The Fat Lady Sang
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From the legendary producer and author of The Kid Stays in the Picture—one of the greatest Hollywood memoirs ever written—comes a long-awaited second work with all the elements of a star-studded blockbuster: glamour and conflict, giddy highs and near-fatal lows, struggle and perseverance, tragedy and triumph.
myself, Move slow if you must, but don’t stop. And I didn’t. The Guy Upstairs must have been looking out for me. By the end of the month, dexterous again was my tongue, deft my clarity, and an octave deeper my reborn voice. I couldn’t make a fist yet, but my fingers were movin’. I couldn’t bend my toes, but I could move them. Most important of all, my atrophied right limb was slowly getting into the rhythm of heel-toe, heel-toe, allowing me at least to fake a walk, with only a slight limp. I
was lifted, I gave my staff two days off, filled their pockets with green . . . and asked them to leave my phones off. How romantic those days alone—total silence, and the extra kick of knowing I’d beat the Fourth Estate at their own game. Sad to say, but I can’t remember a more romantic three days in bed. Ring-ring-ring went the phone. On the other end? An undeniable request. Sumner Redstone’s seventy-fifth birthday party. I couldn’t say no. In steps English. “Sir, if am to get you to the
good to me, I was still a half-assed invalid. Not looked up to, but looked at. I didn’t feel like Evans any more. Lack of agility gave me a lack of confidence; lack of confidence gave me a lack of social graces. They used to come naturally. Now they weren’t coming at all. Hope is the feeling you have that the feeling you have isn’t permanent. Hope was fading fast. Did I like myself? No. Did I like who I was becoming? No. 24 You didn’t return my call, you snob.” “You’re calling me a
his better half, Annette Bening, who was on location shooting a film. Shaking my head. “What a gal.” “Only the best,” he smiled back. “Who do you like in the fight?” “It’s a tough call.” “That’s why I asked. They’re both over-the-hill, both great fighters. One is just slightly further over-the-hill than the other. It makes a difference. Age catches up to you.” “It sure does.” The fight started. Both fighters looked lethargic. “Told you—age catches up.” Round two was no better. “Five years
dinner with Helmut and June. As we were leaving the Palm, a photographer caught me kissing Helmut good night. It turned out to be our last good-bye. The next morning, news of Helmut’s death flashed across television screens. What seemed like just moments later, June, his extraordinary love and collaborator of fifty-four years, had me on the horn. “I know Helmut would want me to call . . . to tell you he beat you to the barn.” Then, softly, she added: “No one loved you more than Helmut.” Well,