My Life as a Mankiewicz by Tom Mankiewicz Read Free Book Online Page B

misted over. I was about to cry. Dad noticed, softening. As usual, he solved the problem. That night, the public relations man on the film escorted Ava to the movies. I went with them. It was fine with me since secretly I knew I was the one who was really taking her.
    Just a note, though it doesn't really apply to a twelve-year-old and Ava Gardner. Actresses, especially beautiful or publicly famous ones, are quite intimidating to most men. At the end of a marriage or a publicized affair, you'd be surprised how often their phone doesn't ring. Many guys are too scared to call. “Oh, she'd never go out with me. I'm not rich enough, good looking enough, famous enough, etc.” The truth is that most actresses are simply women with a fragile public occupation. They're just as insecure and sometimes more so than anyone else. There is, after all, a certain pressure on them to be seen as publicly desirable, which sometimes forces them to make terrible personal choices in their lives. I've known several who got married just because they thought it looked good and relieved them of the need to date men in order to stay in the news. God knows, I've had relationships of all kinds with dozens of actresses over the years. Some are wonderful people, some are not, some are smart, some are not, some are great lays, some are not, just like the rest of us.
    I remember going to Disneyland in the late seventies with Kate Jackson and her little niece. She'd been somewhat known for a TV series called The Rookies , but now was one of Charlie's Angels, which made her as instantly recognizable as anyone in show business. The three girls had made the cover of Time magazine, for God's sake. Suddenly, restaurants you couldn't get into before are holding their best table for you. Going to be a little late? Don't worry about it. Disneyland called out security to escort us, no waiting in line, as hundreds of fans screamed at and for her. Kate, a very private person, seemed almost scared. “You know, Mank,” she said, “I'm still little Skater (her father's nickname for her) Jackson from Alabama. I haven't changed. Everyone else has.”
    I never knew where Dad went those nights he left our Rome apartment. All he would offer by way of explanation was: “Somewhere down by the train station where I can sleep.” A few weeks before the end of shooting, Bogie and Betty Bacall invited me to have Sunday brunch with them in their suite at the luxurious Excelsior Hotel on the Via Veneto. I arrived at the appointed time, picked up the house phone in the lobby, and asked for Mr. Bogart.
    He answered. “We're in 675, you know, just a couple of doors down from where Joe keeps his suite.”
    I could hear Betty's voice in the background, warning him: “Bogie…”
    â€œCome on up,” he said quickly.
    It was a wonderful brunch. They were both so kind to me and such fun. When Betty wrote her autobiography By Myself , she inscribed a copy to me: “Tom. Remember Rome…Love, Betty.” By the way, the Excelsior Hotel is kind of near the train station. Say…two miles away.
    Meeting a Killer
    During the shooting, Dad had an important meeting in Paris on a weekend and took me with him. We stayed at the Georges V on the Champs-Elysées. I toured the city while he took care of his business. The next morning we were in the lobby about to check out when a voice made Dad turn: “Joe? Joe!” It was a shortish, distinguished-looking elderly man with long gray hair, wearing a fur coat.
    â€œHello, Felix!” Dad replied. They exchanged a hug. I was introduced. Felix wanted us to have dinner with him that night, but Dad explained we were on our way back to Rome.
    As Felix started to walk away, Dad suddenly took my wrist and squeezed it tightly. “He's going to turn around. Remember his face.” I nodded. “Felix!” Dad called out. The man turned. “So good to see you again!”
    Felix smiled