In Spite of Myself: A Memoir

by Christopher Plummer

  After a grueling few weeks with the nags, we moved with the unit up to Segovia to commence shooting. The battle between the Romans and the Huns was filmed in dead winter near the summit of the Nava-cerradas Mountains. The cold was congealing—there was nothing but ice and snow and the roads down the mountain where Stephen and I were obliged to drive our chariots at full gallop were curving and treacherous. Although we wore heavy fur cloaks, which had a habit of throwing us off-balance, our knees were bare and the wind cruelly cut into them and turned them blue. I also had to hold on to the reins of my four powerful quadrupeds with bare hands, as I couldn’t feel them properly when wearing gauntlets. Also the constant likelihood of being thrown out gave me no cheer as I could have been trampled by all the horses and chariots barrelling down behind me. “Boy, are we earning our money?!” I couldn’t help thinking.

  The physical demands imposed on us up there in them hills would have been unbearable were it not for three major elements. The first was the constantly beaming face of Tony Mann, who showed great concern for his actors, spurring us on with funny stories, loud laughter and extravagant compliments. He was ruthless with his crew, however, and whenever he smelled incompetence he went berserk and threatened to fire everybody (on the second day he fired his first assistant in front of the whole “Roman army,” who I think were more scared of Tony than they were of the Huns), but to us he was gentle and caring.

  The second element that helped each day was the unbelievable generosity of Sam Bronston, who treated us like princes. I imagined it was a bit like Hollywood in the twenties or early thirties. The principals including myself were supplied with cars and chauffeurs twenty-four hours a day (a fleet of Rolls-Royces to choose from) and the catered lunches on the set were fit for an emperor. We were at least an hour and a half’s drive from Madrid, but Bronston had all the food and wine (the best Spanish and French) sent up each day from that city’s top restaurant, the chic Jockey Club, accompanied by its waiters who served us attired in their formal livery. We consumed course upon course in a heated tent, lunches lasting two hours. Though Stephen didn’t drink, I damn well did! But I was young and the bitter cold soon sobered me up as I climbed back in my chariot.

  The third saving grace was the daily presence of a truly great professional who became our particular saviour and guide—I couldn’t have done any of this without him. He was Tap and Joe’s father—perhaps the most famous and legendary stunt coordinator to ever come to pictures, Yakima Canutt. A man of seventy or over, he stood tall and proud, but he walked with an odd rolling gait because of some early misfortune. “Yak,” as he was universally known, was in charge of choreographing all the action sequences in our picture, battle scenes, stunts, you name it. In fact, he was the action director—in an epic, hardly anyone is more important. He had been equally famous in both silent pictures and talkies. He staged and drove in the chariot races of both the silent and the talking version of Ben-Hur, doubling for Roman Navarro and Charlton Heston. In Stage Coach, if you look carefully, you’ll see that famous stunt where the tall man wearing black leaps onto the horses from the carriage and climbs underneath them holding on to the bellies as they furiously gallop away—that was Yak. A great many of the most dangerous stunts on film seem to have been choreographed or performed by Yak.

  He was the quietest of men—he hardly ever spoke—and chewed endless wads of tobacco. Yet every morning on those snowy roads he took the time to explain to us clearly and patiently what we had to do, assuring me that his sons and Jack Williams had already tried it first; the chariot had been thoroughly checked, the loose boards tightened, the wheels examined, and there was nothing to worry about. “Tap and Jack will be riding a few yards behind you making sure it’ll be all right.” I certainly needed more reassuring than Stephen Boyd, but I think we were both equally grateful. Yak had the magic—he made everyone feel safe! I was fascinated by the tall, silent gentleman who’d spent his life dicing with death and to this day I remain ignorant of his true nationality. He could have been part native Indian, part Eskimo or part Ducabor—God knows what! “Dad was a pioneer, you know,” Tap said to me one morning. “He’s been in it since the beginning.” “Why does he limp?” I asked. “His legs are shot,” said Tap and then he called out to his father, “Hey, Dad, tell him the story ’bout your legs.” There was a long pause.

  Then Yak began his tale which he punctuated with a lot of spitting tobacco. “I was about nineteen. They were makin’ a silent starrin’ Onslow Stevens way back in the twenties. We were up in the canyons above LA. Onslow had to fall off a cliff (ptooy)—it was at least a damn hundred feet to the ground below. The main stunt guy didn’t wanna do it. He was arguin’ a lot about money and they was runnin’ outta time (ptooy). ‘I’ll do it,’ I said (ptooy). I’d never done a jump in my life for Chrissakes, but I had to impress someone! In them days we had no unions or nothin’. It was every man for himself. Well, they said okay. The plan was that Onslow Stevens would already be down the hill lying on the ground as if he’d just fallen. They would film me jumpin’. I would land just behind Stevens; then he’d roll into shot from a close-up camera and spout some dialogue. They wanted this all done in one damn take so it would look more real (ptooy). They called action. There was no time. I forgot to be skeered so I jumped. I quite liked the feelin’ flyin’ through the air for one hundred feet, but like a gol-darn fool I was in the wrong position to land right, so dammit, if I didn’t land right on my heels! (ptooy) Mr. Stevens rolled into his shot just as planned and said his dialogue, but I had a hell of a time tryin’ not to scream out. I didn’t want to ruin the take for Mr. Stevens, so I bit my tongue to keep quiet. I kept goin’ in and out of consciousness. I sure couldn’t move and I must have been hemorrhaging. You see (ptooy), I’d driven both legs right up into my chest. After the take was over they all crowded ’round. How were they going to get me up the hill? So I had to tell ’em how to lay shats on the ground like train tracks, roll me onto some boards, tie it all to ropes and pull me up the hill that way. Consarn! That pain was killin’ me. For a few years after, I was okay. I was quite good at my job (ptooy) but my goddamn pins are part wood, you know, and finally gave up (ptooy!).” Old Yak walked away—exhausted. I don’t think he’d talked quite so much in years. As he limped along toward the horses he seemed a little ashamed, as if he would never forgive himself for being what he considered so unprofessional those many years ago.

  At the top of one of the Navacerrada peaks sat the imposing hunting lodge of Emperor Marcus Aurelius, yet another chef d’oeuvre of Colasanti and Moore’s. It was here I had several encounters with Sir Alec Guinness who played the Emperor, my father. I enjoyed our scenes together, but I had a hard time trying to figure Alec out, not as an actor, of course—in that art, he excelled supremely—but as a man; for the most part I found him remote and exceedingly chilly and quickly formed the impression that he did not like me in the slightest and why should he? The role of Commodus was gradually taking me over, making me far more brash and arrogant than I already was, but even when I jibed with him and tried to make him smile, he showed only disapproval. He was perfectly polite, mind you, but polite from a vast distance. Socially, we never managed to connect in any way. There was something sad and troubled about this tense man—as if he had a secret he didn’t wish to share. Years later when his charming, witty and literate books came out, it was obvious he was determined to avoid revealing too much; and though I respect his discretion in denying us certain glimpses into his life, I think he was not entirely candid with his readers. I am sorry now. I would like so much to have known him better, not just because I admired him tremendously as an artist, but that I’d heard from several friends who chastised me for misjudging him just how kind and delightful a man he really was.

  The Roman captains Porter, Murcell, Quayle, Wilmer, and a dour, acerbic Scottish actor Andrew Keir made up our after-work posse. Rounding out our group was the charming and quixotic James Mason, whom we’d christened “Jaime;” Doc Eri
ckson, the jolly American unit manager who could negotiate European deals with his hands tied behind his back; and another ex-patriot Yank, Big John Ireland, who played the head barbarian or Hun—a terrific companion full of good cheer. At the end of each hard-fought shooting day, we would rejoice over drinks and food in the attractive little town of Segovia. There were many café-bars where we consumed calamari simmering in garlic accompanied by glass after glass of a comforting liqueur known as Chinchón. We were often joined by the young marquis de Chin-chón himself whose family estates nearby produced this cunning little liquid. He was a staunch movie buff and soon became our groupie—so naturally, Chinchón was, todos noches, very much on the house.

  Down the street from the Alcázar, that exquisite Gothic castle, onetime home to many Spanish kings, was our hotel where we would return, in no pain, for the usual late supper. Occasionally, to relieve the monotony, Sophia (bless her big heart) cooked her delicious pastas for the entire gang. She had charmed the hotel chefs and taken over the kitchen completely.

  Then came that insane day when, for the first time, Spain could boast its own whiskey. It was called Dic (presumably the manufacturer’s name) and the locals pronounced whiskey “wickee” so we christened it “Wickee Dick!” I shall never forget the night Wickee Dick was introduced to Segovia. Never have I seen Spaniards so drunk. They were not accustomed to whiskey of any kind, really, and this particular firewater had a sharper tang to it and was quite a bit stronger than our own Scottish variety. Though it had a slight scented taste, that didn’t deter me for a second. God knows what they’d put into it, but it didn’t take long before the whole town was reeling. The bars and hotels were packed solid, wall to wall. I remember “Cairo Fred” (Omar Sharif), who had just come off Lawrence of Arabia to guest star in our film, being one of the first serious victims of the dreaded Dic. Being Egyptian/Muslim, Fred was not your average steady drinker, and the potent hooch dealt him a powerful kick. He kept harassing the local Segovians by yelling at them, calling them “Infidels, inferior Dogs!” in a rich mixture of Castilian, English and Arabic. The film’s stunt men, who fortunately were always close by, formed a phalanx between dear old Fred, who could barely stand, and the drunken angry mob who would have gladly, had they got near him, garroted him on the spot!

  THE FIRST OF A SERIES of wrap parties to celebrate the climax of “The Battle of the Huns” was in full swing at the hotel. Our loyal little group, now joined by Cairo Fred, was partying it up like there was no mañana. Likewise Doc Erickson and John Ireland, the well-hung Hun himself, so named because he famously belonged to that exclusive club whose membership boasted the most formidably endowed male thespians in Hollywood. John was a proud member in good standing, you might say. The loud cackling laugh in the corner came from Tony Mann, always in the company of his beloved Anna, a most attractive Polish girl some thirty years his junior who worshipped Tony and had given him the happiest years of his life. The soiree was now at its height—Sophia was there beaming that voluptuous smile, and even Sir Alec made a rare appearance. The regal Sophia retired early, but there was a plentiful number of fair “damsels” to party with except I was just too far gone to take anymore. I weaved my way to the lift, waved an overly theatrical farewell, opened the ornate iron gates, stepped in and promptly dropped two stories! There had been no lift waiting for me—it was up on the fourth floor. Luckily I fell “soft” (due to booze, of course) so no real damage was done. I looked up to see several familiar faces peering down at me, leering horribly. It had been quite a shock to feel nothing under my feet and I gave thanks to all the gods at once, Roman or otherwise, that it was only two floors! I could tell, however, by the disappointed faces above that they’d wished there had been a great deal more. I christened the lift “Miss Otis Regrets.”

  Spring had come to Spain at last. Like some huge sprawling army the film unit slowly wound its way back down to Madrid, where I found myself once more ensconced in the charming little Hotel Milford on Juan Bravo. With the arrival of primavera came Friedrich von Ledebur, an impressively tall man (six foot six at least) who was gracefully approaching seventy. He had a long, sad face that resembled the “Knight of the Woeful Countenance,” framed by a glorious shock of white hair. Friedrich was a count from an ancient Austro-Czech family and he shared a house just outside Salzburg with his wife, the poetess Iris Tree, whenever they felt inclined. They adored each other, of course, but had long been accustomed to a regular separation of lives in their preferred Bohemian existence. Count Friedrich was content to drift around the world from film set to film set as an occasional actor (you can see him as Queequeg in John Huston’s Moby Dick), but for the most part he was engaged as a riding coach to the stars. I don’t think he needed the money—he just liked to be around actors and horses (sometimes you can’t tell them apart).

  Friedrich was one of Europe’s most renowned horsemen and a member of the elite Spanish Riding School of Vienna; his teaching technique was the antithesis of the brash cowboy approach adopted by Tap, Joe and Jack Williams, who secretly nicknamed him “Mozart.” An early horse whisperer, Friedrich’s soft, low tones seemed to soothe every horse in sight. Whenever he addressed them, I swear to God, they would simper and bow their heads. He had been hired to help the principal actors and on weekends we would go for pleasant rides together through the parks and woods while Iris, carrying a long staff, was content to follow us on foot. Very much in charge, and very correct, Friedrich insisted on addressing each one of us as “Mr.” Dougie Wilmer was always complaining about the leisurely pace Friedrich insisted on maintaining. “For God’s sake, can’t we get a move on, old boy, put on the old speed, jump some fences?!” Dougie, with all his British bombast, was not the world’s greatest rider. So Friedrich would keep issuing quiet little commands in his soothing manner, “Mr. Vilmer, don’t put pressure on ze reins,” and as Wilmer broke away, “Don’t gallop your horse Mr. Vilmer.” Then, “Try to stay on your horse, Mr. Vilmer,” and finally, “Mr. Vilmer—don’t run after your horse.”

  Iris too had a fascinating background. Her father had been London’s celebrated actor-manager, Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, whose own theatre, His Majesty’s, at the turn of the century had presented many an extravaganza including the first production of Shaw’s Pygmalion with Tree as Higgins and Mrs. Patrick Campbell as Eliza. Iris’s uncle was the renowned critic and author Max Beerbohm. So it was apparent she was most comfortable when moving in literary circles. Iris had shared her exceedingly adventurous life with her best friend, the legendary Lady Diana Duff-Cooper, who in the late twenties and early thirties with Aldous Huxley in tow travelled the world experimenting with drugs, mescaline being the latest and hottest hit on the block! You can actually see Iris reciting her own poetry at the famous party scene in Fellini’s Dolce Vita.

  Both Friedrich and Iris for some reason went out of their way to be kind and friendly to me. I remember a dinner Trish and I threw for them in the early sixties back in London. At the time, LSD was all the rage. Some well-known hosts were notorious for mixing it in their desserts, which they cruelly served their unsuspecting guests. The four of us were discussing this when I boldly asked Iris, this aging dynamo, if she’d ever taken the powerful drug. In deep rolling tones (a mixture of pukka-British with a Teutonic lisp) she replied, “Not recently. Everyone is so innocent today—so unprepared—so unresearched. I took LSD years ago with Aldous when it was called something else. One could embark on staggeringly beautiful voyages of kaleidoscopic colour if only one prepared correctly. Today all they want is to get to Paradise in a flash—so shortsighted. So dangerous! You must fast first, my dear, fast first!”

  With the sound of flamenco guitars filling the air, Trish had come over from London to join me. The Sunday after she arrived, I took her to the corrida—her first ever bullfight. I was so hoping she would share my passion for it and have the thrill of a lifetime, but what a mess it turned out to be! There was no Miguelin this time to raise the sport to the level of balletic poetry.
Instead we were subjected to an out-of-control hack, notorious in Spain for his clumsy performances. Many came to deride and mock him, but most left repulsed. El Caracol, the Roger Dangerfield of matadors, had some years back shown great promise and daring, but now had become nothing more than a sad, aging figure only marginally escaping a severe goring each time he set foot in the ring. This Sunday was no exception. The bull he had chosen was far more graceful than he. Awkward, timing all askew, his cape work pedestrian, everything about him expressionless; he merely went through the motions. And when it came time for the kill, he missed twice, broke his sword, got another and hacked away three or four times before the poor beast succumbed. I was convinced that the bull had simply died either from relief or to save El Caracol any further embarrassment.

  The crowd let him have it loud and clear. Never have I heard such booing and hissing. It was then that Trish announced she was going to throw up. I led her up the stairs to the back of the grandstand where there were fewer crowds and more air. “Here—breathe that in,” I said as we leaned over the back wall. But, to my horror, we were looking directly down on the slaughterhouse where they were already cutting up dead bulls—the stench was unbearable. There was nothing left for Trish but to vomit her heart out. No matter how hard I tried to persuade her that this had been a “freak” afternoon, she swore never to set foot near a bullring again. I didn’t blame her in the least. When not executed by the very best, both ballet and opera can be utterly atrocious—so too can bullfights.

  Those tranquil sunlit days riding with Friedrich on weekends were a welcome contrast to the weekly dangers on the set, where, for some unknown reason, our film horses continued to behave in the strangest manner. They had turned quite nasty in fact, throwing everyone including the expert stunt riders; mine was particularly willful. It was Friedrich who unravelled the mystery. “Mozart’s stuck his nose into it again,” Tap and Jack joked afterwards. It seemed that some of the main horses were covered in saddle sores undetected by us because each morning, the local handlers had already saddled them before we’d arrived. The culprit responsible for this cruelty and neglect was a shady character called Medina who ran the horse concession on the cheap, renting them out to films without bothering to take proper care of them. The poor beasts were continually in pain. Thanks to Friedrich who had, under cover of night, secretly examined them, they were relieved of their duties and fresh, healthy horses were obtained for our use.