CYRANO: …et ce soir, quand j’entrerai chez Dieu, Mon salut bailaiera largement le seuil bleu, Quelque chose que sans un pli, sans une tache, J’emporte malgré vous, et c’est …
ROXANE: C’est? …
CYRANO: Mon panache!
The very words “chez Dieu” are untranslatable. One can only say “before God” or “in God’s house” or “with God.” None comes anywhere near the closeness and holy intimacy the French words suggest. It was fascinating, too, while researching to read Rostand’s stinging reply to the Académie Française after the first Paris performance. They had challenged him as a fellow member to explain his meaning of the word “panache.” We know it to suggest flair, style and a carefree nonchalance in the face of adversity, but Rostand’s explanation, too long to print here, is a masterpiece of verbal gymnastics.
Cyrano of the huge nose and the grand soul is perhaps one of the starriest, most spectacular characters in all romantic drama and one must take full advantage if given the chance. Though I’d admired José’s performance very much and at such close quarters, I also learned from him what not to do should I ever attempt the role. He was so stunning in the comic scenes but towards the end, far too sentimental. Someone said quite accurately that he cried so much at his own death there were no tears left for anyone else. I came to learn from Michael Langham that Cyrano dies ecstatic and that is what is so infinitely moving. After all, Rostand’s stage direction, before the last words “mon panache” is quite simply—il dit en souriant.
I had every reason to smile, being blessed with a most wonderfully skillful cast. The masterful John Colicos with his great voice, urbane, sardonic, deliciously frightening as le Compte de Guiche; William Hutt’s inimitable presence and humour infusing much style and military dash into his Carbon de Castel-Jaloux; a dark-haired beauty, Toby Robins, made a charming Roxane very easy to look upon and just as easy to fall in love with. Douglas Rain, about to voice his memorable HAL the Computer in Kubrick’s film 2001, made an equally memorable Ragueneau the pastry chef—abandoning his usual remote self—utterly endearing. In designing and staging the duel that accompanies Cyrano’s famous improvisation in act 1, Paddy Crean completely outdid himself with a very complex and brilliantly funny flourish of swordplay. Every night, it brought down the house. Cyrano quickly sold out as had Macbeth but this time the reactions were overwhelmingly positive from every local paper, also the Herald Tribune and The New York Times; even Québec’s French press gave it full marks. Everyone in the cast down to that irreplaceable character actor, Eric Christmas, as Montfleury, was right on the money. It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime lucky moments where everything falls into place and joy takes over. I was so proud of our illustrious company in that short season and in that small distant town away from everything, and so sad that when it was over they must break up and go their separate ways and that New York or London was never to see this gem of a production.
Late autumn winds blew in a piercing cold through those last few days of the season. Trish had gone back to London for medical checkups and left Cawdor and me all by ourselves in the flat. Cawdor had made a rather grumpy companion but had grown quite used to us, as we had to him. Dame Olwyn or no Dame Olwyn, I believed he had brought me some luck along the way. And now our relationship was over. What was I going to do with him? I couldn’t set him free—other birds would smell the scent of humanity and peck his eyes out. Vic Polley, the theatre’s veteran general manager, the “fixer” of all our problems, said, “Give him to Rob Miller, the swan man; he takes in all sorts of strays.” Rob had made it his job to look after all the swans in the winter months. He got them out of the river, walked them up the hill to his place, kept them under cover and when spring came around he walked them back down again. This had become such a ritual that the swans were actually piped down to the river by a Scots Highlander in full kilt and tartan—much to the delight of the tourists. Rob, I discovered, was a gruff old soul of very few words whom you could trust with your life. When I told him I didn’t know how to bring Cawdor to him, he grunted something disdainful and said, “Aw heck. Jis leave the front door open. I’ll come and get him—he’ll be all right.”
Much relieved, I went back to the flat. The moment I got through the door he flew down from his perch, landing on the back of a chair where he could look me straight in the eye. He must have sensed something was up for he greeted me with the longest, loudest barrage of guttural obscenities I had ever heard coming out of that beak of his—it was an explosion! He must have used every swear word known to the grackle tongue; he would not stop. I vow he was telling me in no uncertain terms that he would put a curse on me and my family, that he was in league with every warlock from Scotland’s southern tip to the Hebrides, that he was Macbeth’s very own crow and that if I left him, we’d both die! I poured some Johnnie Walker Black Label into a shot glass and put it on the floor. He never turned down booze and this was his favourite drink—so that shut him up. Spreading his wings around the glass, he began to sip. I poured myself a stiff one too—damn it, I was going to miss this crazy bird! We toasted each other. Then I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran out of the house down to the nearest pub and waited till he was gone.
Well, I did do Cyrano in New York after all—and this time on television once again. George Shaefer, director of the prestigious programme Hallmark Hall of Fame, had seen the show at Stratford and decided that in conjunction with the festival he would film it. There were sadly very few of the original cast left and there was to be no vital supervision from Michael Langham, who had gone back to England. There was no Colicos so Bill Hutt became de Guiche. My pals Bob Goodier and Bruno Gerussi remained on board. Ken Campbell stayed on mercifully as de Valvert so that very difficult complicated duel did not have to be redone. Donald Harron was our new Christian and the beautiful Hope Lange from the movies was Roxane. The whole thing worked up to a point. Dear George did all he could to remain loyal, but it came nowhere near the magic the stage had brought to it. It is not possible to squeeze that sprawling romance into the meager confines of the boob tube. Plus the fact it so badly needed a live audience to help sweep it along. Besides I was disappointed in everything, including my own performance. I was having too much fun being back in New York and staying up every night drinking far too heavily. It slowed me down—I was not at my best.
I had moved into the old Algonquin and the moment I checked into my room the phone rang. It was Lauren Bacall—how did she know I was there? Did she think I was the hotel’s permanent resident? “Where the hell’s Jason?” she demanded. “I haven’t a clue, Betty, I’ve just got here.” “Sorry, I thought he was with you,” she went on out of the corner of her mouth. “He hasn’t been home for the last two days!” I went out in search of him, checking all his familiar haunts, finally locating him at the White Horse Tavern down near the docks. We had a great reunion and the next several days, after my rehearsals, we pub-crawled through the East Side, taking along the beauteous Hope as my date. To our great surprise, she matched us drink for drink, which came to a considerable total (in fact, she rather outdid us and never once turned a hair—just as pretty and fresh as ever). I had always felt close to the Lange family. My friendship with David, her brother, and her sister Minelda, whose husband, Bob Jiras, the “Powder Puff,” still whispered in one’s ear at every opportunity, “I’ve got this script called The River.” I was particularly fond of Mrs. Lange, their mother, who was so good to me. And Hope? Well, of course, Hope is always “the thing with feathers.” Is she not?
Before embarking for England, I found myself one evening at The Players Club on Gramercy Park where I had been a member since 1957. This old house of Edwin Booth’s (the nineteenth-century actor) had been turned into an artists’ club—one of the most beautiful and most charming in existence. That evening there was a lot of laughter at the bar. A crowd had gathered round a very tall, graceful young man immaculately dressed with a shock of golden blond hair. Damn it if it wasn’t Peter O’Toole h
olding court. I couldn’t believe it. He had finally finished Lawrence, and brimming with Irish whimsy, a Jameson in one hand, his cigarette holder in the other, he was busy regaling them with tales of the desert.
One in particular dealt with Peter taking a lunch break, his camel by his side, on the sweltering sands with no cover in sight. It was too far to go back to camp as they would be resuming photography after lunch way out there in the dunes. David Lean had taken shelter in his air-conditioned Rolls-Royce shooting-brake and there was no one around except Peter, his camel and several Arab riders in the distance waiting on their horses, bored and restless, looking for entertainment. Seeing that Peter (the infidel British actor) was alone in his robes, they decided to scare the daylights out of him. Screaming their high-pitched battle cries, they charged him at full gallop. His heart in his mouth, Peter saw there was nothing for it but to lie flat on the sand. The riders were almost upon him when a miraculous thing happened. The camel walked up to Peter and stood over him, straddling him so that he was completely protected. The furious riders made a V, rode past and no one was hurt. I know this tale to be true as there had been witnesses on the horizon. The story over, I went up to him, gave him a hug and thanked him for Cyrano. With his usual sweeping largesse, he loftily quipped, “I heard you did me proud—you thieving cunt!”
The young Cyrano
Peter O’Toole is truly one of the great personalities of our time. His towering Lawrence and his delicious performance much later in My Favorite Year were mere microcosms of this larger-than-life creature. Fiercely intelligent, with a Shavian wit, he is also the most incurable of romantics—far more than I could ever hope to be. Though he was supposedly born near the Cliffs of Connemara, he unquestionably comes from another world altogether. Where that world is I cannot be sure, but I’ll hazard a guess it is hovering happily somewhere in the air above the mists of Avalon.
Peter O’Toole—wonderfully off the planet
He had just begun to tell the boys at the bar about his camel sores. I knew he’d somehow get to it. “Show us, show us, show us,” they gleefully chanted. Dragging out the suspense by taking a long, elegant sip of his drink, he gave them his most quizzical look: “Very well, you hungry peasants,” and in the somewhat staid atmosphere of The Players, he began to take down his pants. I headed for the door. “Where are you going?” someone shouted at me. “O’Toole is about to show us his ass.” “No thanks,” I called back, colouring my voice with world-weary cynicism. “I’ve seen it before.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FALL OF THE HOUSE OF BRONSTON
1963. Madrid, Spain. Plaza de Toros. Four o’clock. A sunny Sunday afternoon. The great Miguelin is today’s matador—how lucky can I get for my first bullfight?! The aficionados of Madrid are well known for their knowledge, cynicism and critical intolerance and are extremely vocal about it. But today’s crowd is unusually hushed. There is a marked sense of impending drama in the air—a respect, even, perhaps, reverence. Miguelin enters the ring. With a disdainful wave of his hand, he dismisses the horroneadors and dazzles the charging bull with a breathtaking flurry of veronicas—man and beast so close they appear as one. There is a deep rumble of approval throughout the plaza. Now the horses in their protective padding and blindfolds come slowly into the ring, uncertain and unsteady, nervously sniffing the air. They are ridden by the picadors carrying their long lances with which to pierce the bull’s neck in order to lower its head. They are barely into the ring when Miguelin, with spectacular nonchalance, dismisses them as well, the relieved horses skulking away to the safety of their stalls. A gasp of appreciation comes from the spectators—the bull is still fresh as ever and unscathed. Its head held high, the risks presented now are very great indeed.
With uncanny agility and grace our matador places his own bandilleros firmly in the bull’s neck; another dizzying series of veronicas follows, the horns of the angry beast just brushing the “suit of lights.” A nasty goring seems unavoidable—my heart is in my mouth. Now the beast stops charging and stands motionless, momentarily hypnotized. With supreme arrogance, Miguelin lowers the red cloth to his side, turns and, offering his back to the bull, slowly walks away. The olés from the crowd are thunderous. So far this has been a perfect day. There is only one thing left to do. The end comes swiftly. Miguelin is handed the sword wrapped in a separate cape. He calls to the bull, who paws the ground then charges him—a few more immaculately timed veronicas, the olés punctuating each swirling movement as if orchestrated. Finally, the exhausted bull is still. Only the wind is heard whistling across the ring. Miguelin slowly walks toward the bewildered beast and then, with one, two, three quick steps, the sword is out; it flashes in the sun, plunges down and, as if all four legs had been shot from under him, the bull drops to the ground, dead as stone.
The crowd goes wild. El Presidente stands with his thumbs up. Miguelin gets everything, both ears, the tail, everything—it has been perfection. Ava Gardner in the president’s box is on her feet blowing him kisses and offering flowers. The dead bull is now dragged around the ring by a team of splendidly caparisoned horses, colourful streamers tied to their manes. The crowds stand in respect for the noble beast and his adversary—it has been an afternoon I’ll never forget. From the moment the first trumpets sound for the corrida to commence, and the horses and riders attired in brilliant colours come through the gates out into the ring, our breathing becomes faster and everywhere there is the inescapable smell of danger, an effusion of glory and death. It was the single most theatrical event I have ever witnessed and, I confess, I was permanently hooked.
That year I also fell in love with Spain. Luckily, I was to be there for a good long spell, and I found myself greatly affected by that scarred old country, sadly beautiful, with its stark contrasts of primitiveness, elegant hauteur and ancient pride. Both the Gypsies and the haute monde alike shared that pride. You could see it in those dark, seductive eyes, a pride as fierce as the hot Spanish blood they would willingly shed for their history. The feeling was contagious and the longer I stayed in Spain, the more contagious it became.
THE FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE was an epic film of massive proportions produced by Samuel Bronston (entrepreneur extraordinaire) and true to the grandeur of its title. Bronston, who had the ear of Generalissimo Franco, had cleverly found some way to make the pesos and the dollar work together compatibly and in the process had heightened considerably the value of Spanish currency. With Franco’s cooperation, he played a major role in developing Spain into a European moviemaking center. Now with international backing, a considerable portion of which had come from the Du Pont family in Delaware, he was producing films on a grand scale with enormous studios at his disposal, giving employment to major artists as well as thousands of grateful unemployed Spanish.
A poor Romanian born in Bessarabia, Sam had swiftly and manfully worked his way up the ladder. He was accustomed to doing everything himself—delegating was not his penchant. You couldn’t hope to meet a more modest and unassuming man on the surface, but what lay hidden within were nerves of steel. After all, had he not on his own knocked on the door of Sophia Loren’s villa outside Rome asking her to play the film’s female lead while simultaneously handing her a personal check for one million dollars? Such chutzpah she could hardly refuse. Back then that was very rare indeed! Only two female stars had ever earned a million a picture—Liz Taylor and Audrey Hepburn. And both those deals had been negotiated by my outrageous agent, the archbishop of Cologne’s bad cousin, the insuperable Kurt Frings!
That formidable gentleman had just put me in a British flick, The V.I.P.s, a vehicle for the Burtons (Liz and Richard) surrounded by a cast which included the brilliant Maggie Smith. It was to be directed by Anthony “Puffin” Asquith and produced by a cultured Swiss gentleman known as Anatol “Tolly” de Grunwald. To make some elegant suits for the movie, Tolly introduced me to a Savile Row tailor, dear Max Vine, who would thereafter become my friend and regular “cloak & suiter” for life.
I was just being fitted by Max when the shop phone rang. It was for Tolly. I was salivating over a marvellous pinstripe I knew I would look spiffy in when Tolly came over. “It seems you’re no longer in the film.” “What?!” I shouted, reeling into Max’s arms. “That was Kurt Frings. He says we’re not paying you enough money so he’s put you into The Fall of the Roman Empire instead.” By some diabolical method known only to Kurt and his barnstorming techniques, he had relieved me of my obligations. He was ruthless but right. The money for Empire was tenfold greater than that of the The V.I.P.s, and the part of the young emperor Commodus, son of Marcus Aurelius, was the meatiest screen role to yet come my way. When I got on the blower to Kurt, he shouted at me like an SS Obersturmführer. “They hadn’t yet put your money into escrow, those bastards, so I got you out of it. But don’t thank me, thank Tony Mann.”
Director Anthony Mann was an old Hollywood “pro” whose work ranged from Westerns to film noir to epic drama—among others, God’s Little Acre, The Man from Laramie, The Far Country and the just completed epic film El Cid for Bronston. Unlike most Hollywood types, he loved the theatre; he had grown up in it. Luckily, he had seen me in Becket and convinced himself that I would fit his vision of Commodus to a T. So with a little extra prodding from Trish, who as a columnist had met Tony several times, I landed the best role in the movie. I could not have been more thankful, for not only was I billed above the title in such company as Sophia Loren, Alec Guinness, James Mason and Stephen Boyd but the Roman captains under my command were to be played mostly by my old cronies from the RSC—Eric Porter, George Murcell, Dougie Wilmer and that stalwart pillar of the British stage, Anthony Quayle. The costumes and sets were lavish beyond expectation and were to inevitably steal the picture. The two brilliant designers, Colasanti and Moore, had reconstructed the Roman Senate and large portions of Rome itself so faithfully that for decades after the film was forgotten, their massive set remained intact at Las Matas outside Madrid as a major tourist attraction. Roman scholars from everywhere came to marvel at its accuracy. Gore Vidal, whose book Julian had just come out, was a particular admirer.
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