His first job after two years of seclusion was a television show, “Shower of Stars,” for the Chrysler Corporation. It ended in a furor when he simply mouthed the words to old recordings as they were played off camera. The sponsors had invited reporters from all over the country to come out for the occasion, with supper afterward at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Mario went straight home after his performance. I went to the party to hear what the reporters had to say. Most of them thought Mario was through. He hadn’t even been able to synchronize his lip movements to his recorded voice.
At 12:30 A.M. I drove to his house. He sat in the drawing room with his wife and the Hubbell Robinsons, drinking pink champagne. I’d always been rough with him because I loved him. “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked. “Celebrating a wake?”
He leaped to his feet in a white heat of anger. “What do you mean?”
“That’s what it was—a wake. I stayed at the party long enough to hear what the reporters had to say.”
Suddenly he became a little boy. “What can I do to redeem myself?”
“There’s only one answer. Nobody thinks you can sing. Can you?”
“Of course, I can.”
“Then tomorrow afternoon you’ll invite the reporters here to your house and sing for them. You’ve got to if you want to save your reputation.”
“Will you come? Will you sit where I can sing to you?” I reluctantly said I would. They came, and he sang as only he could when he knew it was a question of success or failure. He saved what was left of his career.