Rock Hudson - Rock Hudson: His Story

Rock Hudson

and

Sara Davidson

I've always been a private person. I've never wanted to write a book, I've never let my house be photographed and I've never let the public know what I really think.

Now that's changed-there's a lot I want to say and not too much time left. I want the truth to be told, because it sure as hell hasn't been told before. So I've asked those who know me best-my real friends-to work with Sara Davidson in telling my story.

September 5, 1985

This book was greatly facilitated by the collaboration of Mark Miller, George Nader and Tom Clark; they revealed information to me that they had never discussed with anyone, and I am grateful for their trust.

I would like to thank my research assistants, Sandy Ferguson of "Legwork," who did a marvelous job of locating obscure facts quickly, and Michael Levin, who was wonderful in elucidating legal and medical issues.

For their confidence, I thank my agent, Lynn Nesbit, my publisher, Sherry Arden, my editor, Lisa Drew, and Paul Sherman.

For typing transcripts, I thank Pat King and Gina Daramparis. For caring for my children while I worked, I thank Blanca Rosa Garcia.

For his love and faith, I want to thank Glen Strauss; this book could not have been undertaken without his vision.

-SARA DAVIDSON

On August 24, 1983, Rock Hudson gave an interview to Professor Ronald L. Davis of Southern Methodist University, which became part of the S.M.U. Oral History Collection on the Performing Arts. It was the first time in Rock's life that he gave such a candid interview, ranging over all aspects of his career, and it is the most lengthy, surviving record of his thoughts about his work. The interview is one of hundreds in the S.M.U. collection, which is becoming a major preserve of oral history on the performing arts. We are grateful to S.M.U. for permission to publish excerpts from that interview.

On the fourth of September in 1985, 1 drove for the first time to Rock Hudson's house, called "the Castle," at 9402 Beverly Crest Drive. The house was high on a ridge, looking out over the city of Beverly Hills. When the air quality was good, which it was not, you could see clear west to the Pacific and east across Los Angeles to the San Gabriel Mountains. But on this day, water and mountain disappeared behind clouds of yellowbrown haze.

There were twelve cars parked in front of the house. A blond young man was waxing an antique blue station wagon. This was Marc Christian, who had moved into the Castle with Rock Hudson in 1983. He looked like a surfer, with flaxen hair and bare, tanned chest. Recently, Christian had been asked to leave the house, but he had refused. He had moved into the theater behind the garage, where he was sleeping on a convertible sofa.

I rang the front doorbell. The carved wooden door was opened by Mark Miller, Rock's personal secretary. Miller, a large man who once was an opera singer, welcomed me and gave me a tour of the house and grounds. The Castle had two living rooms, two front doors, a theater with a real stage and footlights, a steam room, gym, pool, four fireplaces and six ice makers. But there were only two bedrooms. One was Rock's; the other was being occupied by Tom Clark, who had lived with Rock for ten years before Christian. Tom and Rock had been reunited at UCLA Medical Center after the news had been released that Rock had AIDS (acquired immune deficiency syndrome). When Rock came home in August, so did Tom.

Tom met us at the foot of the grand staircase. He was nearly as tall as Rock, with white hair and vibrant blue eyes. He was determined Rock would get well. "I believe in miracles," he said. "We're gonna beat this." He wore a button that said I LOVE ROCK, with a heart in place of "love."

Mark Miller took me to the kitchen, where, he said, "everything happens." He introduced me to the butler, James Wright, who spoke with elegant British diction and carried a little Shih Tzu with a red bow in her hair. Next to James was the gardener, Clarence Morimoto, a saintly-looking Japanese man of eighty who was fixing himself an ice-cream sundae. Behind them, at the kitchen table, was Rock Hudson.

Rock was dressed in light-blue pajamas. He was smoking a cigarette, opening mail. He picked up a telegram, waved it at me and said, with a glint of merriment, "Baby has arrived." He opened the telegram-it was from a fan in New York, urging Rock to try a cure of herbs and grasses. Rock tossed it in a pile. Then he reached out his arm-pale white, firm, ramrod straight-and shook my hand with a stiff motion. "Let's go in the living room. We can talk."

Despite the heat of September, Rock put on warm socks and asked for the furnace to be turned on. He looked stooped and uncomfortable in the oversized upholstered chair. His face was so thin you could see the bone structure, and there were dark folds of sagging skin under his eyes. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, looked at me and waited.

I had already met with Rock's attorney, his business manager and publisher in New York as well as with Mark Miller. We had understood that Rock might not be able to give me the time generally required to write a book about one's life. Rock had told Miller, "You know the whole story. You'll have to do it for me."

I asked Rock why he had decided to undertake the book. "So much bullshit has been written about me. It's time to tell my story. It's time to set things straight." He said he'd always wished he could write. I asked why. "Because I can't." He paused. "I mean, goddammit, write it well if you're gonna write it."

Under normal circumstances, I would have spent days with Rock before we started interviews. But time was precious, so I took out my list and began with what I thought were harmless, basic questions. He answered in short phrases, with many stops.

"When did you first want to be an actor?"