Rocky Lang - Growing Up Hollywood: Tales from the Son of a Hollywood Mogul

Growing Up Hollywood

Tales from the Son of a Hollywood Mogul

By

Rocky Lang

Growing Up Hollywood: Tales from the Son of aHollywood Mogul. Smashwords Edition. Copyright (c) 2014 byRocky Lang. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States ofAmerica. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in anymanner whatsoever without written permission of the author, exceptfor the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. For information,contact TriadaUS Literary Agency:

ISBN: 978-0692266632

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014914833

rockylang.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Critics are people who come down from themountain after the battle is over and shoot the dead.

Dad

For Nikki and Erica

Dad (right) on the Universal Studios set of thefilm

Earthquake with director Mark Robson in1974.

On the warm New Jersey evening of June 10,1948, about ten years before I was born, my father, Jennings Lang,was ringside for the third of three historic world championshipmiddleweight fights between Rocky Graziano, arguably the bestknockout artist in history, and Tony Zale, the Man of Steel fromGary, Indiana. The first two bouts had been a virtual bloodbath,with both fighters bashing the crap out of each other.

Dad had taken the train from Penn Station tothe gorgeous city of Newarkhome to pretty much nothingand walkedthe short distance to Rupert Stadium (also known as Ironbound).From his seat just outside the ropes, he watched the fightersbattle into the third round and then WHAM! BAM! and SLAM! Rockywas a goner, not only knocked out, but also knocked out of the ringand right into my fathers lap. Dad stared down at a face thatlooked as if it had been run through a Cuisinart on chop-chopspeed. It was an image he would never forget.

A decade later, on January 11, 1958, atCedars of Lebanon Hospital in downtown Los Angeles, my mother spitout a 6 lb. 14 oz. pile of chopped meat otherwise known as me. Asmy father was a major player in Hollywood, he asked Chasens, aWest Hollywood restaurant he frequented with the celebrated likesof Jimmy Stewart, Humphrey Bogart, and Joan Crawford, to cater mymothers hospital room with fine food for all. He loved the chili,as did Elizabeth Taylor, who in the early 1960s had it flownhalfway across the world to the set of Cleopatra.

While others ate, my mother, Monica Lewis, astar of stage and screen who broke into the business singing forBenny Goodman, named me Andrew. HOLD THE PHONE, my father saidspinning around and looking at my bloody face. You can call himanything you want, but hes going to be Rocky to me. He looks likehe just got pummeled by Tony Zale.

And so my journey began as Rocky Lang, theson of a Hollywood mogula man who for more than thirty years was atop decision-maker, production executive, and profit-driver forMCA/Universal. I was part of an exciting time not only inHollywood, but also in the history of our country. I ate peanutswith presidents and I shot pool with Steven Spielberg and playedtennis with Clint Eastwood. I went to football games with WalterMatthau, made a movie with Dustin Hoffman, nearly got beaten up byBill Murray, and made a few of my own movies along the way.

Our lives are like chapters broken into pieces oftime that define who we are at various points. The storiescontained in the following pages are in no particular order buthighlight some of the unusual experiences I have had and thefascinating, and famous, people I have met along the way. In somecases, I have elected to change the names. The details arepresented as vividly as I remember them.

Rocky Lang
Toluca Lake, California
October 2014

His words ricocheted across the playgroundblacktop with deafening clarity. My sixth grade best friend, AndyStewart, was racing towards me yelling at the top of his lungs:HEY, LANG MY MOTHER SAID YOUR FATHER WAS SHOT IN THE BALLS! Heyelled again. HEY, LANG! MY MOTHER SAID YOUR FATHER WAS SHOT INTHE BALLS!

Then there was silencethe type of silenceyou remember when you awake in the middle of the night and you arewaiting for the monsters to come out. Kids stopped playing,basketballs stopped bouncing, and Mrs. Cohen, the playgroundmonitor, dropped her whistle and locked her disapproving eyes withmine.

I stopped and looked around. I was stunned.Even though the infamous event involving my father was a majorHollywood scandal years before I was born, it was somehow kept awayfrom me. I thought for a second, realizing my vulnerability. Ilooked around and saw Alena Levy, picking her nose, staring at me(and yes, she ate it). My friend Donna Bojarskys jaw hit thepavement and the girl I had a major crush on started to cry.

I had to say something, so I yelled backacross the playground: Hey Stewart! Thats a lie! Ive seen hisballs. At least I thought I had.

The two-hundred-and-eighteenth day of mysixth grade year was hell. As I sat in Mr. McCutchens art classdoing a self-portrait, my classmates peppered me with whisperedquestions.

Did he really get shot in the balls?

Is his dick still there?

Can he still pee?

Questions began circling in my own mind as Iworked on my would-be masterpiece. Did I really see his balls?Were there really two of them? Then it came to me, and I stoodup. Hey, if my dad was really shot in the balls, how was Iborn?

There was silence. I had answered theunanswerable question. I thought I had them, at least for a seconduntil Court Slavin, a wisecracking kid, fired a near-fatalshot.

Maybe the gardener did it with yourmom.

The bell rang and it was lunchtime. I chosenot to head to the cafeteria, even though it was pudding day,because I was exhausted by the mornings events. Instead, I went tothe front office, where I worked for the office secretary for extracredit. To this day, I still remember her perfume and the way shewalked. Her name was Desiree, and she was beautiful. She wore somesort of push up bra that made her breasts look like torpedoprototypes. They were perfect.

(Occasionally, Desiree and my old fourthgrade teacher, Miss Bennett, would take me into Beverly Hills forlunch. It was our secret and one that I have kept until thiswriting.)

Desiree had heard what happened to meearlier that day; like just about everyone else in Hollywood, sheknew of the scandal. She came into the mimeograph room and saw thelook on my face. Your dad is a great person, there is a lot to beproud of, she said. And then she gave me a doughnut.

Desiree was right. My father was theyoungest person ever to pass the bar in New York City. In 1938, heheaded west in his Ford Tudor with $40 in his pocket and bigHollywood dreams. Arriving in Los Angeles, he settled with no moneyand no job in the Silver Lake district, where he mixed horsemeatand hamburger and invited his newly found Hollywood connections todinner. The horsemeat was great, the conversations were better, andthe deals started to fall in place faster than the 1938 Santa AnitaDerby winner, Seabiscuit.

Dad opened an office and signed his firstclient, comedian Hugh Herbert (now what we in the industry call aHollywoodwalkafamian)securing him a multi-picture deal atUniversal Studios, where he would appear in comedy shorts andfeatures such as Pitchin in the Kitchen.

Sam Jaffe, credited for saving ParamountPictures from financial ruin in the 1920s, was a hell of a guy andhad one of the most successful talent agencies in Hollywood. Hetook a liking to my dad and brought him into his agency in 1940.Dad quickly rose to the title of president, representing JoanCrawford, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Richard Burton, and manyother high-profile clients.