The Lana Turner Man

THE LANA TURNER MAN
by
Taylor Pero
Lana Turner's former personal manager and intimate confidante

LANA BECOMES A LIVING LEGEND

On a Sunday night, April 13, 1975, an eager audience of over two thousand people were jammed to the rafters in New York City's Town Hall Theater. They came for a one-night-only retrospective of Lana turner's film career billed as "A Tribute to Lana Turner, In Person and on the Screen." After nearly two hours of film clips, the famous car scene from The Bad and the Beautiful was screened. Lana's screen sobs echoed through the packed hall, and following the spine-tingling scene, saved purposely as the last and final icing on the cake of Lana's career look-back, the giant movie screen went blank. The audience exploded in generous applause for the classic excerpts they had just seen.

The stage was empty now, save for a spotlight focused on its rear left corner. The applause had begun to wane for a minute, but was instantly energized when, into the white spotlight, a delicate female hand with perfectly manicured pink nails appeared, lingered, then seemingly swept the heavy curtain dramatically aside. In actuality, it was a hidden stagehand doing the work, but the effect was powerful. The living, breathing Lana Turner stepped into the blinding glare of the spotlight; a roar of approval swelled within the packed hall, and in unison, the audience rose to give her the longest, most gratifying standing ovation of her lifetime.

Lana stepped forward haltingly, overwhelmed by the response she was receiving, delicately making her way toward them, her adoring public, stopping now and again to look up into the balcony and acknowledge those in the cheap seats, as they are called. Her right hand came up to her breasts and lingered as she smiled regally, bowing her head in humble acceptance of their love and affection. In truth, she was simply overwhelmed by their enthusiasm. Not in her wildest dreams had she expected such an event.

Despite all that had been written about her over the years, and the image of her created by lurid headlines and the chronicling of her multiple marriages, notorious love affairs, and world renowned scandals, including the murder of her mobster boyfriend by her then fourteen year old daughter, Cheryl Crane, the private Lana Turner, whom only a handful of people ever knew, was actually a shy, girlish individual who never got over her innate insecurities and terror of large crowds.

Lana stood bathed in that stark, harsh spotlight, feeling waves upon waves of adulation and approval flowing over her. The cheers, the shouts, the whistles, the clapping, the sheer exaltation went on as though it would never stop. Lana stood before them as a goddess, clothed in a designer gown of white, floor-length satin which accentuated her still-perfect figure. Over the gown she wore a matching white satin jacket with long, loose sleeves of beige chiffon, heavily beaded with dangling crystals. Her earrings were impressively large, genuine pearls mounted on near shoulder-length ropes of diamonds, and on her left hand she wore a magnificent, thirty-five carat marquise diamond solitaire. In truth, she was more glamorous and dazzling than any movie star had ever hoped to look. Few could.

Lana walked closer to her audience, nearly faint from the joy she was feeling. It was difficult to believe that only hours earlier, in the quiet solitude of our Suite at the Essex House Hotel, overlooking Central Park, she asked me in the whispered tones of a timorous child, "Do you think anybody will show up?"

Her hazel eyes were large and wet with near tears as she searched my face for an answer. "Of course, they will" I answered, "but they'll be awfully disappointed if you're not there." I lived in constant fear that Lana would pull one of her many 'no-shows" caused by frayed nerves and terror.

Now, however, she had her answer. Not only did they 'show up', it was a sold-out event. More meaningful than any personal appearance Lana had ever done; including presenting the Oscar for Best Actor at the Academy Awards, because for this night, and this night only, it was all about one entity. The two Lana Turners. Lana Turner, movie star and Lana Turner, the private person.

Lana did not disappoint her audience. Many, in fact, were stunned at how radiantly beautiful and youthful she appeared at age fifty-four. She looked, in person, just as remarkable as she had on the big screen. She hadn't grown old and fat like many of her contemporaries. It was my joyous doing to listen to the comments and exclamations of those who saw her in other settings to question how such a thing was possible.

Quoting one lady-of-a-certain-age to another during intermission of one of the five live stage plays Lana would undertake during my ten year reign as her personal manager, "How is that possible? How could she still possibly look like that?" The answer to her question, quite simply put, is that for Lana Turner, the options were unthinkable.

At long last, the lengthy adoration died down and the dozens of photographers who crowded stage front departed. Renowned publicist, John Springer, who had pulled the event together, stood beaming with pleasure at Lana beside one of two thickly-cushioned, white rococo chairs occupying center stage. Lana joined Springer as they sat to begin an interview which would span four decades of her dazzling career.

Never given to impromptu speaking and having become used to having professional studio writers or PR people write out her thoughts beforehand, Lana bravely admitted to being more than slightly nervous. Of course, that swung sympathy her way and the crowd roared with laughter when she answered one of the first pre-selected questions having to do with bearing the long-worn title of 'The Sweater Girl."

"To this day," she explained innocently, "I don't know who created that title, 'The Sweater Girl.' I had never been accustomed to any parts of my anatomy being so important. I finally got rid of mine," she went on, and then quickly emphasized, "I mean the title!" With that impromptu, self-deprecating statement, the ice was broken and the audience went wild for her. They realized they were not seeing a grand, imperious movie star, but a down-to-earth, real, live person.

Originally scheduled to run forty-five minutes, the interview lasted twice that long due to the unexpected, but interesting questions flung from the audience itself. One such question: "Who among today's actresses would you like to see starring in the life story of Lana Turner?", was met with an answer which took no thought on Lana's part at all. "Honey", Lana shot back, "she hasn't been born yet." Another chorus of screams, laughter and applause.

As I saw the proceedings drawing to a close, I made my way backstage to the lounge serving as Lana's dressing room. Knowing her wants and desires well, I knew she would welcome a hefty concoction of Wolfschmidt Vodka over three ice cubes with a splash of tonic and twist of lemon. Accordingly, I made one for myself as well and, no sooner were they made than Lana burst into the room, beaming with pleasure and shaking with stage fright, escorted by John Springer and two uniformed NYC policemen. The officers advised us to get Lana out of the theater as quickly as possible, due to a growing throng of fans gathered at the Stage Door for an even closer look at the living embodiment of all that is glorious and anathema in Hollywood.

There were parties planned in her honor, so John Springer and the two cops left us alone so that I could help Lana change from her evening gown into a more comfortable ensemble of slacks, sweater, and scarf under her floor-length white mink evening coat.

While New York's finest held the restless mob at bay, Lana took her time in freshening her makeup and enjoying her drink. This was behavior I had witnessed so many times before that I had long ago given up trying to hurry her, no matter what the police had said. Our stretch limo waited at the curb, at the end of a long, narrow alley through which we would have to pass; now jammed with what was becoming an unruly mob. The limo itself was surrounded by several dozen people, recognizing their chance to see Lana up close once she entered her sleek, black carriage which would whisk her away forever from their presence into the world of make-believe in which only pampered movie stars dwelled.

Another policeman interrupted Lana's reverie to say we needed to leave immediately, lest some officers be released for other assignments in other parts of the city. Lana took one last sip, slipped into her white mink coat, and was escorted toward the limo by a phalanx of six officers, who formed a flying wedge around her for protection. I found myself being slowly distanced from Lana, pushed aside by the frenzied mob. Suddenly, from all sides the mob surged forward and pandemonium broke loose. Screaming fans began shoving and pushing to reach Lana and, in so doing pushed me even further from her side. At one point a woman reached out and grabbed one of Lana's pearl and diamond earrings and tried to yank it from Lana's pierced ear. She yelped in pain and a policemen used his open hand in a Karate-chop to stop the theft.

Their progress measured in inches, the police managed to get Lana to the limousine and were about to slam the door when she yelled, "Wait! Where's Taylor?"

I could hear her, but that's all. I was trying vainly to push my way through the mob. A policeman heard me call out to her and reached through the crush of humanity, grabbed the lapel of my tuxedo, and with one strong movement, practically lifted me over the crowd and forced me unceremoniously onto the floor of the limousine. I didn't mind. When I heard the door slam, I knew I was safe.

A motorcycle escort, sirens blasting, accompanied our limo as it crept through the crowd, whose more frantic members were staring in the windows, banging on them, and calling Lana's name. For me, it was a frightening experience, and one I'll never forget. I had learned, however, that being Lana Turner's personal manager, intimate confidant, and lover, it was just one of the hazards of the job.