Roman Polanski: Roman Holiday

"You don't get cooties from sleeping with someone underage," I say. "I know, I've done it."

Polanski's eyebrows shoot up. He smiles. "With boys, this is a score. They would never turn you in. They think they've done something wonderful. Cooties. This is a great concept."

When I finally have to leave, Polanski decides that I absolutely must take a detour to La Defense, a huge office complex that Mitterrand has built in the outskirts of Paris. It's out of the way and no one seems to want to go with me, but Polanski corrals one of the assistant editors and makes her take me there. It is acres and acres of office buildings, not a blade of grass in sight. The crowning glory of this monstrosity is a building with a huge arch that you have to walk up thousands of stairs to get to. The assistant editor and I climb as if we're going to the Pyramids. You do not want to cross Roman Polanski.

On Saturday I meet Polanski at his apartment, right off the Champs Elysees. The building is modern and spare, no hint of Paris about it. The elevator opens right into the apartment, where Polanski stands with an unlit cigar in his mouth. I walk right past him and look at the photos on the wall: Polanski and (_Chinatown_ producer) Robert Evans in 1967, long hair flying; the two of them 10 years later in Malta, shorter hair, the same maniacal glint in their eyes; a group shot of Polanski with friends, taken by Helmut Newton, with the inscription, "For Roman ... at the last supper, love Helmut."

His office door is open so I go in and look at the stacks of scripts (they're all in French or Polish) and books. Robert Evans's autobiography The Kid Stays in the Picture is on the top of the pile. I open it to read the inscription, but there is none. "I haven't had time to read it," Polanski confesses.

"I did," I say. "He talks about you a lot. He's one of the people who claims to have been invited to Sharon's house the night she was killed." (In Polanski's book, he says that all the people who said that, including Jerzy Kosinski, were lying.)

"Memory plays strange tricks," is all he'll say about it now. "I'll tell you a great story about me and Bob. Once, on the lot of Paramount, he and I were standing and talking, and we see a chick coming out of the comer of one of the alleys, walking away from us. This was in the late '60s. And she goes on her high heels, click, click, click, with a really nice ass and legs. And we both look at her, and say, 'Who is this?' Then we start slowly running after her and we have a hard time to catch up with her. And then we turn the corner, and it is Ruth Gordon! It was when I was shooting Rosemary's Baby, but I didn't recognize her. She had a fantastic body. From behind especially."

Polanski's daughter Morgane comes bounding into the room, but runs out just as quickly. She has Polanski's face in miniature.

"Let's go," he says, grabbing me before I start looking through the drawers.

"Strange place to live," I say when we get outside.

"No, it's perfect. It's not a--what do you call it?--neighborhood. The butcher doesn't come out to say hello. Nobody stops to chat. That's the way I like it."

The next three people who walk by say, "Bonjour Roman." He just nods and smiles.

"When I watch your movies," I say, "I keep thinking of how weird and twisted you always make Paris look."

"Oh yes, in Frantic I wanted it to be that you would only see what a tourist sees. Like the ride from the airport and those freeways and just some side streets that would make you feel disoriented,"

"You're tike a single woman's worst nightmare."

"Again with that?" Polanski says, looking annoyed,

"No, no, I'm talking about your movies. When I saw The Tenant for the first time, I remember that I was afraid to be alone in my apartment. And then, in Repulsion, you have the scene where the woman sees the reflection of a man in her mirror. I almost died ..."

A wicked smile is on his face. "It still works?" he asks.

"Oh, yes. When I saw it last week, I knew what was coming, and I still jumped out of my seat. I was petrified."

"Do you want to come to the editing room with me?" he asks.

"Yes. But every journalist who has gotten into a car with you has said what a lousy driver you are."

"This is bullshit," he says. "I'm a great driver. Just fast. But if you don't want to..."

"Where's the car?" I ask, never one to pass on a dare.

We're in Polanski's Mercedes going about 200 kilometers an hour through the streets of Paris, but since I don't understand the metric system, I'm not sure if this is bad or good. Polanski loves Paris and points out every building of note, every park, every old factory.

At the editing room, we watch and rewatch one of the last reels of the film.

"Let me see the end," I beg, when he stops it once again with just a few minutes to go.

"No," he says resolutely. "For that, you will have to pay seven dollars."

"Please."

"No. Here, I will give you the dollars, I will pay for you. But you must see it from the first to the end. That is the way it will work best." He's actually trying to hand me the money.

I slap his hand away and we head back to the Mercedes.

"Okay," I say. "let's talk about you coming back to America."

"There's nothing to say. There is no deal or anything, I'm no closer to coming back than I was 10 years ago. I would like to clear this up and have it off my head, but..."

"You settled with the girl last year, right?"

"Yes, but part of the deal was that I am not supposed to talk about it. All those people who have opinions about me ... please tell them that I admitted what I did was wrong and I went to jail for it. I went to jail! They seem not to know this. And I want to say to you--you said the girl was 13, but she was really just three weeks short of her 14th birthday."

"You think that makes a difference?"

"Yes," he says, nodding vigorously.

"Maybe here in France, but in America, I think not."

"But here in France I don't have cooties, eh?"

I have to smile. "No, Roman, here in France you're an icon."

Polanski throws back his head and laughs.

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Martha Frankel interviewed Patrick Stewart for the November 1994 Movieline.

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