is resting. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink or a light cocktail of sorts—perhaps an aperitif?” he asked again. When I politely declined his offer, he seemed disappointed.
Frowning, he looked down at his watch and said, “Pardon me.” He walked across the room, picked up the phone receiver, and dialed. He waited a moment, then put the receiver to his chest. After a minute or so, he spoke several words into the phone, then mysteriously hung up. As he slowly walked back to the couch, he mentioned that he just had his heart checked. “Can you believe it? I call a number in Washington, DC, they listen to my heart, then they call my doctor in Los Angeles, and he sends me the findings. All quite amazing, what they can do these days.”
A maid arrived with my tea. “How is it?” he inquired.
“Perfect,” I replied. “Just the way I like it.”
“You wouldn’t like a little something else with it?” he asked, speaking more slowly than usual.
“Oh, no. The tea is just fine.”
In reality, what I would have loved was a good stiff gin martini.
“Well, I’m making a film presently titled Deceit. It’s going to have a cast of young actors.”
I slowly sipped my tea, hoping he would ask if I had any interest in participating on a soundtrack.
“So much has changed over the years, especially with actors. I never had patience for Method acting. Now, take Charles Laughton. Though he worked long before the Method came along, Laughton would drive me insane. One day we were doing a scene in which he was walking across a floor. He would ask me what kind of shoes he should be wearing. Dryly, I replied, ‘Ones that fit.’ But no, that wasn’t good enough for him. He needed to spend time walking in the shoes. At one point, he asked, ‘What’s my motivation for walking in this scene?’ I became most impatient. I yelled, ‘Charles! Like a chicken, to get to the other side! Now walk them shoes over here and let’s get this damn scene finished!’ Can you imagine? He needed to have an entire psychological motivation just for his damn shoes.”
With a sideways glance, he asked, “You’re not changing your mind about a little afternoon pick-me-up, are you? A glass of sherry, perhaps?”
I was craving a drink, but I stood fast. “No, sir. The tea is perfect.”
“All actors are somewhat insecure,” he continued. “And, of course, the women are even more so. Take Grace Kelly, whom I always enjoyed working with. She’s aware of her beauty, aware of her talent, and, most important, aware of her limitations. We had a funny encounter while filming To Catch a Thief. We were on location in the South of France, about to do a ballroom scene with Cary Grant. Edith Head, who has been my costume designer, and a great one at that, designed a beautiful gold evening gown for Grace. As the technicians were setting up the lights for the scene, Edith brought Grace into my office to show me her gold dress. Now, how can I politely say this? Grace was known for not having too much up top, and that gold dress accentuated the issue, so I said to Edith, ‘How about a little more in this area?’ as I held my hands out in front of my chest. Ten minutes later, Edith returned with Grace, having put several layers of foam padding in her bra. I said, ‘Grace, now there is hills in them thar gold!’”
Hitchcock laughed so loudly that it was as if he were hearing the story himself for the first time.
I’d finished my tea. Without saying anything, he mimed lifting a stemmed glass to his mouth. Again, I told him I was fine. He then abruptly got up from the couch, thanked me for visiting him, and added, “Let me walk you to the door.” I thanked him for taking the time to meet with me and said I hoped I could come back, not just to enjoy his company but also to see his Soutine painting. “Yes. I’m sure that can be arranged.”
Those were his last words to me; the driver already had the limo door open. We drove out of the gates and headed back to my hotel. Something didn’t seem quite right, and I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was. I didn’t drink or smoke during the visit, which I presumed was appropriate behavior on my part. But still, something did not sit well.
As we approached Sunset Boulevard, we passed a landmark bar called the Cock’n Bull. It was famous for its clientele of old Hollywood stars, directors, newspapermen, and the hard-drinking Rat Pack. The staff made sure no celebrities were bothered by tourists or autograph seekers. All during my meeting with Mr. Hitchcock, I was craving a drink, and this was a good place to, shall we say, tie one on. That’s exactly what I did—with bull shots. I heard that Humphrey Bogart ordered them back in the days when he and the original Rat Pack would frequent this place.
It was dark when I left the bar, feeling a bit tipsy and still somewhat disturbed about my meeting. Perhaps I should have been more aggressive. Everything seemed to be spinning as the limo driver took me back to my hotel.
The movie Hitchcock finally made was retitled Family Plot. It was to be his last film. For the lead role, he wanted Jack Nicholson, who, perhaps because of scheduling conflicts, turned him down, so he chose actor Bruce Dern. Karen Black costarred, and it was reported that she needed endless Method motivations before most of her scenes. The soundtrack was supplied by the popular and talented composer John Williams.
Years later, after Hitchcock’s death, there were many biographies written about his life. I read several, and one detail caught my eye. Hitchcock’s wife, who played an important role in his artistic decisions, strictly frowned upon his drinking alone at home in the afternoon. He could indulge, but only in the company of a guest.
So much for trying to impress the master with my fine, upstanding sobriety. But as he often enjoyed saying to his actors, “Why worry? It’s only a movie.”
17
THE DEEP END
Chinatown
IN 1974, THE Geils band and I had spent months touring before finally winding up in Wisconsin. Faye, on a brief hiatus prior to beginning her next project, joined us in Madison, where a blizzard was predicted for several days after her arrival. Our next gig was in Minneapolis, but with flights canceled, we were worried that we’d be snowed in. So we rented the only transportation available: a run-down old school bus, complete with a retired mailman as the driver.
The snow began with only a light powder as we set off on the four-and-a-half-hour journey. Soon the snow thickened, and the bus’s heater broke. We slowed to around thirty miles an hour. After five hours, we were still only halfway to our destination. Our breath was visible as we shivered in the intense cold of the bus. Faye, however, seemed quite happy, saying, “It’s like back in the days of Billie Holiday or Peggy Lee, traveling with the big bands.” She had several bottles of Rémy Martin and a good supply of Bolivian marching powder, which she generously shared with several band members at the back of the bus in what turned out to be a freezing eight-hour ordeal.
Faye enjoyed life on the road, especially interacting with our ex-Marine truck drivers, the Mullin brothers, who were like older siblings to her. They would hang out together on the equipment cases during sound checks, and if there wasn’t a drive the next day, you could be sure to find them with her in the hotel bar. Whenever Faye was recognized, they would act as her protective shield. Nobody was foolish enough to mess with the Mullin brothers.
After all the mysterious late-night calls in Spain, it finally came to light that Faye’s next project would be Chinatown, directed by Roman Polanski and with a screenplay by Robert Towne. Jack Nicholson would costar. Jane Fonda was the producers’ first choice for the role of Evelyn Mulwray, and Polanski had wanted Julie Christie, but Nicholson pushed for Faye. It created tension from the start. Faye’s agent, Sue Mengers, a gruff, short, heavyset woman who spoke like a truck driver and was tough as nails, handled the deal. Sue and Faye had a volatile relationship for one main reason: Sue represented most of the top leading ladies, including Barbra Streisand, and Sue made sure Barbra got the first and best offers before any of her other clients did.
Faye headed out to Los Angeles while the band and I did one-night stands across Texas with ZZ Top. For some unknown reason, the group brought two large buffaloes with them, positioning one on each side of the stage during their performances. We enjoyed playing with the group, but the promoters always placed our dressing rooms near the pen where ZZ Top kept the buffaloes, and we couldn’t avoid the intense odor of their never-ending shit piles.
Faye didn’t sound happy when we talked on the phone. She wanted me to join her in Los Angeles as soon as I had a break, which I did, leaving the buffalo stench for Faye’s midcentury-modern rental house, a gleaming glass box set high atop Bel Air. When I arrived, the housekeeper informed me that Faye would be late getting back from rehearsal. I looked around. Even the ornate telephone seemed as if it were a prop from a 1930s French film.
Later that evening, the door opened, and Faye came in carrying scripts, books, and notepads, giving me a long kiss and letting everything fall to the floor. She sank into the couch, exhausted, saying, “I’m so glad you’re finally here. Peter, darling, I need a drink, a large drink.”
“What would you like?”
“Anything. Why not just bring the bottle?”
After a healthy slug of Rémy Martin, she let her head fall back against the couch, saying, “This movie is going to be a mountain of trouble—I can feel it already. Oh, God, I hope I don’t have another Otto on my hands.”
She was referring to the director Otto Preminger. He had once signed Faye to a five-picture deal. Otto was known to be extremely harsh and abusive, especially with actresses. After making one movie with him, Hurry Sundown, Faye unsuccessfully sued him, demanding that he release her from the contract, citing overt cruelty. She eventually had to buy herself out of the deal.
The next day she left early for a read-through with the cast and Polanski. When she returned that afternoon, she was in a fury.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I knew it! It’s like talking to a fucking brick wall. Now he wants me to be a bleached blonde! I can’t fucking believe it.”
I was about to say, “What’s the big deal?” when she exploded.
“I’m not doing it! It’s so fucking cliché. The noir blonde. Next he’ll probably ask me to wear my hair to one side like Veronica Lake. I finally compromised and offered to wear a blond wig. That bastard said no, because he never liked Barbara Stanwyck’s wig in Double Indemnity. That film was damn good, in my opinion. We should be so lucky. What about Mary Astor in The Maltese Falcon or Ava Gardner in The Killers? They didn’t dye their hair, so why the hell should I?”
The phone rang. It was Sue Mengers. Faye carried it to her bedroom, anger revving up, before closing the door with a bang, saying, “Sue, I’m not touching my hair!”
Twenty minutes later, she emerged to announce: “Now Polanski wants to meet with me, tonight or tomorrow.”
“Why not meet him?” I answered, not knowing how she might react. I tried reasoning with her. “It’s like a fire on the verge of going wild. It might be good to try to put it out sooner rather than later.”
“Would you go with me tonight? I don’t want to be alone with him.”
“Of course I’ll go.”
We sped off through hills and valleys in her white Mercedes convertible. I enjoyed watching Faye drive, cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth. Her concentration on the road was intense, as if she were aiming at a moving duck in a penny arcade game. We came to a densely forested area, tucked into which was a modernist wood-frame house. Roman greeted us at the door. Faye introduced me as he led us into a dark and rustic sitting room, with antlers, muskets, and Native American and African paraphernalia on the walls. Apparently Roman was leasing the house from actor George Montgomery, and the decor came with the rent.
