American Prince (28 page)

I had an opportunity to meet Paul McCartney when I was filming
The Chastity Belt
in Italy. He was in Venice, and the Beatles were giving a concert one night in the big plaza in front of the Doge’s Palace, so I went to see them after work. I came a little late, and while I was underneath the bleacher seats walking toward the stage, I could hear Paul saying, “We’re dedicating tonight’s concert to Tony Curtis.” Paul was incredibly nice to me. As I said, I badly needed strokes from my fellow entertainers. I was feeling very alone and underappreciated, so I was especially grateful when someone whose work I so respected let me know he appreciated mine.

A
round this time
I began to wonder how well I really knew my wife Christine. She had been very young when she married me, and it didn’t take her long to start feeling out of place among my circle of friends, who were all twenty years older than she was. She became restless and wanted to go out with her younger friends.

Sometimes that worked out fine. After I came home from making
The Chastity Belt
in Italy, for instance, we went out to the clubs in LA, where at one point we met the Rolling Stones. I became great friends with Ron Wood, who was not only a great guitarist but a terrific painter. I loved talking to him about painting and about technique. I remember one party we went to with the Stones when I got up and started to dance with a chair that had ball bearings for feet, so I could spin it around and make some crazy moves. It knocked everyone out.

On other nights, when I wanted to stay home, Christine would go out anyway. This is how she met Dean Martin’s son Rick. It wasn’t long before everyone in town knew they were seeing each other—everyone except me. When I found out, I confronted Christine, and we had an ugly scene. I had to really work hard to control myself, because while we were shouting at each other I felt the most horrible, violent impulses. Every married man fears that his wife will cuckold him. Even when I had nothing to worry about, the thought of my wife fucking another guy could make me really upset. So when I found out that it was actually happening, I almost went crazy. And it certainly didn’t help when I realized that everyone else already knew about it. What a nightmare!

After this particularly ugly argument, Christine decided she was going to fly back to Germany. She took our daughter Alexandra and flew the first leg of her trip, the flight to New York, but when she got there, she had second thoughts and came back home. I took her back, but I wasn’t very happy, and I was exasperated at having to pay for the canceled airfare to Germany.

Soon afterward, I was contacted by Richard Fleischer, a director with a track record in a wide range of movies. He was interested in having me play Albert DeSalvo in
The Boston Strangler.
But he said he didn’t want me playing DeSalvo looking the way I did; he wanted me to look more sinister. He said, “What can we do to make you look like Albert DeSalvo?” I knew exactly what to do. Knowing what DeSalvo looked like, I got some putty and worked it onto the bridge of my nose, so it looked broken. I mussed up my hair and put dark makeup around my eyes. Then, holding a camera at arm’s length from my body, I took photos of myself as though I was being booked in a police station: profile and front-facing.

I sent the photos to Richard Fleischer, and he took them to Richard Zanuck, the producer, son of the legendary Darryl Zanuck. What Richard hadn’t told me was that Zanuck didn’t want me for the part. He had told Richard, “If he plays the role, as soon as Albert DeSalvo comes on screen, everyone’s going to know he’s Tony Curtis.”

Richard put the photos on Zanuck’s desk, and he said, “There’s your Albert DeSalvo.”

“You’re right,” Zanuck said. “Who is that?”

Richard said, “It’s Tony Curtis. Give him the part.” And Zanuck did. It was the one film I made in 1968, and it was a quality picture.

After I got the part, I went out and bought brown contact lenses to hide my blue eyes. I put on about fifteen pounds, and I used ankle weights to change the way I walked. I wore a pea coat, a stocking cap, jeans, and big, heavy boots. Up to that point I had mostly played the romantic love interest, but I knew there was no reason I couldn’t play a psychopath. My lack of self-confidence was focused mainly on what other people thought about me; I always had a pretty good sense of what I could do when it came to acting.

The costar of
The Boston Strangler
was Henry Fonda, who played the DA trying to track me down. I knew Henry from the days when I was married to Janet. He was part of that Gentile group I mentioned earlier, but he’d always been friendly. When I had owned a home in London, I had let Henry and his wife live in it while he was making a picture, and when I went to New York to rehearse a play, he’d let Janet and me stay in his apartment. So we were pretty close, or so I thought. But I was forced to revise my opinion when we started making
The Boston Strangler.

Henry Fonda was very cold to me, or so it seemed to me. I was working my ass off to give a performance, and never once did he say, “That was a good scene,” or “Nice job,” or even “You could have done better.” He hardly talked to me at all. Maybe he treated me that way because he was intent on staying in character. Some actors like to work that way, but that certainly wasn’t my style. I tried hard not to be offended by Henry’s remoteness, but at times it was a real struggle.

We shot some scenes of
The Boston Strangler
in LA, and during that time Christine and I were having terrible fights. Some nights I stayed on location because I couldn’t bear to go home and face her. Apparently there were some nights when Christine didn’t feel like staying home alone, so the following day I would hear that she’d been seen out somewhere with Rick. Once after I finished shooting, I went to a club where I was told Christine hung out, and there she was with two or three of her friends. She was surprised when I walked in, but she didn’t act like it was a big deal. Rick wasn’t there, but something about the scene made me fear I’d do something I’d regret, so I just left without a word. I still had a picture to finish.

I suppose my problems with Christine helped me in one sense, because I was able to take my rage and express it through the character of Albert DeSalvo. I felt Christine had violated my trust, which made me want to explode. Sure, I hadn’t always been faithful to her, but I’d always been discreet. And I’d always figured that after I’d had a little fun I’d go home to the woman I loved most of all. In any event, while my rage may have helped my portrayal of Albert DeSalvo, it didn’t make me much fun to work with. There were times when, after we finished shooting, someone would come up to me and say, “How’s Christine?” I’d growl, “I don’t fucking want to talk about it.” The question was probably asked innocently, but I was incapable of hearing it that way.

I was so distraught that I started seeing my psychiatrist again. He was really good with me. One day he said, “Tell me about the parts of your life that you think are similar to Albert DeSalvo’s.”

I said, “I don’t feel comfortable at home anymore, and every now and then I want to go out in my car and just drive around. When I do that, I’m not looking for women; I’m not looking for anything. I just need to be alone, which is a first for me. I’ve
never
wanted to be alone. I may have felt like a loner, but I always needed company.”

He stayed with it. “Let’s go deeper than that. What is it about being alone that is so terrifying to you?”

I’d tell him it took me back to my early childhood, and away we’d go.

For a couple weeks after I finished filming
The Boston Strangler,
I tried to carry on as though nothing was wrong. By this time Christine and I had had two daughters, Alexandra and Allegra, whom I loved deeply. There were also times when Kelly and Jamie Lee, my daughters from my marriage to Janet, would come over and play, and that calmed me. But I was unable to control a deep sense that I had lost everything that mattered to me, that I had started two families but I was going to be left with nothing and no one. I knew my life would no longer be the same. I felt devastated.

Eventually Christine moved out of our big mansion, leaving me to suffer alone in that empty palace. Without my knowing it, Christine went to Juarez, Mexico, and got a divorce, which was foolish of her, at least financially. Had she sought a divorce in the United States she might have been eligible for half of my assets plus child support, but she didn’t pursue it. I’m not sure why she made this decision, although perhaps her very public infidelity may have had something to do with her reluctance to fight for her share of my net worth. I just don’t know. To this day Christine claims that she still loves me. I don’t believe her. I’d like to, but I don’t.

“What Time Is the Enema?”

W
hile I was
filming
The Boston Strangler,
I met the woman who would become my third wife. Her name was Leslie “Penny” Allen, and she was a friend of my friend Bob Friedman, a stockbroker in New York City. He’d been a fan of mine ever since my early years, and whenever Bob would see me, he’d shout at the top of his lungs, “TO-NY CUR-TIS! TO-NY CUR-TIS!” He’d arrange to meet me in public places just so he could yell when I arrived. Bob was a lovable gentleman and a great connoisseur of young women. I don’t know how he managed it, but it seemed that whenever an incredibly beautiful new girl was hired by one of the top modeling agencies, someone would call Bob, who got himself assigned to show her around town.

Bob knew how despondent I was after the breakup of my marriage to Christine, and he said to me, “Don’t worry about a thing, Tony. I’ll fix you up.” That was how I met Penny Allen, who was twenty-three and working for the Ford Modeling Agency. I was absolutely bowled over by her beauty. I told her I was filming in Boston and asked her if she’d like to visit me there. Penny’s mother lived in Boston, so she agreed to come and see me there, which would also give her a chance to visit her mother. Almost immediately, Penny and I became lovers.

I was a real mess because of my breakup with Christine, but I kept that hidden from Penny. A big part of me felt beat-up and numb, but another part of me was yearning to find a new relationship, any new relationship, and that was the part that won out. I focused all my charms on Penny and won her over. I felt she was special—so beautiful and so young—that I didn’t want her ever to leave my side. Like Janet and Christine, Penny was the shiksa goddess of my dreams. Heaven knows, when I was a kid I couldn’t have imagined even
talking
to a girl who looked like Penny Allen.

After I was done filming in Boston, Penny flew out to California to be with me. I was still living in the Keck estate, with its twelve thousand square feet of space and two safes in the basement, one for wine and one for gold. I started taking Penny on a grand tour of the house, and while we were walking together, I asked her to marry me.

She said, “If you have an elevator, I will marry you.”

I took her by the hand and walked her across the dining room to a back hallway, where I pressed the button in the wall that summoned my elevator. The elevator came, and we got on it and rode up to the second floor, and by the time we got there she said yes. After a whirlwind romance, Penny and I were wed on April 20, 1968.

After our marriage, I flew off to Rome to film
Those Daring Young Men in Their Jaunty Jalopies,
a new take on
The Great Race.
Two great English comedians, Terry-Thomas and Dudley Moore, were in it. I was the star, and my love interest was Susan Hampshire, who was married to a French film producer. The thing I liked best about Susan was that she kept falling in love with everybody around her, even me. We became lovers, but just while we were working on the movie. I couldn’t help myself—marriage or no marriage. It didn’t mean anything, but for some reason I needed to do it. I guess at this point I wasn’t sure of anything or anybody—least of all myself.

In my next movie,
Suppose They Gave a War and Nobody Came?,
once again I fell hard for my leading lady. Only this time I really thought I’d found true love, and
that
didn’t happen often. In this movie I was playing opposite Suzanne Pleshette, who had been my costar in
40 Pounds of Trouble.
We had avoided an entanglement that first go-round, but this time there was no escaping it.

At the end of the first day of shooting, I said to her, “Will you be making breakfast?”

“What?” she said.

“Will you be making breakfast? You don’t have to make the bed, but just a little breakfast when we get up would be nice.”

She smiled and said, “You’re so funny.”

I said, “You’ll notice I didn’t mention the laundry.”

She laughed, and from then on I teased her in that flirting way throughout the making of the picture. Somewhere in the middle of the film, she said to me, “Will we have separate checking accounts?”

“Of course we will,” I said. “You get yourself whatever you want, I just don’t want to know.” Soon it became apparent that there were real feelings behind all the jesting. I liked Suzanne enormously, although I tried to hide my feelings from everyone but her. I was protecting her, and I was protecting my marriage. Eventually Suzanne and I started meeting in secret, just to talk. We knew that if we were seen together too often we’d start tongues wagging. The intrigue made our feelings for each other even more exciting, although we were careful to keep things platonic.

It made me happy to be around Suzanne. I loved to see a woman’s behavior toward me change from politeness to real interest, from “How do you do?” to “Hello there!” It made me feel alive. I still get a jolt of vitality when a woman finds me attractive. I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, because I don’t want people to think badly of me, but it’s part of my makeup, and I can’t pretend otherwise. Some people need alcohol. Some people need drugs. I need the attention of beautiful women.

One night Suzanne invited me to come by and see her place, and I did. She had planned a little dinner, and by the time I arrived she was wearing comfortable clothes, and so was I. Believe it or not, we didn’t consummate the affair. I didn’t want to, because I wasn’t going to leave Penny, and I didn’t want to do anything that might hurt Suzanne. I’d never felt this way before, and I explained that to her.

She took a moment to consider this, and then she said, “Is it true? Did you really have affairs with all those leading ladies?” I told her I had. She said, “Would you do me a favor? I’d like to be included in that group. Could you just tell everyone you had an affair with me?”

I said, “All right, dear. You’re in.” We chatted some more, and I went home.

That was Suzanne Pleshette.

I find it fascinating how people become attracted to each other. What causes those little sparks? Whenever I started flirting with a girl, I’d keep close touch with how it made me feel. Sparks flying was what mattered most. If I didn’t feel sparks, then it was no go. If I did, then look out!

Suzanne and I remained good friends. Many years later, she called me and let me know she was getting married to Tom Poston, a good comedian and a wonderful guy who had starred in Bob New hart’s 1980s sitcom
Newhart.
I went to their wedding reception, and I was genuinely happy for her. She and Poston were perfect together. They both died recently, less than a year apart, which saddened me greatly, although I’m sure they’re happy to be together, wherever they are.

T
he last movie
I made for a while was for Columbia Pictures, and it was called
You Can’t Win ’Em All.
I went to Turkey to shoot it, and when I got there I discovered that the director, Peter Collinson, was a rabid anti-Semite. A friend of mine who happened to be Jewish came to see me on the set, and Collinson asked, “How come you Jews always stick together?” I told him to go fuck himself. Needless to say, this was not the best way to start off a working relationship. To make matters worse, the picture was terrible. Collinson understood the technical aspects of filmmaking, but he didn’t have the necessary leadership skills to make a movie, so my costar, Charles Bronson, and I took over. Charley was a thoughtful, intelligent man, and he and I got along very well.

Turkey was an interesting country. A local Columbia Pictures employee recommended that I go to a Turkish bath in Istanbul, but when I went into the place and got undressed, I discovered a lot of guys standing around with erections. As calmly as I could, I delicately turned around, put my trousers back on, and got the hell out of there.

I was also directed to a massage parlor with rooms decorated in the Turkish style. The masseuses wore flouncy Turkish harem clothes with bloomers. One of the women must have seen my films, because she took me under her wing. She picked out a group of gorgeous girls for me to spend time with, and I found myself involved in some very exotic sexual play.

After this very pleasant break I went back to work. We were shooting a street scene, and I noticed that one of the bystanders watching us was a girl from the massage parlor. During a break in shooting, I went over and talked to her, and she invited me to go out with her. I thought I was going to a party, but instead I wound up at her parents’ home. She came from a well-to-do family. She introduced me to her folks, and we had a lovely time; I never once let on where we had met.

•                           •                           •

•                           •                           •

W
hen movie offers
stopped coming in, Irving Lazar said to me, “I don’t want you to stay out of sight for too long, so do some talk shows.”

I said, “Will they want me?”

“They’re all going to want you,” he said. “So don’t be shy about it.”

Dan Rowan and Dick Martin had invited me to appear on
Laugh-In
five times over the past several years. I had always wanted to do sketches and stand-up comedy, and this was my opportunity. I was delighted with the results, and I was happy that they liked me too. Then Mike Douglas called, and I went out to Philadelphia to do his talk show.

Irving Lazar continued to do what he could to get me parts, but the offers had dried up. An agent I knew, Freddie Fields, who had a lot of action in Las Vegas, asked me to go there and work as an emcee for a couple of weeks. He had hired a bunch of variety acts, and my job would be to would introduce them; as part of the gig I would also perform some magic tricks. The audience loved it. When we got to the end of the run, the hotel people begged me to stay on longer, but I had had enough.

When I saw I wasn’t being offered movie roles, I decided to become a producer. I tried to produce a film called
The Night They Raided Minsky’s,
which was going to be about a burlesque house and the strippers who worked there. Each stripper thought she was going to end up being a star like Gypsy Rose Lee. I was going to play the lead. I thought the movie would be very funny, but we didn’t end up with a suitable script, so I wound up not producing it. Norman Lear took the project on, and did a great job with it.

I didn’t work in a single movie between 1971 and 1974. My star had fallen so far that I couldn’t even get work on an American TV show. I did get a role on an English TV show called
The Persuaders,
with English star Roger Moore. Roger had played Simon Templar on the TV show
The Saint
for six seasons, and later he would star in a string of James Bond movies.
The Persuaders
was about two millionaire playboys who roamed Europe fighting bad guys. It was similar to James Bond, but perhaps a little more realistic.

Before I flew to London to start shooting
The Persuaders,
I carelessly threw a little marijuana in one of my bags. By this time pot had become very hip in Hollywood, and everyone and his brother was smoking it. Marijuana was cheap, and it wasn’t addictive. The worst feature of smoking pot was that you tended to eat a lot of munchies. That, and the possibility that it might accidentally find its way into your luggage. To make matters worse, for some reason I must have thought I might need protection across the pond, so I packed a .38 pistol in another bag.

When I got to England, customs inspectors went through my suitcases, and they found the marijuana and the gun. They confiscated them and allowed me to go on to my hotel, but a few hours later I received a summons to come to court the next morning at ten. When I arrived the next day, the British police kept me in a jail cell until my case was called. Everyone treated me very nicely, but I was beginning to get worried. When it was time for my case, the police officers led me up a spiral staircase, and at the top I found myself in the middle of a courtroom.

The judge, a woman, asked me to explain myself.

I said, “Well, ma’am, I don’t drink alcohol, because of what it does to me. But marijuana seems to calm me down. And I honestly don’t know why I brought the pistol. I just threw it in my bag without thinking. I had no intention of using it.”

She let me off easy, with a fifty-pound fine, but the incident made all the papers in England and America. One headline read,
TONY CURTIS BROKE AND BUSTED
. I felt humiliated, but there was nothing I could do about it except give myself a pep talk. I said to myself,
Go ahead, world, do your worst. I’ve had it up, and I’ve had it down. Whatever happens, it won’t be as bad as my childhood.

Penny and I decided to buy a house in London on Chester Square while I was making
The Persuaders.
Lew Grade, who was financing the show, intervened with the bank to make it possible for us to buy the house. I later found out that Penny had tried to make a secret deal with Lew and the bank so that if she and I ever got divorced, she would get the house. I was furious, and my sense of trust was badly shaken.