Last Man Standing: Tales from Tinseltown

by Moore, Roger

  ‘I’ll be there in a few minutes,’ replied the star, as Peter almost wet himself with laughter.

  On another occasion, at a party thrown by comedy actress Betty Marsden, the hostess said to Williams, ‘Now, Kenneth, are you behaving yourself?’

  ‘Is my cock hanging out?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said, cautiously.

  ‘Well then, I must be!’ said Kenny.

  Kenneth – unlike me, of course – took great pleasure in talking about his various ailments whenever he was on the chat show circuit, such as the occasion he was in his theatre dressing room, washing his rear end in a pot, when Noel Coward sprang through the door to congratulate him on his performance. Kenneth apologized for his appearance, and said that following his last operation, the doctor had advised that he should bathe rather than use paper after visiting the loo.

  ‘My dear boy,’ replied the Master, ‘you have no need to explain. I had that very operation and know just how painful piles can be.’

  ‘Piles! Oh nooooooo,’ protested Williams, ‘I don’t have them! I have pipilles.’

  Without missing a beat, Coward replied, ‘Pipilles, dear boy, is an island in the South Seas.’

  I can’t write about Pinewood and not mention the biggest film never made there, can I? Cleopatra with Elizabeth Taylor in the title role, Richard Burton as Mark Antony and Rex Harrison as Julius Caesar (though that part was actually cast with Peter Finch when production commenced in 1960). So many problems plagued the film, not least the runaway budget which, at the time, made it the most expensive film that had ever come out of the studio. In fact the trouble started when the proposed leading lady, Joan Collins, was rejected by director Rouben Mamoulian in favour of Elizabeth Taylor who demanded – and got – the previously unheard-of fee of $1million for her participation.

  Following that huge investment, lavish sets of previously unprecedented dimensions were constructed on the back lot, including the harbour in Alexandria (which held one million gallons of water – that’d take a few days with a bucket, I’ll bet) and the Egyptian desert, but the construction coincided with a plasterers’ strike and, in desperation, the studio took out advertising on prime-time TV to fill the vacancies. Before even a foot of film had been exposed, the expenditure had exceeded £1 million.

  Then there were the 5,000 extras to accommodate with extra trains, buses and shuttles and mobile toilets that were brought in from Epsom racecourse. But the one thing the financiers didn’t bank on when they opened their wallets was the British weather. Torrential rain fell and shooting was abandoned. Worse still, Elizabeth Taylor fell dangerously ill and had to undergo an emergency tracheotomy, and Joan Collins was put on standby to replace her. But with the rain still falling incessantly, and news of Liz Taylor’s recuperation likely to be a long one, the decision was made to relocate to a warmer climate, which would help aid their star’s recovery, and so everyone shipped out to Rome to remount the production. Well, except for Finchie – he’d had enough. Rouben Mamoulian also left the production at that point and was replaced by Joseph Mankiewicz.

  Spotting an opportunity to use some of the leftover sets and costumes, producer Peter Rogers made Carry On Cleo and at one point fell foul of 20th Century Fox by emulating their posters. It wasn’t the first time that had happened either, as when Peter made Carry On Spying the Bond producers raised their concerns about his poster looking similar to From Russia With Love.

  While we on the Bond films had the luxury of six-month schedules and generous budgets, the Carry Ons were made for a few hundred thousand pounds and shot in about five weeks, with only occasional location work outside the studio – usually in Maidenhead. When Carry On Up the Khyber was made they used Snowdonia in Wales to double for the Afghan mountains (again no expense lavished) and at the premiere, one of the invited dignitaries sidled up to the producer and said he’d served in the Army and, ‘I remember so many of those locations in Afghanistan and India. What marvellous memories.’ Peter Rogers didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. But that is the magic of movies.

  Donald Sinden told me a great story about working at the studios, a story that typifies the ethos at the studio at that time. Donald was a familiar face at Pinewood as a Rank contract star and later on in the 1970s I worked with him on a film called That Lucky Touch. He used to love chatting about all the people he’d worked with and is a brilliant raconteur. Apparently he was in the bar at Pinewood one day, and bumped into the producer Joe Janni, who started telling Donald about a script that involved three months’ location work cruising around the Greek islands. On hearing that, Donald said, ‘Count me in!’ and didn’t even wait to read the script.

  A few weeks before shooting, Janni called to say that, unfortunately, the budget wouldn’t stretch to the Greek islands. It was to be the Channel Islands instead. It still sounded good though. However, a week or so before shooting, Donald went for a costume fitting and the wardrobe man said, ‘Shame about the Channel Islands, isn’t it?’

  Donald didn’t know what he meant … until the wardrobe man explained that the budget wouldn’t stretch to the Channel Islands … and the location was now Tilbury docks near London! They shot out to sea on one side, turned the ship around and shot the other way, and spent three months in those wretched docks … the magic of the movies indeed!

  Another great friend in the early years was Kenneth More. Kenny and I met in 1962 when he was filming We Joined the Navy at ABPC Elstree and I was filming my first series of The Saint on the next stage. We struck up an immediate friendship and saw one another all the time thereafter. Kenny had been a huge star over at Pinewood for Rank, starring in films such as Genevieve, Reach for the Sky and Sink the Bismarck! and in 1960 Rank’s Managing Director, John Davis, agreed to release him to appear in a big-budget film at Shepperton Studios called The Guns of Navarone. However, shortly before production commenced, Kenny made the mistake of heckling and swearing at Davis at a BAFTA dinner, and in one fell swoop lost both the role (which went to David Niven) and his contract with Rank.

  My dear friend Kenny More was best man on my wedding day, 11 April 1969, seen here with his wife Angela Douglas.

  At the time we met, Kenny was filing for divorce from his wife, Billie, as he’d fallen in love, and wanted to be with, Angela Douglas. I was, meanwhile, in the throes of seeking a divorce from Dot Squires. It’s fair to say we both wondered if we’d ever receive a decree absolute as the legal wranglings went on for years.

  Kenny and I made a pact that we would both be each other’s best man when we were finally able to remarry – he was the first, in March 1968, whereas I had to wait a little longer. In fact, I remember one time we were in Mario & Franco’s restaurant in Soho and we had a discussion about what colour our respective wives-to-be wedding dresses should be. I suggested grey for my intended … they say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and did I feel hell’s full fury that day!

  Kenny was a shrewd man when it came to the business as, unlike some actors who think they are invincible, he knew his limitations and also what type of roles suited him. I know Sir Peter Hall suggested that he play Claudius to Albert Finney’s Hamlet at the Royal National Theatre, but Kenny declined, saying, ‘One part of me would have liked to, but the other part said that there were so many great Shakespearian actors who could have done it better. I stick to the roles I can play better than them.’

  Sadly Kenny was forced to retire in 1980, when it was announced that he was suffering from Parkinson’s disease. I regret not seeing as much of Kenny as I should have in his final years, but being mainly based in Hollywood and he in London it wasn’t terribly easy.

  Albert Finney was another of the great British actors of that time. I remember meeting Albie when he and his theatre-producing partner Michael Medwin were in Gstaad, though of course I had known him from his many great films. His breakthrough hit was probably Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, which was produced by Harry Saltzman, and afterwards Harry placed Albie under some
sort of contract, the terms of which meant that when not employing Albie, Harry still stood to gain from renting him out.

  When a call came from legendary producer Sam Spiegel, wanting to see Albie for Lawrence of Arabia, which David Lean was to direct, Harry sent him off post-haste to Shepperton. On his return Harry asked how it went.

  ‘He blew smoke in my face,’ said Albie.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Harry.

  ‘He blew fucking smoke in my face!’ said the aggrieved star.

  Apparently, Spiegel sat behind his desk at the studio smoking a big cigar throughout the interview and, perhaps not unreasonably, Albie resented it. A few days later, the phone rang and the message came through that Spiegel wanted to shoot some footage of Albie on set the following Monday, so he was obviously odds-on for the role.

  ‘OK, you’ll be there at 10 a.m. on Monday,’ Harry said.

  Nonplussed, Albie looked straight at Harry: ‘No! He fucking blew smoke in my face!’

  Later that evening Harry called Lew Wasserman, the doyen of agents and dealmakers, in California to tell him the situation.

  ‘Get me Finney on the phone,’ Lew barked back at Harry.

  Harry had to then telephone around Albie’s various girlfriends to find out which one he was shacked up with that week.

  ‘Lew Wasserman wants to speak to you from Palm Springs about Lawrence of Arabia,’ Harry said, when he finally tracked him down.

  Albie dutifully phoned Wasserman back. ‘Spiegel blew smoke in my fucking face!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he did!’ Wasserman argued. ‘Get your ass down to Shepperton at ten o’clock on Monday morning!’

  ‘But I told you, he blew smoke in my face!’

  ‘Look. Do you know who the hell I am?’ asked Wasserman.

  ‘Yes,’ said Albie. ‘You’re my fucking agent – and he still blew smoke in my fucking face!’

  On another occasion Albie was appearing with Charles Laughton in a production of The Party and every time Albie started his big speech, Laughton would very visibly start scratching his nose or arse, and generally making distracting moves. Albie suffered it a few nights and then told Harry Saltzman to, ‘Tell Mr Laughton I’ll kick him into the orchestra pit if he fucking does that again.’

  ‘Oh will he?’ chuckled Laughton.

  ‘He WILL!’ Harry replied matter-of-factly.

  That’s what I love about Albie, he is completely independent and speaks his mind without fear of upsetting anyone. Needless to say, he didn’t go to Shepperton or get the part of Lawrence, though it never hampered his career. Nowadays he doesn’t have an agent, he prefers to negotiate through his lawyer and you won’t find him at film premieres or awards ceremonies as he hates all that – he’ll turn up, give a great performance and then go home. That’s what Albie does. He turned down both a CBE and Knighthood, saying it ‘perpetuated snobbery’. (I guess that makes me a terrible snob?)

  Back at the studio, you’d often find lots of actors and directors would zip away after a thirty-minute lunch to view rushes, which was the previous day’s film back from the labs. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary to see a few extras dressed as centurions, or large chickens, cutting through the restaurant to the bar. Nobody flinched. It was, after all, a place of work.

  Lunchtimes at the studio saw other regulars too, one being Christopher Reeve who’d walk in for his meal in full Superman costume. He was so polite and would always stop at the tables he passed to say hello to fellow diners. Many a waitress swooned after him.

  The bar was quite a ‘club’ too. Often you’d find Peter Finch holding court at lunchtimes and evenings with tales of the outback and working in Hollywood. He and Diane Cilento once naughtily inserted a cigarette into the mouth of a rather expensive Laughing Cavalier-type painting on the wall, much to the annoyance of Peter Rogers, who’d just paid to have it restored. Finchie was very much the practical joker of Pinewood, hiding in cupboards to surprise passers-by, removing gargoyles from the entrance and taking them home, and jackarooing around the bar with Diane at lunchtime, rounding up the crew.

  He was a wonderful character. British born, though raised in Australia, he probably received greatest acclaim for his last film, Network – for which he posthumously received the Academy Award. I believe the only other person to win an Oscar after his death was another Australian, Heath Ledger – as my friend Michael Caine might say, not a lot of people know that.

  Finchie very nearly didn’t make it to his career in Hollywood, or Pinewood for that matter, as, when aged just nineteen, he almost died when he was in Melbourne for a play called So This is Hollywood. The cast all went out for a picnic one day and afterwards he and co-star Robert Capron took off for a walk to explore the Pound Bend Tunnel on the Yarra River at Warrandyte, Victoria. Finchie told me they saw a fox terrier puppy fall into the river and Capron dived in and tried to save it. Tragically the current proved too strong and despite Finchie’s best efforts to save him, Capron drowned. Ironically, the dog survived and Finchie was later awarded a certificate of merit by the Humane Society, though I don’t think he ever got over losing his friend; it weighed on his mind for the rest of his life.

  In his obituary notices Finchie was invariably described as a ‘hell-raiser’ and to a great extent his drinking, womanizing and larger-than-life antics overshadowed his prolific acting career. In a poignant interview shortly before his untimely death in 1977, aged just sixty, he said:

  ‘I’d like to have been more adventurous in my career. But it’s a fascinating and not ignoble profession. No one lives more lives than the actor. Movie-making is like geometry and I hated maths. But this kind of jigsaw I relish. When I played Lord Nelson I worked the poop deck in his uniform. I got extraordinary shivers. Sometimes I felt like I was staring at my own coffin. I touched that character. There lies the madness. You can’t fake it.’

  My next visit to Pinewood after The Persuaders! was in 1973 as Jimmy Bond. Cubby Broccoli had had any number of offers to take the series overseas, but no, he said, ‘Pinewood is my home’. It wasn’t just sentimentality, it was good business sense as the crews always delivered the very best and Cubby loved the environment.

  Along with the good fortune and success, I’ve also seen Pinewood at its lowest ebb. When we went in to shoot Octopussy there was nothing, and I mean nothing, else in the studio – no other films were being made. The whole industry was in the doldrums. Word had it that had we not returned it would have closed down. Shepperton shared a similar fate, with changes of ownership and asset-strippers bringing the studio to near collapse and closure. Soon afterwards, Pinewood was forced to go ‘four-walled’ – becoming a rental facility, rather than a fully crewed studio.

  In between Bond films I earned a few bob playing Father Christmas. Listening to the little ones and their expectations from Santa was a treat I couldn’t miss.

  The studio quickly diversified into commercials and more TV work. The plan paid off and meant that scores of big-budget blockbuster movies all had a home in the British countryside, though at the turn of the century its future seemed unsure when in 2000 the Rank Organisation announced plans to pull out of all its film interests, including Pinewood; but a new hero was at hand to continue the Pinewood story. Enter Michael Grade.

  I knew Michael of old, his uncle was Lew Grade of the Incorporated Television Company (ITC), and Michael was every bit as passionate about film and TV as Lew was, but he’s also a very astute businessman. He spotted the potential and value of Pinewood and pulled together a financial consortium to buy the famous studio. He then made an offer to Ridley and Tony Scott, the owners of Shepperton, to merge the two studios.

  The place is now much bigger than it was in 1947, with twenty stages as opposed to just five, and more on-site companies and services than you can shake a stick at, but the atmosphere remains the same. It is, I have decided, pure magic.

  Tod Slaughter – looks a friendly chap, doesn’t he?

  CHAPTER 3
/>   Stage-struck

  ‘YOU CAN’T BE A SERIOUS ACTOR UNTIL YOU’VE TROD THE boards first!’ was the adage of the old Shakespearian actors who toured until they dropped. They were quite inspiring to a young, hungry actor, though. While I spent much of the free time of my youth at the Odeon cinema in Streatham, south London, I also enjoyed visiting music halls and what you’d now call fringe theatres. One actor I seemed to follow around was a deliciously macabre chap named Tod Slaughter.

  He was unintentionally hysterical and so over the top, playing maniacal villains with rolling eyes, a mad cackling laugh and over-exaggerated mannerisms. He was typecast to the point of being known as ‘Mister Murder’ and usually played in Victorian melodramas like Sweeney Todd, Burke and Hare and Jack the Ripper. In the latter, at the end of the play he was ‘killed’ on stage and I remember one night when the curtains came down his feet were left sticking out beneath the curtain. His size tens were slowly withdrawn, only for him to reappear in front of the tabs seconds later for his obligatory, and highly theatrical, curtain speech:

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, our story has been taken from the annals of Scotland Yard and is true in every aspect except the Ripper was never caught. But you saw him killed before your very eyes tonight and can now leave this theatre safe in the knowledge that you ladies don’t have to wonder, “Is he there? Is he there?” when you walk into the darkness.’

  These monologues were often better than the play and Slaughter was certainly the last of the great barnstormers, ceaselessly touring the provinces in his hoary old melodramas right up until the day he died.

  Talking of ladies leaving the theatre safely, my former wife, Dorothy Squires – who was not a particularly tall person out of heels, and so liked to wear quite high ones – exited the stage door at the Brixton Empress one night when some lout on a bicycle came up behind her and ‘goosed’ her, leaving his thumb in her rear end so all she could do was totter along, screaming for help as he pushed her along. Ever after, she always looked left and right for cyclists.