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They wrote it this week: Brando gets you sweaty. How can it go ...


They wrote it this week: Brando gets you sweaty. How can it go wrong?

Extracts from diaries and letters written between February 17 and February 23


February 17

1991, New York

[Brown’s husband, Harold Evans, at this time a publisher, had just returned from a trip to Los Angeles to negotiate with Marlon Brando for his memoirs.] They played a two-hour chess game in which Marlon avoided the only thing Harry wanted to talk about: the content of a possible book. When he was about to leave, Marlon energetically insisted he join him for a midnight swim. His huge bulk floated in the deep end for an hour in pitch darkness with only the sound of Japanese chimes, declaiming Shakespeare as Harry trod water – Mark Antony’s funeral oration: “Lend me your ears! Emphasis on the ‘lend’, not the ‘ears’, Harry.” Then he wanted Harry to stay for a bonding sauna, still declaiming (at 1:30am and wearing tentlike underpants in the steaming heat) “O what a rogue and peasant slave am I.” At the end of this bizarre publishing quest, NO book agreed, but a promise of “more such congenial conversational occasions, Harry”...

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