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m o m m y__l e e r e s t In a bizarre precursor of the sex-tapes scandal, Monica Lewinsky's mom woo-wooed that she might have slept with Plácido Domingo in a book proposal for her tacky drugstore tell-all, "The Private Lives of the Three Tenors." - - - - - - - - - - - - THE PRIVATE LIVES OF THE THREE TENORS: BEHIND THE SCENES WITH PLÁCIDO DOMINGO, LUCIANO PAVAROTTI, AND JOSÉ CARRERAS
BY GARY KAMIYA | As if the Monica Lewinsky story wasn't weird enough, it has now acquired a lurid Freudian psychosexual literary background. In what may be one of the more peculiar examples of the adage "like mother, like daughter" in recent memory, it turns out that Monica Lewinsky's mother, writer Marcia Lewis, is also strangely drawn to powerful men with oversized libidos. Nor, if we are to believe Lewis' coy nudge-nudging, is her interest purely biographical. In a proposal for a tacky 1996 tell-all book titled "The Private Lives of the Three Tenors" -- a next-to-the-shampoo-aisle tome filled with gushing, sympathetic accounts of the apparently endless extramarital affairs enjoyed by the golden-throated divos -- Lewis hikes up her rhetorical skirt to reveal that she, too, well, might have done the deed of darkness with Plácido Domingo. An article in Friday's New York Times on the Web quoted Lewis as having written in the proposal, "How did the author, a glamorous Beverly Hills reporter, formerly with Hollywood Reporter, get all the inside dope? She denies rumors she and Domingo were more than friends in the '80s but read the book and see what you think." Keri Capodona, publicist for Birch Lane Press, the book's publisher, told Salon that "in her proposal to the publisher, (Lewis) threw out the idea that she has been intimate with one or more of the Three Tenors." Asked if Lewis had confirmed to anyone at Birch Lane that she had indeed slept with one or more of the singers, Capodona said, "She has not come out and openly admitted it to the publisher and he has never asked her." In fact, Lewis' ditzy, if-this-dressing-room's-rockin'-don't-come-knockin', pitch was probably just a tease (either light-hearted or sleazy, depending on your perspective) to hook the publisher, for there is zero evidence in "The Private Lives" that she ever pressed operatic flesh of any kind, properly or improperly. In fact, there is zero evidence in this flimsy volume that Lewis ever interviewed, talked to or even laid eyes on any of its three subjects. An authorial note at the end of the book sheds a mottled light on Lewis' reportorial techniques: After keenly pointing out that the Tenors' respective autobiographies, on which she "relied heavily (but not exclusively)," would "likely be the most accurate account of names, dates and places," she goes on to single out for praise "the remarkable music critics who write for various publications here and abroad. Their thoughtful, insightful analyses of the Three Tenors' many performances almost always have the strong underpinnings of deep and educated understanding of the music itself, and the extraordinary courage to speak their minds honestly and forthrightly, adding much to the dimension of the audience's experience." Having acknowledged her heavy debt to the remarkable music critics of America, Lewis quickly moves on to her real business, boldly seizing the throbbing center of her tale of randy Latin crooners. "The Private Lives of the Three Tenors" wallows cheerfully and without even a pretense of moral condemnation in the delectable sexual exploits of the full-throated celebrities. Lewis acknowledges that the singers' wives are often left watching the kids while their celebrity husbands comport themselves with various sweet young things. But you don't exactly finish the chapters on these long-suffering women with tears in your eyes. We're talking minor characters here, Rosencrantzes, ready to be shunted offstage when they get in the way of the stars' stories. By virtue of their talent, power and fame, the Three Big Boys are deemed above the marital law. Besides, what can they do? Women throw themselves at them! In page after hackneyed, moist-palmed page, Lewis titillates her readers with tales of these "lusty, passionate men" gifted with that "unnaturally high pitch" that, like a "primeval scream, subconsciously stirs the 'wild beast' in both men and women." After every concert, Lewis gushes, "the hallways and streetside curbs are jammed with hot, panting fans." And the fleshly temptations laid out before the fortunate trio are available in stylish Town & Country packaging, too: "Every tony opera board at every major city opera company has at least a half dozen beautifully manicured, Chanel-suited society women who help raise hundreds of thousands of dollars for the company and entertain the Tenors lavishly and, sometimes, intimately." In Lewis' hot, panting world, it's good to be one of the Three Tenors -- especially Domingo, whose behavior in the extramarital bed is apparently not nearly as placid as his sorely tested wife, Marta, might desire. Compared to Pavarotti, "Domingo exudes real sexual magnetism," Lewis writes. "His backstage notes are more explicit, with a time and date for a rendezvous. The women who talk about romantic liaisons with the singer, talk about nights of such great passion that they are left spoiled for any other man." But Pavarotti is no slouch at racking them up either, reports Lewis. Each of the 10 emeralds in an opulent necklace worn by his wife, Adua, according to "insiders," "represents another contrite confession of her husband's indiscretions." As for Carreras, check out this steamy, italicized passage at the head of a chapter: "As the private jet touched down in Paris, Jutte Jaeger glanced nervously at her lover's face. She had been a beautiful, young Austrian airline stewardess, no different than a million other young working women, when the world-famous supertenor took her as his mistress. Now, their relationship was stronger than ever and she was on the brink of wrestling him away from Mercedes, his wife of fifteen years. Last night, he promised to get a divorce. This time, she believed him. Passion was running high between the two lovers. José Carreras always smiled when he whispered, 'Sex is good for my voice.' In this romantic city, Paris, Jutte Jaeger intended to give her lover's 'voice' a magnificent workout." Oh, mercy! Lewis' account could melt the paint off the walls of that little room near the Oval Office where her daughter either did or did not serve the very, very special needs of another great man. So, not knowing anything about either Monica or her mom, what can we infer about you-know-what from a three-minute Freudian interpretation of her mother's nudge-nudge pitch and subsequent lame, tawdry-lite book? Well, you can pretty much use it to bolster either side of the did-she-or-didn't-she debate. You could guess that she shares her mom's tendency to hero-worship, with its concomitant, uh, breeziness about moral issues around adultery, and therefore ended up succumbing to the good ol' boy blandishments of a man who, like Pavarotti, grew up surrounded by and loving women. To put it bluntly, if Mom was a secondhand starfucker, why shouldn't her daughter be a firsthand one? On the other hand, there's that dubious hey-I-started-a-rumor-that-I-did-Plácido letter. Maybe Monica's I-did-Bill tales are no more credible than that. It isn't worth staring into these soggy tea leaves for too long, although it's as informative as watching "Nightline." But if Monica's looking for some pre-deposition reading, she might want to avoid "The Private Lives of the Three Tenors." No matter what she did or didn't do, I just have the feeling it might be kind of a depressing read.
Salon assistant editor Dawn MacKeen contributed research for this article. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - T A B L E+T A L K
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