His Way_ The Unauthorized Biography of Frank Sinatra - Kitty Kelley [206]
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Of the seven children born to director John Farrow and actress Maureen O’Sullivan, their first daughter—Maria de Lourdes Villiers Farrow—was a true child of Hollywood. Born in Beverly Hills on February 9, 1945, her godfather was the famous director George Cukor; her godmother was Louella Parsons, movieland’s most powerful columnist; and her best friend was Liza Minnelli, daughter of Judy Garland and Vincente Minnelli. Her decision to become an actress surprised no one.
“I discovered that only in drama class could I manipulate people, amuse them, even make them notice me through this marvelous game of pretending, where I didn’t have to be me,” she said.
After graduating from Marymount High School, Mia went to New York and landed an ingenue role in the off-Broadway revival of The Importance of Being Earnest. Excellent reviews led to her discovery by television talent scouts, who chose her to play Alison Mackenzie, the brooding, bewildered heroine of Peyton Place, which was to become one of 1965’s top three television shows.
Back in Hollywood before the televising began, she boldly announced her ambitions. “I want a big career, a big man, and a big life. You have to think big—that’s the only way to get it.… I just couldn’t stand being anonymous. I don’t want to be just ‘one of the Farrows,’ third from the top and fifth from the bottom.”
No man in Hollywood at the time was bigger than Frank Sinatra, and from the minute she saw him, she was mesmerized. “I liked him instantly,” she said. “He rings true. He is what he is.” She had already declared her preference for older men after flirtations with Yul Brynner and Kirk Douglas: “I love older men. I feel much more comfortable with them. They’re exciting, they’ve lived. They have marvelous experiences to share. I don’t have boyfriends or girlfriends my age. They frighten me.”
So she visited the set of Von Ryan’s Express every day in the transparent gown she had borrowed from the wardrobe department.
“We were doing some pickup shots at Twentieth Century Fox and Mia would invite herself on the set every day to look at Frank and admire him,” recalled Brad Dexter. “At the end of the first week, Frank and I and Billy Daniels, the cinematographer, were leaving for Palm Springs in Frank’s little French jet. Mia was standing there looking up at him as we were walking out, so he said, ‘See ya later. We’re going to grab the jet and hit the desert for the weekend.’ She nearly knocked him over when she said she wanted to go with us. ‘How come you never invite me to come along?’ she asked. Frank did a double take. ‘Huh? Are you kidding? Would you like to come?’ Mia beamed and said, ‘Sure.’ He explained that there was only room for the three of us, but that if she was serious, he’d send the plane back. He did, and that’s how she came to spend her first weekend with Frank in Palm Springs, which started the romance.”
Frank took her to a screening of None but the Brave, and she told him he was a better director than her father, who had died a few years before. He took her to Thanksgiving dinner at the home of Bill and Edie Goetz and told her to clean her plate. For Christmas, he gave her a solid gold cigarette case in which he’d inscribed, “Mia, Mia, With Love, from Francis.” She filled it with joints of marijuana that she rolled herself. He called her on the set of Peyton Place every day, and she told reporters, “I’m so happy. Someone I love just called me.”
Standing five-five and weighing only ninety-eight pounds, she mocked her spindly little figure: “My measurements are 20-20-20.”
She looked as delicate as a porcelain doll, with moon eyes, snow-white skin, and coltish legs. Her voice trembled with breathlessness as she talked about mysticism, Zen, yoga, and extrasensory perception. She frequently made statements about her soul: “Sometimes I think I’d like to put my soul somewhere where nobody could get it. I’d have a castle with a moat and drawbridge and people could never stomp on me and take chunks out of my soul until there’s nothing left. Or maybe I’ll