Intimate Strangers: Comic Profiles and Indiscretions of the Very Famous - Softcover

Zehme, Bill

 
9780385333740: Intimate Strangers: Comic Profiles and Indiscretions of the Very Famous
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0385333749 ISBN 13: 9780385333740
Verlag: Delta, 2002

Inhaltsangabe

Schwarzenegger intimidates.
Sharon Stone strips.
Leno and Letterman duel.
In twenty years of raw and raucous celebrity profiles

Irreverently bold journalist Bill Zehme has long been celebrated for his ability to get under the skins of our most elusive icons, from the evasive Warren Beatty to the ever-unpredictable Madonna to the much misunderstood Barry Manilow. Now his most provocative work is collected for the first time, with over twenty-five landmark profiles, including Frank Sinatra, Tom Hanks, Jerry Seinfeld, Liberace, Howard Stern, Eddie Murphy, and Woody Allen.

Zehme witnesses Hugh Hefner withstanding the single blow that never entered into an adolescent boy’s dreams--losing his fantasy woman. He gets a nude massage with Sharon Stone, and an earful about men, sex, and the shotgun she keeps under her bed. Included, too, is Zehme’s exclusive firsthand coverage of David Letterman and Jay Leno, before and throughout their late-night feud. Here is entertainment history through the eyes of a man the Chicago Tribune called “one of the most successful and prolific magazine writers in the country.”

Hilarious, endearing, and wickedly insightful, Intimate Strangers captures the business of celebrity for what it is: a big, lusty, star-crossed love affair between our icons and ourselves.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Bill Zehme is the author of the New York Times bestseller The Way You Wear Your Hat: Frank Sinatra and the Lost Art of Livin’. A longtime writer-at-large for Esquire, his profiles have also appeared in Rolling Stone, Playboy, and Vanity Fair. He lives in Chicago.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

And Then There Was One: Sinatra Bequeaths His Rules of Order

Esquire, March 1996

In black tie, Dean sleeps forever. He lounges in his marble vault, behind the bank in Westwood, draped in midnight attire, in the uniform, crimson hanky peeking from breast pocket. He was the beautiful one. Always did know how to dress. The Leader liked that. Sam was another story. He was the youngest, the wild card. Onstage, 1963: "What are you doing in that cockamamie street suit!" Frank admonished, emerging godlike from the wings of the Sands, Dean by his side. "And what is this, with the tie down and the collar open? Where the hell did you learn that? Now, go up to your room and get yourself into a little ol' tuxedo!" This happened nightly. Sam: "What're you, Esquire magazine? Let's get one thing straight, Frank! I'm thirty-seven years old! I will change my clothes when I get good and ready!" Frank: "Are you ready?" Sam: "Yes, Frank." Sam was a pussycat in his tiny tux, Frank always said. Right now he's up on that Forest Lawn hilltop, wearing one of his English toy suits--over a red shirt. (Red--the color of Bojangles's eyes!) On his wrist is the enormous gold Cartier watch he so treasured. "Laid on me by my man, Francis," he'd tell those who asked, before the end. "It goes with me." Frank gave it to him on the reunion tour, the last time the three of them tried to do it all over again. Recapture the old mothery gas--that, of course, was Frank's idea. Dean told him, "Why don't we find a good bar instead."

Wrecked, the Leader sat amid the leftover antipasti Christmas night. Dag was dead since before dawn. They called each other Dag (pronounced daig), for no one else could, would dare. He was not surprised by the bad news, but the sorrow was pounding him in slow waves. "Don't worry," he said softly to a few intimates, "I'm not going anyplace for a long time." And he picked at his food. The mantle of style would now be his alone, although of course it always had been. It was just nice to have some company, their company, those two bums in particular. He embodied the code to which all freethinking men aspired, but only two truly understood how it was done, no lessons needed, sang and swung to boot. Thirty-five years after it started--all that rehearsed spontaneity in the Copa Room at the Sands Hotel--only the oldest survives; the freshly minted octogenarian, he persists. His force wanes not at all, keeping younger men of close acquaintance up all hours while he belts his Jack Daniel's and explains history as he knows it. He does not let go.

"You've got to love livin', baby! Because dyin' is a pain in the ass!" That was what he always told them, never stopped telling them. Sam paid heed until he couldn't anymore. Dean didn't, hadn't for years. His gorgeous indifference, which Frank quietly revered, finally withered him, which Frank detested witnessing. "How can you eat that motherfucking shit?" Frank goaded him from across the table last June. Together, they sat at Dean's booth, next to the bar, at Da Vinci in Beverly Hills. It was the final Summit. Dean had just turned seventy-eight, and Frank never missed a birthday. Frank missed nothing, never has, even now. So he saw what he saw and his heart broke and, hating it, he fought. ("Fight, fight, fight!" he whispers inside his head every day, staving off that rat-bastard, Time.) He wanted a rise out of gentle Dag, so he poked at the pasta and needled like a hero. He tore off bread and pelted his frail paisan, a ritual of theirs since always. Dean only smiled. Frank stayed feisty. They sipped their separate amber and talked as best they could. After an hour or so, Frank got up to leave, said he had to go to New York tomorrow. "Good," Dean said. "Don't come back." Such was the love between the largest of men.

In the beginning, there was only Sinatra. He lent out the hubris, covered every ass, cleared the forest, rigged the tempo, made the rules. His battle cry: "Fun with everything, and I mean fun!" Born an only child, he did not like to be alone. So he handpicked his pallies with care, shunned all the hapless clydes who wanted in, and held court till the sun shone. Nineteen sixty: By day, they made their first film opus, Ocean's Eleven, playing war vets out to rob five Vegas casinos; by night, they kept on playing, onstage, on the Strip, on the loose, moving in a pack, like, well, never mind. In Frank's hands, hanging out turned to art, daubed with a palette of twinkle and menace. His good side was the side to stay on. He once said, "Trouble just seems to come my way--unbidden, unwelcome, unneeded." Above all, he was about fearlessness and good grooming. He bought his first jet in 1959, sang about it onstage: "When I'm up there wingin', I'm really ring-a-ring-a-ding-dingin'. . . ." Like so, he reinvented language and instructed eager pupils. From the third Sammy Davis Jr. autobiography, Why Me?: "A young cat with two wild-looking chicks walked by and Frank raised his eyebrows. 'Cuff links.' "

What man would not like to be near that man? Even Camelot came to the Sands. The young senator from Massachusetts became known as Chicky-Baby, as christened by the Leader, who shared all guilty pleasures guiltlessly. His men slept warm and strayed not far. The comedian Tom Dreesen, who spent thirteen years opening for and traveling with Sinatra, told me this story: "They were all in Las Vegas shooting Ocean's Eleven and one morning the actor Norman Fell woke up and looked outside of his hotel window. He saw Dean and Sammy and Peter Lawford running past the pool, running fast. So he stuck his head out and yelled, 'Hey, where are you guys going?' And Sammy said, 'Frank's up!' So the day begins. You have to understand that when you are with Frank Sinatra, it's his world and you are living in it. If you revolve around his energy, you benefit. With Frank, you can never learn enough."

Only because somebody asked, he once said: "I think my real ambition is to pass on to others what I know. It took me a long, long time to learn what I now know, and I don't want that to die with me. I'd like to pass that on to younger people." He wasn't talking about song artistry; he meant life nuance, how-to stuff, the business of comporting one's self--all of that which he has suggested only through music or private example. Two years ago, it occurred to me that he had not made good on his promise. Men had gone soft and needed help, needed a Leader, needed Frank Sinatra. So I wrote to him and appealed on behalf of manhood and mankind. I wanted to ask him essential questions, the kind that could save a guy's life. I wanted what might approximate Frank's rules of order. He took the clarion call and instructed his publicist, Susan Reynolds, to gather my questions as they came and bring them along on the road. He would sit on his plane, Jack in hand, and do what he could as an oracle, when he found the patience, a virtue he has never claimed to possess. (He was, in the end, either charmed by or merely tolerant of this exercise. "It helps me pass the time," he said, with kindly forbearance.) The process took many months. Later, I was encouraged to debrief his closest confidants, who further detailed the minutiae of his ways, both then and now. (To complete the style spectrum, I did the same with intimates of Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr.) Supplemented as such, there emerged a composite of how the role of Sinatra is played in everyday life, whatever the circumstance. "To be like Frank Sinatra," says his friend, producer George Schlatter, "you've got to be able to give a punch and take a punch. You've got to have a stomach like a still. You've got to be early for...

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Verlag
Delta
Erscheinungsdatum
2002
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0385333749
ISBN 13 
9780385333740
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
400
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