The first was remote. When I worked for the late old IPC cunties' monthly Woman's Journal I had to 'nogotiate' an interview with her. She didn't want a one-to-one it emerged but she agreed to a fax chat. The result wasn't that interesting. The Dame rarely spoke the truth about anything, but like her pal Michael Jackson, adopted a breathless, semi-cosmic pose suggestive of a deity bothered by mundane inquiries. Her most admirable feature was a merciless contempt for the media and a shrewd wariness of the public. In one TV interview she gave a few years ago she teased a journalist with personal allusions: when asked the direct question she said with a smiling scorn you couldn't fake: 'Wouldn't you like to know.' Perfect old Hollywood.
Anyway, I'm not one easily put off. I contacted the Dame's then agent Chén Sam in New York telling her the fax interview was crap. 'Well, come over and I'll talk to you,' she said, as if I were a neighbour. So I got on a plane. Chén, an Egyptian I think, received me in her office and over 90 minutes knocked back a number of alcoholic drinks while leaving me dry. She spoke so frankly, and mostly off-the-record, that much of what she said was unusable. At one point the Dame phoned and Chén said: 'Yes, he's here.' She replaced the receiver. All very unrehearsed. My eventual write-up was a masterly mish-mash of the faxed rubbish and slight betrayals of Chén. I heard that Taylor was a little displeased.
My next meeting with the Dame was in Paris. She was launching one of her Diamonds scents and a small group of us was flown over in a shaky propellered jalopy. One seagull collision over the Channel might have finished us off. I was stunned by the sight of Taylor, for all the wrong reasons. Perhaps because of medication, her head was now pumpkin-like, quite swollen and out of proportion to the rest of her. She reminded me of a Thunderbirds puppet. At the press conference I infuriated her people by asking whether her scents and cosmetics had been tested on animals. Furious denials. I was only asking. Compliant newspaper hacks snickered behind me.
Our last encounter was in London at the Dorchester. Here again I managed to annoy her. I forget what she was pushing this time but whatever it was I wasn't interested. Instead, I asked her why she didn't produce her own movies to stay employed - she had moaned that she couldn't find film work because no insurer would touch her; not with her health record. 'What?!' she screamed to my question. 'Me, produce? I'm a film actress. I don't produce.' She expertly made the word sound like 'shit' or 'clean up'.
The most beautiful Hollywood star ever? Most certainly. One of its most gifted actors? I'd say so. She understood the value of under-acting on camera. Unlike Burton.
26 comments:
I think you'll find the average Taylor fan only responds to photos. Loved your piece.
Why do your page views reduce in number as the days march on?
They ebb and flow with the tides. There are surges and then neaps, depending on the gravitational pull of the content.
Marvellous stuff. Contrasts with all the puffy obits in the newspapers probably written 30 years ago.
Brilliant, love it. cackles.
no - the TOTAL of page views goes up and down, not the number per day
oh - i get it - it's in the last 30 days oooonly
Both figures go up and down, like a satyr's bottom in a brothel. I do hope you're not a trainspotter, poppet.
Yes. but if you click the world map you'll see more detailed figures. Sexual content causes aud tumescence because there's an awful lot of frustrated people out there. In front of keyboards. In their bedrooms. Alone.
Taylor represented the very worst excesses of old Hollywood and did her bit for the cultish celebrity worship we now endure. The only difference is that while she had beauty, brains and talent, her successors are know-nothing rubbish from Essex.
Perhaps astrology is the better option for you.
Frustrated people? Oh that can't be true! I've seen the age of liberation wash over society like a warm wave. Why only last week I was ogled by an Arab in Harrods. At my age!
With folic acid on tap and aerobics there's no excuse not to be moist and ready, Lavinia.
I wonder if Liz was shagging her gardener towards the end. I have visions of the old girl screaming "Top up!" at him every time his stud services were required. I highly recommend one's own Mellors.
I so agree on the vital importance of moisturiser in all weathers. We can't aall be like my niece who simply STEAMS even in the depths of winter.
And don't you simply adore Boom!? Much of it was filmed on that island owned by darling old Sammy Grockalopolis who said that Liz T was the PERfect house guest, never left pubic hairs in the bathroom, but I think this was because she'd heard that when Ingrid Bergman stayed at Sammy's the chambermaid collected Ingrid's pewbie-woobies and sold them to fans.
Wonderful, Lavinia. Liz was of course the ultimate slattern and regularly turned expensive freehold into dog poo hell. I doubt that she douched.
Briefly met her-at her 50th birthday party at Legends. I was taken by Express show-biz writer David Wigg. Richard Burton launched into tirade at me and abused the hell out of me. He thought I was the disc jockey. People had to pull him away.It was so exciting being abused by a star. She laid on her favourite food-bangers and mash with Bollinger . Those eyes where extraordinary and she was far more petite than I expected. A boistreous drunk as well.
Pap Alan Davidson asked when I left if I was a relative. I said yes of course.
Lovely anecdote, Veritas. I used to see Wiggy in Cannes every year, with some pretty young man in tow. He must be in his 70s or 80s but is still moist. When Faye Dunaway passed by on one occasion, he launched off without a goodbye and chased after her ahead of the munchkins 3 times younger. I realised then I must seek a new, more contemplative career.
What makes your story believable is Chen Sam not offering you a drink. Typical old Chen.
Just between ourselves, they do say that Sammy Grockalopolis sired one of Liz T's miscarriages. So desperately sad.
You little gosser, Lav. Love to Val.
What a deeply horrible site this is. Full of bitter old journalists bitching about people who have done something with their lives. I hope you all die a cirrhosis.
Sweet of you to ask after Val. He's left the civil service and gone legit - running a beach resort in Bahia. He says quality control is a nightmare. The helipad caved in when the Swedish royal family descended on to it. Nobody hurt but tiaras were shaken
I should have hoped that Hello! would have reported all this given its reverence for European royalty.
Oh no, he has gunmen to keep journalists out.
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