In My Father's Shadow
In My Father’s Shadow
A Daughter Remembers
Orson Welles
In My Father’s Shadow
A Daughter Remembers
Orson Welles
CHRIS WELLES FEDER
Published by
ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
WORKMAN PUBLISHING
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2009 by Chris Welles Feder. All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Thomas Allen & Son Limited.
Design by Jacky Woolsey.
For permission to reprint photographs in this book, grateful acknowledgment is made to the parties mentioned on page 283, which constitutes an extension of the copyright page. All other photographs are from the collection of the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Feder, Chris Welles.
In my father’s shadow : a daughter remembers Orson Welles / Chris Welles Feder. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-56512-599-5
1. Welles, Orson, 1915–1985. 2. Motion picture producers and directors — United States — Biography. 3. Actors — United States — Biography. 4. Feder, Chris Welles. 5. Daughters — United States — Biography. I. Title.
PN1998.3.W45F43 2009
791.4302'33092 — dc22
[B] 2009020353
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
for my dearest Irwin,
the one and only
A great figure of myth like Don Quixote,
even like Falstaff, is a silhouette against the sky of all time.
These are people who have more life in them than
any human being ever had.
ORSON WELLES
CONTENTS
A Note to the Reader
Prologue
CHAPTER ONE Growing Up in Movieland
CHAPTER TWO Orson’s Kid
CHAPTER THREE Going to Daddy’s School
CHAPTER FOUR My Father Lost and Found
CHAPTER FIVE The Visits
CHAPTER SIX Together Again
CHAPTER SEVEN The Phone Call
CHAPTER EIGHT In His Absence
CHAPTER NINE Reunion in Hong Kong
CHAPTER TEN Reconnecting with My Father
CHAPTER ELEVEN The Final Years
CHAPTER TWELVE After His Death
CHAPTER THIRTEEN Meeting Oja Kodar
CHAPTER FOURTEEN “Darling girl, they’re gonna love me when I’m dead!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PHOTO CREDITS
A NOTE TO THE READER
THE BOOK YOU ARE about to read is not another biography of Orson Welles. It owes nothing to scholarly research and everything to firsthand knowledge. It is an intimate memoir in which I give you the essence of Orson Welles, my father, as I knew him from my earliest childhood until the day he died.
This is the story of our times together and our times apart. It is also the story of the great impact my father had on me from an early age and how much I owe to him. To make it all come alive, I have told much of the narrative in dialogue. While I may not have remembered them word for word, all the conversations I have recreated here took place in real life. Nothing you are about to read has been invented.
In these pages, you will meet one of the most extraordinary men of our time — through the eyes of his daughter, Christopher.
CHRIS WELLES FEDER
PROLOGUE
OCTOBER 10, 1985. Orson Welles was found slumped over his typewriter. Sometime during the night, his heart had stopped. He had died not in Las Vegas, where he maintained a home for the third Mrs. Orson Welles, but in Los Angeles, where he had been living openly with his Croatian companion, Oja Kodar.
All that day, after I heard the news, nothing seemed real to me. I felt lightheaded, as though I had walked into a soap bubble. How could my father have died when he was only seventy years old? It was true he had not been well for some time, but I had never expected to lose him so young, so soon. So suddenly.
Nor could I believe my father was dead when I had only to turn on the television and there he was, vibrantly alive. All day I sat in a daze of disbelief, watching the networks resurrect him. There was the middle-aged Orson Welles whose button nose twitched and whose great belly shook when he let loose with a thunderous laugh on the Merv Griffin Show. In another clip, he had changed from an amiable Santa Claus into a tall, flamboyant youth who looked vaguely like Oscar Wilde, a lock of dark hair falling in his eyes. It was unnerving to see him at every age in his masks and disguises, these versions of Orson Welles for public consumption, so different from the father I had known. Only the deep, resonant voice was unmistakably his. It was the voice of melting chocolate, rich and velvety, the voice that promised to always love his “darling girl.”
It was late at night when I finally turned off the television. For hours I lay beside my gently snoring husband, my mind shut down, my heart closed, everything in me still refusing to measure my loss. At last I fell into a fitful sleep. Then something woke me in the pitch black room, my heart pounding. The illuminated hands of the bedside clock pointed to four in the morning. It was the hour when nothing moved and New York City slept. I listened for the faint rumble of a car, but even the lone drunk who usually ranted up and down Fifth Avenue had been swallowed up in the silence. Soon it would be first light, and I shivered, for suddenly I knew I had been shielding myself all day, but I no longer could. The soap bubble burst, and I began to cry.
A FEW DAYS later my husband, Irwin, and I were flying to Los Angeles for the funeral being arranged by my stepmother, Paola, and my half sister Beatrice. Although Paola and my father had been living separately for almost two decades, she had nonetheless remained his legal wife. She and Beatrice were making all the decisions about the funeral, my father’s cremation and his final resting place, not consulting either me or my half sister Rebecca, my father’s child by Rita Hayworth. It was a sign of how disconnected we were.
I had already heard from Beatrice that the funeral was going to be “a very simple affair because Daddy left no money for funerals or anything else.” Also, Paola was insisting the funeral would be open only to the immediate family and a few close friends. “Mommy swears she’ll stay home in Las Vegas and won’t come to the funeral if any Hollywood types are going to be there,” Beatrice told me. That excluded Oja Kodar, whom I had been hoping to meet. How sad that battle lines had been drawn between “the family” and Oja, the woman my father had loved above all others.
At least, I hoped, the funeral would be an occasion to reconnect with my stepmother and two half sisters. Although Becky and I had remained in touch through the years, we had not seen each other since her student days at the University of Puget Sound. At that time she wanted to become a character actress, a career she did not pursue. Now she was in her early forties. As for Paola and Beatrice, we had last been together in Hong Kong when Paola was still a newlywed and Beatrice a mere child of three. Years had passed with no communication. Then, after Paola settled in Las Vegas in the 1970s in the home my father claimed as his legal residence, she and I had begun calling each other and exchanging gifts at Christmas.
The plane was beginning its gradual descent into Los Angeles when it struck me. “Do you realize,” I exclaimed to Irwin who was fastening his seat belt, “for the first time in our lives, my two half sisters and I will be in the same room. Isn’t that weird?” Irwin nodded sympathetically. “And you know what else is weird?”
That should keep the hounds of the press at bay.
(“Daddy, why did you call me ‘Christopher’?”
“I liked the sound of it — Christopher Welles. Your name has a marvelous ring to it, don’t you think?”
“But I’m a girl, Daddy.”
“So you are, and a very beautiful one, too.”
“But Daddy, girls aren’t called Christopher.”
“That’s right. You’re the only girl in the world who is, and that makes you unique as well as beautiful.”
“What does unique mean?”
“Different from everyone else.”
“But Daddy, I don’t want to be different. The kids at school tease me about having a boy’s name.”
“When you’re older, they’ll envy you. Wait and see, darling girl. The day will come when you’ll love your name and thank your old father for having christened you while you were still in your mother’s womb.” He paused to relight and puff away on his cigar, his eyes twinkling at me through the cloud of horrible-smelling smoke. “Do you know what I did right after you were born?”
“No, what?”
“I sent out telegrams to everyone we know. CHRISTOPHER SHE IS HERE.”)
All my life I had been repeating the story of the telegram — how in just four words, a marvel of economy, my father had said it all. Yet it occurred to me now, as our plane touched down on the runway, that I had never seen even one of those legendary telegrams announcing my birth.
MY OLD FRIENDS Bill and Penny Hutchinson put us up for the night. I had called them at the last minute to ask if we could stay with them, and they had agreed without hesitation. As Irwin reminded me before we fell asleep that night in their comfortable guest room, “You’ve had plenty of problems with your family, but you’ve been blessed with friends who’ve come through for you again and again.”
The next morning we were picked up by Gary Graver, who had been my father’s cameraman for the last fifteen years of his life. Slim, blond, almost handsome, sporting a California tan and dark glasses, Gary looked like one of the “Hollywood types” Paola had wanted to ban from the funeral, but he seemed pleasant enough. Beatrice had told me Paola was making an exception in letting Gary Graver attend because he had been “like a son to Daddy” and was “devastated” by his death.
As we wound our way through the lush suburb of Sherman Oaks, where Bill and Penny lived, I wondered what was wrong with me. My whole body felt numb, as though I were locked in a suit of armor and could move my limbs only with great difficulty. I saw myself sitting tense and dry-eyed through the funeral while the writer in me took careful notes. Perhaps I should have stayed home and let grief come to me in private.
We began to penetrate downtown Los Angeles. The comfortable split-level homes and tree-lined streets had given way to an endless strip mall of gas stations and fast-food joints. Revolving neon signs issued a nonstop invitation to gorge on tacos, burritos, burgers, or pancakes. The streets were littered with the leavings of junk food and empty beer cans. Few pedestrians braved the sun-baked roads, and only the poor stood stoically waiting at bus stops.
We had entered a slum where every other storefront was boarded up, and yet it was here that Gary pulled into a parking lot in a complex of ramshackle buildings. Irwin and I stared at each other in disbelief. “The funeral’s going to be here?” I asked. Gary nodded, but for several moments I was too stunned to get out of the car. How was it possible that my father’s remains had been brought to this destitute part of town? Why hadn’t an appropriate funeral home been chosen in Brentwood or Beverly Hills—one worthy of a man like Orson Welles? Even if there were no money for a funeral, that was no excuse for holding it in such a dismal place.
Gary led us to a building that looked more like a hot-sheets motel than a funeral home. We entered, tentatively, and were given a room number, as though we were checking in, then waved toward a long corridor. On the way we passed a large, attractive room where another funeral was taking place, and I had to wonder why it had not been reserved for us. Continuing on, we reached a small room at the end of the corridor. Why had we been given this crummy room instead of a much larger one, as though Orson Welles were of no importance? It reminded me of another genius, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who had been unceremoniously dumped in a pauper’s grave.
My two half sisters and my stepmother stood huddled and weeping in the corridor. Beatrice, transformed into a statuesque blond, was wailing “Oh my God!” and standing with a protective arm around her mother. Becky was taller than I remembered, but she still had a wealth of dark hair and carried herself with a quiet dignity that reminded me of her mother. Although tears were streaming down her face, she was not eliciting sympathy. I gave her a hug anyway. Then we were all hugging and kissing one another, barely able to speak. The door to the room stood open, but no one wanted to be the first to walk through it.
We were still hesitating when Roger “Skipper” Hill walked briskly toward us. He had flown in from Rockford, Illinois, to say goodbye to the man he had called his foster son and had loved more than anyone in his life, apart from the wife he had buried two years before, my Granny Hill. Everyone called him Skipper because he was born to pilot a boat, fly an airplane, and drive anything that moved. With his shock of white hair, his penetrating blue eyes and weathered face, he certainly looked the part. Now a man of ninety, he still walked with a roll in his step like a jaunty young salt on shore leave.
How ironic that Skipper was coming to my father’s funeral instead of the other way around.
“Well?” Skipper eyed us as though we were a bunch of sissies. “What are we waiting for?” And with that he marched through the door of the dreaded room and sat down on one of the plastic-covered sofas.
I immediately followed and sat down next to him. Squeezing his hand, I was about to say something consoling when he whispered furiously, “This is awful! Awful! Orson never wanted to be cremated. He hated the whole idea of cremation. Thank God he doesn’t know what they did to him!” We both stared at the plain pine box containing the ashes, which had been placed on a stand in the middle of the room. “God, how awful,” Skipper was muttering, more to himself than me. Then he heaved a sigh, patting my hand. “Well, there’s nothing to do about it now.”
It was extremely upsetting to be so close to my father’s ashes now that I knew his last wishes had not been respected. At first, I could not see anything in the room except the pine box, which looked grotesquely large to me. Until that moment I had assumed that the body of a man even of my father’s generous proportions would dwindle in the fires of cremation until nothing was left but handfuls of dust. There must be huge pieces of bone . . . I shuddered, looking around the room for the first time.
It had the look of a cheap motel room—the impersonal air of a place in constant use by people whose passion or grief was swept out with the dust of the day. The walls were lined with worn sofas and chairs. Scratched end tables with ugly lamps and ashtrays were wedged into corners. Management had not even contributed a box of tissues, and no one had thought to bring a single flower.
I closed my eyes and imagined how it should have been. We would be sitting now in a small chapel with stained glass windows, the sun streaming through them, scattering the colors of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires on the walls and floor. How much would it have cost to rent such a chapel for an hour or so and buy some bouquets of roses or lilies of the valley? My friend, Bill Hutchinson, would have gladly played the organ for nothing. I would have chosen something by Bach or Albinoni, a composer my father had loved.
The weeping of Paola, Beatrice, and Becky brought me ba
ck to reality. I respected their tears, but I was unable to join them. In fact, the longer and louder they cried, the more determined I was to remain a dry-eyed protester against this travesty. How appalled my father would have been to be dispatched with so little ceremony! Nothing had been planned. No one had been asked to speak. We just sat around in this shabby room, our eyes avoiding one another and the box of ashes.
As we continued to sit in silence, a few more people drifted in. Besides Gary Graver, exceptions had been made for two of my father’s old friends, Prince Alessandro Tasca di Cuto and Greg Garrison. How many other old friends, I wondered, had been excluded because they were “Hollywood types”? On the other hand, Paola had allowed the doctor who had signed the death certificate to join us. Why not throw open the doors to Orson’s dentist, his barber, his chauffeur, his accountant, his tailor, and the head waiter of his favorite restaurant? These people had seen a lot more of him than his wife and daughters. In fact, I was beginning to question my own presence there and to feel a mounting sense of outrage that I had flown across the continent to take part in this charade. That a man like my father should have less than a dozen people at his funeral was unbelievable.
For what seemed like a very long time, no one knew what to say. We just sat and sat, the awkward silence broken by bursts of sobbing from my stepmother and half sisters. Then, taking command, Skipper got to his feet and began his spontaneous tribute to Orson Welles. He recalled “the sweet kid” Orson had once been at Todd School for Boys in Woodstock, Illinois, where Skipper had been headmaster. “I knew at once that I had a young genius on my hands,” he went on. “Orson liked to call me his mentor, but it was all baloney. There was very little I could teach him since he already knew everything he needed to know . . .” He rambled on, an old man lost in the intricate maze of his memories, circling around and around, retracing his steps, unaware that he was covering the same ground. At the same time, he was reluctant to surrender his command post.