Sutton goes to Hollywood

Press, 6 October 1988, Page 11

Sutton goes to Hollywood

Recently I flew to California because of something I thought only happened to people in movies: I was going to meet the folks who’ve bought the film rights to my life. What they’re really interested in, of course, is my search for hunkdom, but I prefer to think they actually care about some other important events, too, like the time I won the state solo-tuba championship. Now I know a movie isn’t an important thing, and I know I probably won’t recognise myself in the finished product, if, indeed, it even makes it to the silver screen or TV (most things don't). But I was still excited. A film doesn’t make you good or happy or important or even rich, but it does make you immortal in some way, like a good granite monument, and it does impress all the people you grew up with, which is worth something. As I pulled up the long, limousine-lined driveway, of the Beverly Hills Hotel (which is, for the Hollywood community, what Buckingham Palace is to a royalist) I started getting a little excited at the thought of movie stars strolling around and deals being made as producers “took” lunch in the Polo Lounge or “did” meetings in one of the pool-side

cabanas. I walked up to the reception desk, slightly nervous, but masking it well. As I said, very powerful things happen at this hotel. Normally only very powerful people stay here, and you don’t just walk up and say “Hi!” at the registration desk. You say something that quietly indicates you’re a part of the show-business power structure. I had asked a friend for tips. "Yes, Sutton. Checking in. Any telephone calls?” You don’t say your first name, and you always ask for phone messages — in a low key voice, my friend had said.

For a minute, I didn’t think it would work. The very distinguished-looking man behind the counter quickly checked out my fame quotient (I obviously failed there) then signalled to an assistant with one hand as he searched through the “S” telephone messages with the other. He found 19 messages there with my name on them. Nineteen messages at the Beverly Hills Hotel — before you check in, especially — means something. The distinguishedlooking man smiled and stepped in front of the assistant he’d summoned. “Oh yes, Mr Sutton! Welcome back!” I did not remind him

this was my first visit, ano I surely did not tell him how many of those messages were “plants” that I or my friends had called in earlier that day. I simply smiled. Low key, of course. That afternoon I bought some mirrored sun glasses. The next morning, about 7 a.m., I set out for an hour’s aerobic work in hilly Beverly Hills. When I’m in a new city, especially one with a different terrain or climate, I try to scale back my exercise programme. But a brisk walk of 30 minutes to an hour gives an adequate workout and allows for indepth sightseeing, which seemed just right here. A quick sightseer’s review: © Lush, beautiful yards better tended than most people’s children. @ In almost all the yards, lots of small but serious signs announcing the name and threat level of that particular garden’s security service. “Armed Response” is the favorite wording; “Armed Guard On Premises” the most prestigious. After the walk, I did 100 leg lifts and 100 stomach crunches in my room (again, good exercises you can do anywhere), then quickly showered and slowly dressed for my big meeting. I had to look just right when I walked into that first meeting in the

Polo Lounge itself, the sanctum sanctorum of Hollywood dreams. After about six changes of clothes, I decided on a look of studied insouciance, that look so prevalent in men’s fashion magazines. My pants were wrinkled. I wore a tie, but it was pulled loose at the neck. My shirt was striped and my coat an understated silk tweed. No socks, of course. At 8.10 a.m. I entered the Polo Lounge. Aware that these people were buying the story of a man who said he cared about health as well as hunkiness, I ordered the most wholesome breakfast. During breakfast and the subsequent ceremonial filming in the gardens, I did my best to be myself and remain visibly unaffected by the strange conversations going on — such as my injuries being talked about as “good” for the story. (“Do you think you might have some more?” one of the guys cheerfully asked.) In an odd way, I even understood how they could see my heart disease as a plus. “We’re talking about a guy who could die here,” one man said to a TV bigwig — a show-business-sized dose of exaggerations, I hope. That might improve the story, but I won’t like the ending. I enjoyed most of my Hollywood adventure probably more than I want to admit. There is something disturbingly tasty about so much attention, so much glamour, so many powerful illusions. I do not think, however, any of it will change the underlying me. Though these days I do have an overpowering desire to put on my sunglasses before shaving. —Copyright Reman Suttop, United Feature Syndicate.