Hellraisers

by Robert Sellers

  In spite of parental grumbles the marriage went ahead on 7th February 1957. It was a grand affair taking place at the Church of Notre Dame in Leicester Square with a reception at the House of Lords, attended by 300 guests, most of them Ogmore friends and family. Hardly any of the Harris clan showed up. Living at the time in a tiny bedsit and on the breadline, here was Harris rubbing shoulders with Lord So and So and Lady Whatsit. The irony of it all must have brought a huge smile to his face.

  With the little money he’d received upon demobilization Peter O’Toole hitchhiked around the theatrical cities of Britain, spending his money on theatre seats rather than hotel rooms, with the result that he often slept rough. In a field in Stratford he took refuge atop a haystack that turned out to be a dung heap with just a thin covering of straw on top. The next morning, still potless and now smelling like a fox’s fart, he ate at a café and made a break for it when the waiter wasn’t looking. Years later he returned to Stratford in triumph and visited the very same café, this time to leave a massive tip.

  After breakfast he caught a train to London and immediately made his way to RADA, only to be told at reception that he couldn’t get in without a proper academic background. O’Toole went ballistic. By sheer luck the school’s principal, Sir Kenneth Barnes, overheard his protest and set up a private audition. Impressed by the young rascal he decided to take a chance and a scholarship was granted. O’Toole’s life was about to change as he found himself in a vintage year of aspiring actors that included Alan Bates and Albert Finney. ‘That was the most remarkable class the academy ever had, though we weren’t reckoned for much at the time. We were all considered dotty.’ All of them lived in virtual poverty, O’Toole subsisting on a diet of spaghetti and tomato sauce. Broke, he lived in a succession of dingy bedsits; even for a time on a barge that sank one night during a party after too many revellers came aboard.

  Predictably O’Toole’s three-year stay at RADA was not without incident. On his way to a school production he was a passenger in a car that hit a ten-ton lorry on the A1. So severe was the accident that the driver, O’Toole’s friend, was crippled for life. Taken to hospital for X-rays, his leg bursting with pain, O’Toole discharged himself after being kept waiting for hours, took a train to London and found a sympathetic doctor to bind up his injured leg and pump him full of painkillers in order to give his performance. Returning to hospital the next day the X-ray proved that O’Toole had a broken leg.

  Over the years cars and O’Toole have never been the best of friends. He once fell asleep while driving on the M1 and woke up to find himself careering down the grass of the central reservation. ‘There was nothing for it but to put my feet up on the dashboard and wait for the crash.’ He survived undamaged and walked to the nearest town to phone the AA to ask them to tow the wreckage away. ‘I never did see that heap again.’ He also wrote off an MG sports car. One woman who accepted a lift from O’Toole swore afterwards that she would never do so again. During the journey he ignored a keep left sign on the grounds that it was ‘silly’ and narrowly avoided driving down a flight of steps. On another journey, this time with actor Kenneth Griffith, O’Toole was speeding along a high road when Griffith said, ‘I say, old son, you’re doing very well but should you be trying to change gear with the hand brake?’

  O’Toole thought nothing of getting behind the wheel intoxicated and didn’t bother with such trifles as owning a driving licence, claiming he’d learnt to drive perfectly adequately whilst on holiday in the Swiss Alps. Finally in 1959 he decided maybe he did need a licence after all. On the morning of the test he was a little hungover but brimming with confidence. In the time it took to execute a three-point turn and head back out into the street, connecting with a pillar on the way, the shaken examiner requested to be driven back and O’Toole to withdraw from the vehicle. Not to be outdone O’Toole bought an Irish driving licence for 30 shillings. When stardom and riches came along driving was wisely dispensed with and O’Toole hired a chauffeur instead.

  During this time a friendship was struck with Wilfred Lawson, whom O’Toole would describe as an ‘eccentric, perverse old bastard’. Lawson, famous for his part on stage as Eliza Doolittle’s father in My Fair Lady, became O’Toole’s acting mentor and was a notorious drunkard. In the days when plays went out live on television Lawson was muddling through his lines one night when he suddenly dried. Luckily his fellow actors were able to cover for him and when the scene ended Lawson breathed a huge sigh of relief and said, ‘Well, I fair buggered that up, didn’t I,’ not realizing he was still on-air.

  Lawson had also made the acquaintance of Burton, perhaps sensing that both men were at the vanguard of a new form of realism in acting and therefore represented the future. More likely it was because they made for good drinking companions. During lunch in a pub Lawson ran into Burton and invited him to the matinee of a play he was appearing in at a nearby theatre. Since he wasn’t in the early scenes Lawson offered to sit with Burton in the stalls. About 20 minutes after curtain up Burton started to get rather anxious that Lawson had not yet left to don his costume or make-up, instead just sitting there enthralled by the spectacle. Suddenly he tapped Burton’s arm and said. ‘You’ll like this bit. This is where I come on.’

  Lawson would meet quite a bizarre final curtain, suffering a fatal collapse while having a death mask made for a film.

  Still determined to be an actor Oliver Reed went to casting director after casting director looking for work. He knew full well what went on in the industry, that powerful people, both male and female, took advantage of young actors. Reed himself had been told that to get on in the business he might have to take his trousers down. One particular director who had invited him over to his house for a private audition was a notorious homosexual. Kate knew of his reputation and wrote ‘This is mine’ in blue paint on her husband’s cock. On Reed’s back she scrawled the legend: ‘Get off!’ At the director’s home Reed was plied with endless glasses of whisky. ‘I thought, he’s trying to get me pissed and the next thing he will do is unzip my flies and it will spoil everything when my diseased-looking little thing falls out with writing all over it.’ To prevent such a catastrophe Ollie decided to casually toss into the conversation the fact that his uncle was Carol Reed, which made quite an impact. There were no more whiskies after that; instead the director merely handed Reed a sausage roll. ‘Not the one he had originally intended.’

  Hollywood seemed to suit Richard Burton, but the films he was being asked to appear in did nothing for his stature as an actor. There was a war film, The Desert Rats (1953), where he played an English captain out to nobble Rommel, played by James Mason. Set in North Africa, but acted out near Palm Springs, it also reunited him with Robert Newton. One weekend they decided to cross the border into Mexico. Because American citizens were allowed in without visas, unlike Brits, both men assumed American accents. ‘We became absolutely paralysed with tequila,’ said Burton. ‘And on the way back we were so stoned that we completely forgot about our accents, and we landed in the pokey for the night.’

  Burton next made The Robe (1953), which sealed his position in Hollywood as a major new talent. Burton played Marcellus, the Roman centurion charged with overseeing the crucifixion, but when he wins Christ’s robe in a bet his life is changed forever. It was a huge production but clunky beyond belief, the kind of Hollywood religious film for which the makers themselves should have been crucified.

  Burton was making crap in Hollywood and he knew it. ‘If you’re going to make rubbish – be the best rubbish in it.’ One night over drinks he poured out his woes to Laurence Olivier, in Hollywood at the same time making not dissimilar pieces of garbage. ‘What on earth are we doing?’ said Olivier. ‘You know, there’s only one thing that can save us. We have to go and find some babies to reassure ourselves that there’s some kind of future.’ So, pissed of course, Burton and Olivier drove round Beverly Hills in the middle of the night looking for a baby. They knocked at doors of houses with lights
still on and in one of them a rather startled couple produced a baby for them. ‘To this day, I don’t know who it was,’ recalled Burton years later. ‘I think we both wept a little. Our fans of the future, we must have said. Then we went back home.’

  Despite churning out crud Burton impressed the head of 20th Century Fox, Darryl F. Zanuck, and was offered a seven-picture deal worth one million dollars. But Burton showed incredible balls by refusing, having already promised to play Hamlet at London’s Old Vic for £45 a week. Zanuck hit back, determined to keep Burton, saying the actor had already signed the contract and by leaving was in breach of the agreement. Burton answered by claiming that his agent had been the one who signed the contract, and had done so without his permission. The result of all this was that Zanuck and Fox took Burton to court for breach of contract.

  The showdown arrived and there was Burton on one side of the courtroom while on the other side stood Zanuck, one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, and half the lawyers it seemed in America. ‘I didn’t have a lawyer,’ revealed Burton. ‘I played it very English, very Ronald Colman.’ At one point one of the lawyers jumped up and shook his fists at Burton and said, ‘You shook hands with Mr Zanuck on this agreement. You shook hands with Mr Zanuck in his own office.’ Burton was incredulous. ‘I don’t believe Mr Zanuck said that because he’s an honourable man. But if he did say it, then he’s a fucking liar.’ The courtroom erupted and the session was cancelled. The next day the phone rang at Burton’s hotel and there was a woman at the end of it. ‘Did you call Darryl F. Zanuck a fucking liar?’ she asked. ‘Yes, I think I did,’ said Burton. ‘Then you need help. I’ll be right round.’ The woman was a tough American lawyer who did indeed help disentangle Burton from this legal mess, impressing him so much that he made her his business manager.

  Just before leaving Hollywood Burton was invited to a party in Bel Air. As he was introduced to a group of people by the obligatory swimming pool a girl sitting opposite took off her sunglasses and looked at him. Burton met her eyes and was momentarily stunned by her beauty. She took a sip of beer and then went back to her book. For the rest of the party Burton couldn’t take his eyes off her. She, in return, totally ignored him. Her name was Elizabeth Taylor.

  Back from Hollywood Richard Burton returned home to a hero’s welcome from the locals, except his dad who merely said, ‘Well Rich, how are you getting on?’ as if he’d only been away for the weekend. He never quite got a handle on the fact his son was a massive star and only ever saw a couple of his films because there were simply too many pubs between his home and the local cinema. It took great persuasion to get him to attend a showing of My Cousin Rachel, only for him to walk out when Richard poured himself a drink on screen. ‘That’s it,’ he said and was off to the pub.

  Soon it was back to London for Burton and the Old Vic to play Hamlet, where he found comfort and much more in the arms of co-star Claire Bloom, despite the actress once referring to him as, ‘that uncouth man’. The affair started as mischief really. Bloom had a guardian at the theatre, actor William Squire, whose job was to keep undesirables at bay, especially Burton, who now took this as a challenge. In a nearby pub Burton sidled up to Squire to make inquiries. ‘Look, it’s no good Rich,’ Squire said. ‘She won’t do it with anybody, especially not you.’ Burton’s dander was up. ‘I bet I’ll get there.’ Squire was adamant he wouldn’t. ‘Want to bet?’ said Burton. Squire thought about it. ‘A pint,’ he said finally. ‘You’re on,’ said Burton, rubbing his hands. Later that week Squire was sitting in the stalls watching Burton perform on stage when Claire, who was sitting next to him, sighed. ‘You have to admit,’ she gushed, ‘he is rather marvellous.’ Squire saw his pint bet disappearing fast.

  Burton reigned supreme at the Old Vic, achieving the kind of fame usually reserved for pop stars. At the last night fans nearly tore the place apart looking for him and he had to be smuggled away in a taxi. His stamina and energy equally amazed colleagues. Here was a man who could go out on the piss all night and be in punctually next morning for rehearsal, while the rest of the company suffered horrendous hangovers. Burton once revealed that up until the age of 45 he never had a single hangover. After that, though, his hangovers were sometimes so severe that he couldn’t even get out of bed.

  Practical jokes took up much of his time, too, such as the occasion when he tried to take a horse upstairs into a restaurant. But he responded even better when they were played on him. While appearing as Henry V at Stratford Burton showed off his physical prowess by hitting a springboard and leaping upon his horse to begin the famous ‘Once more unto the breach dear friends’ speech. At one performance fellow Welsh actor Hugh Griffith shuffled onto the stage in disguise and moved the horse. When Burton bounced up in the air he almost missed the thing completely, managing just to hang on with one leg, but upside down, his bollocks shattered and in utter agony; ‘Once more unto the – arghhh.’

  Richard Harris, now married with responsibilities, had begun winning regular roles at Joan Littlewood’s theatre, including his Shakespearean stage debut in a modern dress version of Macbeth. It was only a small part but so proud was Harris that he invited his family to attend the first night. As he marched onto the stage, dressed as a soldier brandishing a sword, his mind went blank. As he opened his mouth, hoping the line, any line would come out, it wasn’t his voice that filled the auditorium but his mother’s booming out from the front row, ‘That’s my son. Isn’t he marvellous.’ Stranded on the stage, utterly alone with everyone looking at him Harris needed to get off fast. Raising the sword high he yelled the first thing that came into his head – ‘Grrrr’ – before exiting ignominiously, stage right.

  Harris also went with the company on tour in Europe and managed to get stranded. The company were in France and on their way to a festival in Switzerland when the train stopped in Lille. Harris and a couple of others, including Brian Murphy, got off to have a bite to eat in the buffet. ‘We leisurely strolled back,’ recalls Murphy, ‘but then we saw that our train was leaving so we ran like hell and got to the end only for this huge guard to push us off back onto the platform. So there we were, alone, and we had nothing on us because our jackets were in the train along with our passports. We tried explaining what happened but our French was minimal, so Richard tried demonstrating, he ran up and down the platform pretending to be the train and the guard pushing us off. Of course the looks on the faces of the station officials were totally blank. They must have thought, who the bloody hell have we got here.’

  Adding to their woes was the fact it was Sunday so the local British dignitary was off somewhere playing golf. With hardly any money and nowhere to go the group ended up sleeping in a field. ‘For much of the time Richard was regaling us with stories or impersonations to keep us amused,’ says Murphy. ‘He was a brilliant mimic and on trips and things would have us all quite helpless with laughter. Then when he ran out of steam his head would drop forward and he’d go to sleep. The next morning we woke up surrounded by cows looking very inquisitive. Back at the station the British consulate had organised for us to take any train bound for Zurich. Joan and the company had landed the day before, of course, greeted with a red carpet and a small band. Although apparently much of the company was scattered rather like us in distant places.’

  The pay was meagre and Harris and his wife remained pretty much on the breadline. Things got so bad that Elizabeth pawned her jewellery in order to survive. Just as Harris was contemplating quitting acting the breakthrough arrived when he caught the attention of a TV director looking for someone to play an IRA rebel. Flat-broke Harris smashed the gas meter in his flat for the bus fare to the audition. Kept waiting in the office for an hour Harris burst in and screamed in the director’s face that he was a fucking pain in the arse, a display of raw emotion that got him cast on the spot. It was a fat fee too. ‘I fell on my knees and kissed the ground at his feet for that loot.’ The play aired in March 1957 and Harris proved a screen natural: the TV critic of the Dail
y Mirror singled him out as someone to watch. After years of demanding attention, suddenly it was all there in his lap. But Harris wanted more.

  Offers started to come in, such as supporting roles at the Bristol Old Vic opposite Peter O’Toole. It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship between the two men and countless marathon booze binges. Harris described this period as, ‘Golden days. We kept each other up half the time, we never slept. It was days of chat and yarn-spinning and great, legendary boozing.’

  During every intermission Harris and O’Toole propped up the bar of the local, managing to get back just in time for curtain up in the second half. One matinee they overstayed their welcome and a stagehand burst into the saloon bar screaming, ‘You’re on!’ Both men leapt to their feet and made it back into the theatre in 15 seconds flat, but O’Toole was first. Crashing into the wings, he hurtled past the backstage crew and tumbled onto the stage, almost falling headfirst into the audience. A woman in the front row sniffed his breath. ‘My God, he’s pissed drunk.’ O’Toole lifted his head. ‘You think this is bad. Wait till you see the other fella.’

  Harris delighted in his friendship with O’Toole. They shared a passion for rugby and went to Twickenham whenever they could. ‘O’Toole was a poet and a warrior. I loved every moment with him.’ One prestigious bash they attended was presided over by Lord Ogmore, Harris’s father-in-law and president of the London Welsh Society. The place was of course full of Welshmen but Harris and O’Toole’s Irish revelries went so far over the top that Ogmore was besieged by threats to resign from the society unless the pair were ejected. Harris and O’Toole were indeed booted out.