his already stricken expression, Paul asked if Dad would repeat that statement.
“I told you I wanted Sam Shepard for Revenge ,” Dad continued, “but you went and agreed to another plan with Ray Stark.” He was on his back but clearly on the attack.
By now poor Paul was apoplectic. “I was led to believe you were dead, John!”
“Well, I’m not dead yet, and you can tell that to Ray, the son of a bitch.”
Contrary to Dad’s wish to cast Sam Shepard, Ray had sent the script to Kevin Costner. Dad was angry; he’d been in a life-or-death situation just hours before, but he was damned if he would let them think they could get away with disrespecting him. When he eventually got out of the hospital, he allowed Ray to send Kevin Costner to see him. As I’ve heard the story told, Dad just gazed out the window and whistled throughout the meeting. He never really forgave Ray afterward. Dad didn’t like that Ray had doubted he would live. Later, when Dad got seriously sick in Fall River, Massachusetts, he asked Ray to get him Nancy Reagan’s plane to fly him back to his doctors at Cedars-Sinai. This was a steep request even for Ray, and he wouldn’t or couldn’t come through, but it was as if Dad knew that and wanted him to feel bad. Theirs was a complicated relationship to the end.
Dad went on to make seven more movies. Because of his emphysema, the insurance companies refused to allow the studios to continue hiring him for films—a sad state of affairs and a very depressing moment in his creative life, given that at this point he was one of America’s most celebrated and esteemed veteran filmmakers. But soon he would meet acouple of young producers, Michael Fitzgerald and Wieland Schulz-Keil, who would provide him the means to make the small-budget but vital films that described his new trajectory—films like Wise Blood , Under the Volcano , and The Dead. He also had another friend and admirer in the producer John Foreman, who, having completed The Man Who Would Be King with Dad to great success, went on to produce Prizzi’s Honor.
CHAPTER 10
M y friend Jane Buffett and I had gone on holiday to Hawaii for several weeks in August 1978 and were staying in Kipahulu in a cabin on the Lindbergh estate. When I returned to L.A., the phone was ringing—it was Joan Buck, encouraging me to go to London to be with Jack, who had started work on Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining at Pinewood Studios. I took her advice and flew to England. Entering the house Jack had rented on Cheyne Walk felt like stepping into the interior of a box of Turkish delight—an odd combination of remodeled Regency and Arabic. The dining room, in the basement, had a monolithic refectory table and medieval benches, church pews with straight backs—like something out of a Bela Lugosi movie. Upstairs, Jack lay supine on a bed of balsa wood. The explanation was that for several days in a row, he had accidentally left his keys inside and had been forced to scale the fourteen-foot wall surrounding the property to get back in the house. The last time, he had landed on his heels in a manner that had jammed his spine and slipped his discs, resulting in major back trauma. He had been in consultation with Her Majesty the Queen’s back doctor and had been recommended absolute rest on a plank. Jack looked terribly depressed as I entered the bedroom, a riot of red velvetcurtains and gold-and-black-embossed wallpaper. A couple was standing sympathetically by his side.
“Hello, Tutti!” the woman greeted me effusively with a British accent. She had a tumbling mane of red curls and was wearing a purple leather pantsuit with eye shadow to match.
“This is Nona,” said Jack. “And this is All-England,” he added, gesturing toward a polished gentleman—Nona’s husband, I presumed—who introduced himself as Martin Summers. “Nones and All-England are the greatest! They’ve been taking care of me in London.”
“I can see that,” I replied. My
“I told you I wanted Sam Shepard for Revenge ,” Dad continued, “but you went and agreed to another plan with Ray Stark.” He was on his back but clearly on the attack.
By now poor Paul was apoplectic. “I was led to believe you were dead, John!”
“Well, I’m not dead yet, and you can tell that to Ray, the son of a bitch.”
Contrary to Dad’s wish to cast Sam Shepard, Ray had sent the script to Kevin Costner. Dad was angry; he’d been in a life-or-death situation just hours before, but he was damned if he would let them think they could get away with disrespecting him. When he eventually got out of the hospital, he allowed Ray to send Kevin Costner to see him. As I’ve heard the story told, Dad just gazed out the window and whistled throughout the meeting. He never really forgave Ray afterward. Dad didn’t like that Ray had doubted he would live. Later, when Dad got seriously sick in Fall River, Massachusetts, he asked Ray to get him Nancy Reagan’s plane to fly him back to his doctors at Cedars-Sinai. This was a steep request even for Ray, and he wouldn’t or couldn’t come through, but it was as if Dad knew that and wanted him to feel bad. Theirs was a complicated relationship to the end.
Dad went on to make seven more movies. Because of his emphysema, the insurance companies refused to allow the studios to continue hiring him for films—a sad state of affairs and a very depressing moment in his creative life, given that at this point he was one of America’s most celebrated and esteemed veteran filmmakers. But soon he would meet acouple of young producers, Michael Fitzgerald and Wieland Schulz-Keil, who would provide him the means to make the small-budget but vital films that described his new trajectory—films like Wise Blood , Under the Volcano , and The Dead. He also had another friend and admirer in the producer John Foreman, who, having completed The Man Who Would Be King with Dad to great success, went on to produce Prizzi’s Honor.
CHAPTER 10
M y friend Jane Buffett and I had gone on holiday to Hawaii for several weeks in August 1978 and were staying in Kipahulu in a cabin on the Lindbergh estate. When I returned to L.A., the phone was ringing—it was Joan Buck, encouraging me to go to London to be with Jack, who had started work on Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining at Pinewood Studios. I took her advice and flew to England. Entering the house Jack had rented on Cheyne Walk felt like stepping into the interior of a box of Turkish delight—an odd combination of remodeled Regency and Arabic. The dining room, in the basement, had a monolithic refectory table and medieval benches, church pews with straight backs—like something out of a Bela Lugosi movie. Upstairs, Jack lay supine on a bed of balsa wood. The explanation was that for several days in a row, he had accidentally left his keys inside and had been forced to scale the fourteen-foot wall surrounding the property to get back in the house. The last time, he had landed on his heels in a manner that had jammed his spine and slipped his discs, resulting in major back trauma. He had been in consultation with Her Majesty the Queen’s back doctor and had been recommended absolute rest on a plank. Jack looked terribly depressed as I entered the bedroom, a riot of red velvetcurtains and gold-and-black-embossed wallpaper. A couple was standing sympathetically by his side.
“Hello, Tutti!” the woman greeted me effusively with a British accent. She had a tumbling mane of red curls and was wearing a purple leather pantsuit with eye shadow to match.
“This is Nona,” said Jack. “And this is All-England,” he added, gesturing toward a polished gentleman—Nona’s husband, I presumed—who introduced himself as Martin Summers. “Nones and All-England are the greatest! They’ve been taking care of me in London.”
“I can see that,” I replied. My
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