Who is anjelica hustons father

There's no hedonism without a downside. There were times when I hated my nose. But you grow up and you start to recognize that maybe it wasn't a bad thing that you weren't born Barbie. I've never been the kind of actress whose sole interest was sex appeal, so I think that earns you some longevity.

And I like character parts. It's a lot more fun and you don't have to rely on being the taste of the moment. That level of fame is probably very difficult to deal with. People screaming your name in the streets, quite honestly, isn't an audience I'm desperate to capture. I'm lucky. The people who tell me they like my work tend to be the kind of people I might be friends with anyway. I have a really nice audience. It was difficult directing myself. For a woman it's extra-hard because you have to spend an hour and a half in hair and make-up and you're late to set up shots and you're changing clothes in the street and there's no time to recover.

My father is extremely easy to work with. He chooses his actors, places his confidence in them and lets you get on with it. He is living proof that a director doesn't have to run all over the place. I think people become more watchable after 30, when they have something between their ears.

This means a lot to me since it comes from a role in which I was directed by my father, and I know it means a lot to him. I'd also like to thank the entire cast and crew of "Prizzi's Honor;" I don't want to mention any names, you know who you are. And to my friends, for their love and support, and to my guardian angels, particularly Bruce Weintraub and my late teacher Miss Peggy Feury. Thank you.

She won't talk to me. The only encounter I've had with Oprah was when I was at a party for the Academy Awards, a private residence. I was talking to Clint Eastwood , and she literally came between us with her back to me. So all of the sudden I was confronted with the back of Oprah's head. I do think in this work we have to feel freedom.

We have to feel as though we can say and do things that are not necessarily judged, particularly by the other people in the cast or crew. Bad cocaine makes you feel shitty. Probably makes you run for the loo because it's laced with laxatives. Pure cocaine gives you a very light, airy, clear, and extremely pleasant feeling. But really, there's no such thing as good cocaine. I don't believe that people should take it recreationally.

Frankly, a lot of male movie stars behave in an offhand manner, like they're just more important than you are. The first week I was there, we were all in this little hotel, and he invited the entire cast to go and have dinner, except me. He took my head in his hands and hit it with full force against his head because he couldn't find me at a party.

He's a deeply disturbed - or at least was then; I can't vouch for now, but I think he was - deeply disturbed person. I can imagine lots of things, but I could never imagine carrying a baby. Al Pacino does some schlock. Pacino is more experimental, I think. I don't want to see Jack Nicholson doing Meet the Fockers I already get depressed if I see him in perfectly good Nancy Meyers movies. I like to see Jack in full rebellious feather, and that's how I love him best on film.

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Memorable families. See all related lists ». My mother, heavily pregnant, had stayed behind in Los Angeles with my one-year-old brother. When the messenger handed the telegram to my father, he glanced at it, then put it in his pocket.

Her name is Anjelica. Dad was six feet two and long-legged, taller and stronger and with a more beautiful voice than anybody. His hair was salt-and-pepper; he had the broken nose of a boxer and a dramatic air about him. He walked loose-limbed and swaybacked, like an American, but dressed like an English gentleman: corduroy trousers, crisp shirts, knotted silk ties, jackets with suede elbows, tweed caps, fine custom-made leather shoes, and pajamas from Sulka with his initials on the pocket.

An omnipresent cigarette dangled from his fingers; it was almost an extension of his body. It is true that he was extravagant and opinionated. But Dad was complicated, self-educated for the most part, inquisitive, and well read.

Not only women but men of all ages fell in love with my father, with that strange loyalty and forbearance men reserve for one another. They were drawn to his wisdom, his humor, his magnanimous power; they considered him a lion, a leader, the pirate they wished they had the audacity to be. Although there were few who commanded his attention, Dad liked to admire other men, and he had a firm regard for artists, athletes, the titled, the very rich, and the very talented.

Most of all, he loved characters, people who made him laugh and wonder about life. Dad always said he wanted to be a painter but was never going to be great at it, which was why he became a director. A cowboy, a settler, a saloon owner, a judge, a professional gambler, and a confirmed alcoholic, he once won the town of Nevada in a poker game.

She was five feet eight and finely made. She had a small waist, full hips and strong legs, graceful arms, delicate wrists, and beautiful hands with long, tapering fingers. To her friends, she was Ricki. But he took a second wife, Dorothy Fraser, whom we called Nana, a pleasant, no-nonsense woman who raised my mother under a strict regime.

One evening, my father walked in and was met by a beautiful year-old girl. It was difficult, she explained, because she was expected to write a four-page essay for her father every time she went.

How about that? But Dad was called away to the war. My name is John Huston. You stood me up once. Now, at 18, she was under contract to Selznick, and her photograph had been published on the June 9, , cover of Life magazine. In the photo spread inside the magazine, she was likened to the Mona Lisa —they shared that secret smile. My earliest memories are of Ireland. Dad moved the family there in His first visit had been two years earlier, in , before I was born.

Dad had watched as the young members of the legendary Galway Blazers played a game of follow-the-leader that involved angry waiters swinging champagne buckets, and men leaping off a balcony onto the dining tables, as the music played on into the night and the whiskey flowed. Dad said that he had expected someone would be killed before the ball was over.

In the days following, he fell in love with the scenic beauty of the country. Mum came into my room, wrapped me in a blanket, and carried me downstairs. The house was dark and silent. Outside on the front steps in the frosted night, Dad held Tony in his arms.

The sky was raining meteors. The famous combat photographer Robert Capa came to Courtown and was one of the first to take pictures of Tony and me as toddlers, crawling on a polished wood floor, wide-eyed, like two little birds that had fallen out of their nest. Tony and I would sit on the landing at the top of the long quadrangle staircase of Courtown House and watch Dad at work from above as he stalked slowly back and forth on the black-and-white inlaid marble squares that paved the hallway.

This was a serious process. His secretary, Lorrie Sherwood, told us he was writing and never to interrupt. I was five when we moved from Courtown House to St. Clerans, a acre estate in County Galway. Three miles outside the town of Craughwell, down a shadowy green avenue of high elms and chestnut trees, a stone gateway led to a generous courtyard with a two-story limestone cottage on the left, known as the Little House. This is where we lived. The room Big House was a few hundred yards away, across a bridge over a trout stream with a little island and a gentle waterfall, where a great gray heron pecked hatchlings from the shallows on one leg.

The Big House was in disrepair. For the next four years, my mother worked on restoring the estate. Mum and Dad were united in this endeavor. Then, like a sleeping beauty awakened, the house would come alive, glowing from the inside, turf fires burning in every room. When Dad was in residence, Tony and I would go up to his room for breakfast.

The maids would carry the heavy wicker trays from the kitchen, with the spaces on either side for The Irish Times and the Herald Tribune. Dad liked to read the Trib column written by his friend Art Buchwald. Sitting on the floor, I would top off my customary boiled egg, and dip fingers of toasted bread into the deep-orange yolk. The tea was hot and brown in the cup, like sweet bog water.

Dad would be idly sketching on a drawing pad. It was generally a good idea to have an anecdote at hand, even though it was often hard to come up with one, given that we were all living in the same compound and had seen him at dinner the night before. At some point, he would toss the sketchpad aside and make his way slowly out of bed, casting off his pajamas and standing fully naked before us.

We watched, mesmerized. I was fascinated by his body—his wide shoulders, high ribs, and long arms, his potbelly and legs as thin as toothpicks.

He was extremely well-endowed, but I tried not to stare or betray any interest in what I was observing. Eventually he would wander into the sanctuary of his bathroom, locking the door behind him, and sometime later would reappear, showered and shaved and smelling of fresh lime. Creagh, the butler, would come upstairs to help him dress, and the ritual would begin. He had a gleaming mahogany dressing room full of kimonos and cowboy boots and Navajo Indian belts, robes from India, Morocco, and Afghanistan.

Dad would ask my advice on which necktie to wear, take it into consideration, and arrive at his own decision. Then, dressed and ready for the day, he would proceed down to the study. My mother was out of her element in the rough West Country, trying to do everything beautifully.

She was an exotic fish out of water, even though she made a good effort. It was the dead of winter. The temperature was subzero.

She put up a marquee in the Little House yard—Guinness and champagne were to be served. And oysters brought up from Paddy Burkes pub, in Clarinbridge. And a band. She was wearing a white taffeta strapless evening dress. It was twinkling with hoarfrost inside the marquee, so cold that no one could bear to go out that night.

I remember my mother, her eyes shining, hovering alone at the entrance as the band packed up their instruments early to go home.

Dad was a storyteller. His stories usually started with a long, deep pause, as if he were reckoning with the narrative, his head thrown back, his brown eyes searching to visualize the memory, taking time to measure and reflect. Then the tale would begin.

He talked about the war. At the Battle of San Pietro, during a documentary assignment for the War Department, the rd Regiment needed 1, new troops to come in after the initial battle. Steel cable had been stretched across the Rapido River to allow the troops to cross at night to the other side.

But the Germans had struck and the soldiers had taken a terrible hit. On the opposite side of the river, a major stood waist-deep in the water, his hand blasted off, and saluted each soldier as he crossed. The stories often took place in exotic locales, with an emphasis on wildlife. We begged to hear our favorite ones from The African Queen: the marching red ants that ate everything they came across, and how the crew had to dig trenches, fill them with gasoline, and set them on fire because it was the only way to stop the ants from devouring everything in their path.

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