“I believe my parents had a full-blown party in the room at Cedars-Sinai,” says filmmaker Lorraine Nicholson of the day of her birth, “because adults are constantly coming up to me saying, ‘I was there the day you were born.’” The late Robert Evans snapped a photo of her father, Jack Nicholson, with her in his arms; two days later her mom, Rebecca Broussard, crashed a luncheon celebrating his fresh fatherhood at the Polo Lounge— wearing garters “to show she still had it. A real California love story!”
Thirty-three years later, Nicholson is chronicling what usually makes LA confidential with a feature in the pipeline based on the life of an exotic dancer who married a Ponzi-scheming money manager, lost everything, and built herself back up. And she’s creating a podcast about the ’80s-era nightlife impresario Helena Kallianiotes, who was an Eve Babitz muse. And then there are Nicholson’s dinner parties (guest list eclectic and strictly classified), establishing the host as a doyen of Hollywood old and new. Between writing time and a women-only tai chi class, she squeezes in french fries and conversation in a corner booth at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
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Jacket by Chanel; earrings by Sophie Buhai.Photograph by Eric Ray Davidson; styled by Rebecca Ramsey.
HUGH HEFNER’S KIDS were her childhood best friends. “At the Playboy Mansion, you could order any food you wanted. I would order pounds of mashed potatoes and peas.”
WHEN SHE WAS GROWING UP, her father drove golf balls into the canyon—and then sent the kids to collect them. He prepared for his role in Mike Nichols’s Wolf by howling and attacking the car as she left for school.
SHE ONCE LOST her journal outside and got it back with a new inscription: “Dear Lorraine, you left this in my driveway, love, the fat man next door.” Her neighbor? Marlon Brando.