Last Man Standing: Tales from Tinseltown

by Moore, Roger

  Two years later, at his home in Spain, Martin was involved in a cycling accident that, on the face of it, seemed rather trivial compared to some of the great stunts he’d dared in my name, and indeed breaking almost every bone in his body on a train stunt in Octopussy, but there were (unknown) complicating factors and aged just sixty-seven Martin died in hospital.

  My fearless stunt double and dear friend Martin Grace stood in for me in many of my outings as Jimmy Bond.

  I subsequently discovered – as did many of Martin’s mates – that he had a daughter from a short-lived marriage. I know she was incredibly proud of her father too. In death Martin was, as in life, an enigma but one to whom I owe such a great debt – as he made this coward look like a hero.

  When tragic fatalities have happened while filming movies, canny producers have sometimes turned a disadvantage into quite the opposite in terms of publicity. For example, when Oliver Reed was filming Gladiator in Malta and, true to character, enjoying a few drinks in a local pub on his day off, he reportedly consumed liberal amounts of beer, suffered a massive heart attack and died. With most of his scenes in the can, the producers used a CGI mask on a double to complete the outstanding sequences and billed it as Reed’s last film – and it was actually one of his best performances. A similar thing happened on The Misfits when Clark Gable died before shooting had ended, and though CGI wasn’t around then, a body double was used.

  Other actors who died mid-shoot and were doubled include John Candy, Bruce Lee, Heath Ledger and Donald Pleasence. A sense of morbid curiosity may have helped to fill seats, but ultimately I don’t think any of their final films fared tremendously well – you just can’t fake a star’s power (or even double it) and that was certainly the case when, aged just forty-four, Tyrone Power dropped dead on the set of Solomon and Sheba in Madrid.

  Tyrone’s wife, Deborah, had asked the director King Vidor to ease the schedule but after a prolonged sword-fight scene with George Sanders, wearing heavy robes and working with real Roman swords that weighed fifteen pounds, on an elevated staircase landing, Sanders wasn’t pleased with some of the shots and asked that the scene be shot over. Finally, after the eighth take, Tyrone said he could stand no more and threw down his sword.

  ‘If you can’t find anything there you can use, just use the close-ups of me,’ he said angrily. ‘I’ve had it!’

  A short time later, after complaining of being tired and feeling pain in his arm, Tyrone was rushed to hospital, where he died within the hour. Tyrone Power had filmed seventy-five per cent of his scenes and, in order that the film could be completed, was replaced by Yul Brynner – who had to wear a wig.

  Perhaps the most exploitative of all stories, and one which did curiously benefit the project, was when director Ed Wood filmed just a couple of minutes of silent footage of Bela Lugosi wearing a cape for a planned vampire project that never came to fruition. After Lugosi died, Wood decided to use the footage in Plan 9 From Outer Space and edited it into his movie multiple times. A body double, Tom Mason – who looked absolutely nothing like Lugosi – was brought in to finish the film. Totally nonsensical, the film is regarded as one of the worst films ever made, though ironically it’s now a cult classic.

  Good guy or rascal? You decide. Robert ‘Bobbie’ Newton in one of his most famous roles as Long John Silver in Treasure Island.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Good Guys (and a Few Rascals)

  WHEN I LOOK BACK OVER MY LIFE I CAN’T QUITE BELIEVE I’ve counted some of my childhood acting heroes as being friends, co-stars and drinking buddies. I suppose I first met Gregory Peck sometime in the early 1970s, at the home of David Niven on Cap Ferrat in the South of France. They had been friends for years and Greg (along with his lovely wife, Veronique) became one of my dearest friends.

  Greg had been a huge star from the 1940s and of course won the Academy Award for his role in To Kill a Mockingbird in 1962. As is often the way in this business, by the mid-70s leading roles in big films were not coming his way, but then he was cast in a fairly modest British-made horror film called The Omen. My dear old pal, publicist Jerry Pam, handled PR for the film, though ironically the studio told Jerry not to focus on Greg as they didn’t think he was ‘box office’ enough; so instead Jerry centred his campaign around the sign of the beast – ‘666’. It was massively successful, the film became box-office dynamite, and Greg’s star shone brightly once again, leading to terrific roles in The Boys from Brazil and then The Sea Wolves with yours truly.

  Gregory Peck and David Niven were two very dear friends to me.

  While making The Omen, Greg rented fellow actor Michael York’s house in Belgravia and one evening I went for dinner there. As I said, it was the mid-70s and at the height of the IRA attacks on London, and when I left, around midnight, I found Greg outside on his back, having crawled underneath my car, thoughtfully checking if there was a bomb.

  That kindly heroic deed certainly fitted in with roles he played. Mind you, he wasn’t averse to playing against type every now and again, as confirmed to me at a dinner one evening hosted by another pal, Johnny Mills. Fellow guest Laurence Olivier said, ‘Amazing man, Greg. Doesn’t worry about his image by playing a Nazi ...’ They’d just worked together in Boys from Brazil in which Greg played the evil Nazi, Dr Josef Mengele.

  Anyhow, in Sea Wolves Greg was to play British officer, Colonel Lewis Pugh, and worked with a dialogue coach, the same one from Boys from Brazil I believe, to perfect his accent. He was a very meticulous actor and extremely well prepared, and though I later read somewhere that Greg felt insecure about his British accent in this film, well, all I can say is I was not aware of it. It was a super film directed by Andrew McLaglen, produced by Euan Lloyd and co-starring David Niven, Trevor Howard and, initially, Diana Rigg; but, alas, it didn’t work out for one reason or another, and happily Barbara Kellerman took on her proposed role of Mrs Cromwell.

  Greg, always handsome and debonair, was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.

  Of course, during the shoot, we all socialized frequently in Goa and New Delhi, and very pleasant it was, too. In fact, we all had bungalows in the compound of Fort Aguada and would dine at one or the other each evening. Greg was joined by Veronique, and they were the most compatible couple ever, totally adoring of one another. It wasn’t an easy location, mind, as the heat was quite often unbearable. Our big relief after a day’s shooting was to immerse ourselves in the Indian Ocean.

  We had New Year’s Day off and director Andy McLaglen and I ventured to the ocean early, I guess around 9 a.m. Having lain in the sun for a few minutes, Andy got up and stretched out his 6' 7” frame. He turned to me and said, ‘Rog, I think it’s time we hit the drink.’ (Meaning went for a swim.)

  At that very moment, Trevor Howard appeared as if from nowhere and, overhearing, said, ‘Good idea! Do you think we can get a waiter down here?’

  In actual fact, contrary to popular opinion, the Trevor I knew wasn’t really the ‘hell-raiser’ the newspapers described him as. A great cricket lover as well as being entirely devoted to his wife, Helen, Trevor undoubtedly loved a drink but he was in fact rather a quiet drinker on the whole, preferring to have a longer session in the corner of a pub, with a few friends. Things could get a little noisy when the ‘Howard Roar’ went up, though. He always said, ‘I don’t raise hell, amigo, I just like to enjoy myself.’ And he really did.

  However, having said all that, Trevor loved life to the full and was always open to new experiences, not wanting to miss out on anything. Which is why he was led, along with show business reporter Bill Hall, to Pamplona to run with the bulls. This was in 1972, and Trevor was no spring chicken at the time – he was fifty-six years old. Perhaps he could be forgiven for having a few stiff drinks on this occasion.

  With the inimitable Trevor Howard pointing out the location of the nearest bar, on a beach in Goa while filming The Sea Wolves.

  One of my favourite photographs, featuring three of my favourite people.
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  The story goes that he’d been attending a film festival some miles away from Pamplona and seen that the world-famous bull run was taking place. After a few drinks with Bill Hall one night, Trevor suddenly announced that he wanted to do the run, and asked Hall to join him. Several hours later the two found themselves in Pamplona’s main square – still the worse for wear after several Bloody Marys – along with 2,000 other runners, waiting for the beasts to be let loose. Having seen this event several times on the TV, I can’t imagine what they were thinking of, but come the time, they set off running, given a head start before the bulls were released. After a few minutes, out of breath, Trevor slowed to a walk, with the crowds lining the streets and Bill Hall urging him on to keep running.

  Suddenly the bulls appeared round the corner, thundering down the street at full pelt. Trevor, deciding enough was enough, tried to get over the barrier at the side of the road but got his leg stuck and simply had to cling on for dear life as the bulls charged past, missing them both but mowing down others in their wake. Luckily, both Trevor and Bill escaped unscathed and made their way to the nearest bar.

  Good old Trevor!

  John Mills, that rather straight-laced, fine English hero of many a war film and Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire, had a rather unique party trick, which extended to most film sets he worked on – not least in the cosy tents during the making of Scott of the Antarctic – where he would drop his trousers, bend over and let off the most furious fart you can imagine but – as if that wasn’t enough to impress – he would have a naked flame on standby and would ignite said anal wind to the great merriment of all around.

  With Johnny Mills and Lady Mary at Johnny’s eightieth birthday party at the St James’s Club on Sunset Boulevard, along with Dudley Moore and his wife Brogan Lane.

  In the 1960s I was asked to become chairman of the Stars Organisation for Spastics (SOS, now SCOPE) but when I started playing Bond it became apparent, in 1977, that I would have to leave the UK if I wasn’t to pay ninety-eight per cent tax on my salary: an actor’s life in the spotlight is short, so we need to look after our pennies, and that’s why I decamped to Switzerland with its lovely snow-capped tax benefits. I therefore realized I would have to cut back on a lot of my UK commitments, SOS being one.

  The committee asked if I had any ideas who could step in to replace me and I suggested Johnny Mills. He joked as the ‘new boy’ coming in he was actually a lot older than the outgoing chairman, but that was nothing new as I was older when I took over Bond from Sean Connery. Cheek!

  Johnny and I were near neighbours in the UK in the 1970s, when he lived, with his wife Mary, in a house previously owned by the film mogul Alexander Korda and his one-time wife Merle Oberon. (I actually appeared in an episode of a TV drama series with Miss Oberon called Assignment Foreign Legion, which was not filmed on location in the desert, oh no, but at Beaconsfield Studios in rural Buckinghamshire. Mind you, I never actually met Miss Oberon as she filmed her bits elsewhere. Bit of a pointless digression really, but I do like to name drop when I can.)

  Anyway, back to the story. One day in 1976 I suggested John and Mary join my then wife and me for dinner at a rather upmarket dining pub in Denham – you know, the sort of establishment where you pay a small fortune for steak and chips. I think it’s fair to say Johnny probably hadn’t eaten at this establishment since his recent ennoblement by the Queen.

  The headwaiter welcomed us warmly, ‘Ah, Mr and Mrs Mills ... and Mr and Mrs Moore ... let me show you to a nice table.’ He then proffered some menus. ‘Would you care for a drink first, Mrs Mills? ... And you, Mr Mills?’

  ‘Tonight, Mr Mills, I would recommend the T-bone ... Oh, and Mrs Mills, the Dover Sole is absolutely beautiful ...’ The friendly waiter probably said ‘Mr Mills’ and ‘Mrs Mills’ a couple of dozen times over the course of the dinner, just as he did ‘Mr Moore’ and ‘Mrs Moore’. Until Mary snapped, that is.

  ‘It is SIR John and LADY Mills,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.

  Johnny’s head dropped down towards his dessert bowl and he said, quietly, ‘Well, I have waited long enough for it!’

  Some years later, at Johnny’s eightieth birthday party in LA’s St James’s Club, Mary beckoned me over and asked, ‘Who is that man sitting over there, I know the face but I just can’t place him?’ I told her it was Omar Sharif, to which she looked at me rather vaguely. Anyhow, I was invited to say a few words and, after congratulating my host on his four score years, told the assembled company that Johnny owed most of his career to being the only actor in England who could stand full height in a submarine. Cue much laughter – except from the direction of Mary who looked at me decidedly more vaguely than ever!

  I know when to make good my escape.

  Johnny died in April 2005, aged ninety-seven, and I attended his funeral along with many of his closest friends and family: Lord Attenborough, Stephen Fry, Leslie and Evie Bricusse, Anita Harris, Dame Helen Mirren, Dame Judi Dench, Jack Hawkins’ widow Doreen and even Cherie Blair. Dickie Attenborough, moved to tears, spoke for us all when he said, ‘We shall miss him desperately. But we shall have him with us always in the deep love and unmatched joy that he has bequeathed to all of us.’ It never stopped raining that day, and I believe they were actually tears from heaven.

  The cast of The Sea Wolves. This photograph includes so many old friends – it makes me smile every time I see it.

  Back on the set of Sea Wolves, Greg Peck and I often chatted over a drink at the end of the day, and one evening I realized we’d both worked with John Huston – as an actor in my Sherlock Holmes in New York and as a director helming Moby Dick in which Greg had starred.

  ‘Didn’t like him,’ said Greg, taking me aback a little, as I found Huston to be the consummate professional and a joy to work with.

  ‘As a director,’ continued Greg, ‘all he cared about was getting the shot. In the scene where I was tied to the model of the whale in the tank at Elstree Studios and the waves were crashing all around me, Huston gave various instructions to lower the model into the water, and each time he held it there for longer than I could reasonably hold my breath. I was furious – he nearly drowned me.’

  On another evening we were chatting about Roman Holiday, that great romantic movie Greg had made with Audrey Hepburn in 1953. In the final scene where Greg’s character has to say goodbye to Audrey’s Princess Ann, knowing it’s the last time he’ll ever see her, Greg said he felt it was going to be a hugely emotional scene and one that he was not going to hold back on. As the tears of sadness ran down his cheeks, the director William Wyler leaned across and said, ‘No, Greg, don’t get upset. Get angry! Angry! Angry!’

  And that’s how Greg was forced to play the scene – angry that he wouldn’t be seeing his love again. He said it was one of the defining moments of his career and he realized just how important listening to a director like Wyler could be.

  Oh, before I forget, I must mention a scene in Sea Wolves that I shared with the lovely Barbara Kellerman. It’s the part where my character discovers that she is in fact a Nazi spy – though not before taking a bullet in my arm. The script called for me to change jackets, wrap a bandage around my bloodied and wounded arm, with blood running down into the palm of my hand, and go to the ball, which was being staged as a grand diversion for the attack on the German ships in the harbour. I went off to make-up and, as I was sitting in a chair waiting for my call, the Indian unit nurse came in, took one look, and said ‘Oh my goodness! You have been injured!’ and proceeded to attend to my fake wound. I don’t think she’d ever worked on a film before.

  I wish I’d been able to make more films with Greg and seen him more often, but sadly our geography placed us on different continents. I remember we did go fishing together once, off Cap Ferrat. We chartered a boat and forged our way out beyond the headland looking for signs of any water-propelled creatures. Having not caught so much as a herring, the captain called on the radio to other fishing boats in t
he area and they reported nothing in sight either. We then saw the reason: about sixty feet from us an enormous whale poked its nose up out of the water, obviously happy after its huge breakfast of fish.

  Other places we used to hang out together were Crescendo and Ciro’s nightclubs on Sunset Strip, where I saw Don Rickles perform a few times. Don took great enjoyment from insulting his audience – in fact he was known as an ‘insult comic’ – particularly the more prominent famous people in the audience. One night, I was there at one table, Gary Cooper was at another and opposite him was a Mafia boss. Rickles began giving Cooper hell, then he turned his attention to me and then to the Mafia guy, saying the most terrible and goading things. But he always capped it off by saying, ‘I’m only joking, sir, I’m only joking, sir.’ And then, ‘I’m now going to walk among you and squeeze venom all over you!’

  He once said of Frank Sinatra, ‘When you enter a room, you have to kiss his ring. I don’t mind, but he has it in his back pocket.’

  One time a group of us were at Frank’s weekend house, relaxing by the pool, and Don started on Gregory Peck. It was the usual wisecracking routine, ‘Who picks your clothes, Greg – Stevie Wonder?’ and so on. For the most part, Greg took it in good humour but later that night Don went a step too far with a wisecrack and Greg leapt to his feet.

  ‘Shall we step outside and settle this like gentlemen?’ he challenged.

  ‘I’m only joking, sir! I’m only joking,’ Don guffawed.

  The next day, Greg’s wife Veronique had her white fluffy dog draped around her shoulders, like a stole, and we were all sitting in cast iron chairs having lunch on the terrace. Again, Don started on Greg.