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It's been another crazy month for legendary movie producer Robert Evans. The Kid Stays in the Picture was just released on video and DVD, he just divorced his umpteenth wife after a tempestuous blip of a marriage, and his fabled guesthouse, which was home to many Hollywood parties and screenings, burned down. I feel like I should recite the Mourner's Kaddish in memoriam. But news of the fire made me feel quite fortunate, for I had the privilege of attending a party in the guesthouse just months before moving to San Francisco. I moved last year after spending the last sixteen years of my life in Los Angeles. Like everyone else in that town who is not a teacher, I had spent my entire professional life in various assistant positions in the entertainment industry. The pay was low, the hours long, and the personalities were sometimes harsh, but there was one benefit for these sacrifices -- the rare chance of going to a Hollywood party. There are several parties I could brag about -- the Memento wrap party where I was introduced to Joe Pantoliano, or the party for Jon Favreau's Dinner for Five, where I bummed a smoke from Vince Vaughn. But the piece de resistance of industry parties was the one given by Evans. First, a little backstory. It was a Friday morning at my job. No weekend plans as of yet. Per usual I was broke -- how things never change. I wouldn't have minded staying home that night. I could always rent a DVD and drink a bottle of two-buck Chuck from Trader Joe's. But my co-worker Michael had other plans -- and included me in them. More backstory, on Michael. He is quite the athletic fellow. Every weekend he mountain bikes, plays basketball, and/or works out. I, on the other hand, try to quit smoking, try to write, and sleep late. That day at work, Michael asked me to send him some web sites containing information on Robert Evans -- keep in mind this was before the film version of The Kid Stays in the Picture was released. The book and its subsequent audio version, read by Evans himself, were already industry favorites, but Michael hadn't been exposed to them. I sent him some links to Evans info and asked why he wanted to find out about the former Mr. Ali McGraw. "One of my tennis buddies, who's Bob's coach, said Bob is throwing a party for his girlfriend. He says there's going to be a bunch of girls there and not many young guys. He wants me to go to balance it out." "Are you fucking serious? Can you bring anyone?" (hint, hint) "Let me find out, then I'll let you know." The rest of the day dragged along more slowly than Evans' production of Popeye, until Michael told me the good news. "We're in Jere. But don't tell anyone else we're going. I don't want to get the guys jealous." The guys were our other co-workers who Michael hung out with, but who didn't send him info on Mr. Evans. Michael told me that he had actually been to Evans' house before. Not inside the actual house, mind you, but on the tennis court. He had played there a couple times with his tennis buddy. As anyone who's glanced at the photos in the autobiography knows, Bob is a tennis aficionado. There's even a photo with him and Moses himself, Charlton Heston, on his tennis court. Both are flashing their winning smiles. I went home glowing. This was probably going to be a debauchery-laden shindig. Hell, when I told my mom the news, even she thought I'd be doing blow with Jack Nicholson. I got ready then went to Michael's apartment in West Hollywood, where a couple of the "guys" met up with us. He ended up telling them about the party, but with the caveat that they may not be able to get in. Separate cars were a necessity. After a beer each, we were off. Michael drove himself and me to Robert Evans' fabulous estate in Beverly Hills. Before we got to the gated entrance, he pulled to the side of the road, which implied our friends should do did the same. They got out of their car so Michael could explain the game plan. There was a security intercom/gate that we would have to penetrate. Michael and I would drive in first, and hopefully our friends could follow. I had no worries since Michael was legitimately invited. Everyone got back in their cars and we pulled up to the intercom. Michael told the voice on the other side that he was a friend of so-and-so's, and lo and behold we were on Robert Evans' property! Our friends, however did not fare so well. The gate closed behind us, and they would probably spend their night trying to pick up girls at cheesy bars on Sunset. Michael parked in the huge circular driveway. We got out of the car and saw a couple of older gentlemen who said hello to us. If anything, I was nervous about who the fellow Party goers would be. Not that I would get star-struck, but that I would be too far below their tax brackets for them to acknowledge me. So far, so good. These gents seemed friendly. We walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. An English butler answered the door and welcomed us. He looked down at my two-tone shoes I'd bought at Ross for 20 bucks and complimented me on them. How surreal was this? Bob Evans's butler giving me props on shoes that cost less than the DVD of Chinatown? The butler walked us into the house, which I can't even begin to describe because I was only in there for 20 seconds since the party was being held in the guesthouse on the other side of the pool. And truthfully, if I was there for two hours I still wouldn't be able to describe the house -- I'm no Tom Wolfe. Michael and I walked past the lit-up pool, water spraying arc-like from the sides like an Esther Williams movie, into the "guest house." Here it was. Our grand entrance. There were helium-filled balloons hanging from the ceiling. Movie mementos everywhere. Awards and quilts from the American Film Institute celebrating Chinatown and The Godfather. A plaque with the key to New York that Bob described in his tome. Photographs everywhere showing him and the stars of his films... And a beautiful blonde approaching. She introduced herself and asked us our names. We told her who we were and what we did. Michael explained his tennis connection to Mr. Evans. I was sure we would be thrown out. Instead, she asked us if we would like a Bellini. I had no idea what a Bellini was, but I assumed it contained alcohol, so I said yes. So did Michael. The blonde poured us each a Bellini, which I soon discovered was like a mimosa, but with peach juice instead of orange juice. This was Robert Evans' girlfriend, and it was her 30th birthday. I forgot her name. Bob was 71. She apologized that he wasn't there. "He's taking a nap right now. We just got back from Joan Collins' engagement party and Bob wanted to get some sleep for tonight." We met everyone else who was there. The other girls there were all obviously beautiful and under 30, but surprisingly friendly and non-judgmental about our lowly Hollywood status. There were a couple Gen X-er type guys there, some older gentlemen who were also quite affable and a 13-year-old girl... hmmm, maybe Bob was paying homage to his good friend Roman Polanski. There were disposable Kodak cameras littered about for us to use and varieties of cigarettes in sculpted metal containers. Finally Bob entered his domain. He looked just like I expected him to: permanent tan, prescription sunglasses, bolo tie, the whole works. The only shocker was his potbelly, but God bless him for it. He thanked everyone for being there and told us what a great day it was for his girlfriend and how proud he was of her. I wondered how many former flames had received the same monologue. He told us about the previous soiree they were at. "We just got back from Joan's engagement party, and she still looks great. Her and Jackie Bisset have both aged marvelously. Both are British too." Then onto his infamous reminiscing. "Back in the 50s, Joan was Fox's answer to Liz Taylor. All the roles that Liz wouldn't take were offered to Joan." Right fucking on. Hollywood history as told by Bob Evans. "Helmut Newton was there..." More name-dropping. "Joan and her fiancée are reversing the trend that has been so popular -- she's marrying a younger man. I, on the other hand, prefer it the old fashioned way." With this he flashed a winning smile at his gal. Continue To Page 2 |
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