You Must Remember This
Read You Must Remember This Online
Authors: Robert J. Wagner
A
LSO BY
R
OBERT
J
.
W
AGNER
Pieces of My Heart
(with Scott Eyman)
VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
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A Penguin Random House Company First published by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Robert J. Wagner and Scott Eyman Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Wagner, Robert, 1930-You must remember this : life and style in Hollywood’s golden age / Robert J. Wagner with Scott Eyman.
pages cm
Includes index.
ISBN 978-0-69815147-5
1. Wagner, Robert, 1930—Friends and associates. 2. Motion picture actors and actresses—United States—Biography. 3. Motion picture producers and directors—United States— Biography. 4. Motion picture industry—United States—History—20th century. I. Eyman, Scott, 1951-II. Title.
PN2287.W235A3 20014
791.4302'8092—dc23
[B]
2013036970
Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.
Version_1
For my three daughters, Kate, Natasha, and Courtney, who knew nothing about
This
.
For my grandson Riley and my granddaughter, Clover, who knew nothing about
This
.
For my grandsons Cooper, Wyatt, and Theo,
who knew nothing about
This
.
And for my beautiful-in-every-way wife, Jill,
who knew something about
This
.
Contents
I
first noticed that show business had gone crazy in 2002, when my wife Jill St. John and I were guests at the wedding of Liza Minnelli and David Gest.
I had known Judy Garland, Liza’s mother, since the very early fifties, when she would sing at Clifton Webb’s parties, backed up by Roger Edens on the piano. I had been her escort to the royal premiere in London of
I Could Go On Singing
, her last starring film. (And to answer the obvious question, she was in very good shape that night—thin and sober.) And Vincente Minnelli, Judy’s ex-husband and Liza’s father, had shot a week or so of retakes for
All the Fine Young Cannibals
, a film I had made with my wife Natalie Wood at MGM in 1960.
As for David Gest, I had hosted all of the
Night of 100 Stars
presentations he had produced during the 1990s. In return, he had made generous donations to the Motion Picture Home in Natalie’s name. For the
Night of 100 Stars
productions, which were backed by Michael Jackson, David uncovered people who hadn’t been seen for decades: Turhan Bey, Clayton Moore, Silvia Sydney, Fay Wray, Eleanor Powell, as well as stars of silent movies—archaeology combined with showmanship. No one could have done it better than David.
The date of the wedding was March 16, 2002. The ceremony was
scheduled for late afternoon, but we were all asked to be in black tie. I was sitting next to Robert Osborne, a close friend and the longtime host of Turner Classic Movies. All the guests were punctual, because David and Liza were determined that it wouldn’t be one of those Hollywood weddings that start late. Even Michael Jackson was on time.
But Elizabeth Taylor, one of the two matrons of honor, was late. No surprise there. Elizabeth was always—and I do mean
always
—late. And once she finally did arrive, she realized that no one had brought the shoes she wanted to wear, so she sent someone back to the hotel on upper Fifth Avenue to fetch them. The church, needless to say, was on lower Fifth Avenue. Somewhere in the middle, a parade was taking place.
So we sat there.
Twenty minutes, and we still sat there. A half hour, and we sat there.
After a while people stopped looking at their watches. And we sat some more.
There really wasn’t anything to do but look around the church. “We” included Donald Trump, Mickey Rooney, Tito Jackson (co–best man, along with Michael), Gina Lollobrigida, Lauren Bacall, Natalie Cole, Mia Farrow, Cindy Adams, Martha Stewart, Liz Smith, and 842 more of David and Liza’s most intimate friends.
Bob Osborne and I discussed whether Liza had ever met Gina Lollobrigida before her wedding day. We decided it was highly doubtful.
Now, I have always had the greatest affection for Elizabeth. I first met her in the late 1940s at a party thrown by Roddy McDowall, her best friend for life. Everything that people say about Elizabeth’s looks was truth: she was just illegally beautiful. Years later, Elizabeth and I had a fling, and years after that, I produced and costarred in a movie
with her,
There Must Be a Pony
, based on James Kirkwood Jr.’s fictionalized memoir of his mother, the silent star Lila Lee.
I’ve always believed that Elizabeth was a terribly underrated actress, and I’ve always known that she was among the most generous people alive—not just with money, but with the most valuable commodity any of us possesses: her time.
But Elizabeth had her flaws as we all do. Foremost among them was that she was oblivious to the concept of punctuality. A delay of one or two hours was normal for people waiting for Elizabeth. I’ve always wondered whether it was a passive-aggressive way of asserting herself for all those years of enforced punctuality at MGM. But she was never late on our picture.
Unless she really, really liked you, Elizabeth was always late. And sometimes she was incredibly late even if she did like you. So I wasn’t terribly shocked when, even after the gofer arrived back at the church with the correct shoes, we were still sitting there.
David Gest was growing noticeably perturbed, so he asked Michael Jackson to go find Elizabeth and bring her back alive. Neither David nor Liza wanted to personally force the issue, since they were so pleased that Elizabeth had agreed to come in the first place. Elizabeth was going through one of her bad phases—overweight and not looking good.
Michael disappeared into the room where Elizabeth was supposedly getting ready, while one of his bodyguards stood watch outside.
And then we waited some more.
By now the wedding was an hour late and counting.
I asked a man what the holdup was, but he just shrugged and said that Elizabeth was in a room with Michael Jackson.
Nobody seemed to be moving, and nobody seemed eager to break up whatever was going on in the waiting room. Because I knew Elizabeth so well, I was finally deputized to get Michael away from her
so the wedding could proceed. Otherwise we all might find ourselves growing old, very slowly, at the Marble Collegiate Church.
I walked past the bodyguard and into the room.
Elizabeth was sitting there, gazing at Michael. Michael was on his knees, gazing at Elizabeth. He was holding her hand. Nothing was being said. He was besotted with her; he was drinking her in.
“Michael,” I said, “we have to get the wedding started. We
have
to get going.”
“I want to be with Elizabeth,” Michael said in that weird, whispery voice. “I
love
Elizabeth.”
Talking to Michael when he was in one of his reveries was exactly like talking to a six-year-old waiting up for Santa Claus: you didn’t want to disabuse him of his fantasy, but you had to firmly lead him away from the Christmas tree so that the presents could be put out.