My first weeks at the Walt Disney Studios were consumed with meetings, and wardrobe and wig fittings. I was struck by the differences between preparing for a film role and preparing for a stage performance. For a play or musical, the first few days are spent in script readings and laying out the staging of the scenes. Measurements are taken and you see costume sketches, but fittings generally don’t happen until well into the rehearsal process. A film, however, is usually shot out of sequence, and in very small increments. Blocking for any scene isn’t addressed until the day of the shoot. It felt odd to be fitting costume elements and wigs for a role I had yet to portray, but to some degree, seeing those costumes helped me begin to formulate Mary’s character.
Walt had purchased the rights to the book, but not to Mary Shepard’s illustrations, so Tony’s costumes had to be completely original, yet still evoke the spirit of the characters that P. L. Travers had created. The time period of the film had been changed from the 1930s to 1910, as Walt felt that late Edwardian England would provide richer visual opportunities, and Tony agreed.
I was awed by my husband’s attention to detail: his choice of materials, colors, and accessories, like Mary’s loosely hand-knitted scarf, or her iconic hat with the sprightly daisy on top. While supervising my fittings, Tony pointed out hidden touches like the primrose or coral linings of Mary’s jackets, or her brightly colored petticoats.
“I fancy that Mary has a secret inner life,” he explained, “and when you kick up your heels, you’ll catch a glimpse of who she is beneath her prim exterior.”
Tony also paid close attention to the wigs, making sure the color was right, and that Mary’s hair was softer and prettier for the scenes when she was out and about with Bert. This was all hugely insightful for me as I tried to wrap my head around Mary’s character. What was her background? How did she move, walk, talk? Never having made a film before, and having no specific acting training to fall back on, I was relying on instinct.
I decided to try giving Mary a particular walk. I felt that she would never stroll leisurely, so I practiced on the soundstage, walking as fast as I could, placing one foot immediately after the other to give the impression of hardly touching the ground—the end result being that the children would find it difficult to keep up with her. I also developed a kind of turned-out stance, like a balletic first position, to punctuate the impression of Mary’s character when flying. I recalled certain members of flying ballet troupes from my vaudeville days who had simply let their feet dangle, and I always thought it detracted from the effect. In fact, most of Mary Shepard’s original illustrations show Mary flying with somewhat droopy feet, although when she was on the ground, she was trimly turned out. I suddenly remembered that when I portrayed Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady on Broadway, I unconsciously toed-in, giving the flower girl a slightly pigeon-toed lack of grace in her clumsy boots, then I straightened my feet when she acquired confidence and poise as a “lady.” It made me smile to think I was doing the exact opposite for Mary Poppins.
In addition to all the costumes, Tony designed the set for Cherry Tree Lane, which featured the exteriors of the Banks’ house, Admiral Boom’s, and several other townhouses. There were realistic cobblestones, blossoming trees, functional drains to carry away the rain on the pavement, and of course the façades of all the homes. Streetlamps and windows glowed; brass doorknobs and letter boxes shone. Tony also designed all the interiors in the film. It was hard to believe this was his first film venture, and his work proved that Walt’s instinct about his talent had been absolutely correct.
DANCE REHEARSALS SOON began on the back lot at the Studios. The film was being choreographed by the talented young husband-and-wife team of Marc Breaux and Dee Dee Wood. Marc was tall and lithe, and devastatingly good-looking. Dee Dee was strong and spirited, with a great sense of humor. Though they had worked on Broadway, this was their first film, and I learned that Dick Van Dyke had recommended them to Walt, having worked with the couple on television.
A huge tarpaulin had been rigged as a canopy for shade in the open air, and by the time I joined the rehearsals, the group of strapping young male dancers had already learned their choreography for the chimney sweep sequence, “Step in Time.”As Marc and Dee Dee put them through their paces and showed me how I would be integrated into the number, my jaw dropped.
The two of them were much influenced by the famous choreographer Michael Kidd, who was known for his vigorous, athletic style. There were somersaults, leaps, and other acrobatics using broomsticks and props. It was blazing hot under the heavy tarp, which, despite shading us, trapped the San Fernando Valley heat and smog. The male dancers stripped down to T-shirts and shorts, and none of them seemed even slightly winded. Being used to a more mild and dewy climate, and having just delivered a baby three months earlier, I thought, “Will I ever come up with the necessary strength or energy to match them?”
Eventually, I recused myself and went into a cool studio each morning to limber up—pliés at a ballet barre, stretches and so forth, which suited my scoliotic back and helped prevent injury. I finally began to get in shape again.
It was during these dance rehearsals that I first met Dick Van Dyke. He was already well established as a consummate comedian; he had starred in Bye Bye Birdie on Broadway and in the film, and had completed the first two seasons of his famous sitcom, The Dick Van Dyke Show. We hit it off from day one. He was dazzlingly inventive, always in a sunny mood, and he often made me roar with laughter at his antics. For instance, when we began work on the “Jolly Holiday” sequence, the first step we learned was the iconic walk, arm-in-arm, our legs kicking up ahead of us as we traveled. I performed Mary Poppins’s demure, ladylike version of the step—but Dick flung his long legs up so high that I burst out laughing. To this day, he can still execute that step.
Dick’s performance seemed effortless to me, although he did struggle with Bert’s Cockney accent. He asked for help with it, so J. Pat O’Malley, an Irish actor who voiced several of the animated characters in the film, tried to coach him. It was a funny paradox: an Irishman teaching an American how to speak Cockney. I did my best to help as well, occasionally demonstrating the odd Cockney rhyming slang or a lyric from an old vaudeville song, like “I’m ’enery the Eighth, I Am” or “Any Old Iron.” I don’t know if it helped, but it was Dick’s turn to laugh.
Dick also secretly played Mr. Dawes Sr., president of the bank, with the help of brilliant makeup disguising him as an old man. It was something he had actually begged Disney to let him do. Walt rather cheekily made Dick do a screen test for the part, and word flew around the Studios that he had been hilarious, totally persuasive and completely unrecognizable. Dick wanted the extra part so badly that he offered to play it for free, but Walt was nothing if not wily. He took Dick up on that offer, and also persuaded him to make a $4,000 donation to the California Institute of the Arts, which Walt had recently cofounded.
In addition to the dance rehearsals, we had to prerecord the songs before we could actually begin shooting the musical numbers. The delightful score for Poppins had been written by Robert B. and Richard M. Sherman, two brothers referred to as “the boys.” They had been working for Walt for quite some time, being the first in-house songwriters he had hired under contract to the Studios. They’d written for such films as The Absent-Minded Professor and for Disney’s television shows and his theme park, Disneyland.
Robert, the elder brother, was primarily responsible for the lyrics. He was tall, heavy-set, and walked with a cane, having been injured in World War II. Despite his gift for words and kindly manner, he often seemed quiet and somewhat removed. Richard was shorter and thinner, and was ebullience personified. He had boundless energy, always demonstrating at the piano with great enthusiasm.
My singing teacher, Madame Stiles-Allen, flew over from England to visit her son and to work with me privately on my songs. Because I had been studying with her since I was nine years old, there was now a shorthand between us. I recog
nized immediately what she was asking of me in reference to a particular passage, or where my thoughts should be directed. So many times, she emphasized not reaching up to a high note, but rather following it down a long road, while being sure to articulate the consonants and keep the vowels true. It was all about unifying the levels in my voice, across an even plane—much like a string of matched pearls, each note placed exactly where the previous one had been. She taught me the importance of diction and breath control. Hers was a flawless technique; one that strengthened vocal cords, protected a voice from damage, and provided skills and muscle memory that stood me in good stead in the years that followed. She also counseled me about professionalism, saying, “The amateur works until he can get it right. The professional works until he cannot go wrong.”
Irwin Kostal was the musical arranger and conductor for Mary Poppins. He and I had made two albums together when I was on Broadway. He had also conducted and arranged the Julie and Carol at Carnegie Hall television special that I’d done with Carol Burnett the prior year, so working with him was easy. He was a consummate musician, and his familiar presence was reassuring.
I discovered that prerecording for a film was a very different experience from recording a Broadway cast album. The latter is normally done after the show has opened, by which time the cast knows exactly what is happening at that moment onstage and how to sing the song accordingly. In film, however, the songs are typically recorded in advance of shooting the scene, so I seldom knew what would be happening in terms of action, and therefore what was required vocally. For instance, if I am singing in a scene with a lot of action, such as the chimney sweep dance, a certain vocal energy or breathlessness is required to match that action, as compared to a lullaby sung by a bedside. Yet when prerecording, all the specifics of the action are still relatively unknown and must be guessed at. Fortunately, Marc and Dee Dee were at these sessions, as was our screenwriter and coproducer Bill Walsh, for whom I had great respect. I could turn to them for guidance if I was unsure about a particular moment, but to a great extent I was operating on instinct.
“Feed the Birds” was a perfect example, in that I was not even on camera for the song, and had no idea how the Bird Woman would be filmed or what she would be doing during the scene. After recording the song, I kept feeling that I hadn’t quite done it justice. Tony, who had been at the recording session with me, felt the same way. “I don’t think you sang it softly enough,” he said. “I think you need to try it again.” I asked permission to re-record it, and a month later, when we were recording other songs, I gave it another shot. I was much happier with my second version.
FILMING FINALLY COMMENCED with the “Jolly Holiday” sequence. Our director, Robert Stevenson, was English, and though he was courteous and kind, initially I found him to be a little distant. I soon realized he was somewhat shy, and hugely preoccupied with the monumental task ahead of him—juggling live-action scenes, animated sequences, and a host of special effects, many of which were being attempted for the first time. Bob had worked in the industry for more than thirty years, and had directed many films for the Walt Disney Studios, including Old Yeller and The Absent-Minded Professor. He was patient with my lack of experience, guiding me gently through what I needed to learn—simple things, like the difference between a close-up and a waist-shot, the nature of an establishing shot, the need for a reverse angle, and so on.
My first filmed scene simply required that I strike a pose, hands on my umbrella, while Bert said, “You look very pretty today, Mary Poppins!” I then had to walk past him and say, “Do you really think so?” I was extremely nervous and fretted over how to say that one simple line. I had no idea what my voice would sound like or how to appear natural on film. Onstage, you have to project your voice to be heard by the last row of the audience, and your entire figure is in full view all the time. I was acutely aware of the camera’s presence, and surprised by the number of shots required to make up one small scene. Shooting a few lines was like working on a jigsaw puzzle. Not knowing which pieces of film the director would finally select in the editing process made it difficult to know when to spend my energy or save it.
Robert Stevenson didn’t have time to help me much with my acting, so I worked on my scenes by reading lines in the evenings with Tony. In the end, I simply said the words and hoped for the best. If I happen to catch the film these days, I’m struck by the seeming lack of self-consciousness on my part; a freedom and ease that came from total ignorance and flying by the seat of my pants (no pun intended!).
All of the “Jolly Holiday” scenes were filmed in front of a giant yellow screen, and the animated drawings were added later. This technique, known as sodium vapor process, was very new at the time. The high-powered lights were excruciatingly bright and hot, making our eyes squint, and lending a slightly burned quality to our faces—as if we were in direct sunlight, with intense spotlights added. The wigs and costume layers made it even hotter.
I’ve always hated wearing wigs, and the Poppins wigs drove me nuts. My hair was long at that time, and I began to cut it shorter and shorter, the better to endure the wig every day. I also wore false eyelashes; in those days, we used strips, rather than individual lashes. Although the strips could last for a few days, they had to be meticulously cleaned after each use. My makeup man, Bob Schiffer, was well known in the business for being one of the best, but once he inadvertently used a tube of glue that had become rancid, and I got a blistering eye infection. I was unable to work for a day because my eyes were so swollen, and the company was forced to shuffle the schedule and film something else instead.
Because all animation for the film was added long after the live action had been finished, we had little to guide us in terms of what to react to and how we should behave. For the tea party under the willows with the penguin waiters, a cardboard penguin was placed on the table in front of me. Once I’d established the sightline, the penguin was taken away, and when cameras rolled, I had to pretend it was still there. The problem was that my eyes automatically adjusted to the farthest point of vision, so it was very hard to maintain that close focus on a now-imaginary penguin. It added yet another layer to everything I was trying to concentrate on.
The turtle in the pond was actually an iron anvil, such as a cobbler might use for making a shoe. It just fit the size of my foot. I stepped on it and balanced, and they later drew the turtle and the water around it.
For the carousel sequence, the poles on the horses were attached to tracks in the soundstage ceiling. It took forever to shoot that section, because the horses had to disconnect from one track and then travel along another, much like a train changing rails. We waited hours for the equipment to be readied, then once we got on the horses, we shot each scene many times until the technical crew was content that they had what they needed.
The long waits enabled Dick and I to become better acquainted with the Banks children, played by Karen Dotrice and Matthew Garber. Karen, who played Jane, was only seven years old, but was calm and sweet, and had perfect manners. Her father, Roy Dotrice, was a well-known English actor, so Karen had been schooled in performance etiquette. Matthew, who played her brother, Michael, was the exact opposite. He had a mop of red hair, a ton of freckles, and a cheeky sparkle in his eyes. He was also very unruly at times. Bob Stevenson was endlessly patient with him, and though Matthew cost us a bit of time, you couldn’t help but love him. Everything about him was authentic—his grimaces, his eyes squeezing shut in the bright light, his distractibility, his boundless enthusiasm as he thundered around the set, occasionally tearing off to explore something that had nothing to do with the scene. Sadly, he died at the age of twenty-one, after having contracted hepatitis while traveling in India. It was a tragic blow to all of us who knew him.
THE DAILY SCHEDULE was unrelenting. I was up at dawn every morning, rolling out of bed for a quick stretch on the bedroom floor, followed by a snuggle with Emma before I left for the Studios, then a full day of filming, punctuated by
visits from Emma and Wendy so that I could nurse my sweet daughter and spend time with her.
Every working morning, while walking from makeup and hair to the soundstage, I would practice a series of breathing and facial exercises to help me wake up and look alive. Every evening, and on the weekends, I was a full-time mum. I seldom wanted to leave the house on my days off, so Tony and I would play with Emma in the garden, read to her from picture books, and take her for strolls in her pram or dips in the swimming pool. When Emma napped, I napped. People often ask me if I sang to her, and I did—though it was never songs associated with my work. Rather, I would sing little ditties that applied to the bond between us, such as “You Are My Sunshine” and “I See the Moon, the Moon Sees Me.”
By now, Emma’s personality was emerging, and to Tony’s and my delight, so was her sense of humor. One day, I was in the kitchen preparing her lunch. She was sitting in her high chair, and I happened to sneeze rather loudly.
“Oh! God bless me!” I exclaimed, holding my chest and leaning dramatically against the counter. Emma began to giggle, so I hammed it up and did it again, at which point she laughed so hard, she listed sideways in her chair.
Every Sunday, I called my family—Mum, Dad, and sometimes even Auntie Joan. Those calls could take up a whole morning, and were hugely expensive, but it was important to me to stay in touch. We exchanged letters as well, and knowing it was difficult for them to visualize what I was doing, I focused more on whatever news they had shared rather than my own experiences. Mum and Pop were still together, and Mum’s letters were generally circumspect, obviously trying not to worry me. These communications were never very satisfying. Dad’s letters tended to be more sustaining, in that he wrote in evocative detail of the English countryside, the seasonal colors, and all the elements of home that he knew I loved.
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