hijo”—meaning “my son” in Spanish—“have a very important name!”
Father gestures with both hands toward the houses below and the ocean in the distance as if he were encompassing all of California, a reverse conquistador who has found the Promised Land. He calls out to the residents as if they are an audience waiting to acknowledge and applaud the names of the streets on which they live: “Santa Monica, San Vicente, La Cienega, La Jolla.”
Father lets the moment sink in before concluding. “Remember, amigo, that before there was a Harry and a Chuck, there was a Pedro and a Lorenzo. Wonderful names with a history! A courageous band of settlers who built missions up and down the Pacific coast hundreds of years ago—El Camino Real!”
My beacon of light, Father always knew what to say and when to say it. Even at times when I did not agree with him and wish I had.
Lesson over, we walk back down to the car. Smiling, Father gently wraps his arm around my shoulder. Then, as only he could, he puts it all in perspective for me: “People may forget what you say or do, but never forget your history.”
Father’s wise words wash over me as we surge down the Pacific Coast Highway in his fancy chariot. They echo in my mind as the road gives way to the spectacular, unobstructed view of gigantic waves cresting and crashing on the brown sandy coastline below . . . and now again years later as I stand here on the beach thinking of him. I understand better now what he was trying to tell me: Be proud of who you are. Never have an ounce of “quit” in you. Always do your best. Let the chips fall where they may. And . . .
“Mi hijo, as important as the rest, live and love, make wise choices where your heart is concerned,” Father says, even as he swerves to avoid a deep crevice in the road, “and remember, the true measure of a man is how he handles the curves in his life.”
It has taken half of my life—four divorces, two broken engagements, more busted romances than I remember, millions lost, and many therapy sessions—not to mention years of guilt and heartbreak—to understand how right my father was. Why did nothing satisfy me, even after enjoying tremendous fame and fortune, owning spectacular mansions, airplanes, boats, and racing cars? Why did nothing fulfill me? Why did nothing complete me? Then it became clear to me: because I am a renegade at heart.
Renegades never settle. They are never satisfied. They keep exploring, keep discovering, keep trying until they get things right. They live every day more anxious about what lies around the bend than about living in the moment. They enjoy the thrill of the ride for however long, no matter where it takes them, regardless of the consequences, regardless of the outcome. It is all part of the journey . . . my journey (and I have the scars to prove it). It is exactly how my father would see things if he were here today, on this sandy coastline, reliving cherished memories with me.
“They . . . the choices, mi hijo,” he pauses. “They define who you are as a person and a man.”
I have lived those words as best I can. Not a day goes by that I do not miss my father. His spirit, his grandeur, his unsettling smile, his wisdom, and, yes, even his favorite pungent cologne, they are with me always, every second of every day. I am sure he would have wished he had attained the success I ended up having. He did not live to see it, but he wanted me to embrace his advice and go beyond anything he imagined for himself. I thank him for that.
The other great measure of a man, my father would say, is to “learn from your mistakes.” I am here to tell you: I have. For the first time, I am at peace in my life. I am now a clear-minded father of six, with a woman I am with for all the right reasons, more satisfied and healthier than I have ever been, thanks to diet and exercise, and—most important—having so much to live for.
Father always encouraged me to remember my history. I do. All of it vividly, as if it happened yesterday. Every detail, every key moment, every turning point. And all the baggage that goes with them. It may not be exactly the life my father imagined for me after first laying eyes on me the day I was born. It is, however, my life, my career, my marriages, my romances, even my foolish mistakes. And nobody else’s. Lived as only I know how . . . a true renegade.
ONE
Caught Between Two Worlds
PEOPLE ASSUME just because you are the son or daughter of a celebrity, you spend your whole life around other rich and famous people, living in the upper echelon of society. You have it easy. In my case, nothing could be further from the truth. As I would come to learn, fame and fortune never solve. My parents are examples of that.
Both are highly talented professionals so busy working and so preoccupied with their careers that they never achieve true, lasting happiness together. Surely they have the right intentions when they marry, buy a home together, plan a family, and, of course, have me. To the world, they are Hollywood’s happiest couple. Yet, as I discover at a very tender age, just because you make plans doesn’t mean they will always work out as you hope.
My father, known to the world as Fernando Lamas, is a rakishly handsome, flamboyant, and athletic man who loves life and beautiful women—not necessarily in that order. Born on January 9, 1915, in Buenos Aires, Argentina, he grows up in a country imperiled by political and economic unrest and yet rises above it all. At a young age, after developing a love for theater, he studies drama at school. Later, he abandons his studies for athletic pursuits—horse riding, fencing, boxing (winning the middleweight amateur title), and swimming (becoming the South American freestyle champion in the 1937 Pan-American Games). While still in his teens, he returns to his first love—acting, appearing onstage, then on radio, before making his first motion picture at the age of twenty-four. By 1942, he establishes himself as an Argentine cinema celebrity, proudly starring in over a dozen pictures, producing six and directing two, and living up to his on-screen reputation as a ladies’ man.
With a natural eye for beauty, Dad holds true to a basic philosophy when it comes to women, based on his old-world values: “Women are the same all over the world, and I say God bless them,” he good-naturedly explains to a reporter—although with some differences, he points out: “American women are slightly different from Latins because they have more freedom. I take my hat off to them; the women here have earned their position of equality with men. They can influence men by direct means, whereas Latin women cannot. The Latin women have to remain in the home, and the man is the master. Whatever influence they have must come by indirect means.”
Brought up to believe that a woman’s place is in the home, Father is attracted to women with like values. In 1940, he falls in love with and marries fellow Argentine actress Perla Mux, who costars with him in fourteen films from the late 1930s to the early 1950s. The union lasts four years, producing a daughter, Christina, before ending in divorce. Then, in 1946, he marries a second time to Lydia Barachi. Six years later, in September 1952, they split after having a second daughter, Alexandra (“Alex”).
In 1950, Dad flees to Hollywood to appear in a supporting role in his first American feature for Republic Pictures, The Avengers, before signing a contract with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer to star as a romantic lead in English-speaking movies. After his MGM film debut in Rich, Young and Pretty with Jane Powell in 1951, he quickly becomes one of the most promising Latin actors since Rudolph Valentino and Ramón Novarro, as he climbs his way to international stardom. My father’s story—a foreigner with a foreign name and accent making something of himself in an alien land—becomes a great example to me. It teaches me an important lesson: If you work hard and pay your dues, almost anything is possible.
Despite his success, my father is realistic about how fleeting fame is—a lesson he later imparts to me when I become an actor. “Hollywood is a momentary place,” he says, “and I feel this is my moment. I like it here, and I’d like to stay. But perhaps two years from now, some fellow in the balcony of a theater in Kansas City will get up and say, ‘Aw, I’m getting tired of seeing that guy on the screen.’ Six other people might join him and that would be the beginning of the end.”
Long before I am a twinkle in my father’s eye, Dad’s romances with many of his female costars become well-publicized affairs. His torrid relationship