Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1963)

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Similar to the expression on Lana Turner’s face that night in Hampstead, a swank London suburb, back in 1957. when Johnny Stompanato — the man with whom she fled from America — beat her and then held a sharp razor to her throat and threatened to slash her beautiful face to shreds. But the really fatal explosion of violence involving Lana and Stompanato was fated to be postponed until the next year when, on Good Friday night, Lana’s daughter Cheryl heard Johnny threatening her mother. It was then that the fourteen-year-old girl plunged a ten-inch carving knife into Stompanato’s stomach. Similar to the expression on Beverly Aadland’s face when Errol Flynn died only moments after their last embrace in Vancouver, British Columbia, in 1959. The tragic end of a romance that had begun in a hunting lodge on a Hollywood hillside estate when Beverly was just fifteen, and continued in Africa. Paris, the Riviera. Majorca, Spain, England, Cuba, Jamaica and New York — and then finally Vancouver. Similar to the expression on Gene Tierp ney’s face when Aly Khan — a familiar traveler on the trail of unconventionality — finally told her, “I cannot marry you.” Yet just six months before, after a whirlwind romance that had been ignited in Argentina and burned brightly in Hollywood, London, Paris and Cannes, Gene had told reporters who had tracked them to their hideaway in Baja California, near the Mexican border, “I certainly consider myself engaged, and we’re very much in love. We will probably be married in six months, I imagine in Europe.” And as Gene was speaking those words, Aly stood by her side, looked at her lovingly and nodded in agreement. Expressions of pain, of disgust, of fear, of unhappiness — all similar to the tearstained look on Natalie Wood’s face. But what about Warren Beatty? Perhaps his I-can-take-her-or-leave-her attitude towards Natalie is what he believes are his true feelings, but he should consider carefully the example of another free soul who tried to play fast-and-loose with love. The man — Max Schell. The woman — Nancy Kwan, with whom Max believed he could have a relationship strictly on his terms. After all. he had already proved that such an arrangement was possible. (Just as Warren, too, with Joan Collins had proved that a man could take — and leave — a woman whenever he wished.) For almost a year a pretty German girl — charming and most attractive — had accompanied him nearly everywhere — from Germany to New York to Hollywood and back to Germany again. But when he was scheduled to make “Judgment at Nuremberg” in Hollywood, he broke off with her forever. In Hollywood he met the exotic Nancy Kwan. Within a few short weeks, Max and Nancy had fallen wildly in love. But Max. like Warren, can’t stand subterfuge, so he told Nancy immediately that he was not interested in marriage. The weeks stretched into months, and Max and Nancy were inseparable. But when the publicity firm that handles them both asked them to pose for pictures together, Max refused with a cold, “I do not make love in public!” What Max meant by those words was that he’d not give official status to their romance. The reluctant Max Nancy wanted to take Max home to Hong Kong to meet her father, but Max had other ideas. He was going to Europe alone. In his next picture, “The Reluctant Saint,” he was going to play a holy man and he wished to disappear for a while in Italy to live as a monk. Nancy went home alone. Meanwhile, Max wrote a Hollywood columnist to stop speculating about his marrying Nancy Kwan — it was simply not true. Nancy returned to Hollywood, shocked and hurt. Max, apologetic now, flew to be with her on his one free weekend during shooting. By the time the weekend was over, he and Nancy had visited the columnist in person, and Max admitted for publication that he loved Nancy deeply — he was only sorry their career commitments prevented an immediate marriage. The columnist beamed, and so did Nancy. Nancy was still beaming when Max returned to Europe. She was overjoyed when he asked her to be his date for the London premiere of “Judgment,” and again for the Los Angeles premiere soon after. Following those appearances in cities six thousand miles apart, the question everyone posed about the Kwan-Schell romance was not if the marriage would take place, but when. But Max continued to make his declarations of independence. One morning Nancy picked up a newspaper and read that Max, in an interview given a day or two before, had laughed off rumors that he and Nancy would be getting married soon. “We are good friends. But marriage? It would be unfair of me to get married now. / don’t want to get married. Marriage takes con < centration. Every woman wants and needs > attention. I am more interested in giving attention to my work.” They began to fight, in public and in i private. They fought in Hollywood and in London. They separated and then flew back into each other’s arms. They were j| miserable together; they were even more ? miserable apart. Max was as inconsistent as he was ar j dent. One day, when a television inter j| viewer asked when he planned to marry, j Max answered coldly, “Why not ask me when I intend to commit suicide?” Yet almost the next day, it seemed, he gave Nancy a jade engagement ring. Only Max refused to indicate that he was ready for marriage; he still dawdled and dallied, alternating declarations of love with declarations of independence, insisting that the romance be conducted on his terms. Max came over from Munich to visit Nancy at Innsbruck where she was on location making “Main Attraction.” Then he took time out to fly from Switzerland to California to collect his Oscar as best actor of the year, secure in the knowledge that Nancy would be waiting for him. But this time Nancy wasn’t there. She had left for the weekend to see an Austrian ski instructor, some fellow named Peter Pock, and Max was furious. So furious, in fact, that he left Innsbruck as fast as he could, leaving the Oscar behind in the rush. And so they were married. Not Nancy Kwan and Max Schell, but Nancy Kwan and Peter Pock. And it was the ski instructor from Austria rather than the actor from Germany whom Nancy finally brought home to meet her parents in Hong Kong. What about Max, the man who demanded romance on his terms? Well, Dorothy Manners reports, “Maximilian Schell has gone into a clam-like silence regarding any comment on Nancy Kwan’s sudden marriage to Austrian ski instructor Peter Pock . . . But no matter how glacial his exterior, the few close to Max be I lieve the Oriental beauty gave him a big j jolt right under his ribs on the left side : — where it hurts.” And Sheilah Graham I declares, “Unhappiest man in Europe is Max Schell since the girl he loved so long, Nancy Kwan, married that Austrian skiing teacher. Max waited too long — he thought Nancy would always be there. There’s a big moral here.” A “big moral” — one that Warren Beatty, another free soul, might well ponder. Just as Natalie Wood, now back in Hollywood with Warren, should take a good look at the wreckage strewn along the trail to ecstasy by other women who have left the tried-and-true road of convention to travel that path before her. — Jae Lyle