reaction to Michael Jackson’s death, his funeral, and her heretofore unreported visit to the Universal City amusement park with his orphaned children, one of them her godchild.
Finally, the indestructible kind of inner beauty a stricken, seventy-eight-year-old Elizabeth Taylor displayed during her horrendous battle with a leaking heart valve in 2011 brings this updated edition to a moving conclusion.
In an industry littered with the premature checkouts of Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Elvis Presley, and Montgomery Clift, Elizabeth Taylor survived well into the new century, and into her Senior years, by a simple, touching philosophy: “I didn’t want to be a sex symbol. I would rather be a symbol of a woman, a woman who makes mistakes, perhaps, but a woman who loves.” 1
In her latest photo, love is what radiates from her ruined features—love for the paparazzi for still paying attention to her, and love for the public, in the end her most durable paramour.
Preface
I was in Las Vegas around 1959 or 1960, staying at the Desert Inn, and one evening I attended Eddie Fisher’s show, which was absolutely first-rate. In those days, he was still a golden-throated headliner. Later, as I stood watching a poker game in the casino, I suddenly became aware of Elizabeth Taylor standing next to me. “Is the show over?” she asked. It was odd—she wasn’t looking at me, but seemed to expect an answer. I told her that Eddie had been terrific, and she said she was always expected to make an appearance and sit ringside, but she hadn’t arrived in time. She could have been talking to herself. Everyone else around us in the crowded casino was engrossed in the game and took no notice of her. Rooted to my spot a few inches from her, I couldn’t help staring, and she didn’t appear to mind. Indeed, she seemed relieved that I was going to let her be, and not ask for an autograph or take a picture.
The first thing you noticed about her when she was still in her twenties was that, despite the beauty she displayed on film, no camera had ever done her justice. Her skin was unbelievable. She had on a simple sun-dress, and I remember her shoulders being velvety and iridescent. Her coloring made me think of a rose at dusk. Her manner was appealingly demure—typical 1950s ladylike poise. Being in her presence, at the height of her beauty, was an almost religious experience. She was an example of nature perfecting itself, a once-in-a-generation phenomenon.
We both spotted Eddie at the same time as he entered the casino from the dressing room area. People who’d just seen the show began to recognize him, and their gaze followed him as he approached Elizabeth, whom they still hadn’t noticed. Eddie kissed her on the cheek, and they stood smiling at each other, an apparently happy young couple, both dark-haired and both shorter than most of the people around them. The crowd at last realized who she was, and a murmur went through the room, taking only seconds to build into a roar. Suddenly everyone around me went ballistic, charging the startled couple. Even diners who’d been helping themselves at the complimentary buffet threw down their plates and joined the chase. The casino was an extension of the hotel lobby, and fortunately we were standing fairly near the entrance. Eddie and Elizabeth made for the door at a dead run. The last I saw of them, they were sprinting just ahead of the herd.
It was then I first began to think of writing this book, but a couple of other careers intervened before I got around to it, first as a New York editor and later as a collaborator on autobiographies by Shelley Winters, Kim Novak, Zsa Zsa Gabor, and Peggy Lee. Through it all my fascination with Elizabeth never wavered, especially with her emotional life, which in many respects is the most misunderstood erotic voyage of the twentieth century.
Chapter 2
Montgomery Clift
UNCONDITIONAL LOVE
She’d been in a hurry to get married, partly due to lack of
Finally, the indestructible kind of inner beauty a stricken, seventy-eight-year-old Elizabeth Taylor displayed during her horrendous battle with a leaking heart valve in 2011 brings this updated edition to a moving conclusion.
In an industry littered with the premature checkouts of Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Elvis Presley, and Montgomery Clift, Elizabeth Taylor survived well into the new century, and into her Senior years, by a simple, touching philosophy: “I didn’t want to be a sex symbol. I would rather be a symbol of a woman, a woman who makes mistakes, perhaps, but a woman who loves.” 1
In her latest photo, love is what radiates from her ruined features—love for the paparazzi for still paying attention to her, and love for the public, in the end her most durable paramour.
Preface
I was in Las Vegas around 1959 or 1960, staying at the Desert Inn, and one evening I attended Eddie Fisher’s show, which was absolutely first-rate. In those days, he was still a golden-throated headliner. Later, as I stood watching a poker game in the casino, I suddenly became aware of Elizabeth Taylor standing next to me. “Is the show over?” she asked. It was odd—she wasn’t looking at me, but seemed to expect an answer. I told her that Eddie had been terrific, and she said she was always expected to make an appearance and sit ringside, but she hadn’t arrived in time. She could have been talking to herself. Everyone else around us in the crowded casino was engrossed in the game and took no notice of her. Rooted to my spot a few inches from her, I couldn’t help staring, and she didn’t appear to mind. Indeed, she seemed relieved that I was going to let her be, and not ask for an autograph or take a picture.
The first thing you noticed about her when she was still in her twenties was that, despite the beauty she displayed on film, no camera had ever done her justice. Her skin was unbelievable. She had on a simple sun-dress, and I remember her shoulders being velvety and iridescent. Her coloring made me think of a rose at dusk. Her manner was appealingly demure—typical 1950s ladylike poise. Being in her presence, at the height of her beauty, was an almost religious experience. She was an example of nature perfecting itself, a once-in-a-generation phenomenon.
We both spotted Eddie at the same time as he entered the casino from the dressing room area. People who’d just seen the show began to recognize him, and their gaze followed him as he approached Elizabeth, whom they still hadn’t noticed. Eddie kissed her on the cheek, and they stood smiling at each other, an apparently happy young couple, both dark-haired and both shorter than most of the people around them. The crowd at last realized who she was, and a murmur went through the room, taking only seconds to build into a roar. Suddenly everyone around me went ballistic, charging the startled couple. Even diners who’d been helping themselves at the complimentary buffet threw down their plates and joined the chase. The casino was an extension of the hotel lobby, and fortunately we were standing fairly near the entrance. Eddie and Elizabeth made for the door at a dead run. The last I saw of them, they were sprinting just ahead of the herd.
It was then I first began to think of writing this book, but a couple of other careers intervened before I got around to it, first as a New York editor and later as a collaborator on autobiographies by Shelley Winters, Kim Novak, Zsa Zsa Gabor, and Peggy Lee. Through it all my fascination with Elizabeth never wavered, especially with her emotional life, which in many respects is the most misunderstood erotic voyage of the twentieth century.
Chapter 2
Montgomery Clift
UNCONDITIONAL LOVE
She’d been in a hurry to get married, partly due to lack of
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