Gregory Peck- A Charmed Life

by Lynn Haney

  When it was suggested that there was poor rapport between Greg and his son, Veronique spoke out. ‘Jonathan and his father were very close. If anyone tells you they had a bad relationship it’s not true.’ Then she added: ‘The autopsy showed that Jonathan had a serious heart condition [premature arteriosclerosis]. We think that maybe the oxygen flow to his brain was cut down and – in an irrational moment – he shot himself not really realizing the importance of what he was doing.’

  Premature arteriosclerosis is rare in a man of 31, particularly in one such as Jonathan who was in excellent physical condition. ‘I’ve never been sick a day in my life,’ he told Nancy Stesin in the period before he died. But one thing was certain: Jonathan had been in a precarious mental state.

  Years after the suicide of Connie Farrow, he continued to brood about her. Suicide experts caution about a ripple or copycat effect. For this reason, newspaper editors often underreport such deaths, not giving the method and not including a photograph of the deceased for fear of over-dramatizing the act. More recently, Jonathan had been rejected by a newly separated woman who refused to move in with him. So he was depressed. Although most depressed people are not suicidal, most suicidal people are depressed. Depression can twist thinking. A person in a state of mind like Jonathan’s should not have had easy access to a gun. Most US suicides result from gunshots.

  Thirty is a critical age. It can be especially cruel for a man living in the shadow of a famous father. Psychiatrist Dr L James Gold said that when the children of famous parents realize their goals are unobtainable, they experience a sense of loss that confirms their feelings of hopelessness. ‘The result is severe depression and it can be suicidal.’ Dr Gold pointed out that many of these kids see their celebrity parents as ‘awesome supermen or superwomen,’ and not as ordinary human beings.

  Angst is so widespread among the descendents of superstars that it is referred to as the Paradise Syndrome. A significant number of Hollywood offspring take their own lives. The son of producer Ray Stark jumped out a window as did the daughter of Jennifer Jones and David O Selznick. Marlon Brando’s son murdered his half-sister, Cheyenne’s, lover. She compounded the Brando misery by hanging herself. Louis Jourdan’s son committed suicide by drowning. Carol Burnett’s daughter, Charles Boyer’s son, Carroll O’Connor’s son – all took their own lives. In 1978, Paul Newman’s son, Scott, overdosed on pills and alcohol. Reflecting on the tragedy, Newman said: ‘There are about 180,000 liabilities in having me as a father. The biggest one is that there is always an element of competition between children and their parents.’

  As Jonathan knew only too well, the children of famous parents are treated differently by their peers. Mary Francis Crosby, the daughter of crooner Bing Crosby, explained the pressure to Joey Berlin when he interviewed her for his book Toxic Fame: ‘Being a celebrity’s kid either goes one of two ways. You either become a mess or you become very strong. The questions aren’t any different. ‘Who am I? What am I? Where do I want to go with my life?

  ‘All of those things everybody has to deal with. The only difference is, if you’re a celebrity’s child you have to deal with those questions earlier. If you don’t establish a very strong sense of your own identity, people will project on you what they want, as so-and-so’s son or daughter.’

  Jonathan’s friends reeled from the news. They asked themselves, why didn’t anybody pick up on the signs of this impending catastrophe? John Bell was shocked and devastated. He sought out a doctor friend of the Pecks. ‘Why did he do this?’ he pleaded. The doctor alluded to the huge chasm between Jonathan’s achievements and Greg’s. ‘He just couldn’t do it like his old man.’

  The first thought that came to Paul Sack’s mind, having known Jonathan in Tanzania was: ‘Why did he choose a profession like television broadcasting which somewhat put him in competition with his father?’ Susan Casey, another friend from Peace Corps days, became angry with Greg when she heard the news. She recalled the pressure Greg put on Jonathan to move forward in a respectable career.

  Following Jonathan’s death on 27 June 1975, Nancy Stesin wrote a condolence letter to Greg. On 6 August she received a reply with a handwritten postscript from Greg: ‘I’m sorry. I know this must have been very painful for you too. Love, G.’ The words ‘have been’ struck Nancy as odd. Jonathan’s death was so recent. She showed the note to her psychiatrist who told her Greg had already pigeonholed the tragedy in his mind, placing it in the past. But, of course, he hadn’t. Nor had Nancy. For her, Jonathan’s memory is still alive today. Occasionally, she’ll rent Gentleman’s Agreement because Greg’s physical appearance in that film reminds her so much of Jonathan. Laments Nancy: ‘I’ve never gotten over Jonathan.’

  In the months that followed, Greg sank into a horrible depression. America venerated him as Atticus Finch, the splendid role model for fatherhood. And somehow he had failed his son. He brooded obsessively about things he could have done differently. He anguished: ‘Whatever the causes were, whatever the mistakes his mother and I have made, whatever influences he was subject to that made it apparently impossible for him to withstand that particular set of pressures at that particular time I don’t know. But my regret that I will live with for the rest of my life was that I was in France instead of here. I felt certain that had I been in Los Angeles he would have called me, because he often dropped in to talk things over with me. If only he could have picked up the phone and said, “Things are just bearing down so much on me.” I would have said, “Quit your job. We’ll go off to Tahiti.”’

  Veronique was afraid that it might break him completely. The bereaved are often at risk of suicide themselves. ‘She was his rock,’ said talk show host Larry King. It was she more than anybody who brought him a feeling of hope. Veronique told Michael Freedland it was ‘a great expression of his love for her, for Tony and Cecilia’ that Greg came through it.

  Although he continued to be miserable about Jonathan, gradually Greg’s life again became full of friends and projects and aspirations. Part of his mending process was to become an outspoken advocate for gun control legislation.

  Religion also played a role. Greg was not a traditional orthodox Catholic. This powerful conservative branch of Roman Catholicism holds to papal authority and historic church doctrine. Rather, Greg was a modern, liberal Catholic who took a pro-choice stance on abortion and supported gay rights. But, in addition to the heartbreak involved, the issue of suicide must have troubled him on a spiritual level. After all, Jonathan was a creation of God. It was not solely his life to do with as he saw fit. To kill oneself is to deny God.

  Greg’s religion was one of broad sympathies and high moral passion. He looked to the Bible for guidance in the immense mystery of death and creation. ‘Faith is a force,’ he said, ‘a powerful force. To me, it’s been like an anchor to windward – something that’s seen me through troubled times and some personal tragedies and also through the good times and success and the happy times.’

  Although his beliefs and those of the Catholic hierarchy were not in sync, Greg, nonetheless, found strength in the structure and rituals of the church. Having once considered becoming a priest, he liked and respected the clergy. He counted his introduction to Pope John Paul II as a high point in his life. Without reservations, Greg swore: ‘He impresses me more than any other man I’ve ever met and I’ve met a lot.’

  The Pope came to Washington during Jimmy Carter’s presidency in the 1970s, and the Pecks were among 500 prominent Americans invited to the White House to meet him. ‘My wife and I happened to be seated on one of the aisles,’ Greg said, ‘and the Pope came right down and he saw me and smiled. The smile was genuine, not a politician smile, the practiced smile. He shook hands with me and went on.

  ‘And then Carter said, “Hello, Gregory, what are you doing here?” and I said, “Well, Mr President, you invited me.” He said, “Just a minute” – and damned if he didn’t run after the Pope, grabbing him by the arm and pulled him back. He said, “Your E
xcellency, this is one of our best-known, most-loved American film actors.” And he looked at me, ah! – there was a glimmer as if somehow he must have seen me in a movie. His eyes widened and he took me in his arms. And he sort of grabbed me by the elbow and said, “God bless you, Gregory. God bless you in your mission.” And he went on.’

  Greg’s next spiritual encounter was decidedly more bizarre. His agent, George Chasin, presented him with the script of The Omen (1976) and inquired: ‘Would you be interested in playing the Devil’s foster dad?’ This was a tale of Satan’s return to earth.

  You betcha. Greg had a poor run of movies behind him. He’d also become exasperated with producing movies that lost money, so he perused the script and gave a quick thumbs up. ‘I remember reading it and thinking, this is going to be a commercial success, but I didn’t know it would be that kind of blockbuster. I really thought it would be a good paperback thriller. The success is almost obscene.’

  The time was right for satanic cinema. The Exorcist (1973) had changed the face of horror. Plus, the very late 1960s birthed Rosemary’s Baby (1968), a creepy classic about a woman who is stalked by a satanic cult. So a movie about raising the Antichrist looked like a good bet.

  In The Omen, Robert and Kathy Thorn (Peck and Lee Remick) give birth to a child. Is it the spawn of Satan? No. It’s actually stillborn. But Robert decides to swap an orphaned boy for his own lost son without letting anyone know. Switching kids is risky at best. Robert discovers he’s made one hell of a mistake. Little Damien doesn’t seem like a devil, but something’s amiss. Maybe it’s the eyes, little soulless gray coals. Maybe it’s the steel-melting stare. Perhaps it’s the fact that his nanny hangs herself in his honor. Things grow more intriguing as Rottweilers show up around the boy, as well as an evil replacement nanny. Then, Robert comes to realize his son is really different.

  The documentary 666: The Omen provides an intriguing glimpse into the casting of the child to play the pivotal role of Damien, the Antichrist. Director Richard Donner instructed Harvey Stephens: ‘When I say “Action,” I want you to fight me as hard as you can, and quit when I yell, “Cut.”’ Donner yelled, ‘Action,’ and Stephens launched into a barrage, kicking him in the testicles and failing to stop even after Donner yelled, ‘Cut!’ At that moment Donner knew he’d found his Antichrist. ‘He was a good kid,’ Donner confides ‘but I would not want him to be my own.’

  Though Damien was no little darling, it must have been excruciatingly difficult for Greg to run through scenes in which he held and caressed a small boy when so little time had elapsed since Jonathan’s death. He admitted he thought of Jonathan ‘every day, every hour.’

  On the first day of shooting, Greg sent Lee Remick two dozen roses with the note: ‘At last we get to work together on such a jolly little subject.’ The movie was shot primarily in England with other units filming in Jerusalem.

  Like Greg, Remick was more interested in the craft of acting than in the attention generated by stardom. An elegant Yankee beauty who started out playing saucy flirts, she was soon billed as ‘America’s answer to Brigitte Bardot.’ Her ascent as an actress was swift and distinguished. At age 22 she sizzled as the drum majorette in A Face in the Crowd (1957); then she attained stardom in Anatomy of a Murder (1959), and, maturing as an actress, was nominated as Best Actress three years later for her role in Days of Wine and Roses (1962).

  The Omen caused an outcry from churches and theologians. With some justification, the latter group attacked the movie’s suppositions, especially since they were based on a non-existent source, a doggerel from a fictitious ‘book of revelations,’ which sounded enough like the Bible’s Book of Revelations to unsuspecting patrons.

  When the Jews return to Zion

  And a comet rips the sky

  And the Holy Roman Empire rises

  Then you and I must die.

  From the eternal sea he rises

  Creating armies on either shore,

  Turning man against his brother

  ’Til man exists no more.

  Despite some reviewers dismissing the story as sheer hokum, The Omen was a huge, huge hit. In its first weekend, the film grossed $4,500,000. By January 1977, The Omen had earned $27,851,000. That placed it third behind One Flew Over the Cuckoos’s Nest ($56,500,000) and All the President’s Men ($29 million). By 1989, the film returned over $65 million. Reportedly, the star also got 10 per cent of the gross (Daily Variety, 13 March 1989). ‘I owe a great deal to films like The Omen,’ laughed Greg. ‘I’m terribly pleased about all the money I made from it.’

  The film restored Greg’s popularity. People were congratulating him on the street. It also re-awakened studio interest, and he was offered $250,000 (the same as Charlton Heston at that time, although the latter was also getting a percentage) to play the lead in MacArthur (1977). At age 61, with a 33-year movie career, he could echo General Douglas MacArthur’s famed ‘I have returned,’ since the string of duds between Arabesque, his last moneymaker in 1966, and The Omen.

  This picture, about one of the giants of the Second World War, could have been Greg’s run for the roses. The character had all the richness and complexity to gain Oscar attention. While he had been too young, too limited in range for Captain Ahab in Moby Dick, Greg was now seasoned enough by experience and tragedy to do MacArthur justice. With his voice, posture and temperament, he carried leadership with him. ‘Most film stars play pretty consistently characters that are closer to their own personalities,’ said Greg. The more he read about MacArthur, the more he saw himself in him. He admitted: ‘As a boy I dreamed of being a great general – I think most boys do.’

  Though different in many ways, Greg and the old warhorse general shared some startling similarities. Said Greg: ‘MacArthur was his own man, a nonconformist, a complex man who made his own rules. He was aloof, not a clubbable man. He kept his own counsel. I think there was a shyness, a sensitive side to his nature that led him to be something of a loner. He didn’t let other people get to know him very well.’

  MacArthur was also brave, brilliant, flamboyant, and he loved glory. He was a military enigma who was equally capable of a strategic masterpiece like the retreat of Bataan, and the lapse that led to the destruction of his Philippine air force nine hours after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. He was a 54-year-old, four-star general who trembled lest his mother learn he kept a young mistress. Also, he was a symbol of political reaction who brought civil liberties and women’s rights to Japan. With all that, Greg wasn’t sure he liked the guy. MacArthur was a vain, imperious showman who always had a public relations team at his elbow.

  When Laurence Olivier heard Greg was going to do MacArthur, he reached over and poked Greg in the solar plexus, and asked, ‘How is your breath control?’ He knew that MacArthur wrote with flair and spoke in grand, rotund phrases. In that kind of speech, you have to have the breath to carry through to the end of the phrase. You can’t gasp for breath in the middle. With his history of pipe smoking, Greg had most probably compromised his lungs, but he still had enough air capacity left to do the part justice.

  Olivier also shared a relevant story. He told him that once, in a performance of Richard III, he realized he was falling flat, that the audience was just sitting there. He asked the Director, Tyrone Guthrie, what was wrong. ‘You don’t love the character,’ Guthrie replied. ‘How can I love a character who gets to the throne by murdering his friends and relatives?’ the actor demanded. ‘Murder is entirely beside the point,’ Guthrie counseled. ‘You must love him anyway.’ Peck did come to love MacArthur as a character.

  Olivier had one more thing to say to Greg: ‘No matter how heavy the drama, you must always look for the foibles of the character, and exploit them in tragedy.’

  Greg considered Olivier the best actor in the world, so he took the advice. Greg said: ‘MacArthur was absurd, pompous and egotistical. It was never any attempt to glorify him. I wanted the warts and foibles and the vanities. That’s part of him.’

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bsp; After spending months studying this thundering paradox of a man, Greg had to decide what physical presence he should assume. Should he make a concerted effort to look like MacArthur? ‘Fortunately,’ Greg reported, ‘producer Frank McCarthy and director Joe Sargent and I were in complete agreement on this issue. We all felt it was more important to get inside MacArthur’s skin and present him as a human being rather than doing a nightclub impersonation which would become boring after four minutes.’ As a result the only concession toward a so-called ‘MacArthur look’ was the shaving of Peck’s head to give him a bald spot in the back.

  In the American Film Institute’s tribute book to his father, Stephen Peck recalled the surprises in store for the kin of an actor who disappears into a role. ‘Sometimes this alternate reality could be disconcerting,’ he asserted. ‘Dad had just finished filming MacArthur, and I hadn’t seen him for a few weeks. I walked into his house and in the breakfast room came upon a tall, thin, balding man, his back to me, fiddling with the curtains. The curtain man, I thought. But he turned when he heard me and he wore my dad’s face, except for a shaved hairline. Dad was completely immersed in MacArthur, and he began to recount an episode from the General’s life. Then his expression softened, and he seemed to come back to earth. “So how are you?” he inquired. It was as if General MacArthur had left the room and Gregory Peck had just walked in.