In Spite of Myself

by Christopher Plummer

  It’s a rare thing in life to meet someone who really believes in you. Here was a man with a huge heart—a hero of mine, the man most likely to film my dreams, whose style, taste and judgment had been nigh impossible to match in the movie industry, and he’d gone to battle for me—he had genuinely believed in me and I’d cast him aside. Was I insane? David thought I was and told me so—not just that day at lunch but years after in his biography—and the look of disappointment on his face when I told him made me want to crawl under every table in the Côte Basque. Yet at the same time I knew he understood. For behind all the mogul-mania, David’s real wealth and power was his artistry. He was a consummate artist, a master craftsman—intensely dedicated and intensely human. Yes, he understood all right.

  So with a final salute to one of the last great romantics, ruler of a vanished cinematic epoch I would have been much more comfortable in, I cut my chains, gathered up my tiny offspring, waved good-bye to my fellow convicts and joined the wild cranes as we flew to our northern outpost, a summer of poetry and a newfound freedom which, ironically, I had never really lost.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “KRÖNBERG-ON-AVON”

  Stratford’s tent had been struck forever and with it a wonderful sense of living dangerously. Now, everything would be “safe”—perhaps too safe. At last we could boast a roof over our heads; in fact, we were permanent; the only “established, permanent crap game” of its kind on the continent. Our cocoon was sealed. Except for the few free spirits who knew they must one day cut the old umbilical—the future seemed assured.

  To celebrate the new structure there was a series of gala functions and two strenuous opening performances of Hamlet and Twelfth Night. The affirmation of several seasons of glorious work came on the second night with Tyrone Guthrie’s magical production of the latter when an international audience, as one body, gave the new enterprise a jubilant welcome. Our revels had by no means ended. Most of the company went way over the top—the festivities continuing far into the next morning—not just on the banks of, but deep in, the Avon River itself; drunken heads bobbing up every so often to shout triumphant obscenities at the indifferent sky.

  It had completely slipped our minds of course that the dear, inconsiderate management had scheduled a matinée of Hamlet that same day at 2:00 p.m.! Puce with rage, we dragged ourselves from the murky shallows, bedraggled swamp creatures, sodden with lake water and booze, and dutifully reported to the theatre, where we began pouring ourselves into our gear. My old friend, that bruiser of an Aussie Max Helpmann (who played the Ghost), had actually never left his spanking new dressing room—in fact he’d been quietly celebrating there for days. Max was the swarthy brother of the famous ballet star Robert Helpmann. While Robert spent the war years grand jeté–ing his way to fame on at least four continents clad in a variety of toe shoes, Captain Max amused himself during battle breaks in the Pacific campaign by driving motorcycles off the decks of aircraft carriers into the sea far below. A daredevil, cursed with shyness, you couldn’t find more of a man’s man if you tried. A veteran in the theatre of war and a warring veteran in the theatre, he was a seasoned expert at burning candles at both ends. At this moment, true to form, having downed his last drink, he was just packing up to go home and pass out when we arrived to break the sad news. “Turn around, Max, you’re going the wrong way.”

  Poor Max, in this rigid state, struggled manfully into his heavy fiberglass armour and ghastly green makeup and glided rather unsteadily onto the stage—“my father’s spirit doomed for a certain term to walk the earth.” “Hearsed in death,” he looked like we all felt. I could have sworn I heard Hamlet, perhaps it was me, shriek, “Go on, I’ll follow thee” as I crawled after him up the steep staircase. We were on our precipitous way to the little balcony on high where we were to play the famous scene between Hamlet père et fils. The balcony had no railings, and there was barely enough space for two—certainly no room for a waiter with a tray of much-needed Fernet-Brancas. A tiny spot lit both of us—the only light source, everything else in stygian gloom, including the audience. Below us, nothing but a gaping hole—not even a trace of the stairs we had just mounted. From the way Max was swaying up there, the lines he was spouting—“List, list, o list”—took on a fresh and special significance.

  Max Helpmann—a woefully hungover Ghost

  “Brief let me be—” insists the shade and proceeds to unfold one of the longest and most tortured tales in theatrical literature. I know one is not supposed to touch a ghost onstage or off, but as “Dad” rambled on I had no choice but to grab hold of his legs to keep us both from hurtling to certain death. Rivulets of escaping booze poured down his face melting his deathly green makeup until he resembled the decomposing Mister Valdamar, but he managed to get to the end of his lengthy message quite superbly and without a hitch! “The glowworm shows the matin to be near” was his cue to take leave of the platform and glide gracefully and soundlessly down into the enveloping darkness. Max gingerly began his backward descent into the black. Oy! Could he have used a glowworm! With his first “Adieu” he made the top landing but there was a tremendous thud as he collided headlong into a pillar—the balcony shook. I was certain I would never set eyes on my friend again. I could hear him swearing all too audibly as he feverishly groped his way about. My poor old specter was irretrievably lost. I prayed his undercarriage would lower and he could land safely.

  Finally he decided to give up being a silent ghost altogether and began to stomp angrily down the rest of the staircase in his clanking boots of mail. This phantom was taking forever to disappear and advertising every step of the way. To cover its uncertain journey it kept repeating “Adieu” and “Remember me” many more times than the Bard had intended. At long last I heard him reach the apron of the stage. All he had to do now was to tiptoe unseen down the ramp and be done. I steeled myself for my soliloquy, which would follow (“O, all you Host of Heaven …”). The earth gaped, the Hosts of Heaven were poised, all Hell was standing by waiting to be coupled. I was just opening my mouth to let fly Hamlet’s exclamation of release when with a prolonged clatter much like the sound of garbage cans colliding in a tin laundry chute—my father’s spirit catapulted and ricocheted down the ramp and disappeared far below into the cellarage. There was a long, deathly silence. Then a pitiful little voice from somewhere in the subterranean bowels called out one last “Remember me!”

  Remember thee? How could I fucking forget?!!!

  AH, MES AMIS, ’twas by no means the finale of that wacky afternoon! For a while at least, things began to resume their normal expectancy and settle down. Hangovers were being sweated out one by one and, for a spell, most of the large ensemble managed to get back on track. Then a sudden sea change occurred, for the general pace now took on a most alarming speed. Clearly there was but one thought on everyone’s mind: to get shot of the damn thing as quickly as possible. It was a race to the finish. To a man, each actor seemed determined to get the hell off before the next guy. This new, unexpected attack gave the performance a certain urgency and passion not experienced before.

  It is now the graveyard scene. Hamlet leaps into the grave gathering the dead Ophelia in his arms:

  Forty thousand brothers

  Could not, with all their quantity of love,

  Make up my sum.

  Our grave was an open trapdoor in the center of the stage. At the scene’s conclusion, I would climb out of the trap and slam it shut, on the lines:

  Let Hercules himself do what he may,

  The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

  It was necessary to close the trap in order that the remainder of the play could be performed on the full stage. That day I was not the only one to leap into the grave. A young and overzealous French Canadian lad (un véritable étudiant du drame) who played one of the monks, had, in his religious fervor, leaned too far forward, lost his balance and dove in with me. This would have been perfectly okay had he climbed out when I did. But, not wishing
to distract, humiliated beyond repair and out of a certain deference to the leading player, me, the damn fool remained down there out of sight. No urgent eye signals from me could persuade him otherwise. I had no choice but to slam the trap on them both! There was a low rumble of stifled amusement from the audience and for the rest of the afternoon the only thing they could think of was “What the hell was a young monk going to do for the rest of his days shut up in a grave with the dead daughter of Polonius?” The answer was all too obvious—necrophilia!

  The afternoon limped on, teetering as always on the edge of disaster. Was this the Hamlet I had grown to imagine would perhaps, in the annals of theatre, be a tiny milestone? Was not New York opening its widespread arms? After all, there had been rumors on the street that I might be the awaited Prince—the Dane of the moment. Managers, producers, promoters were on red alert for the signal that would be their assurance of a Broadway production. One of them, Roger L. Stevens, had arrived the night before for the opening of Twelfth Night and would stay over to view Hamlet this very matinée. Roger had always shown great kindness to me over the years since he coproduced Miss Cornell’s Dark Is Light Enough and the Paris Medea of Judith Anderson. We had been drawn closer together because of my longstanding friendship with his partner and pal Robert “Ratty” White-head. Yes, if anyone was to produce my Hamlet, he would be the one!

  Roger was a laid-back, speechlessly shy American businessman who became very rapidly one of the most significant theatrical patrons in the United States, and principal advisor on the arts to several presidents (Democrat and Republican), starting with his old friend John F. Kennedy. He also founded the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., and was a prime mover in real estate both in Washington and New York City. In his long and distinguished career, it could be said of Roger that he never rose—he was always up there! He was on so many boards it was sometimes difficult for him to remember of which ones he was chairman! In fact, he had already earned the somewhat endearing reputation for being irritatingly vague and absentminded.

  Once, so the story goes, he was forced to entertain some high-powered, out-of-town executives who insisted they be taken to El Morocco, the then-exclusive New York nitery. Now, conservative Roger, who had at one time owned the Empire State Building and several other such landmarks, never went to nightclubs—indeed he hardly ever went out at all. He certainly had never been inside El Morocco. When supper was over, he called for the bill so he could sign it. The management was sorry, but they didn’t know him and would he please pay cash or cheque. Too shy to tell them who he was and make a scene, he admitted he had no cash or cheques with him. The out-of-towners he had entertained so lavishly had had such a great time ogling all the glamorous ladies they fought like terriers over the bill, insisting they take him. Roger was mortified. The next day when arranging with his secretary to reimburse them by mail, he told her of his predicament with El Morocco’s manager. The secretary, dumbfounded, could only say, “But why didn’t you tell him, Mr. Stevens?”

  “Tell him what?”

  “That you own that building.”

  That was Roger. So it didn’t come as too much of a surprise when I learned what had happened. Fighting as hard as I could through last night’s vapors to give him the best Hamlet I knew how, I might as well have been baying at the moon. Our man wasn’t there! He’d forgotten to come. In fact he hadn’t even been to bed! The previous night’s celebrations had got to him as well and he was still partying away over at Siobhan McKenna’s house. The captivating Irish actress and nighthawk who played a wonderfully lyrical Viola in Twelfth Night had the day off and was taking full advantage of it! And Roger was smitten! Here was his new star! Good-bye Hamlet! So long, Broadway! While I was vainly acting my heart out, the absentee entrepreneur and his newly discovered Colleen at midafternoon were shouting Irish ditties at each other in raucous disharmony, which the loudest cannon in the Elsinore artillery could not have silenced!

  TYRONE GUTHRIE must have still harboured suspicions about me, for early on in the Twelfth Night rehearsals, he couldn’t resist the odd dig or two. He had damn good reason to put me in my place for, playing the plum parts that season, I had become very much a Cock-o’-the-Walk. One morning I arrived embarrassingly late—at least an hour! I had totally forgot that my Aguecheek scenes were to start the day. When I entered the rehearsal room the entire company was sitting around in silence and there was a table set up on the empty stage with coffee, toast and eggs. “We thought you might like some breakfast,” said the Good Doctor, seething with sarcasm and he made me sit down, utterly mortified, and told me they would not proceed until I’d finished every mouthful. I choked down my coffee and toast as everyone just sat and watched.

  The day Siobhan McKenna arrived for her first rehearsal as Viola was especially tense. A star from Ireland who had made considerable waves in Dublin and London’s West End, she would quite naturally expect to be rather envied and resented by a resident company which had not yet been introduced. Not knowing the town at all and with no one to guide her, she had every reason to be late and late she was. Dr. Guthrie, to my great surprise and horror, berated her most severely in front of everyone. “But Doctor Guthrie,” she stammered defensively in that beautiful Irish lilt of hers. “Discussion over! Waste of time! Press on!” snapped the great man. None of us could believe this treatment of a visiting celebrity, so at the first break we rallied around her in support and gave her the warmest welcome we knew how. She was so overcome, she burst into tears. As I passed Dr. Guthrie, who was seated apart watching the whole scene with owl-like satisfaction, he gave me an evil wink and out of the corner of his mouth said, “That’s got ’em on her side. They’ll do anything for her now!”

  Tony Guthrie, as a director, was an audience of a thousand people. He had a special genius for getting the very best from his actors—goading them on to be more inventive than they ever dreamed possible. Dougie Campbell (Sir Toby), Bruno Gerussi (Feste) and I were trying outrageously over-the-top bits of business one night at rehearsal. The Good Doctor finally yelled at us from the back of the stalls, “Much too much! Very bad taste! Keep it all in!”

  Sir Andrew at one point during the carousel scenes with Sir Toby Belch and the Fool says wistfully out of the blue, “I was adored—once!” Tony, in a matter-of-fact manner, said simply, “After the word ‘once,’ why don’t you fall down the trap and don’t come back up for at least a minute?” That piece of business became my whole characterization in one stunt and never failed to capsize the audience. I confess I also used Tony’s voice for Aguecheek, which he pretended not to notice.

  In spite of such tomfoolery, Tony never once neglected the depth of his characters, poignantly bringing out the sadness and loneliness of the comics; sharply accenting the bitterness of the Fool and the cruelty with which he treated Malvolio in prison. All the silly stuff about mistaken identity near the play’s end he made us take at a tremendous clip—drilling us till we dropped—bringing the audience to its feet; and in the autumnal scene at the very end, the Fool’s song (“The rain it raineth every day”) became an unusually hard and cynical lament, so painful and sad that autumn had quite suddenly turned to winter.

  My Aguecheek, with Douglas Campbell’s Sir Toby and Siobhan McKenna’s Viola

  IT WAS ABOUT A FORTNIGHT into the run, when making my entrance as Aguecheek, capering down the aisle convinced I was the funniest thing since Grock, that I accidentally turned my ankle on a step and hurtled forward onto the stage flat on my face. I had unintentionally brought down the house sooner than expected but my foot was quite seriously broken. After what could be accurately described as a staggering performance, I sought out the brilliant Tanya Moiseiwitsch, who straightaway ordered her minions in the costume department to construct a fiberglass cast so decorated to look like part of each costume and carefully weighted to take pressure off the foot. Good old Tanya—ahead of her time as always.

  The next day was yet another Hamlet matinée and my understudy would,
of course, have to take over one Dane while the other Dane retired whimpering to his truckle bed. My understudy was William Hutt who already was busily occupied in giving a rich and witty characterization of Polonius, avoiding, with his inherent good taste, any hint of the accustomed buffoonery indulged by lesser players. Now, even as far back as 1957 Bill Hutt was immensely experienced and would go on to become probably Canada’s all-time most versatile classical actor. He was equally adept at low, high or medium comedy, tragical comical, comical pastoral, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral. He was also good fun to be with, had a wicked sense of humour and an explosive laugh that could trigger any electric appliance for miles around—you name it. However, genial though he was most of the time, he could upon occasion become extremely pompous and rather grand. “Grand as in Grand Rapids,” one wag put it.

  William Hutt as a most original Eskimo Lear

  The matinée in progress, I restlessly tossed and turned in my bed, scowling at my fiberglass cast, hoping against hope that I was not at that moment being outshone by Mr. Hutt. The matinée over, two of my “spies” arrived at my bedside armed with their secret information. Both moles informed me that Bill had been absolutely wonderful all afternoon, cool as a cucumber, completely in control; that the audience had risen to the occasion and that even the production’s playing time had been reduced considerably. I was just about to gnash all of my teeth at once and grind them to dust when the more sympathetic of the two moles assured me that towards the play’s end Bill’s nerves had, for a second, got the better of him and he had made one glaring, monstrous gaffe. Hamlet grabs the poisoned cup from the dying Queen and, as the text has it, rounds on the King: