Nicola Graydon of the Guardian checks in with Tony Curtis on the occasion of his new autobiography American Prince, "a rollercoaster of a book in which he’s brutally frank about his childhood, his affairs, stardom, drug addiction, depression, women and sex. Lots and lots of sex. It’s a romp through Hollywood’s golden age, when Curtis, with his thick, black hair and cerulean eyes, practically invented celebrity as we know it." Today, Tony is 83 and hangs out at his home in a Las Vegas suburb with his wife of ten years, sitting in a wheelchair and concentrating on his painting. It was sixty years ago this year that he signed his first studio contract, his first step in becoming box office catnip. And as one of the enduringly moviestruck of major Hollywood movie stars, he can get misty-eyed about his status as one of the last living links to the final years of the old studio system. “Poor darlings, they’re all dead. Sinatra, Brando, Cary Grant. They’ve all gone.”
In Curtis's studio, reporter finds herself "surrounded by canvases of Marilyn Monroe, sitting in the same pose, head turned away, laughing, in slightly different colours, all with slightly prominent nipples." Curtis, who says that he has "an affinity for women," elaborates on his romantic past:
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