us settled into our guest bedrooms. He was polite but pretty lukewarm to me, mainly, I guess, because I was still a kid. There were far more important people around for him to fuss over. But his girlfriend, Marion Davies, was charming and welcoming, and she and I struck up a friendship that weekend that would endure for many years.
Hearst’s vast, sprawling complex overlooking the Pacific near San Simeon on the Central Coast of California was the inspiration for Xanadu, the fabulous house in Orson Welles’s immortal Citizen Kane. Not in my wildest imagination did I ever dream that a place like that existed. I was truly out of my depths. My head still swirls when I think back on that incredible weekend. The guest list consisted of Hollywood royalty and there were more movie stars in attendance than I could count. The luxurious bedrooms, the wood paneling, the Italian marble, the imported European fixtures, the paintings, the tapestries, the Roman pool, the extravagant meals with the bewildering array of glassware and cutlery at each place setting, the cavalcade of butlers, waiters, and maids, the fancy food and wine, the stunning fashions, the dancing, the music, the libraries, the private zoo, the beautiful movie theater, the gardens, the lawns, the private airfield, the flashy automobiles, Mr. Hearst’s magnificent personal yacht moored at his personal jetty at his personal beach. It is all still a magnificent montage of breathtaking wonders, even now, decades later. The memories I have of it are from a lost era, of another time, of a place relegated to a glorious and irretrievable past.
One Saturday afternoon on another weekend away from camp I was strolling down one of the main arteries through Hollywood when a guy who was out cruising stopped and picked me up. He introduced himself as Frank Horn. We went over to his place, where we spent the weekend together. He was movie actor Cary Grant’s private secretary and apparently he was responsible for coercing Grant to leave the East Coast and come to California, where he became one of the most successful and sought-after male romantic stars of all time. Horn was originally a stage manager. He had met Grant when Grant was a sixteen-year-old singer in a variety show in New York. At that time Grant still used his real name, Archie Leach. He had been sent over to Broadway from his native England to perform in the show and Horn had taken him under his wing. Horn was a sassy old queen with a naughty sense of humor. He told me that he often liked to walk his dog around the neighborhood wearing nothing but an overcoat. Whenever he passed a cute young guy or someone he knew he’d flash them and roar with laughter at their horrified reaction. He wanted to know whether I would like to meet Cary Grant and, of course, I agreed, so a couple of weekends later I was back in town and he took me over to Grant’s beach house near Malibu.
Cary Grant was as suave in real life as he was on the screen. He was the quintessential Mr. Smooth. He was forty years old when I met him and everything he did was executed in precise, dapper, and debonair style. Perhaps the most well-known films that he had starred in by then were Gunga Din and The Philadelphia Story . He would walk into the room and the ambience would change immediately. You instinctively felt a presence, an indefinable sense of classiness, whenever he appeared. He was married to Barbara Hutton at the time, although she wasn’t around when I met him. That did not surprise me. The day I was introduced to him he was actually sharing the house with another actor, Randolph Scott. Need I say more?
Randy Scott took an instant liking to me. He was a ruggedly handsome man of forty-six who, well over six feet tall, towered over me. He had carved a very successful career for himself primarily in Westerns, with more than fifty films to his credit. He was a big guy but as sweet as can be. He was married to Patricia Stillman, who was also not
Hearst’s vast, sprawling complex overlooking the Pacific near San Simeon on the Central Coast of California was the inspiration for Xanadu, the fabulous house in Orson Welles’s immortal Citizen Kane. Not in my wildest imagination did I ever dream that a place like that existed. I was truly out of my depths. My head still swirls when I think back on that incredible weekend. The guest list consisted of Hollywood royalty and there were more movie stars in attendance than I could count. The luxurious bedrooms, the wood paneling, the Italian marble, the imported European fixtures, the paintings, the tapestries, the Roman pool, the extravagant meals with the bewildering array of glassware and cutlery at each place setting, the cavalcade of butlers, waiters, and maids, the fancy food and wine, the stunning fashions, the dancing, the music, the libraries, the private zoo, the beautiful movie theater, the gardens, the lawns, the private airfield, the flashy automobiles, Mr. Hearst’s magnificent personal yacht moored at his personal jetty at his personal beach. It is all still a magnificent montage of breathtaking wonders, even now, decades later. The memories I have of it are from a lost era, of another time, of a place relegated to a glorious and irretrievable past.
One Saturday afternoon on another weekend away from camp I was strolling down one of the main arteries through Hollywood when a guy who was out cruising stopped and picked me up. He introduced himself as Frank Horn. We went over to his place, where we spent the weekend together. He was movie actor Cary Grant’s private secretary and apparently he was responsible for coercing Grant to leave the East Coast and come to California, where he became one of the most successful and sought-after male romantic stars of all time. Horn was originally a stage manager. He had met Grant when Grant was a sixteen-year-old singer in a variety show in New York. At that time Grant still used his real name, Archie Leach. He had been sent over to Broadway from his native England to perform in the show and Horn had taken him under his wing. Horn was a sassy old queen with a naughty sense of humor. He told me that he often liked to walk his dog around the neighborhood wearing nothing but an overcoat. Whenever he passed a cute young guy or someone he knew he’d flash them and roar with laughter at their horrified reaction. He wanted to know whether I would like to meet Cary Grant and, of course, I agreed, so a couple of weekends later I was back in town and he took me over to Grant’s beach house near Malibu.
Cary Grant was as suave in real life as he was on the screen. He was the quintessential Mr. Smooth. He was forty years old when I met him and everything he did was executed in precise, dapper, and debonair style. Perhaps the most well-known films that he had starred in by then were Gunga Din and The Philadelphia Story . He would walk into the room and the ambience would change immediately. You instinctively felt a presence, an indefinable sense of classiness, whenever he appeared. He was married to Barbara Hutton at the time, although she wasn’t around when I met him. That did not surprise me. The day I was introduced to him he was actually sharing the house with another actor, Randolph Scott. Need I say more?
Randy Scott took an instant liking to me. He was a ruggedly handsome man of forty-six who, well over six feet tall, towered over me. He had carved a very successful career for himself primarily in Westerns, with more than fifty films to his credit. He was a big guy but as sweet as can be. He was married to Patricia Stillman, who was also not
Similar Books
