All language subtitles for The Kid Stays in the Picture (2002).en

The Los Angeles Times once said

that never in the history of Hollywood
has such glamour and talent

sat under one tree.

Dr Kissinger is here
and there's no accident.

There is more oil on Bob Evans.

Take him home. Take him home!
Just get him the hell out of here!

These past ten years as chief
of production at Paramount Pictures

I've been lucky or fortunate enough
to be closely involved

with such unique pictures as
Rosemary's Baby,

True Grit, Love Story,
The Godfather.

How did you get discovered
for the movies?

I got discovered by jumping
into a swimming pool.

But I was an actor for many years
as a kid before that.

I was at the Beverly Hills Hotel pool.
I was a businessman at the time.

- What was your business?
- I was a partner in Evan Picone.

We made women's pants.
I was in women's pants.

We actually started the fad
of women wearing slacks.

I'll never forget it...

It was the fall of 1956.

I flew out to Los Angeles
to set up Evan Picone boutiques.

One afternoon,
I decided to play hooky,

sit by the pool and get some sun
at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Suddenly, a woman approached me.

"Excuse me, young man,
are you an actor?"

Yeah, I was, a long time ago.

It was Norma Shearer,

at the time one of the few remaining
icons of Hollywood aristocracy.

A petite blond
in a striped, short robe.

"Pardon me for being curious,
young man,

"but why are you always
on the phone?"

"Gotta pay my bills."
"You're not a bookmaker?"

"No, I'm not a bookmaker."

Then she changed
the entire course of my life.

"Would you like to play my deceased
husband, Irving Thalberg, in a film?"

I looked at her.
Looked at her again.

I didn't know
what she was talking about.

"They're making a film at Universal,
Man of a Thousand Faces.

"My friend Jimmy Cagney
is playing Lon Chaney.

"Irving discovered him and made him
the biggest star in silent film.

"He was only 20 at the time, Mr Evans.
Too young to sign the checks.

"But not too young to run a studio."

I'm thinking to myself,
"Wow, this can't be happening to me."

"Miss Shearer, it would be an honour.
Why not?

"Cagney's the one guy
I've always wanted to meet."

Two hours later,
I'm on a sound stage at Universal.

Here I am, like out of a dream.
I'm testing opposite Jimmy Cagney.

Mind if I come in a minute?

I don't look dressed for the barricades,
but I've come from a revolution.

The premiere of The Jazz Singer.
Lon, you should've seen that audience.

When Jolson's voice
came from the screen,

I could hear the bells tolling
for silent pictures.

You haven't heard a word I said.

I'm sorry, Irving.
What were you saying?

Nothing much. I was just trying
to tell you about a modern miracle.

Pictures that not only move,
Lon, but they speak.

Yeah, sure. Talking pictures.

It's the horse and automobile again.
No use fighting it.

When it was over, Cagney gave me
a quick look. "You did good, kid."

48 hours later, I made
every newspaper around the country.

"New York businessman dives into pool
and comes out movie star."

Was I lucky?

I think so.
If I had stayed just an actor,

Norma never would've given me
a second look.

What caught her eye
was a young go-getter,

sure about himself, persuasive.

A subliminal reminder of the man
who was once her mentor and husband.

It's the old story, though.
Luck doesn't happen by mistake.

Rather, luck is when opportunity
meets preparation.

As soon as the picture wrapped,
I flew back to the Big Apple.

Evan Picone was on fire,

the showroom packed with them leggy
ladies prancing in Patrician pants.

It was turn-on plus.

My brother Charles had built
the top fashion company of its time.

I was lucky to be part of it,

never having a second thought
about returning to La La Land.

Why should I? In New York,
I was suddenly a celebrity.

From debutante to starlet to model,
there I was on their most-wanted list.

Was I enjoying it?
You bet your ass I was.

One night, my brother and I took
a few femme fatales to El Morocco.

I didn't feel like conversation,
so I hit the dance floor.

Well, that night someone had eyes
for me and it wasn't her.

It was Darryl Zanuck,
head honcho of 20th Century Fox.

He had no idea who I was.
But just looking at me, he thought,

"That kid's right to play the matador
opposite Ava Gardner."

After years and years of knocking
on doors, being turned down,

here I am, discovered to star
in two pictures within six months.

That's what you call incident

and that's what's also known
as sense of discovery.

Thank God, I was the one discovered.

I was sent down to Mexico
to study to be a bullfighter.

Mind you, I have never once
seen a bull in my life.

I worked my ass off for three months,
wearing a rubber girdle each day

so I'd lose weight
around my midsection.

There was one big problem.

No one wanted me in the picture.

Hemingway was furious
they'd pick a guy out of a nightclub

to play Pedro Romero,
who in the true-life story was him.

A telegram goes out to Darryl Zanuck.

It reads, "With Robert Evans
playing Pedro Romero,

"The Sun Also Rises
will be a disaster.

"Signed, Ernest Hemingway,
Tyrone Power

"Ava Gardner, Eddie Albert."

The only one who refused to sign it
was Errol Flynn. He just laughed.

I know I'm gonna get fired.
But that gave me the resolve.

I said, "Fuck 'em."

When I knew that telegram went out,

I became Pedro Romero in one week.

Zanuck arrives in Morelia, Mexico,
and I'm summoned to the bullring

to do my quites and veronicas
in front of him.

I walk into the bullring,
take off my hat,

throw it to him. "For you."

And then I start going through
my various things.

I look an idiot.
I know I'm gonna get fired.

Suddenly, Zanuck stands up,
all five foot three of him,

picks up a bullhorn.

"The kid stays in the picture.

"And anybody who doesn't like it
can quit."

Puts the bullhorn down
and walks out.

Also it was then that I realised
that's what Evans wants to be.

Not some actor shitting in his pants,
waiting to get a role,

but the guy who can say,
"The kid stays in the picture."

Bob Evans
is a 28-year-old New Yorker

in the enviable position of pursuing

two successful careers on two coasts.

Here in the East,

Bob Evans devotes his time and energy

to being a vice president
of the Evan Picone sportswear firm.

On the West Coast,

Bob Evans devotes his time and energy
to being a movie star.

At last reports,
he's doing pretty well at both.

- Evening, Bob. How are you?
- Good evening, Ed. Very fine.

Now you're getting established
and recognised as a movie star,

how much longer can you hold out
as a bachelor?

Introduce me to the right girl
and I'll end my bachelorhood right here.

With all the hullabaloo and excitement
about the new Valentino,

I wasn't getting the parts I wanted.

There were half a dozen parts
offered to me.

I was looking for bigger things.

One day, my agent calls,
George Chasen.

"Bob, I'm calling with good news.

"Fox is remaking Kiss ofDeath.
We've got you up for the Widmark part.

"It made him a star overnight."

Finally, I got my first title role.

Wow!

He's a kooky killer,

the most diabolical horror
that ever roamed the earth.

The Fiend Who Walked the West.

He'll cut out your heart or break your neck

and laugh while he's doing it.

My acting career was over and out.

It was my last appearance
on the silver screen.

At decade's end,
I was sure of one thing.

I was a half-assed actor
and I knew it.

I knew I'd never become
the next Paul Newman,

maybe the next Troy Donahue.

But you know who I really wanted
to become?

The next Darryl Zanuck.

That was my goal for the '60s.

And I went for it all the way.

Sounds easy, doesn't it?

It ain't.

Next to winning the Olympics,
there's no more difficult a thing

than a pretty boy actor
transforming himself into producer,

especially in those days.

I realised that I had to own something
that nobody else could get.

I met a guy named George Weiser
whoworkedfor Publishers Weekly.

He moonlighted for me
for about 150 bucks a week.

He says to me, "I just finished a book.
It's called The Detective."

This is one hot book.

I read it, put 5000 dollars down on it
as an option

and go see David Brown,

a pal from 20th Century Fox
who's a top producer there.

I say, "David, I think I have
the next big book."

He reads it,
and in 48 hours he says,

"Bob, we're in business."
"David, not so quick."

"I wanna know what kind
of business we're in.

"Now, these are my conditions.
I want a full spread of offices.

"I want a three-picture deal."

To make a very long story short,
I get everything I ask for.

They would've bought me
out for half a million.

But I wanted my foot in the door
and I got it in the door, but good.

I learned a lot from that.

When you own the property,
you're king.

Without it, you're a peon.

If the euphemism "you live
by the press and die by the press"

ever fit anyone, it fit me.

Who'd have thought a journalist would
change the entire course of my life

and also my career?

On reflection, I don't know whether
I should love him or hate him.

Peter Bart, West Coast correspondent
for The New York Times

wanted to write a story about me
in the Arts and Leisure section.

"Is this a joke, Peter? Come on."
He said, "This is not a joke.

"What's interesting about you
and why you're worth writing about

"is you're beating these big shots
at their own game.

"You could become the guy you played,
the next Thalberg."

That's just what I want the audience
to see, Mr Chaney.

The soul of a man
that God made different.

If I was really smart, I should have
retired after Peter's article.

Instead, Greg Bautzer,
the power broker of the town, calls.

"Pack. You're going to New York."
"I can't, Greg, I got plans."

"Break them. Charlie Bluhdorn bought
Paramount and wants to meet you.

"He read the article about you
in Sunday's New York Times.

"He's a doer, Bob. Not a talker.
Now pack your bags."

And pack 'em I did.

Within five minutes of meeting Charlie
Bluhdorn, I know this is no kibitzer.

Before I finished trying to answer
one question, he was asking me more.

With him was a guy
named Marty Davis.

He was responsible for
the conglomerate Gulf and Western

buying this ageing mountain
they call Paramount.

There were eight major studios
at the time.

Paramount? It was ninth.

Bluhdorn bought this giant at bargain
prices, the only way he knew how.

Everybody thought he was nuts

to get involved in a business
he knew nothing about,

much less one
as crazy as show business.

"But, guys, I got a deal at 20th."
"Get out of it.

"You'll be running Paramount
in three months. Is that right, Marty?"

Davis gives me a look.

"If you're gonna run Paramount,
you better be tougher than you seem."

Did I get the message? You bet.
Then Bluhdorn blasted my other ear.

"Go by the seat of your pants.
Make pictures people wanna see.

"I wanna see tears, laughs. I want pretty
girls in the pictures, beautiful girls.

"Pictures people in Kansas City
want to see.

"That's all, Evans.
What else do we have to go over?"

Being the head of production
of a studio such as Paramount,

and I'm sure you're aware of it,
involves a tremendous responsibility.

You are dealing
with millions of dollars.

They had great names for me.

"Bluhdorn's Folly"
by The New York Times,

"Bluhdorn's Blow Job" by Hollywood
Close-Up. Good feeling, huh?

There was, to put it mildly,

a great deal of scepticism
from people in the industry.

Where does an ex-actor,
and a bad one at that,

come off running a studio?

From the day I arrived, the rumour mill
had me packing my bags.

Time magazine ran a story
saying my firing was imminent.

Friends, columnists, agents
all let me know

I wouldn't be there for Christmas.

Then it happened.
Front page of Variety.

"Evans tenure over by end of month."

I called Charles Bluhdorn, chairman
of the board of Gulf and Western,

who had bought Paramount and put me
in there. He was in Spain at the time.

I got him out of a board of directors
meeting in Madrid and said,

"Charles, there's a story in Variety
that I'm gonna get fired.

"If it's true, tell me."

- I'll pick up my laundry.
- I'm ready to go.

He says, "When you're getting fired,
I'll let you know. Stop reading gossip.

"As long as I own Paramount,
you'll be where you are.

"Relax and do your job."
And he hung the phone up.

My first move was to hire Peter Bart
as my right-hand man.

He's not Hollywood. He doesn't read
synopses, he reads the entire text.

He can read six books over a weekend.
I'm hard-pressed to finish one in six.

But more important, it was his article
that got me into this fucking mess.

The two of us caucused
in Palm Springs for a full week,

trying to strategize
how an actor and a journalist

could turn a white elephant
into a contender.

Patience was not a quality
either Bluhdorn or Davis had

and the clock was already ticking.

With the little experience we had,
we knew one thing:

the property is the star.

"Let's go back to basics, Peter.
You can have stars up the ass,

"but if it's not on the page,
it's not on the screen.

"It's no mistake Paramount's been
in ninth place for five years.

"It's time to pick up new dice.
Now let's try and do it."

Between Peter and myself,
we went through dozens of scripts,

maybe hundreds.
Nothing clicked.

It all felt tired.
There was nothing fresh about it.

We were looking for the unexpected,

something that sounded new
and what we were gonna be about.

Then one day, Bill Castle, the veteran
producer, walked into my office

with a manuscript he had optioned
tucked under his arm.

Itwas Rosemary's Baby.
And I loved it.

There was one problem.
Castle insisted on directing it.

I only had one director in mind for it.
I saw brilliance in his little films.

It was the little Polack himself,
Roman Polanski.

The biggest Polack and one
of the biggest men I've ever met.

The films I saw were Knife in the Water,
Repulsion, Cul-de-sac,

all off-beat thrillers.

Roman was a big cinema star
over in Europe as well as director

and he'd just finished his first
Hollywood film. Get this title.

The Fearless Vampire Killers

or Pardon Me, But Your Teeth
Are in My Neck.

Though no one wanted him in America,
he didn't care. He was a star in Europe.

Where do I get him? How do I get to him?
He's an avid skier.

I lured him all the way to America,

thinking he was gonna direct
Downhill Racer.

Polanski walks in.
This is some character!

Within five minutes,
this Polack's acting out crazy stories.

They're somewhere between
Shakespeare and theatre of the absurd.

Maybe that's why we clicked so well.

We both come out of the same school
of drama, the drama of life.

I don't wanna bullshit him.

"Roman, will you read this?"

I shoved the galleys of Rosemary's
Babyacross the desk at him.

"Is this about skiing?"

"Read it, Polack. If you don't like it,
your next ski trip is on me,

"anywhere you wanna go in the world."

A gamble? Sure.
It paid off. Roman loved it.

But then the fights began.
You know, fighting's healthy.

If everyone has too much reverence
for each other or for the material,

check it out and think about it.

Invariably, it turns out underwhelming.

By the end of the first week's shooting,
Roman was a week behind schedule.

Everyone from Bluhdorn to Bill Castle
wanted me to throw him off the picture.

Roman's dailies were weird.

They touched off
an ominous sense of fright,

one I'd never seen in film before.

At the same time, Bill Castle
was pressing the right buttons

getting the New York brass unnerved
on my Polish discovery.

We're ten days into shooting and
Roman was five days behind schedule.

"Fire the Polack" were the words
from New York. Fire him? Fuck you.

He goes, I go.

For a moment, I thought I'd have to pay
my own plane fare back.

I grabbed Roman aside.
"Listen to me carefully, Roman.

"My ass ain't on the line.
My ass is out the door and so are you.

"Now pick up the fucking pace
or we'll both end up in Warsaw."

Bluhdorn and company weren't
the only ones screaming about Roman.

Another power entered the scene.

My secretary comes in
with an urgent message.

"Frank Sinatra's on the horn.
He must speak with you."

I picked the phone up.

"I'm pulling Mia from your picture
if she ain't finished by November 14th.

"She's starting in my picture
on the 17th. Got it straight?"

His picture was The Detective,
which launched my producing career.

Now it was about to sink it.

"Frank, you don't understand.
We won't finish till mid-February."

"Then she's quitting.
Don't fuck around with me.

"We go back too far. She's my old lady,
she'll do as I tell her."

He hangs the phone up.

Well, Frank didn't bark, he bit.

Bit Mia pretty good.
"You stay in Rosemary's Baby,

"you go back to Mia Farrow.
Forget the name Sinatra!"

Suddenly this little girl
hysterically runs into my office.

"I love him, Bob. I love him so.
I don't wanna lose Frank.

"I'm gonna have to leave the movie."

"Mia, if you walk out in the middle
of this film, you'll never work again."

"I don't care, I don't care.
I just love Frank."

If ever my experience with dames
came in handy,

I mean actress dames,
this was the moment.

I knew what makes the head
of an actress tick

and I finally found its purpose.

"Come with me, Mia.
I wanna show you something."

We walked into the screening room

and I showed her a full hour
of Rosemary's Babycuttogether.

Dr Hill? Dr Hill, there's a plot.
I know that sounds crazy.

You're probably thinking,
"This poor girl has flipped."

But I haven't flipped, Dr Hill.

I swear by all the saints, I haven't.

"Mia, you're brilliant.

"I never thought you had it in you.

"It'll shock them all.
I want you to know something.

"You're a shoo-in to win
the Academy Award."

Suddenly her tears are gone.
Her face lights up.

"Do you really think so?"

"I'm not prone to exaggerate.
You're a shoo-in.

"I mean a shoo-in, kid."

"Sinatra who?"
Suddenly, a smile.

She didn't walk off the film, but Frank
served her divorce papers on the set,

delivered by Mickey Rudin,
his attorney.

It's strange. Women recover real quick.
It may have taken her a full week.

The only thing she wanted
was that Rosemary's Baby

would out-gross The Detective.

You want to know about actresses?

Mia's one satisfaction was that the
pictures would open on the same day.

And I arranged that.

The Detective opened
to a real good box office.

But Rosemary's Baby
was the smash hit of the summer.

Overnight, Mia was a full-fledged star.

She had one request I couldn't fill.

Take a double-page ad out in the
Daily Variety and Hollywood Reporter.

On one side, she wanted the theatre
grosses of Rosemary's Baby.

On the other, the theatre grosses
of The Detective.

Hell hath no fury
like a woman scorned.

A decade before, Norma Shearer
took me for a short walk.

Within ten minutes of the Beverly Hills
Hotel, we entered a hidden oasis.

It was a world away from Beverly Hills.

It was protected by 100-foot tall
eucalyptus trees.

Greta Garbo used to hide away there
whenever she came into town.

I'd never forgotten the day
I was there.

God, it must have been
a hundred times I thought,

"One day, I could own that house.
God, I'd love to live there."

The grounds, the trees, the acreage,

the towering eucalyptus,
thousands of roses.

Everything is quiet and secret
behind walls.

Was it for sale? No.

But in LA, there's nothing that isn't.

For 290,000 buckaroos,

the place of my dreams
was now mine.

In the mid-to-late '60s, movie
attendance was spiralling south.

Outside Paramount,
a cultural revolution was taking place.

The brass at the studios didn't know
who to cater their movies to.

The old guard, who we thought wanted
to see stars in lavish productions,

or the youth,
who no one seemed to understand.

In the same year alone,
Paramount released Medium Cool,

a film catering
to the so-called youth market.

And Paint Your Wagon,
a film that catered to no one.

We were losing money every year
on big, extravagant productions.

The board was getting nervous.
We needed a picture to unite audiences.

Like all good films,
it needed to start with a script.

Well, we found it. Or should I say
Miss MacGraw found it.

A simple little film about a boy
and a girl falling in love.

It was Love Story.

I set up a lunch date
with its mentor and star,

Miss MacGraw.

By the time dessert was served,
I'd have made the phone book with her.

Do you think she got to me?
I can tell you this.

I sure in hell didn't get to her.

She kept on digging into me.
Oh, and she was loving it.

She keeps on interjecting all during
the lunch how much in love she was.

Then she gives me her last zinger.

"Peter and I are getting married
in the fall.

"We plan to spend October in Venice.
Ever been there?" Nope.

"Then wait. Only go there
when you're madly in love."

That was it for me.
I grabbed her arm.

"Never plan, kid.
Planning's for the poor.

"If anything goes wrong between you
and Blondie between now and then,

"take my number.
I'm seven digits away."

Hate to admit it, but she never called.

In the spring of 1969,

holding Love Story
sure as hell wasn't holding aces.

I couldn't even find
a fucking director to do it.

My batting average was a thousand.
Everyone turned it down.

Suddenly, a minor miracle.
I get a director, Arthur Hiller.

He's willing to direct my angel
with a very dirty face.

Well, when you get a first bite,
there's no way you're gonna let it go.

It was a Wednesday night.

Suddenly, Miss Snotnose
remembers my seven digits.

This was one angry broad.
I say angry with a capital "A".

"The audacity you have, Mr Evans,

"to sign a director I've never heard of
without consulting me.

"It's my property.
I'm doing the picture for slave wages.

"I'm living up to my option agreement.
Have you forgotten the word courtesy?"

I thought I was hyperventilating.

"Ali, listen to me. Why don't you
come out to LA tomorrow?

"Take a look at Hiller's film.

"If you don't like it,
we'll get someone else. Trust me.

"I think you'll enjoy it."

The next night I pick up Snotnose
MacGraw in the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Did it bug me? You bet,
needing this starlet's nod of approval.

I hoped she wouldn't like Hiller

so I could tell her
she was a one-way ticket east,

that her flick's over and out.
Cancelled.

At least I'd get my nuts off.

I'm saying to myself,

"Miss Charming
ain't gonna get to me tonight."

I walked her through my front doors,
out and around my pool

towards my projection room.

What I was thinking
didn't work the way I thought.

She looks up to me with her crooked
tooth and all and says,

"I feel like I'm walking through
my own private park in Paris."

Prepared for her bullshit,
it hardly made a ripple.

Arthur Hiller's audition was ready to roll.
It never did.

The screen never came down.

Yeah, but Miss Flower Child Snotnose

soon got wet, very wet,

jumping into the egg-shaped pool
totally clothed,

from her shoes to her headband.

Me? I'm laughing on the inside,
but thinking, "For a bohemian,

"she sure as hell became comfortable
very quickly."

Behind the so-called Beverly Hills gates,
with 2000 rose bushes

surrounded by gardenias, daisies,
you name it.

She called herself a flower child.
And now the flowers were hers.

October 24th 1969, a Friday morning.

Miss Snotnose is on her way
to becoming Mrs Evans.

Both of us climb
into our Mercedes two-seater

and head for the town hall
in Riverside.

Afterward, we uncorked one magnum
of Dom after the other.

Where? On the courthouse lawn.

And did we get loaded!

We had a long two-day honeymoon
in Palm Springs.

I held Ali tight in my arms.

"I love you, Evans. I love you.
Forever, Evans. Forever."

I whispered back, "Forever, darling.

"And promise me, never leave me."

"I promise you, baby, I won't."

"Not even for two weeks."

"Not for one, kid."

"I'm a hot lady, Evans."

I hugged her, I kissed her.

"Never change, baby.
Never change."

"And never let anything get between us,
Evans. Promise?"

"Promise."

I forgot my key.

Jenny, I'm sorry.

Don't.

Love means never having
to say you're sorry.

"Cut!" says Hiller.
"That's it. We've got it."

"You did a good job, Ali.
You had me in tears."

She runs over to me,
smothers me with kisses.

"Evans, did you really like it?
The tears, they were for you."

My eyes start to swell.

I actually start crying.
Crying about happiness

and feeling that I'm the luckiest guy
in the whole world.

Camelot was ours.
Well, at least I thought it was.

"Evans, there's a big problem.

"The board of directors,
they want me out of Paramount.

"They can't afford it any more.
It's turning a cash flow into cash drought.

"They've had it. They want me out too,
out of show business.

"Get back to what I do best.
Making money, not movies."

Charlie was not prone to making
practical jokes and this was no joke.

"Fuck 'em, Charlie.
Stall them if you can.

"You can buy another quarter.
I know you can.

"Give us one more shot at the table.
You can do it."

"The board's already decided.
They've called an emergency meeting."

"The studio will be closed
by the end of next week."

This couldn't be happening to me.
And we were just on a roll.

Then it hit me.

"Give me a half hour with the board.
Just one half hour, that's all I need."

"Evans, the one person they don't
wanna see is you. Are you crazy?"

"Yeah, but crazy good, Charlie.

"I've got one ace in my hand,
Love Story,

"and I'm gonna build a hand around it."

"All right, Evans. You got a half hour.
That's all, just a half hour.

"Be in New York next Monday
at the board meeting.

"Buy a one-way ticket
and don't be late."

Peter Bart asked Mike Nichols
for an afternoon of his time

to film a presentation reel to deliver
to the board of Gulf and Western.

Mike directed me in, I'm sure,
the best performance of my life.

Where were you, Mike, when I needed
you ten years ago when I was an actor?

That Sunday at 6pm
I caught the red-eye into New York.

No luggage,
but a can of film under my arm.

This was our one and only chance.

If the film didn't play,
the board would shut down the studio,

effective immediately.

As I walked into
the Gulf and Western building,

Bluhdorn handed me
my walking papers.

"Well, Evans, at least we tried."

I pushed him away.

"Hold these for another 20 minutes,
will you, Charlie?"

I walked into the boardroom,
a 100-1 shot.

Before me sat 16
of America's finest non-smilers.

"Gentlemen, I apologise
for not being better dressed,

"but when you've got
a one-way ticket and no hotel,

"it ain't easy to keep up
with the style of the room."

No laugh. Not a crack.
Not even the white of a tooth in sight.

Quickly, I stepped out of the room

and handed the projectionist
Paramount's future.

Good afternoon.
My name is Robert Evans

and I'm senior vice president
of Paramount Pictures.

By the way, this is not my office.

We tried to shoot this scene
in my office.

We brought the cameras up,
but my office is too small to get them in.

I came down to the studio to borrow
a set from The Young Lawyers

and that's where we are now.

As a matter of fact, I don't even
have offices at the studio any more.

Last year, we packed up our gear,

cut down our staff
tightened our belts

and moved into little offices in Beverly
Hills. They're good enough for us.

These past few years
have been rough for Hollywood.

We've made a lot of mistakes.

Some people have learned from them
and some people haven't. We have.

Money we spend is not going to be
through extravagances.

It's gonna be on the screen.

And speaking of the screen,
that's the reason we're here today.

I'd like to show you
some of our product for 1971.

Right now,
we're approaching Christmas.

And Paramount's Christmas gift
to the world is Love Story.

I think Love Storyis gonna start
a new trend in movies.

A trend towards the romantic,
towards love,

towards people.

Towards telling a story
about how it feels

rather than where it's at.

I think Love Storyis going
to bring the people

back into the theatre in droves.

I could go on for an hour
and tell you about 20 or 30 projects

in various stages of development
and bore you with it, so I won't.

But I wanna bring up one project.
And that's The Godfather.

I bring it up for several reasons.

One, that it's starting production
next month.

Two, that it's gonna be
our next Christmas' picture.

And three, to bring up the similarity

between The Godfather
and Love Story,

which are the two biggest books
of the last decade.

Paramount owns them both.

But Paramount has more
than just owning them both.

We didn't sit back in our plush chairs

and write a cheque
for a million dollars for the books,

which happens so often in our industry.
We developed both of these books.

If it weren't for Paramount, Love Story
would never have been written,

The Godfatherwould never
have been written.

We were in there in the beginning,
spurring the writers on,

working with them to make these books
the bestsellers they are

and the great movies
they're going to be.

We at Paramount don't look
at ourselves as passive backers of film.

We look at ourselves
as a creative force unto ourself.

And that is why Paramount

is going to be paramount
in the industry in the '70s.

I promise you that.

Ten minutes later, Bluhdorn walked in.

"Well, I'm fired, huh?

"You're a bigger fraud than I thought.

"You're some showman, Evans.
You pulled the wool over their eyes."

No kiss on the lips,
but a Bluhdorn hug.

That's more than an engagement ring.
It was the gold band itself.

Then, in typical Bluhdorn fashion,

"Go back to work. We need pictures.
And you need plenty of mazel."

On December 16th 1970,

Love Storyhad its world premiere
at Loew's State Theatre in New York.

The lights went down.

Francis Lai's haunting piano strings
started up.

Ryan O'Neal, alone and bereft
in a snowy Central Park,

said in a voice-over,

"What can you say
about a 25-year-old girl who died?"

Love Storydidn't open.
It exploded.

All over the world, boys and girls walked
out of the theatre in love for the night.

Why did it do such business? A guy
would take a different girl every night.

There were more pregnancies over
Love Storythan any film ever made.

People went back to see it three,
four, five, six times.

It was an aphrodisiac.

It even got raves from the critics.
This, I couldn't believe.

Time said it started a new Hollywood
and Ali ended up on its cover.

Me? I felt like Casanova.

The most extraordinary lady
in the world on my arm

and in her belly
a little Evans-to-be.

Hey, Ali. What's new?

You can say that on television now.

OK. Well, I'm gonna have a baby.

Isn't that great?

That's beautiful. Are you excited?

Sure. It's fabulous.

We're expecting to talk about
your expecting today.

I'd have to say no two people
in the entire world

were happier than Ali and myself.

We had to pinch ourselves each day
to believe all this was happening to us.

We had our Joshua,
we had ourselves.

Ali and Jackie Kennedy were the two
most admired women in America.

And me
I'm sure the luckiest motherfucker.

For the first time since I became
studio head, I had some job security.

Now it's garbage.

We had put together a string of hits,
including Rosemary's Baby,

Harold and Maude, The Odd Couple,
True Grit and Love Story.

In 1970,
we finally reached the mountaintop.

That air smelled mighty good up there.

Of all the major studios,
Paramount was now in first place.

It's hard to believe that four years
earlier we were in ninth.

It was the beginning of the Golden Era
of the new Hollywood.

Over the next four years, we would
collect 144 Oscar nominations,

stay number one
and go through a streak of hits

that to this day is unprecedented.

If I had to pick our crowning jewel,
I'd say it was a 30-page treatment

to a novel called Mafia,
written by Mario Puzo.

Turning treatment into novel, he asked
if he could change it to Godfather.

"Sure, why not?" I never thought
he would finish it anyway.

Well, he finished it. It became
the biggest book of the decade.

And there I was, holding the Hope
diamond. Euphoria? Wrong.

Paramount didn't wanna make the film.
"Sicilian mobster films don't play."

That's what these distribution guys
had to say.

And when you bat zero,
don't make another sucker bet.

I called up Peter Bart
at the studio late that night.

"What the fuck do we do?"
Peter shook his head, laughed.

"Evans, we got a problem."

"No, we don't.
We've gotta find a solution, Peter."

It must have been after two
in the morning and we found it.

Every one of the films
shared a thing in common.

They were written, directed
and produced

and usually starred Jews,
not Sicilians.

"There's a thin line, Peter,
between a Jew and a Sicilian.

"We're gonna make a picture
that's gonna be Sicilian to the core.

"You're gonna smell the spaghetti."
There was one problem.

It's hard to believe,
but in 1969

there wasn't a single Italian-American
director,

that's with any credibility.

Bart looks at me and he says,
"What about Coppola?"

"Are you nuts?
One thing for sure is he is."

Bart snaps right back at me,
"Brilliant, though."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's your esoteric
bullshit coming out.

"Face it, Bart.
This genius has made three pictures.

"You're a Big Boy Now,
an artsy-fartsy picture, did no business.

"Finian's Rainbow,
a top Broadway musical.

"He made it into a disaster.

"Now he's got The Rain People out,
which everyone's rained on.

"There's gotta be someone else.
Come on."

There wasn't.
But there was another problem.

Coppola didn't wanna do it.

This guy couldn't get a cartoon made,

yet didn't want to make
The Godfather.

Gotta give the guy credit.
His convictions were strong.

He didn't want to immortalise
the families

that blackened his Italian heritage.

After three long days of discussion
with this guy, Peter's on the horn.

"Coppola will make the picture
on one condition.

"That it's not a film
about organised gangsters."

"It's not about organised gangsters?
It ain't a musical, Peter.

"I told you the guy's nuts."

"He has an idea. He wants to make it
as a family chronicle,

"a metaphor for capitalism in America."

"Fuck him and the horse he rode in on.
He is nuts. Now get him out of here."

"Bob, I will if you want me to,
but take ten steps first.

"Let's not forget, he's Italian."

I had less than 48 hours
to make the decision.

Sell it or shake hands with the devil.

Coppola was announced
as The Godfather's maestro.

The shooting should take
several months.

The picture's scheduled for release
sometime around Christmas, 1971.

So if you see some old cars dashing
around or about New York

or see a gentleman taking
another gentleman somewhere

at the point of a loaded gun,
don't raise a hue and cry.

It's only the filming of The Godfather.

But New Yorkers don't raise
a hue and cry

about that sort of thing anyway,
do they?

This is Gene Huebert,
Fifth Avenue and 31 st Street.

It was the unveiling
of Francis' cut of The Godfather.

In the theatre sat Francis with his
assistants, editors and ass-kissers.

Plus the rest of his production
team were all there.

The film was to open in four months,

Paramount's Christmas gift
to the world.

The lights went down,
the picture started.

Two hours and six minutes later,
the room began to fill with light.

"Francis, I want to speak with you.
Alone."

I was on fire.

The prince himself took
a half hour to get to my office.

"Thanks for showing, Francis.

"All my boys were telling me
how great the picture is.

"They tell me not to touch a frame.
The picture stinks, Francis.

"You shot a great film. Where is it?
In your kitchen with your spaghetti?

"It sure ain't on the screen.

"Where's the family, the heart,
the feeling? Left in the kitchen too?"

Did Coppola glare. Schmuck.

"Name me a studio head that tells
a director to make a picture longer.

"Only a nut like me would.
But you're gonna do it.

"You shot a saga, pal,
but you turned in a trailer.

"Now go back
and give me a movie."

The next morning,
I told the New York honchos

that the picture could not
be ready for Christmas.

I didn't need a phone
to hear their screams.

Coppola?
Of course he agreed with them.

"You've got it for Christmas.
Evans is crazy.

"He wants to change everything.
He wants me to make it longer."

Then I get my orders and unalterable.

"Evans, the picture is to be ready
for Christmas and that is it."

Fine. I quit.

A year before, they would've
booted me out on my ass.

Yeah, but Love Story
saved Paramount.

And I was their fair-haired boy.

When you've only got one shot,

either you pull down
that beautiful brass ring

or you get them brass knuckles
in the balls.

You've got no second time around.

To Francis
and the entire company's chagrin,

Bluhdorn backed me
and backed me all the way.

Once again,
the eastern seaboard is reminded

that winter is never over
until Jack Frost gets a hotfoot

that will send him scurrying
on his way. The winter-weary...

It was the morning
of The Godfatherpremiere.

New York was suffering through
the worst March blizzard of the decade.

I was at the Carlyle Hotel
making last-minute preparations

when Ali came in from the cold.

Against her wishes,
I'd packed her off to Texas

to star with Steve McQueen
in The Getaway.

Two months had passed and I hadn't
once visited her on location.

Quickly, we embraced.

Instead of kissing her, I whispered,
"Wait here. I'm expecting a call."

Weeks ago, I had invited
Henry Kissinger to the premiere.

My timing couldn't have been worse.

The North Vietnamese offensive
had just begun and he begged off.

"Hello, this is Robert Evans.
May I please speak to Dr Kissinger?"

"Dr Kissinger's with the President.
He'll 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 he's on the phone.

"Bob, what's the urgency?"
"The Godfather."

"What?"
"Tonight's the premiere.

"Win or lose, it would be worth it
if I could walk in with you."

"I have a breakfast I can't get out of.
I'm leaving the country tomorrow."

"Henry, you didn't hear me.
I said I need you tonight."

Only later did I learn he was leaving
on a secret mission to Moscow.

The breakfast was
with the Joint Chiefs of Staff

to resolve the mining
of Haiphong Harbour.

I hung up, quickly called Bluhdorn.
"Charlie, Kissinger's coming."

"Kissinger? Kissinger?
Evans, I love you. I love you!"

That was Charlie Bluhdorn.
Not easy. But not bad, either.

The doors opened.
Enough flashbulbs went off

to light up the entire state
of New Jersey.

On one arm, Ali MacGraw,
the ravishing Mrs Evans.

On the other, the most charismatic
statesman in the world.

Is this really happening to me?

It was a blast.

I played master of ceremonies,
introducing anyone and everyone.

The screaming, the fights,
the threats

that never let up since day one
of filming were worth it.

Even Coppola, whom I had hired
over Paramount's objections

and then personally fired four
different times, came over to hug me,

closing the book
on two years of terrible battles.

Ali?
Well, she never looked more radiant.

For the rest of the night,
we danced as one.

Holding her tightly in my arms,
I felt the luckiest man in the world.

Could be the highest moment
of my life.

Was I dreaming it?

Any man who thinks he can read
the mind of a woman

is a man who knows nothing.

A month later, I was in Paris working
on the translation of The Godfather

into French, Italian,
German and Spanish.

I called Ali on the set of The Getaway,
but there was no answer in her room.

Jumping up in a cold sweat
from a bad dream,

I called El Paso again. No Ali.

Nah, I said to myself, it couldn't be.

Later that afternoon, I connected.

"Where the hell have you been,
baby?"

"I fell asleep in my dressing room."

"You're lying, Ali.

"You're with McQueen, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"Expect me in El Paso tomorrow."

"It's too late, Evans. You missed
the plane a long time ago."

I flew out that night to Texas.

Joshua and his nanny
were at the airport to greet me,

but no Ali.

I checked into a hotel
20 miles out of town.

Holding back my tears, I played
with my son for the next hours.

Ali arrived at nine that evening.
The last thing she wanted

was to spend the night with me.
But she did.

The next evening, she didn't return
to my border hideout.

I sped into town, ran up the stairs
to Ali's hotel and banged on the door.

"I need time to think, Evans.
Please, let me finish the picture

"and get home, for Josh's sake."

On the plane back to LA,
I checked my watch.

How could I have been
so fucking dumb?

It's an hour and 40 minute flight.
I never once took it

until infidelity got me off my ass.

Ali and McQueen had been having
an affair for months.

Was it her fault?

It was mine.

I ignored her one promise,
never to leave her.

Instead, I buried myself
into The Godfather.

Ali filed for divorce.

A few months later,
she and McQueen got hitched.

Joshua would live with them.

He would only know me now
as a weekend father.

Did it haunt me?

Let's just say when a woman leaves you,
it ain't easy. It never is.

But when that woman leaves you
for the biggest movie star in the world,

well, let's just say
it makes you feel small.

Finally, I turned all my attention
back to my other great love,

the mountain.

Maybe it was my mood,
but the more I thought about it,

the angrier I became.

For the last years, I had worked
night and day for Paramount.

Bluhdorn's golden boy now
wanted some gold of his own.

While I was living rich,
everyone around me was getting rich.

He's right. Give them an inch
and they step all over you.

My contract's up, but I'd been
throwing sevens too long.

And here I am,
still behind the eight ball.

I called on my consigliere
and closest friend Sidney Korshak,

one of the most feared lawyers
in the country.

"I'll take care of it and quick,"
said Korshak. "You're gonna get gross.

"I don't care if it's just one per cent
on every film."

Korshak may have been known
as the myth, but not to Charlie.

His proposal was turned down
flatter than Twiggy's chest.

Bluhdorn wasn't smart.
He was brilliant.

He knew my weak link, ego,
and he sure pressed it,

knowing it far overshadowed
my greed.

"Sidney, I want everybody to get rich,
but don't rape me. Don't rape me."

The real love of Charlie's life was
not family or sex or even business.

It was negotiating.

He would negotiate for anything,
from an airline to a potato.

"I want Bob to make history. I'm gonna
let him make a picture of his own

"under his own banner
and still run Paramount.

"The last person to have that
was Darryl Zanuck 30 years ago.

"I want him to get rich.
I'm so proud of him, Sidney."

Proud.

I would stay on at Paramount
as head of the studio

and would produce a picture a year
for five years. But no raise.

- You produced Chinatown.
- Right.

When we talk about that movie,
we call it Polanski's Chinatown.

That's a credit from a Director's Guild
point of view, which is very unfair.

It is Roman Polanski's Chinatown.
It's also Bob Towne's Chinatown.

But more so, and I don't say this
from an egotistical way,

it's Bob Evans' Chinatown.

I was on the picture for five years

and Roman was on it for nine months.

But it says
"Roman Polanski's Chinatown. "

My first independent production
had its origins

over a steak dinner with Bob Towne.

Towne unravelled an original story
he was writing.

"It's about how Los Angeles
became a boomtown.

"Incest and water.
It's set in the '30s.

"Second-rate shamus gets eighty-sixed
by a mysterious socialite.

"I'm writing it for Nicholson."

I had met Nicholson a few years back
and we'd become great pals.

"Sounds perfect for Irish.
What's it called?"

"Chinatown."

"Chinatown?

"You mean it takes place
in Chinatown?"

"No, no, no.
Chinatown is a state of mind."

"Oh, I got it."

I had no idea what the fuck
he was talking about.

Six months later, Towne delivered
his first draft of the script.

Just like the title,
it was pure Chinese.

Was I alone in my confusion?

Nobody, I mean nobody,
understood it.

One day, I was summoned
to a meeting with Charles Bluhdorn.

"Evans, don't make this
your first picture.

"No one at the studio
understands a word of it.

"The only place it'll play
is in your projection room."

I'm thinking, thinking, thinking.

I had Nicholson locked and even
though I didn't understand the script,

I knew Towne was a brilliant writer.

"Sorry, Charlie. Chinatown
is my next picture. I'm gonna make it."

Tonight we are honouring
for best motion picture drama

Chinatown,
The Conversation,

Earthquake,
The Godfather: Part II,

A Woman Under the Influence.
And the winner is...

The winner is...

...Chinatown.

Robert Evans of Paramount Pictures

will accept the Golden Globe Award
forChinatown.

Chinatown. It wins every award
you could ever think of.

To this day,

it's considered the quintessential
private-eye film of its time.

It's a hell of a way to meet
Catherine Deneuve. It certainly is.

This is the second award,
and I'm only a small part of it,

that I've won in my life.

The first was for the Most Promising
Newcomer of the Year.

It was the Photoplay Award, 1957.
And were they wrong.

The attention the picture got
caused an uproar

with every creative bit of talent
in the studio.

"How can Evans run the studio,

"be involved with our pictures
and make his own?"

They were all fucking jealous.

If the picture had flopped,
it wouldn't have made a difference.

Confrontation time.
I was given two choices.

Continue running the studio,
with a much increased deal by the way,

or go out with my own banner
and make films.

It was a tough choice, but I was
just tired of working 18 hours a day

eight days a week
to make everyone else rich but myself.

With that in mind, I said,
"Goodbye, studio.

"Hello, producer."
And went out on my own.

Though I was in my forties,
the entire drug era had passed me by.

It wasn't my scene.
I rarely ever drank.

For two years, I had been suffering
from a severe pain,

the result of a sciatic nerve problem.

Lying beside me one night
was a Hollywood princess.

"Is it me?" she asked.
"The pain can't be that bad."

Wearing only a necklace,
she handed it to me.

Unscrewing the top, she whispered,

"Take a sniff, a sniff of life."

It was my first experience
into the world of white.

The seducer had been seduced.

I was working 18 hours a day,
seven days a week,

with no plans to slow down.

With six pictures in development
and two in production, I felt invincible.

The first flick was Marathon Man
and it went straight through the roof.

- I salute you. To your health.
- Hear, hear!

I followed it up with Black Sunday,

then Urban Cowboy.
Popeye was on its way.

At the age of 50,
I was on my way

to becoming the youngest recipient
of the Thalberg Award.

Goodbye '70s, hello '80s.
Here I come.

It's fair to say that you live
a lot of people's dream.

Seen in magazines,
dating models and movie stars.

Is it as good as it looks?

I most probably lead
as much of a lonely life

as any man you know.
I have no free time for myself.

I have no way of knowing myself
as a person.

I don't like myself as a person.

Bob, I keep seeing pictures of you
with gorgeous women.

Are they important in your life,
women?

- Yes, women are very important.
- How? How important?

I haven't had the opportunity
of taking advantage of life at all.

You say you see pictures of me
with beautiful women.

I don't go out
with many different women.

My life is not to be envied.
I envy many other people.

I can go a week
without going out with anybody.

- Don't you get terrible headaches?
- No, no.

Are you an obsessive record keeper?

It's said you had albums of pictures
and things.

I'm not as... I wish I was
more obsessive about that.

Is that Jack Nicholson?

If he knew that was being shown,
he'd kill me.

It was taken in the privacy of a room.

I have to inject here a moment
because Bobby Evans...

- We dated and had a great time.
- I also dated him.

Is there anybody on the panel
who didn't date him?

- He was very busy in the '50s.
- And he was terrific, wasn't he?

On May 2nd 1980,

I got a call from an associate of mine
in New York.

A woman we knew was offering
to sell us pharmaceutical cocaine

at bargain prices.

Pharmaceutical cocaine was mythical,

manufactured by only one company
in America, Merck.

So mythical was its allure

that it became the DEA's most effective
bait to entrap schmuck buyers.

24 hours later,
my associate was on the horn.

"What do I tell her?
She's called twice."

Me being the gambler,
and maybe the fool, said,

"Hell, let's buy it."

The deal was to go down on Friday.

I waited by the phone all day.

No call.

At 7:45 that evening,
I was going out the door

when my houseman hailed me.
It was my associate.

"Bob, Mike and I have been arrested.
We've been set up by the DEA."

"Arrested?
What are you talking about?"

"Nothing's gonna go wrong.
It'll all be taken care of.

"You have nothing to worry about.
Your name was not mentioned."

It was the biggest mistake of my life.

How could I have been
so fucking dumb?

Was Bluhdorn angry?

Foaming at the mouth.

"I'll never forgive you, Evans."

He never did.

Gone now was the sacred embrace
of Bluhdorn,

never to return again.

Paramount, the company I saved
from the graveyard,

gave a terse statement to the press
concerning my new infamy.

"Evans is not an employee of
Paramount and has not been for years.

"He is an independent contractor,
producing pictures for us."

May 2nd 1980.

What a difference a day makes.

Judge Brodericks' dictate

was to produce
a 30-second anti-drug spot.

Well, I did a little more than that.

I produced a series of week-long
specials for NBC

entitled Get High on Yourself.
It was a happening.

All my friends showed

and it became known as
"The Woodstock of the '80s."

I've never been as high on myself
as I am now.

It must have been
a month and a half ago.

I had 100 people here, my kid was
here and I ran the commercials.

When it was over,
he came to me and said,

"I'm so proud of you."
First time he's ever said it.

"I'm so proud of you, Daddy.
Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

And if I get nothing more out of it,
nothing,

I've been really paid my remuneration
for whatever I've done.

Bob, aside from Get High on Yourself,
what are your future projects?

I have The Cotton Club, which I'm
starting in June. A project I love.

Ain't as important as
Get High on Yourself, though.

Paramount had no interest
in my next picture, The Cotton Club.

So in May of '82
I flew to the Cannes Film Festival

to secure independent financing.

Sylvester Stallone,
at the time the biggest star in the world,

had agreed to play the lead.

And I was there to announce it.

I was supposed to meet 400 distributors

on a Monday morning at 9am at breakfast.

I get a call at two o'clock that morning.

"Hello, Bob. This is Sly."

And I said, "Yeah, Sly?"

He said, "You know, Bob,
I don't think I wanna do the picture."

So I said, "I don't understand.
I mean, we have a contract."

"You don't understand, Bob.
I don't like the script."

I said, "Well, you worked on it.
What is it, Sly?"

He said, "I'm not getting paid
enough money for it."

To make a very long story
and very long conversation,

rather bitter, short,
he backed away.

Now, here I have 400
of the top buyers in the world

and I have no star
and I have half a script.

I said, "Ladies and gentlemen,
I'm going to show you a poster.

"But I want to tell you that the film
will not be any better than the poster.

"So if you don't like the poster,
please don't buy the film."

And I unravelled a poster

which I had worked on for eight months
with two artists.

And I said, "This is the poster."

I passed it around
and they all looked at it.

And it says the whole story.
"Its violence startled the world"

No, "Its violence startled the nation
and its music startled the world."

And they all looked at the poster
and I said, "That's the picture."

So one fellow from Switzerland says,
"Who's gonna star in the film?"

I said, "Mr Schmidt,
I won't let you have the picture."

On August 28th 1983,
principal photography commenced.

Francis offered to direct the film.
How could I refuse?

Francis directing it, Mario writing it,
me producing it.

What a shot of touching magic.

Hey, we didn't do too bad
on The Godfather, did we?

Was I wrong!

The production was a disaster.

Over-budget, over-schedule.
And me?

I was barred from the set
by the prince himself.

It was the hottest movie drama
in Los Angeles today

in a downtown federal courtroom.

The legal battle was over
who would control

production of the film Cotton Club.

The Cotton Club has been a subject
of intense interest and gossip.

The Cotton Club,
a multi-million dollar production

of Robert Evans and Francis Ford
Coppola has become the subject of...

You say Evans would second-guess you
if he was back in command?

That's his middle name.
That's what he does, all these years.

Will the picture be a success?

Francis' work on it is brilliant.
I hope we'll be working together.

We've fought before many times,
only it wasn't in court.

I hope we have the same luck
we had on The Godfather.

Despite a lengthy court battle,

the film is expected to open
in theatres in December.

The Cotton Club
opened later that month.

While some of the critics
praised the film,

others just didn't get it.

Neither did the audiences.

The picture quickly faded away,

thus ending the first half of the '80s.

The good half.

I had no idea what lay ahead.

Two days ago,
a badly decomposed body

was found in this riverbed
in Copco Canyon, Gorman,

in northern Los Angeles County.

An autopsy indicated the victim died
of a single gunshot wound.

A beekeeper made a grisly discovery.

I crossed through a dry wash,
went around a bush

and there was a hand sticking up
and a body laying there.

The body found in the Gorman area
this past Friday

has positively been identified
as Mr Roy Radin.

It was midnight when the phone rang.
A bit pissed, I picked up the phone.

"Yeah?" It was my attorney,
Robert Shapiro.

"Roy Radin is dead."

I lay there in shock, totally stunned.

I met Roy Radin a few months earlier

through a mutual acquaintance
named Laney Jacobs.

Radin and I met and discussed
forming a production company.

The Cotton Club might have been
one of the films under the banner.

We shook hands,
but nothing ever really came of it.

"What does that have to do with me?"

"Nothing and everything."

Shapiro told me the police would be
calling and they'd want to talk to me.

I told them everything
I had remembered about Roy Radin.

Laney Jacobs introduced
Evans to Roy Radin.

For the next six years, the name Robert
Evans was making headlines again.

No, I wasn't buying Warner Bros.
This time I was buying infamy.

The Cotton Club murder case...

Doors closed on me quietly.

Calls made were not returned.

Though I was still ensconced
in the primo offices of Paramount,

I may as well have been a shadow.

Finally, in the spring of '89,

after six long years of innuendos
on my character,

the Roy Radin case went to trial.

Laney Jacobs, the woman
who introduced me to Radin,

was tried for his murder.

The prosecutor outlined a case
of money and drugs.

The evidence is going to show that
this woman here, Laney Greenberger,

had two problems with a man
by the name of Roy Radin.

He told the jury that Laney
had asked Radin for a finder's fee

for introducing him to myself.

When Radin refused to pay it,
Laney became irate.

Two weeks before his murder, Laney,
a part-time coke dealer,

suspected Radin of stealing
a large amount of cocaine from her.

At this point,
Laney decided to kill him.

After getting into her chauffeur-driven
limousine with her,

Mr Radin was never seen alive again.

Jacobs and her accomplices were
convicted for the murder of Roy Radin.

Me?
Well, I wasn't even a suspect.

I was a tangential character
in the proceedings, at best.

However, the name Evans gets ink.

If you live by the sword,
know damn well you could die by it.

For many a decade,
the sword treated me real well.

Maybe too well.

Popeye and Urban Cowboy
hit the screens in 1980.

Now, seven years later,
the only product Evans was delivering

to the mountain of Paramount
was embarrassment.

Ending whatever I had left
of a legacy-to-be,

I was paid a rare visit
by Richard Zimbert,

the head honcho of business affairs.

He walked into my office,
not a happy camper.

"We go back too long, Evans,
and this is not me talking.

"It's orders. I can't help it.
Do you want the truth?"

Our eyes met.
I knew what he was going to say.

"No. But I gotta hear it, Dick.
Shoot."

"Bob, there's not one person
at Paramount

"that wants to do business with you."

"Dick, the only surprise is that
it's taken you this long to tell me."

I suppose when it's over, it's over.

It was hard for him
to say the next words.

"Your office, Bobby. We need a date."

"Is 90 days okay, Dick?"

"Yeah, sure.
If you want more, take more."

"No, 90 days will be fine."

Once king of the mountain,

now I was not even allowed
to climb it.

My 20-year home had been pulled
from under me.

From behind the gates
of Paramount,

I was now behind the gates
of Woodland.

For an entire decade,

my kid stood watching his father's life
fall to shambles.

Once I was a king, his mother told him.

My character, persona and
professional abilities were now lost.

Below-the-belt punches were hitting
me harder from all directions.

The effects of public disgrace,
the effects of drugs

and the effects of continued failure
never before experienced

all but shrivelled me into obscurity.

So deep was my depression

that I wanted to get into a car
and drive south one way.

Finally, I'd rid myself of the last
bastion of my dignity.

I sold my Woodland home
to a wealthy French industrialist.

The effect was that I all but lost
the will to function.

Nightmares were telling me
I would never leave there alive.

Then lightning struck, bad lightning.

I had nowhere to turn.

Fearing the worst, suicide,

I looked for protection.

I committed myself to the Scripps
Memorial Hospital, a loony bin.

I was put behind bars
and stripped of all my belongings.

The claustrophobia alone shot my blood
pressure up over to the 200 mark.

Not wanting a DOA on their hands,

the nurses shoved sedatives
down my throat trying to calm me.

A horrible mistake, with no way out.

Is it safe?

I had to take control of the never-ending
bad dream my life had become.

Never having been
psychiatrically orientated,

I knew that action, not therapy,
was my only shot at survival.

Take your time.
Tell me.

That night,
I snuck out of my cell-like room

and found my way
to a phone booth in the ward.

I called my limo driver, John Paul,
collect.

"John Paul, meet me tomorrow at noon
on the dot and wait.

"It might be an hour, a day, a week.
I don't care.

"Keep your motor running, got it?"

The next morning,
when all the attendants were busy,

I made my dash and made the elevator
as it closed behind me.

"I made it," I thought to myself.

As soon as I hit the bottom floor,
there were two goons waiting for me.

You're a very nosy fella, kitty-cat.

You know what happens to nosy fellas?
No? Wanna guess?

No? OK.
They lose their noses.

I made my dash.

The two goons were right behind me.
100 yards away my car was waiting.

I had to make it before they got me.

I was older than both of them together,
but they lacked one thing, heart.

I breathlessly made it into the car,

slammed the door as I grabbed
for a tiny bottle of J&B.

"Back to Woodland,"
I said to John Paul.

My limo was pulling into the gates
of my once-owned Woodland sanctuary.

What had been my Garden of Eden
for close to a quarter of a century

was mine no more.

Even more painful was that I was
now a tenant in my own home,

paying 25,000 dollars a month
for the privilege of living there.

Could I afford it?

Not by a long shot.

I knew that getting my home,
my roots of 25 years, back

was vital to my survival.

There was a big problem.

The new owner, a wealthy French
industrialist named Tony Murray,

had no intention of selling it back.

Without asking,
Jack Nicholson did a Henry Kissinger.

He flew to Monte Carlo and begged
Tony to sell me back my home.

Tony was shocked Jack would fly
halfway around the world

to plead for what he considered
just a piece of real estate.

Wherever Tony went,
he'd tell the story.

"Imagine! Jack Nicholson
on his knees to me.

"These film people, they're all crazy."

The impact of Jack's plea, however,
caused Tony to waiver.

He got me back my home.

Thanks, pal.

A year passed. It was close
to midnight on a Tuesday evening.

The phone kept ringing.
It awakened me out of a deep sleep.

It was only eleven o'clock.
Should I pick it up?

Nah. I know I didn't win the lottery.

Hey, maybe it's the broad
I slipped my number to last night.

Hey, it's not too late.
I'm up. I hope it's her.

Disguising my voice to protect me
from bad news or bad company,

I Englished it.
"Evan's residence."

I was wrong again.
It wasn't the broad.

But I sure won the fucking lottery.

It was Stanley Jaffe on the phone,
just made head of Paramount.

I'd given Stanley his first big gig
back in 1967 on Goodbye, Columbus.

"Called to tell you one thing.

"From this day on, the life of Robert
Evans is going to be a better one.

"You're way overdue, kid.
Now sleep well."

Stanley Jaffe's loyalty to me
was such

that it gave me back my dignity.

Back behind the gates
of Paramount I went.

And back to my old offices,
the best on the lot.

Do you believe in miracles?
Well, I do now.

I don't understand it,
this world of fickle flicks.

It's been 30 years now
and I'm still here,

still standing behind them gates.
Bet your house it ain't been dull.

I've either done it or gotten it.
You name them, I've met them.

Well, almost.

I've either worked, fought, hired,
fired, laughed, cried with them,

figuratively fucked by them,
literally fucked them.

It's been one hell of a ride.

Where is everyone?
Dead? Most.

Wealthy? Some.
Destitute? Yeah, many.

Retired? I don't know.
I ain't seen them.

One thing I do know. I ain't dead,
I ain't wealthy, I ain't destitute.

And I ain't retired.
Can't afford any of them.

Gotta keep standing,
stay in the picture.

My life today?
More volatile than ever.

This last year alone I've been
shot down, bloodied, accused,

threatened, disgraced,
betrayed, scandalised, maligned.

Tough?
You bet your ass it is.

But I ain't complaining.
Nothing comes easy.

The last question.

Is it truly worth it?

Sure. Know why? I love what I do.
And very few people do.

And when you think of most
of the work you do in life,

most of people's lives
are spent in their endeavours.

Few people enjoy what they do
and I love what I do.

So, yeah, it's worth it.
Damn right it's worth it.

OK. 1996. Robert Evans,
20 years from now.

Are we rolling? We're rolling?
Why didn't you tell me?

- I don't know if we're rolling.
- We're rolling.

Thank you very much.

My fellow Americans,
I'm coming to you tonight

because I am contemplating
ending my life.

After many years as head
of Paramount Studios

and then an independent producer

and suffering a terrible disaster
with my first independent venture...

...Marathon in Drag.
I can't remember. It was 20 years ago.

Anyways, I would like to ask you
all over the country

if you have a script
and it's a love story, I'll do it.

I don't care if it's in drag
or a monkey fucking an elephant.

If it's good, I'll do it.
That's a promise. You send it to me.

I just want to say
that I would talk more to you,

but I don't have the strength.
I'm in the hospital.

There's a Sony tape recorder here
and this is a maternity ward.

They tell me I just had a baby.
I never knew I had a vagina.

It came as a shock to me,

but I just talked to my wife,
Sue Mengers,

and she says didn't I know
she had a cock all the time?

I never knew it.
I give you my word.

She came in yesterday and showed it.
It was a terrific cock.

One of the biggest I ever saw.

Wait a minute. Is that phone for me?
Well, I'm recording. I can't talk.

Yeah, who's this? I can't talk.
I'm on television. Wait, stop rolling.

Yeah, what is it?
Who? Joyce Haber?

I remember her.
That was 20 years ago.

She died.
I can't come to the funeral.

Why am I going to her funeral?
I'm sorry. I'm too busy.

Send her something.

I don't know. Whatever she eats.
Candy, whatever.

Oh, she's dead now?

If she's dead, then what do you want
me to see her for?

Just get it done immediately.
I gotta go. Thanks.

What? I'm sorry, I gotta talk.
This is my wife. Yes, Sue.

My wife is Ms Mengers, one of the top
agents in town 20 years ago.

Today, business is terrible.

She's in Las Vegas.
She's a croupier at the Dunes.

At night she doubles as a dune.
She's a dune.

People go see her, they say,
"Sue Mengers's the dune."

She's a good dune, though.
The best dune I ever fucked.

I'm sorry, Sue. No, I can't. I have
to go back in my closet and clean it.

I haven't cleaned it in a long time.
They put me in a closet.

I don't know why.
They said I'd understand.

But I'm coming out
of the closet very soon.

The delivery was fine.
Yeah, it hurt a little.

Yeah, but it was wonderful.
They shaved me. Yeah.

I don't know. I can't talk.
I have to get off. I gotta see dailies.

I wanna see dailies of my delivery.

I wanna see myself giving birth.

They got a big close-up of my cunt.
It's terrific. I'll see you. Take care.

I want to thank you very much
for listening.

And I wanna say that I wish...

...all of you a healthy life
because my life is over.

And I was just gonna ask one favour.

President Warren Beatty
has asked me to ask your vote again

and I ask you to do it,
just for me.

He has some terrible scandal on me.
I'm afraid he's gonna tell it.

And it's very embarrassing to me.
So please vote for Warren Beatty.

And I wish you a good evening
and...