MY DATE WITH ROBERT DE NIRO
IWHEN I first met my husband I would take him to showbiz events. He would always say: “This is all very nice, but if you could just get Robert De Niro”. Well, his words were my dream. I’ve always loved De Niro. From the moment I saw him as the young Vito Corleone in Godfather II when I was 16, that was it. Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, The Deer Hunter, I’ve seen them all. Even now that he’s less of a hard man, I adore in him in the Meet the Parents trilogy or as Dirty Grandpa.
So when the company, An Experience With, who arrange private black tie events with leading actors, asked me whether I wanted to interview him for the events they were running in Leeds and Birmingham, my cup runneth over.
I had previously interviewed Al Pacino for the same company. “Call me Al, ”turned out to be warm and charming. De Niro, however, is another plate of chopped liver.
He is not known for his friendly interviewee style. Indeed, he doesn’t like interviews, has been known to walk out of them and once nearly came to blows with the late film critic Barry
Norman. I’ve been a showbiz journalist for 30 years, and this was the pinnacle of my career. I felt sick.
The initial chat would be on the phone, he would call me from New York. I had four sound recorders ready. “What if they all failed?” I worried. I hadn’t imagined that he would receive a letter bomb and have to postpone. On the same day the Clintons, Barak Obama and Joe Biden all received identical devices. De Niro would later say to me, “If I was president for a day, I would roll back most of what Trump is doing and get us back on track to the way we should be. It’s a mess, the guy is a mess.”
Another two days passed by with promises of the call coming in. De Niro at the time was filming The Joker with Joaquin Phoenix. His PA, Sabrina, was my new best friend on email as she regularly sent me updates.
Then one Sunday afternoon, my husband Ray and I were relaxing post bagel brunch and the phone rings. “Hello, hello, how are you?” the voice says. I fumble madly switching on my recorders, putting the phone on speakerphone, whilst exchanging pleasantries with one of the most famous men on the planet. I ask if I can call him Bob: “Sir Bob! Ha ha, no I’m just kidding, yes Bob is fine. What can I do for you? How can I help?”
Forty five minutes later, Bob and I are still chatting. He’s asking me about Leeds and giving me tips on being a grandparent; our first grandchild, Nina, had been born three days earlier. I don’t even really notice our doorbell going. A friend had popped round to deliver a gift for the baby, my husband told her, “You can’t come in Francine is talking to Robert De Niro!”
Last week, in Leeds, Bob and I met at last. He was charming, warm and lovely and held my hand the whole time we were talking. He wants to see my articles on him, I’m sending them all. Me and Bobby D. A dream come true.