In Spite of Myself: A Memoir

by Christopher Plummer

  Sam had asked me to come onto the Board in both Canada and the United States and I was honoured to do so, but after his death I noticed how many people began taking credit for its resurrection—magnifying their contributions out of all proportion, mostly for reasons of social prestige. So whenever I was asked to speak, I reminded all those present just who was truly responsible. That it was Sam’s vision, Sam’s playhouse—he had given his life to it. That the playhouse he dreamed of was never meant to be a mausoleum, dry and arid, a pretentious monument to Kultur with a capital K. What Sam wanted was what Pooh had wanted, the wooden O with a capital O—the little “wooden O” that Shakespeare, Burbage and Will Kemp knew, an honest-to-God hardworking space where a young, vital resident company of players would keep the place alive. He also saw it as a center for a romantic education—an inspiration to students the world over of all ages and creeds. A tall order, perhaps, but then Sam was a tall man. It sometimes takes the New Hemisphere to revive the Old, and by Jove he was living proof of it! In one short lifetime he managed to link the centuries together with his outrageous persistence. He has given us back one of the wonders of the world.

  Sam, the man who shared the dream and saw it through

  But he was not always alone—from the beginning there had been two of them, Pooh and Sam. Pooh came so close; Sam was blessed. How could two such crusaders of equal fervour ever have known that the Jewel on the Thames would claim both their lives?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE BATTLE OF “BATTY-POO”

  I think that being “made up” in a spacious, private makeup room in Rome’s Cinecittà Studios is not the worst thing that can happen to you. In most film studios around the world, being made up in the early hours of the morning is an ordeal, a necessary evil that we learn to grin and bear. In Italy, it is a way of life. Like everything else they do, the Italians do it with great professional charm and style. All is immaculately laid out, the grease-sticks, powder, powder puffs, little espresso and cappuccino machines, the jars of biscotti and chocolates—it is no longer a makeup room, it’s a café.

  This particular morning, I was being transformed into looking as much like the Duke of Wellington as was possible. The man in charge was no less than that mega-star of maquillage Alberto di Rossi him-self—the favourite of Sophia Loren, Elizabeth Taylor, Audrey Hepburn and Sylvano Mangano, an artist to his fingertips. A handsome man in his early sixties, permanently tanned with wavy white hair, Alberto’s scathing wit was a mixture of rapier and high camp, typical of the sophisticated Roman. “What about Wellington’s famous beaked nose?” I asked him as he was finishing the final touch-ups. “You don’ need eet,” he rejoined disdainfully. “Yours ees beeg enough as eet ees!”

  The year was 1969. The film was, of course, Waterloo, an epic to end all epics. I mean that literally, for the next one of comparable size wasn’t made till over thirty years later and that one, Gladiator, though spectacular, was considerably helped digitally. In Waterloo, I was about to play the Iron Duke to Rod Steiger’s Napoleon and at this moment di Rossi and I were waiting for the film’s celebrated Russian director, Sergei Bondarchuk, to inspect the look we’d achieved. He was a long time coming—an early indication that nothing in the Russia of Leonid Brezhnev was ever hurried. Eventually, he marched in surrounded by a phalanx of Soviets who could have been colonels in charge of Intourist or KGB. A huge bear of a man with a chin that jutted pugnaciously forward, Bondarchuk nodded perfunctorily in my direction, grunted something unintelligible and proceeded to intensely scrutinize me from every angle, so close to my face I could smell his heavy pungent breath. While he circled me thus, the KGB (or whatever they were) stood at attention. Finally, he came to a standstill. I was grateful for that; I was becoming quite dizzy. He pointed to my mouth and shouted something in Russian—he spoke no English. The interpreter in the group stepped forward and addressed di Rossi, “Comrade Bondarchuk says the mouth is too normal.” “Ees not supposed to be?” asked di Rossi. “Nyet! There was something wrong with Balleengton’s mouth.” I looked at Alberto, mystified—he gave an enormous shrug. A steady stream of Russian ensued which was eventually translated as, “Comrade Bondarchuk insists there was something abnormal about the lips—the upper lip in particular.” With a wicked gleam in his eye, di Rossi asked, “Eet vas stiff? Ees dat vat you mean?” After much consultation they all nodded in unison, “Da! Da! Da! Da!” Alberto and I looked at each other open-mouthed. Bondarchuk had taken literally the famous expression describing Englishmen and their “stiff upper lips” and had narrowed it down to poor Wellington as the single offender. When di Rossi gently explained that it was a mere colloquialism and only meant to be taken in the spirit of mockery, Bondarchuk, still unconvinced, turned on his heel and without a word or a smile, marched from the room, his little army close behind him.

  WATERLOO IN RUSSIAN is spelled BATTY-POO, hence our nickname for it, “Batty-Poo.” A mammoth tripartite coproduction (Charlie Bluthorn’s Gulf + Western in New York, Dino De Laurentiis’s production company in Rome, and Mosfilm in Moscow), Batty-Poo had begun shooting in Italy where the locations and the sets were stupendous! The Royal Palace at Casserta became the residence of Louis XVIII (played by Orson Welles) and the vast ballroom set on the Cinecittà lot was where the Duchess of Richmond’s famous ball on the eve of battle with Wellington as guest of honour would take place. Due to some slight contretemps over my contract between CMA and Dino, I was instructed by the agency not to report to work until it had been settled. Filming was postponed at once. Even though Elaine and I were sharing the Royal Suite at the Excelsior in the lap of luxury, it was still an unpleasant position to be in, an embarrassment. At last the dispute was settled and I reported to work. Though it had been no fault of mine, I apologized profusely to everyone—the actors, Sergei Bondarchuk himself and one of the most gracious of all Italian cameramen, that supremely sensitive artist Armando Nannuzzi. At last the myriad chandeliers and candelabra were lit, Viennese waltzes erupted in a rich confusion of sound, the cameras were placed on carpets and pulled in a circle around the room in the opposite direction to the dancers and the famous ball exploded onto the screen.

  This was the last scene to be shot in Rome and now, in stark contrast, with the emphasis on stark, the film suddenly became a totally Russian venture and we were on our way to Ukraine’s rough terrain and the siege of Waterloo itself. John Kirby had arrived from Madrid to be my minder, helper and morale builder. Elaine was filming in London and would join me later. Kirby and I flew to Budapest where we took the Trans-Siberian Railway to the local military border town of Chop. Kirby, so articulate in many languages, spoke no Russian! “You’re supposed to bolster my confidence,” I teased him. “What the hell use are you to me, you linguistic dunce?” Kirby, who could be wickedly funny, was basically a gentle soul, and at this moment in no mood for a retort. As we boarded the filthy run-down wreck of a railway carriage, the foreboding darkness descended. He grabbed my arm. “I don’t think I’m going to last,” he said, his voice trembling. Though I remained silent, I didn’t think I would either.

  The so-called private first-class compartment my contract stipulated was a damp, smelly cabin with only two makeshift wooden benches at either end. These were already occupied by several inebriated Russian soldiers, all asleep in the fetal position. Their boots, which they had removed, were lined up in a row on the floor. The stench was unbearable. There was barely room for Kirby or me. There were no conductors or brakemen in sight. The air was stifling so I tried to open a window. It was locked—they were all locked. So too were the doors. The “loo” at the end of the car was a mere opening in the wall—no door—no toilet—no basin—just a hole in the middle of the floor. If you had to crap you’d be standing or squatting in full view.

  Kirby and I, back in our seats, huddled together by the window straining to see through the filthy glass as the countryside jolted by. Every time the train stopped, which was constant, the Soviet police boarded, questioned us and d
emanded to see our papers. An eternity would pass before our journey was allowed to resume. Five or six hours later we were still chugging along without a clue as to where we were or when to get off. “We probably passed it long ago,” whimpered Kirby. I thought he was going to cry. One of the soldiers had woken up and was staring at us as if we were overdressed Martians. I tried a little French—nothing. Then English—“When do we get to Chop?!” I shouted; still that vacant stare. Kirby and I began wildly pantomiming anything that might resemble the word “Chop,” hitting our left wrists with the side of our right hands or madly wielding imaginary axes into invisible tree trunks. By now all the soldiers were wide awake, convinced, I am sure, that not only were we overdressed Martians, but insane overdressed Martians.

  Trying to look like the young Iron Duke

  By some miracle we reached Chop. We had traveled across the entire Soviet-dominated Hungary and were now in Ukraine. It took forever to get through immigration. Poor Jack Hawkins, who played General Picton, one of Wellington’s staff, had made the mistake of bringing Playboy, Penthouse and all the racy London sex mags with him, and was forced to wait almost an entire day while the border guards (who had never seen anything like it in their lives) studiously perused them from cover to cover. Once through, we were driven to our “headquarters” in the aforementioned town of Uzhgorod. Our hotel, the colour of Bolshevik grey, made Motel 6 look like the Winter Palace. As one entered the restaurant, the smell of urine was overpowering. Starving, we sat down, only to be told that everything was off—no meat, no eggs—only chicken, some meager tomatoes and tired cucumbers. Most of the English actors were holed up in minute cubicles, but Napoleon in the person of Rod Steiger, who had departed the day before, very generously had left me his “suite,” the only one in the hotel. I use the word “suite” loosely as it consisted of two tiny rooms, one to sleep in and one to breathe in.

  At the end of each floor at a desk with a clear view of the stairs sat a kind of concierge (a combination policewoman/gauleiter) checking on everyone who came and went. These huge ladies, akin to women wrestlers, had hairy armpits and hairy legs, long and full. The scent of good old BO permeated each corridor. One could imagine that a discreet assignation in one’s room would result in nothing less than a death sentence. Rod, not so generously and quite diabolically, had left me a collection of pornography so brazenly graphic that if discovered I could be arrested on sight. I was about to light a match to the whole lot of them but reversed my decision. “Better have a quick look at them first, to be fair,” I said to myself. I locked myself in, sat down to enjoy a detailed perusal, when suddenly there was a loud knocking at the door. “My God,” I thought, “I’ve been caught.” I quickly hid everything under the mattress and ran to the door. I opened it a crack—it was someone from Mosfilm. “Velcome to film Vaterloo.” Comrade Bondarchuk sends you dis.” He was holding a large tin of fresh Malossol caviar. Good Ol’ “Bondars,” I thought, he’s forgotten the stiff upper lip incident—bless him, he’s come around. “Please tell Comrade Bondarchuk how kind of him to think of me. Thank him very much.” I reached out to take the caviar, but he held on tight. “Dat vil be 250 American dollars, please!”

  Impossible as it was from “Snake City” to reach anyone (telephone service simply didn’t exist) I managed through the film office to wire Elaine in London not to come by train, whatever she did! I would arrange a car and driver to take her from Budapest to Chop as it would be far more comfortable. Mosfilm had decided to fly out the Irish actor Donal Donnelly at the same time so they could share the ride. It was estimated the journey would take no more than six or seven hours. Boy, were they wrong. All night I waited up—no Elaine. All next day—still no Elaine. I asked anyone in sight, through interpreters, if they could find out what was happening—no response. On the third day I became frantic. I made an ultimatum with the company that I would not shoot a single foot of film until she was found. They instructed Intourist to instigate a search at once. I became more frustrated and angry by the moment. Even dear Kirby couldn’t cheer me up.

  On the fourth day they found her. “Well, where the hell is she then?” I yelled. “She’s on the other side of the bridge about a hundred yards from here. She and the Irishman were not permitted to cross over—no papers!” I threw another tantrum. Finally, Mosfilm gave them their papers; they crossed the bridge and I was with my lady at last!

  It appears they had been detained at every village border crossing and whistle-stop, sometimes at gunpoint. If it hadn’t been for the heroic Hungarian driver, they might all have ended up in some festering prison. Though he possessed the true Magyar hatred for the Russians, he spoke their language fluently and somehow persuaded them he was an employee of Mosfilm and was transporting actors to the Ukraine. One night they stayed at a farmhouse, the owners of which the driver had known. The next morning, they would start off again only to be stopped every few miles by more overly aggressive police. By this time, Donnelly had killed the two bottles of Jameson’s he had brought from Dublin and began talking to himself. “Mother o’ God—I shall never set foot on Irish soil, I shall never again see the Liffey or me darlin’ wife and children!” “But you haven’t got a wife or children,” Elaine offered. “You may be right,” he admitted. “I’d forgotten.” Clearly he was not going to improve. At each stop the guards would roughly hurl the luggage about, search them and then take something for themselves. (Elaine’s luggage was getting as light as a feather—there was hardly anything left in it.) By the time they reached the bridge, Elaine had her revenge. The officer threw open her suitcase and began rummaging in it and in the process broke a bottle of her Badedas cream. His hands and his uniform were so covered in oozing, dripping green slime he resembled some distant relative of Dracula just down from the Borgo Pass.

  IT WAS SEVERAL MILES by van to the undulating countryside of Ukraine where filming was taking place. With nothing to do back in depressing Uzhgorod, my valiant lady along with faithful old Kirby would accompany me each morning, shaken and jostled over indescribably bumpy ground (trying hard not to be seasick) till, with great relief, I was able to mount my horse, which even at seventeen hands high and nervous as a kitten was infinitely more comfortable than either the van or my hotel bed.

  I have to say the panorama which greeted us was impressive indeed. With great care and accuracy, our Russian set decorator had transformed the surrounding fields into an absolute replica of the famous Belgian battleground, at the same time re-creating to perfection La Belle Alliance—a scenic triumph. Mosfilm had employed the Russian cavalry (which I couldn’t believe still existed) to represent both the English Tommys and the French cuirassiers. There were literally thousands of men and just as many horses. Each young soldier was paid $1 a day to be in the film (more than they had ever seen) and were made to sleep in their costumes with their horses on the hills at night so that they would be ready for the next morning’s shooting. It was calculated that our film army was about one-third the size of the actual battle itself.

  This little “army” was supervised by three five-star Russian generals, veterans of many a campaign, one of whom had served in the Crimean War. These dignified figures in their khaki uniforms buttoned to the neck (a fashion which hadn’t changed since World War I) were military historians well versed on strategic maneuvers and formations, especially those at Waterloo. The generals, along with an ex-army major Che-medurov, Bondarchuk’s assistant director and stager of all battle scenes, made up the production’s technical advisors. There was one other who, incongruous though he must have appeared in that Soviet galère, wearing kilts and sporting a monocle, was the ultimate authority on the English side—a man of great style and dash—one Colonel Willoughby Grey. “Willow,” as we called him, whose great-greatgrandfather had fought at Waterloo with the famous Scots Greys and knew the duke personally, could tell you most every moment of Wellington’s daily routine—even what times he went to the bathroom.

  The first morning I arrived on the set I
was informed that the head stuntman, an Italian, had been thrown by his horse and had broken his back—not encouraging news! I watched in horror as the rest of the stunt riders vainly tried to calm their rearing nags, understandably terrified by the constant explosions, some of which reached to a height of fifty or sixty feet. If these crackerjack horsemen were having trouble, what the hell was I going to do? Every day the special effects department set off these explosives before each shot from a distance of two or three miles. The cameras would roll and we would have to wait after the word “Action”—sometimes four or five minutes until the horizon was blackened with clouds of the filthy stuff—before beginning to play a scene.

  We were all terribly concerned about poor Jack Hawkins who recently had undergone a cancer operation where they performed a tracheotomy. Here he was sitting on his horse, sword at his side, wearing a top hat, carrying an umbrella, as was Picton’s habit, while stuffing a protective handkerchief into the hole in his neck. Characteristically, he never once complained—but I did. I also complained about my quadruped, who was much too skittish and had knocked Kirby over several times. With nothing for him to do, I had given Kirby the privilege of holding my horse’s reins when we stood still—a lackey’s job. Fortunately, my contract called for nag approval, and as luck would have it they found me a wonderfully docile old police horse from Moscow with the stolid reliable name of “Stok.” Stok was superb! While the rest of my army were being tossed about all over the place, I, as Wellington, sat absolutely “stok” still in the saddle, cool as a cucumber. I couldn’t believe my luck until his groom whispered in my ear that dear Ol’ Stok, who was about thirty, had been in so many gun-battles in Moscow, his ears had been damaged and he was as deaf as a post.