In Spite of Myself

by Christopher Plummer

  Jason gave us his Hotspur, and Doug Campbell was a rich and robust Falstaff, both in Henry I V, Part I; Tammy relinquished her musical-star status momentarily for the small comic role of Dorcas in The Winter’s Tale. The West End star, Eileen Herlie, a warm and brilliant Scottish lass who had been Olivier’s Queen Mum in his film of Hamlet was Paulina from the same play and also Beatrice to my Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing. It was playing Benedick that freed me from all outward influence and for the first time I was able to find a trust in myself. Michael Langham’s witty and very human production received unanimous praise on both sides of the border and we, the actors, didn’t do too badly ourselves—our ensemble had never been stronger. For a moment our little northern company appeared unchallenged anywhere. To top it all off, the French brought back their Molière for a brief but exhausting visit and the Press Club, our only after-hours green room, rang out louder and longer than all the carillons of Notre Dame.

  Almost everyone who loved the theatre was in attendance that season. Polly left her beautiful island on the Lake of Two Mountains and brought her brood with her. From New York came Zachary Scott, Ruth Ford, John and DeeDee Ryan, Paul and Joanne Newman, Alec and Hildy Cohen, Rod Steiger—always Ratty Whitehead and Roger Stevens. Maurice Evans drove up bringing Margaret Webster. Tony and Judy Guthrie arrived from England, Nicholas Monsarrat (The Cruel Sea) ditto. Iris Mountbatten and an old lady came and went very quietly from Cooksville near Stratford, where she lived in very modest circumstances indeed, the Grand Duchess Olga (sister of Czar Nicholas II), a lonely survivor of the doomed Romanov dynasty.

  Another royal in the petite form of Princess Margaret was brought up the Avon on a launch to see Winter’s Tale, and we were presented afterwards. She was pretty, wickedly funny and had star quality in spades. Years later she told me, “I thought you were all terrific. I didn’t like the play very much.” The summer of ’58 was one long children’s party—our being the children, grown-ups and babes alike—no one could tell us apart; always a little out of control, a little too fond, living just on the edge and oh so flammable.

  JASON’S HOTSPUR was the best I’ve ever seen. Olivier’s, years before, had been marvellous too, of course, with his inspired idea of faltering on any word beginning with W so that when he died he would die on a stutter.

  HOTSPUR: No, … thou art dust,

  And food for w-w-w- … (dies)

  PRINCE HENRY: (finishing it for him) For worms, brave Percy.

  But Jason’s was remarkable because he achieved the impossible. He made us believe Hotspur would rather fight than talk. I don’t think he had ever played a major Shakespearean role up to then, but he instinctively used his hesitancy with the language to great advantage by saving all his emphasis and effort to attack the parenthetical sections of his text. This had the very plausible effect of illustrating a rough soldier’s habit of overblowing the importance of little things, leaving the big ones to take care of themselves. This Hotspur rode his wife as he rode his horse—a coarse fighter whose biggest battle perhaps was the battle to express himself. But when Jason as Percy grasped at straws he could recognize and hold on to, the sheer tenacity of his quest for truth and glory freed the poetry in him and when he reached for the sky “to pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,” he was unforgettable.

  King Polixenes as a role is of course nowhere in the same league as Hotspur. It is not one of Will’s gems. Jason knew this and took a much-needed vacation while performing it. He would mock his opening speech by speaking it as Jimmy Durante. It had all the right Durante rhythms:

  Nine changes of the waddery stah hatt bin

  Da shepherd’s note since we have left our trone

  Widdout a boiden

  Tanya Moiseiwitsch had dressed the king in a long gown and, if you took a peak underneath, you’d see Jason had kept his street clothes on, pockets filled with packs of Marlboros and wearing a heavy Rolex, ready for a quick getaway.

  In the play’s last scene, Leontes, in guilt and despair, stands over the stone effigy of his dead wife. For a moment he believes she could be breathing and says, “Methinks, there is an air comes from her!” On the first few performances, as I spoke the line, I made the mistake of bringing both my hands to my face—a gesture innocently intended to express awe and wonder. Jason, quick to notice, immediately farted. The whole assembled company corpsed. It was a slow, soft, lingering release (Jason could supply a variety of speeds and volumes at will). The audience couldn’t remotely believe they’d heard what they’d heard; the possibility would never have occurred to them, but we certainly heard! Every night we visibly tensed in anticipation of the dreaded moment and every night he did not disappoint us.

  Eileen Herlie brought a good deal of emotional power to Paulina and as Beatrice she was a sheer delight, saving that very power solely for the famous church scene. Dame Sybil Thorndike and Sir Lewis Casson, Dougie Campbell’s in-laws and grand old pillars of the British stage, came to see the Much Ado dress rehearsal. Sybil was in her late eighties, Lewis in his nineties and very, very deaf. They sat at the back of the theatre holding hands as they had done rain or shine since the day they fell in love. We are now in the midst of the church scene. Beatrice berates Benedick before the whole congregation in her famous speech which begins, “Princes and Counties!” Eileen really let it rip that afternoon, pulling out all the stops. A long silence follows before Benedick can speak. In that pause, Sybil, from the last row, in a voice that could be heard across the plains of Saskatchewan shouted at Lewis, “I said—she’s got the guns for it, hasn’t she?” We had the devil of a time trying to continue with straight faces, but that pronouncement made Eileen’s summer.

  Tanya, as an opening-night present, gave me an LP of one of her father’s last concerts before he died. I had once owned some rare seventy-eights on which he exquisitely played the Fourth and Emperor Concertos of Beethoven, so this was a treat. Benno Moiseiwitsch, in his time, was one of the world’s great pianists and a bosom friend of Rachmaninoff. He also lived gregariously and loved his food and drink. “You’ll enjoy this, I think,” said Tanya. “He was quite tiddly when he recorded it and makes ghastly mistakes all over the place. You can’t drink and play at the same time, you know.” I reminded Tanya that I could barely sit down at a piano unless I was bombed!

  Eileen as Paulina in The Winter’s Tale

  Running out of things to do in the brief spare time there was, our dreaded little quartet (the Admiral, the Commander, the Captain and me—the ship’s doctor) had arrived at a dead impasse. We needed new inspiration; we craved new blood. We found both in a young man called Peter Hale who was playing small parts that season and doubling as an assistant stage manager. We at once detected great promise in the youth. He had a completely natural and unaffected penchant for deviltry, a real down ’n’ dirty glint in his eye and a talent for improvising wickedness that was prodigious in the extreme. Because he was ASM on The Winter’s Tale we christened him “Winters Hale.” Winters boasted a large two-wheel motorbike which could fit three, so two of the “fraternity” would take turns and jump on behind Winters as he madly drove that devil bike through the black night in search of trouble.

  The latest sport we had invented was to visit our actor friends in their rental houses or flats, complain bitterly about the quality of their furniture (“How can you expect decent men to drink amongst all this Swedish G Plan?”) and proceed to throw every chair and table out the window. This would occasion a kind of desperate and hysterical laughter from our hosts, especially when after the last piece had disappeared we followed suit and threw ourselves out. Needless to say, the Admiral did not participate in the acrobatics, he just observed, drink in hand, an expression of total satisfaction painted all over his face.

  As we got more confident, these feats became all the more daring, especially when the windows were four stories high. One of us always had to gather up the poor unfortunate who had landed on his back in a small tree or bush. We got to be quite exp
ert, however, and Winters was clearly the most nimble for he executed it all with the dexterity of a stuntman and his timing was superb. After a while, he didn’t even bother with the furniture gag anymore. The moment he entered a room he simply threw himself out the window. We gave him a new nickname, “Windows Hale.”

  As the summer limped along, Jason and his old man, the Admiral, never stopped quarreling—in bars, on the streets, at parties—morning, noon and night. It got worse. They were actually enormously fond of each other, but the Admiral, who’d been with Jason since New York, matching him drink for drink, showed no signs of leaving and stayed on and on. This got on Jason’s nerves and although the Admiral was proud as Punch of his son’s success, he was also, I think, a little jealous of it. The fights were loud, overplayed, sometimes funny, sometimes horrific. They came straight out of an O’Neill play.

  Once when Jason ran out of horrible names to sling at his dad, he ended up calling him an old “poofinjay.” This marriage of Elizabethan and contemporary slang was a clear indication that, in Jason’s case, “art” was influencing life. Finally, Jase persuaded the Admiral to check into a clinic in nearby Guelph so that the old man could dry out, sober up and fly right. Though we sorely missed him, the seas, I must admit, became a lot calmer. But not for long. Jason firmly announced that on his day off he’d be driving to Chicago to see his wife and would be back in time for the next show. “Wife?” We were dumbfounded. We had no idea he’d married again.

  A native of that toddlin’ town, her name was Rachel Taylor. We had already made her acquaintance; she was a good girl, but we didn’t think she was right for the Captain and I believe we even told him so—can you stomach our gall?! Actually, we just didn’t want him to leave; he was too much fun. Nothing could dissuade him, however, and after much celebration, deliberately organized to delay his departure, at 3:00 a.m. on the appointed day, he fell into his Red Ding-Dong wearing a helmet from Winter’s Tale, brandishing an enormous sword and carrying a shield that Leslie Hurry had designed for Tamburlaine with the grimacing head of Medusa on the front. Thus fully caparisoned, he drove off down the street shouting those immortal lines:

  One, she was my wife

  Two, I was in a perverse mood

  Three, I had a Byronic complex

  He managed to cross the border either because the customs officials thought it wiser to humour this deranged Quixote and let him pass or Jason had simply showed them Medusa’s head and they’d all turned to stone.

  “GIB” JARROTT was the kindest man around. He lived in Sebringville, a few miles outside Stratford on beautiful rolling farmland whose hills and fields dominated the countryside for as far as the eye could see. Gib and his wife, Elizabeth, devoted patrons who loved the theatre, literally gave us actors the entire run of the place of which I’m afraid we took full advantage. In his sixties, Gib was a semiretired doctor but no one could figure out when he found the time to practice—he was always too busy looking after us. Jean Gascon affectionately called him “le médecin malgré lui” and Jean would go out there and cook for them occasionally and we’d sit around noshing on the terrace while the strong scent of garlic pleasantly hung in the evening air.

  That summer Gib’s birthday came around on a Sunday—our day off. Jean, in a moment of inspiration, called a meeting. “We’re going to give Gib a surprise party,” and he proceeded to unravel his plan. He would borrow some of the festival orchestra, hide behind the farthest hill along with most of the company. He would also con Jean-Pierre Rampal (the world’s greatest flautist, conveniently giving a concert here) to join in. A few of us would be delegated to stay at the house and at a given time would see that Gib came down to the pool which had a spectacular view of the hills beyond. Everything worked according to plan. Our small but diverse group gathered at the pool—the Guthries, Michael and Helen Langham, Marcel Marceau (doing his clown “Bip” for the festival); the pixieish Thornton Wilder (staying with the Guthries); Jason Robards; Liz Jarrott; Tammy, who was still friendly; me and the unsuspecting Gib.

  The amazing, whimsical Mr. Wilder

  From at least a mile away the sound of fife, flute, trumpet and drum echoed down the valleys and there suddenly on the horizon appeared the little band. They were playing “Happy Birthday,” “La Marseillaise,” “En Roulant,” God knows what else all at once. And there was Jean-Pierre Rampal tootling away with the rest; out in front, Gascon, a Callot drawing in animation, wearing a long false nose, doing his crazy swaggering walk, and behind, in one long line, the rest of the company carrying all the food and wine, singing their hearts out. The sight of them lit by the afternoon sun, coming down the slopes, through the golden fields and up the final hill, sent tingles down the spine; and dear old Gib couldn’t stop laughing and crying for the rest of the night.

  MALHEUREUSEMENT, the Molière season came to an end—it was time for the French adieu. We fêted them with champagne at my pad the day they left—that gallant company. After many promises of fealty, they poured themselves into two cars which bulged at the seams and set off for the long journey to Montreal. They drove down the street shouting bawdy French chansons and Québecois obscenities, but moments later they were all back on our front porch giving the same farewell speeches, and poured themselves back into the cars once more, screaming and shouting till they were out of sight. A full fifteen minutes went by when, would you believe it, there they were once again repeating the same performance.

  Thinking we had seen the last of them and weak from laughter, we went into the house for a much-needed rest. At least an hour had lapsed when I thought I heard in the distance the sound of approaching horns. I rushed out onto the porch and Tabérnacle! Sure enough, the whole street resounded with an ear-piercing din as those maudits habitants came back for more. They had to have been at least a quarter of the way to Montreal when Gascon blackmailed them into turning around for one last exit—this one the grandest of them all. Good Ol’ Jean, he would go to any lengths for a laugh.

  Farewell, thou latter spring! farewell,

  All-hallown summer!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE POET AND THE REBEL

  Lounging in my digs one languid afternoon, I was jolted from my reverie by the sound of the telephone. It rang with a rather more joyous peal than usual, and by God! if it wasn’t Archibald MacLeish!

  Quite unexpectedly as Vasserot

  The armless ambidextrian was lighting

  A match between his great and second toe

  And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting

  The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum

  Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough

  In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb—

  Quite unexpectedly the top blew off.

  —A.M.

  Well, my life was considerably brightened by that call, and the voice on the other end was the youngest voice I had ever heard in a man of his advanced years. He was saying that someone had suggested I play the Devil in his play J.B. for New York, which would be directed by Elia Kazan and could he fly up and meet me?! Now I had never set eyes on Mr. MacLeish and as I listened to that youthful voice, I couldn’t help imagining that in spite of his long, rich life and the great abundance of literature and poetry he has given us, he must, by the sound of him, be just a mere boy, and when I finally met him, to my sheer delight, he still was!

  Archibald MacLeish, who died April 20, 1982, just short of his ninetieth birthday, was a playwright, lawyer, teacher, journalist, a librarian of congress and an assistant secretary of state. Amy Lowell was his mentor; Ernest Hemingway, Dean Acheson and Judge Learned Hand were among his closest friends. He worked for publisher Henry Luce and President Franklin Roosevelt; at one point Adlai Stevenson worked for him. He was called a fascist by Communists and a Communist by Senator Joseph McCarthy. The author of more than forty books of poems, plays and speeches, he won the Pulitzer Prize three times as well as the National Medal of Literature and the Presidential Medal of Freedom. He was one
of the most remarkable men of his time and, above all, he was a poet—in spirit and in dress.

  Because he was both bohemian and conservative, I secretly nicknamed him “the Poet with the Vest.” Pretty soon I was calling him “Archie.” His youthful spirit, his genuine enthusiasm for everything was utterly contagious. He made me feel one hundred feet tall. Age and experience notwithstanding, there was not a hint of cynicism in him, no side. He appeared unsullied, pure, as if already adorned for immortality. Yet there was always an irreverent glint behind those kind, gentle eyes. About this country—his country—Archie had always been honest, tough and loving:

  It is a strange thing—to be an American.

  Neither a place it is nor a blood name.

  America is West and the wind blowing.

  America is a great word and the snow,

  A way, a white bird, the rain falling,

  A shining thing in the mind and the gulls’ call.

  —“AMERICAN LETTER”

  I was so impressed with this dapper older man who had exiled himself to Paris in the golden twenties, had lived through the age of Dada and had known Picasso, James Joyce, Scott Fitzgerald, the Gerald Mur-phys, Gertrude Stein.

  One of the great unsung poets of America

  Fame was what they wanted in that town.

  Fame could be found there too—flushed like quail in the