“Nothing was the same when you were away, and it’ll be all wrong again after you leave!” he says to Maria. Chris played it like a sweet, sulky little boy, and as I watched him, I thought, “You are simply adorable!” How he knew to find that surprising aspect of the grown man’s character still delights me.
The scene concludes in the gazebo with the song “Something Good,” which coincided with my last day of shooting on the film, August 13, 1964.
Ted McCord had hung huge klieg lights above the octagonal gazebo to create shafts of moonlight. Because these arc lamps were tilted so sharply, the carbon rods inside—which rubbed together to create the light—began to protest, groaning and making loud raspberry-like sounds at the most intimate moments in the scene.
After several interrupted takes, Chris and I began to get the giggles—me especially, partly from the idiotic noises and partly from the sheer exhaustion of the preceding five months. Chris and I were nose-to-nose, and I could see in his eyes that he, too, was struggling to hold it together. That only made things worse.
Shot after shot, we’d get to a certain point, a lamp would groan or emit a seemingly blistering comment on our performance, and we’d collapse with laughter. Bob would say “Cut!” and we’d have to start all over again. Eventually, Bob called an extended lunch break, thinking it would give us time to compose ourselves. I was a basket case, panicked that I would never be able to get hold of myself. I took a long walk around the lot. Two hours later, we tried the scene once more. The carbons heated up, protesting anew, and Chris and I lost it again, leaning against the scenery, too weak with laughter to even stand up straight.
In desperation, Bob came up with a brilliant idea. “We’ll shoot it in the dark!” he said. He asked us to walk to the door, out of the moonlight, and stand in silhouette, so that our mirth would be hidden. Of course, the moment there were no lights on us, the pressure was off—and with much relief, we easily finished the scene. Ironically, that adjustment made the end of the gazebo sequence even more touching.
It was the end of my filming for The Sound of Music. I had a considerable amount of looping to do, which meant I would still go to the studio every day for the next few weeks, but my on-camera work was complete.
When I look back at this time, I realize that my senses were suffused with all that I’d seen and experienced in Austria. Those vast mountains are forever seared in my memory; the smell of the fresh air; the showers and the downpours on the fields and flowers. Above all, the music, still—and always—lives in my bones and in my soul.
At this point, I had made three films, yet not one had been released. I had no idea how successful they might be, or what lay in store—but I did know what a gift I had been given. The privilege of having played those three roles would have been enough to satisfy me for a lifetime.
4
TONY JOINED ME in Los Angeles at the end of July, and though I’d so looked forward to being reunited as a family, our time together was once again all too brief. We attended a screening of The Americanization of Emily. Johnny Mandel’s score had not yet been added and there was still much editing work to be done, but the film held together well. Watching myself on-screen, I saw places where my lack of experience showed through; I wished I hadn’t rushed some scenes, or that my voice could have been less shrill in others. I had learned a bit more about my craft from working on The Sound of Music, so the gaffes were more obvious to me now—but in the end, it wasn’t so bad that I wanted to run away and hide.
Four days later Tony headed for Boston, where Golden Boy was to open next. The production was fraught with problems—Sammy Davis Jr. was demanding, the playwright had passed away, and the original director had been replaced. The civil rights themes and biracial relationship depicted in the show were prompting hate mail. Tony was trying to keep his contribution intact, while navigating all the larger-than-life personalities and problems. We were both so busy with our respective professional commitments that we were like two ships passing in the night.
A few days after Tony departed, I received a surprising invitation. Cole Porter asked me to come to dinner at his home. I had never met him, but admired him enormously, and was delighted to accept.
I was ushered into a small study where the great man himself was lying on a sofa. I knew he was very frail; he’d lost a limb years ago as the result of a riding accident, and was now in the final stages of kidney failure. He was dressed in a sort of white pajama suit with a mandarin collar, and had a light blanket covering him from the waist down. Everything seemed white, including his extremely pale skin, the only exception being his piercing eyes.
Dinner was served on television tables. Cole was propped up on the sofa, and I sat opposite him in a comfortable chair. He asked me question after question; where was I born, how did I begin my career, and so forth. I tried to comprehend why he had chosen to invite me. I guess at that time I was the new girl in town. Since I was the only guest there, I did my best to keep up my end of the conversation and to amuse him. It was a shock when, just two months later, I read that he had passed away.
MARY POPPINS FINALLY premiered on August 27, 1964, at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. The Walt Disney Studios pulled out all the stops; it was a glorious, old-fashioned kind of premiere. All the classic Disney characters were there, welcoming people as they pulled up in their limousines. There were crowds in the bleachers, screaming with delight, and huge searchlights raked the sky. On the large parking lot adjacent to Grauman’s, a tent had been erected for the after-show party. It was glamorous, grand, and gaudy all at the same time.
Tony and I arrived in a company limousine provided by Disney, with my dad, who had come to visit for two weeks. This was Dad’s first trip to California, and we were beyond thrilled to share the experience with him, and to give him such a splendid glimpse of Hollywood glamour. He had made the journey all by himself; my stepmother, Win, had stayed home with their daughter, Shad. Dad rented a white tuxedo jacket, which I picked up for him early in the day. As he had done at my wedding, and on several visits to My Fair Lady in New York and London, he acted the part of my squire and protector, in a quiet but proud way. Charlie Tucker, my longtime agent and manager, had also flown over from England. Surprisingly, P. L. Travers came as well. Given the tensions that had existed between them, Walt showed great restraint that evening, and was polite and decent to her. She never said a word to me about her opinion of the film. She did send a note to Walt, in which she called it a “splendid spectacle,” and complimented my “understated” performance. High praise!
Unfortunately, my mother could not attend. I had invited her and hoped that she would come, but she said that her arthritis was giving her tremendous pain and she’d prefer not to travel. I had a feeling that she was worried about not measuring up in some way. I would have given anything to have had her with me—I had a daughter’s desire to share my good fortune with both my parents and to make them proud. I’m sure Mum was, but I always sensed that she hid some embarrassment about how she conducted her life, relative to what she thought I had become. It made me sad.
Tony, Dad, and I walked along the red carpet toward Walt and his wife, Lillian, flashbulbs popping everywhere around us. Dorothy Jeakins had designed an Empire-style, cream-colored silk jersey gown for me. On top I wore a little mink stole that I had rented for the evening. Tony wore a tux, which was a rare occurrence for him. Tom Jones had warned me that I would need to pause for interviews before entering the theater. Even so, I was unprepared for the pressure and scrutiny; the feeling of being pulled, poked, and shouted at by the phalanx of TV and radio reporters. There were so many people to attend to that after we arrived, I barely saw my dad or Tony for the rest of the evening.
At the party in the tent afterward, Tom continued to steer me around, a gentle hand at my elbow, introducing me to guests and more members of the press. I never sat down, and I don’t recall eating a morsel. Feeling overwhelmed, I couldn’t wait to go home, to be somewhere quiet
where I could process what was happening.
Happily, the audience seemed to love the film. I was so dazed by everything that was transpiring that I couldn’t watch it with any perspective. I do know that it received a raucous ovation, and the reviews were extremely positive.
The following morning, I had to be at 20th Century Fox by 9:30 a.m. for looping on The Sound of Music. That same day, Tony flew to Detroit, where Golden Boy, still beset with problems, was now playing.
Two days later, my dad and I flew to New York, where Mary Poppins had just opened. I did four days of back-to-back interviews in the city, during which time Tony briefly joined us. There wasn’t a second to spare, except in the evenings, when we managed to treat Dad to a couple of Broadway shows. After emotional goodbyes, Tony went back to the dramas in Detroit, and my dad flew home to London. I returned to L.A., and to my Emma, whom I always hated to leave behind.
The weeks that ensued became an assault of epic proportions that I could never have foreseen. I did more publicity than I have ever done in my life, before or since. After an onslaught of Poppins-related activities in L.A., I embarked upon my first promotional tour, traveling to San Francisco with the Disney press team for the premiere of Poppins there; then on to Chicago, Detroit, New York again, Philadelphia, Washington, DC, and Boston.
I am well aware how irritating it is when people who have been graced by good fortune complain about its rigors. However, this was the first time I had encountered such widespread attention, expectation, and accountability. I was a small-town English girl, naïve, undereducated, and considerably younger than my years, suddenly confronted by a scrutiny that I had no context or experience with which to manage.
The press bombarded me with questions that called for me to be introspective, to examine things about myself and my work that up to this point I had never considered, let alone formed an opinion about. I floundered about, trying to appear sophisticated, while feeling as though I were playing dress-up in my mother’s clothes.
It never would have occurred to me to say no to any of the things that the studio asked of me. I felt that I owed them every interview—one paid one’s dues, so to speak, and I honored every obligation and went wherever they asked me to go.
During this whirlwind, I saw a rough cut of The Sound of Music, which was the first time I’d seen any of the footage assembled. I marveled at its beauty, its energy, its joyousness. It seemed even larger than Mary Poppins, and I felt it was going to be a stunning film. It put in perspective the amount of work we had accomplished over the past months—no wonder I was exhausted!
I returned to New York for Tony’s birthday, which coincided with the low-key opening of The Americanization of Emily. In contrast to the pomp and ceremony of the Poppins premiere, Emily simply opened at a regular cinema, with no fuss. Since it was a relatively quiet drama, the studios didn’t feel a fancy premiere was warranted. Nevertheless, it received fine reviews, and the film has subsequently become something of a cult favorite.
TENSIONS HAD BEEN escalating with my British manager, Charlie Tucker. I had taken the liberty of sharing with my Hollywood agent, Arthur Park, my concerns about the contract renewal I had signed with Charlie some eight years before while I was performing on Broadway. Charlie had represented me since my earliest days in vaudeville, and he had managed my career and my money. He never told me how much I made, or where the money was going; he simply sent my living expenses, and I submitted receipts to him. It seemed disrespectful to question his judgment or management style. I knew that a percentage of my income went to my mother and other family members, but over the years, my concerns had grown. Charlie would lightly mention a company here, or an account there, and he always assured me that there was nothing to worry about. I was conflicted; although grateful for how much Charlie had done for me, I was no longer a teenager. I was almost thirty years old, yet he still seemed to perceive me as a child.
Prior to meeting Arthur, I had asked a lawyer in England to look into the contract situation, but Charlie had swiftly dispensed of him. When Arthur read the contract, he was aghast. He claimed it was far too restrictive, and that Charlie was taking too high a percentage of my income. Once Arthur began to ask questions, Charlie became hurt and defensive. The process of trying to resolve the issues began. It took months, but at least it was under way.
Arthur Park introduced me to a business manager whom he felt would be helpful to me in my financial matters. Guy Gadbois was one of the finest men I’ve ever known. He shared an office with the actor James Stewart. They were great friends, and I was thrilled to run into Jimmy whenever I popped in. Arthur and Guy represented a breed of businessmen that was new to me. They were circumspect, caring, and decent. I felt I had stepped up in the world, and I also felt more safe.
On the other hand, I was becoming aware that the ongoing separations from Tony were affecting our marriage. We had spent more time apart than together in the previous year, yet because we’d called and written often, until that summer I hadn’t been fully aware of the extent of my loneliness. It was becoming ever more clear that for professional reasons, Los Angeles was where I needed to be based. Yet Tony’s passion was the theater, which was centered in New York and London—and he was now much in demand. This made being based in Los Angeles difficult for him. It was also unthinkable in those days for a husband to compromise his career in support of his wife’s. On top of all that, the attention being directed at me was becoming increasingly seductive. One or two men were showing more than a passing interest in me, which I found confusing but flattering. It was an enormously challenging period for both Tony and me to navigate.
Around this time, our dear friend Mike Nichols, whom Tony and I had known since our early days on Broadway, came to my house for dinner with a few other friends. I noticed how focused and clearheaded he seemed to be. His composure seemed such a stark contrast to my own emotional turbulence. Mike mentioned that he was in psychoanalysis, and I asked him a lot of questions about it. I envied him the clarity that he seemed to have. Mike sensed why I was asking, and he very generously gave me a better understanding of the process.
Soon after that, my friend Masud Khan, Svetlana Beriosova’s husband, came to L.A. on business. “Sudi” was a brilliant London psychoanalyst. He invited me to accompany him to a dinner with the head of psychiatry at UCLA.
It was a fascinating evening. I was seated next to another eminent psychoanalyst, Dr. Ralph Greenson, who was charming and a wonderful conversationalist. The more we talked, the more I felt he might be someone who could help me.
A day or two later, I took what felt like the biggest leap of courage I had ever taken. Without informing Tony, I phoned Dr. Greenson’s office and made an appointment to see him. I wept copiously during that visit and felt exceedingly embarrassed. I conveyed that my marriage was in trouble, but that I truly wanted to save it. His reply surprised me: “Well, that’s very admirable. Usually people come in here seeking the support to end their marriages.”
Greenson was incredibly kind, but his calendar was totally full. He recommended a colleague and, steeling myself once again, I made an appointment with the new doctor.
During my entire first week of psychoanalysis, I wept through every session. I could barely get a word out as I attempted to share my life story. The doctor waited patiently and said very little. At the end of the week, I managed to stammer, “I suppose the first thing I should figure out is why I’m crying all the time.” He nodded, and summed it up for me.
“I believe I know why. I think it’s the cavalry.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“I suspect you’ve been holding on to a lot of painful feelings for a very long time . . .” I promptly burst into tears again. “It’s a little like a western,” he went on. “The enemy has attacked, the wagons have drawn into a circle, all seems lost. Suddenly the cavalry comes over the hill. The relief is so huge that it’s safe to let go, to cry.”
I began to understand that the s
tress of trying to keep my family together all those years—supporting them at such a young age; my mother’s depression; my stepfather’s alcoholism; striving to hold on to the house that meant so much to us all—combined with the pressures of the war and touring all over England year after year, followed by the steep learning curve and rigorous demands of Broadway, a marriage and a child, and now Hollywood . . . all of this had generated powerful emotions inside of me, which I had buried in order to survive. Indeed, I barely knew what I was feeling at all. I did recognize how fortunate I was to have been given the gift of my voice, and because of that, so many extraordinary opportunities. But now, having arrived at what would seem to be a safer haven in my professional life, my marriage was in trouble.
I began to see the good doctor regularly—five days a week at first. I was so hungry for any information to help me better understand myself. I couldn’t be sure that psychoanalysis would do the trick, but I kept at it . . . and my God, am I glad I did. Little by little, I began to unload the emotional baggage I’d been carrying, disposing of old fears and finding new coping mechanisms. I had a long way to go, but it was a start.
One day, the doctor asked me what I wanted most out of life.
“Oh . . . to be loved, I suppose, and to be healthy. To do something well . . .” I struggled to articulate what I actually did want.
“Don’t you want to be happy?”
“That sounds like a rather selfish thing to say,” I replied. “I want, I want. There are so many people who have so much less than I have.”
He surprised me by smacking his thigh with an open palm. “Good God, woman! Do you think you were put into this world to be unhappy?”
“Oh—er, well . . .”
“Don’t you think it is your God-given right to seek happiness, no matter what, providing you don’t hurt anyone along the way?”
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