.
so the other day i'm online reading a vanity fair
article about an old-hollywood architect by the name of john woolf a friend had sent me--a truly fascinating story which explains, among other things, why you see mansard roofs all over america these days--when i unexpectedly come across the following picture of one of this guy's creations and realize i've been there.
* * * * *
one night back in the mid-nineties, i got a phone call from my friend and former roommate dumb-doug [
a name used to differentiate him from the other, blonder doug in our circle, the aptly named fun-doug, but that's another story for another day], asking me if i wanted to go to a party.
"you know i don't go to parties."
"it's at bob evans' house."
"i'll be ready in ten minutes."
backstory: at the time, dumb-doug [
who in reality was more clueless than dumb, and has since gone on to write at least one successful off-broadway play (and maybe more--i haven't kept track)] was a lawyer working as in-house counsel for a publishing house that specialized in cheesy, celebrity-driven content.
its founder, a flamboyant, hard-driving impresario who, along with his beautiful former-actress wife, had started the company in their garage and built it into a publishing powerhouse, happened to be good friends with mr. evans--and on this particular night, said legendary hollywood producer of such epics as
rosemary's baby,
love story,
the godfather and
chinatown had decided (for a reason that escapes me now) to throw a party at his legendary estate in honor of said publisher.
and dumb-doug had to make an appearance and needed a semi-respectable date, which is where i came in.
as we drove [
wasn't far--turns out bob and i are homies], doug filled me in on some background which would add a surreal layer of machiavellian intrigue to an evening that really didn't need any embellishment: seems that less than a week after tonight's party honoring doug's boss, doug's boss was gonna turn around and release a
salacious tell-all book written by a bunch of former high-priced hookers which would trash the reputations of, among many other hollywood luminaries, the very guy who was throwing the party in his honor.
the fact that i would be one of only four people at the party in possession of this juicy little tidbit made it even sweeter--or so i thought at the time.
my impressions of that night? unfortunately, my memory being what it is [
and seeing as how back then i guzzled everything that was handed to me], recollections are spotty, but here are the stand-outs:
warren beatty. in a drab gray windbreaker, who, as soon as we walked in the door and he figured out who doug was, dragged him off my arm and into a corner, where he grilled him relentlessly for half an hour in an effort to figure out how badly he was gonna come off in the forthcoming tell-all book [
as it turned out, not bad at all]. as i watched their intense interchange from across the room, all i remember is how small and insubstantial the man came across in real life.
left to my own devices, i wandered, drink in hand, through this wonderland of celebrity as if i owned the place, inserting myself into this group and that, devoid of any sense of intimidation or fear (one of the few advantages of being
schizoid).
deborah raffin. this was my first up-close-and-personal experience with the sorta self-discipline combined with expert preservation of the highest order in which hollywood excels. while she had to be in her mid-forties on this particular night, she didn't look a day older than when she'd appeared in
the last convertible fifteen years earlier. i told her she looked untouched, and she smiled.
chazz palminteri. while he'd never particularly grabbed me on the big screen, in person (and in stark contrast to mr. beatty), he was this big, smiling, larger-than-life and indescribably magnetic personality who, when he laughed at something i said, put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a rough shake, left me with tingles in places i didn't even know i had.
bob evans and the aforementioned publisher. watching these two arm in arm and smiling--knowing, even if mr. evans did not, that they'd be at each other's throats before the week was out--was interesting, to say the least.
there were lots of other minor celebrities and behind-the-scenes power players--a houseful, in fact--but i can't for the life of me remember 'em (only wish i'd been writing shit down back then, because this story would be so much better).
truth is, i coulda given a rat's ass about most of the people there that night, because as soon as i walked through the gates of woodland (named for one of its bordering streets), i was completely entranced by my surroundings, forgot almost everything else, and could totally understand why mr. evans had sold his soul for the place. small by hollywood-mogul standards, this little masterpiece had an impact far beyond its relatively modest size.
once i managed to drag dumb-doug away from warren's clutches, he and i explored each exquisitely-proportioned room of this magical house, and then wandered the grounds--down the steps and around the oval pool with its fountains to the cabana on the far side [
which, since the above picture was taken had been transformed into the screening room in which jack nicholson swears he hasn't he hasn't been laid properly since it burned down], and onto the tennis court beyond.
once we'd had our fill of the outside, we walked back up to the house, gave our thanks to mr. evans [
who politely thanked us for coming--he was wearing blue-tinted granny glasses that night, as i recall], and reluctantly took our leave.
damn, i wish there had been little digital cameras back then.
[
alternatively, i wish i'd thought to take some screenshots of woodland before i dropped the kid stays in the picture into the mail after v and i just watched it--rent it if you wanna know.]
