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Marlon Brando Stories by his friend Carlo Fiore

From BUD: The Brando I Knew' book

"Sometimes, especially on weekends, girls from Greenwich Village drifted uptown to join our get-togethers...They came, of course, to get laid, and laid they were. Occasionally I would wake up in the morning and find one of these predatory, sexually voracious creatures sleeping beside me, and then I would have to sort out my thoughts about the night before until I could remember how she got there. And not always succeeding.

One morning I woke up in the maid's room—it was the only unoccupied bed space in the apartment—and felt a gentle touch of fingertips on my stomach. I turned over and found myself staring directly at Marlon's broad back. His hand was groping tentatively, blindly, behind him. I watched as his hand moved down below my navel, crawling caterpillarlike along my abdomen to my pubic hair, until it came to rest at last on my penis. Marlon sprang out of bed, as though he meant to hit the ceiling. He landed on the balls of his feet, actually bouncing once or twice.

'Holy he fuck cried. "I thought I was in bed with a girl! "That's what I thought you thought," I said.

"Were you awake?" "Yes," I said. "Then why the hell didn't you stop me?" "I wanted to see your reaction. You have fantastic reflexes. You'd win the gold medal in the Olympics for the high jump." "Okay, you son of a bitch," Marlon said. "I'm going to get even with you for that. If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to get even."

A few days later, while we were sitting and talking in the apartment, I scratched my groin rather vigorously, and Marlon's face lit up with a wide, evil grin "You son of a bitch," he chortled. "I told you I'd get even with you, and I did. You've got the crabs." "I do not have the crabs," I said.

"Then why did you scratch your balls?" "I had an itch." "You had an itch because you have the crabs," Marlon insisted "I do not have the crabs," I repeated. He slapped some money on the kitchen table and said, "I'll bet you five bucks you've got the crabs." I covered his bet, lowered my pants and my undershorts, and we set about like monkeys, grooming and searching for crabs. After a long and careful examination of my pubic hair, Marlon finally had to admit that I had none. He was crestfallen Pulling up my trousers and adjusting my clothing, I asked, "What made you so certain I had crabs ? "Because that morning, after we went back to sleep, or rather after you did, I picked two crabs off me and put them on you." "Pardon the pun," I said, "but that was a lousy trick. I picked up the money, folded it neatly, and put it in my pocket.

"One of the things I learned from him was to sit on the toilet seat while urinating. I learned it one day when he and I were in the bathroom in his apartment and he lowered his pants and sat on the bowl. I don't mind sharing a urinal with a chum and chatting with him while our bladders are emptying, but I won't stay in the John with him while he's defecating, so I started to leave. "Where are you going ?" Marlon said. "I'm getting out of here," I said. "I don't want to be around anybody when they're taking a crap. It offends my aesthetic sensibilities." "Your what} I didn't think wops had aesthetic sensibilities. Anyway, I'm not taking a crap, I'm taking a leak." "Sitting down?" I said. "Girls sit. Men stand." "Who says?" "It doesn't need saying. We just happen to be built that way." "Nonsense. Guys can piss from any position they please. Standing on their head, if they like. I got bored standing and watching myself pee. By the way, I just signed to do ]ulius Caesar...."

Offsite Link
by Anonymousreply 12307/20/2017

"shortly after began to go out with another Latin beauty, who was then playing bit parts in movies and later became a star (Rita Moreno). She was a sensual woman, and I didn't like her much, but then I never did like Marlon's women. I didn't like her, I guess, because she was such an ambitious girl, always coming on with his friends.

One night in Hollywood, she and Marlon were having some heavy sex in an apartment he had at the time on Laurel Canyon Drive, overlooking Sunset Boulevard. It was a hot summer night and the place wasn't air-conditioned, so they decided to continue their engagement on the roof, where it was cooler, taking their blankets and pillows with them. This girl was what is known as a screamer, meaning that in the ecstasy of intercourse she liked to yell obscene words and phrases. Ordinarily Marlon didn't object; reacting as most men would, it enhanced his image of himself as a great lover. But that night, on the roof, she began screaming in a way she hadn't done before. While the neighbors Ustened on that humid, breathless night, she cried out, "Fuck me, Marlon Brando! Fuck me, Marlon Brando!"

"My God," Marlon said, "not my name, you damn fool," and clamped his hand over her mouth.

by Anonymousreply 112/04/2016

"I was always supposed to call him if I didn't hear from him, so one day he was on the telephone saying accusingly, "You haven't called me." "I'm leaving town tomorrow," I told him. 'WhatV he yelled. "You aren't going back to New York and get on that shit again ?"

"I've gotta leave this town," I said. "Something's happened, Marlon. I went into a bar yesterday and picked up this lovely chick. She was wearing a sweater with long sleeves, and I could see she had nice tits. We had a drink and decided we were going to ball. We went to her place, but when we got there, she told me she was having her period, but she'd go down on me. She said she wouldn't take off her clothes, though. So I said okay, and we were just about to do it when two dicks from the vice squad busted in. They'd been following us, apparently. But then was the big surprise, Marlon. You wouldn't believe it. This girl with the nice tits turns out to be a man, a transvestite, so I'm picked up on a homosexual rap. How do you like that ?"

Marlon said anxiously, "Did you know it was a boy?" "No, I was completely fooled." "Well, don't use my name now, but I'll get you a smart lawyer and there won't be any trouble. I'll get you out of this." I couldn't carry it on any further and broke up

Marlon laughed too. "You put me on, you bastard," he said, but he sounded amused. In fact, he loved to be put on, except when the put-on failed, and then he could be quite irritated.

by Anonymousreply 212/04/2016

Marlon was a creep.

by Anonymousreply 312/04/2016

"It was a warm, starry, moon-bright night in June, and as we walked we talked about women. Marlon appeared distressed when I confessed that once in a while I got a terrific yen for older women. For a time we walked side by side in silence, until Marlon turned, fixed me with a penetrating stare, and inquired suddenly, "Would you go to bed with,my mother?"

I looked at him and wondered if he was playing one of his favorite games. He loved to shock you, then study your reaction. But I saw it was no game this time. He was deadly serious. I have always been an inept liar, and to deny that I was sexually attracted to Dodie would have been a lie, and Marlon would have seen right through it. There was no way I could hedge the question, and his anguished expression told me that a great deal depended on my answer.

"Well, would you?" he insisted. "No," I said. "Never." "Why not? You just told me that you liked older women. Suppose Dodie made herself . . . available. Suppose she wanted to. Why not?" Because you're my friend. I wouldn't hurt your feelings like that."

He looked into my eyes for a second or two, searching for the lie, then he gave me a curt nod, as if to say he believed me, and that was the end of it. Suddenly his face cracked with a cockeyed grin, and he burst out laughing, leaving me confused again. Maybe he was playing the game, and I was taken in again. But I was beginning to understand him now. These lunatic about-face reactions in moments of crisis were his way of coping with his embarrassment, a method he used to ease the tension.

I hadn't lied to him about Dodic. Much as I wanted to sleep with her, I wouldn't have, and later in our relationship I had the chance to prove it, when she gave me the plain invitation and I refused. "Why not ?" she asked. "Because of my son ?" "Yes," I said. "That's it." She nodded and said nothing more

by Anonymousreply 412/04/2016

"After The Young Lions, for example, he got himself into a bad situation for a while. Back in New York again, he was living, following Movita's departure, with a French actress in the Carnegie apartment. It was a troubled relationship; they were always fighting. I came up to the apartment one night just after they had been having a fearful argument, but Marlon was quite calm about it. There was only thing on his mind.

When she stormed out, he hurried to her jewel box, where she kept her diaphragm, to see if it was there. He knew how she operated. If she was really mad at him, it would be there and he knew she didn't want to be screwed. If it was gone, quarrel or not, he would know she was expecting sex. He was simply checking to see whether he was going to be laid that night. Meanwhile, he would wait to express his own anger. When she made a mistake—and she did—she would be gone, with her diaphragm."

by Anonymousreply 512/04/2016

"What Marlon usually wanted to talk about was girls, and on the set of Sayo?iara, not to mention off the set, there was plenty to talk about. I think we must have fucked almost every Japanese girl involved with the picture. One was unusually tall for a Japanese, a luscious girl with big tits. She looked twenty-two, but she was really only seventeen. I saw her casting flirtatious eyes at me one day on the set, and by that night we were in ed. When she first kissed me, she demonstrated a talent I didn't know she had. Her deep kiss was so deep, so absorbing, so like a vacuum cleaner, that she nearly drew my tongue out by the roots. If I had been a masochist, I could have appreciated it a lot more because it hurt like hell.

I told Marlon about the girl (not about the kiss) and he said, "Give me a taste of that." "Okay," I said. I thought I'd let him find out the rest for himself.

"How did you make out?" I asked him next morning. Marlon just glared at me. His mouth was bitten and his tongue swollen so badly that he could scarcely work that day. He mumbled his way through the lines, and it was pretty much a total loss.

by Anonymousreply 612/04/2016


by Anonymousreply 712/04/2016

"I knew I was inviting disaster by introducing Corinne to Marlon. The moment he laid eyes on her, I knew he would immediately guide her to a bedroom and try to charm her out of her scented panties, leaving me alone to fume in humiliation. He had done it many times before, with girls not half as lovely as Corinne...

We arrived at Marlon's suite in the Hotel Raphael. I knocked on the door, and in a moment he appeared. When he saw Corinne, he smiled—not his genuine, spontaneous smile, but his practiced, charming, movie-star smile. He even kissed her hand and flattered her in French.

Marlon joined us, standing behind Corinne's chaise, and I could see that he was looking at and admiring what I had been contemplating. He bent over to whisper something in her ear. She smiled and shook her head. An expression of surprise and disappointment crossed Marlon's face, but, still smiling, he began to talk to her in French, which I couldn't understand. I didn't need a command of the language to know what he was saying, however. I knew him far too well for that. It was obvious that he was giving her his movie-star come-on, but to my surprise it was equally obvious that she was having none of it. He persisted, and still she demurred. He placed his hands on her shoulders and she shrugged them away, her frown plainly expressing her irritation with his persistence.

After a while, Corinne whispered that she wanted to be alone with me. As we walked back to the hotel, she looked up and remarked, "I thought you said Marlon was your friend. "He is my friend," I said. "Why? What did he say to you?" I knew what the answer was going to be before she spoke. "He asked me to go with him, to leave you" "On the terrace. Right in front of you. He asked, in French, if I would go with him to the bedroom for a tete-a-tete "And what did you say?" "I said that it was rude to speak French in the presence of someone who did not understand the language." "In other words, you refused his invitation to go to the bedroom." "Yes. There are many ways to say 'no' to a man without actually saying 'no.'

Next day when I saw Marlon at his hotel, the first thing he said was, "Say, Freddie, that was some bitch you had last night at the party. I'd sure like a taste of that." "No, I won't do it." "Come on, Freddie, do me a big favor. Set it up for me if you can. This chick is really solid." "Is she as good a ball as she looks ?" "Better." I decided to lay it on as heavily as possible. "I started to count her orgasms last night, but I lost count at sixteen and had to stop."

As I expected it would, that made Marlon want her more than ever. He was always hung up on girls who had multiple orgasms, and the thought that this lovely, sexy girl had them, and had put him down when he tried to come on with her, drove him wild.

We talked about other matters, and soon Marquand came in and joined us, along with another friend. After a while Corinne called up from the lobby. We went down and met her and began walking down one of the broad Parisian boulevards, Corinne and I moved ahead and the others followed behind us. I was also aware that Marlon, following behind, must be entranced with the movement of her trim buttocks. I wasn't surprised when he suddenly ran ahead to join us,

but i was brutally shocked when he said abruptly in English, "Carlo told me you had sixteen orgasms last night. Is that true?" Glancing at Corinne's face, I could see the sudden hurt in her eyes, to realize that I had talked about our intimacies to him. But she looked at him and then at me, and seeing the obvious shock and hurt I was feeling from the realization that Marlon would do such a thing to me, she suddenly seemed to make up her mind. Putting her hand under my arm and squeezing it slightly, she said, looking squarely at Marlon, "Yes, it is true, and I often have even more—but only with Carlo." Marlon looked flabbergasted. For once he couldn't think of anything to say and dropped back with the others .."

by Anonymousreply 812/04/2016

"Marlon was driving, but it wasn't long before Anna (Kashfi) was begging him to let her get behind the wheel. She had just learned to drive, she said, and loved it.

Marlon didn't say yes or no, but when we stopped for coffee and came out again, there was a fast shufHe, and before I knew it Anna was in the driver's seat. She and Marlon sat in the front, and I climbed in behind. It didn't take long for me to see that she was one of the worst drivers I had ever had the misfortune to share a car with. Not only was she mechanically inept, but she had a great deal of difficulty keeping her eyes on the road. Whenever she talked to you, she had to look at you, which I had seen her do at the dinner table and elsewhere, but it never occurred to me she'd do the same thing while she was driving a car on a mountain road Marlon was like Tennessee Williams' cat on a hot tin roof. "Watch that!" he'd yell from time to time, but Anna drove on, utterly oblivious of everything. Occasionally she would even turn around to say something to me, while both Marlon and I sat petrified until I simply lay down in the seat and closed my eyes. I couldn't look anymore.

"Why don't you pull over next chance you get, and I'll drive," Marlon said. "You're still kind of new at it. "Oh, no," Anna said cheerfully, "I'm all right. And Tm having a wonderful time." She absolutely refused to give up the wheel. We stopped for gas, and while Anna was in the rest room, I said to Marlon, "I'm not going to get back in that car again."

"But we're a long way from home," Marlon said. "I don't care. I'll get there some way—alive. I like it better that way." When Anna came out, Marlon said quickly, "I'll drive the rest of the way. We'll get home sooner." "But I must drive," Anna said firmly. "Why must you ?" Marlon wanted to know. Because I get motion sickness very easily, and driving helps me to fight it off. I don't get sick when I drive."

While Marlon was trying to think of an answer for that one, she slid quickly behind the wheel again. There was no help for it; we had to go with her if we wanted to get home. I'd been brave about hitchhiking, but I knew I wasn't going to do that, not from this remote part of California. The last leg of the journey was the worst. To show us that she was relaxed, apparently, Anna took the curves in the wrong lane from time to time, while glancing over her shoulder to say something to me.

"You don't have to do that, Anna," I said, pleadingly. "I'm listening to you. It's better to keep your eyes on the road." We narrowly missed having an accident three or four times, and I could see Marlon watching Anna rather strangely. I thought he might be beginning to think that she was some kind of nut.

Later I said to him, "Look, do you need any more evidence that this girl is trouble? The lies, the jealousy all the time, and now this insane driving. Believe me, Marlon, it will only be the beginning." after she announced she was pregnant. "Let her have anything," I said to Marlon, "only don't marry her." "But it's going to be my child too," Marlon said. And soon after, he married her.

by Anonymousreply 912/04/2016

After they were married, Marlon often used the excuse of having to see me so he could get away and have dates with other girls, but Anna figured that one out without much difficulty. Whenever she thought he was up to something, she would call me and everybody else she knew, trying to find him. Where Marlon was concerned, she seemed to have no pride whatever. If she was able to track him down

somewhere, she would plead that she felt very ill and would he please come home immediately. Once, when this occurred, I happened to be with Marlon and went home with him. We found Anna on the floor in a state of hysteria, and it was very hard for Marlon to calm her down.

Another time, when Marlon called me to say he had a date with a girl, he asked me to say, if Anna called, that he had been with me and just left. I drew the line. "No, I'm not going to be your beard this time," I said. "What's the matter? Why not?" he wanted to know. "Frankly, because I'm scared to death of that girl," I said.

I could see that she was getting angrier and angrier at Marlon and at me as well. I'd seen her at the height of one of her quarrels with my friend, and it was frightening. She came at you with her teeth bared, like a primitive woman. During one argument, she came out of the bathroom with a huge bar of soap in her hand and let it fly at Marlon. It got him between the eyes and cracked in half. Stunned, he staggered back and almost fell. Usually when she came at him, he just put up his arms and tucked his head in, but she hadn't given him the opportunity that time.

I remember only once when Marlon himself showed real anger toward her. It was after their little boy. Christian, was born. He adored the child, and I think it worried him that the boy spent so much time with Anna. He had taken a little one-room place on the unfashionable side of Wilshire Boulevard where the story conferences we were beginning to have about the Western could take place in privacy. In order to ensure that privacy, he didn't tell Anna where his hideout was, but with her relentless, jealous cunning, she tracked him down.

We were working there one afternoon when a knock sounded on the door, and when Marlon opened it, Anna burst in. Without any further preliminary, she began beating at him with her fists, in a frenzy of rage. But this time Marlon reached out, grabbed her, and held her in front of him like a doll.

"Where's Christian?" he demanded. "I left him in the car, just down the street," Anna said defiantly but a little scared 'What?' Marlon roared. He pushed her aside and ran out of the house in the direction Anna was pointing. The car was no more than a hundred yards away, but a movie star with a child can't take such chances, and in any case it would have been dangerous to leave an active little boy of that age alone in a car. Fortunately, he was sitting quietly, waiting for his mother to come back.

Anna began taking pills and threatening suicide. She was on the defensive now, and Marlon was taking advantage of her. I was more afraid of her than ever and really believed, whether it was true or not, that she was quite capable of killing me if she was convinced that I stood between her and Marlon.."

by Anonymousreply 1012/04/2016

"As we drove out to the airport, she described her evening with Marlon. "We went to bed all right," she said, "but then he began to talk, and we talked until it was almost morning. I kept wondering and wondering when he was going to make love to me, but he just went on talking. Finally the sun was coming up and I could feel my eyes closing, and then right in the middle of a sentence he stopped talking and I could see he was asleep. So there I was, propped up on one elbow, watching this famous movie star sleeping like a corpse, lying on his back and beginning to snore. It was too much. I got up and dressed and left and went back to the hotel. He never touched me. Carlo."

I didn't really believe her. It sounded like a story Marlon had made up and instructed her to tell me, with the idea that it would cool me off. I told her I didn't believe it.

"But I swear to God," she said fervently, "on everything that's holy—Marlon never screwed me." I let myself believe it was true and cooled off. Linda went back to New York, but it wasn't the end of her affair with Marlon by any means. She was quite frank about it.

Every now and then she would call me and tell me how Marlon had called her whenever he came to New York, and taken her to lunch and the theater; and although she didn't say so, I presumed he also screwed her. He even took her down to his island in the South Pacific, where he fled from time to time.

They were on the island when the inevitable moment came, as it always did, that Marlon decided she would have to go. He did it in his usual way, beginning by neglecting her and going off screwing with other girls, making no particular attempt to hide it, so that she was alone and frustrated a good part of the time. Naturally, she looked for a little action of her own and wound up screwing a Tahitian man. Marlon found out about it and used it as an excuse to kick her out, ordering her to leave the island at once. He never spoke to her again.

After the episode with Linda, I saw Marlon with increasing infrequency. Our long relationship seemed to be ending, not in a burst of recrimination, like the argument over Linda, but simply dwindling away. Too much had come between us.

by Anonymousreply 1112/04/2016

"I had been drinking tea with James Baldwin one afternoon at his place when Marlon called, not knowing I was there. While we were talking about this project, the phone rang. I could hear Jimmy going on with someone, and then I heard him say, "There's a friend of yours here. Who? It's Carlo Fiore." A pause, then, "Yes, I'll put him on." "It's your friend, Marlon," Jimmy said, returning. "He wants to talk to you."

I hadn't seen Marlon or talked with him for quite some time, but his familiar voice was as cordial as ever. We chatted a little about unimportant things, and finally Marlon said, "Why don't you and Jimmy come over tomorrow and have dinner?"

I agreed, and the next day we arrived at Brando's home in what might be called holiday high spirits. There were old friends there—Wally Cox, his wife, their sixteen-year-old daughter, and Christian Marquand. Wally seemed terribly depressed, his wife determinedly cheerful, and his daughter shy. Marquand, who was then working on a delayed movie bomb called Candy, was playing his usual role of French charmer.

Seeing Marlon was the real shocker. He was wearing a poncho, one of those shapeless slipover robes common south of the border. His hair was very long and getting quite gray, like his mustache and small beard. The poncho covered him completely, making him look fat.

The talk flowed on, but there was something missing. Marlon seemed to be there, yet not there. He looked like a man who was chronically saddened. I realized that it was the first time we had ever been together when we neither laughed nor got angry with each other.

"Why don't you take off that poncho?" I asked him. "It's very warm in here. How can you stand it, sitting beside that fireplace?" "Why should I take it off?" Marlon said. "Because I can't see your body, and so I can't tell what shape you're in." "If that's all you want, I'll show you," Marlon said.

Like a girl, he pulled up the poncho, taking his shirt along with it. For the first time I could see that he had gotten fat and flabby. I couldn't think of anything that would be safe to say and changed the subject.

"How is it, working with Pontecorvo?" "All right. Pretty good, I guess." "How is he at directing actors ?" Marlon's face clouded. "Not so good—not for me, at least. I don't like what he's doing."

The party went on, and finally Marlon, Jimmy, and I were lying on the floor in front of the fireplace, talking. Baldwin talked about people in the civil-rights movement, remarking that Malcolm's wife had not been at all the kind of woman he had expected her to be.

"Aren't you active in the movement anymore?" I asked Marlon. "I haven't heard about you doing anything lately. Blacks don't want whites to be anything but foot soldiers these days," Marlon answered somberly.

If that was true, it explained his noninvolvement; he would never cast himself as a foot soldier. I wondered later if his new cause, that of the American Indian, had come about because he thought that the Indians needed white generals.

We talked a little longer, but the conversation trailed off. Baldwin seemed to be obviously disappointed in the quality of the talk wiith Marlon, and so was I, although perhaps for different reasons. We left a little while later.

Marlon called next morning. "What did you think of Baldwin ?" he wanted to know. "I think he's beautiful," I said. "Well, I don't know. Some of the other black activists I talk to seem to think he's becoming a Tom." "They've got a nerve. Baldwin's opened plenty of doors for a lot of those guys. They ought to be grateful instead of putting him down." "Well, maybe ..." "No maybe about it. He's done a hell of a lot for the whole movement." Marlon agreed and changed the subject. He asked me what I was going to do next. As for himself, he said, he was thinking about retiring..."

by Anonymousreply 1212/04/2016

Marlon should have lost weight when he had the chance.

by Anonymousreply 1312/04/2016

Thank you for sharing these stories, OP! Loving them, and you. [blows air kiss]

by Anonymousreply 1412/04/2016

He writes like a bottom.

by Anonymousreply 1512/04/2016

About Brando and Frank Sinatra:

"Among many other encounters, I observed the first meeting between Marlon and Frank Sinatra. Sinatra appeared a few minutes later, brisk, blue eyes flashing, people jumping out of his way as he walked in a straight line, acting as though he owned everything in sight and everybody was on his payroll.

Joe Mankiewicz, the director, introduced him to Marlon. They shook hands and smiled. I thought Sinatra's smile was strained and unfelt. It was the kind of smile a professional fighter gives his opponent at the pre-fight weigh-in, but Marlon's was warm and genuine. Anyone could see that he was honestly delighted to meet the fabulous Sinatra.

Marlon likes to ease into a scene, to roam about on the set and absorb the atmosphere. He wants to glance at the extras, give a nod and smile to a familiar face. Sinatra, however, seemed impatient to get started; the movie was only one of many important things he had to do that day. Business associates were waiting in his dressing room. There were calls to make to Las Vegas, New York, and Florida. His entourage was gathered outside his dressing-room door, waiting to laugh at his jokes, light his cigarettes, hand him a drink, or bring him a hot dog—do anything for him, anything After a rehearsal or two,

Marlon, Sinatra, and Mankiewicz decided to go for a take. Sinatra is a "one-or-two-take man," as they say in Hollywood, and he soon began to be exasperated because Marlon required many takes before he was satisfied with a scene. After eight or more out-takes, Sinatra, who was obliged to eat cheesecake during Marlon's dialogue, slammed his fork on the table, sprang to his feet, and yelled at Mankiewicz, "These fucking New York actors! How much cheesecake do you think I can eat?" And he walked off the set. Mankiewicz called for a five-minute break to ease the tension.

I thought Sinatra had overreacted, Later, I learned that Marlon had snatched the Sky Master-son role (the romantic lead) right out of Sinatra's grasp. Sinatra wanted it badly, but Marlon came along, coveted it, and got it. Sinatra was offered the secondary role of Nathan Detroit, a small-time gambler who spoke with a thick Bronx-Jewish accent, and, to everybody's surprise, he accepted it.

It was no secret in Hollywood that Sinatra carried grudges for a long, long time, and one of his cronies told me that he was determined to "sing Marlon right ofiE the screen." Both Marlon and I were on hand, along with many other spectators, who gathered around to see him try to do hat when he played his first musical scene.

Sinatra came on the set dressed as Nathan Detroit, Sinatra delivered his lines with only the faintest suggestion of an accent, but in character. When he sang, however, he sang as himself—smooth, lyrical, romantic. And out of character.

I was standing behind Marlon, peering at the scene over his shoulder, and he slowly turned around until we were standing face to face. He was a little pale and whispered harshly, "He's playing my part. He's not the romantic lead. / am.

Marlon went over to Mankiewicz, who was standing nearby, and said, "Joe, Frank's playing his part all wrong. He's supposed to sing with a Bronx accent. He's supposed to clown it up. But he's singing like a romantic lead. We can't have two romantic leads."

"I agree with you," Mankiewicz said. "What do you suggest I do about it?" "Tell him!" Marlon said. "Tell him!" The notion of "telling" Sinatra how he should sing a song brought a wry smile to Joe's lips. 'You tell him," he said and walked away. Marlon was dumbstruck for a few seconds. When he recovered, he said, "It's not my job to tell him. It's the director's job. I'm never going to work with Mankiewicz again."

by Anonymousreply 1612/04/2016

An anonymous bottom

by Anonymousreply 1712/04/2016

About Brando and Tallulah Bankhead :

"The play went out of town for a tryout. Within a few days, Marlon was out of the play and back in town. He told me that Tallulah had tried to seduce him and that he just couldn't make it.

She had asked him, he said, to come to her hotel suite one night to discuss certain changes in the script. When he arrived, she greeted him at the door as though they were both playing one of the oldest scenes in the business. She was wearing a slinky, silk dressing gown so sheer it outlined the nipples of her breasts and clearly defined the Mound of Venus. "She had a small bouquet of purple flowers pinned at her hip,"

Marlon went on, "and she was as drunk as a skunk." Looking past her, he saw a dimly lit room and heard romantic music playing softly. Marlon entered, quite ill at ease. He was ready to admit that Tallulah was a beautiful woman, but she was simply not his cup of tea. Moreover, when she spoke to him in that husky voice of hers, her breath almost bowled him over. "Man, was her breath foul!" he told me, reminiscently. "It came out of her mouth and hung in the air like a poisonous mist." But the more he tried to escape her advances, the more aggressive and talkative she became.

"I just couldn't stand it any longer," Marlon confessed, "and out of desperation, I copped the plea that I was a virgin. Of course she didn't believe me, but she was so flabbergasted that she turned me out of her place.

Next day, Tallulah asked him to come to her dressing room. When he knocked, the door was opened so quickly that it gave him a start. "Young man," Tallulah shouted, obviously in a rage, "if you're a Communist, you're in for a rude awakening." And she slammed the door in his face.

In spite of this obscure threat, the play went on. In one scene, Marlon as Stanislas was required to climb a flight of stairs, then to break into tears and turn so that the audience would be able to see that he was crying. The tears had to be on tap instantly, an almost impossible trick. Marlon was not daunted, however, and came up with a solution. He placed a dab of Vick's Vaporub on the underside of the handrailing and, as he climbed the stairs, he smeared his fingertips with the stuff and rubbed it in the corners of his eyes so that when he turned it would appear to the audience that his cheeks were glistening with tears.

Tallulah was puzzled by the strong scent of menthol in the air and wondered if someone had a cold. And if someone did have a cold, she reasoned, in her forthright way, that someone should stay at home in bed instead of spreading germs all over the goddamn place. It didn't help when Marlon explained what he had been doing to fake the tears. Tallulah exploded, and soon after Marlon and the cast parted company.

by Anonymousreply 1812/04/2016

"In those days a rough-looking guy on a roaring motorcycle was a rare sight, and he attracted a hell of a lot of attention. Taxi drivers warned each other to be on the lookout for "a crazy kid on a motorbike who's looking to get himself killed."

Marlon insisted that I stay at his place one night, but I told him I couldn't because I needed to hustle up some bread for my morning fix. Marlon said he would give me the money to score, so I stayed

Early the next morning I awoke, sick, desperately needing a shot. Marlon refused to give me the money he had promised me and tried to talk me into kicking my habit right then and there. He said he'd put me up at his place and take care of me and that he'd get a doctor for me if I should need one.

But I was much too sick even to consider kicking. My habit was far too big to break cold turkey, and I knew I would have to taper ofl. Marlon had hidden his money and wouldn't listen to my pleading. I searched frantically for it, but with no luck. Marlon watched me, studied me, while I was doing it, as though storing impressions for some future use. When he saw that my agony was truly unbearable, he got his wallet from its hiding place, put me on his motorcycle, and we tore uptown to Spanish Harlem so that I could score.

When we arrived there, the Puerto Ricans were fascinated by the curious sight of Marlon and his motorcycle, and they crowded around him. He got panicky, and I told him I would be all right now and he could split, which he did.

I scored, shot up, and then indulged in some self-pity. I was at a loss to know how I could sink so low and wondered if I would ever pull myself out of my degradation."

by Anonymousreply 1912/04/2016

Marlon taste in women "Where my dick goes, I go." :

"Two girls entered—bright, chic and sexy. Speaking with New England accents, they introduced themselves, congratulated Marlon on his performance, and sat down in the chairs he offered them. They sat with legs crossed, lit cigarettes, and gazed at us with clear, untroubled eyes. For a long moment, while no one spoke, they examined Marlon from head to foot, sizing him up. Then they turned to me and took my measure in the same way. Apparently they were satisfied with what they saw because they invited us to stay overnight with them on a friend's yacht, moored in the Hudson River. They were obviously horny and looking for some fancy action. I signaled Marlon to accept the invitation, but to my utter disbelief he turned them down. They shrugged their shoulders, expressed regrets, and got up and left, as cool as when they came in.

"Why the hell did you say no?" I exploded. "You've turned down two of the classiest bitches I've ever seen. Just looking at them gave me a hard-on."

Save it for tonight," Marlon said, "because I've got us a date with two chicks with asses like hearts in a valentine." I was still dubious, and even more so when our dates turned out to be two waitresses in a small Greek restaurant on the seamy side of town. They weren't at all pretty. In fact, they had nothing to recommend them but their youth. Both were brunettes, heavy at the hip, and hairy. They had thick, unplucked eyebrows, faint mustaches, and looked as though they could use a bath.

"Are you out of your fucking mind ?" I said to Marlon when I had the chance. "From what standpoint— what makes you prefer these broads to those lovely creatures we saw this afternoon?"

"My dick," Marlon said, arching his eyebrows. "Where my dick goes, I go."

At that, the night didn't turn out badly. The Greek waitresses were modest and charming—a bit too musky, perhaps, but eager to please, passionate, and indefatigable. They had put aside a bottle of absinthe—not Pernod, but genuine absinthe, the green, wormwood liquor that drove Oscar Wilde and Toulouse-Lautrec insane—and we all had several glasses of that powerful illegal brew.

Several days later, Marlon held his hands up to my face, palms thrust forward, wiggled his fingers, and said, "I've got those things again."Crabs?" Marlon nodded. "Not again," I said. "Yep. Crabs. Again," he admitted disconsolately.

by Anonymousreply 2012/04/2016


by Anonymousreply 2112/05/2016

Is this in the public domain or is Muriel going to get a cease and desist notice?

by Anonymousreply 2212/05/2016

What pathetic drivel.

by Anonymousreply 2312/05/2016

Thanks OP for sharing this. It's fascinating

by Anonymousreply 2412/05/2016

Carlo Fiore

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by Anonymousreply 2512/05/2016

He was so pretty in his prime that I can understand that he could behave however he liked, even, yes, being able to grab women by their whatever whenever. He was gross, but I can see how he developed his attitude.

by Anonymousreply 2612/05/2016

Carlo Fiore with Stanley Kubrick - 1960

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by Anonymousreply 2712/05/2016

Everything in the world regarding men has to with sex. Everything.

Thanks for posting, OP.

by Anonymousreply 2812/05/2016

R22 Of course, the book is in the public domain but it's rare to find, It was released back in 1972. and no one remember this book though. I find it very fascinating because every word of it rings very true.

by Anonymousreply 2912/05/2016

Carlo Fiore standing behind Marlon onthe set of on the waterfront

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by Anonymousreply 3012/05/2016

Brando and Carlo Fiore' Fall out : (Marlon was angry because he thought Carlo had chosen Kubrik over him)

"About a week later, I was invited to Malibu to have dinner with Stanley Kubrick and Harris, who told me, "We've decided to buy Laughter in the Dark for two reasons. One, we don't want anybody else to have it, not before we make Lolita. It's insurance, so to speak. Two, we also think it'll make a good movie. Now—how would you like to do the screenplay?" "I'd like that very much," I said. Harris made an offer and I accepted.

"You've got lots of time," Kubrick said. "We'll draw up the contracts and you can start on Laughter when you're through with One-Eyed ]ack. I'll be busy with Spartacus for quite a while, so, as I said, you've got lots of time."

But then, not long after that conversation, I had another offer. "Right after One-Eyed fad^s,' Marlon said, "I'm going to New York to do The Fugitive Kind. Coming with me?"

"IVe got a deal going with Kubrick and Harris," I told him. "I haven't signed with them yet, so I won't know anything for certain until I do." "When will you know?" "i'll know in a week," I said. "But let's figure on ten days, just to be sure." "Okay," Marlon said. "Ten days. But let me know sooner if you can. They're bugging me to sign, and I can't stall them much longer."

Ten days later I was with Marlon while he was undressing to take a shower. "Your ten days are up," he said. "Are you coming with me, or are you going with Kubrick ?" "I've just signed with Kubrick," I said. "We can pick up with each other again after you finish The Fugitive Kind.' "Yeah, sure," Marlon said, smiling stiffly. "Give Kubrick my best."

Then he stepped into the shower stall and slammed the door so hard it almost shattered the glass...

by Anonymousreply 3112/05/2016

After that, he began to avoid me on the set. I was no longer included in the story conferences, and after a take he didn't ask for my opinion. I was made to feel that I was in everyone's way, an intruder. I supposed that Marlon was angry with me for going with Kubrick. I thought he would soon get over it. After all, we'd had worse quarrels and been reconciled. But then, one day when I least expected it, Marlon fired me. He was blocking the gun-dueling scene with Maiden one morning. When it was set, the cameraman took over and Marlon came to me, took me aside, and said, "Freddie, I'm letting you go. I'm way over budget and I can't carry you anymore." 'Carry me? That's a hell of a way to put it."

"Take it any way you like," Marlon said, "but you're fired." "As of when?" "As of now." "Don't you think there's a lot of hostility in the way you're firing me? "Mmmmm—nope. I don't feel any hostility toward you. As a matter of fact, I'm still going to give you that single-card screen credit I promised you. Your old Brooklyn buddies will be impressed when they see it." The first assistant shouted, "Come on, Marlon, we're ready for you."

"Listen, Freddie, I can't stand around and bullshit with you. I've got work to do." And he hurried away to resume shooting.

At eight o'clock that night, my phone rang. It was Marlon. "Let's have dinner. Let's go to that Mexican joint with the waitress with the groovy ass." "Let's skip dinners together for a while," I said. Marlon seemed surprised. "Do you mean that?" "Of course I do." "Are you still pissed off about today?" "I sure am." "You'll get over it. We've had quarrels before and we've gotten over them. You'll get over this one too." "Maybe." "Come on, man, let's have a night on the town. After dinner we'll go to Strip City and look over those fine-looking strippers." "I'm in no mood to see you tonight. Can't you understand that?" "Okay, okay. See you around." "Yeah," I said, and hung up.

by Anonymousreply 3212/05/2016

Several weeks later I was awakened by a call at three o'clock in the morning. "Did I wake you ?" It was Marlon's tired voice. "That's okay. What's up ?" "I'm down at Paramount, wearing out my eyeballs in the cutting room," he said. "I've been looking at film all day and night and I've lost my perspective on it. To coin a phrase, I can't see the forest for the trees. Why don't you come on down and give me a hand ?" "I'm in bed for the night," I said Aw, come on, do me a favor and come down, will you ?" "Nope."

"You're a stubborn, hypersensitive, dumb Sicilian! And you're an ingrate." He slammed down the receiver.

It was another morning, a little later, and this time the call came at 4:00 a.m. I heard Marlon's voice, dim and blurred, saying, "How many Seconals have you ever taken at once?" "What?" "I said, how many Seconals have you ever taken at once?" "Do you know what time it is? It's four a.m." "So what? I've called at four before. Lots of times." "Times have changed. Later ..." "Wait. Don't hang up. I want to talk to you."

I was fully awake by this time, and it suddenly occurred to me that he might have taken an overdose of sleeping pills. "What did you say about Seconals?" I said. "How many reds have you dropped at one time?" "Two. Once I took four and I passed out for fourteen hours." "Well, I've just taken six." "Six! And you're still conscious?" "Kinda." "You're not trying to kill yourself, are you?"

"Of course not. You build up a tolerance for them real fast. Before you know it, you're dropping six just to get a little drowsy." "I didn't know you were using barbiturates. How long has that been going on r" "Years. On and off.

"That stuff is worse than heroin. In combination with alcohol, reds'll kill you. Sure as shootin'." "I know. I know." Marlon's voice was growing dimmer. "You're falling out," I said. "I'm going to hang up and you can get some sleep." "No, no," he said, forcing himself awake. "Don't hang up. I want to talk." For more than an hour, he rambled on and on incoherently. While he was talking he fell asleep without hanging up and I could hear his slow, heavy breathing

by Anonymousreply 3312/05/2016

It was over. The picture had ended, and so, I thought, had my long relationship with Marlon. But it didn't end as suddenly as that. We saw each other occasionally, and he got in the habit of calling me often, at two or three o'clock in the morning, his voice fogged with the pills he was taking. What he wanted me to do was listen while he talked himself to sleep, and out of the old habits of friendship I let him do it. His voice would mumble on and on, then slowly fade away until I could hear his regular breathing, after which I would hang up and go back to my own sleep.

I remember vividly two of the occasions I saw him, because they told me something more about the man I had known so long that I thought I knew everything about him.

He was living on Mulholland Drive in a Japanese-style house (an echo of Sayonara, perhaps), but Japanese or not, it had most of the features that Marlon always demanded of a house or an apartment. Its principal feature, as always, was the bedroom. If Marlon had his way, and he usually did, the largest room anywhere he lived would always turn out to be the bed- room.

Whatever its original size, he would begin to stock it at once with books, records, scripts, objets d'art, coffee cups, milk-shake cups, and a wild conglomeration of things until it was so crowded that something had to be done. Then he would call in a set of carpenters, have a wall knocked out, and begin to expand. At the same time, he insisted that the bathroom must also be large. He wanted to be able to move around in it.

Marlon spent a great deal of time in his various bedrooms, and far from all of it was spent with women. Sometimes he would stay there alone for two or three days at a time, moody, thinking, reading, trying to relax. He read a great deal but seldom dipped into any fiction except for the scripts he was called upon to examine. These days, I understand, he is reading up on the life and hard times of the American Indian, but in those days he was deep into Zen, psychoanalysis, Rollo May, Karl Menninger, and Eric Hoffcr, the self-proclaimed longshoreman-philosopher whose works Marlon liked so much he sent out dozens of copies to friends.

The bed itself was always king-size. Marlon moved around a lot in it, and sometimes he had to move a long way across its vast expanse to answer the telephone, which rang fairly constantly. He always heard the phone, no matter what else he might be doing, and he had it on a long cord so he could take it with him to the bathroom, or even to the nearby kitchen, so he wouldn't miss its ringing. To back that up, he had a pulsating light that announced an incoming call. Whenever possible, Marlon also liked to have a fireplace in the bedroom; the Mulholland Drive place had one.

Next to the bedroom, the most important room for Marlon was the kitchen, to which he made frequent trips because he had always been a compulsive eater. He reduced only at the time he was going to begin a picture, so that he could get into the costumes, but then while it was being made he would blow up until the buttons began to pop.

He was so compulsive about it that often when we came to his house after having a big dinner out, his first act would be to rush to the refrigerator and begin prospecting. He loved grapefruit and ate dozens of them, but he also couldn't resist milk shakes or cheeseburgers. His favorite, however, was peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, with milk, of which he could consume a quart with the practiced ease with which a confirmed alcoholic would toss down a drink.

Marlon made a few gestures in the direction of physical fitness. There were always some weights around in his bedroom—barbells and similar exercisers—but he seldom used them, and they gathered rust while he lay in bed, nude as usual, telling me he was going to get around to using them, or swearing yet again that he was going to go on a diet the next day..

by Anonymousreply 3412/05/2016

Brando and Turman Capote meeting (during filming Sayonara in Japan)

"We worked lackadaisically through an afternoon on the script of Vermilion, sipping sweetened tea and gossiping. In the evening, about seven-thirty, the phone rang and Marlon answered. The desk clerk informed him that Mr. Truman Capote was on his way up to see him. Marlon hung up and said, "Shit! I forgot all about the interview with Capote. He's traveling here with Cecil Beaton, and I promised him he could see me."

"I'd like to meet him," I said. "I hear he's quite a character." "Okay, but split soon after. Let's scatter a lot of pages around the pad. Make it look as though we were in the middle of some heavy work and pretend we have to get back to working on the script later tonight. After you leave, call me every hour or so, then I'll have an excuse to cut the interview^ short if I want to."

Quickly we placed stacked pages of script on the table, on the sleeping mat, on the floor, all over the place. Here and there we scattered writing pads and pencils, placed a tape recorder in full view, and rolled a discarded page of text onto the carriage of an empty typewriter. All in all, the setting gave the impression of a couple of screenwriters who had been holed up for weeks to meet an important deadline.

There was a knock, and the maid opened the door. Capote stood there, posed on the threshold, framed in the doorway. He made a very pretty picture. He was dressed in harmonic tawny tones: desert shoes, corduroy trousers of light brown, and a tan cardigan sweater of thick wool. He moved into the room with that odd, graceful gait of his, cradling a bottle of vodka in the crook of his arm. I had heard that Capote was small, but I was surprised to see how really small he was. He was slim and trim as a boy, and his feet and hands were as tiny as a child's. Although he was thirty years old or more, he had the frank gaze and smooth features of a twelve-year-old innocent. I had never heard him speak, and the high-pitched nasality of his voice softly slurring the words gave me the feeling that an amateur ventriloquist was speaking through this smaller-than-life-size but perfectly proportioned doll.

Neither I nor anyone else, however, would dare to laugh or smile in ridicule of his figure or speech. It was too well known that behind those baby-blue eyes there was a quick intelligence that could cripple you with the spoken word, or murder you with the written one.

Capote lifted the bottle of vodka nestled in his arm and with great care placed it in the center of the low table. Marlon asked the maid to bring a bucket of ice cubes. I was introduced, and then we all had some small talk about the Japanese cuisine, the anachronistic ceremonies of the culture, and its exquisite customs.

Abruptly, out of nowhere. Capote began to relate a strange and fascinating story. He and Leonard Bernstein loved to gossip about their friends, he said, and one day, while they were alone together in the conductor's apartment, they had themselves a hell of a time cutting up mutual acquaintances. Bernstein had hidden a microphone somewhere in the room, and not knowing everything he said was going on the tape. Capote spoke freely about the faults and vices of everyone in their crowd. If he slowed down a little, Bernstein prodded him to reveal the more intimate details of current scandals involving their friends. Happily, Capote obliged him.

by Anonymousreply 3512/05/2016

Not long after. Capote attended a party in Bernstein's house. Everyone in their set was present, including nearly all the people he had been talking about so freely that day alone with Lennie. Although the party was obviously a huge success without any adornment, Bernstein was going around telling everybody that he was going to give them a surprise later on, a rare treat, something they would never forget.

At the height of the party, Bernstein called for attention and announced he was ready to present his surprise. The crowd settled down in quiet anticipation. A tape recorder was produced, and the host pressed the playback button himself. The suddenly hushed room was filled with Capote's distinctive voice, repeating everything he had confided to Bernstein that day. Worse, the tape had been edited so that only his side of the dialogue was heard. "Why, it was a monologue in maliciousness," Capote recalled. The guests were stunned to hear themselves so attacked by one they had considered an old friend, and at first they directed their shock and anger toward Capote as the tape ground on. But then they turned away from him, when the shock wore off, and concentrated on Bernstein. In various ways, they told him it was a bad joke, if it was meant to be one, and he was the only one who was laughing. The trick had backfired.

That was the end of the story. I wondered why Capote had told it. What was the point? Was he trying to tell Marlon something ? I looked at my friend, trying to read him, and saw him shake his head with sympathy for Capote at being made the butt of a cruel put-on.

I felt a little stupid. I didn't know how to react, or what to say, or what kind of face to make. But the story, and Capote's arriving with the vodka, made me suspicious. I had a strong foreboding that Capote, after he had gained Marlon's confidence, would chop him up into small pieces, then go around telling people that mayhem was the writer's art.

It was eight o'clock when I left them. As Marlon and I had agreed, I split as soon as it was convenient. At loose ends, I called Miiko Taka, Sayonaras leading lady, and we went to a discotheque on Kyoto's main drag to listen to American jazz and have a drink or two. Miiko was an attractive Nisei who spoke Japanese fluently and graciously acted as my interpreter and guide.

At the appointed time, an hour later, I called Marlon and was a little alarmed to find him already as high as the proverbial kite. He spoke rapidly, sixteen to the dozen, rattling along with all his defenses down. He rarely drank, and sometimes, after only a drink or two, his natural distrust of strangers would evaporate and he would be sentimental, maudlin, and ready to unfold the story of his life, freely trotting out all the skeletons in his closet. Occasionally, I had even seen him high when he hadn't even taken a drink. Good conversation was enough to release the adrenalin, intoxicate him, and loosen his tongue. And anyone who had ever heard Capote in action knew that he was a fascinating conversationalist.

by Anonymousreply 3612/05/2016

"Have you been drinking?" I asked Marlon. "What? No, of course not. What makes you ask that?" He sounded indignant. "You sound a little high, so I figured you had some of that vodka Capote brought." "I had a couple of nips, that's all." "Be cool, man," I said. "Don't say anything you might regret later." "Truman's already gotten his interview. We're just chatting now, entre nous. Which means, just between us, off the record, not for publication, you ignorant wop." That piece of information made me all the more suspicious.

"Sometimes 'off the record' means the actual interview has only just begun," I said. "So cool it, man. Why chance it?" "Call me in an hour," he said impatiently and hung up. An hour passed and I called again. He sounded even higher than before, babbling like a swift-flowing stream, and there was nothing I could do to dam it up

"Miiko has an early call for tomorrow," I said, "and I'm taking her home. If you want me, I'll be in my room." "Right," Marlon said and clicked off, obviously anxious to resume his conversation. I went back to the hotel with Miiko, we said good night, and I went to my room, got into bed, and fell asleep.

About two-thirty in the morning, the telephone woke me up again. It was Marlon, still flying high and wanting company. I told him I was too wiped out for company, or work, or anything else, so we decided to call it a night. It wasn't the end of the story, though. That would come later.

SAYONARA was Hearing completion in Hollywood when Josh Logan approached Marlon on the set one day, his generous girth shaking with agitation. "Marlon, you remember that interview in Japan with Capote? Well, I've just read the galleys. Everything—everything—that was said between you two will be published in The New Yorerr

Remembering what he had said to Capote about Logan's ability as a director, Marlon went pale under his makeup. Naturally, Logan was hurt when he read what had been said about him. He didn't want the world to know that Marlon whom he had declared freely was America's finest actor, held him in such low esteem as a director.

As for Marlon, he was shaken by Capote's betrayal. He went directly to his dressing room when Logan told him the news and wrote a letter to Capote, pleading with him to delete the unkind things he had said about his colleagues, his family, and his friends. Capote could say anything he wanted to about him, he said, but he begged that the others would be left out of it. He also reminded Capote about his promise that certain parts of their talk would be off the record and not to be published. The letter was a waste of time. Capote never bothered to answer it.

Years later, in an interview with a reporter for the magazine section of the Los Angeles Times, he was quoted as saying: "I realized that the most banal thing in journalism would be an interview with a film star, so I put a number of names in a hat and pulled out, God knows why, Marlon Brando. . . . So I went to Japan (where Marlon was making Sayonara) and spent the prescribed time—one evening—and then spent a year on the piece because it had to be perfection, because my part was to take this banal thing and turn it into a worJ{ of art. Lots of people can't understand why I wrote it. He sent me the longest, most confused letter...."

The piece was called, "The Duke in His Domain," and it was published in The New Yorker. It was a work of art, all right. It was also a masterpiece of maliciousness, condescension, and simple deceit

by Anonymousreply 3712/05/2016

Loving every last drop of OP's gift

by Anonymousreply 3812/05/2016

Me too, R38.

Thanks, OP.

by Anonymousreply 3912/05/2016

Carlo' awkward meeting with Marlon' father :

""Is your father there?""Yes, and I want you to meet him. I hesitated. "Okay. I'll be there in about ten minutes. "Later," Marlon said, hanging up. I had met all of the Brandos except Marlon's father and had been as instantly friendly with them as I had been with Marlon, but I had a strong premonition that Senior and I were not going to get on. But sooner or later it was inevitable that we were going to meet, and I concluded that now was as good a time as any.

I pressed the bell. The door opened presently, and Marlon, neatly dressed in shirt and tie and looking rather subdued, appeared. "Hi, Freddie," he said, smiling wanly. "Come on in."

It was reasonable to expect that father and son would resemble each other to some degree, and I was prepared for that, but Marlon's resemblance to his father was remarkable. They were the same height, and both had the same bull neck and bullet-shaped head, the same broad, sloping shoulders, gladiator chest, and powerfully muscled arms. Senior was heavier and thicker, but looking at him was like seeing a physical projection of what Marlon would be in his middle years.

We sat and regarded each other and made small talk. A death-in-the-family atmosphere prevailed in the room. Never had I seen the apartment so tidy and clean. Even the ashtrays gleamed like crystal. Everyone sat composed, and the conversation was restricted to the barest essentials. I got the feeling that some distant kin had been laid out in a coffin in the adjoining room. During the prolonged silences in the conversation there was a restless crossing and recrossing of legs.

Once, when Dodie crossed hers, her skirt hiked up above her knees. She pulled her dress down to cover them, and from above, in Dodie's perspective, her legs appeared to be properly covered. Sitting across from her, however, we saw that her skirt was caught up beneath her and that the undersides of her legs were exposed. It was not all that revealing, nor shocking in any way, so no one said anything. To call her attention to it would only have caused her needless embarrassment.

I could see Senior's growing agitation, and he kept shifting his weight about in his chair until he finally snapped, "Dodie! Adjust your dress!"

Her eyes examined the full length of her frock, found nothing to adjust, and she looked up, perplexed. "Your skirt is snagged under you," Senior told her. "Oh!" Dodie exclaimed. She lifted herself a few inches above her chair, ran her hand under her to smooth her skirt, and settled down again. She smiled to disguise her embarrassment, but her eyelids twitched with an uncontrollable tic Jocelyn, Marlon's sister, tried to carry the conversation in her usual vivacious way, like the actress she was.

After my arrival. Senior had not looked at me once. As far as he was concerned, it appeared, the chair I occupied was empty. His evident disapproval of me bordered on rudeness, and I was depressed. Marlon saw that I was ill at ease, and he came to my rescue "Let's go for that walk you wanted. And let's take Dutchie." "All right," I said, almost springing to my feet.

by Anonymousreply 4012/05/2016

Outside in the street, I couldn't help taking a deep breath that was plainly a sigh of relief. As we walked toward the park, Marlon said, "Well, what do you think of my father?" I suppressed a nearly irresistible impulse to say that I thought him a snob, a bully, and a bore. But one doesn't say such things about a friend's father in any case, and although I knew that Marlon and Senior were no great admirers of each other, just the same it was his father and no one likes to hear his father denigrated, even if he does it himself.

"I wouldn't kick off my shoes, stretch out my legs, and pick my nose in his company," I said carefully. "I'm afraid he didn't like me. Not a bit." "My father's insecure," Marlon said. "He's a frightened man." "Oh, come on!" I said. "Your father frightened? Of me?" "Not of you in particular, you conceited, hypersensitive Sicilian! You happened to meet him at the wrong time

Right after you called we all had a talk to try to straighten out certain situations that are bent out of shape. Pop's afraid he's losing his grip on the family, so he laid down some ultimatums. I hate ultimatums! And pretty soon we were in the middle of shout-down, then—you came in." "No wonder." That was all I could think of to say.

Dutchie started tugging at the leash, jerking Marlon a few paces ahead of me. I quickened my step to keep up with them. "Why doesn't Dutchie stop at trees or fire hydrants, like other dogs?" I asked. "Dutchie has a favorite spot in the park. She won't go anyplace else unless she has to. But locked in the house alone, she'd shit in your hat and piss on your shoes, just to remind you of your negligence."

But he was thinking about something else because he turned to me and said, "What the hell have you been doing to yourself? You look like Dutchie's pile of shit."

Then I had to make the worst admission of my life. I told him that the night before I had met a girl I'll call Vicki. She was a high-priced hooker and a junk joy-popper (someone who occasionally shoots up with heroin). We had gone to bed together, and she had talked me into shooting up with her. It wouldn't take long before I was hooked—on Vicki and on heroin. But I told Marlon, "Don't worry. I won't get hooked. I know what I'm doing," which I had deluded myself into believing

As we walked back to the apartment, Marlon seemed saddened. Then he said, "Freddie, I think it's the biggest mistake you can make. The first fix is the worst one."

by Anonymousreply 4112/05/2016

"You fuck your women, and I'll fuck mine!"

One day Marlon and I were talking on the set, when I saw that he was looking at something over my shoulder. "Don't turn around now," he said, "but there's an extra with black hair, red dress, and red shoes. Wait . . . wait . . . you can look now, but be discreet."

I turned, saw the girl he meant, and I did a double-take. Girl? She was easily fifty-five, her black hair was blatantly dyed, her large breasts were sagging so that they fell nearly to her navel, and her legs were so thin in proportion to the bulk above that she seemed top-heavy.

"Man, are you kidding?" I said. "You must be even more nearsighted than I thought you were. That broad is old, and she's ugly as sin." "You fuck your women, and I'll fuck mine," Marlon said calmly. "Try to get her number for me," he added.

I approached the lady and told her that Marlon would like to call her after the day's work. Nearly overcome, she gave me her number, and I returned with it. "How'd you get it so quick?" Marlon asked seriously. "How do you do it ?"

Since I had just done what must have been the easiest thing anyone could imagine, I was sure he was putting me on. "It's my irresistible charm," I said sarcastically.

I tried to find out next day if he had really followed up, but he wouldn't talk about it. I could only conclude that on occasion he must be as freakish as I was.

by Anonymousreply 4212/05/2016

"Marlon and Maria lived together after that summer in the Park Savoy, a little hotel on Fifty-eighth Street, off Seventh Avenue. As a man who was in a state of perpetual erection himself, he told me with amusement and appreciation what a sexual freak Maria was, how he would screw her dog-fashion while she was on the telephone, and at various other times and places in a countless variety of ways.

Maria was the first to illustrate a characteristic that seemed to be true of the girls who fell in love with Marlon and stayed with him for any length of time. He would cast them off and take on someone new, and they would disappear for a while, then years later they would turn up in his life again, sometimes even working for him, and without any evidence of rancor or recrimination. Psychologists might call that an ongoing relationship, but I'd say they just couldn't get him out of their systems, and Marlon would never let them really go.

After Marlon threw over Maria for Movita (more of her later), she turned up years later as his secretary. She was not a euphemistic "secretary" either; she had been working at that occupation when they lived together in New York. In Hollywood, she assiduously cultivated the good will of the important movie columnists, people like Hedda Hopper, Louella Parsons, and Dale Harrison, all of whom Marlon hated. Miss Hopper once wrote: "I don't know what Marlon Brando has done to deserve so good and devoted a companion as Maria Lorca."

Unfortunately for her, Maria undertook to run Marlon's life, particularly which people were permitted to see him. One of the friends she didn't like happened to be me. I remember one time Marlon wanted me for a dress-call, which I wanted very much because a "dress" extra got about double the usual pay for it.

"I'm not going, I can't do it," I had to tell Marlon. "I haven't got a tuxedo."That's no problem," Marlon said. "I'll lend you mine. We're the same height. Tell Maria to give you my tuxedo, and come on."

When I called Maria and asked her when I could pick up the suit, she put on her most upper-class voice and said, "Do you know that suit cost two hundred and fifty dollars?" "I'll take good care of it," I said, "Marlon said I could borrow it." "Well," she said doubtfully, "it's against my better judgment, but hold on a minute and I'll see if I can find it." She was back on a few minutes later. "I've looked around, and I can't find it anywhere," she said. By that time I was furious. "Bullshit!" I said succinctly and hung up.

Later that night Marlon came over, looking disturbed. "Listen," he said, "you were rude to Maria and hung up on her" "I'd have been ruder if she had been there," I said, and told him the whole story. "Couldn't find it!" Marlon said softly when I was through. "But I've got two, He shook his head

Next day he scolded her, but he didn't fire her, even though my complaint about Maria was one of dozens he was getting from his friends. There were enough of these eventually so that he had no choice but to dismiss her. Years later when she became his secretary again, he had to fire her once more.

"This is the second time you've done this to me," she protested, but no doubt there would have been a third time if circumstances and time had brought them together again.

by Anonymousreply 4312/05/2016

"Marlon was occasionally in Harlem in those days, although on much more innocent errands. It was safe to walk around in those happier days, and Marlon went there mostly because he loved black girls. He also liked to play bongo drums in any cafe band that would let him sit in.

One night, he told me, he was in a place on Seventh Avenue, very dim, so dim the black patrons in it looked even blacker, and I suppose he looked even whiter by contrast, as the only honky there.

There was a trio playing, and after Marlon had a drink at the bar, he went over to the stand, flashed a wad of money, and asked if he could sit in and play the bongos. They let him, of course, and after the set, he went back to the bar for another drink. A black girl sitting there began to come on with him in a way that quickly led to Marlon's making arrangements with her to go somewhere and screw.

Before they could leave, however, a large and powerful black man came up behind the girl, whirled her around, and hit her so hard that she flew against the wall.

Marlon said he thought there wasn't much point in waiting to see how it all came out. In fact, he fled out the door and began running for his life down the streets of Harlem. "Go, man! Go!" enthusiastic passers-by yelled at him as he sped past. He never looked back. If he had, he would have seen that nobody was chasing him.

by Anonymousreply 4412/05/2016

Marlon and Wally Cox :

"Wally was one of Marlon's friends and remained a friend until his death. They had been in elementary school together, had played together, teased each other, and like the others who knew him in those days,

Wally called Marlon "Bud." Marlon once told me that when they were eight or nine, he had tied Wally to a tree one day while they were playing cowboys and Indians, and gone home, leaving him there. About suppertime came a call from Wally's worried family, and Marlon, conscience-stricken, hurried back to the tree. Wally was still there, making no effort to get free, calmly confident that someone would come and untie him.

Wally Cox had come to New York with his invalid mother and for a while had hustled to make a living, designing and making jewelry out of silver, but he couldn't get the business going. He wanted to be an actor, too, and he and Marlon had been students together at Elia Kazan's Actors Studio. He was often at Marlon's apartment on West End Avenue, and we all thought he was a sweet guy.

He was the kind of man who seemed always like the meek, obliging Mr. Peepers he played in the television series that brought him success. If Marlon found that someone had forgotten to bring in any milk from the store, he'd ask Wally, "Would you mind running down and getting a little milk for us?" and Wally would go, obligingly.

Where Marlon was concerned, Wally was like family—in a class by himself among all the other Brando friends. He was the only one who dared to put Marlon down, dared to say calmly, "You don't know what you're talking about," when he was going on about something. In the days of his celebrity, Marlon would never have taken that kind of talk from anyone else.

It was Marlon, I also learned, who had been responsible for getting Wally his start. He had been taking him to parties where agents and producers were present, and at the right moment he'd say casually, "Wally, do some of those things you do in class," and Wally would get up and do the turns with which he'd been amusing his fellow students at the Studio. When he was finished one night, an agent came up to him and said, "Do you think you can do that for money?" Wally allowed that he could and signed up.

Just before all this transformed Wally's life, he was broke. I remember standing with him in a drugstore on Broadway one day, waiting to get into a phone booth so that I could spend the only dime I had in my pocket to call my connection and plead with him for some credit. Wally had a call to make, too, but I didn't want him to hear what would probably be a humiliating conversation, so I let him get ahead of me.

"Go ahead and make your call," I told him as someone came out of the booth. He started to move into it, and at the same time we saw on the shelf a handsome, thick, pinseal, gold-trimmed wallet. Before I could do anything, Wally pulled it out and held it high in the air, as though he were saying, "Look, I haven't even touched it yet."

"Let's look at it first, Wally, and see what's in it," I whispered feverishly. I was so desperate for money to get a fix that I had no scruples. But Wally paid no attention. He took the wallet over to the cashier, explained where he had found it, and started to walk away. "Wait a minute," the cashier called. "What's your name? Wally turned around, surprised. The idea of a reward hadn't even occurred to him, but since he'd been asked, he gave his name and address. Sick and angry as I was, I could only look at him and think what a great human being he was.

I liked Wally very much, too, and might have seen more of him if he hadn't shot up to fame so suddenly and if I hadn't been fighting the habit and trying to stay with Marcia....

by Anonymousreply 4512/05/2016

I believe Marlon' personality was fairly decent in his early life, sadly it disintegrated as he grew older!

by Anonymousreply 4612/05/2016

Love this, Thanks OP

by Anonymousreply 4712/05/2016

no true homosexual encounters ?

by Anonymousreply 4812/05/2016

An article about Marlon and Wally's friendship.

Offsite Link
by Anonymousreply 4912/05/2016

In the middle of Paris, it's spring, and here I am with my prick in a sling!

"In the cocktail lounge of the Hotel Prince de Galles, that first week, Marlon had a booming quarrel with Liliane Montevecchi, his leading lady in The Young Lions. Liliane was a beautiful, passionate, hot-tempered young lady. To emphasize a point in her argument, she slammed her hand down on the table and accidentally knocked a boiling hot pot of tea onto Marlon's lap.

He leaped up screaming, and while he was still in the air, it seemed, he pulled down his pants, which were soaked with the tea that had scalded his crotch, and ran bare-ass out of the lounge. The fashionable clientele observed his exit as nothing more than another Brando eccentricity and scarcely moved a muscle. Shrugging their shoulders eloquently, they went back to their own conversations.

Soon after, I went to Marlon's room in the Hotel Raphael and found him lying nude, spread-eagled on the bed, while a doctor smeared a sulphur-yellow salve on his blistered cock and balls. I had never seen him look so woebegone in my life, ever.

"This would have to happen now'^' he lamented, in a sad, rasping voice. "Right smack in the middle of Paris, it's spring, and here I am with my prick in a sling."

Next day Marlon appeared on the set ready to go to work, resplendent in his Nazi uniform and with his genitals wrapped in surgical gauze. It was a sorry sight to see him shuffling along to hit his marks before the camera, his legs apart, walking as though he were wearing snow shoes

by Anonymousreply 5012/05/2016

Before shooting began (The Young Lions), we had a few days to enjoy Paris. Marlon and I went to dinner with Dean Martin and Montgomery Clift. Since I had kicked drugs, I was drinking heavily—not to get drunk but to tranquilize myself. To me, alcohol was a pain-relieving, soothing medication. The amount of whiskey I could put away without getting drunk never failed to amaze Marlon, and he goaded me and Clift, who was something of a heavy drinker himself, into a drinking bout.

Dean Martin would have none of it. Dino has the reputation of being a heavy drinker, but he hardly drinks at all. It's a running gag....

I lost the drinking bout to Clift. The last thing I remembered next day was Dino hailing a cab, Marlon and Clift supporting me to the taxi, and my falling to my knees and passing out while I was crawling in. About four hours later, I came to Montgomery Clift, Marlon, and Dean Martin on the set of The Young Lions.

In my hotel room, vaguely aware of Marlon nursing me with ice packs, full of apologies and trying to placate me with sweet talk. "You and your childish games," I said. "Those crazy fucking contests you keep goading me into will do me in some day."

by Anonymousreply 5112/05/2016

During the filming of a drunk scene in "One Eyed Jack":

"As an actor in the picture, he was anything but a cliche, doing his usual serious, incredibly talented work. Only once did he overdo getting into the role, and that, oddly enough, was in the drunk scene. Such scenes were always hard for him because he somehow couldn't play a serious drunk with any kind of conviction. If he had to be one, in a movie or on the stage, he had actually to drink himself into that condition and then play against it, as most drinkers in fact do in life. Naturally, drinking scenes were always scheduled for the last shot of the day.

I had seen him play a drunk scene in The Young Lions with May Britt. Before he went on, he opened a quart of gin in his dressing room, gulped down several swallows, and waited for the effect. Then he went on drinking until he felt drunk enough to meet the scene's requirements.

In One-Eyed Jaclk, he had to play a staggering, falling-down drunk. Just before the last shot of the day, we went to his dressing room and he began slugging away at a bottle of gin. He was drinking much too quickly, not waiting to determine the alcohol's effect. It was nearing six, quitting time, and he wanted to get the scene in the can before then, in order to avoid overtime payments. In no time, he had demolished almost half the bottle and he was still sober.

As an experienced drinker, I warned him, "Wait a while. Don't drink any more. I think you've had enough.""I've got to do a Leon Errol stagger in this scene, but Fm sober enough to walk a tightrope," he said, and went on slugging away. I took the bottle from him. He had killed more than half of it, and I held it up to show him. "Are you crazy?" I said. "Drinking like that can kill you." "But I'm not drunk yet," Marlon protested. "You will be. I'll give you ten to one you can't make it from here to the set. Ten bucks to one. Bet ?" "It's a bet."

It was about thirty paces from the the dressing room to the set. Marlon had negotiated about half the distance when his knees buckled. I grabbed him under the arm and pulled him up straight. "I'm okay," he said. "You're plastered." Marlon giggled. "Man, I'm bombed.

He pitched forward but remained upright, miraculously. By the time he was in place to make his entrance, he could hardly stand without support. He leaned against the door he was to open and gave the signal for "Action." Camera and sound rolled, and Marlon slammed the door open. He staggered across the room, his eyes glazed and crossed, then he fell, pole-axed, on his face.

Some of us lifted and carried his dead weight back to the dressing room and stretched him out on the sofa. It was just six o'clock and the crew and actors were dismissed. A few people hung around to see if he was all right, but it was apparent he would be out for hours, and in a short time everyone went home.

There is nothing quite so desolate and depressing as a dark, empty movie set. The lighting equipment, camera, and props stand in the gloom like grotesque creatures that have died in their tracks. The only light was in Marlon's dressing room. I tried to read, but it was impossible for me to concentrate. A doctor finally came and examined the fallen star. "He's all right," the doctor delivered his verdict. "Keep an eye on him." Then he left.

Marlon, still out, began to throw up, and I held his head over the edge of the sofa so that he wouldn't strangle on his vomit as poor Tommy Dorsey had done. After he had emptied his stomach, I made him as comfortable as I could and cleaned up.

by Anonymousreply 5212/05/2016

It was two o'clock in the morning when Marlon came to. "Wha' happened?" he muttered. "Where's everybody?"

"Everybody's gone home," I said. "It's two a.m."Marlon raised himself on his elbows, then fell back again. "What hit me ?" he wanted to know. "The floor hit you," I said. "Do you think you can manage to walk to the car ? There's a driver waiting to take you home."

"Don*t leave me, Freddie. Don't leave me." "I won't leave you until I see you home and safe in bed."

"You're my only friend, Freddie. My only friend. Everybody left but you. You stayed. I'll never forget it, Freddie. Never." "Marlon, would you do me a favor ?" "Sure. Sure. Name it." "Will you try to make it to the car ? On the ride home you can stretch out and sleep. Okay?" "Is that all? Sure. Sure."

He got to his feet and the driver and I, each holding an arm, half carried him to the car. All the way home he hung his head out the window to catch the breeze. By the time we arrived, he had sobered a little but was still wobbly. He felt like vomiting again, and I hurried him to the bathroom. He sprawled on the tile floor, held his chin over the edge of the toilet bowl, and threw up.

He put his arms around the bowl and began to bawl like an infant. "This reminds me of my mother," he said. "I don't know why, but it reminds me of Mom."

He was still in costume and his stale makeup was smeared. He looked like a rodeo clown who had taken some severe bumps. "I should shower, but the hell with it," he said. "I'll fall out this way. You go home and get some sleep." "You'd better undress and get in the shower/' I said. "You'll feel better for it in the morning."

He undressed, showered, shampooed, and brushed his teeth. He looked a hell of a lot better and he was almost completely sober. "Thanks a lot, Freddie. I'll be all right now. It must be four o'clock.

Go home and get some sleep. And don't come in before noon. Hear?" "I hear," I said. "Are you taking the morning off?" "Hell, no. I've had more than eight hours' sleep already. I'm ready to go to work now. But I'll nod out for a couple, three hours. See you later." "Later," I said and left.

by Anonymousreply 5312/05/2016

Carlo Fiore with Marlon

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by Anonymousreply 5412/05/2016

Marlon and Pina Pellicer "No tits"

The leading lady of One eyed Jack hadn't been cast yet, and Frank P. Rosenberg went to Mexico City to find an actress. Before he left, Marlon told him, "No tits. I don't want my leading lady heaving big boobs on that wide screen while I'm trying to get an important point across to my audience."

After this briefing, Frank P. Rosenberg went to Mexico City, set up an office, and began to interview actresses on camera. One of those who came in was an actress named Pina Pellicer, and when her filmed interview reached Marlon, he liked it best. When she appeared in his office, it was clear that Frank P. Rosenberg had followed the boss's instructions to the letter—or to the tit. Pina was absolutely flat, a washboard, a breastplate.

She was like an exposed nerve, thin, frightened, and full of a kind of anger. Consequently it was difficult to feel sorry for her, and since she listened only to Marlon, no one else could be friendly with her. She committed suicide some time after the picture was finished

Trying to work with the tense and nervous Pina Pellicer, for one thing. Here she was, playing in a Western, but she had never been on a horse. Every time she mounted, she plopped into the saddle like a hunk of hamburger. Worse than that, however, to get a simple reaction from her was frustratingly difficult.

In one scene at a dinner table she was so nervous that when the cameras began to roll the resulting footage was a disaster. Marlon stopped the scene and whispered some instructions to the cameramen. "Listen," he said, "we're going to shoot this next take, but we're not going to tell her we're doing it. When you start rolling, I want the rest of the crew to move as though you were getting ready to take the shot. But no noise. And Til give you the signal when to roll." Then he started Pina in the scene again, as though it were a rehearsal, surreptitiously giving the signal to the cameramen. She was fooled and relaxed enough to finish the scene. But it had taken a whole reel of film to get a few seconds of reaction from her, and in the end it was snipped out. That kind of moviemaking is very expensive.

In another scene she was seen returning from the beach after being seduced there and slinking to her room along a wall. She put her hand around the corner and it touched a villain, Slim Pickens. Naturally, she was supposed to register fright, but her expression was so contrived that Marlon couldn't use it. He asked the prop man to bring him the loudest six-shooter he had and warned the camera crew to shoot without sound; it could be dubbed in later.

The scene was started again. As Pina's hand reached around the corner and touched Slim, Marlon fired the gun. He got the genuine reaction he was looking for, but a good actress would have done it in a few takes and we would have saved about $40,000.

It was that kind of struggle with poor Pina, from the beginning. On the first day of shooting, she had been so nervous that she had facial tics, and she appeared to be having trouble walking, taking the steps from place to place that were required. "My God, Marlon," I said, "she doesn't know enough to put her feet together when she stops." Yet both he and I tried to make her think she was great to bolster up what minute bit of confidence she possessed.

We had to give her riding lessons, of course, because even to show her mounting a horse, much less riding, was to demonstrate an exercise in awkwardness. It was a hell of a price to pay, I thought, just so Marlon could have a leading lady with no tits. And it wasn't that picture alone. In later years, when he had the power of cast selection, he never chose a really good-looking girl as his lead..

by Anonymousreply 5512/05/2016

Marlon' casting technique :

Marlon did much of the interviewing himself, and his technique was direct. Searching for an actress whose emotions he could control, he was interviewing a girl named Nina Martinez one day, a very sexy female who in time became the playmate of the entire cast. Before she was signed, she came in for an interview at which we were all present.

"Have you ever had a producer ask you to raise your skirt?" Marlon asked her abruptly. "Yes," she admitted, with candid calm. "Who?" Marlon demanded. She pointed to Frank P. Rosenberg, who looked taken aback for once. "Are you a virgin ?" Marlon asked. No." Matter of factly. "Do you have a family back home ?" "Yes, I do," and she named them. "Who's your favorite person in the family?" She named an eight-year-old niece.

Then Marlon made up the most horrible story he could think of about the niece, how she had been involved in a tragic accident, hit by a truck, and her broken, shattered body scattered across the road. As he talked, Martinez began to cry and soon became nearly hysterical.

Marlon was satisfied. "Okay," he said, "you got the part." That was how he cast,

by Anonymousreply 5612/05/2016

Nothing about Brando and his lover French actor Christian Marquand?

Offsite Link
by Anonymousreply 5712/05/2016


by Anonymousreply 5812/06/2016

it's impossible to get much information online about carlo fiore. imdb says he died in 1978 but doesn't say how. google says he's still alive aged 97

i'm going to assume the drugs killed him?

by Anonymousreply 5912/07/2016

Brando sounds charming.

by Anonymousreply 6012/07/2016

This thread would have to be the most pathetic thread I've ever encountered on the DL and that's saying something. One sad, lonely eldergay just endlessly posting made up shit from a senile hasbeen actor.

by Anonymousreply 6112/07/2016

And yet, here you are, R61.

by Anonymousreply 6212/07/2016

Thank you Op. It's been great reading. And shut the fuck up r61 you miserable crow.

by Anonymousreply 6312/07/2016

In fact I just googled Fiore and it seems he died at the age of 49. I imagine drug related though not sure. But yeah interesting reading thanks again Op.

by Anonymousreply 6412/07/2016

Yep R62 Just long enough to spill what a sad shitty thread it was.

I'll leave you geriatrics in here with your wistful delusions

by Anonymousreply 6512/07/2016

R59 R64 Carlo Fiore died in 1978 , he was born 9th June 1919 and died in 11th August 1978

Marlon Brando talked about Carlo (in Songs my mother taught me autobiography) as one of his close friends in his early days, he even reminisced fondly about some stories/adventures of them together but he seemed disappointed in Carlo because of this book he wrote about him and said that Carlo became alcoholic in his last days.

by Anonymousreply 6612/07/2016

Very interesting reads showing the other side of a very interesting, distinctly bisexual character

by Anonymousreply 6712/07/2016

Fiore seemed to be in love with Brando. And why was he naked in bed with him?

by Anonymousreply 6812/07/2016

Marlon with Carlo Fiore on the set of young lions

Offsite Link
by Anonymousreply 6912/07/2016

Marlon treatment of women :

"His current interest was France Nuyen, the Eurasian actress, who at the moment happened to be in New York, playing in the stage version of The World of Suzie Wong.

They had had an affair that lasted nearly a year before it broke up. But Marlon couldn't let her go. He heard she was engaged to a psychiatrist and immediately called her up for a date. She agreed, and Marlon hung up the phone, delighted

"Why don't you leave her alone and stop meddling with her life?" I said to him as we were on our way to New York.

"I guess it's my vanity," he answered honestly. "I still want to believe I'm top man. And then there's the other thing."

"What other thing?"

"With women, I've got a long bamboo pole with a leather loop on the end of it. I slip the loop around their necks so that they can't get away or come too close. Like catching snakes."

I couldn't blame him for looping France. She was of mixed Chinese and French parentage, a lovely dark girl with a beautiful ass—the Brando prerequisite. He is a legs-and-ass man. As every feminist who has read this far must understand by now, if she hasn't chewed up the book in sheer rage, Marlon is also the ultimate Male Chauvinist Pig.

by Anonymousreply 7012/07/2016

Marlon Brando failed dieting attempts :

"Marlon was overweight and had to slim down in order to fit into his costumes. He couldn't bear the sight of seeing me stuff myself with the marvelous food we were having in Honolulu, and although I was slim, he persuaded me to diet with him—for company. Marlon also thought he needed exercise, knowing well enough that I hate exercise, so I was obliged to trot beside him as he jogged great distances along the Honolulu beach.

After four or five days of that dreary vegetable diet, we fell into long silences, unable to think about anything but steak, lobster, pork chops, broiled fish—thoughts that Marlon, with his passion for junk food, would never ordinarily have entertained at all. Over impossibly long distances we could smell a hamburger cooking on a grill. Each of us wished the other would weaken and break the other. But we were caught up in a contest of will power. Who would weaken first ?

I had been a drug addict, but Marlon was a food addict, never mind that his palate was anything but discriminating. My victory was only a question of time

One morning I awoke earlier than usual, snapping quickly to consciousness as though someone had turned me on, and I felt immediately that something was wrong. Maybe it was only hunger. In any case, I decided to check up on Marlon. I went to the balcony and climbed over the divider which separated our adjoining terraces. I peered into his bedroom. The bed had been slept in, but it was empty. I knew instinctively where he was and ran out of the hotel.

I found him at the corner drugstore, gorging himself. He had already emptied a pint-sized glass of fresh orange juice, and he was polishing off a large bowl of cornflakes with sliced bananas and cream, as the waitress was appearing with plates of scrambled eggs, sausages, and bacon, and a high deck of pancakes dripping with melted butter.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked, a little redundantly. "Are you nuts? If you finish this breakfast, you'll look like Charles Laughton."

I grabbed his arm and tried to pull him away from the counter. He pushed me away and growled. I might as well have tried to pull away a hungry lion from his kill. I had come away in such a hurry that I was dressed in a minimum of clothing, sockless in unlaced sneakers, my uncombed hair standing on end. The customers must have thought I was a lunatic, and a couple of beefy guys at the counter looked at me threateningly.

I got panicky and announced to the customers, "He's supposed to be on a diet for a movie. And it's my job to see he stays on it."

"Sit down," Marlon whispered fiercely. "You're making a jackass of yourself.

I sat beside him and watched him pour half a jug of maple syrup over his butter-soaked pancakes. "Why don't you have something?" Marlon said. Before I could answer, he signaled the waitress and asked her to duplicate the order for me. Taking solemn oaths to resume our diets tomorrow, we stuffed ourselves to the tonsils, without guilt.

by Anonymousreply 7112/07/2016

The very early making of One Eyed Jack :

"After breakfast, we went back to our Hawaiian-style cottage to work. We were already mulling around with the Western for Paramount, a project that was beginning to absorb more and more of Marlon's thoughts. He told me he didn't want to make the old, classic Western. He wanted to scramble good and evil in the characters of the "good guys" and "bad guys," put the hero on the black horse, the villain on the white one, and all that.

On that premise, we began improvising scenes. Marlon would record them on tape, and I would have them typewritten by a public stenographer. Now and then he'd insert a crazy phrase—"and Rio removes his wooden, hand-carved dental plates, puts them in his pocket, and kisses and gums the heroine on her left tit"—just to test the stenographer, to see whether she was a mere mechanic or whether she was interested enough to read the manuscript. He was delighted to see, after one such insane sentence, the stenographer's notation, "Well, really!" and "Are you serious?"

Marlon had decided to call the Western A Burst of Vermilio?i. It was a fancy title, born of an inspiration so childish that Hopalong Cassidy would have cringed in embarrassment. It was Marlon's idea to have his gang of bank robbers and murderers tie blood-red scarves around their necks that would snap in the wind as they galloped on the purple sage toward some nefarious adventure. A Burst of Vermilion —get it?

I was a little bewildered when he told me. I wondered why the outlaws would herald their intent to murder and plunder by wearing red scarves. Wouldn't they rather try to pass themselves off as ordinary, honest cowpokes who were only passing through ?

Marlon cast his eyes toward the ceiling and thought about it. No, he said at last, the red scarves would work cinematically. In the beginning, the capers were not to be treated seriously, but lightly, like kids playing a game. The outlaws chose their way of life for the excitement of it, rather than for the money. In fact, money meant very little to them. As soon as they got their hands on a bundle, they squandered it as quickly as they could, on women, booze, and gambling. The outlaws were nonentities looking for an identity, even as thieves. The red scarves were symbolic of all this, Marlon said.

I thought my dear friend was losing his mind, but prudently I held my tongue. I knew he'd come to his senses later and delete the red-scarf business. And he did. I've noticed that when genius lapses, sometimes it slips into idiocy.

by Anonymousreply 7212/07/2016

Anna Kashfi pathological jealousy:

"Our rooms in the Honolulu hotel were adjoining, but not in the American sense. They were separated by sliding doors that met in the center, except that they were warped and couldn't be tightly closed. If I chose, I could look through directly to the bed and right up Marlon's ass while he was screwing some broad, which was quite a lot of the time. His most frequent companion was a Hawaiian dancer, who was a marvelous swimmer as well, but her best talents were in bed.

She had been displaying them most of one night when Marlon got a phone call early in the morning. Anna was at the airport. She had just flown in from Los Angeles and she was coming right over.

Marlon burst into my room. "Annie's here," he said.

"Well, so what ?" I said

"So what? We've got to go through this room with a fine-tooth comb and find every piece of female hair and bobby pin we can. If she finds the least little bit of evidence that I've had a girl up here, I won't hear the end of it."

Already, I could see, he was a little afraid of her. It was not a good sign.

For an hour we cleaned that room frantically, searching in every crevice, especially around the bed and in the bathroom. I don't think the hotel maid had ever given the place such a thorough cleaning. We had just finished when Anna appeared, all radiant smiles and love. Marlon didn't have time or opportunity for anyone else until it was time to go on to Japan.

Still, I thought, if he's so smart, why can't he see what he's getting into with Anna? They weren't married yet, but I was getting occasional glimpses of future trouble. I had gone to the movies one night with them (I don't remember why Marcia wasn't there), and another couple had come along, an MCA executive and his wife, a very old friend who had been like an affectionate aunt to Marlon. She was an attractive woman, and Marlon was obviously fond of her. I could see Anna watching them, and the murderous jealousy that always seemed to be just below the surface of her lovely face was in her eyes. I thought. She's beginning to crack a little.

Marlon had to get away from her, from time to time, so that he could breathe a little and pursue his usual interests, which meant balling chicks who had caught his fancy.

by Anonymousreply 7312/07/2016

Filming the Young Lions :

I was disturbed, however, by something that seemed to be happening to Marlon while he was making this picture. Watching him, it seemed to me that he was no longer speaking as an actor, but rather he was declaiming to the world when he spoke his lines.

When he came off a scene he would say, "How was it, Freddie?" and one day I told him how I thought it was.

"You weren't talking to that other actor, then," I said. "You always say that if a message has to be slipped in, you've got to do it while you're entertaining. But now I see you talking right through the other actors to the audience. There was one line in that scene today—'You cannot remake the world from the basement of a dirty little police station'—and that's what you're trying to do."

The fact was that Marlon's commitment to social causes of various kinds was beginning to show in his acting. That was why he was "looking through" the others in the cast. Every line was a message, if it was possible to convey one, and this kind of self-indulgence was getting worse and worse. However praiseworthy his motives may have been, they were getting in the way of his art. Later, in The Ugly American^ where there was mostly dialogue and very little action, he was expressing his political viewpoints more than he was acting, it seemed to me. Giving the messages, I thought, diminished his acting and made it weaker and less deep.

by Anonymousreply 7412/07/2016

Anna Kashfi Saga :

"Almost immediately, Anna Kashfi came to visit. She and Marlon were not yet married, but it was imminent and she wasn't letting him out of her sight any longer than possible. I had dinner with them the first night she was there, in the town's only restaurant, and after that we ate together nearly every night.

This sociable behavior, which Marlon and I had enjoyed together for so long, roused Anna's ever-ready jealousy.

After dinner one night, when she was alone with Marlon, she told him she'd heard that I had offered to work for Logan, and she said it was clear to her that I was only using him, meaning Marlon, to further my own career. Next night, in her presence, he repeated the story.

"Is that true?" he asked me.

I sat there under her glaring eyes, my own face pale from the sheer impact of this viciousness. For a minute, I couldn't find the words to answer him.

"It must be true," Marlon said before I could say anything. "You're pale, and I can see you're very angry. And look there, your hand is shaking so you can't even hold your fork still."

"If I'm pale and angry and all that, it's because it's such a stupid lie," I said. "Where's your common sense ? Why would I do anything as dumb as that ? It would be like leaving a king to work for a courtier. You know what I think of Logan— we've talked about it often enough. He's a nice guy, but you know him as well as I do, and you know he isn't likely to listen to any of my shit."

"Okay, I believe you," Marlon said, and I could see he did. "It's probably just one of those stories that go around."

I wasn't so ready to pass it off. It didn't take much intuition to see that Anna was going to break up our friendship if she could. Next day, I tried again to warn Marlon against marrying her. "If you do," I said, "she'll fuck you up, that's for certain."

As I've said, I think he had the same premonition about her that I did, but the pregnancy hadn't occurred yet.

Marlon and Anna got married, not long after. It was quick and secret and without any publicity until it was over. For one thing, Anna was pregnant. She had told my wife Marcia, "If you ever want to get pregnant, it's easy. I studied the cycle, and look what happened to me."

I did what I could to prevent the marriage, which was exactly nothing as far as effectiveness was concerned. When Marlon told me he had made up his mind, I said, "You shouldn't marry her. That's my feeling."

"But you told me she was the best one I'd ever had. Remember?"

"I remember, but i've changed my mind. I don't think you should."

I put up an argument about it, and I think Marlon had just about decided he wasn't going to do it when she told him she was pregnant and wanted to have the baby. That was the only way to get Marlon down the aisle, as Movita later discovered.

by Anonymousreply 7512/07/2016

Marlon and Movita :

"We took the Hudson Tubes to New York. Marlon was wearing his dockworker's costume and was still in makeup, so the few early-morning riders who glanced at us didn't recognize him. We walked down the aisle and stood on the platform behind the cars. Marlon was silent, preoccupied about something.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "I'm having trouble with Movita," he said.

I had no trouble believing it. Movita was a Mexican actress whom Marlon had met while he was in New Mexico making Viva Zapata! She had visited the set, he had taken one look at her dark, exciting beauty, always the kind he liked, and they were in bed together before the day was over. At the time we were making Waterfront, she was Uving with him in New York in an apartment across from Carnegie Hall. Marlon had taken a large dance studio on the top floor and made it into a bachelor apartment. The place was always in a terrible mess—ripped couches, worn linoleum, all kinds of things strewn around.

Movita was as full of superstitions as a gypsy, but when it came to sex she was extremely practical. She could measure a man's penis by his hands, so she said. Marlon's hands were strange, and he didn't like them; they were like the hands of a syphilitic dwarf, as he put it. But Movita didn't mind about that. She had a truly passionate sex life with him.

More than anything else, howxver, she wanted to marry Marlon. She came to me in tears one day, wanting to know why I thought Marlon wouldn't marry her when she wanted to so much.

"What do you think is wrong?" she asked pleadingly. "I have done everything I could for him.'

"I don't know," I said, trying to think of something. "He leads a kind of undisciplined life, you know. Maybe he wants a home."

That was enough for Movita. She went right out and spent 85,000 redecorating that beat-up Carnegie apartment. When I saw Marlon again, he said, "Jesus, what did you tell Movita?"

"I told her I thought you wanted a home."

"For God's sake. Don't you know that's just going to make it harder to say good-bye?"

But he did say good-bye (although in 1960 he would marry Movita)

by Anonymousreply 7612/07/2016

"when Marlon left to go to the coast and do Desiree, he told me, "Try to kick the habit while I'm gone, and I think I can use you. When I get back, I'll find a job for you to do."

After he left, I went to work as a waiter at a place called the Montmartre, on West Fourth Street, in the Village. New Year's Eve came and I had no place to go. For the first time, I realized I had alienated all my old friends. I not only hadn't been told about the party and was uninvited, but my old friends didn't really want to see me on New Year's Eve, or maybe any other time. Nobody wanted to have anything more to do with the Junkie.

I knew it was time to get out. The last word I'd had from Marlon was an invitation. "If you stop using drugs and come out to Hollywood," he had written me, "I'll put you on as my stand-in for Guys and Dolls.' I decided to accept both the challenge and the invitation.

I KICKED MY HABIT while I was traveling on a Greyhound bus from New York to Hollywood. The bus arrived in Hollywood at last, and there I was in Dreamland, sick, seedy, and broke. Naturally, my first act was to look up Marlon. He was glad to see me, but he told me with a straight face that he was sorry, he'd forgotten that he had given his word to another guy, a Filipino-Mexican, a reformed pickpocket and petty thief who wanted to go legit. He was going to be the stand-in

My look of absolute dismay brought a slight, sadistic smile to Marlon's lips, and after watching me stew in my disappointment for a moment, he beamed like a corny practical joker after a successful prank and told me that the part about the other guy was true but he had better plans for me. I was to be an "extra" with "call backs" that were guaranteed. When scenes didn't require extras, I would work as a "utility stand-in," which meant that I would stand-in for several actors. I'd be working every day, even when Marlon wasn't working, and I'd make more money that way.

by Anonymousreply 7712/07/2016

Barbara Payton

"So far, so good. The next job was to find a place to live. I ran into someone I'd known in New York, a girl named Mickey, a stunning Las Vegas blonde type. I told her my urgent need for a place to live, and she said, "I think I know someone who can put you up. I'll call her and see if we can't come for a swim this afternoon, and we'll see what happens."

The friend turned out to be Barbara Payton, who was recovering, if that is the word, from one of the biggest scandals Hollywood had seen in years. For those with short memories, Barbara had been married to Franchot Tone, but she had met Tom Neal, an actor who was a really tough muscle-man, and they began to have an affair. Tone put detectives on her trail, and what they discovered put Tone in a rage and the whole story in the headlines. Particularly fascinating was the picture the enterprising detectives had managed to snap of Barbara dressed in the costume she liked to wear when she entertained Neal, which consisted of a black garter belt and beads. In the picture she was dressed in this costume, while her friend performed what the unsophisticated legal profession calls an "unnatural act." The outraged husband, with a singular lack of restraint, had several prints made and distributed the picture .

After the scandal had died down, and the marriage had disappeared in a blaze of publicity, Barbara had settled down, so to speak, in her beautiful Beverly Hills house. Mickey and I met her there. We went for a swim, then sat at poolside, talking.

"I understand you need a place to stay," Barbara said, inspecting me carefully. "Why don't you stay here a while and see how you like it ? You can have this little house by the pool. It's actually quite a nice apartment inside, and you can have it for $40 a month."

I accepted at once and took up my residence beside the pool. It didn't take me long to discover that Barbara had a new lover, a black man who used to arrive on a motorcycle.

Sometimes I'd wander over to the main house when he was there, and a couple of times I inadvertently saw my landlady sitting between the legs of her visitor, going down on him, engaging in more of the "unnatural act" she seemed to be hung up on. Barbara heard me trying to walk quietly by and twisted her neck a little to see who it was, never missing a stroke.

She gave me to understand that I could stand in for her lover, but I had no eyes for her. In fact, there was only one lapse from our status of simple friendship—or landlady and tenant—and that occurred early one morning, about 2:00 a.m., when she appeared in my apartment and suggested her specialty. Apparently she was interested only in oral sex.

There was something off-center about this girl—not sexually, but in some strange fashion she seemed to drive men insane. Maybe they just couldn't understand or keep up with her mostly compulsive behavior.

In any case, Barbara and Mickey between them made my debut in Hollywood a spectacular, instant success. I couldn't help thinking how lucky I was. Two weeks ago I had been broke and addicted in New York, cast off by my friends and uninvited to their New Year's party. Now I had a job, I was free from dope at last, and I was riding down Sunset Boulevard in Barbara Payton's red Cadillac with her and Mickey, two gorgeous-looking broads. What a transition! I couldn't help laughing out loud when I thought about it.

"What are you laughing at?" Barbara wanted to know. But I couldn't really tell her

Marlon came to visit me at Barbara's during the three months I stayed there. It was during this period, too, that he got an Academy Award for Waterfront, an event Barbara and I watched on television in her house. It was a lovely time for me, living there, and I was sorry when Barbara's finances suddenly collapsed. She lost the house and everything else. I stayed with other friends in Beverly Hills and eventually wound up with a French hooker who had a very nice apartment, where I came to rest for a while.

by Anonymousreply 7812/07/2016

I can see Brando getting so much pussy but Carlo Fiore's prowess with women boggles my mind .

by Anonymousreply 7912/07/2016

From Brando "Songs My Mother Taught Me" book , Marlon Brando talking about Carlo Fiore (or Freddie Stevens) :

"We did a lot of crazy things in that apartment. I had many adventures when I lived in that apartment. One night a friend called and said, “I’ve got a couple of great groovy broads. They’re driving around in a black Cadillac, they’re well-heeled and lookin’ good. You can have either one you want, but I think they’ve both ‘got eyes.’ ” (In those days that was jargon for accommodating women.) The girls picked us up and I agreed with my friend Freddie that he was right. They were black, very attractive and wore sweet-smelling perfume that almost made me dizzy. “Where should we go?” one of the girls asked, and I answered, “I don’t know. I’m happy as a pig where I am.” I was already starting to fool around with the girl in the backseat.

“How about going to our pad?” she said, and I said, “That’s cool. Where is it?”


A red light went off somewhere in my head, but I said, “Let’s go, what the hell.”

Her apartment was a third-floor walk-up. After we finished what we’d come there to do, I started playing cards with one of the girls in the kitchen while my friend and her friend returned to the bedroom. Suddenly I heard something outside that sounded like the footsteps of a raging dinosaur. I thought it was my imagination, but the dinosaur got closer and louder, then stopped in front of the door and started pounding, making me wonder fleetingly if dinosaurs had fists. The attractive woman sitting opposite me in her underwear suddenly looked at me with enormous eyes, her mouth forming a huge O. We heard louder and louder pounding on the door, and each time it caved in another inch.

“Who’s that?” I asked, trying to seem calm. “That’s my daddy,” she answered. I said, “Your father?” “Baby, that’s my daddy.”

I had never heard the phrase; I didn’t know that some women referred to their boyfriends as their “daddies” or “my old man,” but I got the drift. I looked at her as calmly as I could and said, “Do you have a fire escape in this building?”

She glanced in the direction of the bedroom, and I grabbed my clothes and shoes, shook Freddie and said, “I’m going out the fire escape because her daddy’s at the door. I’ll meet you down the block if you’re not coming right now.”

But Freddie also got the drift and broke off what he was doing, and we ran down the fire escape as fast as we could. When we reached the bottom and the ladder lowered us to the sidewalk, we looked up three stories and saw a head shouting, “Hey, motherfuckers, you wait right there! Don’t you be running!

We ran like hell, but it had been well worth it. They were very attractive girls.

by Anonymousreply 8012/07/2016

Continued, Marlon Brando on Carlo Fiore :

"My pal that night was a friend I’d met in an acting class at the New School, Carlo Fiore, although he had changed his name to Freddie Stevens because he thought it would make it easier for him to get acting jobs. He was one of my first friends in New York, and we shared a lot of girls; he’d get one and I’d try to move in on him, or I’d get one and he’d try to get her in his bed.

Freddie had a huge Roman nose, spoke from the bowels of Brooklyn and didn’t have much acting talent, all of which conspired to work against his becoming a star. He had his nose operated on two or three times, the last time by a surgeon who must have used a can opener instead of a scalpel

I tried to get Freddie jobs, but never had much luck unless I could give him one myself. He was charming and funny but troubled; I don’t know whether his lack of success as an actor contributed or not, but he became a junkie and tried hard to get me to take heroin—a “skin pop,” as he called it. When I refused, he always said, “You don’t know how to live.” I watched him fall deeper and deeper into the abyss of addiction while doing whatever I could to make him stop.

I was with him once when he tried to go cold turkey, and it was awful. He shook, shivered and threw up, and finally said he had to go home to his Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn and ask his family to help him. A couple of hours later he called me from home and told me frantically that he needed some Seconal. I bought some and went to his house, where I saw something very touching. He had once told me that his mother was mentally deranged, and when I arrived I could see in his face that he was ashamed of her, but he stood next to her lovingly and put his arms around her because he didn’t want to reject her...

Freddie finally got off dope, but then he became an alcoholic and wrote a book about me, probably all that he had left to sell. He continued on his path of self-destruction until he died.

by Anonymousreply 8112/07/2016

My god, just read all about Barbara Payton. Her story is worse than fucking leaving las vegas. Read it if you dare....

Offsite Link
by Anonymousreply 8212/07/2016

Love reading these stories! Carlo was actually a fine writer. When Brando speaks, you know it's what he said. What Carlo said in this book (which Nobody believed at the time) was confirmed later in the subsequent books written about Brando and they used his stories without giving credit to Carlo' book. I've read many biography books about Marlon but this one is my favorite.

by Anonymousreply 8312/08/2016

"There was only one more thing I needed for a career in the professional theater, I thought. I would have to have my nose straightened. Mrs. Piscator thought I was a fool to have the shape of my nose altered.

"Please don't ruin it," she said. "Don't take that awful chance." I wish I had listened to her.

Seven months and five operations later, with savings depleted, I finally had a nose that somewhat conformed to the contours of my face. It wasn't my old nose, but it was enough; it would serve.

My first impulse was to run and hide in a doorway, but I held my ground. I saw that it was Zachary Charles, an actor I knew who had been playing in a musical comedy on Broadway. He ran across the street to me and planted himself in my way. "Where the hell have you been hiding?" he inquired, pumping my hand energetically. "Where did you disappear to?" He focused on my nose. "So you went ahead and had it done." "I'm afraid so," I said. "It's not bad," he said, scrutinizing it closely.

"Say, Marlon keeps asking about you. He's in / Remember Mama at the Barrymore."

Yes, I know."

"Let's visit him. He's staying with his mother on West End Avenue. Let's go. Okay?"

I was ashamed of my bobbed nose. I felt I had defiled myself, and every meeting with friends, new or old, was going to be painful to me, at least for a time. But when Zachary saw me hesitate, he put a firm grip on my elbow.

"Come on," he said, pulling me to the edge of the sidewalk. "I promised Marlon I'd take you to him if I saw you, even if I had to drag you. Taxi!"

When we got to the apartment on West End, there was a brief awkwardness about our reunion. Marlon and Dodie had lost their suntans and were noticeably thinner, but still they made an extremely good-looking pair. Then the awkwardness melted, and we were good friends again. With exquisite discretion, neither of them mentioned, or even seemed to notice, my new nose.

Marlon didn't think much of the job, however. Years later, we were having dinner one night with Rita Moreno, and we got involved in a long argument in which I stubbornly refused to accept something Marlon was trying to prove. "What are you disagreeing about?" he exclaimed at last. "It's as plain as the nose that used to be on your face!

by Anonymousreply 8412/08/2016

Dodie Brando

Dodie insisted I remain to have dinner with them in the apartment, and after dinner Marlon said, following her up, he wanted me to go with him to the theater and see him perform in / Remember Mama. I was happy to accept both invitations.

"Come with me," Dodie said, "so we can talk while I fix you a drink. Let's see—you like martinis. Am I right?" "Yes," I said, flattered that she remembered.

I followed her to the kitchen and she opened a cupboard stocked with liquor. I watched her as she carefully put together the ingredients of a martini. As she poured the icy liquid into an oversized champagne glass, I noticed that her hand shook. It crossed my mind that having a shelf of liquor so readily available might be too great a temptation for her to resist.

"Drink up," she said with a slight, self-conscious smile. "Don't worry about me. I don't touch the stuff myself. I keep it for friends who drop in."

I wanted to believe her, but she lowered her eyes quickly, and I was filled with doubt.

We sat down to dinner and the maid served a thick, delicious lentil soup. Conversation always flowed smoothly and spontaneously with us, but suddenly there was a silence and the atmosphere became oddly tense.

Dodie rose from her chair. "Excuse me," she said. "Please go on without me. I'll only be a minute." She left the room. Marlon put down his spoon, slumped in his seat, and stared at his soup. "What's the matter?" I said. "I think Dodie has started drinking again."

As soon as I was back in the living room, Marlon approached me. I had the feeling he had been waiting for me.

"Is Dodie leaving tomorrow?" he asked anxiously. "Definitely leaving?"

"Yes," I said. "Were you expecting that she'd change her plans?"

"Yes. I was hoping she would."


"Because I asked her to," Marlon said. "I don't want her to go. I want her here. With me." But next day she was gone.....

"Skip a few classes, can't you? Listen, I want to see you. A lot of shit has hit the fan since I saw you last, and I want to talk to you." "What happened?" "Dodie came back. She had another fight with Pop, and she left him. She's staying with me now. Or was. She's disappeared again." "Where'd she go?" "Who knows?" "How long has she been missing ?" "Three days." "Have you called the police ?" "No. Let's get off the phone and talk later. Can I expect you at the matinee?" "Yes," I said

When I saw Marlon come on stage, I was shocked. I hadn't seen him for several weeks, and he had lost so much weight that he looked emaciated. Of course his debilitated appearance did enhance the characterization of the mentally embattled soldier he was portraying. What surprised me even more was Marlon's lack of acting technique, or, rather, his total disregard of the stagecraft he had learned. He broke every rule in the book. His posture was a sloppy slouch, his head was almost always bowed, and he kept his hands rammed in his back pockets.

Often he turned away from the audience and delivered his lines upstage, throwing away many of his speeches in shapeless sounds. Marlon always spoke in a modulated voice, and his speech and diction, especially on the stage, had always been clear and precise. But this was the first time I had heard him mumble. Several people in the audience whispered loudly, "What did he say?" "I can't hear him." "Why doesn't he take the marbles out of his mouth ?"

by Anonymousreply 8512/08/2016

Continued Dodie Brando

After the matinee, we went to Marlon's apartment on West End Avenue for a light supper. He was quiet and hardly touched his food. I thought he looked terrible. His eyes were dark hollows and his complexion was ashen. I wondered if he was using stimulating drugs to heighten the energy level of his performance.

"You look terrible," I said. "You're not taking drugs, are you?"

"Of course not," he answered. "I don't want to talk about myself. Let's talk about you.

The door was flung open, and Dodie appeared. A black cabbie, burdened with parcels, followed her into the living room and placed the load of packages on a sofa.

"Thank you," Dodie said, handing the cabbie a bill.

Anger and relief struggled on Marlon's face. He was angry because her disappearance had caused him a great deal of worry, but at the same time he was happy to see her home again, safe, sound, and sober.

We behaved as though Dodie hadn't vanished for several days. We pretended that she had just returned from an afternoon of shopping on Fifth Avenue. We lounged, sipped coffee, and talked of inconsequential things until it was time for Marlon to leave for his evening performance.

Later, in my night conversations with Marlon, when we often talked for hours and I got to know more about his early family life back in Nebraska, When he was young, back home, and his mother was already alcoholic, he would sometimes be called to come down to a bar and get his mother and take her home. Once he had found her drunk with a Marine, and when he tried to pry her away, they had both told him to get lost. He was crushed. Marlon hadn't liked his father either, I discovered.

His father had been a traveling salesman and, as Marlon told it, often came in from the road with lipstick on his shirts and shorts, and he could hear father and mother quarreling about it in their bedroom and Dodie screaming, "At least you could get your laundry done and I wouldn't have to see it." That might have been Marlon's fantasy, conditioned by his deep feeling for his mother. I don't know.

Sometimes these family quarrels ended with his father beating up his mother, and Marlon told me that when he was about thirteen or fourteen he had told his father that if he ever touched Dodie again, he would kill him. That may have been early dramatics too. His sister Jocelyn, who at the time Marlon and I met was already an actress in New York, told me that he was always making dramatic gestures, like clutching his heart and pretending to fall to the floor in a faint, while he was growing up.

Nevertheless, I could understand it when he told me that when his father died, many years later, he felt nothing at all.

by Anonymousreply 8612/08/2016

It was an extraordinarily lovely day. A cool breeze from the bay raced and rippled over the tall grass and wild flowers. But Marlon took no notice. He walked with his head lowered, hands in pockets, and occasionally kicked at a small stone in his path.

"Something bothering you ?" I said

"Dodie sailed into me this morning," he said. "About last night's performance?"

"That and a thousand other things."

"She'll get over it," I said. "Mothers always do."

"She meant it this time. She left this morning. Told me not to call her until I decided to grow up."

I was sorry to hear she was gone. I knew she had planned to stay for a week, and I was looking forward to seeing her again.

"Grow up ?" I said. "How ... grow up ?"

"She told me to take acting seriously or go into business with Pop."

"That sounds sensible," I said.

"Yeah, but she knows I'd never go into business with Pop."

"Why, what's he in?"

"He's with a chemical feed company. Cattle feed. Fattens steers for the market."

"What's wrong with that ?"

"Nothing, if that's what you want to do. But I don't. And she knows it. This is the first time I've goofed off in a play, the first time, and she cuts out. Just like that."

"Nobody likes a loser," I said. "Nobody."

"That's true," Marlon said. "Not even your own mother. But still . . ." He picked up a stone and angrily pitched it at the trunk of a tree. "Shit!"

He was disturbed, all right, but he seemed to get over it in the following weeks.

Not long after Marlon's return, I was walking along Fifth Avenue one sunny afternoon when I saw Brando Senior and Dodie emerging from a taxi and stopped to chat with them. I hadn't seen Dodie for some time, and the change in her appearance was a shock. She had put on weight, her hair showed some gray, her clothes were plain, and she wore a small straw hat. She told me that she was filling her time in Libertyville with amateur theatricals, social work, and a bit of gardening. I wondered what she grew in her garden. I didn't ask, but I guess I pulled a long face.

"I grow flowers, not potatoes," she said, smiling. "Good God, do I look that frumpy ? No, don't answer that."

As for Brando Senior, he was in somewhat worse shape. Ironically, his fortunes had been declining while his son's were rising.

When I saw Marlon after that sidewalk meeting, I said, "What's your mother doing to herself?"

"What do you mean?" he said a little sharply.

"She looks like dear old Aunt Dodie from Dullsville."

"I think she looks great," Marlon said. "She never looked better. And I've told her so."

"But she's not ready for the porch and the old rocking-chair bit.'*

"I told you, I like her as she is now."

"Well, I don't. I liked her as she was. And as she was, she was great, drinking problem and all."

"Well, she's my mother, not yours',' Marlon snapped. "And if you tell her about how you feel, I swear, I'll never speak to you again. I mean it.

I could see he did mean it, and of course I said nothing to Dodie

by Anonymousreply 8712/08/2016

Carlo Fiore - some friend. Sad that a friend would cash in.

by Anonymousreply 8812/08/2016

Dodie Brando' death :

While we were filming Waterfront, Dodie came over to Hoboken and visited him on the set. Once again she was the slim, chic woman I had known. I supposed she was drinking again, but so what? You never saw her drunk, or smelled liquor on her breath. She was never loud or impolite, and she never slurred a word—or a friend.

It was a drizzly day when she visited, and we were shooting on the tar roofs of the waterfront tenements. Dodie and I found shelter under a canvas lean-to, smoked cigarettes and talked of old times. She was so easy to be with, so charming, and she laughed so readily at my jokes, that I almost fell in love with her again. But although she seemed so calm and collected, she appeared to me to be very insecure, and I thought I knew why.

What role was she to play now ? Could that have been what was going through her mind? I wondered. She could play the old-fashioned mother to her son, now so successful in his career. Or she could be the lover-mistress-wife to her husband, who was failing. If that was truly her dilemma, her death not long afterward solved it. On this rainy day under the lean-to, I could only feel terribly sorry and immensely charmed.

Dodie's passing had been very difficult for everybody. While she was lying ill, Marlon asked me to write her a letter. I did the best I could, hardly knowing what to say to someone in that position, especially someone I loved, like Dodie. It was the hardest letter to compose that I've ever written. I wrote that I loved her, that I missed her, and urged her to get well soon because I was aching to see her again. Later, I found out that my letter had arrived too late. Marlon went to Liberty-ville, of course, and was with her when she died. He sent me a long, touching, laboriously written letter, which I still have, describing her death. She died, he wrote, with dignity and great style.

When Marlon came back to Hollywood, looking very gloomy, he said nothing more about Dodie. I respected his deep hurt and said nothing either. Rut he did ask me to write a letter to his father, which I did. I told him I realized how he must be feeling, to lose such a wonderful woman after so many years of marriage, but I was sure it must be gratifying to have lived with such an extraordinary person. Senior never answered the letter and didn't even mention it when we met again in Hollywood.

by Anonymousreply 8912/08/2016

Marlon and his father :

After Dodie's death. Senior went rapidly downhill. His investments failed one by one until there were none left. These included a cattle-raising venture in Nebraska, into which Marlon had put a considerable amount of his own money. That went with the rest. Senior had always led Marlon to believe that he was an astute businessman, but now it was apparent that he never had been; it was all facade. It was clear that he had never been much more than a traveling salesman and not a very good one at that.

Now he was alone and broke, and Marlon gave him a job, nominally as treasurer of Pennebaker Productions but actually he was only a paper shuffler, doing minor chores in the office. He still looked like a solid, prosperous, Midwestern businessman, but it was clear that even this appearance wouldn't last long either. He was a sad man, his wife gone, forced to accept a job in a world he despised, in effect taking charity from his son and too old to go on the road any more.

Marlon was respectful enough to him, but they rarely saw each other, and one day there was a scene between them, when I was present, that was dramatic evidence of the ironic reversal of roles between father and son.

I was in Marlon's office at Paramount, discussing something about a script. Marlon had leaned back in his swivel chair, removing his shoes and resting his heels on the desk. He summoned his father on the intercom, and presently Senior entered. Marlon didn't ask his father to sit down, nor did he stand up to greet him. I wanted to be excused, but he insisted I stay.

"Is the check ready for me to sign?" Marlon asked. It was a check for $5,000 which he had asked to be drawn for Stella Adler. She had produced a revival of He Who Gets Slapped on Broadway, . Marlon knew there wasn't much hope, but he had no hesitation in giving her the money when she asked. He was immensely grateful to the Adler family for the help and encouragement they had given him at the beginning of his own career.

But in answer to Marlon's question, Senior said, "No." "Why not?" Marlon inquired, raising an eyebrow. "There isn't enough cash to cover a check of that size." "What! Are you saying I haven't got five thousand bucks?" "Not in cash. You'll have to liquidate some of your assets.

Selling bonds before they mature isn't a very good idea. You lose a lot of money that way. And from what I hear, if you invest in the play, you'll lose the whole five thousand."

"I'm not investing in a play,' Marlon said in exasperation. "I'm lending money to a friend, an old friend who needs it."

"I know. But I hear she's going to use the money to keep a failing play running. It's throwing good money after bad."

"I don't care what she does with the money. This is a personal loan, not a business deal."

"Five thousand dollars in hard cash is a lot of money. When you consider how much you have to earn in order to keep five—"

"Make out a check for five thousand," Marlon snapped, "and bring it here for me to sign."

Senior blushed and turned to leave, but Marlon stopped him. "From now on," he said, "when I tell you that I want to lend money to a friend, I don't want to hear about assets and taxes and all that. Just do as I say."

Senior left quietly and closed the door carefully behind him.

Marlon turned to me and said, "Jesus, I hate to order people around like that. But what can I do?"

"He's not people," I said. "He's your father."

"I know. And that makes it worse. I guess he means well. He wants to show me that he's keeping a sharp eye on my money, but he's trying too hard. I wish he'd relax."

by Anonymousreply 9012/08/2016

It was much too late for Senior to relax. Marlon had gotten him to go to a shrink, citing how much help analysis had been to him ever since Streetcar, when he had begun it himself. Senior went reluctantly and soon quit, maybe because he was chintzy about money even when it was Marlon's. He remarried, a woman who looked very much like Dodie, much younger and also an alcoholic. It was not a happy marriage

I didn't share Marlon's early confidence that analysis might help his father, because I couldn't see that it had cione much for Marlon, although he was on the couch on a more or less regular schedule except when he was on location. As he grew more successful, I could see him changing in some ways.

At the beginning he had been deeply loyal to his friends, and God knows he had done enough for me, but now there was less and less evidence of his early loyalty and self-sacrificing characteristics. He was putting limits on his generosity, becoming more and more absorbed in himself.

One thing that concerned him was the image he presented to the public. We got to talking about it one morning, he got to talking about images and how hard it was to change them. People still thought he was Stanley Kowalski, he complained, whenever they met him. "I can't get rid of that Kowalski image," Marlon said. "You know I'm the exact opposite of his type, Freddie. Everybody who knows me knows I'm a gentleman."

As he talked, he was putting RyKrisp crackers in the toaster, preparing one of his favorite breakfasts. When they popped up, he sloshed some butter on them and picked one up, but it was too hot to handle as he tried to eat it. The melted butter ran down the sides of his face, and as he tried desperately to save it, throwing his head back, it began to run into his ears as he grabbed for a napkin. He was a mess.

"I don't know why this image of you persists when you've got so much style and class," I told him seriously.

Seeing him wipe off the butter reminded me of another time when, after screwing a girl and having an orgasm, he went down on her and the semen trickled back into his ears, like the butter. But Stanley Kowalski he wasn't. He was right about that.

by Anonymousreply 9112/08/2016

If there was one thing about Marlon that didn't change, it was his single-mindedness about trying to fuck every broad in the world, particularly if she happened to be my girl first. A striking example was the case of an exotic-looking East Indian, always the kind he liked.

This episode came about through my friendship with Tony, a chorus girl in Billy Rose's Diamond Horseshoe, a long since extinct New York night club. For a time Tony had been Marlon's mistress, to use an old and inadequate word. She was tall, brunette, and statuesque in the traditional Ziegfeld mold, and she had a great ass, which was always Marlon's primary criterion for feminine beauty.

Through Tony I met her friend Elizabeth, and I was struck at once by her beauty. She was slim, completely charming, and her lovely skin was as dark and smooth as stained mahogany that has been rubbed to a fine luster. Elizabeth worked for Air India as a travelers' aide. Her voice had the boarding-school English accent that characterizes girls who have gone to good Indian schools, just as it does in England.

Elizabeth and i I hit it off immediately, so intensely attracted to each other that when Tony left her alone with me later at my apartment, we fell right into bed and screwed all night.

As time went on, she seemed to be genuinely in love with me, buying me little gifts, according to Indian custom, like a turtleneck sweater and a set of handkerchiefs. When I saw how serious she was getting about me, I tried to cool it because I had no intention of getting that much involved with her or any other girl. I made excuses for not seeing her, and when she told me that she had begun seeing Marlon, presumably to make me jealous, I was relieved rather than annoyed.

I hadn't seen her for a week or two when the phone rang one evening about eight o'clock, and it was Marlon. He came right on without any preliminary:

"Hello, Freddie. Have you been to bed with Elizabeth?" I don't think it's any of your fucking business," I said. "Yes it IS, Freddie." "Why is it?" "Because I'm going with her, and we're about to be engaged." "Well, congratulations," I said, and meant it. "Thanks, but have you ever been to bed with her?" "I still think it's none of your business." "I'm having dinner with her right now in that Mexican restaurant we go to." "Did she tell you I had?" Then what makes you think I did ?"

"Well, I told her I had a friend who liked fat girls, and I told her about the one you wanted to fuck so badly, you know, the one who weighed about two hundred pounds, and you were ashamed to be seen going around with her." I could have added that she was also young and voluptuous and no meatball.

"So I was telling her about my friend who sometimes just had to have a fat broad," Marlon went on, "and how there just wasn't any way you could hide this one. She thought that was pretty funny, and naturally she wanted to know my friend's name."

"What did you say?"

"I told her. She turned absolutely white, Freddie, and you know how hard that would be for her, so when I saw that, I knew she must have gone to bed with you. That's why I'm calling you, Freddie. Did you ?"

"Look, man, what's the difference? Isn't anybody else allowed to screw your girls? And anyway, even if you didn't permit it, how was I supposed to know that when she hadn't even met you?"

I knew he wanted me to say, for those strange, interior reasons of his own that came up so often in his relations with women, that I had fucked Liz—and say it straight out, a plain statement, or, more like it, a confession.

"I know what you want me to say," I told him, "and I know why you want me to say it. So you can go back to the table and tear her head off."

by Anonymousreply 9212/08/2016

"What were you so excited about?" I asked Marlon when I saw him again. "You're not only jealous of me when I'm fucking girls you've made it with, but even of the ones I've been to bed with before you have."

He wouldn't explain, just passed it off. His affair with Elizabeth went on for another month or so, but she was a different kind of girl from any he'd had before. For one thing, she was sensible and had no ambition to be a movie star, or to advance a professional career, like so many of the ones who had affairs with Marlon. She didn't give a damn about Hollywood glamour, and as far as she was concerned, what she wanted from Marlon was not any of the things that went with his name, but simply a home and a man she could love. To understate it, Marlon was not a homemaker

Elizabeth may have been a warm-up, so to speak, for a much more important relationship in Marlon's life, his affair and eventual marriage with Anna Kashfi. So much has been written about that relationship, a great deal of it ugly, that it's hard to believe now it started the way it did.

Marlon told me one day that he had met an Indian girl. He seemed to be most impressed by the fact that she was a virgin. Shortly after, she went into the City of Hope Hospital because it was suspected that she might have tuberculosis. Marlon asked me to go over there and meet her one day; apparently, he had already made several visits. He was going to take a projector with him, he said, and some film and try to cheer her up a little. That night, and later, he ran a whole film festival for her, particularly Singuig in the Rain, one of his favorite movies.

When I first saw Anna, I was as charmed as Marlon had been. She was a tall, slim girl with large, dark eyes and a seeming sweetness about her that fooled me completely. Obviously, she was much attracted to Marlon and almost pathetically grateful for all the attention he was showing her.

After a few of these meetings, Marlon asked me point-blank, "Well, what do you think of her?" "She's the best you've had so far," I said. "Very sweet. Lots of class." "I'm thinking of marrying her." "Well, I think she'd make you a great wife. But I hope you've really in love with her. If you love her enough to marry her, then—I think it's great."

They didn't get married right away, and I would have thought that might have given Marlon enough time to see the terrible tigress slowly emerging from his sweet and charming virgin, but if he saw, he didn't immediately draw back, as I'd seen him do before when a girl gave him any trouble.

by Anonymousreply 9312/08/2016

Thanks OP for all this!

by Anonymousreply 9412/08/2016

Any more stories, OP?!

by Anonymousreply 9512/08/2016

These relentless anecdotes about Brando being the world's biggest pussyhound are rather repetitive.

I also question their veracity, given his known bisexuality. I think the author is covering up more than Brando’s sexuality.

by Anonymousreply 9612/08/2016


by Anonymousreply 9712/08/2016

Thanks OP!

by Anonymousreply 9812/09/2016

Really great of you to post these, OP. I must say that Brando and Fiore seem like lovers in many of these passages. I think all the pussy hound stuff was to try to mask the homo sex.

by Anonymousreply 9912/09/2016

I'd love to see before and after nosejob pics but this guy has so little information about him online.

by Anonymousreply 10012/09/2016

Some photos of Carlo Fiore from his book

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by Anonymousreply 10112/11/2016

Carlo Fiore on the set of One Eyed Jack

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by Anonymousreply 10212/11/2016

Carlo with James Garner on the set of Sayonara

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by Anonymousreply 10312/11/2016

Marlon Brando and Anna Kashfi at Carlo Fiore' wedding (Marlon was Carlo' best man)

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by Anonymousreply 10412/11/2016

Carlo Fiore horsing around during a play rehearsal

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by Anonymousreply 10512/11/2016

Love love love Marlon, no matter what he does.

by Anonymousreply 10612/11/2016

What's the point buying the book, all you need to do is read this thread.

by Anonymousreply 10712/11/2016

Carlo Fiore with Marlon and friends

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by Anonymousreply 10812/11/2016

Carlo with Marlon on the set of the waterfront

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by Anonymousreply 10912/11/2016

Carlo with Marlon on the set of The Waterfront

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by Anonymousreply 11012/11/2016

Marlon with Carlo

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by Anonymousreply 11112/11/2016

Photo of Marlon on the set of Sayonara taken by Carlo Fiore

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by Anonymousreply 11212/11/2016

Marlon and Anna Kashfi photos taken by Carlo Fiore' wife

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by Anonymousreply 11312/11/2016

Carlo Fiore has a hilariously high-toned and sniffy IMDB bio, ending sonorously, "The lack of decency and the preponderance of bad taste the book is likely one reason that Fiore's memoir has never been reissued. It is best forgotten, just as Carlo Fiore has been forgotten, by posterity and - while he was still alive - by the man who knew him best, Marlon Brando." —IMDb Mini Biography By: Jon C. Hopwood

by Anonymousreply 11412/11/2016

R114 I've read that mini biography, and it's obvious it's writer is such a Brando fan boy . The fact that Brando himself talked about Carlo Fiore in his memoir and said he was one of his closest friends, and recounted some of their adventures together means that Carlo was not forgotten by Brando. Of course the outside world don't know anything about him because he was unknown actor, how can they even remember him?!

The book was dismissed in the time of its release because no one wanted to believe what was in it about Brando and considered its content vulgar, However it was true. Marlon himself (and later other biographies) confirmed Most of Carlo' book!

by Anonymousreply 11512/11/2016

that barbara payton stuff would break your heart

by Anonymousreply 11612/12/2016

For a man who screwed a lot of gorgeous broads, Carlo sure married a frump.

by Anonymousreply 11712/12/2016

R99 men can't have close friendships? They must all be repressed homosexuals, otherwise?

by Anonymousreply 11807/20/2017

R96 just because Brando may have dabbled with sex with men doesn't mean that he preferred them or that it was 50/50. Sexuality is not that clean-cut; in fact, it's more gray-ish than people would like to admit. For example, there are bi men who enjoy sex with both men and women but may prefer women for romantic, longterm relationships. From what I've read about Brando (not just this book), he seemed to be sex addict (among other things), so his fucking anything and everything is not surprising.

by Anonymousreply 11907/20/2017

R114/R115 I can't stand stans. The danger of sites like Wikipedia and IMDb is that anyone can edit and thus rewrite history. I remember back in the summer of 2011, Sarah Palin was here in the Boston area and made some outlandish claims that the reason for Paul Revere's ride was to warn the Americans that the Brits were going to take their guns. Seriously. Anyway, she got called out on it by most everyone, except her stans who promptly went to Wikipedia and altered the section on Revere's ride to fit Palin's bizarre interpretation of history.

by Anonymousreply 12007/20/2017

R88 Uh, Brando seems to have been the worst friend to ANYONE, not just Fiore. Read other accounts.

by Anonymousreply 12107/20/2017

R79 Fiore was in Brando's entourage and was his right-hand man, and not that unattractive himself, either. So, it's not that unreasonable that gorupies would also go for him.

by Anonymousreply 12207/20/2017

He wasn't white white.

by Anonymousreply 12307/20/2017
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