murder, suicide, transvestism, and madness in Tinseltown.
Of course, he'd seen Ramon Novarro only two days before he was murdered by gay hustlers, talked to Marilyn Monroe only hours before her suicide, run into Sal Mineo the night before he was murdered, been seduced by an anonymous beauty onboard Errol Flynn's yacht, been in the lobby of the London Dorchester when they'd wheeled out Liz Taylor on the way to the hospital with her near-fatal pneumonia, and "had almost gone" to a party at the house of Roman Polanski's wife, Sharon Tate, on the very night the Charles Manson gang broke into it and massacred all the occupants.
But we forgave him all that for the countless authentic little tales he told about the people he really had known. His career had spanned forty years, that was a fact, from his first starring role opposite Barbara Stanwyck to a regular part on the new nighttime soap "Champagne Flight" opposite the indomitable erotic film star Bonnie.
"Champagne Flight" was the season's camp trash hit. And everybody wanted to hear about Bonnie.
In the sixties she'd been the Texan who conquered Paris, the big beautiful dark-haired Dallas girl who became queen of the French New Wave along with Jean Seberg and Jane Fonda. Seberg was dead. Fonda had long ago come home. But Bonnie had remained in Europe, in seclusion a la Brigitte Bardot, after years of making bad Spanish and Italian films never released in this country.
It had been the hard-core pornographic flicks-Deep Throat, Behind the Green Door, The Devil and Miss Jones-that had killed the stylish, often profound erotic films that Bonnie had made in the sixties, driving her and Bardot and others like them from the American market.
Everybody at the table admitted to remembering those old pictures, loving them.
Bonnie, the brunette Marilyn Monroe, peering out from behind big horn-rimmed glasses as she talked existentialism and angst in her soft American-accented French to the cold, callous European lovers who destroyed her. Monica Vitti was never more lost, Liv Ullmann never more sad, Anita Ekberg never more voluptuous.
We compared notes on the rat-hole art theaters where we'd seen the flicks, the caf6s in which we'd talked about them after. Bonnie, Bardot, Deneuve-they had had intellectual approval. When they stripped for the cameras, it had been courageous and wholesome. Was there anyone comparable to them now? Somebody still had the Playboy in which Bonnie first appeared wearing only her horn-rimmed glasses. Somebody else said Playboy was reprinting the pictures. Everybody remembered her famous ad for Midnight Mink with the coat open all the way down the front.
And every single one of us admitted, to our shame, having tuned in the stylish but wretched "Champagne Flight" at least once just to get a look at Bonnie. Bonnie at forty was still first-rate Bonnie.
And though her few Hollywood films had been disasters, she was now in the pages of People magazine and the National Enquirer along with Joan Collins of "Dynasty" and "Dallas" star Larry Hagman. Paperback biographies of her were in every drugstore. Bonnie dolls were on sale in the madcap gift shops. The show was in the top ten. They were bringing back her old films.
Soulful Bonnie; Texas Bonnie.
Well, Alex had had his arms around her only last Monday afternoon; she was a "darlin' girl," yes, she did need the horn-rimmed glasses, couldn't see two feet in front of her; yes, she did read all the time, but not Sartre or Kierkegaard or Simone de Beauvoir "and all that old foolishness." It was mysteries. She was addicted to mysteries. And no, she didn't drink anymore, they had her off the booze. And she wasn't on drugs either. Who said such a thing?
And would we please stop knocking "Champagne Flight"? It was the best break Alex had had in years, he didn't mind telling us. They'd used him in seven episodes and promised him a couple more. His career had never had such a shot of adrenaline.
The nighttime soaps were
Of course, he'd seen Ramon Novarro only two days before he was murdered by gay hustlers, talked to Marilyn Monroe only hours before her suicide, run into Sal Mineo the night before he was murdered, been seduced by an anonymous beauty onboard Errol Flynn's yacht, been in the lobby of the London Dorchester when they'd wheeled out Liz Taylor on the way to the hospital with her near-fatal pneumonia, and "had almost gone" to a party at the house of Roman Polanski's wife, Sharon Tate, on the very night the Charles Manson gang broke into it and massacred all the occupants.
But we forgave him all that for the countless authentic little tales he told about the people he really had known. His career had spanned forty years, that was a fact, from his first starring role opposite Barbara Stanwyck to a regular part on the new nighttime soap "Champagne Flight" opposite the indomitable erotic film star Bonnie.
"Champagne Flight" was the season's camp trash hit. And everybody wanted to hear about Bonnie.
In the sixties she'd been the Texan who conquered Paris, the big beautiful dark-haired Dallas girl who became queen of the French New Wave along with Jean Seberg and Jane Fonda. Seberg was dead. Fonda had long ago come home. But Bonnie had remained in Europe, in seclusion a la Brigitte Bardot, after years of making bad Spanish and Italian films never released in this country.
It had been the hard-core pornographic flicks-Deep Throat, Behind the Green Door, The Devil and Miss Jones-that had killed the stylish, often profound erotic films that Bonnie had made in the sixties, driving her and Bardot and others like them from the American market.
Everybody at the table admitted to remembering those old pictures, loving them.
Bonnie, the brunette Marilyn Monroe, peering out from behind big horn-rimmed glasses as she talked existentialism and angst in her soft American-accented French to the cold, callous European lovers who destroyed her. Monica Vitti was never more lost, Liv Ullmann never more sad, Anita Ekberg never more voluptuous.
We compared notes on the rat-hole art theaters where we'd seen the flicks, the caf6s in which we'd talked about them after. Bonnie, Bardot, Deneuve-they had had intellectual approval. When they stripped for the cameras, it had been courageous and wholesome. Was there anyone comparable to them now? Somebody still had the Playboy in which Bonnie first appeared wearing only her horn-rimmed glasses. Somebody else said Playboy was reprinting the pictures. Everybody remembered her famous ad for Midnight Mink with the coat open all the way down the front.
And every single one of us admitted, to our shame, having tuned in the stylish but wretched "Champagne Flight" at least once just to get a look at Bonnie. Bonnie at forty was still first-rate Bonnie.
And though her few Hollywood films had been disasters, she was now in the pages of People magazine and the National Enquirer along with Joan Collins of "Dynasty" and "Dallas" star Larry Hagman. Paperback biographies of her were in every drugstore. Bonnie dolls were on sale in the madcap gift shops. The show was in the top ten. They were bringing back her old films.
Soulful Bonnie; Texas Bonnie.
Well, Alex had had his arms around her only last Monday afternoon; she was a "darlin' girl," yes, she did need the horn-rimmed glasses, couldn't see two feet in front of her; yes, she did read all the time, but not Sartre or Kierkegaard or Simone de Beauvoir "and all that old foolishness." It was mysteries. She was addicted to mysteries. And no, she didn't drink anymore, they had her off the booze. And she wasn't on drugs either. Who said such a thing?
And would we please stop knocking "Champagne Flight"? It was the best break Alex had had in years, he didn't mind telling us. They'd used him in seven episodes and promised him a couple more. His career had never had such a shot of adrenaline.
The nighttime soaps were
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