American Prince (25 page)

H
aving friends like
Frank Sinatra meant I got a chance to meet some extraordinary people, and I don’t just mean Sam Giancana. One day Frank introduced me to his friend Jack Kennedy. Jack was a big fan of Hollywood movies, and of the beautiful women who starred in them. I saw Jack with Marilyn one time, but I couldn’t tell for sure whether they had any sort of relationship, although everyone now says they did. I also met Jack’s younger brother Bobby and played touch football with him. Bobby was quiet and soft-spoken, and I liked him a lot.

Through Jack and Bobby I met their father, Joe. I later found out that Joe had always loved Janet because she had a great chest. Joe told me he loved watching my movies because I got all the girls, and because I reminded him of the kids he grew up with in Boston. I couldn’t get over it: this Irish Catholic guy was reminded of his childhood by a Hungarian Jewish kid!

Maybe another reason Joe liked me was because I could introduce him to Hollywood starlets. The two of us attended a movie premiere party where I just happened to know a lot of people, so I went from girl to girl introducing him. “I want you to meet my friend Joe,” I’d say, and then I’d lean in and whisper, “He’s John Kennedy’s father.” The girls’ eyes widened, which was fun for Joe, and fun for me.

After Jack Kennedy won the 1960 presidential election, Peter Lawford asked Janet to host a luncheon for Jackie Kennedy at our house. Although Jackie was the guest of honor, I hardly spoke to her; I must admit that I was intimidated by her elegance. She had extraordinary poise, and everything she wore seemed so perfect. I remember thinking,
What should I call her? First Lady? Mrs. Kennedy? Jackie?
I didn’t want to ex pose my ignorance, so I kept my distance. Later I discovered that Jackie was such a class act that she would have found a way to make me comfortable.

In January of 1961, I was staying at the Sherry-Netherland in New York when Joe Kennedy invited me to come to his home in Palm Beach, Florida. Joe had his own DC-3. I didn’t like flying, but I loved Big Joe a lot, so the two of us got on his plane and flew to Joe’s huge Spanish-style house in Palm Beach. In the morning I’d swim and work out a little bit, while Joe read the papers and talked on the phone. Then we’d both watch the news on TV to find out what was going on in Washington.

One evening we were sitting in Joe’s den when the phone rang, but it wasn’t the house phone I’d used earlier; this was a special phone, and Joe picked it up at once. He talked for a little while, and then said to me, “The president sends you his best wishes.” They talked a moment longer, and then Joe said to me, “He wants to read me his inauguration speech. No one has heard it as yet.”

“Great,” I said. “I’ll go for a walk.”

He said, “No, stay.” Then he said, “I’m ready, son, whenever you are.” He was silent for a while, as Jack recited his speech over the phone. Then Joe motioned for me to come over to the phone, lifted it away from his ear, and said, “I want you to hear this.” He said, “Say that again, son.” I put my ear to the phone, and I heard Jack Kennedy say, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” The words were absolutely electric; they gave me goose bumps, and I told the president-elect so.

The night of the inauguration, Janet and I went to a party where Jack Kennedy was also in attendance. As we slowly made our way through the huge crowd, I heard someone say, “Tony, Tony.” I turned, and about fifteen feet away was President Kennedy, who said, “My dad ran an advance screening copy of
The Great Impostor
last night, and the scene of you pulling Edmond O’Brien’s tooth was the funniest thing we ever saw. I wanted to tell you that.”

I said, “Thank you, Mr. President, I really appreciate that.” I knew I wasn’t likely to ever get a compliment to top that.

M
y next film
, directed by Delbert Mann, was an interesting movie about Ira Hayes, the Native American Marine who helped raise the American flag on Iwo Jima. It was called
The Outsider,
and it shows what happened to Ira Hayes after he became famous. While he was in the Marines, his best friend introduced Ira to alcohol, and after Ira got back from the war, his life fell apart. People tell me I should have won an Oscar for my portrayal of Ira, but even though a lot of people went to see the picture, there wasn’t enough buzz about it to move the Academy’s voters. But I loved playing this role; I felt a special empathy for anyone in pain, especially the pain of being shunted aside or treated poorly.

If my movie career was going great guns, my personal life was a shambles. Janet was drinking heavily, and her love affair with the bottle was poisoning her life and our marriage. I wasn’t sure exactly what she was going through. Perhaps she was having a midlife crisis; after all, she had married me when she was very young. These days her career was going well, and her roles were getting better and better, but the bigger she became, the more discontented she was. She knew that no matter how successful she was, she could never compete with actors like Elizabeth Taylor, and it drove her insane. I certainly related to that. I could never compete with Marlon Brando, and sometimes that drove me crazy too.

One afternoon in August of 1961, Janet’s mother, Helen, called me. She and Janet’s father, Fred, had divorced acrimoniously, but at this moment she was worried about him because she’d been trying to reach him all afternoon at his office without success. I didn’t see what the big deal was, but she asked if one of us could go look in on Fred. Janet wasn’t around—she was somewhere in the south of France, attending a film festival with Jeannie Martin, Dean’s wife, and the Kennedys—so I told Helen I’d drive over and check on him. Privately I thought Fred might be with his mistress, who just happened to be his ex-wife’s sister, but needless to say, I didn’t mention my suspicions. I hung up with Janet’s mother, hesitated for a moment before calling the police, and drove over to Fred’s office.

I got there before the police did. I saw a light on in the office, and the door was unlocked. There was Fred, slumped over his typewriter, dead. I couldn’t tell how he’d died; there was no blood, no pills, and no gun. But in the typewriter was a note that read, “I hope you’re satisfied, you bitch.” I pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and stuck it in my pocket. I lifted Fred off the typewriter and leaned him back in his chair. Then I called Helen and told her that her fears had been confirmed.

Five minutes later the police showed up. They called an ambulance and took Fred away. Maybe I shouldn’t have removed that letter, but I didn’t want Janet’s mother to see it. The police later concluded that Fred had died of natural causes, which was just as well.

My next movie was
Taras Bulba
with Yul Brynner. The movie was going to be filmed in Argentina, and because I hated to fly, I booked passage on the S.S.
America,
which took three days to go from Miami to Argentina. Janet, the two girls, and I took the train from LA to Miami. Getting Janet to make the train trip was a major coup, because she didn’t like to do anything unless it happened quickly.

Once we got to Miami, Janet and I started drinking in our hotel room, and she got very angry with me in front of the girls, screaming at me and complaining that my neuroses had forced her into this boat trip instead of going by airplane. Kelly and Jamie looked on as Janet raged at me and threw things. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t realize how strongly she felt about having to take our boat trip until we arrived in Florida, when it was too late to change our plans. But as Janet stood there showering me with abuse in front of my children, something shifted inside me; I realized I couldn’t take her outbursts anymore.

The next morning, the four of us went down to the pier and boarded the boat to Argentina. Our time on board allowed me to have a lot of fun with Kelly and Jamie, who were five and three. We swam together every day in the pool. I loved this opportunity to be with the girls without any outside distractions, and I couldn’t help wishing I had spent more time with them instead of letting my work schedule keep me far from home. After we arrived in Argentina, Janet and the girls stayed for five or six days and flew home. After they left, I resolved that it was time for me to move out and move on. My marriage was over.

My Teenage Bride

J
anet left Argentina
because she had a movie to make, but the reason for her leaving as quickly as she did may have been jealousy of my beautiful young costar, Christine Kauf mann, who played my love interest in
Taras Bulba,
a Ukrainian version of
Romeo and Juliet.
I was playing Andrei, Yul Brynner’s son, a Cossack who falls in love with a Polish princess. The Cossacks and Poles are enemies, and to make our love affair even more complicated, I kill her brother in a sword fight. What no one knew at the time was that I didn’t have to act in my love scenes with Christine, because I really did fall in love with her.

To make the situation even more ticklish, Christine was only seventeen years old. That gave me pause, but there was a freshness about her, an exuberant joy in living that made me go all funny inside. To me, she represented all those girls I would have liked to have dated when I was a poor kid living in New York. I had never gone out with a girl like that, and now I was playing love scenes opposite one.

If Janet and I had been getting along, I might not have been so emotionally vulnerable, but that was not the case. Needless to say, the fact that my marriage was not in good shape meant that Janet and I rarely had sex, which didn’t help either. Christine made life fun again, and I wanted to be with her in the worst way. My dream came true when Christine and I launched into a torrid affair for the first three weeks of shooting. Then her mother arrived on the set, at which point she and I agreed to bury our feelings and stop seeing each other.

That wasn’t the only off-screen drama that was taking place during production. Yul Brynner disliked me because he’d wanted top billing, but United Artists had given it to me. Brynner was very pretentious and overbearing, not unlike the characters he played in his film roles. It got back to me that Yul was telling people I wasn’t a good enough actor to play the part of his son. Yul’s wife also made clear her distaste for me. On location she would bring a big pitcher of orange juice to the cameraman and the boom operator, and she was very obvious about not offering me any. I just shook my head.

Yul smoked all day long, and he had a lackey whose job was to light his cigarettes. When Yul was talking, he’d pull out his long cigarette holder, insert a cigarette, and then nod, which was the signal for his man to walk over and light him up. It was just another way for Yul to publicly demonstrate his power. He used this ritual to assert himself when he talked with the director, J. Lee Thompson. He’d say, “I don’t think the scene will work this way, Lee. Why don’t you have the horses come in from the other side instead?” Then he’d pull out a cigarette and wait for it to be lit.

After a while, I couldn’t take Yul’s behavior anymore, so I went out, bought an eyedropper, filled it with water, and brought it to the set. I stood behind Yul and waited for his servant to walk over to light his cigarette. After the cigarette was lit and Yul took a puff or two, he’d set it down in an ashtray. I’d tiptoe over, squeeze a couple of drops of water onto the end of the cigarette, and put it out. When Yul went to take another puff, the cigarette would be dead. After three days of this, Yul was about ready to kill his servant. I didn’t want to be responsible for Yul firing the guy, so I finally let Yul in on what I was doing. I have to give him credit: he laughed.

Another actor who didn’t like me was a bit player named Mickey Finn, a guy who weighed in at an impressive two hundred and eighty pounds. One day Mickey was sitting on his horse teaching a couple of other actors how to fence, and he said, “It’s like throwing confetti.” When I heard that load of horseshit, I realized Mickey had no idea what he was talking about, and I just had to correct him.

“You can’t do it that way,” I said. “You have to get close.” I got on my horse, rode up right alongside a mounted soldier, and struck him twice with my sword before he finally parried. I said, “That’s what you’ve got to do.” When one of the riders followed my example, I said, “You’ve got it.” Mickey became furious that I was showing him up, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it because my suggestion worked. I’d had a lot of experience fencing in movies.

One night at a cocktail party Mickey decided to vent his frustration by picking a fight with me. He came at me like a gorilla. I just stood there, thinking,
If you want to kill me, give it your best shot, Mickey, but if you so much as touch me, you’re out of a job.
I was the star of the picture, which meant I could have easily seen to it that Mickey was fired. I prepared to defend myself using some self-defense moves that my stuntman friends had taught me. Perry Lopez, who was playing my brother in the film, alertly jumped in between Mickey and me, preventing what could have been a very ugly scene.

J. Lee Thompson, our director, had directed a huge hit the year before:
The Guns of Navarone.
He was a forceful director who knew how to control a set. When we had to shoot some military scenes, he contacted the head of the Argentine army and said, “We need two or three battalions out here for a week, and we’ll pay you thirty thousand dollars.” The next thing I knew, we were dressing two thousand Argentine soldiers as Poles. We’d shoot a Polish army scene, then the shot assistant would say, “All right, let’s get these Poles turned into Cossacks.” An hour later, thousands of soldiers who had been Poles would come riding onto the set as Cossacks.

After we were through filming in Argentina, the entire cast and crew flew back to Hollywood to finish the picture on United Artists’ back lot. Christine’s mother came along, and I went home to Janet. Christine and her mother were both staying at LA’s Chateau Marmont, but I knew they were staying in separate rooms. I desperately wanted to be with Christine, but I knew the situation was fraught with danger.

I came up with a plan that involved driving up to the Chateau Marmont at five thirty in the morning. Christine would let me into her room, and we’d have our fun until about eight thirty. Then I would leave and go directly to the set, making sure her mother didn’t see me on the way out. When Christine and I met on the set that morning, we’d greet each other as if for the first time that day. The sneaking around made our trysts even more romantic.

I may have been fooling Christine’s mother, but Janet could tell something was up. She came by the UA lot one day when we were shooting and said something odd to me: “I want to see this Christine girl.”

“What are you asking me for?” I said. “Go on the set and see her.”

“Will you introduce us?” she asked.

“If I’m around, I’ll introduce you, sure,” I said. Janet was letting me know she suspected something was going on, but she didn’t come right out and accuse me. I couldn’t bear living with Janet anymore, so I often stayed overnight with Nicky Blair, a friend of mine who owned a restaurant in LA, or with Hugh Hefner. Whenever I needed to get away, Hef would let me stay in one of his rooms.

One night Janet and I were at home, having one of our terrible fights. Janet was drinking scotch and crying while she was trying to fix her makeup in front of a little mirror. There was a bottle of pills on her dressing table next to the mirror, and while I was standing there she opened the bottle, shook a handful of red pills into her palm, and threw them down her throat. In a panic, I slapped her hard on the back, causing her to cough up most of the pills.

That was the last straw. Soon after, I told Janet I was moving out. At first she took it calmly. “So move out if you want to,” she said.

I packed a few clothes, and after I walked out the front door to my car, carrying a small valise, Janet came and stood in the doorway, holding Kelly by the hand and Jamie in her arms. She didn’t say much, but she was crying, and when I saw the two girls, my heart was torn apart.

I should have found a better way to end things with Janet, but I had run out of energy. So instead, I just left. I found a hotel close by, and I stayed there while I finished the movie. Janet and I had parted, and not on good terms. Sad to say, Kelly and Jamie have always held it against me. It’s understandable. Janet had full custody of the girls, which was typical in those days, and I’m sure she filled their heads with all sorts of negative stories about me.

Meanwhile, the movie magazines were buzzing with rumors about Christine and me. One day I got a message on the set saying that Hedda Hopper was calling. I got on the phone, and Hedda said to me, “Listen, Tony, God help you if you lie to me, but are you going with a teenager?”

I said, “No, Hedda, that’s not true at all.”

All that did was postpone the inevitable. The story of Tony Curtis leaving his wife and two kids for the teenage daughter of a German air force officer made every newspaper in America. The media frenzy made Janet even more bitter, if that was possible. She was being humiliated in public, and she never forgave me for it. I managed to get visitation rights to see our daughters, but Janet often found ways to keep me from seeing them.

After the movie wrapped, Christine went back to Germany, and that cooled down the rumors about us, but we talked on the phone long distance every night.

A
fter Janet and
I separated, I made a movie called
40 Pounds of Trouble.
The picture was about a five-year-old waif my character had taken in who tries to get me together with Suzanne Pleshette, the actress who would later become famous for her role on
The Bob New hart Show.
Suzanne was a Brooklyn native who’d gotten her start as a stage actress on Broadway. She had wowed the critics when she replaced Anne Bancroft in the stage production of
The Miracle Worker,
and now here she was in Hollywood, making movies. Like Christine, Suzanne was young and smart and beautiful, and I often wonder whether I might have fallen for her if I hadn’t already fallen for Christine.

We were the first company allowed to shoot a film in Disneyland, which had opened in Anaheim in 1955. We also filmed at the Cal-Neva Lodge near Reno, the place that Frank Sinatra owned as part of his under-the-table arrangement with mob boss Sam Giancana. Frank’s relationship with Sam Giancana was the reason that Jack Kennedy had been forced to cut Frank off as a friend after he got elected president. J. Edgar Hoover knew all about Frank’s mob friends, so he told Kennedy to keep Frank at arm’s length, which Kennedy did. That was very hurtful to Frank, who had been an important campaigner for Kennedy, and Frank never forgave Jack for turning his back on him.

Frank took his anger out on Peter Lawford, because Peter was married to Jack Kennedy’s sister Patricia. Frank had never been that crazy about Peter anyway. Peter was British, which he thought gave him special status, and he seemed to look down on the rest of us—especially me, whom he saw as some sort of New York gangster wannabe. Peter could also be rude. Sometimes Frank would be talking and Peter would interrupt him right in the middle of a sentence, and Frank would say, “What the fuck are you doing interrupting me? Shut the fuck up.” Once Jack Kennedy severed his ties to Frank, Frank turned right around and cut Peter Lawford out of his life completely. It was as if Peter no longer existed.

A
fter
40 Pounds of Trouble
wrapped, I got a call from director Richard Quine, asking me to do him a favor. Dick was making the movie
Paris—When It Sizzles,
starring William Holden and Audrey Hepburn, but Bill Holden had been drinking too much and had been forced to check into a rehab clinic partway through filming. Dick asked me if I would take a small part that they would write in for me, to reduce the amount of time that Bill had to be on screen. I agreed. I was happy to be working, but I was sad about Bill, because I admired him so much. It had been a stroke of genius for Billy Wilder to cast him in
Sunset Boulevard.
“No one else thought Bill could do it,” Billy had told me, “but in that movie he proved himself.” Billy had wanted a great performance of a guy going downhill, and he’d gotten it. Now Holden was going downhill in real life.

Paris—When It Sizzles
didn’t have much of a story, which turned out to be helpful when they had to write me in at the last minute. I did a good job, but having me in the movie didn’t turn it around. After my part in the picture was finished, I flew to London, where I bought a Jaguar coupe and drove to Munich to see Christine, who was making a movie there. I checked into the Bayerischer Hof, a beautiful hotel where the cast was staying. I couldn’t wait to see her.

Christine was shooting nights, and Munich was chilly. I would go to her film location, park my car, and keep it running so the heater stayed on. Whenever Christine got a break, she would come and sit with me in the car. After a couple days of this, other cast members who were friends of Christine’s started joining us. On any given night we could have half a dozen people warming up in that car.

At the end of my fourth or fifth night of visiting Christine at the set, I drove back to the hotel and left the car with the doorman. Be fore I went inside, he said, “Can I show you something, Herr Curtis?” He walked me around to the back of the car and pointed: someone had jammed rags into both exhaust pipes. I was lucky I hadn’t died of carbon monoxide poisoning. I could see the headline:
Tony Curtis gassed by Germans.
I was sure somebody in the company had done it, perhaps because I was a Jew seeing a beautiful German actress.