Hollywood Hellraisers (34 page)

Some scenes in
Reds
took so long to film they actually impinged upon the domestic lives of those involved. Cameraman Vittorio Storaro’s family were based in London and during the filming of Warren’s death scene, which was dragging on interminably, as he’d return home his kids would yell at him from the window, ‘Pa! Pa! Is he dead yet?’ Storaro called back, ‘No, not yet, but he’s very sick.’

Warren was just as tough on Diane, and their relationship took a mighty battering. Warren likened making a movie with your partner to ‘running down a street with a plate of consommé and trying not to spill any’. Diane was at a loss sometimes as to what Warren was after in a scene, as he demanded yet another take. ‘Warren was very fastidious,’ observed George Plimpton, a magazine editor who was offered a small role in the film when he nearly tripped over Beatty as the actor lay sleeping on the floor of the Playboy mansion. ‘He did thirty or forty takes, all the time. Diane almost got broken.’ Plimpton thought perhaps Warren was deliberately causing friction so that their relationship would mirror that of their on-screen counterparts. Well, it worked; they broke up. Before
Reds
was in the can Diane had gone, straight into
Shoot the Moon
with Albert Finney, a film that centred, ironically, on a relationship breaking down. Its director Alan Parker recalled, ‘If anyone mentioned Big W, she’d just walk away. There was no way she was going to share all that.’

To be fair, although
Reds
placed a huge strain on their relationship – Warren was so completely obsessed by it there was very little room for anything else, Diane included — a number of other factors contributed to its breakdown. ‘I adored him. I was mad for him,’ she later confessed. ‘But we were never, ever to be taken seriously as one of the great romances.’ It drove her crazy that he wanted a child with her but continued to indulge in quick flings, including an attempted one with another actress working on the film. In London he invited himself into her trailer and the first thing he asked was, ‘Do you fuck?’ The woman was quite startled by this but managed to reply, ‘Yes, but not you.’ Poor Warren was somewhat puzzled. ‘Why not me?’ ‘Because I’m a lesbian.’ Warren paused, and then said, ‘Can I watch?’

Around the same time Jurate Kazickas, a writer and filmmaker, was invited by Warren to LA after a mutual friend said they’d be perfect for each other. She was collected by limo from the airport and was taken to Mulholland Drive, where the dinner table was laid romantically for two. Warren came in, took one look at Jurate and his face fell. ‘It was the most painful moment,’ she later lamented. They ate and made interesting conversation but she could tell he didn’t fancy her. Every twenty minutes Keaton called. Before his driver whisked her away Warren kissed her on the cheek and said, ‘Jack Nicholson would just adore you.’

As
Reds
continued, costs started to spiral out of control. Paramount production chief Barry Diller stopped talking to Beatty in an effort to make the star feel guilty about using so much of his money. When the budget rose to a reported $40m a state of cold war existed between star and studio. Rumours of another
Heaven’s Gate
began to spread and Michael Eisner, then president of Paramount, lamented in a memo the studio’s decision to green-light
Reds
. It really was the ultimate irony that it was costing so much American capital to make a film about a communist.

By the time
Reds
was finished Warren had exhausted himself; he was spent both physically and mentally and had lost something like thirty pounds. During location shooting in Finland co-star Jerzy Kosinski said Warren was ‘coughing all the time. Sick. Emaciated.’ Maybe he’d taken too much on. Certainly there was an element of megalomania in wanting to star, write, produce and direct so epic a picture. Strange, then, that after such a Herculean effort Warren should choose to give no interviews or other publicity when his film opened in December 1981. His love life would get in the way, he said; he wanted his work to speak for itself. Years later he admitted this was a calamitous mistake.
Reds
did only average business at the box office.

The critics on the whole liked it, though, and when the Oscar nominations were announced
Reds
was up for twelve, the biggest haul since
A Man For All Seasons
in 1966. Warren was now the only person, other than Orson Welles, to receive Oscar nominations in the same year for acting, directing, writing and producing — something he achieved twice (for
Reds
and
Heaven Can Wait
), Welles just the once for
Citizen Kane
. It didn’t win the big gong, however.
Chariots of Fire
carried off the best film award, Warren making do with an Oscar not for his acting but, curiously, as best director. Still, a fine achievement. ‘In the past the Academy has always been a little reticent to give Warren his due,’ said Jack. ‘They hold back because he’s too pretty and cute.’

They hang people for that, Cora!

For years Jack Nicholson had wanted to remake the classic film noir
The Postman Always Rings Twice
(1981), this time ratcheting up the sex, making it far more explicit than the censor had allowed the 1946 Lana Turner/John Garfield version to be. Jack would play the grungy Depression-era drifter who begins a sadomasochistic affair with the bored, lustful wife of a roadside café owner, and together they plot his murder.

For the randy wife a number of star names were spurned in favour of Jessica Lange, then still known only for her role in the heavily panned seventies
King Kong
remake. Having been in his fair share of Corman schlock, Jack leapt to her defence — ‘If anyone ought to know what it’s like working with giant apes and moaning carrots, it’s me’ — while tipping her to be ‘the sex star of the eighties’.

With Lange as his co-star no wonder Jack was eager to make the sex scenes as real as possible, as close to porn as modern sensibilities would allow. One really has to raise one’s hat to his professionalism here and meticulous eye for detail, insisting for the famous fuck-on-the-kitchentable scene on a genuine stiffy to show through his pleated pants — ‘This bulging railer.’ That had certainly never been seen before in a movie, said Jack. ‘It would be a stunner.’ First he thrust a dildo down his trousers, but that didn’t work. ‘Jeez, Jack,’ said director Bob Rafelson. ‘If you’re so red hot about this, go upstairs and get a boner.’ So off Jack went and began ‘whipping my pudding’ for a few minutes, trying to flush out of his head the image of an entire movie company listening in. Ultimately his anatomy did not wish to cooperate. ‘Somebody might have said I was a pervert,’ he said later about his failed effort. ‘But in my terms, this would’ve been extremely artful.’

Our Jack was not to be defeated, however; the great erection shot would one day be his. Ten years later and working with Rafelson again on
Man Trouble
, a disappointing comedy, Jack wanted to try it again, turning up on the set with dildos of various sizes. ‘Now we’re gonna do this,’ he challenged. ‘All right, goddamnit,’ said Rafelson. ‘You’ve been driving me nuts, we’ll do this shot.’ This time the dildo worked. ‘Now don’t you fucking cut this thing out,’ ordered Jack, ‘or I’ll kill everybody involved.’ The shot stayed in the movie. Jack invited some of his friends to a screening and as they filed out he asked, ‘What do you think of the codpiece shot?’ Not one person saw it — not one. ‘I was stunned,’ Jack admitted. ‘I was surprised that nobody noticed the fucking thing. Another lesson in filmmaking.’ Nor would this be the last time Jack showed up on a movie set with a giant dildo.

But back to 1981. Though rather dull,
Postman
is charged with a primitive erotic and sexual tension, but the rancid sex went down badly with American critics. As Rafelson said, ‘They didn’t like the idea that a guy who looked like a sloth could touch the pussy of Jessica Lange. And touch it he did, by God!’

Postman
also saw a small appearance by Anjelica Huston, who in personal terms had arrived at a crossroads in her life, not sure where to turn. Acting and the film world had been an inescapable part of her life since childhood. For years she’d spurned offers of work from her father because of ‘nepotistic embarrassment’ and later rejected Jack’s help for the same reason. As a result she hadn’t done much of anything in the last few years, save being around Jack’s orbit, which was all very nice and great fun, but hardly personally fulfilling. She was rapidly becoming disappointed in herself for having no focus in life.

Things changed early in 1980 after she was involved in a car accident. In hospital Anjelica had plenty of time not just to convalesce, but to sort her life out. She made a decision to embrace acting wholeheartedly. It was the beginning of what would become a distinguished film career, but it drew her away from Jack. In an interview he admitted there had been a standing invitation for marriage for years, but Anjelica had yet to pick it up. ‘Or sometimes there might be days when she said, “Today is the day,” and I might run off to Alaska or something.’ It seemed that both had settled down into a kind of open relationship, allowing each of them to conduct their own independent adventures. Both insisted their love life was better for it.

Jack had now been a star for ten years and worked almost like a man possessed. He needed a break and took one in Europe, though with the paparazzi, not Anjelica, for company. Naturally stories surfaced of him romancing the likes of Princess Caroline of Monaco and actress Rachel Ward.

There was also Janice Dickinson, then at the height of her modelling career and partying hard. She was also getting through her fair share of famous studs, so inevitably got round to Jack. They met at a star-studded party in New York and Janice was debating which celebrity she might sleep with that night. Warren Beatty was too good-looking; Dustin Hoffman too short; Robin Williams too frenetic; and Jack too much of a wolf. ‘But Jack did have a great smile, he was irresistibly funny — and he really, really wanted me.’ Even though he was surrounded by a bevy of lovelies, Jack behaved as if Janice were the only woman in the room. ‘So I left with Jack — much to Warren’s chagrin.’

They went back to Jack’s suite in the Carlyle Hotel, where he ordered champagne and lobster; he was the perfect host and they made love. It was ruined the next morning when, according to Janice, he asked if she didn’t spread it around that they’d had sex. Enraged, Janice turned up for a modelling assignment. ‘So, how was Jack?’ Asked her make-up man. ‘Yes, it’s true,’ Janice yelled at the top of her voice. ‘I’ve been up all night fucking Jack Nicholson. And I don’t think he will be getting an Oscar this time out. Now, can we get to work?’

Film projects came and went, including
Road Show
, where Jack would have played a cowboy wrangler. With director Richard Brooks he went off scouting locations in Kansas City, but almost got the pair of them arrested when he mooned some tourists. Instead Jack made a film for Tony Richardson,
The Border
(1982), about the problem of illegals entering the US from Mexico. ‘He’s what the thirties and forties stars were like,’ Richardson said after the experience. ‘He can come on the set and deliver, without any fuss. “What do you want? OK.” And he just does it straight off.’

Shooting in El Paso, Jack was in shocking back pain one day when an emissary of the local mayor arrived with a letter. The president of Mexico was arriving in town for some festivities and because Jack was his favourite movie star desperately wanted to meet him. ‘I needn’t tell you how much these informal meetings contribute to positive relations between our two countries,’ the mayor’s letter pointed out.

Geez, international politics, thought Jack as he began formulating what he might say to El Presidente in his bad Spanish. Just then two huge guys, Mexican secret service, Jack assumed, ushered him outside, where a motorcycle escort awaited. Still in pain, Jack lay flat out in his limo as it zipped in and out of traffic, the bikes in front all sirens blaring.

By this point Jack was starting to get edgy; something didn’t seem right. ‘I start to wonder if I’m being kidnapped.’ Just then his driver said, ‘Uh-oh, Jack, you better sit up and look at this.’ Jack peered out, there were 200 bikes all in formation along the road. As they passed, the bikers pulled out and followed. Now I know there’s something weird going on, thought Jack.

The limo and bikers pulled into a big football stadium that was packed with people, complete with a full marching band. ‘I’m wondering, what the hell!’ recalled Jack. ‘I’m now half-convinced that I’m being kidnapped while still mentally rehearsing my wimpy speech about friendship between our two great countries and trying to remember my Spanish so I won’t insult the president.’

As Jack stepped from the car a bank of fireworks ignited, spelling JACK IS NUMBER ONE. Holy God, thought Jack. The president of Mexico must be my biggest fan. As the crowd cheered and the band played ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’, forty women in bikinis and high heels sauntered over towards Jack. ‘When they got close enough I said, “Ladies, what is going on here?” One of them said, “Anything you want, Jack?” I thought, Jesus Christ, what a night for my back to be out.’

Just then Jack started paying attention to some of the faces of the bikers and picked out Dennis, plus a couple of guys he worked with on
Hells Angels on Wheels
. The whole thing was one big ruse, the letter from the mayor, the limo; it was all a joke by this one grand nut whose idea it was to make the ultimate bike movie with Jack as the star.

We train young men to drop fire on people. But their commanders won’t allow them to write ‘fuck’ on their airplanes because it’s obscene!