Robert Evans - The Fat Lady Sang

T here are so many people I both need and want to thank, who have kept me alive these past few years, enabling me to finish The Fat Lady before she finished her song.

My thanks to Ali MacGraw, a total original. Always the giver, never the taker, and I speak with authorityforty years worth. During my darkest hours and happiest moments, she has been there. Together we have but one child, Joshua. Why have another when you hit the jackpot the first time out? Though we have been divorced for almost half a century, our friendship has become ironclad. Ironically, Joshua, Ali, and I make a powerful family. Yes, we have been blessed big-time by the guy upstairs.

To Dickie Van Patten, my oldest friend, who to this day remains the encyclopedia of our all-but-impossible teens. We witnessed each others misbehavior, and telling the truth about our indiscretions isnt easy for either of us. Wow, was I lucky to have a coconspirator of such dimension!

What a lucky day it was when Eric George introduced me to my literary agent, Helen Breitwieser, whose passion for this project gave me a new momentum. With her vast knowledge of the publishing industry, she introduced me to my editor, publisher Cal Morgan, and guided me throughout this process. Cals input brought a new clarity to the book. I am truly indebted to both Helen and Cal for all of their work. Their focus and enthusiasm have culminated in ensuring that The Fat Lady Sang shatters new barriers in digital publishing. I would also like to thank Kathleen Baumer for all of her help and support.

For securing my safety in a litigious world, I thank the insightful Henry Holmes. For his advice and counsel, I thank my debonair friend, the erudite Eric George, who is constantly saving me from the mischievous machinations of the malevolent. A very great thanks to my dear friend Bob Shapiro, without whom my lifes trek might have been cut short decades ago.

I am lucky to have survived the aforementioned challenges thanks to a brilliant team of physicians. My gratitude to my doctor Charles Kivowitz, for his careful vigilance and guidance, and not least for the understanding that he shows his impatient patient.

A heartfelt thanks to my cardiologist Robert Siegel, whose insight and skill have saved me more than once. Robert and Theresas presence in my life continues a treasured friendship with the Siegel family.

The irrepressible and prophetic David Agus is, despite my best efforts, steadily imbuing me with a newfound optimism.

My trainer, Dion Jackson, keeps both my body and spirits in trim shape.

I want to express my gratitude to my household, a team that has supported me and shared the highs and lows for twenty years or more. First to my executive assistant and confidante Michael Binns-Alfred, my rock, whose protective embrace and keen judgment of people, over these twenty-seven years, has yet to be found wanting. She has become part of Family Evans. To my housekeeper Rosie Chavez, who would by any other name still be as sweet. To the youthful Alex Rio Bier, who has assisted me with our extensive archive and brings his knowledge of modern communications to the battle, and to Natalia Ravanales, the latest but by no means the least member of my team.

Darryl Goldman, who started as my tennis coach, has proven himself a treasured friend these past twenty years. He is one of the family.

Dan Ramseys skills of illumination have given Woodland its magic glow for the past twenty-five years.

At Paramount, my indispensable Man for All Seasons, Jay Sikura, keeps the Evans banner flying.

To Ryan Rayston and Toby Burwell, who were my right and left hands in developing the structure of my bumpy ride. And to Hernan De Elejalde, who succeeded them, giving so generously of his time and skill.

I am indebted to the singular talent of my friend Michel Comte, who not only created the image but also, along with Jens Remes, designed the cover of this book. For more than a decade, Michel has put his visual insights at my disposal.

Melissa Prophet, a dynamite lady, whoseparating rumor from realitywas there for me in the most dire of times. She has recently opened up the marvels of the online world and guided me into the ether.

In conclusion, I would like to thank Alan Selka, who is not only my butler, English, but also my day-to-day brother in arms. Without his affection and creative collaboration, I could not have finished this book.

The Kid Stays in the Picture

His name, Graydon Carter. Head honcho of Vanity Fair and the epitome of style throughout the world, putting his entire being into resurrecting filmlands highly controversial bandito.

Reciprocity? Never a factor. There was nothing I could ever offer him in return.

What allured him to the tale of my bizarre trek? Was it a shared irreverence for the rules of the game? Doubt it! Whatever it was, his embrace never ceased to boggle my mind.

It was New Years Eve, 2004. St. Barths at its glamorous best. More than two hundred international luminaries partied away on Ron Perelmans ocean liner, worthy of a sultan. As midnight approached, my eye caught the silhouette of the man whose presence in my life caused me to be there that evening. There, with his back to me, leaning on the rail, watching the fireworks as they lit up the sky, was Graydon... alone. I walked over toward him, and, though I knew he couldnt see me, I heard him utter:

I know your footsteps by heart, Evans. Remember the night of The Kids premiere at the Odeon, in Leicester Square? I told the audience, Ive spent so much time researching this man that, when I die, Robert Evanss life will pass before my eyes.

I remember it well, Graydon, I said. But here was my chance to ask him what Id been asking myself for years: Why me?

With a wide New Years Eve grin: Because I love ya, Kid.

Date: May 6, 1998

Place: 1033 Woodland Drive, Beverly Hills

Time: 8:06 P.M.

W es Craven has just arrived, Mr. Evans, whispered my major domo through the intercom. Shall I escort him to the projection room?

Try to stall him. Im running late. Give him the A tour of the houseanything. Im on the phone with my fucking agent. There are three offers for the book and hes pressing me to take one of them. Hes got the wrong authorI dont like any of em. Im holding aces, not deuces. And if he doesnt agree, its divorce time. Get me on an eight oclock flight to New York tomorrow morning.

I made my entrance into the projection room, where dinner was to be serveda full half hour late. Perfect way to start with the wrong foot forward.

There awaiting me was the King of Scream himself, Wes Craven. Bellinis were served. Apologizing for my late arrival, I lifted my glass and made a toast to my guest.

To you, Wes, one of the few directors in town who is an above-the-title star. Welcome to Woodland.

A bolt of lightning shot through my body. Like a pyramid of wooden matchsticks, I crumbled to the floor.

I was dying.

Lying flat, my head facing the ceiling, I wasnt scared at all. Not in pain. No, I was smiling. In the distance, Ella Fitzgerald echoed: Its a Wonderful World.

Wes stood over me, ashen. The King of Scream? He was scared shitless. As he bent down to my motionless body, my eyes opened. Told you, Wes, I slurred in his ear. It aint ever dull around here. Then I passed out.

It was only a matter of minutes before I was awakened by a barrage of paramedics. With my blood pressure hitting the lottery, 287 over 140, I knew this wasnt fly me to the moon time. Rather, it was looking like fly me to Heaven .

In the ambulance, one of the attendants screamed to the driver: That traffics gotta move to the side! Put the goddamn sirens on! If we dont get to Cedars ASAP, we got a DOA on our hands.