Because his mother never bothered to hide her lovers from him, the young Englishman took to inventing episodes in which he took dope, committed arson, tortured animals and even tarred a local wench. So finally (according to psychiatrist Jean Manevy, whose memoirs were published in France), Mum took the troubled lad to Kitzbühel, where he underwent three months of therapy with Adlerian disciple Joshua Bierer. “I have not cured him,” the doctor reported, “just turned his schizophrenia into something useful—writing.” That was in 1927, and the patient lived rather happily thereafter, though his scribblings bore evidence of his earlier warp. His name: Ian Fleming.
Bells Were Ringing
Looking back over her films, in which she was the archetypal career girl, Rosalind Russell, 63, now concludes she set back women’s lib—by making it look too easy. “I always had 12 phones on my desk and was always busy giving orders,” she says. “By the sixth reel a leading man was telling me that underneath my cold exterior was a soft, feminine woman. By the seventh reel I wore a negligee—and I cried.” But at film’s end she would spurn the proposal. “Naturally I always turned him down. Leave a business empire—and 12 telephones—for a man and Mexico? Never!”
Partly with the advance from her upcoming chronicle of her CBS fiasco, reporter Sally Quinn purchased a $100,000 townhouse just a 12-minute walk from her Washington Post office. And she’s hit up the paper’s executive editor, Ben Bradlee, for money to remodel the first floor of the brick house for rental and to renovate the top two floors for herself. Bradlee, whose divorce will be final this month, was glad to make the loan: he’ll soon be following Quinn from their present Watergate pad to her new manse.
Out of Court
A champagne breakfast is the least that Valerie Perrine, star of Lenny, expected one night several years ago when she was picked out of a Vegas chorus line by a Very Important Patron. Instead, recalls Perrine, she found herself in a Chinese restaurant at 4 a.m. listening to her host’s courtiers zing one-liners. Finally, she pleaded exhaustion and, amid their curses, walked. It was the most boring date, she concluded, of her whole admittedly shop-around life. The name was Frank Sinatra.
Though the headlines went to Ella Grasso, the U.S.’s first woman governor not preceded in office by her husband, she was out-polled in November by incumbent Secretary of the State Gloria Schaffer, who got the largest plurality in Connecticut history. Come ’76, Democrat Schaffer, with Grasso’s backing, is expected to seek the Senate seat of Lowell Weicker.
Do Not Feed
In 1970, with the scale spronging under his 252 pounds, Tony Orlando visited “fat doctor” Robert Atkins, who declared him an incorrigible, incurable slob. So Orlando put himself on a high-protein diet. A year later, after gustatorial orgies like a pound each of lean corned beef, pastrami, tongue and turkey—at one sitting—he had shed 96 pounds. Tony is still a closet eater (his weakness: Oreo cookies), but he has maintained his playing weight of 156 for his new CBS show. And he’s vain enough to jockey for slenderizing camera angles—no mean feat when he’s onstage with the wafer-thin Dawn singers.
•Kinky popstar David (Diamond Dogs) Bowie performing with a Great Dane? Maybe. Elton John, in his planned Hamlet, will, true to Shakespeare, cast men in the female roles; Bowie is eye-penciled in as Ophelia.
•Accused by a Warner Bros, executive of developing a Napoleonic complex, Jon Peters—the hair stylist who’s conquered Barbra Streisand’s affections and now dictates her career—snorted, “That’s not true. I’m not short.”
•A widower since October, Stavros Niarchos (whose late wife Tina was the second Livanos sister to die while married to him) is making the Paris scene with Helene d’Estainville, 35, an ex-actress who spent the past summer at sea with the 65-year-old yachtsman-fleet owner.