Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M Part 5

Ever since Funny Face Funny Face in 1957, Audrey's film contracts had contained a nonnegotiable standard clause stipulating that Givenchy design her costumes. Where everything else in her movies, from art direction to editing, would be handled by whomever the studio or the director had installed to carry out its mandates, this one crucial point was left to the jurisdiction of Audrey Hepburn. in 1957, Audrey's film contracts had contained a nonnegotiable standard clause stipulating that Givenchy design her costumes. Where everything else in her movies, from art direction to editing, would be handled by whomever the studio or the director had installed to carry out its mandates, this one crucial point was left to the jurisdiction of Audrey Hepburn.

Once again, Edith Head would be backup. Though she wasn't happy about it, Edith understood there was a pragmatic element to hiring a European designer for a European shoot like Funny Face Funny Face. But Tiffany's Tiffany's was a New York movie. Why get a Parisian designer? Not only was it impractical, it didn't click with the character. What would Holly Golightly be doing with high fashion clothing? Where would she get it? How could she even afford it? Patricia Neal's costumes were to be designed by Pauline Trigere, but Trigere was a New York designer, Neal was a New York movie. Why get a Parisian designer? Not only was it impractical, it didn't click with the character. What would Holly Golightly be doing with high fashion clothing? Where would she get it? How could she even afford it? Patricia Neal's costumes were to be designed by Pauline Trigere, but Trigere was a New York designer, Neal lived lived in New York, and moreover, she was playing a ritzy character who in reality would very likely shop Trigere. All that was beyond reasonable. But Hubert de Givenchy? in New York, and moreover, she was playing a ritzy character who in reality would very likely shop Trigere. All that was beyond reasonable. But Hubert de Givenchy?

Edith had a point. With location shooting becoming more and more common in the Hollywood of the late fifties and early sixties, it made sense that films shot in Paris would have actual Parisian clothing. Rare-indeed singular-was the case when a European house would design an American picture actually set in America. It meant that teaming Givenchy and Audrey on Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's was without precedent. Consult Edith's credit for the scar: her t.i.tle reads "Costume Supervisor." Head's biographer, David Chierichetti says, "The 'Costume Supervisor' credit was a weird, one-time-only credit for Edith. She was a very, very powerful woman, and even though she did very little on the picture, the studio wanted to maintain some good feeling and gave her this kind of conciliatory credit. Of course, Edith was a master diplomat, perhaps a better diplomat than she was a designer, and stayed quiet when she knew she should, but she was aware that it was taste, not necessity that barred her from the picture. That hurt her terribly." was without precedent. Consult Edith's credit for the scar: her t.i.tle reads "Costume Supervisor." Head's biographer, David Chierichetti says, "The 'Costume Supervisor' credit was a weird, one-time-only credit for Edith. She was a very, very powerful woman, and even though she did very little on the picture, the studio wanted to maintain some good feeling and gave her this kind of conciliatory credit. Of course, Edith was a master diplomat, perhaps a better diplomat than she was a designer, and stayed quiet when she knew she should, but she was aware that it was taste, not necessity that barred her from the picture. That hurt her terribly."

She would provide some of Holly's plain clothes as well as George Peppard's changes, and, naturally, would supervise the additional costuming needs of the various ancillary players, but Audrey's gowns-truly the film's stylistic centerpieces-were all Givenchy.

It fell to Blake Edwards to approve Givenchy's designs, but he knew-as far as couture was concerned-he was in over his head. He was not about to deny the inspirations of an acknowledged wunderkind, let alone the megawatt star who considered him a spiritual sibling. "I was sort of inadvertently thrown in with some of the truly great fashion people in the world," he said, "and suddenly I was looking at wardrobe to be approved by Audrey Hepburn. And, of course, I'm not stupid, I'm not going to say 'Well, gee, fellas, I don't really know about those kinds of things.' It gave me an education. How wrong can you go?"

AN OCTAVE AND ONE.

For a full month, slouching on the rented piano he kept in the garage, Henry Mancini agonized over the song. What had he gotten himself into? Over and over again, he replayed, again and again, Audrey's voice in his head. He caught Funny Face Funny Face on TV a few nights earlier, and with the short range-her range-of an octave and one, tried riffing on Audrey's rendition of "How Long Has This Been Going On?" on TV a few nights earlier, and with the short range-her range-of an octave and one, tried riffing on Audrey's rendition of "How Long Has This Been Going On?" I could cry salty tears.... I could cry salty tears.... Everything he tried died on the second or third note. Everything he tried died on the second or third note. I could cry.... I could cry.... But for lack of an alternative, he stuck to it. But for lack of an alternative, he stuck to it. Cry salty...cry salty tears.... Cry salty...cry salty tears.... But the stucking didn't stick. Nothing did. If Mancini didn't deliver on this, what would he say to Jurow and Shepherd, or to Blake, who'd had faith in him, who stuck his neck out? Even worse, what would he tell himself the next time he sat down with a pipe at the piano? "You'll do it, Hank"? There were only so many times his wife, Ginny, could say it to him. Only so many more times he would let himself go on to her about what kind of song this girl would sing. Was a Broadway-style melody actually the right choice for "travelin' through the pastures of the sky"? That didn't seem to fit with the private moment on a fire escape. But maybe the blues would. But the stucking didn't stick. Nothing did. If Mancini didn't deliver on this, what would he say to Jurow and Shepherd, or to Blake, who'd had faith in him, who stuck his neck out? Even worse, what would he tell himself the next time he sat down with a pipe at the piano? "You'll do it, Hank"? There were only so many times his wife, Ginny, could say it to him. Only so many more times he would let himself go on to her about what kind of song this girl would sing. Was a Broadway-style melody actually the right choice for "travelin' through the pastures of the sky"? That didn't seem to fit with the private moment on a fire escape. But maybe the blues would. Where have I... Where have I... Maybe like a jazzy-pop thing. Or a country thing. Was that what was in her heart? Maybe like a jazzy-pop thing. Or a country thing. Was that what was in her heart?

This was a time when Holly would cut through the pretense and show, for the length of a song, who she really was beneath all the sophistication. Right: beneath beneath the sophistication. Whatever that sounded like, it had to be simple. the sophistication. Whatever that sounded like, it had to be simple.

And then-as these things tend to happen-it came suddenly. Three notes: C, G, F. It was promising. Not a song, but a beginning. Staying within the range of an octave and one, and being careful to keep the melody all in the same key-much simpler that way-Mancini turned out the next several notes, all on the white keys. They didn't sound bad-actually, they sounded good good. At first, he went ahead carefully, mindful of not leaping too far beyond his flow, and then, as he gained momentum, proceeded half consciously. Now it was all falling out of him. A moment later it was automatic-he was taking dictation. As if they knew just where to go, as if they had been there many times before, the remaining notes obediently a.s.sumed their place on the page. Twenty minutes later, the composer looked up from the piano. The song was written.

The next day, Mancini made a record of it and took it in to Edwards. Blake loved it. Then it was to Paramount to play the tune for Shepherd and Jurow. "Hank brought a 78 record up to our office," recalls Shepherd, "and he said, 'Let us know what you think of it.' He just laid it down and left. Marty and I listened to it and we thought it was terrific."

"Who do you want to write the lyrics?" they asked.

"Johnny Mercer," was the reply. Mancini didn't even have to think about it.

WHAT JOHNNY MERCER DOES IN BED.

Mancini had always wanted to write with Johnny Mercer, but that guaranteed nothing; so did everyone else. With a credit list that included, in part or in full, songs the caliber of "Too Marvelous for Words," "That Old Black Magic," "Come Rain or Come Shine," and "Hooray for Hollywood" (which he wrote ironically), Johnny Mercer would have been any composer's first choice, but fortunately for Mancini, the admiration was mutual.

For the past two years, Mercer had been longing to collaborate with Hank. The track that hooked him came off the More Music from Peter Gunn More Music from Peter Gunn alb.u.m. "Joanna" it was called, and after he heard it, Johnny Mercer did what he had been doing since his first crank of that Victrola in the parlor of his boyhood home smack-dab in the sweet spot of the South, Savannah, Georgia. That is, he put words to it. A born singer, all Johnny would have to do is stand by his own vocal instinct and wait for the humming to come out right. When it did, it was brisk and fragrant, with a lyric pitched on the outskirts of town and country, fancy but idiomatic, like Holly Golightly herself. alb.u.m. "Joanna" it was called, and after he heard it, Johnny Mercer did what he had been doing since his first crank of that Victrola in the parlor of his boyhood home smack-dab in the sweet spot of the South, Savannah, Georgia. That is, he put words to it. A born singer, all Johnny would have to do is stand by his own vocal instinct and wait for the humming to come out right. When it did, it was brisk and fragrant, with a lyric pitched on the outskirts of town and country, fancy but idiomatic, like Holly Golightly herself.

But by 1960, Mercer had been supplanted by Elvis, the national pelvis. As hearts sank to groin level and doo-wop regressed popular song to s...o...b..edoobies, the premium on Mercer's signature dropped to an alarming low. Not only was rock 'n' roll in the way, but like Mancini, more and more composers were insisting upon writing the songs in their movies, which relegated dyed-in-the-wool words and music men like Mercer to the bygone era. Setting lyrics to a waltz, he said, was a pointless venture, commercially speaking. At that moment in music history, when the day's chart-toppers included Fats Domino and Paul Anka, he was right to think no one would record a waltz, but Mancini (and necessity) prevailed, and Mercer, who loved Capote's book, and who wanted an excuse to collaborate with Mancini, said yes.

Often, Johnny would compose lying down. Stretched across a bed or along a couch with his eyes closed, Mercer would cycle words and images through his mind all without the help of paper and pen. It looked like sleeping to those who saw it, and indeed earned him the epithet lazy, but anyone who knew of Mercer's prolificacy had to have thought it less like snoozing than dreaming. Sometimes he'd surface with a fractured image that he'd take down with him the next time he submerged, and sometimes he'd come up with a lyric in full, a deep-sea diver with a sack of gold.

Mercer's gentle southern demeanor only fanned the legend of his laziness, for to greet him in person, one would surely be overcome by the kind of lullaby sensation perfected by the expert porch sitters of his kin. As a young man, he, like Holly, left home for New York, and since then, whether in sleep or dreams, had never been far from the nostalgic pull of Dixie. It made Mercer a good man-sometimes a drinking man-but it also allowed him to harmonize with Mancini. Together, they were kindness incarnate, and they melted as easily as b.u.t.ter on mashed potatoes.

When Johnny called Hank to tell him he had lyrics, he said, to Hank's bewilderment, he had not one version to show him, but three. That afternoon, Mancini was scheduled to lead an orchestra through a benefit dinner at the Beverly Wilshire, so he told Mercer to turn up at the hotel ballroom at about four o'clock. There was a piano in there, he said, and it would be deserted. And that's how it happened: when four o'clock rolled around, in came Johnny with an envelope full of papers, and in came Mancini, crossing the darkened room to greet him. Hank took his seat at the piano on the bandstand and Mercer, standing beside him, pulled out version one, which began with the lyric, "I'm Holly..." But Mercer wasn't so sure about it. They tried his second version, threw it out, and then tried his third. "Blue River" it was tentatively called, because, as he told Mancini, there had been other tunes with the same name.

"I have an optional t.i.tle," Mercer added. "'Moon River.'"

That was fine by Hank. So that afternoon, Johnny inserted "Moon" for "Blue," and for the first time, sang, Moon River,Wider than a mile:I'm crossin' you in styleSomeday.Old dream maker,You heart breaker,Wherever you're goin',I'm goin' your way.Two drifters,Off to see the world,There's such a lot of worldTo see.We're after the sameRainbow's end,Waitin' 'round the bend,My Huckleberry friend,Moon River and me.

That was it. There was no doubting it. In his lyric, Mercer had harnessed an a.s.sortment of poignant, multilayered frictions. Taken one way, the song tells of simple affection, the pure and wide-eyed kind between two friends; but on the flip side, it's laden with the weariness of heartbreak. It was the musical equivalent to the casting of Audrey Hepburn in the part of Holly Golightly. When she sang it on the fire escape, wearing only jeans and sweatshirt, no audience would begrudge her the little black dress.

THE LITTLE BLACK DRESS.

Centuries ago, black dye was affordable only to the very rich. In the seventeenth century, the wealthy abandoned darkness for color. And in the Victorian era-where contemporary ideas about black originate-it was worn almost exclusively by those in mourning. As the shade of death, black seems the most intuitive choice. But in the game of courtship, color aids seduction. Traditionally speaking, it's feminine, and the more eye-catching women are, the more easily they can lure. Consequently, those without color-say, dressed in all black-can go about almost unnoticed. Where the rainbow is conspicuous, their darkness acts as a kind of camouflage, masculine by contrast, and allows them to watch without being watched. It's the choice of someone who needs not to attract. Someone self-sufficient. Someone more distant, less knowable, and ultimately, mysterious. Powerful.

It is a man's look. So what happens when the tables are turned and the woman wears black? In the nineteenth century, when women would often stay in all black for years after their husbands' deaths, it was a surefire sign of widowhood. To the men pa.s.sing by, it signified the wearer's knowledge of s.e.x. It meant experience. No wonder the flappers of the 1920s were so drawn to it. In aerodynamic tubes of black satin, the Jazz Age teenies made their statement loud and clear: "We don't care about what Mom and Dad cared about. We're We're out to have a out to have a good good time." Chanel took the opportunity to capitalize on the new modernity, and the little black dress turned up everywhere. Not only was it fashionable, but when the 1930s came around, it was very practical. It didn't seem right to dress decoratively the way it had before the crash of 1929, and so, in its subdued functionality, the black dress became a gesture of political correctness. It was hip to be square. And after the war, when Dior swooped in with his New Look, black was dressy again. With the world back on its feet, people didn't have to feel ashamed of going all out anymore, and certain intensely fashionable women-mostly in Europe-stuffed themselves into black hourgla.s.ses and took to the boulevards. time." Chanel took the opportunity to capitalize on the new modernity, and the little black dress turned up everywhere. Not only was it fashionable, but when the 1930s came around, it was very practical. It didn't seem right to dress decoratively the way it had before the crash of 1929, and so, in its subdued functionality, the black dress became a gesture of political correctness. It was hip to be square. And after the war, when Dior swooped in with his New Look, black was dressy again. With the world back on its feet, people didn't have to feel ashamed of going all out anymore, and certain intensely fashionable women-mostly in Europe-stuffed themselves into black hourgla.s.ses and took to the boulevards.

But when the domestic resurgence of the fifties broke through America, color was once again the emblem of femininity. Just look at the movies: only the b.i.t.c.hes wear black. There is Margo "Fasten your seatbelts" Channing in All About Eve, All About Eve, Norma "I Norma "I am am big" Desmond in big" Desmond in Sunset Blvd., Sunset Blvd., and before them, back when film noir saw all its curves in shadow, there was Rita Hayworth as Gilda. Even before they even open their mouths, we know these ladies are going to be two big handfuls of heat-packing trouble-and it's black that tells us so. On men, it's par for the course (Cary Grant should wear nothing else), but when it's seen on women, black's symbolically charged intimations of power, s.e.xual knowing, and reversals of traditional pa.s.sivity make it the color of choice for all those women the movies think we should be worried about-and in most cases they're right, we should be. So, to Jane Wyman and Doris Day: wear pinks and blues. Be decorative. Be floral. As women, it's what you're supposed to be. and before them, back when film noir saw all its curves in shadow, there was Rita Hayworth as Gilda. Even before they even open their mouths, we know these ladies are going to be two big handfuls of heat-packing trouble-and it's black that tells us so. On men, it's par for the course (Cary Grant should wear nothing else), but when it's seen on women, black's symbolically charged intimations of power, s.e.xual knowing, and reversals of traditional pa.s.sivity make it the color of choice for all those women the movies think we should be worried about-and in most cases they're right, we should be. So, to Jane Wyman and Doris Day: wear pinks and blues. Be decorative. Be floral. As women, it's what you're supposed to be.

Hubert de Givenchy got Axelrod's script in the summer of 1960. On Chapter 1, he read, "The cab door opens and a girl gets out. She wears a backless evening dress and carries, in addition to her purse, a brown paper bag." Black might not have been such a distinctive choice were it some degenerate wearing the dress; indeed, it would have been the obvious move. But seeing how this was a dress to be worn by Audrey Hepburn-and not at night, but in the very early morning-it was unusual to say the least. Because it's Audrey-wholesome, wholesome Audrey-there is irony in her endors.e.m.e.nt of a color heavy with unchaste connotations. More than merely quirky, the contrast is sophisticated. Black on Audrey Hepburn gives her an air of cunning-just as anyone who turns something outre into an a.s.set appears somehow masterly. That's the essence of glamour.

It's true that Audrey had worn black before-quite memorably, in fact, in Sabrina Sabrina and and Funny Face Funny Face-but this particular instance brought her down from the penthouses and onto the pavement. "Remember," says costume designer Rita Riggs, "it was natural for Sabrina to shop at a French house in Sabrina, Sabrina, and and Funny Face Funny Face was set in the Paris fashion world, but was set in the Paris fashion world, but Tiffany's Tiffany's was all New York, about a girl who knew nothing about European fashions. And she's just a poor girl from Texas-a moll! There's no real way of explaining how Holly would get that dress. At that time, only the very wealthiest American women would have European trousseaus. A regular girl couldn't afford that. So was all New York, about a girl who knew nothing about European fashions. And she's just a poor girl from Texas-a moll! There's no real way of explaining how Holly would get that dress. At that time, only the very wealthiest American women would have European trousseaus. A regular girl couldn't afford that. So Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's was a breakthrough in that sense. We hadn't seen that before." was a breakthrough in that sense. We hadn't seen that before."

"Givenchy and Audrey gave us a very realistic, very accessible kind of cla.s.s," said designer Jeffrey Banks. "All of a sudden, in Breakfast at Tiffany's, Breakfast at Tiffany's, chic was no longer this faraway thing only for the wealthy. Of course, part of that had to do with who Audrey was and the kind of person she represented to people, but it also had to do with Givenchy. Unlike Balenciaga, he was a naturalist. He was about showing off the body as it was, not reshaping or idealizing it. He felt you didn't need to use a lot of accessories or embellishment and based dresses on the shape of women as they were, not as he, or the culture, wanted them to be. That was a kind of first in fashion and it took glamour from the remote and unattainable and made it practical. After chic was no longer this faraway thing only for the wealthy. Of course, part of that had to do with who Audrey was and the kind of person she represented to people, but it also had to do with Givenchy. Unlike Balenciaga, he was a naturalist. He was about showing off the body as it was, not reshaping or idealizing it. He felt you didn't need to use a lot of accessories or embellishment and based dresses on the shape of women as they were, not as he, or the culture, wanted them to be. That was a kind of first in fashion and it took glamour from the remote and unattainable and made it practical. After Tiffany's, Tiffany's, anyone, no matter what their financial situation, could be chic everyday and everywhere." anyone, no matter what their financial situation, could be chic everyday and everywhere."

The little black dress was easy to emulate: any young woman in 1961 could make one or even afford to buy one (and did they ever). Of course, they didn't all get Givenchy's LBD, but that didn't matter; because of its simplicity, any any little black dress would do the trick-as millions would soon see, that was the beauty of it. What's more, its simplicity wasn't just pragmatic, it was an a.s.sertion of self. Pure understatement radiates confidence-individual personality as opposed to a prefab femininity. "I don't need to embellish to be commanding," it says. "I don't need a fashion megaphone to make myself heard. I just need to be me." It's what Audrey had been doing since little black dress would do the trick-as millions would soon see, that was the beauty of it. What's more, its simplicity wasn't just pragmatic, it was an a.s.sertion of self. Pure understatement radiates confidence-individual personality as opposed to a prefab femininity. "I don't need to embellish to be commanding," it says. "I don't need a fashion megaphone to make myself heard. I just need to be me." It's what Audrey had been doing since Roman Holiday, Roman Holiday, but here she added a touch of girl-on-the-go. This was New York City. but here she added a touch of girl-on-the-go. This was New York City.

Its efficiency and simplicity made the LBD a natural for the workingwoman, and Givenchy's take, unlike Chanel's, was skimmed, narrow, and attentively sculpted, which gave the dress a severity not common to looks of the day-as well as a quiet allure. Banks explains, "Givenchy was a master of understanding the backs of dresses. He knew how he wanted a woman to look as she's walking away from you. If you look at the neckline of Audrey's long black dress from the front, it looks just like a sleeveless dress, but if you look at the back, if you look at the way he cut in a sort of halter shape that followed the shape of the jewelry, you'll see that it's quite daring for its time."

"I was in Paris for the fittings," recalls Patricia Snell. "It was amazing. Givenchy came out with all of Audrey's outfits; her hat, and her little black dress, and her everything. He was the kindest man, the gentlest man, and so tall. You couldn't believe how a man so tall could move with such grace. It was truly unbelievable to see him. And he handled the fabric with such love, it was like he was carrying a newborn baby. He even looked at the dresses like they were babies-his babies. I can't say I knew then that these dresses would change fashion, but I must say, they jolted me. None more than the black one."

MOON RIVER AND...?

After Mancini played "Moon River" for Blake Edwards (whom it left speechless yet again), they ran it over to Jurow and Shepherd. It didn't matter that the producers were in the middle of something; Blake and Hank wanted to be there when they fell off their chairs. They weren't disappointed. The moment the recording ended, whatever hesitation Marty Jurow or Richard Shepherd, or Rackin had about Mancini's capability was now a detail in history. They were all in agreement. This was it. The new question of talent, or rather, facility, was about their leading lady. Could she sing it?

The room was uncertain, but Hank pressed for Audrey, explaining that he had written the music to "Moon River" specifically with her range in mind. Technically, he said, she could pull it off, no sweat. Admittedly, she was no great singer, but she had done it in Funny Face Funny Face and, Hank argued, she would do it again for and, Hank argued, she would do it again for Tiffany's Tiffany's. His plea, however, was met with raised eyebrows-and none were raised higher than Audrey's. When she heard she was in the running to sing, she said she was completely against it. The thought of singing now frightened her. Since Funny Face, Funny Face, she believed her voice had thinned considerably, and what with the risks she was already taking in the film, it seemed too much of a stretch. she believed her voice had thinned considerably, and what with the risks she was already taking in the film, it seemed too much of a stretch.

For a brief period, there was some discussion about Marni Nixon (Audrey's vocal surrogate for My Fair Lady, My Fair Lady, three years later), but all that ended as soon as Blake made up his mind. This song's dramatic function-to give voice to the authentic Holly-couldn't succeed if it wasn't authentic Audrey. He claimed whatever weakness audiences perceived in her vocal ability would actually enhance the feeling of a regular, down-home Holly. Never one to say no, Audrey gave in, and without a moment to lose, she was rushed into guitar lessons and rehearsals with a vocal coach. She was far from sure that she was the right person to sing "Moon River," but there was no stopping what had already been set in motion. The first day of filming, the morning of October 2, 1960, was fast approaching. three years later), but all that ended as soon as Blake made up his mind. This song's dramatic function-to give voice to the authentic Holly-couldn't succeed if it wasn't authentic Audrey. He claimed whatever weakness audiences perceived in her vocal ability would actually enhance the feeling of a regular, down-home Holly. Never one to say no, Audrey gave in, and without a moment to lose, she was rushed into guitar lessons and rehearsals with a vocal coach. She was far from sure that she was the right person to sing "Moon River," but there was no stopping what had already been set in motion. The first day of filming, the morning of October 2, 1960, was fast approaching.

6.

DOING IT.

OCTOBER 2, 1960NOVEMBER 11, 1960 FIFTH AVENUE, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 2, 1960, 2, 1960, DAWN DAWN.

Audrey was worried. They all said she could do it, that playing Holly would be a challenge, but that like everything else, it would come naturally to her. Naturally, they said naturally. In Roman Holiday, Roman Holiday, they said she was so lovely and natural, and then gave her the Academy Award. But that wasn't acting, not like the Patricia Neal kind that made you really think and really feel. Now there, she believed, was a they said she was so lovely and natural, and then gave her the Academy Award. But that wasn't acting, not like the Patricia Neal kind that made you really think and really feel. Now there, she believed, was a real real actress. Pat could play anything, but Audrey, sitting in a yellow cab, waiting for Blake Edwards to call action, just had intuition. Intuition and luck. actress. Pat could play anything, but Audrey, sitting in a yellow cab, waiting for Blake Edwards to call action, just had intuition. Intuition and luck.

Audrey missed her ten-week-old baby, Sean, whom she left with the nanny back in Switzerland, and she began to wonder if she was wrong about leaving him in the first place. This was the longest she had ever been away from him. He would be fine, she a.s.sured herself, though it was difficult to forget the recent string of high-profile kidnappings back home (she and Mel had taken severe precautions not to publicize the name of their nanny or her whereabouts). No amount of cigarettes could ease her tension, but she was desperate and smoked on anyway, sometimes shakily, like a gambler with a bad hand.

The street was empty, like one of those tumbleweed roads in a western movie. A crowd would be gathering soon.

It was all so nonsensically difficult, down to the Danish pastry in the bag beside her. How would she eat that thing? Audrey didn't want to be troublesome, but she despised Danishes, and asked Blake if he wouldn't mind if she were to walk up to Tiffany's with an ice-cream cone instead. But he said no. Of course, he was completely justified. This was breakfast after all, and who would believe that?

But really, who would believe any of it?

"Okay, quiet," she heard. "Quiet please..."

A man approached the cab and asked Audrey if she was ready. Yes, she told him, she was, and braced herself.

She waited.

Outside, the sun was not yet up. The street, if you were to paint it, would be one long stripe of gray, with little yellow dots for the lamps. In this light, they looked like a string of diamonds hovering above the sidewalk, a necklace Fifth Avenue wore when it woke up.

"They're rolling..." Audrey heard, and a second later, the second A.D. cued the cabbie, and they were off. The scene had begun.

Up the avenue they went, up past all the storefronts Holly knew well, and had visited, if only to look, so many times before. It was a miraculous sight; one of the world's busiest streets cleared of all activity, and just for her, just for this. They wouldn't have many takes (the sun would be too bright soon), and even though it was a chilly Sunday morning, the people of New York would begin to pour out quickly. And there was also Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev. He'd be appearing on Fifth at 7:30. They'd have to be done by then.

Audrey couldn't rush it, though. If Tiffany's was, as she says in the script, the place where Holly and things went together, she would be wise to linger at the window and take it very slow, savoring it the way one would a moment of total satisfaction. Better that than run up the street like some kind of hungry animal.

What she had to do now was try to forget that she wasn't anyone's first choice, and that Capote was dissatisfied (some said), and that no one seemed to know how much Holly was, well, whatever she was whatever she was.

She had to stop all this worrying. She had to forget about her fights with Mel, whom she missed as much as she was glad to be without. It wasn't something Audrey had put words to, even privately to herself, but she was certainly beginning to feel it. Was it really true love? Or was it grown-up love, the kind they don't make movies about?

One by one the city blocks fell away, and as the cab approached 727 Fifth Avenue, it slowed beside the curb and came to a stop. Audrey stepped out of the car and shut the door behind her. Rather than approach right away, she paused on the very edge of the sidewalk and looked up at Tiffany's.

THE NORTHEAST CORNER OF FIFTY-SEVENTH AND FIFTH, HOURS LATER.

It was cold that morning.

Blake wore a wool cardigan over his black turtleneck, and over that, a long corduroy jacket with the collar turned up. His crew cut and footballers jaw leant him a lean, manicured look, not unlike Mel's. Audrey knew he was sensitive to her anxiety, not just about Holly, but about acting in general. From the few rehearsals they had had, she could see his working style was open and collaborative, more like a party than actual work. Unlike Billy Wilder, who came to the set knowing exactly how, when, and where every line should be delivered, Blake met the shooting day with an open mind and a listener's attention.

Blake, after all, wasn't her first choice. She had wanted someone with a little more experience. But all that was beginning to change. He was receptive to her minor suggestions, he didn't really like to shoot take after take, and he wasn't afraid of improvising a little. In fact, when the time was right, he encouraged it. Audrey liked that. She wasn't at ease with the idea of just making stuff up, but she agreed with Blake that there was little chance of keeping a funny scene funny if it wasn't always on its toes. It was a belief, Audrey saw, that Blake was deeply committed to, and it applied as much to his actors as it did to his crew. If they weren't kept laughing in the long stretches of wait-time between setups, they were likely to deflate the momentum and kill the scene. To keep them alert, Blake arranged for a craft service table that was simply not to be believed, worked to end the day's shooting at a reasonable hour, and devised a steady stream of practical jokes directed at cast and crew alike. But not all the jokes were light and effervescent. Audrey nicknamed Blake Blackie, for his black sense of humor. Like Mel, her director had a morose streak, but Blake's was a lot funnier. Was it wrong to keep comparing them? Of course, she didn't do it consciously, but she kept doing it. Maybe it was because she was lonely.

Wearing Hubert's dress was of some consolation, almost like having him there beside her. An armor of love, she thought. Two armors, actually: one little black dress for standing still at the window, and another for walking around the outside of the store. She had to alternate because the standing dress was so tight, she couldn't move in it. But the walking dress had a long slit down the side. She could walk around in it without inching ahead in baby steps like a geisha.

People were already collecting in pockets of two and three, and a short time later, what began as a small crowd had transformed into a gawking mob. On all sides of Fifth Avenue, production a.s.sistants upheld a great barricade of several city blocks, dictating to the people behind them, as if they were actors, how and when to move and speak. Despite them, Audrey shot the scene without too much fuss and all before the sun came up.

128.54 CARATS CARATS.

Before moving on to the next scene, Audrey was photographed inside Tiffany's wearing the famous Schlumberger necklace. Until now, the necklace had been worn by only one other woman, Mrs. Sheldon Whitehouse, a senator's wife, who wore it on the day she chaired the Tiffany Ball in 1957. Set at the very center of the necklace was Tiffany's canary diamond, at that time the largest yellow diamond in existence, measuring one square inch of 128.54 carats. Though Audrey wouldn't wear the necklace in the film, it would appear briefly and only under gla.s.s in the Cracker-Jack engraving scene, the scene they would shoot that afternoon. "Do you see what I mean how nothing bad could've happened to you in a place like this?" Audrey was to say to Peppard. "It isn't that I give a hoot about jewelry, except diamonds diamonds of course. Like of course. Like that that." If only they could hurry it up.

Audrey was taking one for the team. After six long months of back-and-forth negotiations with Tiffany & Co.'s head, Walter Hoving, a fastidious man not renowned for his amenability, Marty Jurow was finally granted permission to shoot inside the store. Unfortunately, Audrey was the barter. Sure, Marty had explained to Hoving, it would be a logistical challenge and an insurance nightmare to let an entire crew set up among some of the most valuable jewel cases on the planet, but from the promotional angle, it was a golden opportunity for Tiffany & Co. Just put Audrey in the Schlumberger necklace and shoot away. Photo ops galore. You couldn't buy better advertising.

They were the first film ever to shoot inside Tiffany's.

Audrey's smile was as convincing as she could possibly make it considering the unG.o.dly hour, her waning strength, and the swarm of ingratiating corporate stiffs surrounding her. But this also was part of the job. So was all the handshaking. Indeed there was very little to being a famous actress that actually had to do with acting. A great portion of it involved this kind of thing with photographers and journalists and visiting executives. "Audrey, turn so we can see the diamond!" "Audrey, look over here!" But in its way, this too was a sort of acting.

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Audrey Hepburn, age twenty-two, onstage as Gigi.

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The redoubtable Edith Head in a publicity portrait staged to her exacting taste.

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Billy Wilder, Audrey, and Hubert de Givenchy review the designer's sketches for Love in the Afternoon Love in the Afternoon.

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Humphrey Bogart, Audrey, and Billy Wilder between takes on the set of Sabrina Sabrina. The black c.o.c.ktail dress is the very one she picked up from Givenchy's studio in the summer of 1953.

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The Ferrers, 1959.

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Truman Capote in a publicity photo taken for the publication of Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's.

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George Axelrod, breast man.

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Producer Richard Shepherd, sitting in the middle of Fifth Avenue on the first day of filming Breakfast at Tiffany's Breakfast at Tiffany's, October 2, 1960.

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The Director.

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Just after lunch on the first day of shooting, Blake Edwards resumes production on the northeast corner of Fifty-second and Park.

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