What Was The Net Worth Of Robert Evans When He Died?

There’s something almost cinematic about the way Robert Evans picked up 'The Godfather' for Paramount—like a producer’s version of stalking the perfect prop. I first heard the story while nursing a late-night coffee and watching a documentary about studio era dealmaking; since then it’s one of those Hollywood myths I love repeating to friends. Evans was running Paramount’s production at the time and had an eye for manuscripts and projects that could become cultural monsters. He read Mario Puzo’s manuscript and, sensing the book’s raw, combustible energy, moved quickly to secure the movie rights before the publishing world fully understood what Puzo had written. Evans didn’t act like a timid suit. He bought the rights—privately and decisively—and then used his clout to push the studio into actually making the movie. That involved more than signing a contract: he had to sell the concept to executives who worried about glamorizing organized crime, negotiate Puzo’s involvement as a co-writer, and then fight for a director who would respect the material. His championing of Francis Ford Coppola (a choice that made many at the studio nervous) and his willingness to back unconventional casting choices were crucial. Evans leveraged relationships, timing, and a taste for risk. I always picture Evans as that person in a bar who, after one sip, knows which band will sell out stadiums. He bet on a gritty, literary story about family and power, turned it into a film with a distinct voice, and survived the internal studio pushback. Watching 'The Godfather' now, I can’t help but think about the chain of gutsy moves—starting with the rights purchase—that led to its creation.

I've been hunting down Robert Evans documentaries off and on for years, and if you want the quickest route to actually watching something, start with the one people always mention: 'The Kid Stays in the Picture'. I picked up a copy on Blu-ray a while back, but these days that film turns up in lots of places — sometimes available to rent or buy on Amazon Prime Video, Apple TV/iTunes, Google Play, or Vudu, and every few months it bounces onto a streaming service during a retrospective or director spotlight. If you don't want to pay per-view, check your local library apps first. I found 'The Kid Stays in the Picture' on Kanopy once using my library login, and friends have scored it on Hoopla. Those library-driven platforms are gold for older docs because they rotate holdings based on licensing deals with educational libraries. Another trick I use is going to JustWatch or Reelgood and searching 'Robert Evans' — those sites aggregate where titles are streaming, renting, or purchasable in your country so you don't waste time guessing. Beyond that, you can also find interviews and shorter documentary segments on YouTube and Vimeo. I like to hunt for longer oral-history clips or festival Q&As — sometimes a filmmaker will post extras. If you want physical extras or director commentary, keep an eye on used Blu-ray/DVD marketplaces like eBay or your local thrift store; I snagged a well-loved disc with an intro by the director for cheap once. Finally, if you follow film festival listings or Turner Classic Movies schedules, they sometimes air retrospective documentaries and companion pieces, so setting alerts there helps when availability shifts.

I still get a little giddy talking about the golden, grubby swirl of Hollywood that Robert Evans inhabited — his life reads like a movie script full of triumphs and messes. One of the biggest things that shadowed his career was his very public battle with drugs and the legal trouble that shadowed that lifestyle. He was famous for partying hard, and that excess bled into work: projects ran late, relationships with directors and studios frayed, and his image moved from studio bon vivant to a cautionary celebrity figure. Reading 'The Kid Stays in the Picture' felt like watching him explain the chaos in real time, and the documentary of the same name only underlines how autobiography and mythmaking blurred in his case. Another scandal that followed him for years involved the financing and fallout around 'The Cotton Club' and the larger Roy Radin affair. Evans’ name came up in the tangled investigations that followed Radin’s murder and the production money scandals, and even if he wasn’t charged, the association clogged up his reputation. Then there were the big-studio politics and box-office disasters — when a high-profile flop or cost overrun happens under your name, it’s not just a bad movie, it’s career collateral. 'The Cotton Club' in particular was a costly, chaotic production that dented his standing. Add to that the serialized gossip about his marriages and affairs (yes, his relationship with Ali MacGraw and other high-profile relationships made headlines), and you get a portrait of someone whose private life was never private. The combination of drug troubles, legal tangles, and sensational headlines steadily eroded the aura of invincibility he’d had as Paramount’s wunderkind. Still, as a fan I can’t help but marvel at how he helped shepherd films like 'The Godfather' and 'Chinatown' — the scandals complicated him, but they never erased the work, and that contradiction is endlessly fascinating to me.

I still get a little thrill thinking about those old Paramount days—the kind of Hollywood where personalities were as big as the films. For me, the clearest bonds Robert Evans formed were with actors who rose with him in the late '60s and '70s. Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway come to mind first: Evans championed risky projects like 'Bonnie and Clyde' and that kind of backing naturally built trust. You can feel the chemistry in the stories — late-night script talks, fights over casting, celebrations when a gamble paid off. Those backstage moments made for real relationships, not just business deals. Jack Nicholson felt like Evans’s cinematic soulmate in a way. Evans produced 'Chinatown' and gave Nicholson room to be Nicholson — that kind of freedom breeds loyalty. Robert Redford and Mia Farrow were also in Evans’s orbit through films like 'The Great Gatsby' and other Paramount-era projects; Redford especially had a mutual respect with Evans about star power and taste. And on a more personal note, Ali MacGraw was literally one of the closest people to him — they were married, and that created a different, layered intimacy you don’t get from a normal producer-actor relationship. What fascinates me is how these relationships blurred social and professional lives: studio parties, champagne toasts, arguments that ended in collaboration. Evans’s connections were built from championing projects, cultivating stars, and sometimes from messy, very human friendships — the kind that leave great stories behind.

I still get a little giddy talking about that late-60s/70s Paramount vibe—there’s a real swagger to the movies Robert Evans steered. To me, his production style was all about packaging: he knew how to take a property, attach the right stars, a sleek director, and a killer script, then sell that combo as a must-see cultural event. That’s how projects like 'The Godfather' and 'Love Story' became not just films but brand moments. His touch was glossy and confident without being shallow; he wanted movies that looked expensive and mattered to grown-up audiences. What made his era special was the tension between auteur sensibilities and studio muscle. He gave bold filmmakers room to push boundaries, but he also made sure the films were marketable—big casts, memorable music, lavish production design, and location shoots that made settings feel like characters. He loved strong screenplays and top-tier collaborators, and he wasn’t shy about retooling things to maintain commercial bite. Reading his memoir 'The Kid Stays in the Picture' gives you that insider’s charisma: he packaged not just films but a mythology around them. So the shorthand I use is this: star-driven, high-production-value packaging with a New Hollywood willingness to take risks. It’s glamorous, entrepreneurial, and slightly ruthless—the kind of studio-era confidence that produced movies people still quote and watch in a single sitting on a rainy afternoon.

Nothing beats talking about the studio-era swing of the 1970s — and Robert Evans was right in the middle of it. From my vantage as a movie nerd who hoards Criterion discs and scribbles notes in the margins, the films he produced or famously championed that define the decade are a thrilling mix: 'Love Story' (1970) gave mainstream audiences a glossy, weepy romantic hit; 'The Godfather' (1972) reshaped Hollywood’s appetite for epic, morally complex storytelling; 'The Great Gatsby' (1974) showed the era’s taste for lavish literary adaptations; and 'Chinatown' (1974) helped codify neo-noir for modern viewers. What I love is how these films map the mood swings of the 1970s. 'Love Story' tapped into a wide, sentimental cultural vein. Then 'The Godfather' and 'Chinatown' pulled the needle toward darker, more ambiguous territory — power, corruption, and damaged heroes. 'Marathon Man' (1976) and other thrillers from that circle leaned into paranoia and grit. Evans’s fingerprints were both practical (as a producer getting projects greenlit) and cultural (shaping the kinds of stories studios took risks on). I still find it fun to watch a marathon of these movies on a rainy weekend: the shift from glossy romance to brutal realism mirrors the country’s mood. If you’re curious, pick two — like 'Love Story' and 'Chinatown' — and see how different the 1970s can feel in a single afternoon.

There’s something deliciously cinematic about the way Robert Evans built his legend — not just in the movies he pushed, but in the swagger and timing he brought to the whole process. I get a little giddy thinking about the late‑1960s and 1970s when he walked into Paramount and basically rewired how a studio could take risks. He had an eye for material that sold to both audiences and critics: he helped shepherd projects that became cultural milestones, like 'Love Story' and the studio backing that allowed 'The Godfather' to be made the way it was. Those weren’t safe bets, and that willingness to bet big is part of why people still talk about him. Beyond greenlighting, what made him legendary for me was how he packaged talent. He courted directors, actors, and writers, giving them enough room to create while still steering the ship. Then there’s his knack for narrative — he could sense a story’s pulse and envision its market. Combine that with his glamorous Hollywood persona (you can’t separate the man from the myth when you read 'The Kid Stays in the Picture' or watch the documentary of the same name), and you get this image of a studio boss who was both kingmaker and showman. Of course, the scandals and the rough edges of his private life added fuel to the legend; messy human lives often become the stuff of myth. For me, Evans is a reminder that Hollywood success is as much about taste and nerve as it is about deals and budgets, and that a charismatic producer can change the course of cinema simply by choosing which stories to bet on.

I get a little giddy whenever I crack open a Hollywood memoir, and 'The Kid Stays in the Picture' is one of those books that feels like walking into a smoky soundstage where everything dramatic is true and half of it is a legend. For me, Evans wrote it to do several things at once: to tell his version of the story, to celebrate the golden and chaotic years he helped shape, and to take control of his own image. He lived a life that read like a screenplay—rising from small-time beginnings to studio power, shepherding big hits, surviving scandal—and the book lets him tell those scenes in his own voice, flamboyant and unapologetic. Beyond reputation management, there’s a confessional quality that I always respond to. Part of the drive was catharsis—laying out the mistakes, the marriages, the outsized deals, and the losses so readers could see the human behind the persona. He also clearly loved the way Hollywood stories are told: with timing, color, and character. That hunger to entertain is why the memoir reads less like a dry chronology and more like an actor performing a role of himself. The title—'The Kid Stays in the Picture'—is a defiant note, a refusal to be dismissed. Reading it felt like sitting through a long monologue where he both claims credit and asks forgiveness, and in doing so he rebuilt his legacy on his own terms.