Dropped Names (13 page)

I
had only just arrived in Malta to start my film when I learned of Raul's death. Uncannily, as I hung up the phone his voice was singing out on my tape player. I left my hotel, got a car, and began driving around the city. After parking it I wandered into a large antique shop filled with paintings, and I must have looked at and held up some thirty or forty as the owner told me of their age, period, value, etc. After an hour of this, he said, “I have a sense of your taste now. I have something to show you.” We went to a small room upstairs at the back of his shop and he opened the door of a tall cabinet, stood on a chair, moved aside some books, and took down a large white folder.

“I have had this for four years,” he said. “It requires a special customer. I think this is for you.”

No matter if this was his usual pitch, because as he lifted one side of the folder, I found myself staring incredulously at a painting of a striking Spanish nobleman, beautifully dressed; on his head a large grand hat with plumes and in his big dark eyes an expression of sweet peace. From both his shoulders sprouted a pair of white wings. After some friendly negotiation I bought it and it hangs in my home as I write this.

U
nconsummated love between men can be as powerful as any love between a man and a woman; and equally if not more powerful than physical love with either. However passionate and exciting sexual intimacy can be, it does not linger in the mind with the same intensity as does the indescribable feeling of love one human being can engender in another. And there is something to be said for that kind of love's endurance and the ability to conjure it up more vividly than any remembered sexual pleasure.

Raul Julia's physical beauty was no match for his ebullient nature and sweet soul. He was a man who loved life, work, family, and friends. And to be one of them was a joy that, in remembrance, makes me wish I did believe in angels.

He was gone at fifty-four. His beautiful wife Merel and two exquisite sons, Raul Sigmund and Benjamin, lost a husband and father far too early. And I lost my best boyfriend.

IDA LUPINO

S
tanding alone in the center of the frame as the camera pulls back at the end of the 1955 film
The Big Knife
, Ida Lupino is pleading “Help! Help! Help!” She was that rare actress who exuded not only a strong sexuality but a fierce intelligence and a kind of dark magic that, for some reason, never resulted in major stardom, but left an indelible impression on the viewer. She reminded me of the phrase often used about special actors, “Too good for the room.” Miss Lupino was a first-rate Hollywood pioneer who had been only the second woman to be welcomed into the Directors Guild. And I was very excited at the idea of working with her.

In 1976, a beautifully dressed, heavily perfumed woman wearing a hat and a pair of white gloves walked into the rehearsal hall. Introductions were made as the actors gathered round to read the Tennessee Williams play
Eccentricities of a Nightingale
, which would be receiving its television premiere. During the reading, when it came time for her character to speak, that familiar husky, whiskey-sour voice resonated around the room and back came my memories of so many of her performances in films during the 1940s and '50s.

The body was thicker now, the voice even deeper, and there was a pained fragility in those huge, keen, alert eyes. Her mind, however, was razor sharp, and her instincts infallible. She gave a clear, decisive, powerful reading, and I was thrilled to have her playing my mother. Our director treated her with distant politeness and pro-forma efficiency. She needed to be loved and nurtured. And she needed patience and guidance.

Miss Lupino's character was that of an overly possessive, genteel southern woman made of the kind of stuff used in the pillars of the Greek Revival houses to which she often referred—a fair description of the actress as well. She had a reputation for knowing her craft and taking no nonsense. One could not imagine her facing any crisis with either sentimentality or tears.

When you've been at the game as long as she had, you develop a keen instinct for survival and she intuitively knew at the end of our first reading that she was in trouble. Her probing, incisive questions were not greeted with the excited interest they should have been, and her bullshit meter was so sensitive she knew that, rather than deal with her searching mind, our director was going to shy away from her in an impatient, self-protective manner.

What she needed more than anything else was confidence and support. I saw nothing of the diva-like, demanding sensibilities I'd found present in the more passive-aggressive younger actresses I'd worked with. She did not try to ingratiate or charm or behave in any way that said, “Oh, help me, please. I'm just a fragile flower who needs to be loved.” I found her admirable, brave, and enviably independent of mind. She was no longer “the money” on any project in which she was involved, but had joined the ranks of distinguished older names, valueless to the “suits.”

In 1976 Miss Lupino was fifty-eight years of age, and she was put together in the way that heavy drinkers, particularly women, organize themselves: impeccable hair, makeup, clothing; a tidy house of cards. But, as the first few days passed, the structure began to weaken. She was perfectly behaved, gently polite, but it was clear that she was going to have trouble remembering her lines and repeating her moves. She was, however, in my eyes, going to be worth every second of the care and extra time she would need to build her confidence, completely understand her character, and play it without an ounce of concern for appearing sympathetic or likeable. And she was, I thought, going to be a glorious bitch in the part. Her character's obsession was her son. This was a mother who wanted no one near her boy; and because most of her important scenes were with me, she focused all of her attention in my direction.

“Sit by me, honey,” was her opening line on days two and three.

But as our producers and director grew more impatient with her measured delivery and investigative journey, her survival instincts sniffed out animus; she became skittish and slowly lost confidence. At the end of the fourth day, as I walked her to her car, her gloved hand in mine, she turned to me just before getting into the backseat, the makeup too heavy for sunlight, and said:

“They're gonna can me, honey.”

They did fire her. And when I placed a call to offer my condolences she did not return it. She most likely felt there was nothing to say and preferred to take her lumps in silence.

Miss Lupino's need was of no interest to our director and his producers. When I asked them why they had let her go, they said: “Oh, she's brilliant, but we just don't have time for her.”

It is generally true in my profession that a faulty camera or an incorrect prop will often be given more attention and time than a worthy actor in need. And also true that idiot actors who come on the set stoned or drunk with petty or moronic demands are far more indulged than ones who calmly ask intelligent questions. Management likes to feel superior to actors and Miss Lupino's searching mind was clearly intimidating to them.

What a shame a tiny bunch of cowards didn't have the patience to look after a first-rate artist crying out for help.

DAVID BEGELMAN

D
avid Begelman had been my agent for about a year in 1972 and had brought me next to no work. I say “next to” because he did bring something that might as well have been no work.

One evening a script arrived in a chauffeur-driven limousine to my small house in Wilton, Connecticut. “From Mr. Begelman,” said the driver, handing me a brown manila envelope with a handwritten note inside from David.

“This is The One,” it said. “The film really begins on page 25.” He had placed a large paper clip there where my character entered, with another note from the film's producer slipped beneath it, which read as I recall:

David,

Bob Mitchum and Rita Hayworth are so hoping Frank Langella will agree to be in this film with them.

And I fell for it.

Within weeks I was taking horseback riding lessons in Wilton, learning how to fire a gun, and memorizing lines for my first western. All thanks to David.

I
f not the worst film I've ever done, in which I give one of the worst performances I've ever given,
The Wrath of God
, perfectly titled, certainly belongs in the top—or should I say bottom—three.

The best of that experience you can read about in my chapters on Rita and Bob. The worst was my performance, terrible dialogue, and a horse who hated me.

When the film finished, I returned to Connecticut, a mortgage, and unemployment. My calls to David were either returned five minutes before the end of the business day as his switchboard closed, or responded to by a secretary with a sinister but brilliant routine that went something like this:

“Mr. Langella. I have Mr. Begelman calling for you. Please hold.”

Sixty seconds would pass.

“Mr. Langella, I'm so sorry. Just as he was about to pick up, we had an emergency. May we get back to you?”

“Yes you may.”

Silence for days, then:

“Mr. Langella, are you all right? Did you not get Mr. Begelman's message?”

“I'm fine. I didn't get any message.”

“Well, shall I have him call you?”

“Is he available to speak now?”

“Not at the moment, I'm afraid.”

More silent days. I called him.

“Hello, it's Mr. Langella, may I speak to Mr. Begelman please?”

“Of course.”

Sixty seconds pass.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Langella, he's behind closed doors. May we return?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Another few days pass.

“It's Mr. Langella.”

“I'm so sorry, he had to make a quick trip to London. I'll put you at the top of his return calls.”

These kinds of calls are by no means unusual occurrences in the actor/agent relationship. The difference today being the ubiquitous use of the word “actually.”

As in, for example:

“Is Mr. Begelman available?”

“
Actually
, I don't have him at the moment.”

I
t appeared to me as if I was never going to have David again, so one afternoon from a phone booth near his office I called.

“Would you tell Mr. Begelman that I'm downstairs and would like to come up? It's urgent!”

“Oh, of course, one moment, please.”

Silence for sixty seconds. Then David's voice:

“Frank. My God you're a hard man to get hold of. Are you okay?”

“Yes, David. Can I come up?”

“I'm dying to see you, but I'm just about to pick up on a conference call—don't want to keep you waiting.”

“I'd be happy to wait.”

“I wouldn't hear of it.”

“Can we have lunch?”

“You bet. I miss you. Gloria, what have I got?”

“You have next Tuesday.”

“Wonderful. I can't wait. Gloria, make the arrangements. Frank—I want to tell you about something I hope you'll consider, it's . . .”

“Mr. Begelman, I'm so sorry, but you have Mr. Wasserman on two.”

“Oh Jeez. I better take that, Frank. I've been talking to Lew about something for you. See you Tuesday. Can't wait.”

S
tanding at the bar in Raffles, a club downstairs at the Sherry Netherlands Hotel, David is writing something on a piece of paper. As I approach he says to the bartender:

“That's the only name you're allowed to tell me might be calling. Otherwise I don't want to be disturbed during lunch with Mr. Langella.”

We're shown to a table. As we sit down, he reaches for my hand and says: “There's no one I'd rather be having lunch with today than you.”

“David, are you all right?”

“It's been a bad morning. I had to put both my parents in an old-age facility. My mom's incontinent and my father's heart is giving out.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, no. Being with you is good for me. You look wonderful. Mitch loved working with you.”

“David, you know that picture is all I've done since I came with you and—”

“Mr. Begelman,” said the bartender, “you have a call, sir.”

“Is it the name I told you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm sorry, Frank. I've got to take this.” There was a telephone conveniently plugged in on our table. “Hello, Doctor.”

Long silence.

“Yes, yes.”

Silence.

“Yes, I'm on my way! Thank you.”

“What is it, David?”

“I don't think my dad's going to make it. I've got to go back out to the facility.”

He got up and gave me a long embrace.

“Pray for me,” he said. “Please call Gloria and we'll reschedule soon.” To the waiter: “Give Mr. Langella whatever he wants and put it on my tab.”

“David, what about that project with Wasserman?”

“What? Oh . . . Not good enough for you!”

A
nd he was gone. Not only from the restaurant, but from my life. I fired him that afternoon. He made no protest. And as far as I know, his father could still be alive.

Soon after, he was appointed head of Columbia Pictures, then masterminded a comeback for Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall, coaxing her back onto the stage and reportedly out of her clothes when off it. He then became the subject of a big scandal, accused of forging the signature of the actor Cliff Robertson on a $10,000 check in 1978. David was painted as the victim, and Cliff Robertson was rewarded for turning him in by being blackballed in Hollywood.

One night in 1995 at Matteo's restaurant in Santa Monica, there he was seated across from me. I hadn't seen or spoken with him for close to twenty years, but as I passed by his table on the way to the men's room, he silently reached up, took my hand, pulled me down to him, kissed my cheek, and looked deep into my eyes with an injured smile. I continued on to the restroom.

Several weeks later, alone in his room at the Century Plaza Hotel, he shot himself in the head. I'd had no idea I meant that much to him.