Enquirer-Days

Homosexuality had been an integral part of Hollywood culture since the inception of the motion picture industry. From Hollywood’s earliest days, thousands upon thousands of gay men had proven themselves in behind-the-camera posts such as casting, wardrobe, makeup, cameramen, and even as directors and producers. When a gay man became a major box office star, the studio bosses expected and even demanded that the star’s sexual orientation be kept a closely guarded secret. After all, Hollywood’s leading men were expected to portray the type of virile male that made women swoon and men cheer. Any hint that the actor was not a macho man hunk was absolutely not tolerated in public.

Actor Raymond Burr, the subject of this story, learned early on as his star rose in Hollywood, that his sexual orientation could wreck his career. His life was a sad and ongoing battle to hide his homosexuality.

A native of Canada, little was known about Burr’s childhood. His father ran a hardware store and his mother was a music teacher in British Columbia, but beyond that, few hard facts were available. Although there were numerous stories about trips to China with his parents and tales of various marriages and children, the only fact that could be proven about Burr was that, as a small boy, he would spend endless hours in the family garden growing and cultivating roses.

As an adult, Burr was a burly, gravel-voiced bear of a man who broke into Hollywood as a heavy during the film noir craze of the fifties. Breaking bones and making violent threats was his stock in trade during those years and he appeared in more than forty, mostly gangster, films with some of the biggest stars of the day. In 1960, he was cast in the title role of Perry Mason, the most famous defense attorney in television history that always won his case with a daring last-minute on-the-stand revelation or confession.

The same year he got the contract, Raymond met Robert Benavides, an aspiring young actor and Korean War veteran who had a job on the series. They quickly became lovers and, shortly afterward, Raymond got Robert a permanent, behind-the-camera spot on the show that eventually led to him becoming a producer. Although they would be “partners” for more than thirty years, they both knew they had to keep their relationship a closely guarded secret.

Over the ensuing years, a conspiracy of lies and fabrications involving publicists, show regulars, gossip columnists, and even Raymond himself managed to keep his secret hidden. Publicists regularly planted stories that he was dating various young starlets and, during the late fifties, even arranged dates between Burr and several beautiful aspiring actresses so directors and producers could see them on the arm of a big star. Although a sham, it was a win-win for all parties.

In truth, Burr was briefly married to an actress during his early days in Tinseltown. Although the union was brief, this information was played up front and center in all of his professional bios and press releases. Hedda Hopper, the most famous gossip columnist of the day, never divulged his secret because her son William played Perry Mason’s sidekick private investigator on the show. When regulars on the show were asked about Burr’s homosexuality, they always dodged the subject with the comment, “It’s none of my business.”

Over the years, Raymond and Robert built a vast business empire that included exotic orchids, fine wine, seashells, Portuguese water dogs, and extensive real estate holdings, which included homes in LA, Hawaii, and an island in the South Seas. These business interests enabled them to live the life of royalty. In 1974, they bought an old farm in Sonoma’s Dry Creek Valley and developed it as a winery that was named after Burr upon his death and still bears his name.

While Burr was active to some degree in all of their businesses, his favorite was the orchid business where he cultivated and crossbred exotic orchids. His holdings included nurseries in California, Hawaii, the Azores, and the South Seas. His favorites were exotic black orchids, and Burr would spend endless days in his California nursery, making copious notes and studying the characteristics of various sub-species. Over the course of his work, he added more than 1300 new species to the worldwide catalogue.

“The genome of the rose is child’s play when compared to the complexity of the orchid genome,” he once said. “Studying the intricacies of the orchid genome is like listening to a Beethoven symphony.”

In late 1992, Burr was diagnosed with kidney cancer and doctors urged that the cancerous kidney be removed. Only days after the surgery, he began experiencing excruciating pain and, after further examination, doctors reported the cancer had spread into the lungs and liver and was now inoperable. At the news, Burr said he wanted to return to the Sonoma ranch to spend his last days.

Only days after this story broke, Simon called me.

“Perry Mason is dying,” he said. “We have a source in Santa Rosa who is friends with the nurse in attendance. All you got to do is go there and wait until he dies. Don’t hesitate to push her for details. We’re paying her lots of money for the exclusive story.”

The following day, I was on a plane to Healdsburg, California to meet the source. At the meeting, we agreed she would call me twice a day over the following week with updates on Burr’s condition. If he died, she was to call me immediately. On Friday afternoon, she called and reported Burr was dead. I asked about his final hours.

This is the story she told.

On the morning of September 3, 1993, Burr, who had been on a morphine drip for over two weeks, awoke, turned to Robert, and asked about the status of the ranch’s chardonnay grapes, the livestock, and his beloved orchids.

Robert knew the end was near, and his eyes filled with tears as his long-time partner asked questions about ranch operations as if he were going to be there forever.

“What about the Bulbophyllum Filiforme specimens in nursery number four?” Burr asked. “We had thirty-two new specimens in early August. Are they healthy and blooming?”

“They’re fine,” Robert replied.

A long silence.

“Ray,” Robert said tenderly, taking his hand, “I wanted to thank you for the wonderful life we’ve had together. I couldn’t have asked for a more wonderful friend and partner.”

“You realize,” Burr said, “the Filiforme has to have a constant temperature of at least 64 degrees or they’ll wither and die. As natives of West Africa, their genome requires much warmer temperatures than other orchids.”

“Yes, Ray,” Robert replied. “I know, but this is not really the time to be discussing business. We should—”

“I can’t wait until the black Filiforme are adult plants,” Burr continued. “The differentiation between the jet black colors and the green is absolutely amazing. Once we have adults, I want several brought into the ranch house. Maybe one in the sitting room by the zebra and another on the Italian marble table beside the fireplace.”

“Ray,” Robert said again, trying to get his attention.

“No, on the mantel; that’s where I want them,” Burr continued. “I can see them now, those glossy black colors against the royal blue wallpaper.”

“Ray,” Robert said. “I’m trying to say goodbye.”

“And what about the pink Orchondrinea?” Burr said. “Are the nursery workers aware of their sunlight requirements?”

Robert could see he was getting nowhere.

“You never listen to me,” he said sadly.

“Now be sure you tell Carlos that the newer pink Bienchadea orchids in nursery number six require…”

Suddenly, the diatribe stopped. For a moment, Burr looked straight at Robert as if he were about to say something important, then he slowly slumped backward on his pillow. Around noon, he slipped into a coma and died.

 The following week, when the story was printed, there was only a tiny blurb on the front page which read: “Raymond Burr’s Final Hours!!” Inside, however, the story got a full-blown centerfold spread.

 The headlines blared: “Perry Mason Makes Deathbed Request!! Long-time Lover Sadly Watches Famous Actor Die!!” There was even a photo of me with my byline.

His obituary, which appeared in newspapers and magazines throughout the world, represented little more than the fabrications, the lies, and half-truths which had been disseminated over the years by publicists and Burr himself. The conspiracy to hide the truth about Burr’s homosexuality was complete.

Only after his death did books and magazine articles start to print the truth. Interestingly enough, at the time of his death, Hollywood had considerably softened its posture on homosexuality, probably because of the massive publicity generated by the AIDS epidemic. In the late eighties and early nineties, studios and big stars felt it was good public relations to support AIDS projects. While several big stars and studio executives were openly gay, the unspoken strictures that Burr had faced were somewhat loosened. Burr, with an intricately woven web of protective lies and half-truths, had borne the brunt of the discrimination and had weathered it quite well.

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(This excerpt was taken from my book Thanks PG:Memoirs of A Tabloid Reporter which retraced my twenty years as a reporter for the National Enquirer. You may buy the book at https://tinyurl.com/2zdhru92

In the course of my career as a Hollywood reporter, I spent countless days and weeks on death watch stories, when the US and world press—depending on the degree of fame of the subject—would congregate outside the home or the hospital where the star was lying on his/her deathbed.

     But nothing had prepared me for what we witnessed at the time that beloved Sammy Davis Jr. was dying inside his Beverly Hills home.

     Born in Harlem in 1925, Davis began his career in vaudeville at the age of three as a member of The Will Mastin Trio, a dancing and singing troupe that consisted of Davis, his father, and the group’s namesake.

     After military service, Davis rejoined the group and they toured nationally, playing clubs, parties, and social events. Almost overnight, he began to achieve success on his own and became an A-list recording artist and actor.

     He sang the title track for the 1954 film Six Bridges to Cross and later starred in the Broadway play Mr. Wonderful. In 1972, his song “The Candy Man Can” was the No. 1 single on the pop charts.

     After becoming a member of the famous Frank Sinatra Rat Pack in 1959, he made several films with the group, and later had his own popular television show and became a headliner in Las Vegas.

     At age twenty-nine, he lost his left eye in an auto accident, but the tragedy failed to dampen his love of show business. For almost a year, he wore a patch until he was fitted with a glass eye.

     Shortly afterward, he converted to Judaism. Ironically, the accident took him from being a well-known entertainer to a national celebrity. He was a genius at making jokes about it.

     Once before a golf match, Jack Benny asked Davis what his handicap was.

     “Handicap?” Davis said. “Talk about handicap; I’m a one-eyed Negro Jew.” Over the years, that would become a signature quote for Davis.

      In late 1989, Davis was diagnosed with throat cancer and doctors explained that surgery to remove his larynx would be the best solution. Davis replied he would rather keep his voice than have part of his throat removed and opted for a combination of radiation and chemotherapy.   

     Although this helped for a while, his condition worsened only weeks afterward and doctors sadly announced they could do nothing more.

     Finally, over the days of May 13-16, 1990, the world’s press converged on his home to await his death. Never had I seen a mob of reporters like the one in front of Davis’s Summit Drive home in Beverly Hills.

     A throng of more than three hundred journalists from around the world jammed traffic along the winding street and cops had to be called so the other residents of the exclusive canyon neighborhood could get in and out of their palatial homes.

    Davis’s next-door neighbor called police after reporters trampled his strawberry patch; his neighbor across the street turned on sprinklers daily to prevent reporters from sitting on the front lawn. Since there was no parking or sidewalks on Summit Drive, old friends, seeking to pay last respects, had to be dropped off.

    One showbiz friend in a wheelchair had to be wheeled almost two blocks to the house. Meanwhile, hungry reporters were taking photos and tag numbers of everyone who went in or came out of the house.

    While the scene outside the home was nothing short of a three-ring circus, the scene inside was even more bizarre. Since late 1978, Davis had been a target of the IRS.

    The agency claimed that not only had he been under-reporting his income, but they had disallowed several shelters he had claimed in recent returns. Also, in recent years, the IRS had been confiscating all of his income from shows, tours, and Las Vegas appearances to pay off the debt.

    Now, as he lay dying, the tab was at $5.2 million and tax agents were not only assessing all of his personal possessions to sell at auction, but he was flat broke.

    My source, a close friend of Davis’s wife Altovise, said the home was a veritable treasure trove of showbiz memorabilia. There was an estimated $1.5 million in jewelry, an Andy Warhol soup can painting valued at $25,000, signed photos of Davis pals Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe, his lavish costumes, more than three hundred musical scores he had written, expensive Remington statuary, an eight-foot-high fiber glass statue of a character from the Planet of the Apes and awards, plaques, and gold watches he had accumulated over the years.

     Since Davis was broke and all his assets frozen, his Rat Pack pal Frank Sinatra was paying the bills at the home for food, water, gas, and lights.

     While Davis’s wife Altovise was also responsible for the debt, she publicly claimed she was penniless for fear the agents would seize any monies she might have. As a result, inside sources said the wife prayed every day that the utilities in the home would remain in service until her husband died.

     Finally, around noon on May 16, the publicist and the family announced Davis had passed. All of the busy hustle-bustle, the throng of world press, the cops, and the distraught neighbors were gone now.

     All that remained were memories. I think you could make the argument that, upon a celebrity’s death, the reach of his fame can be determined by the geographical representation of the reporters assigned to cover his demise.

     I had covered my share of death-watches, but I had never seen as broad a representation of world press as the one for Sammy Davis Jr. When I covered the wedding of Robert Wagner and Jill St. John in the Palisades, there was a reporter from Turkey.

    That was the first time I had ever seen a press rep from such a far-flung locale. At Sammy Davis Jr.’s death watch, there was not only a reporter from Turkey, but press reps from England, France, Japan, and even Vietnam, probably the result of Davis’s appearances as an entertainer for our servicemen during the Vietnam War.

     It was the one and only time I had ever seen a reporter from Vietnam at any Hollywood event. It was a first and a moment to be remembered. Now that’s what I call true worldwide fame.

     R.I.P Sammy!!

I had grown up with Bob Hope. When I was a child growing up in the hills of North Alabama in the early forties, I was an avid reader of Bob Hope comic books. On late night TV, I had watched most of the movies he had made with Bing Crosby and others, and in 1976, when I was working in the Enquirer’s Washington, D.C. office, I met him for the first time.

I was sitting in the Insider office in the National Press Building one afternoon when a man popped his head in the door.

“Bob Hope is down in the press room if anybody wants to interview him,” he said.

I knew I had to meet the great man.

For almost an hour, several other reporters and I posed questions about his personal life and his career, but all we got back were snappy wisecracks designed to produce belly laughs rather than copy. Later, when I worked in Hollywood, I would occasionally see him in Palm Springs at his famous golf tournament or at local restaurants.

Here was a man who, in my opinion, had conquered every frontier of show business. Radio, television, vaudeville, stage, movies, singing, dancing, standup comedy, and his legendary Christmas Tours for serviceman overseas. He was truly “Mr. Show Business,” entertaining Americans for generations. From alpha to omega, this man had not only bedazzled the world, but he had done so in spades.

In the early fall of 1994, I was on assignment in Palm Springs when I stopped by a Long’s Drugstore to buy some toothpaste. As I started in, I saw a man walking toward me, his arm locked in the arm of another much older man to keep him erect. The older man was unshaven, wearing a baseball cap, and appeared to be slightly palsied. As I approached the pair, I could see that the older man was Bob Hope.

For a moment, I stared at the two men moving hop-step across the parking lot, the halting steps of the older man following stride-by-stride of the younger man. As I watched, I felt deep sadness. Great God! I thought. Is this all that life is worth? Here was a man who had bedazzled the entire world and now he required another human being to assist him in remaining erect. Is that all life was worth?

Somehow, I suddenly had a deep understanding that no matter who you are or what you have accomplished in life, this was your ultimate end. I remember thinking, there’s no justice or mercy or goodness on this earth, only despair and nothingness in the end. As always, at times like these, I felt that if I had been more of a religious man, such moments wouldn’t have overtaken me with such a pervasive sadness.