My Life With the Stars: Extraordinary Behind-The-Scenes Memoir of A Movie and TV Producer

By Maximilian S. Simcovitch

My entire life has been an exuberant roller-coaster ride with the most fantastic stars, professionally and socially. After forty years as a motion picture and television producer, My Life with the Stars captures all those wonderful and ebullient moments of hobnobbing and intermingling with luminaries such as the Beatles, Clint Eastwood, Elvis, Frank Sinatra, Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, Judy Garland, Marlon Brando, Bette Davis, Sandy Koufax, Orson Welles, Johnny Cash, and many other legendary and celebrated celebrities

This memoir shares with you numerous exhilarating events, humorous scenes, jubilant situations, and spontaneous wild happenings that you only wish or dream about. The stars come down to earth and freely express their unrestrained feelings, natural emotions, and unaffected sensibilities, demonstrating that they can be just as human as you and I, especially, behind the scenes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885056328

Book preview

My Overture

You’ve Gotta Write That Book…

I’ve led an extraordinary life compared to most people. As a child, Mother would continually convince me I was born under a lucky star. However, I exceeded her expectations. I never realized that lucky star would multiply into a colossal multitude of stars, more so earthbound than heavenly. In due time, I would soon discover there were more stars in my life than in heaven. Professionally and socially, I was fortunate to be able to mingle and hobnob with many of the most noteworthy and illustrious celebrities from the entertainment world, whether it be movies, television, music, radio, or sports. What the everyday individual only reads, hears, or dreams about, I jubilantly experienced, firsthand. Although my life wasn’t quite filled with riches, nor any claim to fame, my wealth was more spiritual, having the warm friendship of celebrities from the past, as well as the present. Throughout my intervening years as a television and movie producer, stars easily entered my life like a revolving door—many entering and a few exiting according to the situation. To a small segment of the personages, I was merely a professional acquaintance, but to many others, a close social companion. Let me note, I never considered myself your typical star or celeb chaser, gazer of fanatical pursuer, but rather, one who interfaced with these high-profile personalities out of friendship, admiration, and companionship. It was strictly due to my professional status as a producer I was able to interconnect so freely.

To many of my professional colleagues, it seemed somewhat magical or mystical the manner in which celebrities would casually gravitate in my direction and attach themselves to me. Friends and associates would tell me it was as if I was endowed with a special aura or mystical secret ingredient of being able to hitch myself onto a star.

Whether I was imbued with such supernatural magnetism to gain rapport with celebrities is inconceivable. Personally, to my way of thinking, it was simply being sincere, trustworthy, and honest and maintaining what I call a low-fi profile. Functioning as such, I frequently found myself easily accepted and inducted into their social world. Indirectly, this friendship and close association with celebs was the spark that ignited the concept for this work. All those smoldering embers would gradually develop, in due time, into a slow-burning flame. Over the years, whenever the subject of my occupation arose at some social function, faces would enlighten with profound interest. Soon, I was suddenly prodded, entreated, and ensnared into relating my social and personal activities and ventures with the stars. A group of party guests and friends would gather around my presence to joyfully hear me recount the many delightful and scintillating stories, tidbits, and anecdotes. I became the sole raconteur of the party. To my interested listeners, it all seemed like Hollywood fairy tales coming to life. I was the center of attention. And in a slightly egotistical way, I loved every minute. Since I lacked conversational knowledge of high finance and sports, the usual talk that arises at social gatherings, particularly with men in my line of work, gave me ample opportunity to toot my horn, like Gabriel, and tickle the senses of party goes with celebrity delights.

At the close of the festivities, I would always be inundated by partiers, insisting, You’ve gotta write that book. In the beginning, I took such a suggestion nonchalantly. I wouldn’t reconcile or imagine such a book of my ventures with celebrities to be that interesting or earth-shattering. However, unbeknownst to my conscious mind, the concept for such a volume was subconsciously brewing or hibernating within. The more cognizant I became of the peoples’ keen interest in my activities with celebs, the more the idea kept incubating in my mind. It got to the point that it was constantly haunting my everyday affairs.

You don’t lead an ordinary lifestyle, friends repeatedly conveyed. You have the wherewithal that the average person wishes they had.

That realization, as well as discovering I was becoming the most sought-after person at many social functions, provided evidence that people would be truly interested in my star-studded escapades. The final conclusive proof that prodded me to commence a memoir was when celebrities themselves implored and cajoled, You’ve gotta write that book. While I kept hearing that same old tune to write that book, I began maintaining meticulous notes of major events and incidents that transpired in my association with the stars. I had reservations and refused taking the usual sensationalistic route of unabashedly exposing any unbridled salacious or sordid lifestyles of the stars. I’m not the type to sink so low as to promulgate acrimonious, condescending, or scandalous tales just for the sake of commercialism. Rather, this volume takes a warmhearted, loving, and affectionate observation of the stars from an honest, discreet, and ardent perspective. It tends to display the true hidden identity of these wonderful personages from out-of-sheer friendship. These celebrities come across being as human, frail, and just as caring and sensitive in their feelings and emotions as anyone else. Although surrounded by all that glamour and wealth, like any ordinary individual, they, too, have their lonely moments and crave for attention. I found these luminous entertainers extremely careful in their selection of friends and companions for fear of being hurt or reviled. My objective is to freely and openly capture those ardent, convivial, and tender moments, something rarely achieved in memoirs and biographies. My sole intention from the very outset was far from subordinating myself as a friendly spy; rather, I endeavored to be a friendly companion.

Each story or situation in this work seems to elicit and emote a movie-like drama and reads more like a scene out of a motion picture. Thus, to maintain suitability, each chapter is designated as a scene. Different tools were applied in the formation of the book, such as tons of note cards, a voluminous journal, audiotape recordings, and a keen memory. Each scene evolved through scrupulous data accumulated over a period of many years.

It should be noted that on several occasions, this author took the liberty of paraphrasing certain passages of spoken dialogue by celebrities. In this instance, I tried to maintain, as close to proximity as possible, truthfulness and authenticity. Because I acted as a trusted friend or companion or credible associate to many of the stars, the reader will find, as one gets deeper into the test, that it will be apparent a major portion of the personages elicited their personal thoughts about their craft and Hollywood, freely, honestly, candidly, and sincerely without any remorse, pretense or misgiving.

During the planning, compilation, and final writing of this memoir, I had the extreme pleasure of reexperiencing all those wonderful and marvelous past moments in my life. It was nothing short of a spiritual ride down memory lane.

Now I’m hoping my readers will be able to share many of those delightful recollections that comprised my adventures with the stars.

Enjoy!

Scene 1

It’s in the Bloodline

Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes was a popular song in the ’50s, conveying a warning message, more or less, to trust your head rather than heart, of not being seduced by those twinkling heavenly stars. However, in my case, seduction was beyond my assistance. One way or another, I somehow found myself attached to many stars, primarily, the earthly ones. If being born under a lucky star would account for my being inundated and surrounded by stars, it couldn’t be helped. It’s in the bloodline. My parents were familiar and friendlier with more celebrities than Johnny Carson. The trap was already sprung without my being aware. I entered this world as a Maximilian, a name bestowed upon me by Mom and Dad who surreptitiously borrowed it from the most celebrated musical conductor and arranger in Hollywood, Maximilian Raoul Steiner, better known as Max Steiner. My parents were former composers as a team for numerous Hollywood Studios in the bygone era and accumulated a considerable number of close friends in the movie and music industry, Steiner being one. My original surname, Schwartz, was an easy inheritance. My father, under the moniker, Jack Schwartz, was a prominent choral vocalist with the Metropolitan Opera, a recording artist who wrote his own music and a renowned baritone with a popular radio program on USN-AM in New York City. At the age of twelve, I was automatically anointed with a midname, Shane, when Mom fell in love with Alan Ladd, playing the lead character in the film classic, Shane. I unexpectedly became Maximilian Shane Schwartz. Friends and even strangers were puzzled as to my actual biological heritage. Mother thought I should be proud carrying such an illustrious identity, like a knighted prince or king. However, when my father lost his magnificent voice, his royal position with the Met, the popular radio program and recording contract and decided on a new career as a hat and apparel manufacturer, my once-exalted status was diametrically altered.

Instead of Schwartz…you’re now a Simcovitch, Mother surprisingly exclaimed without any reasoning.

With Mom now wearing the family pants, I dared not inquire nor question my new family name for fear of not wanting to learn whether I was a misplaced orphan or we were hiding out from the law, or worse, I was inheriting a displaced dad.

On my thirteenth birthday, the same day of my bar mitzvah, I gave my parents the ultimate treat by conveying a professional interest in becoming a movie producer and director. Mother strenuously discounted it. Father surprisingly encouraged it. The battle commenced. Pop and I had a tough time trying to convince a tenacious mother of my professional inclination. She had high hopes of my taking up a more respectable and lucrative career, such as medicine or law. The hope of a Jewish mother’s fulfillment of a son becoming a doctor or lawyer was shattered. In a Jewish family, back in the ’50s, eschewing medicine or the legal profession was tantamount to a crime. In my household, it would have been easier facing a firing squad than observing a Jewish mother’s silent, nevertheless, highly noticeable seething wrath.

Why name me after movie stars if you expected me to be a doctor or lawyer? I simply asked mom. She responded with a not-so-simple explanation: that ultimately, such highly esteemed names would give me the incentive to be a highly ranking star in either the medical or legal firmament.

I found myself acting as my own lawyer, trying to convince Mother of my case. I tried reasoning using our family heritage.

Look at you and Pop, I told her. You two were once movie composers and in the business yourselves. And what about my second cousin, Larry Blyden? He was a famous actor and Broadway producer. And what about Uncle Miltie? He was a vaudeville performer. And Grandpa Abe…he was a recognized Yiddish writer and director… Can’t you see it’s all in the bloodline?

I still recall her piercing green eyes staring right through me for those few dangerous moments.

Well then, she replied, calmly, I think it’s time for a blood transfusion.

My initial brush with Hollywood celebrities arrived when I was a twelve-year-old intern or student assistant for what was a major film studio in Brooklyn at the turn of the century and through the ’50s, the Vitagraph Film Company. Located just a short distance from my home, Vitagraph endured throughout the teens and was finally purchased by an even larger film company, Warner Brothers-Vitaphone, in the early ’20s. This Brooklyn film company was still active as an annex to Warner’s until it decided to close its doors in the mid-’50s. On the studio’s final day, a large farewell party was given by Warner’s. Still holding my voluntary position as an intern, I was fortunate to be present at the festivities. The party was held in the main body of the studio, which encompassed almost a full city block. I could still envision this elongated bar, in which the booze kept flowing like water. The entire room was surrounded by numerous tables, holding an assortment of delicacies, as waiters, dressed in tux-like uniforms, went around serving champagne from fancy glassware. Many of the old Hollywood stars from the past easily intermingled with the new. I recognized most of the long-forgotten stars from movies that were usually telecasted on our local television stations. I greeted and held friendly conversations with such luminaries as Bud Abbott (Abbott and Costello comedy team), Groucho Marx (The Marx Brothers), Moe Howard (one of the original Three Stooges), Stan Laurel (Laurel and Hardy comedy duo), Boris Karloff (the original American Frankenstein monster), Lon Chaney Jr. (the wolf man), the great Ethel Barrymore, Clara Bow (silent film star who was also raised in my neighborhood), Joe E. Brown, Buster Keaton, Margaret Dumont, Alan Hale (the Captain in Gilligan’s Island), Edward G. Robinson and George Raft.

Although I was misfortunate not to have experienced the Golden Age of Hollywood, in the ’30s and ’40s, with all its pomp and glamour, somehow, on that particular day of the party, I received the most sensational feeling of magically being transported into those halcyon days.

Directly across the street from the Vitagraph/Vitaphone studio were the newly constructed NBC color television studios holding rehearsals for both The Perry Como Kraft Music Hall Show and Peter Pan starring Mary Martin. Perry made a surprise appearance at the festivities and was joined by his guest stars, Dinah Shore and Ella Fitzgerald. I needed no introduction to Perry since we frequently met on several occasions. Perry’s cousin, Tony, was my personal barber. Perry and I conversed awhile, and the following day, he introduced me to the show’s TV director, Dwight Hemion. (Dwight Hemion was one of the most respected TV directors who later was to become one of my professors for a semester at my alma mater.) Dwight was a top-flight director who granted me the opportunity of observing him direct a live broadcast directly from the control booth. Knowledge of our party seemed to spread throughout the NBC facilities as other noteworthy artists began descending upon us. Mary Martin, who was rehearsing for her role in Peter Pan, was one. Another was Jerome Robbins, one of the most illustrious stage and television directors, who at that time, was directing the Peter Pan special. My superior at Vitagraph, Richie Hooper, courteously introduced me to this giant. After relating my producing-directing plight, Robbins permitted me to closely watch not only the rehearsals but also, a week later, his direction of the live broadcast from the control center. He even was gracious enough to remain at the studio, after the telecast, to answer several questions. Just observing Hemion and Robbins, these two fantastic artists, gave me further impetus in my determination to be a producer-director.

After the festivities, I hung around to assist in the cleanup. I could read the melancholia in the employees’ faces as they made their final departure. Sympathetically, I took one last overall glance at the old studio that once made movie history, but now, will become history. The place looked dark, deserted, and abandoned. I suddenly realized this was the end of a historic chapter in motion pictures.

That evening, I wanted to walk home, alone, rather than accept Hooper’s invite to drive me. The wondrous sensation of intermingling with all those stars was still buzzing in my head. Slight tears formed in my eyes. The thought of never hobnobbing with such a voluminous gathering of glamorous and well-known personages entered my mind. But as I would soon learn, fate would prove me wrong.

Scene 2

A Fabulous Weekend with the Brooklyn Bums

While most of the movie theaters in the neighborhood became like secondary homes, I made Ebbets Field, home of the Brooklyn Dodgers, my other home base as well. Every boy’s dream, at least in my generation, was the longing to be bat boy for their favorite team, mine, of course, was the Dodgers. That dream came to fruition one fabulous weekend. The fervent addiction and enthusiasm I held for the movies was exactly the same for the Dodgers. To this kid, they were all stars. You didn’t have to be a hot Hollywood actor or hot rocker to be a star in the eyes of a kid in adoration of a team or player. A favorite top-notch player was automatically inducted in a kid’s personal hall of fame, I recall holding that fanatical devotion for the Dodgers since the age of six for a ball club that was affectionately branded the Brooklyn Bums (due to their knack of winning pennant and losing the series) to ardent Brooklyn fans they still reigned supreme. My personal connection with the Dodgers was Gil Hodges who resided in the same neighborhood. Aware of this, I wanted to make a difference over the other fans and gain his attention. At the very outset, I had to feverishly start a minor revolution, such as holding up signs and slogans (We Love Hodges and the Dodgers) or as a final resort vociferously showing adoration at Gil and the team while hurling derogatory and less than poetic oratory at their opponents. It was at the local supermarket that Gil recognized and acknowledged me. We talked briefly and shook hands. We became quick friends as fan to hero. Anytime I went to the market and knowing there would be an occasion I would bump into Gil, I always carried a pen and a Topps Gil Hodges baseball card for an autograph. When that day finally arrived, I approached him to obtain his John Doe and make conversation.

Let the man have some peace! I recall Mom pleading but hardly receiving any results to her demand.

Gil, without hesitation, granted my wish. We conversed about my joining the Gil Hodges Little League the following year. We shook hands on that agreement and left it at that.

One fateful day, at the supermarket, I was surprisingly approached by Gil rather than the reverse.

How would you like to be bat boy just for this weekend? he inquired.

For once, in my short life, this loquacious kid became totally speechless. Pleasantly shocked would be more like it. Regaining my composure, I spontaneously let loose with such a fierce and robust shrill that other customers thought the store was on fire. Gil never gave a reason, and I was one not to question such a gift. The excitement aroused about this sudden gift really commenced when I broadcasted my three-day bat boy job to all my buddies in the neighborhood and anyone I could anxiously tell that just came my way at Cunningham Junior High. Within a day, I became the talk of the school but, this time, for better reasons.

On a Friday morning in June of ’57, I was personally driven to Ebbets Field by Gil himself. On our way to the stadium, we discussed my responsibilities as bat boy, my career interest as a future producer-director, and some of my other favorite team players. We also got around the sad subject of the Dodgers’ departure for California. Although thousands of Brooklyn fans signed petitions and organized rallies in favor of keeping the Dodgers in Brooklyn, it was all for naught. The end of the road for my beloved team was nearly drawing to a close. I realized this would be my final joyous days as a Brooklyn Dodger; I wanted it to be a weekend I would never forget. As we approached the stadium, I sensed a collection of tears surfacing from my eyes. Gil stared at me, silently, for a few seconds, as if reading my thoughts.

What’s wrong, kid? he asked, solemnly.

I’ll never see this place or the Brooklyn Dodgers, ever again, I replied.

It was fun while it lasted. It might’ve been a short history for you and me, but for the old Dodgers, it was a long one. As you grow in years, you’ll realize nothing lasts forever. We’ve got to make the best of it, kid. It’ll always be there in our memories.

I remember just sitting alongside Gil with tears streaming down my cheeks.

C’mon, kid…we’ve got a couple of games to play, let’s make our last ones, winners.

The Dodgers’ opponents in this four-game series were the New York Giants. Somehow, it all seemed fitting. Ever since the questionable loss of the pennant the Dodgers incurred with the Giants in ’51, there’s been bad blood between the two teams. I, for one, abhorred the Giants but far less than the Yankees. As a Dodger fan, it was traditional. A real friendly guy by the name of Buzz Bavasi (known as the club’s spear-head), explained my duties and tasks, such as caring of a player’s favorite bat (dusting and checking for any cracks or abrasions), glove (maintaining the proper oiling), and uniform (insuring each was cleaned, pressed, and distributed properly into a player’s locker). One of the greatest thrills was my initial introduction to each of the players by Buzz: Jim Gilliam, Duke Snider, Roy Campanella, Jackie Robinson, Carl Furillo, Sandy Amorós, Don Drysdale, Don Newcombe, and the captain of the team, Pee Wee Reese. They all gave me a firm handshake, a welcoming smile, and jested me about my oversize bat boy uniform.

Go out there and murder those lousy Giants for old times’ sake! I shouted to the Boys of Summer, as they exited the locker room.

The kid’s all right, I hear one of the players exclaim.

Maybe we should make him morale coach, said another.

The time has arrived, Pee Wee told me with a smile, placing his arm around my shoulder.

The captain led me through this labyrinth until we got to the Dodger dugout. During those Friday and Saturday games, this kid went beyond the call of duty, not only as bat boy but acting as a boisterous cheerleader or, as one of the players stated, a morale coach. I did more cheering than the fans in the stands. I could see the team loved it. I continually received the thumbs-up. By Saturday evening, I was totally hoarse.

Early that Sunday morning, prior to the