Free from his National Service and back in civvie street, Oliver Reed too was bursting to become an actor, but in the movies, not theatre. He’d briefly contemplated becoming a salesman but ditched that after his father said he wouldn’t be able to sell a packet of crisps. Luckily Reed’s uncle happened to be Carol Reed, director of the classic The Third Man, but his advice – to hobnob with the movers and shakers of the film community at fancy hotels and restaurants – proved useless; Reed hadn’t even got a shilling to put in the gas meter and was living off spaghetti and tomato soup. One piece of advice from his uncle that he never forgot was to go to the cinema as often as he could. Why bother enrolling in drama school when he could watch and learn from the Hollywood greats right up there on the movie screen?
But Reed still had to get his foot in the door somehow and eventually found work as a film extra. ‘I went round and I lied to everybody. I said I was in a repertory company in South Africa and in Australia – in Wagamoomoo, hoping that they wouldn’t be able to check up – and they didn’t.’ A couple of walk-on parts followed in films like the Norman Wisdom comedy The Square Peg.
Socially Reed fell on his feet too when he was invited to share a flat in Belgravia with two girls who worked at a swanky West End nightspot as ‘hostesses’. Reed loved playing practical jokes on his Irish drinking pals by inviting them over and getting one of the girls to walk through the lounge into the kitchen wearing nothing but bra and panties. While he carried on talking as if this was the most natural thing in the world his pals would sit there goggle-eyed. After a bit the other girl would glide through topless. Unable to contain themselves any longer his mates bellowed. ‘Jesus, Oliver! What the fuck was that?’ Reed said later, ‘I was swamped with visits from drunken Irishmen.’
Attending numerous auditions and touting his photo round all the agents, Reed found nobody was interested in hiring him. As a star he used to love going back to visit those same agents bragging, ‘Hey, remember me? I’m Oliver Reed. You used to tell me to piss off.’ It was at one of these auditions that he met his first wife, Kate. As they began dating Reed was already seeing someone else, a ruse that was discovered when he was in hospital suffering from German measles and both girls turned up at the same time to visit. Kate had brought with her a box of 100 fags that she proceeded to shower over his head. Forced to choose between both women Reed picked Kate, though he was less than enthused with her idea of getting hitched immediately. But it was either that or goodbye.
Reed gave a slightly different reason as to why he got married in a 1970s Penthouse magazine interview. ‘I was twenty-one, and I liked screwing the girl I was with; typical middle-class attitude. She was Irish, typical working-class girl, and she said, “Right, you’ve got to marry me if you want to go on doing that, baby!” And I said, “Yeah, yeah.” She was a little spitfire, who wanted me to sign a contract saying I wasn’t going to fuck anybody else.’
The couple married on New Year’s Day at Kensington Register office and as the nephew of Carol Reed Ollie made his debut in the newspapers. They went to live in a house in Ladbroke Grove that belonged to Reed’s aunt and which shuddered every time a train went by. They shared it with an old colonel, installed there by the aunt to see that Reed didn’t demolish the property, as he had a habit of inviting friends round for destructive punch-ups. The two men ignored each other for weeks until one night they went to a pub together to celebrate St Patrick’s Day. No sooner had Reed opened the saloon door than a man accosted him. ‘Are you Irish?’ Reed thought about it for a few seconds. ‘What if I am?’ A fist suddenly flew into his face along with the words, ‘Sod off you paddy bastard.’ The man had gone into the pub with the sole intention of picking a fight with an Irishman, any Irishman, and chose Reed instead, the only bloody Englishman there. The Irish clientele leapt to Ollie’s defence, kicking the shit out of his attacker, throwing him outside in the gutter and then pissing over him. Determined not to allow so minor an incident to dull their evening Reed and the colonel proceeded to have a ball. Staggering home shit-faced afterwards they continued to drink until dawn. ‘Thank God St Patrick’s Day only happens once a year,’ the colonel announced in the morning. ‘We’ve polished off my entire month’s supply of liquor.’
Richard Burton continued to appear in some very indifferent British movies, compensating himself by seducing female members of the cast. On Green Grow the Rushes (1951) Burton tried to get future Bond and Avengers girl Honor Blackman into the sack. But the actress failed to fall for the hellraiser’s charms, and made her feelings clear when he attempted to woo her: ‘You didn’t really want somebody in your bed spouting Shakespeare.’ She later recalled, ‘Most of the time, he was drunk. We were staying in these little chalets and he came home one night and got into bed with me. I kicked him out eventually. He wasn’t my idea of heaven.’
That summer Burton was asked to undertake a season of major Shakespearean roles at Stratford. During rehearsals for Henry V Burton, dressed in full armour, whiled away the hours by drinking 18 bottles of pale ale. As the battle of Shrewsbury approached our Dick was overwhelmed by a desire to urinate. ‘Can we stop,’ he asked, peering into the darkness of the stalls where Anthony Quayle sat directing. ‘No, Richard.’ There was clear exasperation in his voice. ‘It’s very late, not now, Richard please. We’ll have a break in half an hour or so.’ ‘Right,’ said Burton. ‘Watch this.’ An incredulous cast stood gawking as the Welshman relieved himself and 18 bottles-worth of pale ale seeped through his costume and collected in a large puddle on the wooden floor.
Pissing and Shakespeare were curious bedfellows for Burton during his Stratford run. Playing in Henry IV Part 2 with Michael Redgrave, having been on the booze all day, Burton was in the middle of a scene when he felt his bladder near to exploding. ‘Luckily the old fellow was pointing upwards,’ Burton later related. ‘And the costume was pretty heavy, so none of it leaked out. It was all swilling about inside.’ Burton told this story on the set of his last movie, 1984. A few years later its director, Michael Radford, went to see a house that was for sale. The owner happened to be an actor and Radford mentioned that he’d once worked with Burton. ‘The nearest I ever got to Burton,’ said the actor, ‘was at drama school. We did Henry IV Part 2, and I wore the very costume that Burton had worn.’ ‘Was there anything funny about it?’ Radford asked, convinced Burton had been telling porky pies. ‘As a matter of fact – yes,’ replied the actor. ‘It was stained yellow.’
Burton’s Shakespearean performances at Stratford were the stuff of legend with critics citing him as the heir to Gielgud and Olivier. But he was now under contract to Alexander Korda, the British film tycoon, who had decided that it was time to win over Hollywood and lent Burton to 20th Century Fox for a three-film package worth $150,000, more than all the actor’s family could earn in a lifetime. Burton had always coveted a film career. At a party with other young hopefuls, each was asked to declare their ambitions. ‘I want to be the greatest Juliet since Ellen Terry,’ said one. ‘I want to play Hamlet as it has never been played,’ said another. ‘How about you Richard,’ they finally said. ‘What do you want to be?’ Burton’s reply: ‘Rich.’
At his farewell party Burton stayed up till dawn and drank himself senseless and had to be hauled onto the plane to Hollywood. He was flown over the Atlantic comatose, stopping over briefly in New York for more drinks. It was a further 11 hours to LA, a journey made tolerable by yet more booze. Unshaven and shattered Burton was taken by limo to his hotel room, where he devoured a bottle of scotch thoughtfully left there by the management. Hours later he was centre stage at a Hollywood party regaling everyone with recitals of Shakespeare and Dylan Thomas. Some thought him too overbearing, but none were left in any doubt that here was someone very special. The party had been organised by Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, fans of Burton from his stage work. Bogart adored Burton and the feeling was mutual. They became lifelong friends and shared many marathon drinking sessions together. ‘He was my kind of
man,’ said Burton. ‘If you challenged him to put his hand through a plate-glass window, he’d do it. And keep on drinking with the other hand.’
Once Burton challenged Bogie over a point of acting and the Hollywood legend stormed out of the room returning with his Oscar, which he thumped down on a table. ‘You were saying?’
Bogart’s penchant for alcohol was awesome. He once said, ‘I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t drink.’ Returning from a holiday in Italy he told reporters. ‘I didn’t like the pasta, so I lived on scotch and soup.’ On location for The African Queen Bogart was the only one who didn’t succumb to disease and diarrhoea because he never drank the water, surviving instead on pure scotch. When asked if he’d ever been on the wagon Bogie replied. ‘Just once. It was the most miserable afternoon of my life.’
One glorious story has Bogart losing his way home after an all-night drinking session. Finding himself in an unfamiliar Hollywood suburb as dawn rose Bogart spied a woman cooking breakfast in a nearby house. Peering through the window his face startled the woman until she recognized it. ‘My God,’ she cried out to her husband. ‘It’s Humphrey Bogart!’ ‘What about him,’ her husband shouted back. ‘He’s in our front yard.’ ‘Well invite him in.’ Bogart sat down for breakfast with the couple and their kids, wolfing down bacon and eggs while mesmerizing them with tales of Hollywood. When he’d finished he stood up, said thank you politely and then walked out the way he’d come in.
Near the end of his days, Humphrey Bogart reflected upon his life and declared that things had gone downhill after a single bad decision. ‘I should never have switched,’ he explained, ‘from scotch to martinis.’
It didn’t take long for the Hollywood gossip mongers to seize upon the potential of Burton, spreading rumours that his philandering had already broken up nine marriages in the movie capital. Back home Sybil papered the toilet with articles that had him climbing drainpipes for a romantic rendezvous, or being visited in his dressing room by naked women. She had no choice but to grin and bear it, for Burton was indeed a wild stallion around Hollywood. Married or single, he didn’t discriminate. At one party he locked eyes on a rather famous Hollywood actress and instructed his friends to keep a watch on the husband while he took her outside for a quick one. Quick it was; both were back through separate doors and mingling with party guests before the husband had even noticed his wife’s absence. Co-star Raymond Massey was asked in an interview if he thought there was any woman Burton had failed to win. ‘Yes. Marie Dressler,’ said Massey. ‘But she’s dead,’ came the reporter. ‘Yes, I know,’ was his reply.
Sometimes Sybil’s tough exterior did crack; she was after all only human. Burton was having an affair with Jean Simmons, then married to Stewart Granger. One New Year’s Eve party the lovers remained interlocked just that little bit too long after the stroke of midnight and Burton got a severe slap in the face from Sybil, who then left in a rage. Many considered Burton a total shit during those years. He picked up women in cinemas, pubs, shops; you name it. He even made love to a maid within hours of speaking his marriage vows. Friends were often roped in to cover for his affairs persuaded by Burton’s pleading: ‘I’ll never hurt Sybil. I’ll never leave Sybil.’ But as time went on he seemed not to care who knew about his infidelities. This was the way he lived his life.
Ironically it had been Stewart Granger who told Burton to look him up when he got to Hollywood. He’d been so dazzled by Burton in a West End play that he went to his dressing room afterwards to congratulate him. Burton was standing there naked save for a jockstrap and a glass of beer. ‘When you come to Hollywood we must meet up,’ said Granger. ‘Hollywood!’ said Burton. ‘I’m not going to Hollywood.’ ‘Oh yes you are. That’s for sure.’ One wonders if Granger ever forgave Burton for dallying with Jean Simmons. They only ever made one film together, The Wild Geese, appearing in just two scenes, and in both the antipathy between them is tangible.
Apart from copious amounts of shagging (‘knocking off everyone there was in sight’) Burton also managed to find the time to do a bit of acting in Hollywood, though sadly in some pretty lamentable films. The first, My Cousin Rachel (1952), was a vehicle for Olivia de Havilland, though it was Burton who came away with an Oscar nomination, his first. It was on this film that Burton physically destroyed a whole set: ‘And as far as I remember Olivia de Havilland was on top of it.’ Burton couldn’t remember his lines in a scene where he was supposed to climb up a wall to greet Miss de Havilland above. ‘I just couldn’t remember what I had to say,’ he recalled with some amusement on a Parkinson TV show. ‘So I climbed up once and slithered down in a temper because I’d forgotten the lines. Went up again, slithered down. Went up again, slithered down. I must have gone up about ten times. Finally I went raving mad and started to kick the set and the whole thing started to fall in. I was very clever to get out of the way. Miss de Havilland didn’t forgive me for a long time.’
Burton was rather prone to fly into rages when he didn’t meet the high demands he set himself. Once, after fluffing the same line repeatedly, he deliberately charged headfirst into a plaster wall. Hollywood had rarely seen such eccentric behaviour.
What Richard Harris called his ‘starvation period’ ended when he joined Joan Littlewood’s Theatre Workshop, an influential company housed in London’s East End. It came about purely by luck when he overheard someone in a pub saying they hadn’t finished casting a production. Borrowing fourpence for the phone Harris called them only to hear that the vacant part was for a 50-year-old. That didn’t stop him. ‘I look fucking 50,’ he bellowed down the line. ‘I haven’t had a good meal for four months and I haven’t slept for days. Just take a look at me!’ His blarney won him an audition and the part. It was a production of The Quare Fellow by Brendan Behan, who attended rehearsals, sitting chain smoking and coughing in the stalls, occasionally interrupting the actors saying, ‘Did I write that? I’m a fucking genius.’ Fellow Irishmen Harris and Behan became lasting friends through their shared love of alcohol. Behan had once dragged a cello halfway across Dublin to a pawnshop that he knew would give him the price of a round of drinks.
Brendan Behan was born in Dublin and lived his childhood in the slums of the city. His family was strongly republican; loyalty to the IRA was expected, and from the age of nine he’d served in a youth organization connected with the IRA. When he wasn’t in the pub, Behan was invariably in jail. He was sentenced to three years in Borstal for attempting to blow up a battleship in Liverpool harbour. Later he was sentenced to 14 years for the attempted murder of two detectives. In 1946 he was released under a general amnesty, but was in prison again in 1947, serving a short term for allegedly helping an IRA prisoner to escape.
During his years in prison, Behan started to write plays and stories that colourfully depicted the life of the ordinary working men and would lead to him becoming one of the most famous Irish writers of his time. He had long been a heavy drinker, describing himself, on one occasion, as ‘a drinker with a writing problem’ and claiming, ‘I only drink on two occasions – when I’m thirsty and when I’m not.’
Behan was once hired to write an advertising slogan for Guinness. As part of his payment for this, the company offered him half a dozen kegs of their stout. After a month the company asked Behan what he had come up with; Behan had already managed to drink all of the beer they had given him and hurriedly produced the slogan: ‘Guinness Makes You Drunk’. Not surprisingly he didn’t win the contract.
A lifelong battle with alcoholism ended Behan’s career in a Dublin hospital on 20th March 1964, at the age of 41. His last words were to several nuns standing over his bed, ‘God bless you, and may your sons all be bishops.’
Littlewood’s company saved Harris from a fate worse than death – having to go back to Limerick – and he befriended fellow actor Brian Murphy, later to achieve TV fame in the classic 70s sitcom George and Mildred. ‘We got on rather well and I liked Richard very much. He was incredibly determined. He said to me that he
was going to be a film star and I say to this day, he’s the only person that I have worked with who set his sights high on becoming a film star and achieved it in a very short time. He seemed to me to be very calculated.’
Once he started making movies Harris would sometimes pop back and catch one of Joan’s productions. ‘He sat in the box,’ Murphy recalls, ‘and laughed uproariously. I told him, “Christ Richard you behave more like a bloody star in the audience than you ever did on stage.” Certainly he would make sure everybody knew he was there.’
With his first regular income from acting (however meagre) Harris decided to get married. For some months now he’d been dating drama student Elizabeth Rees-Williams. They’d met at a café in Earls Court and she was smitten with him immediately. ‘There was this energy, this power-house, this charisma.’ They moved in together but lived in virtual poverty. Later, when Elizabeth discovered she was pregnant, she had to make her maternity clothes out of an old pair of curtains.
It was a passionate affair, both of them rebellious spirits. Harris saw Elizabeth almost as ‘forbidden fruit’ with her father being Liberal Peer David Rees-Williams, the 1st Baron Ogmore, who sat in the House of Lords. When it came time to meet Elizabeth’s posh parents Harris had to borrow a suit, tie and shoes but couldn’t find anyone to lend him some socks so, not wanting to reveal the true state of his poverty, for the whole evening tried desperately to keep his trouser legs tugged down. Obviously he failed because when the couple announced their wedding plans Lady Ogmore gave out ‘a sort of wail of despair’ as Harris remembered it. Other reports say that she threw her arms in the air and ran screaming from the room. Lord Ogmore insisted Harris couldn’t marry his daughter until he could afford to keep her. Harris hit back, ‘I’m a thespian, I can command high fees at Stratford. I’ve wonderful contacts, you know, old Ralphie Richardson and Johnny Gielgud and all those splendid theatre queers.’
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