When I Stop Talking You (6 page)

"I have an unbelievable show," I tell Landsbergh. "In fact, it's not just a show. It's an experience. It's called 'A Night in Hawaii.' "

" 'A Night in Hawaii '? What the hell is 'A Night in Hawaii '?"

" 'A Night in Hawaii,' " I tell him, "is fifty beautiful dancing girls. 'A Night in Hawaii ' is waitresses in grass skirts, pigs on spits, the mood of the islands. 'A Night in Hawaii ' is a mountain erupting and lava flowing as the music plays!"

"Wow," says Landsbergh. "That sounds like a hell of a show! But as great as it sounds, I don't know if it sounds like a fifty-thousand-dollar show. Now, if you had Arthur Godfrey…"

Arthur Godfrey was one of the first great TV stars. He had two shows on CBS: Talent Scouts and The Arthur Godfrey Hour. He also had a famous love for Hawaii. He played ukulele and did a whole Pacific islands routine.

"Well, it does!" I tell Landsbergh.

"Does what?"

"Have Arthur Godfrey. In fact, the show is called 'Arthur Godfrey's A Night in Hawaii.' "

"How much?"

"Fifty thousand dollars a week, maybe fifty-five thousand."

"Great! Done! Deal!"

And now I had to get Arthur Godfrey.

I waited until the end of the day, then went down Broadway to the theater where Godfrey taped Talent Scouts. There was a security guard with a clipboard and a gun. I have a theory. If you act like you're in charge, no one will stop you. So I go up this guy with a piece of paper in my hand and ask him a bunch of questions-"How long is your present shift?" "Did you find your training adequate to the task?"-say, "Thanks, you're doing a great job," pat him on the shoulder, then walk past him to the elevators. No problem. When I get up to the floor, I wander around until I find a dressing room with Godfrey's name on it. He was one of the biggest stars in the country-you were not supposed to just bang on his door, but, you know, the fourth lemon, the fourth lemon.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Who's there?"

"Jerry Weintraub."

"Oh, yeah, hey, Jerry, come in!"

He probably thought I was the cigar boy.

He was sitting in a chair, napkin around his neck, looking in the mirror, dabbing a pancake pad all over his face. In those days, they all did their own makeup. He was an elegant man with a clean, vanilla way about him. The singer Eddie Fisher said that Godfrey was anti-Semitic. The hotel he partly owned in Miami Beach, the Kenilworth, did not allow Jews. But he was nice to me. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

I said, "Well, Mr. Godfrey, I've come to you with an opportunity to make fifty thousand dollars a week."

"Wow, what is it?"

"It's a show in Las Vegas," I told him. "It's called 'Arthur Godfrey's A Night in Hawaii.' "

"You mean a floor show?" he asks.

"Yeah," I tell him. "In one of the big hotels."

"No, sorry, kid. It's my policy. I don't work live."

"Yeah, but fifty thousand dollars a week," I say. "Maybe more."

"Nope," he says. "Don't work live."

"Yeah, but listen," I say, "you'll be on stage with fifty beautiful Hawaiian girls, and here is the best part: You and I will go to Hawaii and pick them out personally, right off the beach!"

He looks up, like, Wait, FIFTY Hawaiian girls? Frowns and says, "Yeah, but it would still be live."

I went on and on, but could not talk him into it. He was scared to death of a live audience. Well, he was then, anyway, because he did call me years later, when his TV career was on the wane, and said, "Jerry, I'm ready to play Vegas. And I want to bring my horse on stage. And I want you to book it." And I did book it, and he did bring his horse on stage.

In the end, I was able to put a show together without Godfrey that worked for Morris Landsbergh. Kimo Lee and the Modernesians, the girls in grass skirts, and the volcano erupting night after night. In other words, the fourth lemon dropped.

Kimo Lee died young. In his will, he left me the rights to a song that had not done much for him. But it was later recorded by Elvis Presley, and after that by just about everyone in the business. It was called "Blue Hawaii."

By 1963, I had amassed a stable of talent. There was Kimo Lee and the Modernesians, but also Joey Bishop, Jack Paar, the Four Seasons, and many more. In this business, it only takes one, but who wants to live that way, on a single throw of the dice, or by wrapping yourself in the fortunes of a single artist, no matter how brilliant-the point, as the chaperones used to say at the high-school dance, is to get out there and mix.

I represented two actors Walt Disney wanted for his upcoming Bon Voyage, starring Fred MacMurray and Jane Wyman. Mr. Disney flew me to LA first-class, then had a limousine bring me to the Beverly Hills Hotel, where I was set up in a bungalow. I was chauffeured to the Disney Lot, where I was given my own office and a secretary. Five days went by and all they said was, "Mr. Disney is not ready to see you yet." I sat forever. Now and then, my secretary buzzed, asking, "Don't you want to dictate a letter?" "Don't you want to make a call?" (I phoned my mother several times.) Finally, after five days, word came: The maestro was ready. As I remember it, I had to walk down a long hall with Oscars lining the walls on either side. By the time I reached the office at the end, I was intimidated, parched. I felt like I had come through the desert. I shook hands with Mr. Disney, sat down. He was at his desk, drawing, I imagined, a picture of Mickey (him) pounding Goofy (me) with a club. I was, in short, defeated before I heard the opening offer.

Mr. Disney said, "This is what we're going to do."

I said fine.

Mr. Disney said, "This is what your clients are going to get paid."

I said fine.

I learned a lot on this trip: about context, home field advantage, the cost of letting the other side establish its authority. I learned something else, too-about obsession, control. Before I left, I asked Mr. Disney what he was drawing. It was not Mickey hitting Goofy with a club. It was a design for the bathing suit Deborah Walley would wear in Bon Voyage. He did not have a costume designer do it. He did it himself. The man was intense, but in an admirable way. He believed he had to control his product, utterly, as the product was really just him in another way. It was a lesson I would learn myself years later, when I started my own production company.

Around this time, an agent and friend from William Morris called. "Jerry," he said, "you should go see Jane Morgan. Her manager died and she needs representation."

I knew Jane Morgan, had heard of her, anyway. She was one of the most talented singers in America. I had seen her on the Jackie Gleason and the Perry Como shows. She was a star. What's more, she had class. Jane Morgan was not Jane's real name, by the way. Her real name was Florence Currier. She grew up in Massachusetts, in an old American family. Her father played in the Boston Symphony. He was first-chair cellist for twenty-five years, which is a big deal. Jane was surrounded by music from the time she was a girl. She trained in opera, but made her name singing the sort of saloon songs that dominated the charts. She broke first in Europe, with hit records and hit shows in all the best clubs, including her regular gig at the Club des Champs Elysees in Paris. She worked with a guy named Bernard Hilda. First it was his name in big letters, with her name in little letters beneath-then it was the opposite. Her American breakthrough came in 1958, with a song called "Fascination." She had a huge career, with hit songs and shows, gigs at supper clubs, more appearances on The Ed Sullivan Show than any other singer-when that show was the show-and her amazing performance on Broadway in Mame. When I was twenty years old, Jane was crooning from every radio.

I went to see her at a theater one night in Pennsylvania. It was raining. The roads were wet. I paid at the door. I sat in back. People around me were talking. She sang in French, her voice sexy and strong. It got in my head and stayed there. She wandered across the stage, lighting up the room as she went. She had short blonde hair and almond-shaped eyes. She owned the crowd, but made the crowd believe they owned her. Whatever an agent looks for but almost never finds, Jane had it. I waited for her backstage. We went outside. The rain came down. We leaned in a doorway. Her hand touched mine. I told her my name. She said my name. I told her my business. My business was helping her business. We sat in a restaurant. We talked about her career. We talked about everything. When I came back to the city-I was always leaving and coming back in those years, the glass towers rising before me-I came back with a relationship that would change my life.

I managed many other clients, but from then on there was really just Jane. I did all the things a manager is supposed to do, booked her shows, negotiated her deals, sat in the audience and in the studio as she cut her records, but what could I really do for her? Of course, I thought I could do a lot. She was a big star. I could make her bigger. But the truth is, in the early years, it was Jane who was helping me. As I've said, my life has been a succession of mentors, but first among these, the person most responsible for making my career, was Jane Morgan. She was married when we met. I was married, too, but, at a certain point, those marriages seemed like nothing compared to what we had together. At that moment, those older relationships just sort of dissolved. We had fallen in love. Jane Morgan, this incredibly successful, beautiful woman whose family came over on the Mayflower, and Jerry Weintraub, the kid from the Bronx.

Jane was worldly. She had lived in Paris. She spoke French, Spanish, and Italian. She knew how to go into a restaurant and order a meal. No matter where I went, and no matter what I asked for, I always ended up with a cheeseburger and a Coke. But Jane brought me with her, taught me, broadened my horizons. She took me to Kennebunkport, Maine, where her family lived. She took me to Paris, to Switzerland, all over the world. I went with her on tour. Queens and aristocrats came back after each performance to shake her hand and kiss her cheek. We went to see a Beatles show, early in their career, before anyone knew who they were. They were performing as an opening act for Trini Lopez at the Olympia Theatre in Paris. We went backstage after the show, and they recognized Jane as soon as we came in. They stood up and, in perfect harmony, serenaded her with all her hit songs.

When I was with Jane, I forgot everything else, which is why my first marriage-I was a son of a bitch in that first marriage-stood no chance. I had been knocked down, thrown over. I was dazzled. It was like I had gone from black-and-white to Cinemascope.

Jane divorced her husband, I divorced my wife. It was just me and her after that. She took me everywhere and introduced me to everyone. Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Johnny Carson, Walter Winchell. She had been Miss Dodger. She had been Miss Ebbets Field. Every man in the world wanted to be with her. Howard Hughes and Billy Rose sent gifts, jewelry, flowers, and I signed the ticket. She was an absolute knockout. When we went to a restaurant, we were the restaurant. Or she was the restaurant. I was Mr. Morgan. Which was fine with me. In fact, I took advantage of it. It did wonders for my career. Now, when I came to LA, I did not sit waiting in a bungalow for five days. Joe Pasternak, Arthur Freed, all the great producers, directors, and writers suddenly wanted to meet with me. Jane was the queen. She wore white gloves. I was her manager.

I suppose I'm describing how I built my network, which is a key to my success. A lot depends on who you know, who you can get to. If you have people who will open the door for you, literally and figuratively, you can make a pitch. It's in your hands from there. Soon after I arrived in Hollywood, for example, I struck up a friendship with a guy named Scotty, who worked the gate at the MGM lot. For me, Scotty was more important than Louis B. Mayer. Mr. Mayer might green-light a picture, but you can't get the green light if you can't make the pitch and you can't make the pitch if you can't get in the gate.

One night, in 1965, I turned to Jane, who was getting dolled up for a show at the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas, and said, "You know, baby, you look so goddamned beautiful, let's get married!"

She said, "You don't look so terrible yourself."

We walked over to the Chapel of the Bells, one of those neon marriage joints on the strip. The town was chiming all around us. The moon was low in the desert, where the mob dumps its bodies and the lizards dream of mice. I took her hand. She took my arm. We were grinning like mad. Before the vows, the chaplain said, "For an extra fifteen bucks, you can have organ music."

I said, "Yeah, just give us what you got and do it fast. The lady has a show."

We spent summers in Kennebunkport, Maine, and eventually bought a house of our own. It's gorgeous up there, but there was never much for me to do. I get bored. I was a fish out of water, a Bronx Jew trapped in the sticks. One afternoon, when I was young and the sun shone down on my every adventure, I went to the local Kennebunkport club to play tennis. I had never been to this club. The courts were empty. I went to the woman behind the desk, gave my name, and asked for a court. She said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Weintraub, we have no courts."

I was confused. "But the place is empty," I told her.

"Perhaps you should try a different club," she said.

The reality of the situation slowly dawned on me. It was like the scene in Gentlemen's Agreement when Gregory Peck tries to check into a hotel as Phil Greenberg. I am sorry, Mr. Greenberg. We have no rooms.

I am sorry Mr. Weintraub. We have no courts.

WHINE-traub!

If you a Jew, where your horns?

I would like to say I raised a ruckus, tore the place up, stood there saying no, no, no, as Gregory Peck did in the movie. But the fact is, I just dropped my head and went home. Sometimes, the polite "No" registers more powerfully than even the blow to the face. The blow to the face you know how to respond to: with a blow to the face! But the polite "No," how do you respond to that? I was pissed off, angry, humiliated. I told Jane. She was really upset. She said, "No, it can't be."

Later, without my knowing, Jane told the story to an old Kennebunkport friend. This was George H. W. Bush, before politics or any of that. He was a businessman, his father was a senator. He called me later that same day. He said, "Hi, I'm George Bush, I'm a friend of Jane's, and I heard you like to play tennis."

I said, "Yeah, I like to play tennis."

He said, "Well, do you want to play in the morning at the club with my dad and my brother and myself?"

I said, "They don't want me at the club. I went over today, and they told me no Jews allowed."

"That's ridiculous," said Bush. "You want to play tomorrow morning, you can play with us."

So I went there to play with George Bush, his father, Senator Bush, and his brother. As we were leaving, Senator Bush asked me if I would like to be a member of the tennis club.

I said, "Yeah, I'd love to be a member."

He said, "Fine, we'll make you a member. George," he said, "go in and tell them I'm proposing Jerry for membership. If there's any problem, let me know." I became a member of the tennis club. Then they did the same thing at the yacht club and the golf club. So that was the end of the Jewish thing.

That's how I met George Bush. I loved him from the first moment. He would become one of my best friends. He was very young at that time, not yet in politics, just a businessman making his way. But as soon as you spoke to him, you knew he was going the distance. We grew up together, in our way, pushed each other, advised and helped each other. People in Hollywood were sometimes suspicious of this relationship, and did not understand it. I was, and still am, said to be one of the few Republicans in Hollywood. It was a headline. But I am not a Republican. I am an Independent, liberal on social issues, conservative on fiscal matters. I just happen to have a good friend named George Bush. And, as I explained, nothing is more important than a relationship. It trumps politics, party, club. People are what matter. In short, I'm for the man, and I've never met a better one than George Bush.

I feel I really must stop here and explain just how important George Bush has been in my life. He opened the world to me, took me everywhere and showed me everything. I love the man as you love a father or a brother, and appreciate everything he has done for me, and does for me still, which, most of all, is the gift of his friendship. Had I not met George and Barbara, my life would have been totally different. He changed the scope of everything. I was put into a world I never could have experienced in a million years. To be a close friend of the president of the United States is an awesome, awesome position. You have to know how to handle it. You can't go to him with nonsense and silly things. I never did. I went to him with some very important things, and he helped because he felt they were right. But I didn't bother him on a day-to-day basis. And yet we had an open relationship where I could tell him when I thought he was right and when I thought he was wrong. Very few people have that access to the most powerful man in the world. I stayed in the White House a lot. I stayed in the Lincoln Bedroom and the Queen's Bedroom. It was inspiring, for a kid from the Bronx, to be befriended by the president, and for him to open this oyster for me and have me at state dinners, to have me there when Gorbachev came and other world leaders came, introducing me to them, and to be very close to his whole cabinet… to Jim Baker, secretary of state, to Nick Brady, secretary of the treasury, to Bob Mosbacher, secretary of commerce, to John Sununu, his chief of staff, etc., etc. Bush made sure I was in the center of his universe. He opened me up to a network of people around the world. Everybody knew we were close. Everybody knew that I was embraced by this man. He made it very public; he didn't hide it. And he was very supportive when I had troubles. He was a great friend.

One night, years ago, when Bush was a congressman, we went for a walk in Washington, D.C., after the Alfalfa dinner. We passed the White House, which was all lit up, and I said, "I think you're going to live in that house someday."

"Don't be silly," he said.

But I knew it. I could see it in the way the other politicians gathered around him at the dinner-he was a natural leader.