I was fascinated by that beautiful rugged country with its complexities, its bravery, its wild inbred history, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to get home to Wampum Hill and to see the rest of my little pack, their noses pressed against the window, and then the mad rush down the stairs to greet me with such an unabashed explosion of trust, I had to lie prone on the floor for my safety!
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THREE COMIC INTERLUDES
NUMBER 1
We must have got stuck somehow in Nancy Reagan’s computer, for both Fuff and I kept getting invitations for small private dinners at the White House. The first was understandable enough as it was to honour Laurence Olivier, now a lord, and to show his film of King Lear in the little screening room. I must say it was quite flattering since I was the only other actor present. While waiting for the Oliviers to arrive, President Reagan came over to me and we started reminiscing about Hollywood days. It seems we had shared the same agents at one time and we exchanged Kurt Frings stories amidst hoots of laughter. It struck me as being more than a little bizarre, for here were two actors bitching about their agents and just a couple of yards behind us stood the man with the Nuclear Football.
At supper, I was placed next to Selwa “Lucky” Roosevelt, chief of protocol for the Reagans as well as two other presidencies before them. I remarked how simple and beautiful the White House was inside—and how young looking and without pomp. “It’s all due to Nancy and Billy Baldwin. In my long experience here, the White House has never looked so attractive,” Lucky told me. She had married Teddy Roosevelt’s grandson Archibald and had emerged as a charming Washington hostess as well as a good friend. Fuff was seated next to Caspar Weinberger, secretary of defense, the most civilized of men—knowledgeable on so many subjects, especially painting, music and poetry. On her left sat George Shultz, flirty and amusing. But of all those present, it was Weinberger, with his beautiful speaking voice and elegant manners, who impressed her the most.
On the way to the screening room, I walked down the corridor with Larry and he said quietly, “Oh Kit, you don’t want to see this. I’m not very good in it, you know. I was so bloody weak they had to lift me onto my horse.” I congratulated him on his peerage. “You know my passion for kippered herrings?” he continued. “Well, I had them every morning on my commute to London on the Brighton Belle. When they were searching for my title, I suggested Lord Kipper of Brighton, but they wouldn’t buy it.” He stopped for a moment at the door, “You know, I’ve had too many honours—quite enough for several lifetimes—but there’s one I still lust after, though of course I’ll never get it.” He paused dramatically, as if waiting for a cue. “And what is that, Larry?” I obliged. “An honorary American citizen.”
We all sat down to a fascinating but overly long movie. Larry had been right. He was indeed very frail as Lear and his voice was pitched unusually high—he no longer owned those wondrous ringing tones. It was no surprise, considering the number of horrific diseases he had battled his way through. After it was over, the Reagans’ court jesters, Bill Buckley and his wife, Pat, made their way up in the lift to the president’s private apartments and the rest of us dispersed. While we were waiting for our car, Larry and Joan’s drove up. He very slowly and gingerly climbed into the backseat, rolled down the window and gave me the most wonderful smile; he reached out, grabbed my hand and held on till I winced. That was the last time I was to see the greatest theatrical animal of the century.
THERE WERE OTHER OCCASIONS such as a state reception for Canada’s premier Brian Mulroney when I sat next to George Bush père and renewed my old acquaintance with Prince Sadr Khan from Boston days. He was there with his brother the Aga Khan and at the same table was our country’s gregarious ambassador Allan Gotlieb and his very amusing wife, Sondra, who served the best embassy food in Washington. But it was the smaller gatherings that perplexed me—it was either Lucky Roosevelt or Mrs. Reagan who invited us, mais pourquoi?
One Thanksgiving we were summoned to a supper for the prince and princess of Lichtenstein, who had lent their paintings to be shown in all the major cities of the United States. It is one of the world’s most important private collections and includes the largest private collection of Rubens in the world. Everybody gathered in one of the anterooms; all the top brass in the cabinet were present at this one, and the afterdinner recital would be given by Burt Bacharach, playing his own compositions, rumoured to be the princess’s favourite American music. We all formed a sort of line—Fuff again monopolizing Caspar W. while I stood beside my fellow Canuck, Bacharach, exchanging north of the border sentiments. Double doors were thrown open—the marines stood at attention and the Reagans entered, escorting Their Highnesses.
The prince looked stooped and old and much too feeble to shake hands, preferring to give everyone a perfunctory nod, but his wife, a tall buxom Valkyrie in a blue and silver reflecting dress, overcharged with aggressive energy and sparkling like a lit Christmas tree, greeted all about her with a resounding chortle. When I was introduced, she came forward to me, preceded by wafts of sickeningly sweet perfume which smelled like a mix of Joy and Old Spice. I bowed, but her eyes were centered somewhere above my head as if she’d expected me to be taller and I had failed her miserably by not being so. But when she saw Burt, she exploded with a loud shout of recognition, took two steps back, pointed a huge bejewelled finger at him and began to sing in a raucous Teutonic bellow, “Oho-ho, Oho-ho. Hrain drips kip fowling on mine hett, but chuss ven I’m sinking …” Just about bursting out of her dress, she performed it with such zest it looked as if she’d been rehearsing it in front of a mirror for weeks. I didn’t dare look at Burt, though I’d have given anything to see his face.
At supper, the old prince sat on Mrs. Reagan’s right and I was placed close to him on the other side. Ah, that’s it, I thought, I’m here ’cause I can help out with the French. Every time Nancy Reagan tried to engage him in conversation, the slurping sound he made eating his soup rendered any response quite impossible. I thought I’d better begin to do my job and speak some French. I waited for the slurping to subside and started by apologizing for having never been to his country. He didn’t seem to be listening to me at all and only stared at his soup. I tried flattery and said something idiotic about how beautiful I’d been told it was and how great it was for skiing. He was back slurping his soup again and it was at least a whole minute before he wiped his mouth, turned to me very slowly and said in a voice sounding like Mike Nichols mimicking Albert Schweitzer, “Ah, oui, il y a beaucoup de collines au Lichtenstein.” There was a sonorous profundity ringing through this staggering bit of information. I felt he had spoken to me in code and was giving me my secret bank account number. I gave up and, thankfully, Katharine Graham, as was her wont, instantly monopolized all further conversation.
The president rose and said a few charming words of thanks for the wonderful gesture the Lichtensteins had made toward America, and sat down again. There was a silence while we all waited. All eyes were on the prince. Someone—I think it was Nancy Reagan—nudged him and he rose as if in slow motion. It was many seconds before he found his glasses and his notes. Finally, he spoke. “Monsieur le Président—et Madame—uh, uh—” There was an awful moment. Most present, especially the cabinet, were now on the edge of their seats. The prince looked around as if for help, then brought his notes right up to his face, “uh-uh—Reagan!” At last he’d remembered—Red Alert was cancelled, war postponed. There was an audible sigh that echoed off the dining room walls and the evening, which so far had been limping along, threw away its crutches and became a major four-minute miler.
NUMBER 2
A small break for Fuff from running with the pack was another visit to the Royal Poinciana Palm Beach, where I was in a comedy written and directed by Garson Kanin called Peccadillo as a tryout for Broadway. I was playing an eccentric orchestra leader in the mold of a middle-aged Toscanini who is leading a double life with his wife (Glynis Johns) and his
mistress-cum-protégé (Kelly McGillis). I needed a comedy badly and this seemed to be the ticket. Garson’s first two acts were skillfully written and funny indeed; after all, he was a comedic master (Pat and Mike and Born Yesterday). For my character, he had been inspired, or so he told me, by the famous true incident when Toscanini, during a rehearsal, started screaming at some poor violinist, calling him by every name under the Tuscan sun for his incompetence. As the story goes, the gutsy violinist walked out and, as he reached the edge of the stage, turned and yelled at the maestro, “And by the way, Fuuuuck you!” To which Toscanini shouted back, “Dere-ees-a-no-need to apologize!”
Although acts 1 and 2 worked a treat, the third was a disaster. Gar-son didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in fixing it either. We worked ourselves to the bone hoping to make some sense of it, but it simply didn’t have an ending. We tried new things every night, wildly improvising, ad-libbing to the point of breaking each other up, but there was nothing we could do—nothing seemed to work. I had a great time being with Kelly and darling Glynis, in spite of her old trick of never knowing her lines, so that we had to take turns cueing her continuously till the dress rehearsal when, with that apologetic pixie charm of hers, she would drop the book and launch into a word-perfect performance whilst the rest of us floundered about in a mild state of amnesia.
Gar had had a stroke in the middle of rehearsals, and he and his wife, Ruth Gordon, who stuck to him like glue, left the play for the hospital. I got Michael Langham to agree to take over and the moment Gar got wind of this, he instantly recovered and to my utter surprise and shock flew down to Palm Beach, walked straight into rehearsal and said in a loud voice, “I’m back.” Langham had to withdraw, sadly, as he had been contributing some wonderful ideas. The whole venture, however, was a great success in Palm Beach. It was just their cup of tea—even the third act hodgepodge. “You ought to know better than anyone that Palm Beach ain’t New York,” I said rather frankly to Gar. He smiled that wide, captivating smile of his and assured me he had written a brand-new third act and that I would like it enormously. That night after the performance he handed it to me with much ceremony in Ruth’s presence. With mounting excitement, I took it home and read it. I could not believe my eyes—nothing had been changed, not a word, not a comma. It was exactly the same, just written on cleaner manuscript, that was all. Was it the stroke? Or was it his way of saying, “If you think I’m changing a word of this play, you son of a bitch, you’re insane”? Written in my contract was a clause which stated I need not go to New York with the play if I felt it wasn’t worth it. Well, without a third act, it wasn’t. So I told the cast and I think they understood. The play closed and we went our separate ways. It was a long time before I saw Garson again. The great Ruth Gordon had died and he had married their good friend and mine, Marian Seldes. By now I think he’d forgiven me or else had banished it from his mind. But I’ll take my oath he knew all along. He was too much of an expert at constructing comedy—too much of a pro—not to have known. I think he just loved playing the devil.
The adorable Glynis Johns
NUMBER 3
Fran and Barry Weissler, still reeling from the success of Othello, must have seen themselves as the fresh new harbingers of classical theatre on Broadway. They would be justified in feeling so, as no one for many a decade had had the chutzpah or insanity to push Shakespeare smack into the commercial lion’s den. Drunk with power, they decided to follow it up with the Bard’s most salable ticket, the Scottish play—Macbeth. So being loyal to the Old Boys’ Club, they commandeered me once again. Having been burned in Birnam Wood once before, I had obviously learned nothing, and with a death wish of suicidal proportions, I said yes. There was a plus side, however, for Glenda Jackson, the two-time Oscar winner and so far, in my view, the definitive Elizabeth I, had agreed to do the Lady. At least we’ll sell some tickets, I thought, as I comforted myself.
Miss Jackson, or “Gloriana,” was not to arrive until the third week of rehearsal. But by that time, enough bad omens had hovered over that bubbling cauldron to give credence to the superstitions surrounding the play. The first Macduff left before rehearsals had barely begun. He was replaced with a fine young actor from Canada, Stephen Russell, who could stay only for the beginning of the out-of-town tryout as he had previous commitments. He, in turn, would be replaced by another fine actor, and another Stephen—Stephen Markle. The poor girl playing Lady Macduff simply waited with resigned good nature for husbands to come and go. This poor girl, incidentally, was enjoying her Broadway debut—a powerful, young actress of much promise with a fresh natural beauty whose face was an open book. She reminded me very much of a young Patricia Neal and her name was Cherry Jones.
Even before Miss Jackson was to set foot on American soil, I could tell that the director we had selected would not be with us long. He was terribly nice, terribly competent and suffered terribly from catarrh. It was clear after a few days that he was incapable of lifting this lofty piece much above the level of a first reading. Tony Walton, that brilliant designer whom I thought might bring us all luck, had designed a raised set representing a hill on the heath that was so perpendicularly steep and high I almost had a nosebleed every time I made an entrance. At last Gloriana arrived. She took one look at the set and, forgetting to say even a cursory good morning, barked a strident Elizabethan command, “Well, all that will have to go, for a fucking start!” Hello? St. Joan of the Stockyards had just walked in! All my insipid tact and controlled patience had gone for naught—truth and brutal candor now ruled supreme. I was struggling with that most difficult of soliloquies before the banquet scene. “To be thus is nothing; / But to be safely thus.” My tendency was to underplay it because I was afraid it could be overly melodramatic. In front of the entire cast, Miss Gloriana said, “You’re not going to play it like that, are you? For God’s sake, Plummer, where are your balls?” She got me so angry that when I did it again, I kicked a chair violently across the room. “That’s more like it,” piped Lady Macbeth, who appeared to have become my unauthorized personal coach.
But hiring a new director was of the utmost urgency. Glenda, the Weisslers and I put our heads together. We had a list of potential young geniuses from England who were, as usual, in demand and unavailable. I suggested Ken Russell, that daredevil maverick who had directed Glenda on film in Women in Love and The Music Lovers as well as four of the most wonderful docudramas, on Isadora Duncan, Frederick Delius, Wordsworth and Coleridge; plus, he was a Scot. “He’s maddeningly unpredictable,” said Glenda, “but go ahead, you have my blessing.” The Weisslers thought I should meet him alone. Because I had director approval in my contract, I had the interview set up and we met. He obviously had never seen any of my work, didn’t know me from Adam, which was not a good start. He remained silent through most of the meeting—glaring at me—sizing me up. Who the hell was conducting this interview, anyway? “Can you wear kilts?” he suddenly blurted, breaking the interminable silence. “Yes, my legs are pretty good,” I said proudly in self-defense. “Good,” he said and that was it. He got up to leave. I quickly asked him what period he had in mind for the play. “Somewhere in the indefinite future,” he said and slammed the door behind him.
Some weeks later on the road, we were still without a director. Now that we would have to extend the out-of-town dates, the costs were becoming prohibitive and the Weisslers were not as flush then as they are now. Fuff suggested we contact Garth Drabrinsky, my old Silent Partner producer friend, to be our new backer. Garth was now reveling in his huge cinemaplex company and had become an entrepreneur extraordinaire. The Weisslers approached him, he came on board and what’s more, gave us our new director, Robin Phillips, someone of whose caliber we should have had from the start. Phillips, brilliant and adventurous, who revitalized Canada’s Stratford Festival beyond recognition by bringing in such performers as Maggie Smith, Margaret Tyzack and the like, was an innovator who demanded full and final authority in everything he did. When he joined
us, he brought in his own set design, weeded out a few stragglers but for the most part kept our company pretty well intact. He and Glenda got along right from the start. Suddenly she was more confident, if that could be possible; she trusted him completely. I don’t think he particularly liked me and thought me miscast—something that should have occurred to me ages ago. It would have saved a great deal of trouble. More accidents started occurring—members of the crowd were always getting hurt. Tony’s huge set was still with us while they were building the new one, looking very Wagnerian—as well as anticipating the story of the play. The floor was made of something similar to Astroturf and one night, during the duel, I turned quickly and my foot did not follow my leg. It was still pointing in the other direction.
Thus began the long treks early each morning to every hospital in every town for treatment of my knee, showing the first signs of permanent arthritis. At night, I would perform in a huge support all the way up my leg—the solid one athletes use. It must have looked unbelievably strange. Melinda Howard, my usual dresser, had wisely opted out of this engagement, being madly superstitious, and had recommended a friend of hers, an extremely sexy Texan lass who strapped me into this “contraption” each night—the only pleasant part of the whole ordeal. Robin, with a certain amount of sadistic humour, was enjoying my plight enormously. He had a habit of getting results by describing what he wanted physically. One morning, while I was steadying myself by holding on to two chairs, trying one of the early soliloquies, he grabbed my shoulders from behind, pulled them roughly back and said, “Now say the speech. You’ll see the exertion will change everything and affect the way you speak it. That’s how I want you to do it!” He pulled them back so hard he damaged a nerve in my neck, which caused the beginnings of a disintegrating disk from which I’ve never recovered. (Not too late to sue you, Robin.) Now I was coming to rehearsals on crutches wearing a huge neck brace made of steel. “Here comes the fucking cripple,” he would gleefully shout, which delighted the cast who I’m sure were only too pleased to see their leading player brought down to size.
In Spite of Myself: A Memoir Page 69