Ridiculous as it may sound, I’d been so focused on keeping everyone else happy that I hadn’t really thought of it in that way.
Another day, I was brainstorming alternative careers that might appeal to me. I mused about being a pianist, a painter, a botanist, even a newscaster.
“You could do those things,” the doctor replied. “And if you were willing to wait twenty years or so, it’s possible you would become very good at them. But you already do one thing very well. It would seem a shame to waste that gift and take away the pleasure it gives to others.”
“But I’ve always had to work so hard at it,” I stammered. “I don’t know if I really love singing . . .”
There was a pause, and then, very quietly, he said, “Maybe you love it too much?”
His words hung in the air for a moment. Then the dam burst, and I exploded into tears once again. He was right, of course. I realized then that singing had become such a part of me, was so profoundly ingrained in my soul, that if the wonder and the joy of it were ever taken away, I might not survive.
ALL THIS WORK on myself and my best intentions notwithstanding, the problems in my marriage persisted. I knew it was largely my fault. I wanted so much to make it better, to be the loving and adoring wife that Tony deserved. I felt such a deep connection to him—a bond that remains unchanged to this day—but I couldn’t give up the opportunities that were now being offered to me in Hollywood, nor could I expect him to give up his work in London and New York. My life was opening on so many levels, and I simply had to keep exploring whatever lay on the path ahead of me, rather than turn my back on it and shut it all down. Although we did our best to keep up appearances for the time being, for Emma’s sake as much as anything, I think we both knew that we were heading for a separation.
IN EARLY JANUARY of 1965, Lyndon B. Johnson was inaugurated as president of the United States. He had been sworn in as president immediately following Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, and had gone on to win the subsequent election in November of ’64. There was a preinaugural gala at the National Guard Armory in Washington, DC. It was a monumental occasion, with many Hollywood luminaries paying tribute in an evening that included Mike Nichols and Elaine May; Carol Channing; Woody Allen; Marlon Brando; Alfred Hitchcock; Harry Belafonte; Barbra Streisand; Bobby Darin; Ann-Margret; Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev; Peter, Paul and Mary; Sophia Loren; Gregory Peck; Johnny Carson; Carol Burnett; and me.
Carol and I were asked to re-create a fifteen-minute medley from Julie and Carol at Carnegie Hall. We had two days of rehearsals. It rained heavily, which Carol was thrilled about because she had a long-held superstition that rain was a lucky omen.
Mike Nichols was not due in town until the evening before the gala. We were all staying at the same hotel, and Mike said that if it wasn’t too late when he arrived, he’d come and say hello. Carol joined me in my suite, and we waited and waited. We changed into our pajamas and dressing gowns, thinking that if Mike didn’t come, we’d return to our respective rooms and turn in for the night. At the very last second, the phone rang.
“Am I too late?” Mike asked breathlessly. “I just got in. The train was delayed because of the foul weather.”
“No, no,” we said. “We’re in our jammies, but come on up.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said.
We decided to meet him at the elevator. We padded down the hall, feeling rather foolish in our dressing gowns and slippers. In front of the bank of elevators there was a sofa. Carol and I sat on it together and waited.
One of us suggested doing something to make Mike laugh when he saw us. I don’t remember whose idea it was—Carol says it was mine, and I say it was hers—but we thought it might be fun if Mike found us kissing.
At this point, one of the elevators went “ping!” so I whipped Carol across my lap, making it look as if I had her in a full embrace. The doors opened . . . and the elevator was packed with Secret Service men. Nobody got out, nobody got in. As the doors closed, they collectively leaned toward the center so they could get a better view. Carol and I simply cracked up.
Suddenly another elevator went “ping!”; I quickly dipped Carol over my knee again. The doors opened and a lone woman stepped out, glanced at us both, and then hurried on down the hall. By now, we were both weeping with laughter. Carol slid off my knee and crawled behind the sofa to hide.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She couldn’t even reply, she was laughing so hard. With a touch of panic, I noticed that the lady who had just passed us had turned around and was now coming back. Leaning over the sofa, she inquired, “Excuse me, are you Carol Burnett?”
In a strangled voice, Carol said, “Yes!” Then raising a hand above the sofa to point at me, she added, “And this is my friend, Mary Poppins!”
That set us off again. The lady beat a hasty retreat, no doubt thinking we were sloshed. The elevator went “ping!” for a third time. I dragged Carol out, saying, “It’s gotta be Mike this time! Come on!”
We plunged into our embrace once again, and Mike stepped out of the elevator. Without pausing or even breaking a smile, he casually said, “Oh, hi, girls,” and continued down the corridor. Touché!
TO MY AMAZEMENT and delight, I was nominated for a Golden Globe Award for my role in Mary Poppins. The event was held at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. I sat at the Disney table with our screenwriter/producer Bill Walsh, his wife, Nolie, and Roddy McDowall, among others. There was some talk at our table about the fact that if I’d been cast in the film My Fair Lady, I wouldn’t have been free to accept the role in Mary Poppins.
I jokingly said to Bill, “Well, if I win, I should probably thank Jack Warner, shouldn’t I?”
“Oh, Julie, do it!” he said.
“I wouldn’t dare!” I gasped.
“Julie, I promise you, everyone will love it.”
To my astonishment, when my category came up, I was announced as the winner. I wasn’t sure what I would say, even as I went up on stage to accept the award. After thanking Walt and the Foreign Press for the honor, I took an enormous gamble:
“Finally, my thanks to a man who made a wonderful movie and who made all this possible in the first place . . . Mr. Jack Warner.”
There was a pause of about five seconds—during which I contemplated the possible end of my career—followed by an explosion of laughter. Happily, Jack Warner had the good grace to laugh as hard as everyone else.
LATER THAT MONTH, I began rehearsing a television special with Gene Kelly. He was one of my idols, and while I was awed by the honor of working with him, I worried that I wouldn’t be up to the task of dancing with him. Thankfully, he choreographed our pieces himself, making what we did together appear effortless. We rehearsed for a week, whereupon I flew to New York, delivered Emma to Tony for a brief visit, and attended the premiere of The Sound of Music there.
As with the Poppins premiere, it was almost impossible for me to watch the film with any degree of perspective. I was learning that this kind of evening is all about working the event, which is jam-packed with people and press, all of whom want contact, a sound bite, a personal connection. It is a moment in time when you are responsible for representing the hundreds of people that have contributed to making the film possible. I was aware that I was being watched—before, during, and after the screening—so I was focused on carrying myself in the way that was expected. I did have an ear attuned to the audience’s response to the film . . . I sensed that they were gripped by the story, and of course, by the beautiful music.
After the screening, during the crush in the lobby, I suddenly saw Bette Davis approaching me. I had never met her before, though I was a huge fan. As we shook hands, she said, “YOU, my dear, are going to be a very big star.” I had always imagined she might be crisp and aloof, but her warmth and generosity bowled me over.
The next morning, I flew back to Los Angeles, where rehearsals for the special with Gene Kelly resumed, followed by a week of tap
ing. In my “spare” time, I continued my daily sessions with my analyst, and attended the L.A. premiere of The Sound of Music.
Reviews for the film were mixed. The New York Times assaulted the musical for being too sentimental. The Hollywood papers credited the technical aspects—the design, the locations, the score. Some recognized the pitfalls we had faced, and things we had fought to overcome. Most acknowledged the challenges it took to bring the musical to the screen, raved about Bob Wise’s work, and were kind to me and the rest of the cast. A few, however, were scathing across the board. Thankfully, the public embraced the film and this many years later, it seems they still do.
5
MY AGENT, ARTHUR PARK, sent me a script based on James Michener’s book Hawaii. It had been written by Dalton Trumbo, screenwriter for Roman Holiday, Exodus, and Spartacus, among others.
The film was being produced by the Mirisch Corporation, and the director was George Roy Hill. The brilliant Swedish actor Max von Sydow, who had recently played the role of Jesus in George Stevens’s The Greatest Story Ever Told, was to play the lead role of missionary Reverend Abner Hale. I was being asked to play his wife, Jerusha Bromley. I was very taken with the screenplay—though, as always, I worried that I wouldn’t be up to the job. This was a sweeping drama, and there were no songs to help anchor me in the role. That said, the film was to be shot in the Hawaiian Islands, which was very appealing, as was the fact that my friend Dorothy Jeakins was designing the costumes. After some deliberation, I accepted the offer.
Rehearsals began at Goldwyn Studios on April 5, 1965—the same day as the 37th Annual Academy Awards. I had been nominated for my role in Mary Poppins, and happily, Tony had also been nominated for his inspired costume designs in the film.
The other nominees in my category were Sophia Loren for Marriage Italian Style, Debbie Reynolds for The Unsinkable Molly Brown, Kim Stanley for Seance on a Wet Afternoon, and Anne Bancroft for The Pumpkin Eater. I fully believed that Anne would win, because of her extraordinary performance. Both Tony and I felt fortunate just to be nominated.
Dorothy Jeakins created an exquisite primrose-yellow chiffon dress for me for the evening. The edges were hemmed with satin piping, and Dorothy said, “I think it will flutter like a moth behind you as you walk.” She chose a crystal necklace to go with it, the only other accessory being a pair of long white gloves.
I sat beside Tony in the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. Sidney Poitier was presenting the Best Actress award, and I was stunned when he called my name.
I went up on stage and stammered into the microphone, “I know you Americans are famous for your hospitality, but this is really ridiculous!” I was escorted backstage to the press room, where a crowd of journalists and photographers were gathered, and it was quite a while before I could return to my seat.
Rex Harrison had been nominated for Best Actor for his performance as Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady. He won the award, which was presented to him by Audrey Hepburn. She herself had not been nominated, which I felt was a shame. I suspect Rex was walking on eggshells that evening, although he said something generous about honoring his “two fair ladies.”
Sadly, Tony did not receive an Oscar that night—though he would go on to win one, along with many other awards, in subsequent years. The Oscar for Best Costume Design that evening went to Cecil Beaton for My Fair Lady.
At the end of the ceremony, all the winners and presenters were asked to pose for photographs together. I stood next to Audrey, who looked absolutely gorgeous. She quietly said to me, “Julie, you really should have done My Fair Lady . . . but I didn’t have the guts to turn it down.” I told her that I completely understood, and in the years that followed, we became good friends.
As we departed for the Governors Ball, Anne Bancroft came up to me, and in another example of class and generosity, she congratulated me on receiving the award.
“Oh, Miss Bancroft,” I stammered. “I was so convinced it was going to be you! It should have been you.”
I’m embarrassed to say that, despite being thrilled to receive it, I kept the Oscar in my attic for a while, rather than displaying it anywhere. I also didn’t mention it to my analyst for over a week. I honestly felt that I didn’t deserve it, and that perhaps it had been given to me as a kind gesture because I hadn’t been cast in My Fair Lady. These days, I proudly display it in my office.
REHEARSALS FOR HAWAII continued the following day. Though Michener’s epic novel encompassed the entire history of the islands, Dalton Trumbo’s script only dealt with the first third of the book: the arrival of the Christian missionaries and their impact on the Hawaiian people. George Roy Hill wanted to tell the story from the Hawaiians’ point of view; to convey what it meant for them to be so overwhelmed by Western culture and its attendant ills.
Filming commenced in mid-April in Sturbridge, Massachusetts. The previous weeks had been busy with costume fittings. There were screen tests for makeup and hair, and all the while I was trying to figure out who Jerusha was, and how to play her. She was the daughter of a minister, from an upper-class household, and very pious and stoic—all of which felt far from my own experience.
We flew into New York on Easter Sunday, and I shared a car with Max von Sydow from New York to Sturbridge. I sat beside this tall, reserved, Swedish gentleman as we were driven through the night to our hotel, and found it bizarre that this total stranger and I were about to play husband and wife. We talked politely for a while, but I was very tired and longing to sleep. I wished that I knew him well enough to fall asleep on his shoulder.
We began location shooting the following day at a place called Old Sturbridge Village; a “living history museum” that replicates a rural New England town of the 1830s. The first scene we shot was Abner’s proposal to Jerusha. I knew I was acting rather busily, because George kept saying, “Julie, I want you to be as still as you possibly can. Don’t blink if you can help it, don’t move your hands, or head. Jerusha must be utterly serene.”
I simply couldn’t do it for him. I have a fairly ebullient nature, and I felt constricted, stiff, and without any technique that could help me find what he wanted. During the following week I became depressed because George kept stopping the takes, riding me hard, conveying how essential it was that Jerusha’s gentle nature contrast with Abner’s Puritan gaucheness. I was embarrassed to find it so difficult to do what George was asking of me, but ultimately that early drilling did help me find Jerusha’s character.
Because we were filming just after Easter, Sturbridge was teeming with visitors. Our dressing rooms on location were Winnebago trailers, with facilities for hair and makeup. Not long after shooting began, I was dressed and ready for a scene, and waiting in my trailer to be called to the set, when the tourists apparently sussed out which trailer was mine. I suddenly heard people scratching on the walls, tapping on the door, talking and calling to me.
The Sound of Music having opened four weeks prior, and with my having just won the Oscar for Poppins, people were hoping for a glimpse of me. Eventually, the crowd thrust so close that the trailer began rocking and shaking. Alas, there was no phone to summon help. I pulled down the blinds and sat inside that tiny space, feeling trapped, while on the other side of the walls people were jammed against each other like sardines.
When I was finally summoned to work, the production team forged a narrow pathway through the crowd for me. As I walked past, people reached out to touch me, pinching, poking, plucking at the fabric of my dress. I had been shyly keeping my head down, yet the more I withdrew, the more it seemed they wanted my attention.
I don’t know what made me do it, but I suddenly lifted my head and made eye contact, smiling and saying hello as I passed. The crowd fell back, almost as one, and I was able to move on. It was an interesting lesson; making that simple connection was all it took.
Emma had been staying with Tony in New York for the few days that I was in Massachusetts. He was about to head overseas again to begin work on the film ver
sion of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. We had finally made the sad decision to officially separate, but we hadn’t announced it yet, as we still had much to sort out. There was no need to rush into a divorce, and we didn’t want the press getting wind of the separation until we were ready. When Tony brought Emma back to me, we were tender with each other, although it was miserably painful for us both. Emma, her nanny Kay, and I returned to Los Angeles the following day.
Shooting for Hawaii resumed at Goldwyn Studios, where the interior of our sailing ship had been rigged on hydraulic rockers so we could enact the effects of the great storm at sea. In those early weeks, George continued to be tough on me. I knew it was in order to get a better performance out of me, but I also sensed that he enjoyed seeing whether I could stand up to the pressure. Eventually, maybe because he saw I had a certain kind of resilience—and I recognized that he was such a good director—we became mutually respectful. In fact, in the months that followed, we became firm friends.
KAY, EMMA, AND I traveled to Honolulu in early June of 1965. The view from the plane as we touched down was breathtaking; beautiful aquamarine sea with rolling breakers, lush green mountains, and a brilliant blue sky. Hawaii was still young in its statehood, and there was very little Westernization as yet. It looked as close to paradise as anything I’d ever seen.
We were the last off the plane, since the press was waiting. I was painfully aware of how creased my dress was, and of a run in one of my stockings. As we came down the airplane steps, I felt the gentle trade winds and smelled the incredible perfume of the islands. But so many flowered leis were placed around my neck that I felt smothered, as if by a warm blanket, and quickly became a sweaty mess. Perspiration ran down my back and off the end of my nose. Photographs and questions were being fired from all sides. Dottie Jeakins had come to greet us, and she mercifully ushered us into a waiting car, which whisked us off to the house where we would be staying. It was a pleasant beach house, with lots of bamboo and straw mats; light and airy, with a magnificent view of a narrow beach and, beyond that, a beautiful lagoon.
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