Dropped Names (15 page)

RODDY McDOWALL

I
doubt it exists now as strongly as it once did, but there thrives in Hollywood and New York what is known as the “Gay Mafia.” And it helps if one of your agents or your manager or someone on your team plays for the other one, so to speak. I can remember in my young years my gay agent telling me not to be as concerned with my acting audition, as to be certain not to wear underwear when I was going up to meet a renowned producer/groper.

Roddy McDowall, although secure in his position as a member of that mafia, was nonetheless congenitally concerned with his place in the Hollywood firmament. As a child actor he was adorable, somewhat winsome, growing into a lithe and androgynous teenager, and a somewhat effete man.

His social connections, more than his acting chops, were what kept him working constantly—not to mention his lack of concern for what he did or who he did it with. He was a charming, willing, and adaptable mate to many a diva, including Elizabeth Taylor, Lauren Bacall, and a very-old-timer named Anna Lee. “Isn't she beautiful!” he would say of whatever woman he was walking or wheeling. His dinner parties were sought-after invitations and his ability to ride the waves and occasionally the husbands or boyfriends of some of the ladies made him the all-purpose Extra Man of his set.

Roddy was impossible to dislike. Rather like Peter Lawford with his crowd, he was able to facilitate secret meetings, clandestine love affairs, and introductions to just about anyone. Through him, needy luminaries could find each other in the secret shoals of a town where still waters run shallow.

One other important quality that did not appear on his resume but was certainly in his basket of goodies was the fact that he was very well hung. Never hurts—unless in a good way. He was available, ready to serve in any way he could, and agreeable to the disparate needs of both sexes. Perhaps growing up on a film set, and from an early age being trained to please, had made him such an adaptable companion.

One evening at the home of composers Marilyn and Alan Bergman sometime in the early 1980s, I watched him work the room like a cordless vacuum cleaner, sucking up celebrity droppings. At one point he came up behind me, put his chin on my shoulder, and cooed seductively. I picked up a shrimp, popped it in his mouth, and he contentedly moved on.

H
is work ethic was phenomenal. He'd happily throw himself into every role with complete conviction. He was, unfortunately, a mediocre actor and an average photographer, an avocation he used as a catalyst to get more connections and guaranteed dinner invitations.

“I've
got
to photograph that face,” he would say about a prospective A-lister.

I don't know that his particular brand of smoothing the waters is required in today's Hollywood. While still a provincial company town, the lines between gay and straight are far less drawn than when he or I was coming up. The Bi-Brigade is a lot more populated than it was, and the younger generation seem less interested in needing to define themselves sexually. Orientation is, rightfully so, of little concern on the current battlefield. Everyone is swimming in increasingly treacherous seas of doubt and imminent demise. Being gay is no longer a secret shamefully kept within the industry. The public is still somewhat protected from the naughty truth, but mostly for fear of shocking that most lethal judge of all: the box office.

Since most of today's biggest stars cling to being boy/men and girl/women, it does seem a bit disingenuous to go on protecting the ticket buyers. Like pubescent girls wetting themselves over androgynous rock stars, the general public these days seems to care less about indisputable heteros and more about the somewhat all-purpose packaged pinups. Male movie stars are less clearly macho than they used to be and the females have grown tougher and more aggressive.

Roddy would have had no trouble in today's climate scampering in both directions sexually and platonically and would certainly manage to offend no one while doing it. A dear-hearted man and a clever chameleon, he had developed an ability to appear available and agreeable to the needs of his colleagues.

As I sat next to him one evening at a tribute to the acting teacher Stella Adler, he never referred to himself or his career but offered anecdotes about each celebrity's love life and career choices as they passed through. Never bitchy or cruel, just deliciously entertaining, pleasant, and often compassionate, he would say: “And you, dear Frank, tell me how
you
are?” This was a man who, no matter what the occasion, clearly wanted a return invitation.

O
ne evening at Hugo's restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard in the mid-1980s, he spotted me sitting alone, waiting for friends. Leaving his table of semi names for a brief spell, he came over and said: “Hello, darling Frank. Look at that face. I've just
got
to photograph it.”

He never did. I'd had my picture taken enough times by then to satisfy my curiosity about what might develop.

PAUL MELLON

P
aul Mellon owed me money and Jackie Onassis was determined to see to it that he paid up. This had been a long-forgotten memory from the early 1970s until driving back from Washington, D.C., on April 7, 1999 when I had attended Paul's memorial service in the East Building of the National Gallery of Art.

It was a perfectly glorious afternoon. The cherry blossoms were voluptuously in bloom and a steady breeze sent them wafting gently across my face as I leisurely strolled toward the gallery. The sun was shining brightly, the air clear and fresh. It was the sort of day that would not have meant very much to Paul, who, no matter where he was, seemed totally unaware of the elements. Whether dressed in a suit and tie or open polo shirt and slacks, he appeared always to be sealed up in the safety of untold wealth, classical music, horses, and fine art.

He was, after all, the son of the legendary Andrew Mellon, who, along with the Rockefeller and Carnegie families, had amassed a huge personal fortune before those pesky income taxes.

The ceremony was to begin at 5:30 p.m. and I arrived about forty-five minutes early. The mourners were gathering around a very long table with the letters of the alphabet printed on cards tacked to the wall behind. I went to “L” and was given a yellow ticket indicating my section. Center-Row 2. There was virtually no one seated there as I came to it. On its aisle hung a small cord around which were tied fresh yellow flowers. I stood for a while, but as people began to move to their seats, there was no one I recognized, so I stepped over the cord, sat down, and perused the program.

Like everything to do with the Mellon family, it was exquisitely produced and understated. No doubt overseen by Bunny, his wife of fifty-one years.

On its rough-edged, thick, pale white cover was a replica of Cézanne's
Boy in a Red Waistcoat
, the first painting Paul had purchased as a young man. He would eventually amass one of the most extensive art collections in the world, beginning modestly by paying a mere $500,000 for it.

Above it in a tiny gold circle was the emblem of the National Gallery of Art USA. A blank page followed. When I turned it over, on the left was a portrait of Paul, looking to be about sixty, sitting in a chair in a suit, pale pink shirt, dark tie with pink stripes, showing just enough pink French cuffs above stubby fingers. The light blue suit also had faint pink stripes in wide square boxes. His legs were crossed and his expression was benign. The painting gives him the air of a sturdy, sexless businessman with just a touch of cruelty in the set of the mouth.

Two other works graced the pages: Degas' sculpture
Horse with Jockey
;
Horse Galloping on Right Foot
,
the Back Left Only Touching the Ground
, and Georges Braque's
Aria de Bach
.

When I was a young man, Paul would take me into the private rooms at the National Gallery followed by two silent men who pulled out gigantic metal racks some forty feet high, on which hung painting after painting.

“We have no room to display them all, so we rotate them,” Paul said.

Gigantic works of art down to small little sketches: horses, landscapes, flowers, dogs, and portraits. His efforts to pique my interest in great art, in those days however, failed to take hold.

Among the speakers at the ceremony would be David Rockefeller and Paul's son, Timothy. The music, mostly hymns, would be played by the National Gallery of Art's Chamber Players. And the ceremony would end with John Philip Sousa's “Stars and Stripes Forever.” It appeared there were going to be no surprises and nothing out of order. Exactly as Paul would have wanted it. Waiting for the ceremony to begin I thought back to a hot summer night in Cape Cod in the late 1960s. And of a totally unexpected occurrence that lightly disturbed Paul and Bunny's ordered life.

I frequently spent long weekends with my friend Eliza, his stepdaughter, at the Mellons' incredible farm in Osterville, Virginia, or at their beautiful house on the Cape. Various people came and went during those times: Jackie O, David Rockefeller, Senator John Warner, then married to Paul's daughter, Cathy, among them. The days were lazy and luxurious. Paul and Liza tried unsuccessfully to teach me about life on the water. I could barely row a boat, but Paul was unfailingly patient with me as I tried to become a competent sailor. And worse, I was, as I have written, not much interested in great art or classical music. We were going to need some form of common ground, it would seem, if a friendship was to develop.

Sunday evening at the Cape was servants' night off. Which meant the family was on its own. Which meant that in the Mellon household all the food for dinner was prepared that afternoon, labeled, wrapped in tin foil, and set next to pre-chilled bottles of white wine on the kitchen counter. All that remained was for the food to be put into the oven, heated, removed, and placed on the preset dining room table. And it would be left there to be cleaned up by the servants on Monday mornings. Breakfast was usually served in bed along with the morning papers.

This particular Sunday it was just Paul, Bunny, Liza, myself, and Paul's son Tim. A few years younger than me, Tim was profoundly shy, introverted, and awkward. He also had no real idea yet of his options in life.

One afternoon at lunch, Paul, at Bunny's behest, indicated some of them to him. Tim could have his choice of going into one or more of the family businesses, that is: heading up Shell Oil, or U.S. Steel or perhaps involving himself in the horses or art collecting. Timmy pushed his food around his plate and finally said:

“I'd like to build a boat,” which he ultimately did.

At any rate, on this particular Sunday, Tim declared he was prepared at least to be in charge of dinner.

He went into the kitchen, put the food in the oven, and returned to his book in the living room. Liza was on the floor drawing, Bunny was knitting. Paul and I had found a mutual passion: the Scrabble board, and were locked in a fierce competition.

About twenty minutes went by and Bunny said: “Hadn't you better see if the food is hot, Tim?”

He got up, went back to the kitchen, and a few minutes later came a very loud noise. Not a gunshot, not thunder, but a heavy
boom
.

“My goodness,” said Bunny. “What was that?”

“Frank,” said Paul calmly, “have a look in on Tim, would you?”

I raced down the long hallway, through the dining room, into the kitchen and found Tim lying on the floor halfway across from the stove, holding his face in his hands, blood pouring down his shirt. The smell of gas was powerful and the door to the stove was hanging on by one corner. I turned the gas off and then kneeled down next to him. His nose was badly cut and half hanging off, so I pushed it back in place, grabbed some paper towels, and applied pressure.

Paul appeared in the doorway, not entering the room, and said matter-of-factly:

“I'll call Dr. Higgins,” then left as Liza and Bunny were coming in.

“Maybe we better call an ambulance,” I said.

“Paul's calling Dr. Higgins,” Bunny said. “He's very close by.” And she too left the kitchen.

Liza and I sat on the floor on either side of Tim, who was calm and collected and told us that when he'd come back, the food was still cold and he realized he had turned on the gas but hadn't lit the pilot light. So it had been escaping for twenty minutes when he struck the match.

Dr. Higgins did appear, brought Tim into the living room, laid him down on the couch, and I assisted as he put in about six stitches across the top of Tim's nose. Liza sat close, fascinated. Paul and Bunny remained across the room. Bunny knitting. Paul reading. Tim was stoic and silent throughout. As he worked, Dr. Higgins was told the story. Paul said generously, “Frank took charge. He turned off the gas and applied pressure to Tim's nose,” etc.

“Well, you did everything right, young man,” Higgins said. “Tim shouldn't have much of a scar.”

When he left, Paul, Bunny, and Tim went to their rooms and Liza and I raided the ice-box—peanut butter, jam, pickles, ice cream, anything we could find. We then made a goodie bag for Tim and took it up to him but he was already sound asleep.

Before I turned out my light, I thought had this event occurred in my volatile Italian household in New Jersey, the decibel level, the flinging of my body into a car, the race to a hospital with rosary beads pressed into my hand, my mother's hysterics, and my brother whacking me across the back of the head for being so stupid, would have been the way it was handled. But in Paul Mellon's ordered and restrained household, it was as if a few morsels of dog food had been spilled out of the bowl onto the floor by an unruly puppy; and it could all be cleared up and made neat again by the servants, which it was.

The next morning, when Buds, the butler, brought me my breakfast in bed, as usual, he said:

“Mr. Mellon would very much like it if you would come to see him in his study before lunch.”

“It's
Fearless Frank
,” Paul said as I came in at about 12:30 p.m. “I'm going to name a horse after you: ‘
Fearless Frank
.' ”

His smile was open and warm as he shook my hand and clapped me on the back.

“Sit down.”

I sat across from him at his desk and he said in a slightly more businesslike fashion:

“The family would like to give you something for your bravery. What would you like?”

“That's not necessary,” I said, looking up at a tiny Picasso hanging next to the bookcase.

“No, you need to have a reward,” he said.

“I don't want anything,” I said, watching him tap his leather-bound checkbook open on the desk.

“Well, you're not going to leave here without a reward.”

Sitting on the edge of his desk was a small Minolta camera.

“May I have that?”

He looked surprised and said:

“Of course. Take it. What else would you like?”

“That's all,” I said. “Oh, and another game of Scrabble tonight.”

“All right, let's have a tournament. We'll play whenever you visit.”

And so we did. And it was over that Scrabble board, playing for a penny a point, that Paul Mellon and I enjoyed a comfortable personal rapport. We played several games a night after the family had gone to bed, and it was the most relaxed and at ease I ever found him to be. No words of depth or heartfelt confessions were made. He was grateful to me for looking after Tim and I had passed a major test in the life of the truly wealthy. Other than a small camera, I had not ever asked for anything and never would.

I
looked up from my program at the memorial service to find my section was about full and that sitting directly in front of me was an unmistakable blond head.

“Hi, Caroline,” I whispered.

Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg turned around. I had not seen her since she was a little girl.

“Hi Frank, nice to see you.”

“Do you remember that your mother used to leave you and John-John with me when you were small and I'd take you for long walks on Dead Neck at the Cape?”

“Yes,” she said. “You got stuck with us when she and Bunny wanted to be alone.” She did not introduce me to her husband sitting beside her as we reminisced, and then turned back to her program.

The ceremony was about to start. Liza and Bunny came in and took their seats directly in front of me. I leaned forward and gave each of them a kiss.

As I thought it might be, the ceremony was dry and unemotional. When Tim got up to speak, I saw little trace of the young boy I knew thirty years before. He was in a business suit, slightly overweight, and wearing eyeglasses. He spoke of his father with respect and honor. But no one, including his son, told a single personal story or anecdote, or made a loving joke about Paul. Reverential and formal were the memories. I half expected someone to present him with a posthumous gold watch for years of good service to the Company.

When it was over, I walked over to Tim.

“Can I see the scar?” I said.

He lifted his eyeglasses and there it was—tiny and hardly noticeable, as Dr. Higgins had predicted it would be. Tim asked me no questions and made no overtures. We shook hands, he turned to other guests, and I spent some time with Bunny and Liza before going into a private viewing, titled in the program:
Small French Paintings
. In a stunningly lit space I walked among the works of: Fragonard, Giroux, Rousseau, Degas, Vuillard, Bonnard, La Tour, Tissot, and Renoir. Just a few postcards from a man who had all his life loved and collected great art.

Staring at the Cézanne on the program cover, I wondered whether Paul chose it as his first purchase because it depicted a wistful, sad-eyed young fellow, hand on hip, in a straw hat, the bright red waistcoat his only bit of dash, seeming to be longing for something, but not knowing what. The pale pink shirt and suit in the equally melancholy portrait of Paul on the following page seemed to me the faded colors of a youth's once bright future.