So, as I described in Part 1, there I was, with my pal, Dawn Hume, at The Venetian Theater, for An Evening with Sophia Loren.  Over the course of ninety minutes, the legendary Italian actress regaled the audience with stories from her incredible life. Following are some of my favorites.

Her mother, Romilda, had been a great beauty; and when she was younger, had participated in a worldwide search for Greta Garbo look-alikes sponsored by the studios in Hollywood.  However, Romilda's parents told her that acting was no way to make a living, so they hadn’t let her go to Hollywood, to compete in the finals of the contest.  For whatever reason, this made me think that Loren’s mother had been the Liz Renay of pre-war Italy!*

Later, during the war (WWII), to escape from the bombs, Romilda, Sophia, and Sophia's younger sister Maria slept in the train tunnels.  Now, this was in the Italy of Mussolini, so you know you could set your watch to the trains.  Therefore, at 3:50, each day, they’d run out of the tunnels; not to return until after that four o’clock train had come and gone.  In a peculiar twist of fate, Maria would marry Mussolini’s youngest son, making her Il Duce’s daughter-in-law.

After meeting Carlo Ponti – who would become not only her husband, but also her mentor, and frequent collaborator – he sent her to a famous photographer to have a lighting test done.  It did not go well, and the man told Ponti that Loren’s nose was too long, her eyes too big, her mouth too big, etc.  After sharing this story, Loren arched her brow and made a gesture with her hands, as if to say “Shows you what he knew, eh?”

One thing that amused Dawn and I to no end, was that whenever she spoke of Cary Grant, Loren always spoke of how he’d “disappeared” (instead of saying he’d died, or passed on, or some other euphemism).  It was very “Cary was a dear friend, until he disappeared.” Or “He was such a gentlemen, until he disappeared.” Dawn looked at me the first time and I shrugged.  The second time, I crooked a brow.  By the fourth time, we were giggling, rather inappropriately.  I mean, it’s not like he was missing.  He didn’t vanish into the ether, only to have his famous mug appear on the side of a milk carton.  He died, and as I recall, was cremated after which his ashes were scattered, in California.  But I suppose it indicated the special relationship they shared. 

A perfect example of this friendship occurred at the 1961 Academy Awards, when Loren was nominated for Best Actress for her role in Two Women.  Ponti (who produced the film) had said they should go to California to attend the ceremony; but Loren, who didn’t think she’d win (as she was a foreign actress, nominated for an foreign film, shot entirely in Italian) figured that if she did, in fact, win, that she’d likely faint upon hearing her name called (“…and if I was going to faint, I’d be better off doing so, at home!”)  So they decided to stay home, in Italy.  By the time the ceremony was taking place, they’d long since gone to sleep for the night.  They awoke, at 6am, to the ringing of the phone.  It was Cary Grant, calling from California, telling her that she’d won.

After the show, Dawn and I were escorted up to the balcony, where the meet-and-greet was being staged. Now, I’ve been very fortunate to have met – and been photographed with – many notable people, including Presidents and First Ladies, heads of state, and legends of stage, screen, and music. But never have I been around someone possessed of such a palpable presence.  It’s kind of like The Force!  I was so taken by this, that I can’t imagine what it must be like for straight men to be around her.  Meanwhile, after a couple decades of VIP Starfuckery, I’m not sure who’s left.  I mean, short of being in a group-shot with Meryl Streep, Patti LuPone, Queen Elizabeth II, and Pope Francis, this might be the pinnacle!

Now I have to make a teensy admission.  I have a bizarre tendency, when I’m speaking with a foreign person, for whatever reason, I begin not to speak in that language, so much as to speak in heavily accented English.  It makes no sense to me; and I can only imagine it being downright peculiar to whomever I’m speaking.  Regardless, there I am, babbling to Sophia Loren, like an idiot, in English with my version of an Italian accent; and bless her heart, she just smiled that sultry smile, and with eyes twinkling, graciously said “Grazie.”

No, Sophia Loren.  Thank you!

An Evening with Sophia Loren
The Venetian Theater
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[Editor's Note: I know there are only a dozen or so people in the world who will get this reference; but trust me - each of them is ROTFL, right now!]