In Spite of Myself: A Memoir

by Christopher Plummer

  Nat or Natasha, as she was properly named, had a favourite colour, yellow. So yellow was always present wherever she went. Warner Brothers saw to it that yellow would be her theme. Her cabin on the lot was painted yellow, the bike they provided for her was yellow, as was the fancy little golf cart that transported her from one soundstage to the other. She was treated like a young goddess, and though she exuded great professional confidence and knew who she was, a genuine product of that industry (“I’m Natalie Vood from Holyvood,” she would jest)—no one carried such success with less ego and more humility.

  But the Slavic blood that coursed through her veins was inclined to induce sharply contrasting mood swings. Natalie was unpredictable. At the moment she was deeply involved romantically with a very successful young shoe manufacturer from Venezuela by name of “Lattie” Blatnik. How they had met or formed any sort of alliance I had no idea. As far as looks go Lattie was no oil painting, but he was warm and kind, slightly out of his depth and head over heels in love. Natalie, always grateful for the slightest attention, seemed to love him just as much in return. But she knew how to flirt. It was automatic—part of her woman’s instinct. Of course, she must have sensed I had a crush on her, and occasionally to toss it off lightly she would play this little game with me. She would stare deep into my eyes for the longest time and then say tauntingly, “Will we ever?”—a rather cruel little game as she was not in the least serious and I was. Nat, who was always so professional, never let romance or anything for that matter interfere with her work, but the nuptials were getting close and I could see that even on the set she was becoming distracted. She couldn’t wait, so she decided to throw a huge wedding party at night and the next morning to top it off—the ceremony would take place under a marquee. She had arranged for Chasen’s to do the whole thing quite scrumptiously in the garden behind her house at North Bentley Avenue. Everyone from the A, B, and Z group was there. Natalie’s mother, father and sister came, and Lattie’s parents were flown in from Venezuela. But Natalie took no notice; she only had eyes for Lattie—nothing it seemed could separate them.

  The evening was in full swing several hours later when B.J., with his usual conspiratorial manner, mumbled in my ear, “Look over there, w-what d’you think’s h-happened?” I turned and saw a forlorn Natalie, all alone, sitting on a window seat, staring straight in front of her. I went up to her and asked what was wrong. There was a long pause and then she slowly turned, looked me right in the eyes and said, “I’ve called it off!—the wedding, I mean. It’s no good. I can’t go through with it!” When Natalie made a decision, there was no procrastinating.

  The party had already thinned out, rather like an opening at Sardi’s when the bad reviews are read out. The bridegroom, his parents in tow, had long since gone—the band was wrapping it up—the boys from Chasen’s were removing the tables. “Go, g-go play something—any-thing,” said B.J. nudging me in the ribs. I drowned myself in champagne and played into the night. When I stopped, I turned around expecting some sort of applause, but there was no one left in the room, not even B.J. Smacked out of my skull, I passed out on a couch. I woke up the next morning around ten—still no one about. I went through the house in search of Natalie. I opened every bedroom door, every closet—there was no life at North Bentley Avenue. The place was empty. Feeling quite spooked, I called the Beverly Wilshire. They sent a car over and took me and my raging head back to the hotel. To this day I’m at a loss as to what happened.

  The filming of Daisy Clover continued on its rocky course, its story line much tamer than the one taking place offscreen. As the power-crazed studio head I had one really good scene by a pool and one or two telling ones with Daisy, but my character was mostly made out of cardboard. Ruth Gordon was amazing as the weird mother. Newcomer Robert Redford and veteran Roddy Mac were both splendid and in spite of the life going on behind the scenes we did try hard to make it work. Bob Mulligan was such a fine director, much too good for this soap opera/magazine material and rather uncomfortable doing it. Natalie, as with everything she undertook, threw herself into it wholeheartedly. Some years later she confided, “I am really just a professional—everything I do is worked out. I never had the natural wackiness to play Daisy. Tuesday Weld should have played it—she would have been marvellous in it.” That sort of modesty and generosity was typical of Natalie.

  Because she was in such demand she was constantly pestered by erstwhile so-called producers who managed to sneak past the Warner gates armed only with their bogus offers. One in particular, a supposedly wealthy film backer from Canada, obese, loud and, quite uncharacteristic in a Canadian, obnoxiously pushy. He had taken a whole floor at the Beverly Wilshire and would accost me at the hotel bar plying me with drinks (which I ended up paying for) and boasting about his money, his talent, his power and promising me the world. It was so transparent he was trying to get to Natalie through me, he could have worn it like a halo. When Natalie and B.J. occasionally came for drinks at the hotel, this obscene slug would come up to our booth and sit down unasked, his pudgy hands pinching Natalie under the table. Each time we had him removed, but that didn’t deter him; he was soon back and at it again. One day when he was lurking around looking for us, we had to hustle Natalie through the lobby, ducking behind potted palms as we went, and when we reached Natalie’s car B.J. turned back. “B.J.,” she yelled. “Where are you going? Are you mad?” “Maybe he c-could give me some money for The River.” Collapsing in laughter, we climbed into the car. We weren’t to be bothered much anymore because the loser had left town without paying his bill. I imagine all those suites were too much for him to handle. The Beverly Wilshire sent out the troops to look for him. “There goes The R-River again,” sighed B.J. with a helpless shrug.

  Just over the hill in Laurel Canyon, Roddy threw his little suppers. They were never dull! He owned probably the largest private collection of films on record, which he showed on an old-fashioned projector. In those days it was not exactly legal so Roddy, the guardian of Tinseltown Secrets, was taking a gutsy chance. Just as interesting as his rare collection, if not perhaps more so, was the guest list. Hardly anywhere else in la-la-land could you find all together in the same room Lillian and Dorothy Gish, Irene Dunne, Gladys Cooper, Mary Astor, Myrna Loy and dear Greer Garson. Movie history was right there in that room and they had all come out of Roddy’s past. The only one not present and whom I missed most, was Lassie—or even Lassie’s understudy. You’d think Roddy could have at least stuffed her and stuck her on the mantel.

  It was time to go home to London. Natalie arranged little get-togethers every night as Daisy Clover grinded to a close. With a few belts inside her she loved to sing and always very kindly asked me to accompany her. She had a pleasant sweet voice and forgiving my occasional wrong notes she would launch into “Let Me Entertain You,” “Somewhere” from her films Gypsy and West Side Story or the song André Previn had composed for her—“The Circus Is a Wacky World”—and all this while sitting on the piano bench beside me. I felt a glow at the closeness of her—she was such a magical little lady. When it was over, like a child she would gleefully clap her hands and with those huge, deep moist eyes of hers boring into me, she would whisper with a wink, “Will we ever?” and then dissolve into peals of laughter. What was the matter with me? Was I a coward? Or was I just the pitiable victim of my own polite upbringing? Why the hell didn’t I just shout, “Yes!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE CONQUEST OF PORTOFINO AND PERU

  Honey, I’m warning you—you might just as well turn around and come right back.” It was my mother hen Jane Broder with her version of a bon voyage. “John Dexter called. He wants you for New York this year. The role is Pizarro in the North American premiere of The Royal Hunt of the Sun. It’s the star part and it’s first-class quality, honey, so take it already.” Before boarding the plane I phoned him. “This time you’re bloody well going to act for a change, you lazy bugger, I’ll see to that,” he roared in my ear with his
customary rudeness. J.D. was a bustling bundle of raging talent—insulting, vulgar, irreverent, outrageous, a born leader and ruthless. And though he had the appearance of an unshaven, disgruntled longshoreman, he was totally in your face gay—hilariously camp—and fearlessly brave. He had risen from the theatrical ranks to become a leading director at Britain’s National Theatre and not too far down the road he would assume the artistic leadership of New York’s Metropolitan Opera. He was on the top of everyone’s list and certainly on mine.

  The moment I hit London I went to see his Royal Hunt production. It was beautiful to behold—on a bare-naked stage, all its startling effects created solely by the use of imaginative lighting suggesting the sombre colours of Spain and the ice-cold ascent into the Andes. This was made all the more illusionary by a mime of climbing soldiers in slow motion standing in place—a brilliant stroke of inventive choreography by Claude Chagrin, a talented young lady from Paris. The contrast in colour and movement between the graceful Incas in their feathers and the heavily clothed plodding Spaniards with their pomp and circumstance was brilliantly effective; and against all the ruffles and finery of his fellow countrymen, General Pizarro stood apart—a rough, shabby old carcass of a man driven by his vision and a God that he’d never quite been able to trust. I still think it is the best of Peter Shaffer’s writing, for although historically, Pizarro and Atahuallpa barely met and most certainly never exchanged pleasantries, their fictionalized relationship conjured by Peter was strangely moving and believable—an ancient scarred warrior, his far from solid Catholic faith shaken by the serenity of a young Inca ruler living out his fantasy as a peaceful god who worships the Sun high on the Andean steppes.

  PIZARRO: When I was young I used to sit on the slope outside the village and watch the sun go down, and I used to think: if only I could find the place where it sinks to rest for the night, I’d find the source of life, like the beginning of a river … If it settled here each evening, somewhere in those great mountains, like a God laid down to sleep? To a savage mind it must make a fine God. I myself can’t fix anything nearer to a thought of worship than standing at dawn and watching it fill the world … What a fantastic wonder that anyone on earth should dare to say: ‘That’s my father. My father: the sun!’

  I was immensely taken by the whole experience, both the spectacle and the substance. And I loved Pizarro—he was for me! I called Jane.

  THERE WAS JUST ENOUGH TIME to spare for a short holiday so Trish and I, still going through the motions of a marriage, decided we’d try once more to salvage what remained of our fragile partnership. It was to be our last attempt. Leslie and Evie Bricusse suggested we join them and fly to Italy together. “We’re staying with Rex [Harrison] at his villa in Portofino. We’re there to try and persuade him to do my film, Dr. Doolittle. I’m going to play him the score. Come along—it’ll be fun and you can help.” Off we went. Trish and I booked into the Hotel Splendido, true to its name, nestled in a hill overlooking the Mediterranean, halfway up the little mountain toward Rex’s domain which was perched on top—the flag of St. George flying impertinently above whenever the grand seigneur was in residence, giving the impression that Portofino was just another British colony.

  The first night, we spent alone in the hotel, the sunset on the sea breathtaking. The next day we received our summons for dinner chez Villa Harrison. We took a taxi up the hill until it became too precipitous, so Rex’s man drove us the rest of the way in a jeep. In attendance at the villa were Rachel Roberts (Mrs. H.), that richly talented young actress from Wales who naturally made much of my own Welsh bride; a well-known PR man and producer known as “Apjack,” who had flown all the way from Hollywood to help convince Rex to do the picture and, to make up the posse, Rex’s agent, a dear old Brit called Laurie Evans. After My Fair Lady and his Oscar, R.H. was one of the most sought-after stars on the horizon, and no one enjoyed playing hard to get more than he. The cast was assembled. We rolled into dinner, a scrumptious repast prepared by R.H.’s Italian couple, and afterwards Leslie at the piano played and sang the entire score. Rex was glowing, his excitement rising by the second—you could almost see the money clicking away in his head as he added several grand more for each new song he would be obliged to sing. We all got happily smashed, Rachel in particular (she was a very funny drunk), and Trish and I, much too far gone to stagger down the steep hill, stayed the night.

  That night would extend into days, Trish and I making regular hops from Il Splendido up to the villa on the summit. Apjack and Laurie Evans had gone by now and it was just us six left. During the day we would go for speedboat rides in Rex’s sleek highly polished mahogany Riva, which he’d christened Henry Higgins II. We’d tour the coastline as far as Rapallo where the villas of Max Beerbohm and Gore Vidal overlooked the ocean. Neither of them were ever in, of course—one being long dead and the other holding court in Rome. We ended up our trips at a favourite bar on the dock at Portofino, Radzio’s. Old man Radzio, a local hood who seemed to own the town and who followed Rex around like an adoring puppy dog, served us wonderful snacks and drinks; or we lunched at Villa Harrison, looking down at the tiny speck of a port far below. “Look,” screeched Rex, “it’s the Burtons’ yacht. It’s been moored out there for days. Quick, man the telescope.” We all took turns. It was already long past noon and through the powerful lens we could see Richard all alone, swigging on a vodka bottle, pacing up and down looking utterly dejected on a totally deserted deck. “Poor bastard—she’s not up yet. She’ll come out much later all heavily made up. You’ll see. That’s all he does, poor bugger—waits for her, never stops drinking.” I looked at that lined face through the spyglass, a bitter expression of regret permanently stamped on its features—regret for a wasted talent, was that it? But that’s what you get when you sell your soul to the princess on the hill. They had recently completed Cleopatra (Rex had stolen the picture as Caesar) and the publicity of their romance overwhelmed the film completely. They had been so busy with their offscreen shenanigans that their love affair on-screen was listless and without passion. They both had come to work literally exhausted. History’s famous caprice between Antony and Cleopatra paled into insignificance beside that of Richard and Liz. Headlines in the world’s press dealt with nothing else. My friend Hume Cronyn had a tiny role in the epic and I remember Milton Berle on television being asked by an interviewer if he had seen Cleopatra. Berle shot back, “I never miss a Hume Cronyn picture.”

  Rachel Roberts (Mrs. Rex Harrison) and Rex, divinely funny; she never stopped making me laugh.

  One day, Sam Spiegel’s yacht came into view. It was too big for the tiny harbour (Sam had purchased a destroyer which he’d converted into a pleasure craft), so it had to be moored some furlongs outside. We all converged at Radzio’s and Sam asked us to lunch on board. We speedboated out and climbed up the ladder of this enormous ex-battleship. There were three or four very dishy teenage girls falling out of their brief bikinis whom Sam immediately ordered off the boat. “Alors, sortez, sortez, mes petits gigots,” he shouted as they swallow dove off the bow with perfect form and struck out for the far-distant shore. “They’ll be back,” he shrugged with world-weary resignation. There were a few other guests on board—one of whom was my movie agent, Kurt Frings. I asked him what big film deals he was gambling away. With a licentious smile he put his fingers to his lips and gave me a conspiratorial wink. We were served langoustines and champagne and some pasta with white truffles and I noticed a very beautiful seminude French girl seated apart at one of the gambling tables—very knowing, ultrasophisticated. “What’s she doing here?” I whispered to Kurt. “Oh, her? She’s a cardsharp, a pro. She’s only sixteen, you know. Sam likes to keep her around when the games get heavy—and maybe for other things too—who knows?” Another conspiratorial wink. Kurt was so full of conspiratorial winks you’d think he had a nervous tic.

  Sometimes Leslie, Evie, Rex, Rachel, Trish and I would turn right out of the port and boat it to San Fruttuoso, which was two
or three cliff distances away. We would look for the great bronze statue of Christ of the Abyss, saint protector of divers, which in 1954 had been set in the Mediterranean at a depth of sixty feet. We would anchor and dive down to get closer looks, a daunting and amazing sight. Two rocky jutting-out points formed a narrow and treacherous harbour by which to reach the shore. The old monastery and fortress of San Fruttuoso had stood there for hundreds of years. The only way to reach it was by sea or donkey. It was the sole building on those slopes for miles, and the monks had turned the lower floor nearest the sea into a restaurant of five-star caliber. We vowed we’d pay it a visit for supper one night. The narrow harbour entry to San Fruttuoso had always been considered impassable—the winds and strong currents there were unpredictably cruel and made navigation nigh impossible. Throughout the ages, so many ships had come to grief on those rocks. So Radzio lent Rex one of his young workers, a boy of about thirteen, an expert sailor who knew those waters and would be able to get us there in the dark without mishap.

  It was fairly calm when we set out, but as we entered the little harbour, the sudden powerful swells caught us completely unawares, making it most difficult to maneuver our way in. Somehow, the youngster, cool as a cucumber, managed it expertly, moored the boat and waited with it as we made tracks for the monastery. The food and local wines were superb—unforgettable. Monks had prepared it and other monks served it. After dinner as we quaffed down liqueurs of the region an elderly monk told us that before we left we must make the descent into the bowels of the old building and visit the room of the kings. Many of the ancient kings of Italy were buried below the level of the sea, their effigies lying on slabs in those thick stone walls. The monk continued in his impeccable English, “I must warn you that you will hear a thousand voices echoing through the room. Don’t be afraid, it’s only the ocean playing tricks as it crashes against the walls.” He was right. In that vast subterranean hall the sound of human voices, some wailing, some threatening, enveloped and overwhelmed us with such tremendous volume, we had to stop our ears. Even Rex, who was pretending to be ever so nonchalant, was visibly shaken. “I think it’s time to fuck off,” he squeaked in a voice more high pitched than usual. “Well, you’re a bloody coward,” cried Rachel in her strong Welsh lilt. “But what d’you expect from the son of a friggin’ Baptist minister!” She had a slight edge on the rest of us boozewise, so we helped her up the steep staircase.