Good Stuff Page 7

  A page out of Dad’s handmade-for-Jennifer “Alphabet Book,” circa 1972. Here we have the F’s: frogs, fruit, fish, fire, and father.

  As far as money goes, I’ve heard ridiculous rumors exaggerating our family’s wealth, and others debunking Dad as “tight with a buck.” In my experience, Dad was neither cheap nor excessive. Which, for a wealthy man, is remarkable. He was educated about value and unencumbered by greed. This note to his friend, the top-notch fabulous florist Harry Finley, shows that Dad wasn’t afraid to address the subject of worth head-on. No false pride about it.

  Thank you, Harry,

  Your flowers are attractive and colorful; but then so are you, my friend. Still, since I customarily send flowers prior to attending a dinner party I’m often enabled to see the arrangements too, and learned that other florists also sent attractive and colorful baskets but for considerably lower prices. So, because, like you, I am a businessman and take into consideration the proximity of the florist, freshness of flowers, size and similarity of comparative baskets, plus addition (or deletion) of delivery charges, my wife and I decided to experiment elsewhere. And “that” as Lilly Tomlin so effectively says, “is the TRUTH.”

  Nevertheless Harry, our friendship will, I trust, continue quite happily as before.

  Cary

  In his later years, sensing death’s approach, Dad apologized to me several times for not focusing more on finances. “You know, if I’d stuck around acting I could have made a lot more dough for you.” He meant it. He wanted to give me the world. In his total devotion, he did.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fame

  What’s it like to be the daughter of a “star”? If I’ve heard the question once … There’s no general answer. Celebrities share some basic similarities, but I’d wager that there are just as many differences. Stars are like Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Lots of flavorful choices and no place for bland. I grew up around actors, writers, directors, and all the facets of the Hollywood world—publicists, stylists, scripts, trainers, and so on. If six degrees of separation holds true, celebrity status brings the “upper echelons” of society closer to one’s doorstep. Having a “name” naturally confers privilege. At least it gets you through many doors. Once inside, it’s up to you. Dad used to say that if I chose acting as a career, he’d have no idea how to help me. The people he knew were at his level, the top. Dad had an ingrained belief that you work your way up. Earning it is the important part. He wanted me to know the value of achievement. The feeling of doing it on my own. There’s a concept in Kabbalah called the bread of shame. Basically, it says if you’re given something you haven’t earned, you never internalize its worth and it actually works against you. That’s the veritable obstacle of being born into celebrity. If one’s down, the pressure of celebrity is like swimming with ankle weights in a ten-foot swell. Luckily, if one breaks the surface, once up for air, there are nifty hovercrafts nearby.

  Some things you learn only in Hollywood. I once made a little booboo with an AFI screen. Mom was directing a short for the women directors’ series. Number One went on to win her an Academy Award nomination. While Mom edited her gem, my girlfriend Lisa and I did homework in an adjacent screening room. God knows what possessed me, but at some point I kissed the screen. Actually walked up and planted my lips on the silvery surface. Oops … I had some lip gloss on. Rub that right away. Oops again. That just smeared my kiss. Oh dear, better stop there. It was as obvious as an ink stain. A small scene ensued until AFI forgave Mom and Mom forgave us.

  There are some amusingly tender spots to the whole “child of” thing. One must develop a keen eye for suck-ups and stay honest with personal motivations. Are relationships based on mutual respect or ego gratification? The glossy flame of fame attracts moths. Moths are low on Darwin’s ladder. A few years back, a friend made me a proposition. Nearing my big fortieth birthday, he thought perhaps I wanted a child—“You know, I’d be happy to father a child with you.” This is a pretty cool guy.… That’s a big offer.… I must be pretty cool, too. Then, leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, he mused, “Imagine that, Cary Grant and I making a baby.” Red flag. He was missing someone in the equation. Stunned, I somehow whimpered, “Thanks.” Fame’s shadow casts a wide net when vulnerabilities knock one off point.

  It’s a bizarre thing, particularly as a young child, to decipher what your parent is doing up on-screen acting like a different person in a fabricated incarnation of “Daddy.” He never once asked me to view one of his movies. It wasn’t something we did. No Cary Grant fests for us. One exception occurred when I was three or four. We were in Westhampton, in our friends’ den, where a group had assembled to watch An Affair to Remember. When Dad kissed Deborah Kerr I instantly popped off the couch and marched over to the television set. My young cheeks flushed with rage as I slapped the vixen’s screen cheek. That got a big laugh. No stranger had the right to make out with my father! Maybe it happened in real life but not in front of me.

  Dad’s note to me on my eleventh birthday. Some people wait a lifetime to hear these words from parents. Luckily, Dad’s effusive love must have erased my many selfish moments.

  How does it feel to see my father on-screen? It’s mostly squeamishly uncomfortable. Admittedly, I beam with pride and laugh out loud. However, there he was for all those years … doing all these amazing things, and I wasn’t there with him. Grace Kelly gets to swim in the sea with him. I’m a good swimmer. That should be me. Katharine Hepburn flusters him. I could do that. Tony Curtis is an impertinent rascal. That’s my job! If I yell loud enough, will he pop out of the screen for me? My Daddy, my Daddy, mine mine mine!!!! Okay, it’s possible to intellectually delineate between his screen persona and who he was as my father, but that’s part of the problem. This isn’t the man I knew. Sure, many aspects are similar, but decades ago, he was a different man. He was most often wearing the bachelor hat. What? Daddy a bachelor? My daddy doesn’t stay out late or go to parties or canoodle with Grace Kelly. He’s too busy reading with me and swinging my dollies on tissue paper swings and filming my riding lessons. The cat burglar on-screen left his home without looking back—not my Dad! All rationalism takes flight. Funny. With Mom, the roles coexisted, Mom and funny woman in Heaven Can Wait, or Mom and disgruntled wife in Honeysuckle Rose.… It was easier to be comfortable with these characters because I watched them come to life in her and felt part of the world of those movies. Dad’s acting career was in no way linked to our home life. It’s something like knowing a mate’s exes. They exist, but come on, is it actually necessary to hang out with them?

  My parents were stars, yes, and ultimately, of course, stars are just people. So, stars or not, they were my parents. I was blessed with love from two parents.

  When Dad picked me up at school, I saw Dad, the guy who plays me Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty before I go to bed and Dad who takes me on after-school jaunts to survey Barbies at the Country Mart. Where others saw Cary Grant … I saw Dad. However, to some extent every little girl sees Daddy as Cary Grant. The difference was, in my case, Dad had already reached iconic status, so, as a little girl, the world mirrored the way I saw him. I guess that’s what still pisses me off about seeing him in films. There he is, the star, Cary Grant. Everyone is able to retain that part. The part of him they knew still exists.

  Okay, I had a crush on Dad. Okay, more than a little crush on Dad. My other, real crushes were Donny Osmond and Jean-Paul Belmondo. Crushes are a mandatory rite of passage, and my picks were the rosy-cheeked pure American boy and the French Cheshire cat. Dad watched from the living-room couch as my girlfriends and I dramatically gesticulated our lip-synched rendition of “Puppy Love” from the LP. Years later, I was a guest on Donny’s talk show. “You mean, you sang ‘Puppy Love’ to Cary Grant?” He ate it up. Cary Grant was the man of women’s dreams, but come on, to me he was still Dad. Donny Osmond was puppy love. People inside the gates still get starry-eyed. Maybe we’re all part moth, like it or not. Jean-Paul
Belmondo, one of Mom’s costars on Le casse, was my first wobbly knees, deer-in-the-headlights experience. I was five. All I wanted to do was be near him and stare. My ploy—to temporarily chum up his Jack Russell terrier. Perfect. While Mom and Jean-Paul were acting I could play with the pooch. We were practically married! Maybe that explains French as my language of choice in grade school.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fame, the Lifestyle

  Fame is a school of sorts. The University of Fame may be daunting. There is a varied curriculum with minors, majors, levels of mastery, and often complicated rules of negotiation. One will be faced with diversions and interruptions of every sort. No one knows exactly what to expect with fame. One arrives for the first time and the world takes on new hues. The difference for me is that fame was my birthright. Whatever degree of fame I have comes from my parents. Fame was a natural part of life. It was a day-to-day reality. We were a famous family. Simple as that. We ate, we slept, we drove a station wagon, we were famous. All part of life. But fame has its own list of attendant details.

  Stars are great at getting where they want to go. Life is like a fish bowl out there on the road. You become instant “bubble people,” stared at and pondered from all angles. This necessitates strategic, proactive mapping. Dad had the routing system wired. Mom still does. Perhaps it’s a prerequisite to stardom that one appreciates special attention and enjoys calculating the route. Routes. Routes to everything. One of the major perks of celebrity is outrageous seats to sporting events. Sometimes it means shelling out big bucks, but more often it’s a catch-22—once you’ve got the money, everything is suddenly free. Stars are magnets for attention, so, like advertising dollars, their presence pays for the gifted seat. Dad and I frequented Hollywood Park and Dodgers games. Mom’s a huge Lakers fan. Getting to games means stepping into the efficiency zone. There are ingenious methods to avoid traffic that crisscross every major artery. Waiting just isn’t a part of the game plan. It’s somewhat awe-inspiring. Where mere mortals beep their horns on a clogged 405 freeway, Mom and Dad always wended their way through, virtually obstacle-free. Once there, all valets are familiar faces. In the time it takes to say, “Welcome back, Mr. Grant,” the car is whisked away. No valet ticket.

  There is a science to celebrity outings. To enjoy an excursion with Dad, we had to be prepared. Never tarry. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Focus. Strategize your entrances and exits. When socializing, warn the host in advance that you may “duck out early.”

  Our L.A. restaurant choices were Madame Wu’s and La Scala Beverly Hills. I’m referring to the old La Scala, on the corner of Rodeo and Santa Monica. There, we’d be led to “the back booth,” around the corner, so Dad wasn’t glanced from the door. Otherwise the entire meal became a gape fest. When I grew up Dad was done with schmoozing. We went out, once every few weeks, for the sake of a good meal. Getting out was never to meet people we didn’t know. On the contrary, usually it meant staying away from people we didn’t know. I once dated someone well-known who made painstaking efforts to visit with every fan who crossed his path. Trouble was, it took us literally hours to get through the supermarket. The fans were thrilled, but I’d had it. If Dad and I did get stuck in a crowd, he would gently remind autograph seekers, “I’m sorry, I just can’t do it or we would start a chain reaction and I’d be here all day.” I’ve heard that phrase literally thousands of times.

  Dad’s letter to me on my semester at sea voyage. I remember feeling terribly homesick on this trip—the distance felt enormous. Gemma (our then cook and housekeeper, mentioned at bottom), works for Barbara and her husband, David Jaynes, and on occasion for me and baby Cary, to this happy day.

  Occasionally, we had the odd bit of “night life.” One of our old Hollywood haunts was the private Magic Castle. A subculture of Hollywood magicians performing in a veritable castle club. Dinner and a show. The food is not the main attraction. The close-up room, where card tricks are performed virtually under your nose, completely flummoxed Dad. “How do they do that?… Marvelous.” In Las Vegas, Dad snuck me into the adult shows to see great magicians. With the patrons buzzing and the lights dimmed, we’d work our way into the showroom after the opening showgirl act, and slink out before closing. It bothered Dad that children were banned from revues. “For God’s sake … they’re breasts!… She’ll have some eventually!” Dad was kicked out of grade school for peeping-tom behavior. The adolescent Archie was hoisting me up onto the locker room fence with him!

  The divine feeling of leaning back and trusting Dad. Place and origin unknown, circa 1970.

  MOM AND DAD socialized me early. I went along to parties, clubs, and fetes. If the environment was okay for them, it was okay for me, too. Neither of them were big night people. Mom took me with her to “adult” dinner parties, where generally I found a comfy couch to curl up on and sleep. The concept of “getting out there,” socializing, and meeting people to make one’s way up the business ladder still confounds me. It never occurred to me that people actually had to leave their homes to socialize. Most of “the powers that be” came to our house. Still, business was business, socializing was socializing. We never sat around a dinner table and talked business. Somehow in my mind, business just happened. It was what one did during the day. Mom went to the set. Dad worked as a director on boards. The work just came to them. That’s how I saw it.

  Getting out there on my own was at first a rude awakening.

  My childhood experience with celebrity and inherent fame left me entirely ill-prepared for the realities of the world. Elite college and boarding school are philosophical bubbles. Celebrity life is a societal bubble. I was bubble girl and my many worlds popped when I stepped out on my own. All the good grades and good intentions aside, wrangling with life from the bottom up makes no sense when you’re used to looking at things from the top down. Growing up as a “have,” envy is a far-off concept. Most of my friends had plenty, too. I was used to sharing the wealth as a way of life. Alligator briefcase falls hard. Let’s just say I’ve been through some paradigm shifts since childhood.

  Dad carried his fame lightly. When I was in my teens Dad was in his seventies. He was accustomed to handling the limelight and did it with ease. What did he use when times got tough? Common sense, I suppose. He was not a religious man. His spiritual nature is best summed up by his favorite “meditation” (author unknown):

  Now Lord, you’ve known me for a long time. You know me better than I know myself. You know that each day I am growing older and someday may even be very old, so meanwhile please keep me from the habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion.

  Release me from trying to straighten out everyone’s affairs. Make me thoughtful, but not moody, helpful, but not overbearing. I’ve a certain amount of knowledge to share; still it would be very nice to have a few friends who, at the end, recognized and forgave the knowledge I lacked.

  Keep my tongue free from the recital of endless details. Seal my lips on my aches and pains: They increase daily and the need to speak of them becomes almost a compulsion. I ask for grace enough to listen to the retelling of others’ afflictions, and to be helped to endure them with patience.

  I would like to have improved memory, but I’ll settle for growing humility and an ability to capitulate when my memory clashes with the memory of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that on some occasions I may be mistaken.

  Keep me reasonably kind; I’ve never aspired to be a saint … saints must be rather difficult to live with.… Yet, on the other hand, an embittered old person is a constant burden.

  Please give me the ability to see good in unlikely places and talents in unexpected people. And give me the grace to tell them so, dear Lord.

  While fame held up a glossy picture for the world, Dad’s inner life was a disciplined and gently reflective domain.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Society of Gossips—or, Mind Your Own Business

  In the e
arly seventies, Dad and I lived at 92 Malibu Colony. Or was it 91? 90 perhaps? The miscalculation could mean a huge difference to someone’s monthlies. One might imagine affected Realtors shuffling off to the courthouse to look up public housing records or some such thing. Mom and I also lived in the Colony. We lived at number 98. That one’s for sure. One Halloween many years later, I trick-or-treated in the Colony. Our former home had been redone and then reredone. Curious, I asked 98’s new owners for a peek. They allowed me and only me into the house. Merde, alors. Our formerly avant-garde Moroccan home had been turned into a pastel nightmare. The owner enlightened me about Mom and Dad living in the master for years. How did I miss that? No. Simply not true at all. Had the Realtor sold the house on this premise? Perhaps Dad had also lived here with his gay lovers? Another night I was at Malibu Cinemas, and I overheard the woman in front of me discussing her friendship with Cary Grant’s son, my brother. I wanted to know my brother, too. Did he live with me? How old was he? Was he younger or older than I? Could he protect me and introduce me to all of his cute friends? Maybe Mom and Dad had him during all those years they were living together in that room at 98. My point is … where there’s smoke … sometimes it’s just a poisonous cigarette.