“I met Henry Kissinger in the fall of 1970 at a dinner given for him by Joyce Haber and her husband, Doug Kramer, head of Paramount's television department. Ali was seated next to the President's national security adviser. I was at another table. Every time I looked over, she was laughing. Could this guy be that funny? He sure didn't look it.
Toward the end of the meal, he stood up and thanked his hosts, adding as he looked around the room, "One day I hope I, too, can get a tan." His timing was terrific.
Ali brought him over. "Henry, this is my husband."
She was already calling him Henry.
He gave her a smile. "You mean the king of Hollywood?"
I shook his hand. "You can make me king if you star in one of my pictures."
"I'm always open to negotiate. Which one?"
"The Godfather."
"For the lead?"
"No, the consigliere."
"I'll have to speak with the President about it."
What charm. He didn't cut quite the same figure, but he was Cary Grant with a German accent.
The next day I had the chutzpah to invite him to lunch at Paramount. I never thought he'd accept.
Touring the studio, he seemed as awed as I would be on a personal tour of the White House. When I told him Walter Matthau was on the lot making Plaza Suite he said, "Do you think I could watch him do a scene?" Maybe our friendship started that way—the recognition between two men that inside each of us was a little kid. It wasn't long before we were on the phone almost every day, three thousand miles apart. Surprise! It had nothing to do with girls.
It's been said many times before, but politics and show business really are two sides of the same coin. Particularly the kind of politics Henry and I were involved with. After all, as Henry frequently said, working for Richard Nixon wasn't too different from working for Charles Bluhdorn.
We'd laugh that both our phones were tapped, then shock the tappers. Henry would say, "The Israelis are really difficult to deal with, Robert."
"It's true, then. You're having sex with Golda Meir."
"Robert, I'm not that much of a patriot. Tell me, are Raquel's breasts for real?"
Two little kids. I don't think Henry could ever quite believe his sudden media celebrity, but nobody was ever better than Henry at playing out the courtship.
I believe it was Sunday morning, January 24, 1972, when I got a call from Henry in Palm Springs.
"Thanks for letting me know you're in town, pal."
His voice was solemn. "I didn't expect to be. I know you're busy, Bob, but if you could spare the time I'd appreciate you're driving down here. Check into a hotel; call me when you arrive."
"Sure, Henry."
"Can you stay a day or two?"
"No problem."
Strange, he didn't invite me to stay with him. Henry was staying at the home of Leonard Firestone, the tire mag-nate. After checking into the Palm Springs Racquet Club, I called, Henry gave me the address of the Firestone home and told me to take a cab. Waiting for me at the Firestone compound were half of the Secret Service. Walking in, there was Henry, front and center, putting a finger to his mouth not to talk. We walked outside and onto the golf course.
"You're a good friend, Robert, to be here. I wouldn't have imposed on you if it weren't important."
"It's an honor, Henry."
He glanced back at the Firestone house. "It's all bugged, Robert. That's why we're on the eighteenth hole." Then, as if ordering a hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut, he continued, "A week from Wednesday I'm turning in my resignation."
"What?"
"I'm resigning."
"Why?"
"Why is not the question. I'm being told to."
As naive as a kid in junior high, I blurted, "You're making history. You're the best thing they've got in the whole administration."
"That's the reason. Believe it or not," he said it with a laugh. "This little Jew boy is getting out of hand. I can't help it and they can't seem to contain it."
In the worst of times, he was telling me of the story of his demise with a sense of humor. Now that's a great man!
"Haldeman giving him the benefit of the doubt," Henry continued, "he looks upon people of our persuasion with, to say the least, little kindness. The President that's a different case." He laughed again. "I can't blame him.
The more credit I get, the more he broods. Haig, he works for me, but does he like me? He rates right below Haldeman. The sad part of the whole thing is that the secretary of state, William Rogers, who's a very bright statesman, has a big problem with me —we are diametrically opposed on every international policy."
"What about Ehrlichman?" I asked.
"Bobby," he laughed, "whose side would you be on?" Now at the seventeenth hole, like a kid in kindergarten, he threw me a question.
"Can you help me?"
The national security adviser to the President of the United States asking me for help? Maybe he should be fired.
"Me?" I began to laugh. "Why me, Henry? I know nothing about politics."
"Bob, you said it to me: 'Politics is nothing more than second-rate show business.'"
"It's a good line, Henry, but this ain't no joke. You've got the most brilliant statesmen in the world at your beck and call."
"That's why I'm calling on you. Whatever they advise, I've already thought of myself. Maybe you'll come up with the unexpected."
"Those are my words, Henry."
"I know. I copied them." He laughed.
We walked the golf course until the sun went down. I threw out suggestion after suggestion—from settling the war in Vietnam to making peace with Castro. Even if it were possible to do, it was impossible for Henry to achieve, for the simple reason he was confined to the United States.
"Why do you think I'm in Palm Springs talking to you?" He laughed. "It's getting dark. Go back to your hotel.
Put on your thinking cap. Naturally, respect the confidence of the conversation. Come back tomorrow at ten and we'll continue walking the golf course. Let them call a cab for you; I don't trust the cars. And take a cab back in the morning."
Walking back to the Firestone estate, he whispered, "Don't forget. Tomorrow I'm down to nine days." I didn't get two minutes' sleep the entire night. The only words I could say as I paced the floor were "The unexpected, the unexpected, the unexpected." I wrote down fifteen ideas to throw at him. We discussed all of them when we walked the golf course the next morning. From Walter Cronkite to Katharine Graham, idea after idea either had already been thought of or was impractical or unsympathetic to Henry's plight—until the last.
"This guy, Hugh Sidey from Life, he's also Time's Washington bureau chief—he writes about you like you're the second coming of Christ. It's you who told me that from the President to a junior congressman, every Monday morning the first thing read is Time, Newsweek, and the Washington Post. Let's say, Hugh Sidey praised the brilliant insight of the President in picking Henry Kissinger, labeling it the most incisive appointment he's made since being elected president."
A dazed look from Henry.
"Sounds theatrical I know," I said, "but we're in the same business, pal."
In the spirit of confidentiality, I'm jumping ahead. February 4, 1972, Life appeared with a story written by guess who: Hugh Sidey. Its theme? Henry Kissinger and his historic influence on the presidency. The first number two man who has ever wielded such power with such authority. Three days later, February 7, 1972, front and center on the desk of the President of the United States, every cabinet member, and all the senators and congressmen was Time magazine. The cover? Henry Kissinger. The cover story?
PURSUIT OF PEACE AND POWER
Not conducted by Richard Nixon, but by his "triple, secret agent," Kissinger — on whose "diverse talents, energy, and intellect" the President had to rely.
In the middle of a furious argument with Francis Coppola, I was interrupted by a call from the White House.
"Robert, you can still call me at the same number."
We both laughed like kids.
Less than sixty days after Nixon's landslide reelection of 1972, I sat beside Henry in the Grand Ballroom of the Beverly Hilton Hotel. It was the American Film Institute's first Life Achievement Award. The recipient was John Ford, the crusty director of Stagecoach, The Grapes of Wrath, Young Mr. Lincoln, and The Searchers, the quintessential symbol of American conservatism in the most liberal of liberal community of the arts. President Nixon himself attended, as did Ehrlichman. Haldeman, a true Aryan, strutted by the tables not wishing to pay homage to liberal Hollywood.
Front and center was Henry's table. Beside him was not young Mr. Lincoln, but young Mr. Evans. Our table, contrary to the others of the White House hierarchy, was a glamorous one. I think Henry and I were the only two Republicans seated. Haldeman, Marine haircut and all, nodded a cursory greeting to Henry. No smile, no handshake. His expression said it all. He wasn't looking to make new friends.
When Nixon stood to pay homage to Ford, the entire room, Democrats and Republicans, stood applauding their newly reelected President. He and the First Lady received the longest, most enthusiastic, exhilarating applause that I've ever heard paid to anyone. It gave the entire room — and certainly me — a chill of patriotism to know that any American could be looked upon with such high esteem.
Within sixty days the scandal of Watergate had turned into a brush fire. The liberal media on the warpath made the American populace question rather than accept Nixon's legitimacy. His staunch cabinet now shaky, his own presidency in question. The order of the day in the White House was firing. His chief of staff, Haldeman — fired. Ehrlichman was about to get the axe as well. Nixon's historic breakthroughs now all but forgotten, the only one left — unscathed, no less — was the little Jew boy, Henry.
In May 1973, at Henry's insistence, I joined him at a White House dinner honoring West Germany's chancellor, Willy Brandt. Henry had asked me to arrive early so we could schmooze about some girl he had met.
A knock on the door. It was Ehrlichman. Why was he there? His office was now completely empty. He had come by to bid Henry good-bye. Henry shook his hand and wished him luck. No more Ehrlichman.
Now we both started getting dressed for the black-tie state dinner. I was already dressed when Henry was having trouble with his tie. Fixing it right, he then put his jacket on. Smiling, he looked at me.
"You look like a male model, Bob."
I couldn't be that much of a liar—he didn't. He was at least twenty pounds overweight and if he added another two, the jacket button would have popped.
"Losing a few pounds wouldn't hurt."
"You won't tell anyone this, will you, Bob?"
"What?"
"I can't afford to." I began laughing. "It's true, between alimony, child support, and taxes, I can't afford to lose weight. I'd have to buy a new wardrobe and I don't have it in my budget."
"If I told this to anyone, Henry, they'd put me away."
"Me too, so don't tell it to anybody."
"What kind of world is this, Henry? My butler makes more money than you." Then he whispered in my ear, "Come on, I want to show you something."
Like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, we snuck down the corridor into the sacred quarters of the Oval Office. It was empty. Henry knew the President and First Lady were getting attired for their grand entrance to honor their state guest. We Fred Astaired it through the Oval Office, passing the official desk of the President, toward a wood-paneled door. Henry opened it. There we stood, the ambassador and the actor, right smack in the middle of the President's private john! On the wall, within arm's length away was the President's private phone. There for his convenience, a hot button to each of his staff. Only one of the six buttons had a name below it; the others were all empty.
Our eyes met. Beaming, Henry pointed.
"I'm the only name left." A Kissinger laugh. "Remember Palm Springs .. Bobby?"
MARCH 14, 1972.
"Sidney, guess who's coming to dinner."
"Yeah?"
"Henry."
"Kissinger?"
"Yeah!"
"You sure it's right?"
"It's great! Why?"
"It ain't no ordinary film. That's why. It's about the boys — the organization. It's a hot ticket."
Was I hearing right? These words were coming from Sidney Korshak. The man whom The New York Times called one of the five most powerful people in the United States. For close to twenty years Sidney was not only my consigliere, but my godfather and closest friend.
In the past year alone, two phone calls of his saved my ass. Literally. The first, to stop the heavy muscle from threatening not only my life, but my newborn kid's as well.
"Get the fuck outta our town, will ya? We don't want nothin' to happen to you or your kid. Go to Kansas City or St. Louis if ya wanna, but New York ain't opening up for ya," was the threat from New York's families five.
One call from Korshak, suddenly, threats turned to smiles and doors, once closed, opened with an embrace.
Al Pacino had signed for another picture, The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight, and was contractually unavail-able. A second call from Korshak—Pacino became available. Why was he now giving me heat?
"C'mon, Sidney. It's a fuckin' movie. It'll be a bash — the biggest opening of the decade!"
"Yeah, and he'll make it bigger."
"So what. It's my coming out party. He wants to be there. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing and everything." Silence. "How's Ali?"
"Fine."
"Is that all you can tell me?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Just asking. Did you fuck her yet?"
"No..."
He hung up.
I looked in the bedroom. Ali was still asleep. Or at least pretending to be.
The night before, she had flown in from El Paso on the Gulf + Western private jet without a moment's rest — starting with a six A.M. wake-up call on Sam Peckinpah's The Getaway. It was after one in the morning when she finally landed at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, during the worst March snowstorm in New York's memory.
For the past hour I'd been on the phone to Marlon Brando's agent, Marlon Brando's lawyer, Marlon Brando's manager, trying to persuade Marlon to fly from L.A. to New York for the world premiere of The Godfather.
Brando had never gone to a premiere in his life. But months before, he'd agreed to godfather the premiere of The Godfather. It would be his "fuck you" to the world—his comeback in spades.
What a coup! It didn't last long. Anna Kashfi — Marlon's crazed ex-wife—kidnapped their son, Christian. Marlon canceled out. Two days before the premiere, Christian was found. I tasted the drama. It had to work.
Only one person could persuade Brando to make the opening—Christian's psychiatrist. I was waiting for her return call when the loudspeaker announced the arrival of Ali's plane. I rushed to the gate to greet my lady who but two months earlier, against her strong wishes, I'd packed off to Texas to star with Steve McQueen in The Getaway.
Two months had passed, and I hadn't once bothered to visit her on location. The very lady who but hours before we married had whispered, "I love you, Evans. I love you." —then, curling up beside me "forever."
"Forever," I whispered back.
"Never leave me. Promise?"
"Promise."
"Not even for two weeks."
"Not for one."
"I'm a hot lady, Evans."
"Never change."
"Then never let anything get between us, promise?"
"Promise."
Pale and windblown, she entered the terminal. Quickly, we embraced. Instead of kissing her, I whispered, "Wait here. I'm expecting a call."
"I'm exhausted, Evans. Can't you call from the hotel?"
When I told her I couldn't chance missing it, because it was a call from Brando's kid's psychiatrist, she looked at me as if I were the one who needed a shrink.
She was asleep before she hit the bench. Ali MacGraw, the biggest female movie star in the world, curled up in the waiting room of a freezing, two-bit airport, while her husband waited for the fuckin' phone to ring.
It rang! For the next hour Ali could have been back in El Paso as I went back and forth with Christian's psychia-trist, trying to make her an offer that even Marlon couldn't refuse a private jet for him and Christian. Father and son sharing the accolades together. What better reunion? The doctor wavered.
"I'll call you back."
"I've got him. I've got him," I said to myself, pacing back and forth, waiting for the phone to ring. It did. Anx-iously, I grabbed the receiver. Brando? He passed!
By now, it was almost three A.M. I hustled Ali through the falling snow, into the waiting limo. Before the door closed, she was asleep again—this time on my shoulder. I was glad as my thoughts had little to do with her—only,
"How do I better Brando?" Would you say I was sick?
The next morning, the alarm blasted at 9:30. Instead of turning over to make love, I rushed to the phone in the living room. Weeks ago I had invited Henry Kissinger to the premiere. My timing couldn't have been worse. The North Vietnamese offensive had just begun. Naturally, he begged off.
"Hello, this is Robert Evans. May I please speak to Dr. Kissinger?"
"Dr. Kissinger is with the President, Mr. Evans. He'll have to call you back."
"Have him call me as soon as possible, please. It's urgent."
Quicker than a junior agent at the William Morris agency, within ten minutes, Kissinger was on the phone.
"Bob, what's the urgency?"
"I need you in New York."
He laughed, "When?"
"Tonight."
"The Paris peace talks—they've just blown apart."
"I know—it's on every channel. But I need you with me tonight, Henry—real bad."
"Why?"
"The Godfather."
"What?"
I couldn't tell him I was calling because Brando flaked out.
"Tonight it's for me, Henry. It's the premiere. Win or lose, it would be worth it if I could walk in with you."
"We're in the middle of a blizzard." He paused. "I'm in with the President all day?" Again, he paused. "I have a seven-thirty breakfast that I can't get out of." A cough. "I'm leaving the country tomorrow."
"Henry, I need you tonight."
Only later did I learn that his "leaving the country" was in actuality a secret mission to Moscow; that his 7:30 breakfast was with Joint Chiefs of Staff to resolve the mining of Haiphong harbor.
A long pause. "I'll get back to you."
The phone rang. It was my boss, Charlie Bluhdorn, chairman of Gulf + Western, the conglomerate that owned Paramount Pictures. As usual, Charlie wanted to take my head off for something I had no control over. Life and Newsweek were on the stands with cover stories about The Godfather. Where was Time?
"We need a triple blitz, Evans. A triple blitz. You can do it. I know you can."
"I'm trying, Charlie."
'Try harder. For me, Evans, for me."
The Carlyle operator interrupted, "Mr. Evans, the White House on the line."
"The White House? What White House?" Bluhdorn screeched.
"Call you back, Charlie."
It was one of Kissinger's assistants. Blizzard and all, the doctor was flying in to be with me.
"What time?" she asked.
Protecting myself, "Six-thirty," I said.
"Would you mind if the doctor changes at your hotel?"
Quickly, I dialed Bluhdorn back.
"Charlie, Kissinger's coming!"
"Kissinger? Kissinger? Evans, I love you! I love you!"
The management of the St. Regis Hotel rued the day they accepted to take on the opening night party. Celebrated, highly profiled? Yes. But nothing was worth the grief of having to deal with the likes of me!
With less than twenty-four hours till post time, I called for a full dress rehearsal. On inspection, I made them change the napkins, silverware, candles, and—oh yes—the food.
After tasting it, I shook my head, "No, it's too bland. Get me a new chef. A Sicilian." Then I took on the orchestra leader. "Play The Godfather theme over and over until everyone is seated."
"But Mr. Evans—"
"Don't argue!"
He didn't. He knew I'd fire him.
Finally, I gathered together the eighteen security guards I'd hired to protect the party from crashers. In keeping with the spirit of the night, all were dressed in double-breasted, striped gangsters' suits and large-brimmed hats, rented from Strock Theatrical Costumes.
The fire ordinance of the St. Regis ballroom would not permit more than 470 people at the post-premiere bash.
When more than 2,000 people are invited to the premiere, "the Crash Factor" becomes the paramount factor in protecting the bash from a potential disaster.
Protection being only as good as its weakest link, one by one, I placed each striped suit at his immovable station
-starting with the outside revolving doors, then to the lobby itself, to every elevator, back and front, every staircase, back and front, to every lavatory and terrace. Did I plug every hole? I'd know in twenty-four hours.
I shook Ali awake. "Better get some breakfast, baby. There's a car waiting. You've got to make it to Halston and back by four. Gotta go. Love ya." She crawled back under the covers.
There was a rap on the door. It was Mary Cronin, a reporter from Time. She was there to see Al Pacino. Since Pacino lived in a cellar—no joke, a cellar—I'd arranged for them to meet in my suite for the interview.
Al showed up a few minutes later, unshaven, wearing a Navy pea coat and a knit hat pulled down over his ears. A second-story man? Possibly. But not the subject of a Time cover.
Quickly, he pulled me aside. "Can you loan me a fiver? I need it for the cab tonight."
I slipped him two crisp C notes, which he pocketed without blinking. With that, I left, scratching my head. This kid's the star of The Godfather?
Was my ass on the line! It was me who fought the entire Paramount organization to cancel the Christmas opening, give us time, get it right, touch a bit of magic. Not unlike a parachute jumper, a picture gets one shot—if it doesn't open, it's dead.
"Come on, fellas, back me!" No one did except Bluhdorn. Even my so-called loyal cabinet begged me not to press my luck.
"Fuck luck, fellas, it's instinct. If I can't press it, I should fold."
Luck fucked me —a blizzard in the middle of March.
Outside, the storm was getting worse. I trudged to Meledandri, my tailor, for the final fitting of my new dinner suit—black velvet jacket and gray flannels. Then to the St. Regis, where I completed the seating plan as well as tasted the new chef's rigatoni. Then by foot all the way across town to Loew's State, where I was greeted by Al Lo Presti-—Paramount's ace acoustic guru.
"Is that you, Evans? You look like a fuckin' snowball."
"Fuck you too. Let's get the sound right, okay?"
"Don't worry, no one's gonna show anyway. There ain't no way to get here." Both of us burst out laughing. How could this be happening to us?
Not trusting anybody but ourselves, we planned our strategy to ensure that the sound levels would be correct for our now questionable night of triumph. During the premiere, Al would bicycle between the two projection booths, listening to my instructions from the walkie-talkie neatly tucked in the inside breast pocket of my velvet dinner jacket.)
Back at the hotel, Ali came in from Halston's. Being tired did not stop her from being accommodating, as she tried on various outfits for my appraising eye to pick. After settling on black feathers over a simple black sheath, we added a tight-fitting black "ostrich" hat, since she didn't have time to get her hair done.
The Bluhdorns, my brother, Charlie, and his date, and a few others were invited over at 6:30 for a taste of caviar and champagne. My first guest arrived early—Henry Kissinger.
At 7:45 Ali and I joined Henry in the backseat of the limo. Pulling up to the theater, Henry leaned over. "Bobby, will there be a lot of press?"
"A lot."
Somberly, shaking his head. "The President's going to love this."
The doors opened. Enough flashbulbs went off to light up New Jersey. On one arm—Ali MacGraw—the ravishing Mrs. Evans; on the other, the most charismatic statesman in the world. Was this really happening to me?
The paparazzi became so unruly that extra police were called in to physically push them back.
"Dr. Kissinger, why are you here tonight?" one of them yelled.
"I was forced," he smiled.
"By who?"
Looking at me, "By Bobby."
"Did he make you an offer you couldn't refuse?"
When the lights went down and Nino Rota's music swelled, my whole life seemed to pass before me. Here, sitting between Henry and Ali, watching this epic unfold, I felt that everything my life was about had led up to this moment.
Two hours and fifty-six minutes later Diane Keaton asked Pacino if he was responsible for all the killings.
"No," he lied, then walked into the family library, leaving her behind to watch two of his hit men, Richard Castellano and Richard Bright, come in to kiss their new godfather's ring. The doors slowly closed on Keaton's face—the screen went to black—the credits started to roll. No applause —not a sound—just silence. Scary? No, eerie.
"It's a bomb," I said to myself. I looked at Ali, then Henry. Their faces too were solemn.
"Let's get out of here."
In the backseat of the limo, Henry shrugged. "Reminds me of Washington; just different names, different faces."
No compliment. He must have hated it.
Squeezing my hand, Ali whispered, "Evans, I'm so proud of you. It's brilliant." What else could she say, she was my wife.
Am I an idiot giving a party? It's a mob picture, not a musical.
Wrong again. It was a blast! I played master of ceremonies, introducing anyone and everyone. From Mario Puzo to Francis Coppola, they all made it to the stage.
The screaming, the fights, the threats that never let up since day one of filming, were worth it. Even Francis Coppola, the director whom I'd hired over Paramount's objections and then personally fired four different times during the post-production editing, came over to hug me, closing the book on two years of terrible battles—from casting to music and the final edit.
Two jarring moments put a slight dent in the evening. Spotting Sidney and Bernice Korshak at a table across the floor, I rushed over and kissed Bernice.
"Without the big man, none of this could have happened. Join our table, will you?"
Not cracking a smile, he shook his head. "No."
"Why?"
"And give the fuckin' press a field day?"
"Come on, Sidney, it's your night too."
Like a vise, he grabbed my arm. "Don't ever bring me and Kissinger together in public. Ever! Now go back to your table, spend some time with your wife, schmuck."
I hadn't been back at my table for more than five minutes when Jimmy Caan, who exploded into stardom that night, rushed over. An embrace? No! He grabbed my other arm. "You cut my whole fuckin' part out." Did I hear right?
Sure. An actor is an actor is an actor is an actor.
Ali never looked more radiant. For the rest of the night we danced as one. Holding her tightly in my arms, I felt I was the luckiest man in the world. It was the highest moment of my life.
Was I dreaming it? I was. It was all a façade. The beginning of the end.
