Dye Is Cast
In the ’20s, before Jon Peters and Warren Beatty were even born, Perry Como cut hair for real. One result of that experience is his refusal to darken his own 62-year-old silver thatch. “Look at guys like Bob Hope,” he says. “If it makes them happy, okay, but once you start dyeing your hair, it turns pinkish—really awful.”
Out, Damned Spot
“He has to pay the highest wages on the Riviera to stop us all from resigning,” confides a crewman on one of the yachts Saudi Arabian wheeler-dealer Adnan Khashoggi moors at Cannes. Khashoggi, who helped inspire pal Harold Robbins’ novel The Pirate and who collected payoffs that U.S. aircraft companies intended for Arab procurement officers, has amassed a bundle estimated at $80 million. His employees complain about his penchant for running through some 180 changes of linen per week aboard his pleasure flotilla, the 400-foot Mahomedian and the 150-foot Khalidia. “If he even enters his cabin,” says the crewman, “we have to change all his linen in case he’s allowed himself a teeny little bounce on the bed. We carry several tons of sheets and pillowcases—it’s more like working in a Chinese laundry than on a sea-going boat.”
Eleven years after he got into the business of directing lunatic epics like The Music Lovers, Tommy and the upcoming Lisztomania, Britain’s Ken Russell (PEOPLE, Aug. 11, 1975) made his first visitation to Hollywood, and sure enough, he ran down the asylum. Watts and some of the older sections of L.A. grabbed him, but “the closer one gets to Beverly Hills,” Russell observed, “the worse the architecture, the more pretentious the homes. Ugly those homes are—a mishmash of Tudor-Mexican and California mood. I can’t imagine human beings actually living in them.”
If all the Democratic presidential aspirants were laid out end to end, Minnesota’s Sen. Walter Mondale wouldn’t be surprised. To Mondale—who was himself an entrant before dropping out of the race last winter—the answer seems to be coy if congenital candidate Hubert Humphrey. “When I was campaigning actively,” reports Mondale, “I kept telling him, ‘Hubert, they don’t want me. They want you.’ He didn’t believe me.” And now? “He’s beginning to.”
Though she has a way with prose, nobody has asked MacLaine to write a “Dear Shirley” column, so she is now giving away her advice to the lovelorn. The message: Don’t marry. “Liz Taylor used to feel she had to marry them all—but she may be coming out of that now. She didn’t marry Henry [Wynberg].” As for herself, Shirley’s man the last few years (her husband Steve Parker moved to Japan in 1956) has been journalist Pete Hamill. “The kind of relationship I have with Pete alleviates a lot of discussion and dull argument,” says the 41-year-old actress-activist. “The truth is most men don’t really want to marry you. They ask you out of a sense of chivalry, but they’re usually delighted if you say no. The Taylor-Burton combustion bit isn’t for me. And I’m not interested in doing the savior bit anymore. I tried that once with [Robert] Mitchum—there’s no future in it. Of course, I’ve lived so scandalously for so long that nobody really gets too upset.”
Doug McClure had had four previous TV series shot out from under him (including The Virginian in which he played Trampas), so when he was recalled from Monterey for ABC’s new Barbary Coast, he knew better than to buy a home. He just took over his mother-in-law’s place in Tarzana and moved her into an apartment. McClure was right, and Momma should be home soon: Barbary Coast was, at last count, 65th out of 70 network shows.
•In happier days, they hymned New York—”the Bronx is up, the Battery’s down.” Now, the whole thing is down, except for the other day, when Mayor Abe Beame’s 60ish wife, Mary, journeyed to a hospital over the Connecticut border for a lift—of her face.
•Relations on the San Francisco set of the latest supernatural horror film, Burnt Offerings, are not exactly super-cordial. When Falstaffian English actor Oliver Reed failed to show at a cast cocktail party, hostess Bette Davis collected the leftover drinks and hors d’oeuvres and heaped the garbage outside his hotel room door.