had arranged for me to meet with John Huston and the movie’s producer, Artie Ranzen.
Ted didn’t seem to know much about the script, but I’d seen McQueen in The Magnificent Seven , and he had a lot of sex appeal. So I figured they were looking for a woman with the same attributes and I dressed the part; a mini skirt, a low blouse and Mary Quant boots.
When they saw me, Huston stared at me open-mouthed; Ranzen put his head in his hands. Clearly something was wrong and I hadn’t even read a word for them.
Huston gave me a page of the script, and I was so unnerved by their reaction I made a hash of it. When I’d finished the reading, Huston leaned forward and said: “You do know, Miss Montes, that you’re going to be playing a nun?”
I tugged at the neck of my blouse, but once men have seen your breasts, covering them up again doesn’t win you back lost ground. “I guess it’s good I didn’t wear my suspenders,” I said.
Huston grimaced. “Your agent didn’t tell you?”
But I must have done something right. They called me back for a screen test. I got the part.
Ted Levine’s house was perched high in the Hollywood Hills. It was vast and it was tasteless, a sprawling statement in glass and concrete, all sharp angles and stunning views. The garden was mostly sterile rock, so there were no Filipino gardeners watering grass or raking leaves when I arrived.
I tried not to appear awestruck as I walked in. Even though I was on my fourth picture, I still felt intimidated rubbing shoulders with Warren Beatty and Robert Mitchum, or standing by the pool bar with Montgomery Clift.
Natalie Wood and Kim Novak were dancing by the pool to a Chubby Checker song. Then someone started singing “Things.” It was Bobby Darin himself; he’d found a microphone and was singing over the top of his own recording. Sammy Davis Junior put an arm around his shoulder and joined in.
The party had been going for a few hours and it was already starting to get a little wild; half a dozen girls had peeled off their bikinis and were squealing naked in the Jacuzzi. When I went to the bathroom I found a B list actor doing lines of cocaine on the marble washstand. Part of me got a thrill out of it; another part, the one that was brought up a good Catholic and wore a mantilla veil to Mass at the San Cristobal, was scared and shocked.
I wished Reyes were there. Was I his girlfriend or not? I didn’t know.
I had four offers of sex, three from guys (one of them reasonably famous), and one from a woman. They all took their polite rejections pretty well, except the woman, who told me in a loud voice to go fuck myself then.
I found out later she was the wife of a well-known film producer. Ted was horrified when I told him. “Would it have hurt to sleep with her?” he hissed at me, after his fifth martini. “It could have helped your career.”
“Hi,” someone said, and I turned around. I recognized the man straight away. He was the British actor Peter Lawford, one of the famous Rat Pack. He had married the President’s sister, and Sinatra had famously nicknamed him “Brother in Lawford.”
“Hi.”
“My name’s Peter,” he said and held out his left hand. I remembered reading that he had injured his right arm very badly as a teenager. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I was afraid he was going to come on to me as well, but it seemed he just wanted to ask me questions about my latest project. He asked me where I was from and seemed fascinated to learn that I was from Havana. I told him I was a great admirer of the President and his brother and the stand they had taken against Castro.
“Then you should meet them,” he said.
“I would love to.”
“Occasionally we have parties at our beach house,” he said. “I’ll make sure you’re invited.”
I thought no more about it. I left the party early, and as I drove back down the winding canyon I turned on the radio and listened to Ray Charles sing “You
Ted didn’t seem to know much about the script, but I’d seen McQueen in The Magnificent Seven , and he had a lot of sex appeal. So I figured they were looking for a woman with the same attributes and I dressed the part; a mini skirt, a low blouse and Mary Quant boots.
When they saw me, Huston stared at me open-mouthed; Ranzen put his head in his hands. Clearly something was wrong and I hadn’t even read a word for them.
Huston gave me a page of the script, and I was so unnerved by their reaction I made a hash of it. When I’d finished the reading, Huston leaned forward and said: “You do know, Miss Montes, that you’re going to be playing a nun?”
I tugged at the neck of my blouse, but once men have seen your breasts, covering them up again doesn’t win you back lost ground. “I guess it’s good I didn’t wear my suspenders,” I said.
Huston grimaced. “Your agent didn’t tell you?”
But I must have done something right. They called me back for a screen test. I got the part.
Ted Levine’s house was perched high in the Hollywood Hills. It was vast and it was tasteless, a sprawling statement in glass and concrete, all sharp angles and stunning views. The garden was mostly sterile rock, so there were no Filipino gardeners watering grass or raking leaves when I arrived.
I tried not to appear awestruck as I walked in. Even though I was on my fourth picture, I still felt intimidated rubbing shoulders with Warren Beatty and Robert Mitchum, or standing by the pool bar with Montgomery Clift.
Natalie Wood and Kim Novak were dancing by the pool to a Chubby Checker song. Then someone started singing “Things.” It was Bobby Darin himself; he’d found a microphone and was singing over the top of his own recording. Sammy Davis Junior put an arm around his shoulder and joined in.
The party had been going for a few hours and it was already starting to get a little wild; half a dozen girls had peeled off their bikinis and were squealing naked in the Jacuzzi. When I went to the bathroom I found a B list actor doing lines of cocaine on the marble washstand. Part of me got a thrill out of it; another part, the one that was brought up a good Catholic and wore a mantilla veil to Mass at the San Cristobal, was scared and shocked.
I wished Reyes were there. Was I his girlfriend or not? I didn’t know.
I had four offers of sex, three from guys (one of them reasonably famous), and one from a woman. They all took their polite rejections pretty well, except the woman, who told me in a loud voice to go fuck myself then.
I found out later she was the wife of a well-known film producer. Ted was horrified when I told him. “Would it have hurt to sleep with her?” he hissed at me, after his fifth martini. “It could have helped your career.”
“Hi,” someone said, and I turned around. I recognized the man straight away. He was the British actor Peter Lawford, one of the famous Rat Pack. He had married the President’s sister, and Sinatra had famously nicknamed him “Brother in Lawford.”
“Hi.”
“My name’s Peter,” he said and held out his left hand. I remembered reading that he had injured his right arm very badly as a teenager. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I was afraid he was going to come on to me as well, but it seemed he just wanted to ask me questions about my latest project. He asked me where I was from and seemed fascinated to learn that I was from Havana. I told him I was a great admirer of the President and his brother and the stand they had taken against Castro.
“Then you should meet them,” he said.
“I would love to.”
“Occasionally we have parties at our beach house,” he said. “I’ll make sure you’re invited.”
I thought no more about it. I left the party early, and as I drove back down the winding canyon I turned on the radio and listened to Ray Charles sing “You
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