Home Work

by Julie Andrews

  The idea of my portraying Gertie had cropped up a few times in my life, since there were so many parallels between her early years in vaudeville and mine, but I’d always hedged, feeling I couldn’t do her justice. However, when Bob explained his concept for the movie, I felt a familiar tingle of excitement.

  I had to be patient. Bob had The Sand Pebbles to do; I had Hawaii and then Millie; and of course, a script had to be written and cast, and preproduction organized. By the beginning of 1967, all was finally in place. Rehearsals for Star!—as the film was called—commenced in February.

  When shooting began, I went through my usual period of insecurity. Was I making the right choices for the character? Were those choices believable? Although by now I had a better knowledge of filmmaking, I was still figuring out the process of creating a character from scratch each time, and in this case, one based on a real person. These early nerves continue to be a pattern for me whenever I begin a new project. After floundering around for perhaps two weeks, there comes a moment, if I’m lucky, when a feeling of being on the right path comes over me, after which I push ahead with more confidence.

  Bob and Saul had cast Daniel Massey for the role of Noël Coward. Dan was Noël’s godson in real life, which gave him a unique perspective.

  I was thrilled that Michael Kidd was creating the choreography, but I worried about finding comfortable shoes for all the dancing I would be doing. Although two months had passed since my bunion surgery, I still had bandages on my feet, and I couldn’t yet wear regular shoes.

  I had a series of meetings with Bob and Saul Chaplin, who was on board once again as producer. Saul had collected recordings of all the musical numbers in the film, many of them sung by Gertie herself. We spent an afternoon discussing ways to re-create the songs. How authentic should I be? How imitative of Gertie? That would depend on how I played her character in the dramatic scenes, of course. That afternoon, as we discussed each song and its place in the script, ideas began to take shape in my mind. I decided that since I didn’t look much like Gertie, I couldn’t totally re-create her, so I opted instead to try to give a suggestion of her voice and the period in which she sang.

  The Fox production team provided me with a lovely dressing room/apartment on the studio lot. It was beautifully furnished, down to the last teaspoon. I’d arrive at nine o’clock each morning and do an hour’s singing practice, then meet Mike Kidd and his assistant Shelah Hackett and work on the dance numbers. After a quick break for lunch, I’d dash back to the apartment, rest briefly, then meet Saul and Lennie Hayton, our conductor and arranger, to continue working on the songs.

  At the end of the first day of rehearsals, I wrote in my diary:

  I’m stiff!!! And oh, my poor, sore feet!

  For weeks, it seemed I did nothing except attend music and dance rehearsals, take meetings, and have hair and makeup tests and endless costume fittings. The clothes for the film, which spanned three decades, were designed by the eminent couturier Donald Brooks, and they were simply gorgeous. My roughly one hundred outfits required at least two or three fittings each.

  My makeup man from The Sound of Music, Bill Buell, and my hairstylist from Hawaii, Lorraine Roberson, were with me once again. We tested my own hair, rinsed red, but it wasn’t good enough. We then decided I would wear wigs, and we struggled to find the right color for so many changes of length and fashion.

  Madame Stiles-Allen came to L.A. again, and I managed to squeeze in some singing lessons with her. It also seemed essential to continue the work with my analyst, since I had only just begun to unpack the myriad issues that had brought me into analysis in the first place. On any given day, I was examining my past, the present, my dreams, my behavioral patterns, my reactions and emotional responses. At some point, my analyst recognized that what I needed most was to make up for my lack of education. Having been shortchanged in that respect, I always felt a fundamental sense of inadequacy. He set about filling in the gaps. Some sessions were devoted to history, others geology or math, and I lapped it up. He seemed to know everything about everything. It was like going to school for a master’s degree, but in this case the main subject was myself.

  Emma was now in nursery school, which made things somewhat easier, although I wanted to spend as much time with her as possible, as well as with Blake. I was trying to accomplish twelve things at once; to say that I was feeling pressured is an understatement.

  Thankfully, I had hired a new assistant. Joan Mansfield was vivacious and seemingly inexhaustible. She organized everything from my calendar to my wardrobe, and quickly proved to be an indispensable asset to me.

  BLAKE’S CHILDREN WERE due to visit for their Easter vacation, and Blake felt that it was finally time for me to meet them. They were now living in London with Blake’s ex-wife, Patricia Walker, a former actress. Both children adored their dad, and missed him desperately, as he did them.

  I learned that neither of them had seen The Sound of Music, and they were keen to do so. I asked Bob Wise if he could arrange a private screening at Fox Studios one afternoon. Knowing that the film had an intermission, I brought a picnic tea with me.

  I was nervous to meet them, and realized it must be equally daunting for the children to meet me. I wondered what they would think of this new lady in their dad’s life.

  Jennifer was rail-thin, with long, blonde hair and wide eyes. Having just turned ten in March, she seemed astute beyond her years. Geoffrey was seven, equally fair and sweetly vulnerable. They were both rather rambunctious during the screening, probably due to the length of the film—but the picnic scored me a few points.

  During their holiday with him, the children visited Blake on the set of the film he was currently directing, The Party. Someone on the crew noticed Jennifer and mentioned her to Delbert Mann, a director who was looking for a young actress to play the lead in his upcoming television production of Heidi. Jennifer did a screen test and got the part, and we were all thrilled for her.

  PRINCIPAL PHOTOGRAPHY FOR Star! commenced in April. We filmed many of the musical numbers first. Michael Kidd’s choreography, though brilliant, was extremely physical, and my feet continued to give me hell.

  The scenes of young Gertie in early vaudeville were immensely evocative of my own touring days. The extras in the theater audience were seriously convincing—leering, jeering, beer-swigging, cabbage-slinging, and noisy. I had a familiar feeling of panic as the first cabbage landed at my feet.

  Before heading to New York on location, we shot one of the most challenging numbers—“Burlington Bertie from Bow.”

  I had seen the famous Ella Shields perform this song when I was in vaudeville, and I loved it. Michael’s staging was full of stylish tricks. It took three and a half days to shoot, and Michael was demanding, making me do everything so precisely that I became bad-tempered. At one point, I buckled and had a rare tantrum.

  “MICHAEL!” I exploded. “You ask too much! I simply cannot do it!”

  He looked surprised, then crestfallen. He called a break in the shooting, and I sat on the stage, my head on my knees. After a couple of moments, Michael came over.

  “Jools, I didn’t mean to be cruel,” he explained in a quiet voice. “I just knew that when you saw yourself on film, you wouldn’t be pleased.”

  Canny fellow that he was, he knew exactly what to say. We did the take again, and this time, I nailed it.

  I traveled to New York with my dear chum Zoë Dominic, who had been asked to do some photography for Star! Emma had gone to spend two weeks with Tony, Gen, and her daughter, Bridget, in San Francisco, where he was working on the film Petulia. I missed my sweet Em, but I was relieved that she was going to be happily engaged.

  Arriving in New York was depressing. We’d been diverted to Philadelphia due to bad weather, and the storm battered us on the drive to the Big Apple. Sense memories of the exhaustion and loneliness that I’d felt during the long haul of My Fair Lady washed over me.

  I had one day to unpack and prepare for fi
lming. The first scene we shot was of Gertie singing Kurt Weill’s lovely ballad “My Ship” on the stage of an empty Broadway theater. The song is a reverie, a wish for fulfillment with a true love. It stirred up so many feelings and memories for me, including sadness surrounding the failure of my marriage, that I suddenly choked up. It didn’t hurt the scene, but I wonder if anyone suspected how personal that moment was for me.

  EVENTUALLY, AFTER MY initial resistance to being back in New York had faded, the city proved to be stimulating, and I began to enjoy myself. One evening, I indulged in a rare treat: I went to see the great Birgit Nilsson in one of my favorite operas, Turandot, at Lincoln Center. I got goose bumps when I heard the dramatic soprano’s voice fill the auditorium without any amplification. Her technique was like that of Madame Stiles-Allen; warm yet airy, and with enough strength to reach the last row of the balcony. For many years I struggled to emulate that technique, but I could never achieve it. My voice was a thin coloratura, and lacked her gravitas. But I always continued to aim for a similar vocal placement in practice.

  ONE DAY WE were shooting at the Music Box Theatre. Irving Berlin had once had an office above the auditorium, and that space had been loaned to me for a dressing room. One of Berlin’s pianos was still there, along with his desk and other memorabilia.

  While I was changing, the phone rang. On an impulse, I picked it up.

  A voice said, “May I speak to Miss Andrews?”

  Surprised, I replied, “This is she . . . ?”

  “This is Irving Berlin. I just wanted to welcome you to the Music Box, and say that I hope you’re very comfortable there.”

  “Thank you so much!” I stammered, feeling starstruck. What a thrill . . . and thank goodness I answered the phone!

  THROUGHOUT THE FILM, I wore a lot of fabulous jewelry on loan from Cartier. Gertrude Lawrence apparently loved jewels, and spent a fortune on them at the famous boutique. A kindly armed guard named John was always stationed near me to protect the glorious stuff, which on some days was valued at as much as $2 million. It’s a daunting responsibility to have that level of investment draped around one’s body. John became a sort of personal bodyguard to me, elbowing his way through crowds, getting me in and out of cars or through doors in a hurry, and generally looking out for my well-being.

  Cartier held a big party for the cast, crew, and press in their salon on Fifth Avenue. They lent me some earrings and a ring for the occasion. When it came time for me to leave, the main entrance was jammed with sightseers, so John arranged for a car to pick me up at the back entrance. This happened to be in the basement, which was smelly, hot, and filled with garbage cans. As I left the building, I removed my priceless gems and handed them to John, feeling very much like Cinderella returning to her broom and ashes.

  I HAD BEEN missing Blake, and to my delight, he flew in one weekend for a visit. At the time, we were filming on a barge in the Hudson River with a piece of scenery on it that made it appear we were on the Staten Island ferry. My dressing room trailer was perched incongruously in the middle of the barge. There was nothing else on board except a couple of deck chairs, the camera equipment, and the inevitable coffee wagon. Between takes, Blake and I sat together gazing at the New York skyline as we floated across the river. It felt very romantic.

  We shot some scenes at Cape Cod’s Dennis Playhouse, the theater once owned by Gertie’s husband, Richard Aldrich. He happened to stop by for a visit. I wondered how he felt, seeing me dressed like his late wife. He was charming, and remarked how like her I looked. When Dick Crenna, who portrayed him in the film, was introduced, Aldrich said amiably, “How nice to meet me!”

  After a marathon pack-up, our company traveled to the South of France for the last leg of location shooting. We touched down in Nice on a perfect, sunny morning. The Mediterranean was sparkling, and the air held the scent of sun-warmed flowers, grass, and pines. I hadn’t been in Europe since filming The Sound of Music, and I relished being back.

  Emma, Kay, and I stayed on the top floor at the famous Hotel Negresco, overlooking the seafront. Zoë rejoined us, and my mother also flew in. Her visit to L.A. had been over a year ago, and she was longing to see Emma, who was now four and a half. Despite Pop’s death the previous June, Mum was in surprisingly good form. She wasn’t drinking much, and she seemed grateful for the change of scenery. We were shooting six days a week, but we could make a few excursions on Sundays. It was pleasant for us to spend time together.

  Blake and I called each other daily, either late at night or first thing in the morning.

  One evening, he asked, “Do you want to hear a really pretty song?”

  Henry Mancini had been composing the music for The Party, and Blake said, “Listen . . . I hope this comes through over the phone.”

  The song was called “Nothing to Lose.” It has a lovely lyric, written by Don Black, about there being nothing to lose, but much to gain, when a couple takes a chance on being together.

  When the song finished, I said, “Darling, that is gorgeous!”

  “It is, isn’t it?” he replied. There was a pause. He cleared his throat. “Now . . . will you marry me?”

  This came as a total surprise. We had only been seeing each other for a little over a year, and neither of us was yet divorced from our former spouses. To be truthful, I didn’t know how I felt about getting married again—there was Emma to consider, and Blake’s children—and as charismatic as Blake was, I wasn’t yet certain that this was a relationship for the long term. I didn’t feel I really knew him yet, and a part of me sensed a dark side that I might never know. He was so mercurial, so complicated in ways that I couldn’t begin to fathom.

  “Oh, Blake,” I finally replied. “I love you for asking . . . May I think about it for a bit?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “But don’t take too long.”

  OUR FILM COMPANY was besieged by the press in Nice. The journalists were part of a huge international junket that had been arranged by the studio to build anticipation for the film. They followed every move we made, which grew to be extremely wearing. I did publicity interviews for British and American television and radio, plus endless photographs, all between takes. Although I knew it was part of my job, eventually it became so distracting that I couldn’t give the work my full attention, and I requested a reprieve. I think the studio recognized my dilemma, for they scaled back the promotional activities to a more manageable level.

  On our last day in France, we shot a scene with Daniel and me on a raft in the bay at Cap d’Ail. The camera and crew were on another raft. The slightest swell caused both rafts to rock, although never at the same time.

  The water was icy cold, and the weather was closing in. Between climbing in and out of the bay, and waiting for the sun to break through, or the camera to be reloaded, Dan’s and my body temperatures began to drop. I turned blue, then dead white, and Dan was trembling from head to toe.

  I asked for some brandy and hot coffee to help us stay warm. In no time at all, I became completely smashed—although upon reentering the icy water, I sobered up instantly. There were a number of takes, and I seesawed back and forth between tipsy and sober for the rest of the afternoon. I vaguely remember shouting, “Oh, shit on you all!” at one point, and the whole crew broke up with laughter.

  Alas, we never finished the scene. The weather shut us down, and close-ups would have to be picked up later, back in Hollywood, against a rear projection screen. Bob was very depressed. I still have a mental image of him, hunched over on the camera raft under the gray sky, the last to leave and the absolute picture of despair.

  BLAKE MET ME at the airport in Los Angeles, and we hugged all the way home. A two-week break in the shooting schedule allowed for the crew to regroup, and for me to rest a little and prepare myself for the next big onslaught of filming.

  Blake had rented a house at the beach in Malibu for the months of July and August. Jennifer and Geoffrey were coming to visit for summer vacation, and he wanted to make it as p
leasant as possible for us all. Going home along the Pacific Coast Highway in the evenings always relaxed me, and the sea air was refreshing after the long days in the dusty studio.

  An excerpt from my diary:

  Q-tip and Cobie [my poodles] in a catatonic state over Beatle. Massive amounts of dog shit in the yard in the mornings. Screen doors broken—pillows torn. Dog hair everywhere.

  Strolls on the beach. Crabs, sand fleas. Beatle racing out. My dogs always running away, getting lost.

  Talks with Blackie. Walks with Blackie. Nights with Blackie.

  Emma browning. Cheeks aglow like a soft peach. Little girl in the sun all day, outdoors, loving it.

  During our two-week “break,” we never stopped rehearsing, but at least we laid off filming for a while. I mentioned to Bob how terrifying our shooting schedule was if I permitted myself to think of it. He said, “Don’t. The only way to survive is to take it just one day at a time.”

  One of the hardest acting challenges for me was a drunken scene that occurs late in the film. I had no idea how to act drunk. In a moment of inspiration, I devised the idea of spinning around just before each take, in hopes that I’d be slightly off-balance and the dizziness would be reflected in my eyes. The scene took two days to shoot, and I spun so much that I ultimately grew used to the effect, and needed to spin more and more each time.

  The end of the scene required an emotional breakdown. I worked all day long to sustain the mood—only to learn later that the film was damaged in the processing lab. To my dismay, the whole scene had to be reshot. As my mother used to say, “These things are sent to test us!”

  My diary has a few entries that simply catalog the events on any given day. A typical example: