How to Be a Movie Star (43 page)

When the account of Elizabeth's famous tracheotomy was previously reported, this part of the story was never told. The reaction to her earlier illness has been treated as incidental, if at all. But, in fact, the narrative of her brush with death and the outpouring of public support was already in place by March 1961, because
it had already happened.
And had any clever press agent been so inclined, it would have been easy to whip it up again by starting a little whisper campaign that Elizabeth had died. The reaction of the press and the public was already known. Crowds would fill the streets and newspapers would banner the latest reports of Elizabeth's condition.

Which is exactly what happened. On March 7, the day after the death rumor, the headlines about Elizabeth moved from below the fold to the top of the page, from regular font size to three inches tall in some instances. Thousands of grief-stricken fans choked the streets around the clinic, depositing flowers in enormous piles on the steps as a sort of shrine—a common enough gesture today for sick or deceased celebrities, but unusual in 1961. Newspaper reports about Elizabeth's condition read almost like obituaries, with photographs of Elizabeth in her greatest films and descriptions of her "once-lithe body" now "linked to medical apparatus around her bed." And surely it was press agents—and not "friends," as reporters described them—who leaked the few precious facts that emerged from the star's hospital room: her constant pain due to lack of sedation (it could weaken her breathing) and her sudden, heartfelt concern about her children, which caused her to sit bolt upright in her hospital bed.

Though doctors were in fact reporting a "slight improvement" in Elizabeth's condition, the press had no interest in quelling the sudden hysteria. They wanted to sell newspapers. So it was the star's anemia (a "setback," it was called) that the reports trumpeted. "Elizabeth Taylor developed dangerous symptoms of anemia today in her fight for life against pneumonia," the
New York Daily News
declared.

No matter how many hospital bulletins insisted that Elizabeth was "breathing quietly and peacefully," the histrionic coverage continued. Reporters trailed Eddie's agent, Milton Blackstone, as he hurried to board a plane for London, allegedly carrying twenty vials of an antipneumonia drug. Just why Elizabeth's doctors would need Eddie Fisher's agent to procure drugs for them in America was never made clear. When a grim-faced Sara and Francis Taylor arrived in London, pursued down Harley Street by a mob of shouting reporters, the public reasoned that things must indeed be dire. They were, of course—just not as dire as the press made them out to be.

And then, suddenly, Elizabeth got better. On March 10 the
Times
announced that she was "out of danger"—even if the tabloids in England and America carried on for another day or two. But on March 12 the breathing tube was removed from her throat. Doctors assured reporters that she was "going along very nicely," and that seemed to be that. London police dispatched a "black maria," or paddy wagon, to disperse the crowds amassed around the clinic. "Go on home," they barked through megaphones. "It's all over."

But the story wasn't over. It was far too profitable to fade away that fast—for both the newspapers and the principals involved. Eddie gave several different interviews, describing how the "dreadful illness" had nearly taken his wife's life "more than once this past week." Even with the crisis over, he stood on the clinic's front steps to have his picture taken and read statements expressing the couple's "limitless gratitude and appreciation to those who made possible her miraculous recovery." Indeed, the "miracle" of Elizabeth's "second chance at life" was heralded in newspapers the world over.

Of course, these statements were written by press agents who knew their audience. And it wasn't just Elizabeth's adoring public. It was also those Academy voters back in Los Angeles who had yet to cast their ballots for Best Actress, and who were following the saga of the star's near-death experience in their morning newspapers. To suggest that there was no awareness of how Elizabeth's health crisis might play out for Academy voters is naïve. "Of course that's what was on their minds," said Dick Clayton. Frank D'Amico, who worked at the time for the publicity firm of Rupert Allen in Hollywood, observed, "A good publicist is always thinking of ways in which an event can be turned around to help his client." That would explain the parade of interviews arranged over the next few weeks, first with Eddie, and then with Elizabeth herself.

The first photos of "Liz on the mend" appeared on March 23. For the occasion, the French hairdresser Alexandre, whom she'd met in Paris, flew to London at her request to give her a new hairdo. "There, in her hospital bed," said Alexandre, "she was held up by three nurses while I created her famous artichoke cut." Above her cashmere sweater, she wore a discreet bandage hiding the wound on her throat. She smiled meekly for photographers, but said nothing, since she was still too weak, according to spokesmen. But not too weak to share champagne with Truman Capote, who came to visit.

And, yet again, that is not meant to trivialize the experience that she'd been through. Elizabeth would tell remarkable stories to her friends, and later to the public, about seeing "the white light" while she'd been unconscious, of feeling "so welcoming and warm"—the classic description of near-death experiences. She'd even seen Mike, she insisted, who told her that she needed to go back, that it wasn't her time yet—though he had promised that he'd be waiting for her when it was. No doubt she fervently believed all of it. That stories such as these only further riveted the public to her drama was immaterial.

A few days later her release from the hospital caused a riot. The door of her Rolls-Royce was nearly ripped off its hinges by eager fans, and Elizabeth had to be moved to another car. This was followed by a much ballyhooed return to America. It wouldn't do for the next Best Actress Academy Award winner to recuperate outside of her own country.
MISS TAYLOR COMES HOME TO REGAIN HEALTH
blared the headlines. There was even talk of making
Cleopatra
in Hollywood; in any event, the London shoot now had to be abandoned, which meant that Peter Finch and Stephen Boyd couldn't wait around anymore. A new Caesar and Antony would need to be found. Wanger was thinking Rex Harrison and Richard Burton, who, though not a big movie star, had recently been a sensation on Broadway in
Camelot.

Cleopatra,
however, was the furthest thing from Elizabeth's mind. When she arrived in New York, she told reporters that she felt "a little better," and then, in a "wan and wispy" voice, thanked the public for all "their good wishes." The press was also there when she arrived back in Los Angeles, carried down from her plane by two TWA attendants and placed in a wheelchair, her left leg covered with bandages from "numerous shots of antibiotics during her fight for life in England." Dressed in a stylish tan suit, she was whisked away to a limousine, where, as she petted a little dog in her lap in the backseat, she spoke a few words out the window to newsmen. They had to lean down and strain to hear her whisper: "I plan on doing nothing. I won't do anything for at least several months. I have to do what my doctors tell me."

In every account of her life, Elizabeth Taylor's frail health has been a recurring motif. It is part of her story, part of her legend. Even before this latest crisis,
Motion Picture
magazine had tried to explain her ever-fragile health as a result of that other important theme of her story: her passion and lust for life. "It is
love
that is killing Liz Taylor," the fan magazine wrote. "[I]n her brief life [she] has loved not wisely, but too well, and too many things: men and beauty, fame and talent, children and travel and money and excitement and love itself." While little more than pop psychology, some of this may have been on the money, even if the writer didn't fully realize it. Certainly Elizabeth's headlong embrace of sex, drugs, alcohol, and food did exacerbate her various health issues.

But the stories of struggle and infirmity served a real purpose in the larger narrative of Elizabeth's life. In an article titled "Can Liz Ever Be Cured?" written during the "Malta fever" episode, another writer imagined the glamorous star alone in her hospital room, "a beautiful woman of twenty-eight, rich, famous, loved, idolized." But he was sure, if he listened carefully, that he "could hear her sobbing." He imagined her "lying in a simple, unironed hospital nightgown, in a crude, white cot of a bed in a barren room, clutching a pillow, shaking with emotion and weary from weeping."

When chronicling the life of a woman who appeared to have it all, such a narrative was necessary as counterbalance. The public seemed to need to believe that there was
some
hidden misery, that
something
wasn't perfect for this magnificent goddess. Stories about Elizabeth's propensity for illness indulged that suspicion. There were some, of course, who dismissed her health problems as hypochondria or the behavior of a spoiled, pampered movie star, claiming they were nothing "that a good spanking wouldn't cure." But for the most part, the stories generated sympathy for the "poor little rich girl," for the girl who was "too beautiful" or who "loved too much" for her own good.

By now, Elizabeth's handlers—and no doubt the star herself—understood how it worked. They knew how the public responded to her illnesses and accidents. They knew how those post-tracheotomy interviews would be received, what effect that bandage on Elizabeth's throat would have on those who saw it. No longer a pariah or a home wrecker, she was a strong, courageous young woman who had returned Lazarus-like from the dead. In Hollywood, fans lined the street waving placards welcoming her home. "This was the ultimate climax," Eddie Fisher said, "the queen rising from her deathbed to receive the love of her court."

Elizabeth may have said that she planned on doing nothing, but armed guards couldn't have kept her away from the Academy Awards presentation on April 17. "Elizabeth Taylor looks tough to beat," predicted veteran Hollywood scribe Bob Thomas, "and not only because of her recent brush with death. She lifted
Butterfield 8
out of the ordinary." But she'd been overlooked three years in a row. Nothing was sure until she held that shiny little gold man in her hands.

That year, due to renovations at the Pantages Theatre, the Oscar show was moved out of Los Angeles for the first time. The closest venue of sufficient size was the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. But that didn't stop the fans from showing up—twenty-five hundred of them, the largest in Academy history. They congregated along Main Street and Pico Boulevard, waiting for the stars to appear on the red carpet. Many of the nominees and presenters were late, caught in a massive traffic jam that clogged the beachfront city. The curtain had already gone up inside when Elizabeth and Eddie finally arrived. The crowd went wild. Stepping out of the limo in a flowing Dior gown with a mint green bodice and white sheath skirt with a floral pattern, Elizabeth appeared "cool and confident," one reporter observed. But as the clamor around her escalated, she seemed to grow "tense" and gripped Eddie's arm. He escorted her inside, where she composed herself in the lounge before taking her seat.

When the nominees for Best Actress were read, Elizabeth sat emotionless. Yul Brynner, winner of Best Actor for
The King and I
in 1956, unsealed the envelope and read her name as the winner. Applause tore through the auditorium. Elizabeth clapped her hands over her mouth and stared straight ahead in astonishment. For several seconds, she didn't move or say a word. Then she turned to Eddie, who helped her stand. She made her way up to the stage slowly and uncertainly. One emotional observer commented: "Near death two months ago, now at the peak of her career ... Miss Taylor's victory was one of the most dramatic moments in Oscar's thirty-three years." Eddie Fisher wondered if the Academy had deliberately seated them in the middle of the auditorium instead of close to the stage just to "prolong the drama."

For drama there certainly was. Elizabeth stood at the podium trembling perceptibly, looking out at her peers as they got to their feet, offering a standing ovation in her honor. "A coronation," Eddie called it. Those applauding her were people with whom she had lived, worked, and grown up—people who, for the last two years, had seemed to ostracize her. Now, standing there with the scar on her throat visible, everything was forgiven. "I don't really know how to express my gratitude for this and for everything," she whispered into the microphone. "All I can say is thank you with all my heart."

Backstage, she posed for photos with the other winners, Burt Lancaster for Best Actor in
Elmer Gantry
and Billy Wilder as Best Director for
The Apartment.
She went cheek-to-cheek with Eddie in a gesture of triumph. But then she skipped out, avoiding the usual post-show interviews. There was nothing more to say. She had won, and on her terms—by playing the game better than anyone else and by rewriting the rules. She didn't yield; Hollywood did.

Two and a half years earlier, few could have predicted this night. But both of the women who'd been involved in the scandal (which was already being called "quaint" by many) triumphed in the end. Debbie Reynolds, so shrewd, so calculating, would rapidly follow Elizabeth as the second woman to make a million dollars per picture. With her trademark spunk, Debbie elbowed her way right into the box-office top ten. Scandal had been very good for little Debbie.

But she would never quite claim the same exalted place in the pantheon of Hollywood that Elizabeth had achieved. For if stardom was about reconciling differences, there was never any contradiction to the perky and sweet public image of Debbie Reynolds. So controlling was the actual woman behind the façade that she never allowed the real—and far more fascinating—duality that defined her to be glimpsed by anyone outside her private circle. As a consequence, she would never become a star of the rank of Elizabeth Taylor.