Last Man Standing: Tales from Tinseltown Read online

  LAST MAN STANDING

  For every copy of this book sold in the UK, the publisher will make a donation of 20 pence to UNICEF UK (registered charity no. 1072612)

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

  Michael O’Mara Books Limited

  9 Lion Yard

  Tremadoc Road

  London SW4 7NQ

  Copyright © Sir Roger Moore 2014

  All rights reserved. You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-78243-207-4 in hardback print format

  ISBN: 978-1-78243-267-8 in ebook format

  ISBN: 978-1-78243-286-9 in trade paperback format

  www.mombooks.com

  Designed and typeset by D23

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Introduction

  CHAPTER 1

  The Fun – and Feisty – Leading Ladies

  CHAPTER 2

  The Pinewood Years

  CHAPTER 3

  Stage-struck

  CHAPTER 4

  On-set Tales

  CHAPTER 5

  The Good Guys (and a Few Rascals)

  CHAPTER 6

  The Rat Pack

  CHAPTER 7

  The Creative Geniuses

  CHAPTER 8

  The Producers

  Postscript

  In Closing ...

  Acknowledgements

  Picture Credits

  Index

  List of Illustrations

  Plates

  FOREWORD

  WHEN I STARTED OUT WRITING THIS TOME, I HAD THE idea of calling it One Lucky Bastard because that’s what I feel I certainly am. But the ‘b-word’ was thought to be a little too risqué and wouldn’t look good on the bookshop shelves, so I thought I’d better come up with another title that would describe, perhaps more accurately, what I hope you will find to be an interesting, amusing and moving collection of memories and stories about friends, colleagues and loved ones I’ve encountered in my eighty-odd years.

  Lana Turner, whom I had the greatest pleasure of working with in Hollywood, told me her pet hatred was another actress named Linda Christian, namely because when Lana was engaged to Tyrone Power, Linda found out where he was going to stay in Rome while working on a film and booked herself into a room next to his ... and the rest was history.

  Why am I telling you this? Well, a while later, Linda and Edmund Purdom – who was under contract at MGM at the same time as me – started a big affair and to complicate matters further, Linda found herself in the centre of a rather sticky situation regarding another past affair, this time with a wealthy industrialist who had presented her with expensive jewels and precious diamonds that his family now wanted back. Linda felt she should have some recompense for her trouble, and when the day for a changeover of cash for jewels was set, she asked me to accompany her and Edmund, feeling that because I was a fairly athletic and fit young man, I would ‘scare off’ any unwanted intervention.

  A year or two later, I was offered a TV play with Linda, and it was quite the worst script I’d ever read. Though the stage directions made it very clear why Linda was so interested: ‘In the first scene, Linda makes her entrance and her beautiful hair is held back behind her ears ...’

  Scene two: ‘Linda comes in with her beautiful hair and dress hanging over her shoulder and looks even more lovely than before ...’

  This went on, and on. Vanity was obviously in play.

  But the one thing I remember from the script was the description and explanation of death: ‘When one dies one has actually just gone into another room; we know you’re in there but don’t have the key to get in.’

  That line has always stuck in my mind, and now being one of the last men standing I’m finding that a great many of my friends are in the next room. I don’t wish to be morbid, nor want to write a collection of obituaries, but I do write about quite a few of my friends in the past tense ... but don’t feel depressed, dear reader, feel happy that we’ve had these wonderful characters in our lives, as I certainly do. Frank Sinatra used to say, ‘Who’s going to be left to turn the light off?’

  Hopefully, it’ll be me!

  INTRODUCTION

  DUE TO THE PHENOMENAL WORLDWIDE SUCCESS OF MY first published autobiography, My Word is My Bond, namely sales of two softback copies and one hardback in Burkina Faso, my publishers – poor misguided people with big hearts but short purse strings – have commissioned me to attempt to pen another pack of near truths.

  By the time I deliver this manuscript I will have arrived at the ripe old age of eighty-six – I hope – four score years and six, and I’m very much reminded of dear old Bette Davis saying, ‘Old age ain’t no place for sissies’ as my creaking knees and aching back certainly attest. But where did these eighty-six years go? Many things have happened yet they seem to have flashed by in eighty-six minutes; I must have met hundreds of thousands of people, but can I remember them all, some of them ... a few? Well, I’ll try.

  I have always imagined that somewhere in space a recording machine has documented every word, every image, and even more terrifyingly, every thought I have been involved with. I wonder what they’d think in Heaven if they tuned in to the lascivious thoughts that crossed my mind, aged thirteen, on seeing the girls at school with gymslips tucked into their dark blue bloomers as they performed in the hall or playground during PT? I know these are hardly the ideal reflections for a future UNICEF Ambassador and I apologize for this momentary lapse into early teenage indiscretions, but at my age these matters come to mind much more readily than others, such as what I had for breakfast this morning.

  I have been very fortunate to spend most of my life in the business we call ‘show’. It’s always interesting, often challenging and if Lady Luck favours us, and benevolent producers take pity on us, then it’s quite possible to make a living out of doing something really enjoyable. I’ve always maintained that any modicum of success I have savoured has been primarily down to good luck; yes, it helps if you look like a hero, if you can remember lines and if you work cheaply; but ultimately, if you’re not in the right place at the right time then you could still be an eighty-six-year-old ‘extra’ carrying a spear in a crowd scene.

  While fame, success and good fortune affect people differently, we are, of course, all equal underneath; some like to think they are more equal than others I grant you. However, proving that beyond the glitz, glamour and flashbulbs, actors are still human, is a story that was told to me by Honor Blackman, who is perhaps most fondly remembered by Bond aficionados as the delightfully named Pussy Galore in Goldfinger. Honor had been attending a function in Birmingham and, prior to making her departure for the drive home, took the opportunity to powder her nose. Her friend-cum-driver was standing near the door awaiting her re-emergence when two elderly ladies exited ahead of Honor and were heard by him to say,

  Number 1: ‘Did you see who that was?’

  Number 2: ‘Yes, it was her, wasn’t it? Honor Blackman.’

  Number 1: ‘Yeah and just think, she goes to the toilet like the rest of us!’

  This marks my third literary effort, and this time I want to share with you some of the fun I’ve experienced with showbiz folk in my long and illustrious career, alo
ng with stories and tales that I’ve been told. In the pages ahead, while I would like to take the opportunity of updating you on the exciting six years since the publication of my first tome (and, perhaps most importantly for any fellow hypochondriacs, to share with you all my latest ailments, accidents and surgeries), I realize – and my wife Kristina often reminds me – that tales of my kidney stones, pacemaker, accidents and the like might not fascinate you, dear reader, as much as they do me and my doctors (my proctologist, congratulating me after the publication of my first volume, did say that he’d seen me from a whole different angle ...). Therefore I shall limit the bulk of what follows to more of a mixture of adventures and anecdotes drawn from the deepest recesses of my mind – or failing that, ones I’ve just made up.

  What I will say is that, in between paying jobs and book tours, Kristina and I split our time between Switzerland and Monaco. I’ve had a home in the South of France since the 1970s, the first being in St Paul de Vence – in fact that’s where I met Kristina; as neighbours we used to play tennis. Now we just watch.

  It’s a wonderful part of the world, and very peaceful save for the odd private jet flying over. When you think of the Cote d’Azur, images of fancy yachts, golden beaches and sun-kissed restaurant and cafe terraces where patrons take shade with a glass of something pink come to mind. The tranquillity is only ever upset by the annual invasion for the Cannes Film Festival and Monaco Grand Prix – events we happily try and dodge these days.

  Today at the Film Festival there are more stars than you can shake a stick at, all grappling for publicity on the red carpet. It’s not an experience I enjoy anymore and my last foray to the festival was as a guest of Tom Hanks for The Ladykillers premiere in 2004. That night, the festival organizers kindly arranged for a car to take us, and a PR person to guide us along the line of waiting photographers and into the Grand Auditorium. However, when we emerged after the film and our job had been done there was no such PR person to assist us, nor was there a car – there was, however, a bus to the party in Juan-les-Pins.

  The story of my life – I arrive by limo and get sent home on a bus!

  I should warn you that there might possibly be the odd rude word in the pages ahead, not uttered by my lips I hasten to add, but by those of other people I have associated with; and while I know the majority of broadminded readers will take it in their stride, I am conscious of receiving a letter following the publication of my earlier effort, from a lady who said she’d never read so much filth in her life and my continual mentioning of four-letter words disgusted her to the point she’d never watch one of my films again. I have to admit that the immediate halving of my fan base is something that has weighed heavily on my mind ever since.

  So, Last Man Standing, an odd title for a book of tales from Hollywood and beyond, I grant you, but it works for me as I write these stories. Many of the folk you’ll encounter in these pages have shuffled off this mortal coil now – some great stars, some legendary directors, all great friends of mine from a career that spans almost seven decades. Where did that time go? How did that happen? And where on earth does one start with a book like this ...?

  Well, ladies first, obviously ...

  Lana Turner as Diane de Poitiers curtsies to me, Prince Henri, in our 1955 film Diane. Lana was always full of surprises.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Fun – and Feisty – Leading Ladies

  WHEN I FIRST ARRIVED IN HOLLYWOOD IN 1954, reporting for duty at MGM, Grace Kelly was also under contract to the studio. I remember sitting in publicist Dore Friedman’s office one morning when the door burst open, and in came Grace, fuming that she’d just seen the posters for Green Fire – a film she’d made with Stewart Granger – and that the studio had superimposed Grace’s head onto Ava Gardner’s body.

  ‘I do not have tits like that!’ she shouted.

  The studio liked to ‘sex up’ their posters, in order to sell the films, all in the very best possible taste, of course.

  Dore Friedman, incidentally, told me he was invited to accompany someone to one of the ‘pledge luncheons’ that used to be held at Romanov’s restaurant in LA. All the studio heads were there – Zukor of Paramount, Jack Warner, Zanuck from Fox etc. – and it suddenly dawned on poor Dore what was happening.

  Zanuck stood up and said, ‘I pledge $250,000!’

  ‘Then I will pledge $300,000!’ shouted Adolph Zukor ... and so it went on, with them all trying to outbid one another.

  As they came around to Dore, he wasn’t sure quite how far his $65 weekly pay cheque would stretch and, thinking on his feet, he declared, ‘The same as last year!’, which gained a great round of applause.

  When asked about Grace Kelly, all the male directors and executives at MGM would tell you how much they fantasized about doing things only men and women can do together with her. She was unquestionably one of the most desirable women in Hollywood. William Holden and Ray Milland, two of the film world’s most unrepentant lotharios, were said to be ‘out of their minds’ with passion for her.

  I found myself seated next to Grace at dinner one evening at Hollywood hairdresser Sydney Guilaroff’s house. The conversation started turning to politics, of which, as a young Brit, I knew very little, and Grace said to me, ‘You know, Roosevelt sold us down the river.’ I’m afraid I had no idea what she was talking about, and for some time after that I often kicked myself for not being able to continue the conversation.

  Some years later, when I became a regular visitor to the South of France and she had become Princess Grace of Monaco, she invited me up to the Grimaldi family’s farm retreat, Roccagele, in the hills high above Monte Carlo, and that’s where I first met Prince Albert who I guess was eleven or twelve. He struck me as being a very quiet and shy young man, who took great pleasure in showing me the many animals around the farm.

  Grace wasn’t at all stuffy as her royal status would have entitled her to be had she wished. Far from it, she had a mischievous sense of humour, a glint of naughtiness in her eye and a great passion for limericks – especially saucy ones.

  I may not have known a great deal about US politics in the early days, but I did know that Grace Kelly was one of the most desirable women in Hollywood.

  Grace was a very precious gift to Monaco, albeit for too short a time.

  Talking of Ava Gardner, she was one of the biggest stars in Hollywood when I arrived at MGM in the 1950s. In fact MGM’s publicity department was reportedly sending out three thousand photos of Ava each week. A decade earlier, Louis B. Mayer himself had signed Ava, reportedly saying after viewing her screen test, ‘She can’t act. She can’t talk. She’s terrific!’

  After a few years of fairly nondescript roles, it was her part in the 1946 film The Killers that really launched her as a star. The studio gave her Norma Shearer’s old dressing-room suite, the largest on site, with a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and the actual dressing room itself, lined with mirrors, light bulbs and wardrobes – it was certainly befitting of her new standing.

  Ava was a very funny and pithy lady, though was, perhaps, equally well known for her sexual conquests and husbands as much as her films. She was married three times in all, to Mickey Rooney (himself an MGM contract artist when they met), Artie Shaw and Frank Sinatra; and her high-profile affairs included those with Clark Gable, Robert Taylor, George C. Scott and Robert Mitchum. In fact, legend has it that it was while filming My Forbidden Past in 1951, that she was first attracted to co-star Mitchum, who was himself under contract to Howard Hughes, with whom Ava had been romantically linked.

  Mitchum telephoned his boss. ‘Do you mind if I go to bed with Ava?’ he asked.

  ‘If you don’t,’ Hughes replied, ‘they’ll think you’re a pansy.’

  In her autobiography, though, Ava stated that Sinatra was the real love of her life. They’d actually met when Ava was an eighteen-year-old starlet, newly arrived in Hollywood, but, despite describing her as ‘smoulderingly sexy’, Frank thought she was just too young at the time. Fiv
e years later – by which time she was not only divorced from Rooney but also from her second husband, bandleader Artie Shaw – they met again and there was a huge mutual attraction. Soon after, Frank left his wife, Nancy, for her.

  The whole story caused a huge scandal among the Hollywood establishment, and the scandal was happily fuelled by gossip columnists Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons, not to mention within the Catholic Church, and among Frank’s fans. Ava was portrayed as the femme fatale who had stolen Frank away from his family.

  Frank’s career suffered both critically and commercially, but Ava used her considerable influence to get him cast in what was to be his Oscar-winning role in From Here to Eternity in 1953. That film, and the award that followed it, revitalized both Frank’s acting and singing careers. He was soon re-established as the world’s top recording artist.

  During their six-year marriage, Ava became pregnant twice, but had abortions. ‘MGM had all sorts of penalty clauses about their stars having babies,’ she later said. Sadly, the marriage didn’t last, as Ava pursued other, younger, lovers while on filming locations in Europe when Frank was working in Hollywood. It broke his heart, it really did.

  In the early 1990s, Tina Sinatra, Frank’s daughter from his first marriage, produced a TV movie about her father. There was obviously still a feeling of great bitterness over her parents’ split, as Tina chose the most beautiful actress she could find to play Nancy but when it came to casting someone to play Ava – the greatest Hollywood beauty of all – the part went to a rather plain-looking actress.

  A very dear friend from my earliest acting days was Dinah Sheridan. Dinah’s parents ran a photographic studio, Studio Lisa, in Welwyn, where I used to do some of my modelling work, and I’ll forever remember her for giving me a lift back to London in her car after a photographic assignment – and saving me the valuable train fare. Sadly, I never had the chance to actually work with her, as in the 1950s she married John Davis, the feared head of the Rank Organisation, and he forbade her ever to act again as, ‘no wife of his should work’.