Saturday, November 26, 2022

VIDEO: THE FRIENDS OF LAWRENCE TIERNEY, HOLLYWOOD’S REAL-LIFE TOUGH GUY


©2022 By Burt Kearns

 

More than sixty films. More than thirty television roles. More than seventy arrests.

 

Lawrence Tierney was the toughest, meanest, coldest actor in Hollywood, onscreen and off. An overnight sensation in 1945 as Public Enemy #1 in the movie Dillinger, he proceeded to drink and brawl his way out of a career by the early 1950s – or so it seemed. Lawrence Tierney is the great untold story of the dark side of Hollywood – a story of alcoholism, madness and violence, but also survival, loyalty, and genius. Much more than another fall-from-grace-to-the-gutter entry in Hollywood Babylon, Tierney was a truly gifted actor, and after Hollywood had forgotten him as the tall, handsome, fearsome star of its Golden Age, he made a comeback as a craggy, gravel-voiced, bald-headed — and fearsome — old man who befriended and inspired a new generation of filmmakers and writers, from John Sayles to Quentin Tarantino.


 

My new book, Lawrence Tierney: Hollywood’s Real-Life Tough Guy, is the first biography of this legendary Hollywood figure. In October, I got together with some of the people who are featured in the book – Tierney’s friends – for NoirCon, the virtual film noir conference. Director Jeff Burr; screenwriter, author and director C. Courtney Joyner; film historian and horror movie maven David Del Valle; and Tierney family historian and Tierney’s nephew Tim Tierney, joined me and film noir scholar Dr. Jason A. Ney for a freewheeling, clip-filled discussion about the life and crimes of Lawrence Tierney.  The panel discussion had been restricted to folks who bought tickets for the conference, but now, we present it on Legsville.com.

 

More to come. And more information at LawrenceTierneyBook.com, where first edition copies of the book from the University Press of Kentucky are now on sale.

 



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Burt Kearns is the author of three books, including Lawrence Tierney: Hollywood’s Real-Life Tough Guy, which is available for sale on Amazon.com. He also writes and produces nonfiction television and documentary films.








Friday, September 2, 2022

THE ULTIMATE JERRY LEWIS INTERVIEW: WHY LABOR DAY WEEKEND WILL ALWAYS BE JERRY’S WEEKEND


September 2, 2022

Legsville.com

©2022 By Burt Kearns

Labor Day Weekend will always be Jerry’s Weekend. It will for a great many people at least, at least a great many people I know. For us, Labor Day and Jerry Lewis go together like, well, like Jerry Lewis and France — or Jerry Lewis and people who can’t stand Jerry Lewis. In any case, for forty-four years, Jerry Lewis gave his life to and hosted the Muscular Dystrophy Association Telethon (soon to be officially the “Jerry Lewis Telethon”) from New York, from Los Angeles, and for twenty-eight years from Las Vegas, raising over the course of those years, more than two and a half billion dollars for the cause. And for some reason, he took a lot of abuse from critics for doing it.

The Jerry Lewis Telethon was an annual tribute to the kind of show business that Jerry Lewis ruled, twenty-one and a half hours of personal psychodrama, meltdowns and crying jags, lectures and pure lunatic comedy. Contemporary and even some pop stars had a place among the Borsht Belt  comics and oldies acts like Cornell Gunter’s Coasters and a nonstop procession of corporate check-presenters. It was the last gasp of 20th century vaudeville, really, more outdated and incorrect as the years passed. The writing on the wall was clear in 2007, when Jerry had to apologize for calling someone “an illiterate fag” on the air – it was late in the broadcast, Jerry was fooling around, it was a gag that would’ve gotten a laugh at the Friars’ Club, but it really spelled curtains for the 20th century. Jerry was in his eighties and in 2010, the MDA gave him the unceremonious boot. Jerry always said the Telethon was bigger than he was, but that was the end. They cut the hours the following year, kept cutting until the telethon was a television special with no-name hosts. In 2014, it was over. Jerry died in 2017, fifteen days before Labor Day. There was no vigil outside his Las Vegas mansion, a vacant lot away from Martin Luther King Boulevard and the 15 freeway, but he lives on Labor Day weekend.

So why will Labor Day Weekend always be Jerry’s Weekend?  What follows should provide some answers. It’s an interview, conducted on the eve of the 1989 telethon from Las Vegas.  I’d been following Jerry around with a camera crew for about a week. He was comfortable. He was sixty-three.  He was surrounded by fans.  His family was always close by. His second wife, SanDee (“Sam”) was there, along with his doctor. Three of his six sons showed up to show off grandkids and maybe help out. A fourth son arrived with his band to perform on the telethon in the wee hours of the morning.  (The Telethon was always the one place Gary Lewis and The Playboys could play for a national audience.) Another son was somewhere out there, stalking Jerry, threatening to kill him. A security team was in the area, hoping to stop him before he did. (He didn’t. Joey Lewis died, a suicide in 2009).  Jerry had recently lost another child when Sam miscarried (he and Sam would adopt Danielle, born in 1992). When we sat down for the interview, Jerry was comfortable. He knew we were fans. I’d just given him one of my copies of Jerry Lewis Just Sings. He was low key. And he talked about loyalty, revenge, cruelty, drug addiction, miscarriages — and even talked about himself in the third person. This may be the purest expression of Jerry Lewis.

 

You meet, what? Hundreds of kids every year, dystrophic kids?

JERRY LEWIS: Sure.

You get to know a lot of them personally. You called them on the phone today. What is it like for you to know them? And then, what does it do to you when you lose ’em?

JL:  When I lose a dystrophic child, or one of my kids — which they, by the way, chose to be called. I’m rapped for that too, you know, “my kids.” They also chose “Never Walk Alone” as their theme song, and I did it for them — But when I lose one of my kids, I feel a void, and I feel like I am not doing the job. Then when I have a moment to reflect on it, I turn that into positive energy. I get angry. I get very angry.

For example, there’s a chairman of the board of an important corporation that was giving me iffy answers about a project that I wanted to work on that would enhance the research in a certain city in this country. I was allowing him to procrastinate, and I was allowing him to put me off somewhat. Then I lost little Eddie Brooks in Atlanta, Georgia. Eddie was eleven. Eleven years old. I was shattered and — and then I got angry. The day that it happened, I called this CEO. I said, “I want to see you tomorrow, and I will fly to where you are.” And he said, “Okay.” And I flew to where he was, and I walked in on him. And I said, “We’ve been batting the ping pong ball back and forth for three months. I’m leaving here one way or another. I will disrupt your company with the worst kind of gossip that you ever heard in your life, or you’re gonna become one of the greatest heroes since Patton. Now which is it gonna be?” And we talked. And I walked out of there with enough money to build a research center in a city in this country that I’m very proud of, that’s gone up with this man’s help out of anger.

Now, it doesn’t always happen that way, but that one worked.

Today, if something goes wrong, I’ll turn it into positive energy. I’ll do some kind of gag about it, make my crew member feel better about it, and the audience will never know whether I’m really having a problem or not. So it’s all positive. This way is better. Positive energy. I sound like Norman Vincent Peale, for Christ’s sake.

How long have you had this attitude? Has it always been this way for you?

JL:  No, no, no, no, no, no. As you get older, you get wiser. As you get older, you look back. And I’m a born reviewer. I look at material over the years. I like to look and see the work that I’ve done. I don’t go back too far, but I do like to look at the material, and I like to look at attitudes.

I remember in 1978, I was cleaned out. I was a Percodan addict, and I was in very big trouble for a number of years. I blew the whistle on myself in People magazine, because I felt I could help other people that were in the same trouble. So I wanted to review what I looked like in ’77. Could you see it in my eyes? I was taking thirteen Percodan a day. I mean, I’m talking about heavy-duty, world-class addict. That came from prescription drugs, because I had injured my spine, a pain that I live with every day of my life. Still live with it.

When I put that tape on and looked at ’77 — (laughs) Oh, holy Christ. I didn’t even remember doing that telethon. I didn’t remember. There’s a period between ’73 and ’77 that’s black. I don’t remember making the four films that I made, the five telethons. I don’t remember the twelve weeks that I appeared at the Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas. I don’t remember the Royal Command Performance for Her Majesty and the family. I don’t remember my opening or the fifteen concerts in France. I remember nothing from ’73 to ’77. So I like to look at those years and see what that man was. How did he get on that stage? But by God, he performed. He did it. When you’re performing since you’re five years old, which is now, fifty-eight years for me, you have a know-withal and a tremendous ability to rise above stuff, which is what I was doing in that period. That’s the best editorial I can give you. I was rising above whatever the problems were, and the professionalism was carrying me.

So I looked and I looked and in reviewing as I did the material, I helped myself change a lot of that conduct, ’cause a lot of that conduct, even though I wasn’t responsible — or he, Jerry, wasn’t responsible for a lot of his actions — I sure didn’t like a lot of the stuff I saw. And whether it was the Percodan or it was Jerry’s attitude, one or the other displeased me. And I made sure to fix a lot of that, starting with (laughs) no longer being addicted. And secondly, fixing things that were really best for him the performer and the audience.

 

Do you have any apologies about Jerry over the years?

JL:  No, not really. He never meant to hurt anybody. That I can say for him. And I can be as objective about him as anybody. I sleep with him. That’s as close as you can get. He’s been raucous. He’s been defined as a — and I’ve recognized a lot of this – he’s been rowdy, boisterous, distasteful, abrasive, caustic, abusive. Always to give someone pleasure though. Always to get a laugh. Uh, very young in a lot of cases, which is a defense that I don’t think will hold up.

He — I’m better now, but I wouldn’t apologize for anything, other than sitting down and, by design, looking to hurt somebody. Now, I know there are people like that that plan to do harm to someone, or that don’t care that they’ve done it. I can’t live with myself if I hurt somebody or if I do the wrong thing. If I’m abrasive, yes, or caustic or pushy or aggressive, the defense for a lot of that is because very often you have to include that in your menu, or you’re half a performer.

In the case of going on the air Sunday night, you can’t badger your audience, but you do have to be strong in your convictions. They’re not going to like ya if you’re a wimp, and they may not like ya if you’re too strong. So if you can find that wonderful middle somewhere, and I don’t like to police me. I don’t put up on the board: “In the third hour, Jerry will become emotional.” I get emotional when I get emotional. I cry when I cry. This audience has had forty years to scrutinize me. If I’m holding 100 to 120 million people throughout this twenty-four hours, many of this audience has grown up with me. They trust me. They believe in what I’m doing. You can’t hold an audience that long unless they do. Then the numbers on the board validify that fact.

I get letters from people sometimes that say you should have challenged that guy that wrote what he wrote. Well one year I did. I took off on the press, and I really — well, this is not the platform for it. It was wrong. I apologized after the fact, because I realized was wrong. Everything I said was right, but this is not the place for it. So that was wrong. And I’m the first one to tell you I’m wrong. You know why it’s easy for me? Because I’m gonna be the first one to tell you I’m right. Now, before you can do that, you gotta do the other. People will not take hearing from you that you’re right unless they hear from you when you’re wrong. Simple. Everybody will go with you. They’ll go with you a hundred percent.

What kind of changes do you go through emotionally and otherwise during the telethons? Staying up, that sleep deprivation period and everything else?

JL:  Well, it’s a roller coaster. That’s what it is. There’s highs and there’s lows. My eyes are three-sixty. I see everything happening in the theater, whether it’s music is in place or it isn’t in place. If I see a corporate sponsor making a move towards the stage prematurely, I’m catching that. My roller coaster dips and has now taken the high ride, because he should have been in place. Now, I have to fill so the audience doesn’t know. That’s a charge or a rush I have to give myself so the audience doesn’t know there’s trouble.

I see two or three of my kids seated in wheelchairs, I might see somebody push the wheelchair to make room for a camera. That tends to upset me, watching a wheelchair getting shoved. That’s back on the roller coaster. Now I’m on the air, and I have to let the audience (laughs) know that the next performer’s gonna really entertain them, and I can’t wait to get down there to whoever it was that pushed the wheelchair to take care of that. Well, I can’t let the audience know that. They’re never gonna see it. So you’re on the roller coaster again.

Now I’m looking at the wee hours of the morning, and the tote board isn’t moving. The phones aren’t going. Now unlike other telethons, you’ll see any other telethon that goes on the air, the host goes to sleep around midnight. And they come back the next morning refreshed around ten o’clock. That’s not a telethon! I walk out there at six o’clock Sunday night, and I don’t leave that stage until twenty-two hours later. Now, I am off during the cutaway to take a shower, change tux. That happens maybe five, six times. Last year, we calculated I was off the stage — literally off the stage, showers and tux changes — thirty-nine minutes.

Is that a performer’s dream or a performer’s nightmare?

JL: Oh, it’s a nightmare. It’s an absolute nightmare. It’s the commitment you’ve made. And I believe you either do a telethon or you don’t. See, I call the others halfathons. Want to do a halfathon? Good. Start it, do three hours, go to sleep for ten hours, and come back and do six hours. That’s a halfathon.

Is it easy to fall asleep after this?

JL: No, I usually have a production meeting after we go off the air. I’ll rap with my crew for anywhere between three and four hours talking about what we can do to make it better. My next production meeting is only six weeks after the show is over. The first production meeting for the next year is like the, uh, second week in October.

And then it starts all over again.

JL: You bet. It’s the only way you can sustain. There’s a reason we’re number one, and there’s a reason why we’re able to do what we do. It’s not slick, it’s not straight cut with edit tech, commercial, sponsor, Hollywood, Vegas. Half of them are doing the things that we have created, that we have, as the originators, have stopped doing. But still, with it all, you have to do the best entertaining show you can. That’s the most important thing is to entertain the people. And inform.

Now, through all these years, there’s been one question that people always have asked. And there’s been rumors about it, and you’ve never answered it. I don’t think you’re gonna answer it now, but why do you do it? What made you start it?

JL: I just have to do it. Something personal happened to me. It had nothing to do with any of my children, none of my family were ever afflicted with this disease, which is why most people do those things. But something personal traumatized my life in 1949 and I have told people for the last forty years, the important thing is not why I do it, but that I do it. That’s the only answer I got for you.

How is the pressure building now on you as we get closer to the telethon?

JL: Well, I work well under pressure. I have always worked best under pressure. I write best when I’m on deadline. I perform best when I get to the dressing room. I gotta get into my tux and get downstairs. (laughs) I don’t know why that is but pressure has never really bothered me. Stress is a killer. Stress, I can’t handle. Now, the difference between pressure and stress, I think, at least in my own humble opinion, is pressure is what we all go through in our own respective work. Stress is when you are thrown into a working condition with incompetence and they’re not doing the job. You’re working under tremendous energy, getting the things done that must be done. And the kind of stress that comes from someone who doesn’t care, and that’s why they’re an incompetent, can give you chest pains. Chest pains is the beginning of going to the OR, where they open your chest with a Black & Decker, like I had.

Which you know about.

JL: Yeah, which I know about. So stress is what really slows me down.  I had a perfect example of it today. My crew was working in the theater. There is an act that uses smoke in the act. I don’t think it’s necessary to blow everyone out of the theater in a rehearsal with that smoke, which will take us some time to clear out. And I told my crew, “Rehearse them without the smoke. They are not in their outfits. They’re not dressed in that number that they’re gonna do come showtime. What do you need the smoke for? We know there’s gonna be smoke.” The smoke has been checked. We’ve checked it technically, that the cameras will read it, lights can photograph. Well, people are coughing and choking. (laughs) They overloaded with smoke, and I could have saved them that if they just would have listened. They mean to listen, but they really think that they’re doing the right thing. Then I get stress. I have to walk in a corner, just for about two minutes, and talk myself out of the stress, and I’m okay.

 

You mentioned people that are incompetent leading to this stress. It seems that you’re the one who makes sure that everyone that’s working for you cares. You’re in the middle of everything. What drives you all year to do this?

JL: Well, I am part of a team. I have a marvelous director and I have a marvelous co-producer. I have to have their undying and their unrelenting loyalty in this parcel. And you don’t do that just by saying, “How do you do? I’d like you to be loyal.” You do that over a period of ten, twelve years. And I’ve had that good fortune of having these people for ten and twelve and twenty and twenty-five and thirty years. I’ve got them to the point where they understand that I care deeply and desperately about what we’re doing. I can’t expect them to care as I do, but what I do expect of them is to just give it a shot. Try to open up enough so that you give me your talent while you care about giving me your talent. But when I see a technician look at his watch and yawn, that’s a virus. That’s contagious. That runs through the crew. Now, most crew members are very proud people. They’re very, very proud of their creative output. When there’s a member of the crew that goes – (exaggerated yawn) —  that’s a depressant. The crew doesn’t want to see that guy, ’cause it’s catching. Yawning is catching, anyhow.  So he tells me he doesn’t want to be here. So what I do is I pay him off. I pay him for what he would’ve earned had he worked the entire program. But the important thing is to get him away from the good hard-working members of this company.

Now you don’t make friends doing that, but I have wonderful people that take care of that for me. I’ll go to (the director) and I’ll say, “Tom, this guy hasn’t done a day’s work of any consequence, plus the fact he’s injecting our wonderful crew with a virus. Let’s get rid of him.” It doesn’t happen but maybe once or twice in the entire year, but it has to be handled.

When it comes to MDA, you’ve been doing this for forty years now. Do you regret any of the career sacrifices you had to make because of this? Do you look back and wish you spent more time as a director?

JL: No. I have no, I have no regrets, really. And I don’t think that it, uh … I don’t know how I could have changed it, because the thing that I set out to do, although I didn’t know would be a lifelong experience, hasn’t limited me from doing the other work I want to do. I have been fairly active, and I’ve done a lot of things I wanted to do. I still have many things I want to do where MDA will get in the way sometimes. And I have to juggle to make it work. For example, there were two or three very important seminars that we hold around December, January that I head up. And it pumps up our staff, our field staff of some 2,000 people out there that are responsible for a lot of money that comes in Labor Day. Well, I was doing a five-part Wiseguy on CBS and I was in Vancouver shooting every day. I had to make arrangements with the Wiseguy company to be sure that I could escape to Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and Phoenix for these seminars to head them up and see that the MDA was covered, and I didn’t hurt the company and the shooting. I got back, did what I had to do. So I make those arrangements. It doesn’t always work. And then I make choices. Sometimes I’ll make the choice of the work. I would hate to pass up directing a marvelous film that I have great faith in, but there’s always a way it can be handled. You can do two things at once.

There’s been many times when I’ve put in twenty-hour days — eight hours for one project, twelve hours for another project, and you sleep sometimes in the car. You get it done.

Did you ever envision that forty years later, that your life, your career would take that turn where you would go from being known mainly as a comic to a comic actor to a director to now, Jerry Lewis – 

JL: Fundraiser.

— humanitarian, fundraiser?

JL: (laughs) Yeah. No, I never thought forty years ago that, that that would happen. What I thought was that I would enlighten the public and maybe get them to help, and then it would take off. I never realized that once I made the commitment, there wasn’t anyone that’s gonna take my place. There wasn’t anyone I could turn it over to. There were times when I thought maybe that was a possibility in the early days. But you can’t. You just can’t. The responsibility is too great now.

And there are too many people that depend upon me, and there are too many people that I could tell you stories about that would blow your mind, that really are alive because they believe in what I’m doing for them. And if I were to walk away from them —  I have to be careful not to place myself in such a place that it sounds like I am the Messiah. That’s not what I’m saying.

Could this telethon exist without you? Do you ever see a time when you would retire, step down, hand over the baton?

JL: Oh, I don’t think there’s anything larger than the telethon. I’m sure that it could do very well with someone else if—

Do you see that time coming?

JL: Not this weekend, no.

(laughs)

JL: I made a vow almost forty years ago that I wouldn’t quit till I beat it or till I couldn’t walk anymore. So I’m not about to walk away. There’s no reason for me to walk away from it. We are getting so close and the inroads have been so wonderful that it makes some of my fantasy thoughts of, “Hey, let a younger guy stand there for twenty-four hours, let a younger guy put in eleven months putting it together.” Those fantasies, thoughts are shattered when I get this close to airtime and recognize that the fearless leader has to be there for all the pieces to fall into place. Eh, it’s a great feeling. It’s the most selfish thing a man could do, what I do, because I get such satisfaction out of seeing the fruits of the labor, that it’s unbelievable.

 


With all the work you’ve done, all the good that you’ve done, all the work that you put into it, you have detractors. There’s the cynics.

JL: Sure.

What does that do to you when, when you, when you pick up something, and they say, “Oh, Jerry takes money under the table,” or —

JL: (laughs)

… “Jerry’s phony sentimentality on the air.”

JL: It hurts. It hurts, because you’re giving every ounce of truth and every ounce of energy that you have to do a good thing, and I don’t believe there is a human who can say, “That doesn’t bother me.” I don’t believe there is that human that isn’t bothered by a dissenter. The human condition is a very interesting, very, very wonderful laboratory study, the human condition. It’s a study for me, because I learn when I write comedy, the best thing in the world for me to do is to sit at a street corner and just watch the traffic for six, seven hours, and watch people waiting to cross the street. It’s a great laboratory, the human condition. And I don’t believe there’s anyone that does good work or that does something from his heart that isn’t hurt when he’s challenged or when he’s disbelieved or when he’s doubted or when someone is cynical about it or pessimistic about it.

Now, I can get five thousand letters patting me on the back and wishing me all of the wonderful things in life. In that batch of five thousand letters, I need to read just one who disbelieves me, doesn’t particularly care about what I care about, and thinks that I’m a jerk, I’m shattered by that letter. And Sam, my wife, says to me, “Please help yourself get over that letter by rereading the five thousand.” And I know she’s right, but the human condition says to me, “This is addressed to me. How do I get him?” The human condition would like everybody should think they’re terrific. You can’t. And the only way you’re really gonna get wisdom is the day you wake up and honestly say to yourself as an introspective man, “I cannot please everybody.” The day you can do that, you will have wisdom. I haven’t done it yet. So I don’t have wisdom. (laughs)

Does it get you angry?

JL: Well, you get angry when, when it’s a cheap shot. You get angry when you know damn well that the letter came from a man who is an attorney, reputable attorney, has a marvelous business in this town, and writes you a seething, pessimistic letter of that nature. And you know the reason for the letter was because you turned down going to his cocktail party. Well, now I know that that’s the reason he wrote the letter. I don’t want to go to his cocktail party. I don’t like cocktail parties. I don’t go to cocktail parties. But isn’t it interesting that it was a week later that I got this letter from him? Said nothing about a cocktail party. Said nothing about anything, but the work I do on Labor Day. He just attacked me. Well, it, I know where it’s coming from.

He told some friends, “Jerry Lewis is coming to the cocktail party.” Well, Jerry Lewis didn’t show up. But I had never agreed to show up. The invitation was sent. There was no RSVP. It was just absolutely, blatantly, that’s what it is. It still troubled me. So, I have to fix it.

You mentioned in the new Parade article that’s gonna to be coming out Sunday.

September 3rd. Sunday, yeah.

You talk about how you lost a baby this year.

JL: Mm-hmm.

What has that done to you? I mean, someone like you, you’ve done so much for kids, for children, for newborns, for pregnant women. What’d it do to you?

JL: Killed me. It took me, both Sam and myself, we were… we were on a six-week binge of just… we were as reclusive as you could ever be. She was two or two-and-a-half months gone, and we were skipping around like two children going shopping every day, buying baby clothes, and buying this and buying that and having such a wonderful time and dreaming of this excitement that was ahead of us. And it just didn’t happen. And I don’t remember ever being as disappointed or as shot down or as shattered, whether it was because I was so shattered for her, because she’s such a great lady and such a loving, caring, marvelous human being who wanted nothing more than to reproduce the man she loves. And she told me in no uncertain terms, she said, “Can we have a baby? I want a piece of you. I want just a piece of you.” I don’t know of any man in the world could be given a greater gift from someone that loves him that she gave me when she said that. And I said, “If that’s what you want, then I want it even more, so I can have a piece of you.” And, it was a lovely, lovely plan we had. But we’re, we’re still trying. And if you weren’t sitting here with me taking up my time, I could be home working on it. (laughs)

Anything  you’d like to say to America the day after the telethon? Any kind of message about Jerry Lewis?

JL: No. I don’t think there’s anything that I would like to say that I wouldn’t have said last night and the night before. I could say that, for those that understand, no explanation is necessary. For those that do not understand, no explanation would suffice. So they know I love them for the help that they give me. And for those that don’t, I love them, too. They don’t, because they have reasons. And I am older and wiser now and recognize that you can’t win ’em all.

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Burt Kearns produces nonfiction television and documentary films and is the author of three books, including Lawrence Tierney: Hollywood’s Real-Life Tough Guy, which will be published in November and is available for pre-sale on Amazon.com.

Thursday, August 11, 2022

THE MYSTERY OLIVIA NEWTON-JOHN TOOK TO HER GRAVE


August 11, 2022
Legsville.com

©2022 By Burt Kearns

 


We mourn the death of Olivia Newton-John. She was a pleasant singer and actress, an icon to a certain generation of fans who grew up with her, most after she made the transition from British-born Aussie country singer to pop star, the little girls wanting to be her, young boys wanting to be with her – and even more boys wanting to be her. Now that she’s gone, after a long and valiant battle with cancer, Olivia Newton-John is receiving well-deserved honors, but she has left this plane with a mystery that dangles and clouds her legacy.  It’s a mystery partially of her own making, a question left unanswered:

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO PATRICK MCDERMOTT?


Patrick Kim McDermott was a cameraman and supposedly Newton-John’s lover of nine years when he disappeared from an overnight trip on a fishing charter boat off San Pedro, California, on June 30, 2005. He’d left some of his belongings including his wallet, on the boat named Freedom. He’d left his car in the parking lot at the 22nd Street Marina. McDermott had been gone more than seven weeks before an eagle-eyed reporter made the connection and let police and the U.S. Coast Guard know that the missing 48-year-old Korean-American was the boyfriend of the 56-year-old international superstar.

During those seven long weeks, Olivia Newton-John neither reported McDermott missing nor made any public appeal to find him, in case he was in a hospital or wandering with amnesia. Newton-John had been back and forth between Malibu and Australia, where she’d made public appearances and went about business preparing an album release and tour.

On that Sunday morning in August when the story broke, I stood outside the Coast Guard base in San Pedro with a few other journalists as the spokesman said his people didn’t know if Patrick McDermott was dead or alive — but that they suspected he’d taken a runner — faked his death because of money troubles!

First question: How could Olivia Newton-John’s live-in lover have money troubles?

It was McDermott’s ex-wife, and mother of his thirteen-year-old son, who’d reported McDermott missing, a week after his disappearance. McDermott had been divorced from Yvette Nipar for a dozen years, yet she was still part of his life, and had recently taken him to court over unpaid child support. My colleague, investigative reporter Doug Bruckner, found out in short order that McDermott had filed for bankruptcy, and lived not in Newton-John’s Malibu pleasuredome, but in a small house in Van Nuys, the low-rent porn capital in the Valley. He also found Nipar, who wasn’t talking.

Soon after we got on the story, Newton-John released a statement urging help in finding her “treasured friend” and went into mournful “seclusion.” But within days, she brought in Hollywood security expert Gavin de Becker, and the spin campaign began. Friends and nephew Emerson Newton-John (son of Olivia’s sister Rona — and Jeff Conaway’s stepson) told stories that painted Newton-John as leader of the search effort, explained away her seven weeks of public bliss, and revealed the slow fade of the relationship because of McDermott’s drinking.

For Newton-John, the mourning period was about as swift as Pat O’Brien’s rehabilitation from sex and drug addiction. Despite earlier indications, she carried on with her album promotion, as a deal was made for softball, no-hard-questions interview segments on Good Morning America and other “news” outlets. She returned to the stage, carried on with her tour, and in November even made tabloid headlines with an alleged $9,000 lunch at a New York City eatery with her longtime friend, the “asexual” Brit singer Cliff Richard.

As weeks passed, Patrick McDermott quickly became old news, another tragic episode in the brave “Livvie” saga.  The police and Coast Guard said they had no clues, but began leaning toward suicide, allowing them to close the book, at least with a bookmark sticking out, on this latest chapter of Hollywood Babylon.

McDermott committed suicide, ran away because of his debts, or simply slipped off the boat?  And why did Olivia Newton-John act as she did during those seven weeks? We’d come up with a few theories. Either Newton-John didn’t know he was missing — or she helped him abscond to a place like Australia’s Great Barrier Reef. Because Patrick McDermott was a beard. An employee. A big, strong, handsome man whose job it was to be at her side at premieres, in articles, and Hollywood myth, for a number of reasons that go beyond what she did in her private life. Patrick McDermott played his part, and then drove home to Van Nuys.

Rumors


In tabloid circles, Olivia Newton-John had been rumored to be a lesbian, even before she camped it up with John Travolta in Grease. She blamed the rumors on a Tonight Show appearance back in the 1970s, when her innocent comment about having “girlfriends” caused Johnny Carson to arch an eyebrow.

But her real troubles began in 1980, when a stalker named Ralph Nau came into her life. Convinced that Newton-John loved him, Nau started following the star. Four years later, he tried to join her onstage in Los Angeles and followed to Australia. Then he beat his autistic brother to death. At last check, he remained in a mental institution.

Newton-John first hired celebrity security specialist Gavin de Becker and his team in 1983, when another stalker, Michael Perry, was found near her home. De Becker’s people convinced Perry to get out of town and out of state. Perry went home to Louisiana, slaughtered five members of his own family and left a note suggesting that Newton-John might be next. De Becker whisked her into hiding; Perry was caught and remains on Death Row.

Late in 1984, Olivia Newton-John married a young actor named Matt Lattanzi. Lattanzi, eleven years her junior, had been discovered by director George Cukor for the movie Rich & Famous. They had a daughter and lived a mostly private life, until 1995, when, after a bout with breast cancer and bankruptcy, Newton-John and Lattanzi divorced. Soon, Patrick McDermott became the man at her side. A handsome tough guy you wouldn’t want to mess with.

Patrick McDermott played his role for the Hollywood machine. He provided perfect cover for Olivia-Newton John, from People magazine to the Enquirer to Entertainment Tonight. But after he disappeared, and the elements of a textbook Hollywood scandal and cover-up began taking shape in plain sight on three continents, few made the effort to follow up. There were albums to promote, and awards to give out. Olivia Newton-John moved on, with a rich new boyfriend to be seen with in public, and an unpleasant episode was pushed aside.

The story remained dormant until February 2006, when Olivia Newton-John’s spin machine clicked into the whitewash cycle. In a blitz of long-distance interviews with Australian news media, Newton-John used the McDermott mystery to promote her new album and concert tour.

Newton-John “will use her upcoming Sydney shows as a form of therapy for dealing with the disappearance of her boyfriend last year,” the Sydney Daily Telegraph reported in an article headlined Liv’s show of strength. “She was,” however, “reluctant to discuss any details about McDermott or speculation she has found love with wealthy American Michael Klein.”

The Brisbane Courier-MailSeven News and Contactmusic.com were among the outlets spreading the Newton-John spin. “I didn’t think I was going to be singing again, that was how I felt,” Newton-John told the Courier-Mail (though her concert plans were underway in the seven weeks she was quiet about McDermott’s disappearance). “But I found that performing the songs and singing for people helped me as well.”

Newton-John pointed out that the title of her new album, Stronger Than Before, “is kind of ironic. The weird thing was that this album was before all that happened so now it is almost like I have made it for myself.” She dedicated the album to people who have been touched by cancer, marking thirteen years since she was first diagnosed with breast cancer.

And then, in March 2006, I attended the 60th annual Fred Hall Fishing Tackle & Boat Show in Long Beach, California, just miles from where McDermott was last seen on a charter fishing boat.


 

“Patrick McDermott Is Alive!”

 

Folks who worked for the 22nd Street Landing in San Pedro and its popular sportfishing boat, Freedom, were staffing a booth at the show. They were also holding a raffle for a fishing trip on the Freedom, the boat from which McDermott had disappeared. I mentioned his name.

“Oh, he’s definitely alive,” one of them replied. “There have been sightings. Lots of them. He’s been seen in the Baja. In Todos Santos.”

“He’s definitely alive,” another insisted. “Police know it. (He and Olivia Newton-John) broke up in January. He owed a lot of alimony and child support, so he faked his death.”

The Freedom staffer discounted the theories that McDermott was lost at sea or in hiding in Australia. “No. No way. The Baja. They know it. He was seen in Todos Santos. There have been sightings.”

Todos Santos is a quaint town on the west coast of the lower Baja peninsula, about one hour north of Cabo San Lucas. Its mostly dirt streets are home to more than 6,000 inhabitants, including artists, surfers, and retirees. While it has attracted more residents and tourists, the town generally has escaped the influx of tourism.  And while its fishing waters are exceptional, Todos Santos was not known as a fishing town.

According to a promotional website: “Some come to surf the many fine breaks that the area offers. Some come to view the amazing variety of original art in the local galleries. Some come to experience the Tropic of Cancer and the iridescent sunsets. Some come to walk the nearly deserted beaches, not yet developed, no condos to be found. Some come to absorb the gentle pace– the slow persistent calming pace of life.  “Some come to visit, and never leave.”

I published a story of the fishing show revelations online. Within weeks, the McDermott story was back in play internationally.  E! True Hollywood Story included the mystery in an episode about Olivia Newton-John. They didn’t get an interview with her, but they spoke to Frank Liversedge, manager of the 22nd Street Landing in San Pedro, where the Freedom is docked: “The period of time where Patrick supposedly disappeared on the boat, all the people were facing the stern part of the boat, the crew was back here in the back working,” he said. “And you can see this standing right here– there’s no way anyone could go over the side or into the water without someone seeing them.”

Lt. Tony Migliorini, the public information officer at the U.S. Coast Guard station in San Pedro, confirmed that McDermott’s disappearance “is still an open case.

“We have no updates to report,” he told me. “But we have an investigator assigned to the case. He has reports of sightings and he has followed them. We’ve received reports from people who say they’ve spotted him. Everywhere from Africa to Beverly Hills. But there are other leads that our investigator is following. And he probably has information that I don’t have.”

The lieutenant emphasized: “We consider this case to be ‘open.’”

Proof of Life?



In the months and years to follow, an Australian journalist embedded himself in Todos Santos and reported on many people who recognized McDermott. A hat said to belong to the missing man was produced and scooped up by an investigator for the television celebutainment magazine, Extra. A DNA test on the hat was promised, but never performed, or at least never reported.

 

The British and Australian tabloid press put in a full-court effort to advance the story – and track down McDermott. Reporters and investigators seemed hot on his trail, following sightings but always seeming to be a day or so behind him. An attorney said to be representing McDermott announced that he’d asked “not to be hounded” and to be left alone.  An investigator wrote a book.  NBC News’s Dateline show eventually dedicated an episode to the mystery. It was fronted by the smarmy, perpetually-amused reporter Keith Morrison, and titled Beyond the Sea.

 

Olivia Newton-John, meanwhile, “bonded” with McDermott’s ex-wife, and with her on board, spoke often of her love for the missing man, and her hope that he might be alive.

In 2010, the Australian magazine New Idea reported what it claimed to be details from the official Coast Guard report into McDermott’s disappearance. Along with the fact that McDermott was on the singer’s payroll:  McDermott purchased a .357 magnum three months before he disappeared; Someone tried to access his computer between the time he vanished and when it was seized; a file from his computer contained information on how to fake an identity; he’d attempted suicide by pills at seventeen; he was drowning in debt and failing to meet child support; he had $755.01 in savings and $19,004.56 in credit card debt and was $8,000 behind in child support payments; he’d destroyed all his emails, including correspondence from Newton-John; in 2033 he’d started a company called Twice Alive Productions.

Did Patrick McDermott remain in Baja? Did he slip of to Central or South America as so many others have? There have been clues and claims, but no proof of life.

In July 2008, almost three years to the day to the day from Patrick McDermott’s disappearance, Olivia Newton-John married a 49-year-old Australian entrepreneur named John Easterling in a surprise ceremony at her home in Malibu.

He survives her, as does this mystery.

999

©2022 By Burt Kearns produces nonfiction television and documentary films and writes books, including Tabloid Baby, The Show Won’t Go On (written with Jeff Abraham), Lawrence Tierney: Hollywood’s Real-Life Tough Guy (available for pre-sale on Amazon.com), and the recently-announced Marlon Brando: Hollywood Rebel.







Saturday, July 16, 2022

EXCLUSIVE! THE LOST INTERVIEW: AL MARTINO & THE FIGHT TO PLAY JOHNNY FONTANE IN THE GODFATHER

 

July 16, 2022

Legsville.com


By BURT KEARNS


The wildest story to emerge on the 50th anniversary of the great movie, The Godfather, comes from the man who played the singer whose plight led to the classic “horse’s head” scene – the one in which a Hollywood producer awakens to find he’s sharing his bed with the bloody, severed head of his prize racehorse. Al Martino played crooner (and wedding singer) Johnny Fontane. It was a role that Frank Sinatra tried to rub out. Frank believed the character in Mario Puzo’s novel was based on him, but it was a role Martino knew was his. A popular Italian-American balladeer in the early 1950s, he’d been forced to move to Great Britain after he defied the mobsters who’d bought his management contract. Martino returned to America and fought his way back onto the charts and success in the 1960s.

 

In 1991, Rafael Abramovitz and I sat for hours with Al Martino, extracting his life story with plans to turn it into a motion picture. The script didn’t sell. Martino died in 2009; Rafael in 2020. In June 2022, the interview transcripts were uncovered and converted for the first time in more than thirty years. In this Legsville.comexclusive, Al Martino tells a real-life Godfather saga: how he grabbed the Johnny Fontane role, and when they tried to take it away, made the producers, director, studio — and Frank Sinatra — offers they would not dare refuse.

 

AL MARTINO: THE LOST INTERVIEW

 

 

So how did you come across The Godfather book?

 

AL MARTINO: I get a telephone call one day from Phyllis McGuire. [1] It all started that way. She says, “Al, they just wrote a book and there’s a part in that book that you could play when they make this movie.” She says, “You need to pick up that book and read it.” It was just climbing up the charts. It wasn’t a big hit yet. I say, "All right, Phyllis, I’ll pick it up. I’ll call you back.” I couldn’t find the goddamn book anywhere! Phyllis mailed it to me. She mailed me the book. I read it. I say, “You’re right, Phyllis. There is a good part in here. Johnny Fontane.” She says, “Al, that’s your life. That’s you! You could play it to the hilt!” I say, “But look, Phyllis, I don’t know who to call. I don’t know who the producer is.” She says, “Well, I think it’s a man by the name of Al Ruddy.” [2] I say, “All right, Phyllis, I’ll pursue it.” I called up Ruddy’s office and I couldn’t get anywhere.

 

Why did she think it was a part for you?

 

’Cause she read the book. She thought it was my life. She says, “This is you. This is you, Al. You could play this part.” It was similar to some of the things that I went through, you know. And so I called up Al Ruddy. I couldn’t get through to his office. But everybody, everybody was calling him who wanted to be in it. Everybody wanted to be in this movie. Was only the tip of the iceberg. They just announced they were going to make a movie, see. Figure it out. And they were making it a year later. Imagine the people calling him. They couldn’t get through. And I had an engagement at the Desert Inn that I had to go and do.

 

“You got the part”

 

The engagement at the Desert Inn would be a week later. So one day, Judi [3] and I went to Westwood to catch a movie. I was crossing the street and I ran into a girl that I knew from way back. Her name was the same name as a city in Sicily. Not Palermo but another name. Starts with a “c,” her last name. And I was shocked as shit. Right in the middle of the street. I was shocked to see her. I said, “What are you doing here in L.A.?” She told me that she had a job here, working for a producer. I said, “Gee, that’s marvelous.” I said, “Where is the company?” She said, “Paramount.” I said, “Who are you working for?” She says, “Al Ruddy.” I said, “Oh, my God.” So we got across the street, I told her, I said, “Boy, I’m glad to hear that because I want you to help me with something.” She says, “What?” “I’ve been trying to see Al Ruddy for the past two weeks. I can’t get through to him.” She says, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll fix an appointment for you.” She says, “Where are you going?” I say, “I’m going to Vegas to play my dates.” She says. “I’ll call you there.” I go to the Desert Inn, she calls me and says. “Al says, can you get here Wednesday?” “Sure I can.” So I left the Desert Inn in the morning. Went there, walked into his office and before I left, he says, “You got the part.”

 

Tell as much of that as you remember.

 

Well, he’s in the office. He had a lot of people in the office and we had a cup of coffee together at the coffee shop next door. I told him that I read the book and that I’d be good for the part. And, you know, not much. You know these guys don’t talk too much. You’re pursuing them. They’re not pursuing you. So he didn’t say too much except that, “You’re perfect for the part.” So I assumed I had it. Okay. I go back to Vegas. Worked at the Desert Inn. There was another hotel. The Sands. The Sands Hotel. Or the Frontier. Either one of those. I played the Desert Inn when we were making the film. But it was either the Frontier or the Sands. [4]

 

Now I’m socializing with Al Ruddy for a long time. He’s a frustrated cook and so am I. We go to his house, we go to my house, and we cook, you know, to each other. He’s got a nice wife by the name of Françoise. [5]

 

What kind of stuff are you cooking?

 

Oh, I was cooking Italian food and he was cooking other things too, some of his recipes. We would compare recipes and things like that. And remember, I’m going in and out of town. I’m leaving town, calling him on the telephone, he’s calling me on the telephone. In the meantime, this picture’s rolling now. They haven’t got a director yet, but he’s behind the gun. Things are happening during this time. For instance, I go to Germany a lot to do a television show, okay? Before I go to Germany, Al Ruddy tells me, “Hey, if you go to Italy, do me a favor. Talk to Anthony Quinn. Tell Anthony Quinn that he could get this part here, the Don’s part. Find out how much money he wants. Find out what I can get him for.” I say, “All right. I’ll relay the message for you.”

 

“Nein, nein, nein!”

 

So I go to Germany. And my wife Judi is now three months pregnant. We go to the Hilton hotel in Berlin. While I’m doing the rehearsing for the television show, I get a telephone call from the bell boy saying that, “Your wife is hemorrhaging. She’s at the hospital and they’re going to abort the baby.” And you know me, right? Like hell they are! I say, “You speak English pretty well? You wait there at the hotel — No, no, better yet, you get a cab right now and pick me up at this address. We’re both gonna go to the hospital and you’re gonna translate!”

 

When we get to the hospital, you think I said hello to the receptionist? No, no. I had to look for the operating room. I said, “Where’s the operating room? where are they preparing someone to be operated on?” So they gave me some bullshit. I just kept walking down the corridors, then I looked up, opened up every fuckin’ door I saw, you know? Finally, some woman who didn’t know what I was doing, I said, “You tell her that my wife’s being operated on and it’s an emergency and I got to see her right away.” And she says, “Oh, yah, yah, yah, yah, yah, we go this way, that way.” I went this way, and before you know it, I open up the door and there she is, the big nurse, preparing her for this abortion.

 

I say to my wife. “Put your clothes on, we’re getting out of here.” “What?” the nurse was going, “What are you? Crazy? Nein! Nein! Nein!” I said, “Listen, this is my wife. I’ll take full responsibility. but you’re not gonna abort that kid.” “No! She’s going to die! You have no idea! She’s hemorrhaging!” I said, “You stop the hemorrhage. But she’s leaving. Now! There’ll be no operation!”

 

So I took a pretty good chance. Got her back to the hotel. She’s still bleeding a little bit, but not much. Not flowing. Bleeding a little bit.

 

So I called up Anthony Quinn. I’m gonna see him anyway. I said, “Tony,” I said, “this is Al Martino. I got a problem. Can you get me a doctor in Rome right away? My wife is in bad shape.” “Yeah, sure.” I said, “We’re coming right away.” So I cancelled the TV show and took the first plane to Rome. They met me at the airport, both of them, Tony and his wife. Took me to a doctor. Italian doctor. He diagnosed it. In the meantime, we’re calling California to her doctor back and forth to see what he’s got to say. This doctor in Germany said she can’t be moved. She cannot go on an airplane ride from here to California. She’ll bleed to death, you know. So that’s why Rome was the next best step, right? So that’s no problem. Take a couple of pills and she’ll be all right. So I made the right decision, didn’t I? Saved the kid’s life, right? One hour later, the kid wouldn’t of been born.

 

We’re out to dinner. “Anthony, I say, “I’m here to give you a message. Al Ruddy says that he thought that you could play that part pretty good. The Don’s part. Now, let me warn you that there’s another guy on the sidelines by the name of Marlon Brando.” Al wanted to know how much money. He says, “I couldn’t do it for less than a million dollars.” I said, “Well, Mr. Quinn,” I says, “a million, I don’t think they can pay it. Marlon’s
gonna do it for nothing.” For free. “Free” means nothing in front, but —

 

A piece of the action.

 

Right. Only expense money in front. Hotel bill. It’s exactly what I got. He says, “I know Brando very well. I worked with him in New York City. Not less than a million dollars.” I said, “All right. You want me to tell that to Mr. Ruddy?” He says, “Yes, you tell him that. I have three homes. I have one in Los Angeles, one in Paris and one here. I need a million dollars.” “All right, Mr. Quinn.” So we had dinner. He took me back to my hotel and I left as soon as Judi was okay. I don’t believe I saw him again after that because he lives in Marina, Italy, which is a good ways from Rome, and I didn’t have the transportation to get out there.

 

 

Fifty grand

 

Mario Puzo, Francis Ford Coppola, Robert Evans and Al Ruddy

 

One day, Al Ruddy calls me on the telephone. He says, “Al, I got a problem, maybe you can help me with.” I said, “What’s that?” He said, “I want to come over the house.” He said, “Gray Frederickson is my assistant producer. His father owns oil wells in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He sold me a well. Now I can’t pay the commitment. I need you to take this commitment off my hands.” I said, “Well, how much is it?” He says, “Fifty thousand dollars.” I said, “Why don’t I just loan you the money? Pay me back later on.” He said, “You gotta have this commitment. You gotta take this commitment off my hands.”

 

So I called up my accountant and I said, “Joe, do me a favor. Would you check out a certain oil well? Now, if it’s a fraud, you can’t deduct that, correct?” I said, “but if it’s a well that doesn’t come in, would I be able to deduct it?” “If it’s not a fraud,” he says, “Oh, yeah. You can deduct all of it.” I say, “Okay. Please be sure that there is such a company existing. If I buy something that doesn’t exist, I can’t deduct it.” “He says, “Okay.” So, it turns out to be that it was a legit company. So I wrote out a check for fifty thousand dollars. Joe Melvin had called Al Ruddy’s accountant and took care of it. “And take care of it,” I said, “on the basis that he will buy it back later on when he’s got the money.” He says, “Okay.” Now I’ve figured that I’m pretty well cemented in. Right? Okay? [6]

 

I would think so.

 

Wouldn’t you think so, right? Got the part. I got a script in my hand. Yeah, I got a draft.

 

Now, there’re two drafts out. Brando’s got one and I got one. I remember those scripts were like under lock and key. No agent. No other producer. No director has got it. This was completely a secret. No one should know the plot of that Godfather film. No one. He gave it to me because he trusted me — and of course he told me not to show it to anybody, and I didn’t. Kept it here at the house.

 

One day, Ruddy comes to me at my house. He says to my wife, “I’d like to have that script that Al’s got. And Judi says, “Well, I think it’s around here somewhere — and by the way, what do you want it for?” He says, “Well, you know, Judi, in this business you really don’t know what’s going to happen and people get hurt. I hate to tell you this, I hate to tell Al this, but I don’t think he’s in the movie anymore.” So Judi said to Al, “If I were you Al, I wouldn’t do that. Think it over. The only advice I could give you. Think it over.”

 

Al didn’t know what she meant by that, and he says, “Well, I’m sorry, but we have a director now. Francis Coppola. He’s got other ideas.” So Judi gave him the script.

Okay. I came home. And I said, “Judi, what happened? Is something wrong?”
She said, “Yeah. I got some bad news for you. Al Ruddy came over. He’s grabbed the script and says you’re not in the movie anymore.” And my mother happened to be here visiting me, so she heard all this, too. I say, “Well, no problem.”

 

Picked up the telephone, I called up Al Ruddy, I say, “Hey, Al. I heard the bad news.” He says, “Yeah, I’m sorry, Al.” I said, “No problem.” I said, “Today is Tuesday. By Thursday morning, you have fifty thousand dollars here.” He said, “I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.” I said, “You didn’t hear what I said, Al. I said you only have two days to get fifty thousand dollars. Don’t give me no bullshit. Just bring fifty grand over. And I’m gonna tell you something, Al — bring it over. It’s all I can tell you. All right?”

 

He says, “Well, maybe I can get it from Francis Coppola.” I say, “I don’t give a fuck who you get it from! You want to get it from that fat pig? You get it. Okay? But get it here.”

And he went to Francis Coppola to borrow fifty grand. And Francis said, “I don’t have fifty thousand dollars. I don’t have fifty cents. I don’t have any fuckin’ money. I can’t give it. What the fuck do I want to give this guy fifty thousand dollars for? You crazy? I’ll talk to him.”

 

So he calls me on the phone. “Listen, you’re not in this picture, and I don’t have fifty thousand dollars to give you.” I said, “Hold on, Francis Coppola.” I said, “You just got in this fuckin’ movie,” I said. “I been on the ground floor a year now. And knowing that for a year,” I says, “I gave up a year’s work to be in this film, I’m owed now fifty thousand dollars. And I’m gonna tell you something, Francis Coppola. You’re the guy that came in and just fucked with this whole fuckin’ thing, so you’re responsible. Now you come up with fifty thousand dollars. Now get off my fuckin’ phone and don’t call me anymore and that’s final.” That’s exactly what I said. I really tore into him, boy.

 

The Big Guns

 

Now I decided to call my people in. Picked up the telephone. Called up the big guns in Chicago, New York. Russ Bufalino. [7] And I said, “That’s my problem.” You know what he said to me? “He ain’t makin’ this picture in New York City. Fuck ’em.” So, well, the message got back to Bob Evans. [8] He called Ford Coppola. “Hey, if you don’t give this guy the money, you ain’t gonna make this picture in New York.” And Coppola said, “Well, we’ll make it in St. Louis, then.” “Goddamn! St. Louis? Are you out of your fuckin’ head? What do you mean St. Louis? This picture’s got to be made in New York! Give him the money or give him the part! Either one.”

 

So I get a call from Bob Evans. “Al, will you come to my office?” I went to his office. And meantime, Rona Barrett [9] picked up the story. She picked it up and she put a fuckin’ article in the paper about what happened. About the fifty thousand. The whole thing. She picked it up. The story. Called me in. He says, “Al. Come in, let’s talk. You know, this is not Paramount’s obligation, the fifty thousand dollars,” he says, “but I’ll tell you what. You got the part. I’m the chief. You got it. But let me warn you about one thing. Francis Coppola doesn’t like it. And he’s gonna ostracize you in New York.” I says, “Let me handle that.”

 

So, okay. So we spoke for about a half an hour about Eddie Fisher. [10] You know, we used to pal around with each other. Bob and I and Eddie used to pal with each other back in the late forties. So we talked. We talked about old things too, as well as the picture. We talked about Eddie for thirty minutes, about how Eddie stole Bob’s girlfriend away from him. This girl was living with Bob and then she moved out of his apartment, moved in with Eddie. Well, they haven’t talked to each other since.

 

Bob says, “You report to Staten Island immediately.” I was now, at that time, I was workin’ at the Desert Inn. So I had to call Bernie Rothkopf, who was the manager of the Desert Inn, to let me out of the contract because of this movie. Normally, they don’t let anybody out, but he figured it was a big break for me and, “Okay, Al, go ahead.” 

Reluctantly, he did it. He didn’t like it at all. So I went to New York. And he gave me a tough time. Francis.

 

Tell me what he did.

 

Well, first thing he’d do, he came up to see me at the Plaza Hotel, because they have to talk to you, you know. And before that, nobody was talking to me. Neither Jimmy Caan, Al Pacino, Robert Duvall, Diane Keaton — none of them. I was completely taboo on that film. Only one person spoke to me. That was Marlon Brando. And nobody could tell Marlon Brando what to do, correct? I’m on the set, watching everybody shooting their parts, and finally Francis came to the Plaza Hotel and wanted to talk to me about it. “Look, Francis. You and I don’t get along. But you know you gotta make this work. So make it work. It’s no use comin’ here tellin’ me how to do my part. I know how to do it. Just go back and let’s shoot the film.” And that’s the end of it. And that’s what I did.

 

Brando

 


 

Following morning, they’re going to shoot Johnny Fontane. [11] Now, there’s one scene where James Caan and Marlon Brando are in an office. As you know, the screens on the sets are very thin. So they’re shooting somebody behind one screen and I’m behind the other screen. So they’re finished. Marlon says, “Well, who’re we gonna shoot now?” Coppola said, “We’re gonna shoot Johnny Fontane.” “Well, who’s doing it?” “We got Al Martino doing it.” And then I hear Marlon Brando say, “Al Martino? He’s not an actor.” So Coppola says, “We gotta make it work. This one, we gotta make it work.” So, Marlon understood that, and Marlon says, “Well, you better get him drunk, then.”

 

I heard that. So I decided to accommodate him.

 

I left the premises, went to the liquor shop right around the corner. I had the luck to find one. I brought a bottle of Scotch back, right? Coppola stops me, he says, “Where the hell were you? We tried to reach you.” You know, still on the warpath, like he was looking for an excuse. He’s probably hoping I wouldn’t show up, right? You know what I mean? He’s doing everything in the world to keep me from making that picture. And he was shooting the back of my head, too, most of the time.

 

He says, “Marlon Brando’s waitin’ for you.” So I put the bottle of Scotch on the table. I said, “Mr. Brando, you take the first drink.” He immediately wanted to know if I had heard him, right? So he took it. Nine o’clock in the morning. He took a drink, and I took a drink, and I tell you, boy, I was flyin’ all day with that one drink. I’m not a drinker. I don’t know how the fuck I did it. But maybe it helped. Who the hell knows, right? It could of been, but I did the take in one take. Marlon grabbed me. He said, “Boy, you were really wingin’ it.” I said, “Thank you very much.” Maybe to kind of made up for what he said. You know what I mean? Possible. But I accepted his apology, anyway. It was an apology in a different way. Indirectly. Right?

 

Marlon Brando came home one weekend to California, and so did I. Marlon Brando picked me up on the weekend in his helicopter, Staten Island, to fly me to the airport. And then we would go commercial to California, and then I would fly back commercial Monday morning. So I would do that almost, well, until the picture was made. And that was my scene. That was all my scenes in The Godfather. Now, of course, there was no rapport with Francis Coppola during all that time. None at all.

 

And why was Francis Coppola so against you doing this?

 

It’s very simple. He didn’t want a non-actor in this film. He had somebody else in mind. Whoever. I don’t give a shit who it was, but he wanted that person to be in the film. He didn’t believe in me, and yet I was perfect for it. Which means people can be wrong.

 

You left out a whole section in there. Where is Frank Sinatra in all of this? ‘Cause you skipped over that.

 

I sure did, didn’t I? Very, very important part, too.

 

Sinatra

 


 

During the part where I was wining and dining Al Ruddy. I gave him the fifty grand, even after that. We had a party at Chasen’s [12] with Julie Chester. It was his birthday and he invited us to this affair. It was me, my wife, Julie Chester, his wife, Mario Puzo, and Mario Puzo’s secretary and Al Ruddy. Went to Chasen’s. I couldn’t make it that evening ’cause I had to go to Windsor, Ontario, [13] but I told my wife that she should go to the party, and represent me, and just act natural. I said, “Call me when the party’s over.” So, there’s three hours difference, you know. And during that time, a guy by the name of Cokey… Hoagy… Hoagy is his name, who owned a little club next to La Famiglia, where Joan Rivers used to do her schtick there, goes over to our table, to Mario Puzo, and says, “Someone wants to meet you. I want you to meet them”— No, he says, “Someone you should meet.”

 

Mario Puzo leaves the table, gets about halfway, finally realizes that he’s going to see Frank Sinatra. That, he didn’t like, but it’s too late to go back. He was halfway there and they’ve already met eyes together. He knows he shouldn’t of gone in there. He told me that later. Frank is lookin’ down like this. He looks up to him, he says, “I should break your legs, you know that, don’t you?” Mario Puzo’s a pretty tough guy himself. He decided, “This is Frank Sinatra, he’s a pretty great singer” and all that shit, so he didn’t do anything. He just left. Ran out of the restaurant, got into his car, back to the Beverly Hills Hotel.

 

Frank ran out! Grabbed his hat and told the waiter, “Give me wheels!” Chased Mario back to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Meantime, my wife goes to a telephone, which is in the lobby. Calls me in Windsor. Says all hell broke loose. I said, “Tell me about it.” She says, “Well, this guy came over, grabbed Mario, brought him over to Frank Sinatra’s table. Frank Sinatra threatened him. Mario went back to the hotel.” I said, “Look, tell me all. I want to know everything.” She tells me everything. “Anything more?” “That’s about all I could tell you. There’s nothing else to say.” So I say, “Okay, I’ll call you back. I’m gonna call the Beverly Hills Hotel now.

 

“Hello, Mario.” I got him on the phone. “Mario, it’s Al Martino. My wife just called me. Tell me what happened.” First thing he said to me was, “Do these guys carry guns?” I decided to say, “Look, Mario. I want to give you a guarantee right now. You’re not gonna get hurt. They don’t carry guns. And I’ll take care of it. But promise me, you’ll not cut this part out, ’cause that’s what he wants to do. Frank wants you to cut it out.”

 

In the meantime, Mario got a little frightened, too. So he must have called Al Ruddy and Al Ruddy decided they should minimize the role. Okay? Because there’s also gonna be lawsuits, too. Mickey Rudin, [14] also the next day, called up and said that they were gonna threaten to sue Paramount, Al Ruddy — sue everybody, right? Now, you can’t pull this role out, because the horse’s head is important. If you take the Fontane role out, you gotta take the horse’s head out, right? Without the horse’s head, you got no fuckin’ movie. [15] It all was needed. So they must have made deal. Mickey Rudin made a deal, said, “Okay, we’ll be happy with what you got, whatever role goes in there.” In the meantime, I made up my mind that nobody’s gonna chase me out of the movie. In other words, he’s chasing everybody out. I understand that Vic Damone called and they said to vacate. Get out. Don’t take this part if it was offered to you.

 

Who’s calling?

 

Frank is calling Vic and whoever is up for the Fontane role. See, nobody knows that I got the role. Nobody knows that I got it cemented in and no son of a bitch was gonna get me out. It’s as simple as that. Nobody had the right to call me on the telephone and say that. But now I was pissed– fuckin’ pissed. So I call up Jim Mahoney. You know who Jim Mahoney is? Jim Mahoney is Frank’s press agent. Called him from Canada right after I hung up from Mario Puzo. He was also my press agent.

 

I said, “Jim, it’s Al Martino. I want you to get a message to Frank, now!” He said, “I’m not gonna give a message to him.” I said, “Now look, Jimmy. You pick up that telephone and you call Frank up and you tell Frank just this. You say that Al Martino called me – you — and said that I should tell you that I’m playing this part in this big movie and to get off my back. Now I’m gonna hang up the telephone. You decide whether you want to call Frank and tell him that. I suggest you do that. After all, I’m still paying you, Jim.”

 

May never know if he called Frank or not. I think he did, because maybe he was afraid I would fire him if he didn’t. There’s something else. I said, “Phyllis, [16] I want you to get a hold of Sam Giancana for me, and I want you to tell Sam that I’d like to see him. I’ll come to Mexico if I have to.” ’Cause he was all the way down in Mexico — he had to leave the country. She said, “What’s the problem?” I said, “Frank’s on my ass. All I want to do is make this movie, and that’s it. Will you tell him to leave me alone?” She says, “Al, I will take care of it for you. I will call Sam myself.” And I wasn’t bothered anymore.

 

The only problem I had, that I didn’t know about, was the money now, and the part that Francis wasn’t gonna use me anymore. That came later, right? Well, down in Francis Coppola’s office at Paramount, this was during the time I was pursuing the fifty thousand dollars, I would leave one office, go in another office and I went into Francis Coppola’s office to tell him that I wasn’t gonna stop until I got that money. A call came in. Francis picked it up. It was Frank Sinatra, and he asked Francis Coppola if he would cast him as the Don in The Godfather. Godfather One. Whooo! I said, “My god!” I said. The person who did did everything he could to stop the film, stop me, minimize the role, have a big rally at Madison Square Garden. And now he’s changed his mind? He wants to play the Don in the movie? That doesn’t sound right. But it was him, and he did ask to play the part. But Francis turned him down, said, “I already have a guy. Marlon Brando’s playing the part.”

 

Hard to figure out why he did that. I think I figured it out. He had a picture called Dingus Magee out at the time. [17] And Dingus Magee bombed. Really bombed badly. Mickey Rudin or somebody said, “Hey, Frank. If you can’t fight ’em, join ’em. It’s a great property. See if you can get into the film.” I would say that’s the reason he called.

 

This guy in The Godfather

 


 

Now, why were you campaigning so hard for this role?

 

Because I wanted it badly.

 

What did you think was going to come out of it?

 

Hey, listen, I came to Beverly Hills to be in the movies. What a project this was! This was the biggest project in the history of show business outside of Gone with the Wind. Why wouldn’t I campaign for it? Why wouldn’t I?

 

After all the trouble, you finally do get it, right?

 

Yeah.

 

Does it pay off?

 

Not a hundred percent. I got a lot of press out of it. I’m still getting press out of it. They recognize me in The Godfather. You know, it’s all an image to have, right? For the rest of my life they associated me with The Godfather.

 

In actual dollars and cents, do you get —

 

I don’t get shit. I lost all that money, but then I made all up. I played all those dates back again for a few more thousand dollars, but my agents never really got me the money that I should have gotten. But for the rest of my life, I always had that image, this guy in The Godfather.

 

999

 

The interviews with Al Martino took place at his home in Beverly Hills, in spring of 1991, a few months after the premiere of Francis Ford Coppola’s film, The Godfather Part III, in which Al Martino reprised his role as Johnny Fontane.

 

 

FOOTNOTES

 

[1] Phyllis McGuire was one of the McGuire Sisters singing trio of the 1950s and on-off girlfriend of Sam “Momo” Giancana, head of the Chicago Mob, close friend of Frank Sinatra, and suspect in the JFK assassination.

 

[2] Ruddy’s experiences producing The Godfather (for which he won an Academy Award), were the basis for the tremendously entertaining miniseries, The Offer, which premiered on Paramount+ on April 29, 2022.

 

[3] Judi Stilwell, a model and American Airlines flight attendant, was Martino’s third wife. The couple were married in 1969, were parents to future Hollywood historian Alison Martino and together until his death in 2009.

 

[4] Martino opened a one-week stand at the Frontier Hotel & Casino on the Las Vegas Strip on September 24, 1970.

 

[5] Ruddy and first wife Françoise Glazer would divorce, and she would later change her name to Ma Prem Hasya as part of the Rajneeshpuram Commune in Central Oregon.

 

[6] Gray Frederickson, who would win an Academy Award as producer of The Godfather Part II, says Martino’s oil well account is “kinda,” but “not entirely” accurate.

 

[7] Mobster Russell Bufalino ran the Bufalino crime family in Northeastern Pennsylvania from 1959 to 1989. He was portrayed by Joe Pesci in Martin Scorsese’s film, The Irishman.

 

[8] Bob Evans was vice president of Paramount Pictures, and as Head of Production oversaw the production of The Godfather.

 

[9] Rona Barrett was a magazine and television gossip reporter.

 

[10] Eddie Fisher was one of the most popular singers of the 1950s, selling millions of records and hosting his own TV show. He was married to Debbie Reynolds (their daughter was Carrie Fisher), left her for her best friend Elizabeth Taylor, and after his divorce from Taylor, married Connie Stevens.

 

[11] The outdoor wedding scene, in which Martino sings, was filmed at a mansion at 110 Longfellow Avenue, Emerson Hill, Staten Island. Martino’s scene with Brando, in Don Corleone’s home office, was filmed at Filmways Studios, 246 East 127th Street in East Harlem.

 

[12] Chasen’s, at 9039 Beverly Boulevard on the border of Beverly Hills, was a celeb-heavy eatery, famous for its chili and for many years the site of the Academy Awards party. Sinatra was one of the stars who had “his own booth.” The place opened in 1936 and closed for good in 1995.

 

[13] Martino performed at the Elmwood Casino in Windsor, Ontario in late August 1970. Duane Eddy played guitar with the sixteen-piece band.

 

[14] Milton A. “Mickey” Rudin was described in his Variety obit in 1999 as “a showbiz attorney who repped Frank Sinatra, Lucille Ball and Marilyn Monroe in 52 years of bare-knuckled practice.”

 

[15] An iconic scene in The Godfather: Hollywood producer Jack Woltz, who’d refused the Corleones’ request to cast Johnny Fontane in a big motion picture, wakes up with the severed head of his prize racehorse in his bed. He gives Johnny the role.

 

[16] Phyllis McGuire.

 

[17] Dirty Dingus Magee has been called “the worst movie of Sinatra’s career. When it opened in November 1970, Roger Greenspun of the New York Times called it “a dreadful parody Western.” The Los Angeles Times’s Kevin Thomas used words like “embarrassment,” “crude,” “cringe” and “disgusting.”

 

999

 

Burt Kearns produces nonfiction television and documentary films and is the author of three books, including Lawrence Tierney: Hollywood’s Real-Life Tough Guy (available for pre-sale on Amazon.com). In 2005, he wrote and produced, with two-time Academy Award winner Albert S. Ruddy, the 20th Century Fox movie comedy, Cloud 9, starring Burt Reynolds.

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