Playing on the Tony Walton set at night and rehearsing on the new one the next day was both confusing and exhausting. But Robin’s contribution in such a short time was immense. At last we were in a production we might be proud of. Every now and then Robin would come up with an insanely spectacular idea right out of the blue—his brain moved in mysterious ways. We were now tackling the final moments of the play, the famous “Tomorrow, and tomorrow” speech. I would say a few lines and without breaking the rhythm of the poetry, a door would slam shut. Some soldier or servant would leave the stage, shutting a door behind him. Then other doors would slam farther and farther away in the castle. It was an extraordinary effect—the Thane’s followers deserting their crazed leader one after the other. It was marvellously cinematic and I was lost in its spell for a moment, but pinching myself awake, I had to say, “Robin, that’s great, but it is a soliloquy—you know that—and that means I have to be alone.” “Oh bugger!” he said, and stomped off and that original and devastating invention was instantly banished.
When we reached Toronto, the production raked it in at the O’Keefe Centre. Garth Drabinsky was happy, for one, as the piece grossed over a million in a two-week stay. On the opening night, it didn’t seem to matter nor did anyone really care that, making my entrance in the dark for the banquet scene, I bumped straight into a stagehand running at full speed into the wings. When the lights went on, my mouth was full of blood as I began to speak. It hadn’t quite struck me that I’d lost two or three of my front teeth. Suddenly the Thane had a harelip. It was just another infliction from the witches’ curse, which my voluptuous Texas cowgirl would be willing to look after. When the curtain finally descended that night, someone rushed up to me on stage and said, “Prime Minister Trudeau will be at the reception and we want to take some pictures.” “He’ll have to wait, I’m afraid, I’m still looking for my teeth.”
As a matter of fact, our Macbeth sold out pretty well everywhere it went—partly because of the clever gossipy publicity our PR lady cooked up to make it look as if Glenda and I were constantly fighting. This gave an added soupçon of sensationalism that attracted the curious. If one of us forgot that we were supposedly feuding and smiled at each other during a curtain call, she would kick me and I her with my good foot just to remind us to glower. When we reached Boston, where we were to play for three weeks before hitting New Haven and then the Mark Hellinger on Broadway, Robin called us all together and announced he was leaving. “I never said I’d stay with it till New York. I have other things to do—sorry—you’re on your own and good luck.” It was the worst kind of coitus interruptus. Glenda was devastated—so were the Weisslers and the cast who had worshipped him. There would be no more warm-ups in the morning, no third-form shenanigans—they’d lost their headmaster.
Robin was extraordinarily talented but darkly perverse. Certain rich and original ideas of his, and there were many, he would suppress, cut off in midcreation and turn them back into himself, as if he hated anyone to see his vulnerable, creative side. What a wasted brilliance! Though, of course, he was highly regarded in theatre circles everywhere, had this perverse nature of his not been so powerful, I think he could have achieved real greatness. And yet perhaps that sort of self-flagellation was, after all, the very source of his brilliance. One thing was certain, his talent was his own worst enemy.
Zoe Caldwell, bless her Aussie heart, yet again came to the rescue at the Weisslers’ invitation. She was quickly becoming the play doctor in residence. She noticed that my dresser was always present, helping me as I limped along. “Who’s that great girl looking after you and all your wounds? She’s tuh-rrific!” “She’s my Texan nurse, Zoe—nothing more.” “Well,” said Zoe, “you better obey her and get well ’cause you’ve got your work cut out for ya.” Zoe began by taking all the neurotic tension out of my performance and made me relax in it. She was tuh-rrific! She and Gloriana, however, did not get along. One day, Zoe made the mistake of taking my head in her hands and showing her just how she wanted Lady Macbeth to kiss me. That was it. I heard Gloriana mumble under her breath, “I think she wants to play the part herself.” She refused from that moment on to take any further direction and I don’t think they spoke to each other ever again.
Caricature for Macbeth, me and Glenda
The fourth Macduff now made an appearance in the person of Alan Scarfe, a powerful leading stage actor who looked wonderful and spoke the verse beautifully. Cherry Jones was now giving us such a simple, touching Lady Macduff, you could have thrown a dozen more Macduffs at her—she wouldn’t have turned a hair. Well, we opened, at last, at the big Mark Hellinger just west of Eighth Avenue. Glenda, in her own world, was splendid and her sleepwalking scene was particularly spine-chilling, winning her a Tony nomination. Cherry Jones was simply magnificent; Alan Scarfe was tops—and that offbeat, eccentric Jeff Weiss, very funny as the drunken Porter, took so long crossing the stage to answer the knocking at the gate, three productions of Macbeth could have been presented by the time he got there. But I was properly chastised for my poor Thane. Rather than Irving’s famished wolf, I was much more in the mould of Road Runner’s Wile E. Coyote. My press for the most part was gently reprimanding. Walter Kerr, in one of his last critiques, praised my verse-speaking, but John Simon discussed my Macbeth as being far too old to have ambitions of any kind—even accusing me of being out of shape and growing a middle-aged pot. Where the hell was that old witch Dame Olwyn when I needed her?!
GLENDA “GLORIANA” JACKSON, CBE, came to stay with us at Wampum Hill for a short spell. In contrast to her leftist angry young rebel image, she was the easiest and most perfect houseguest imaginable. She did everything the best-brought-up Victorian maiden was trained to do. In the absence of staff, in our case regularly absent, she made up her own bed every morning with hospital-required perfection. In order to stay out of our hair during the day, she would retire to her room and read or if she tired of that she would go out into the garden and weed. She left the flower beds immaculate. Fuff and I considered asking her if she’d remain permanently as our gardener. Even the dogs accepted her as part of the pack, but Toadie, the ugly mutt, fell in love. She followed her everywhere, lay down beside her at the table or by her chair. She would hit her with her paw to get her attention and then just stare lovingly into her eyes. When Gloriana left us, the place looked more stunning than ever.
It was clear that she was becoming disenchanted with the theatre and much more dedicated to politics, for when she returned to England she retired from acting and was voted into the House of Commons as the Labour MP for Hampstead and Highgate. For a while, she was a junior member of the Blair government as transport minister, which prompted me to say, “If you ever have trouble getting a cab, call Glenda.” As a formidable backbencher, she also became a regular critic of Tony Blair, calling him to resign on several issues but principally for supporting the Iraq war. She was, for a moment, a probable dark-horse contender to replace him as prime minister, and I believe she could have made a most powerful one—as powerful as that famous role she owns. Can you imagine—a left-wing Elizabeth I?
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
DRAMA AT HOME AND ABROAD
One afternoon, not too long after Glenda had left, I was relaxing in the large back room which opened out onto our orchard and pool. The dogs were having a wonderful time jumping around their favourite old apple tree, gnarled and wizened like an Arthur Rackham drawing. They were hunting squirrels which used the old tree as their condominium. I dozed off for a second and had quite forgotten where I was, when I was awakened by the most terrible scream—like that of a child in agony. I ran out to see from whence it came. It was no child—it was Toadie. The rest of the pack was standing around in shock, staring at her. I saw that both her upper and lower jaws were broken so badly that they pointed in opposite directions. She was also making weird little choking sounds. “Toadie! Toadie!” I cried and the poor mutt actually wagged her tail. My God, I thought, she’s swallowed her tongue
as well. I picked her up in my arms as gently as I could, but I couldn’t find her tongue—what the hell was I going to do? Just then Fuff came around the corner like a whirlwind and took complete command. “Give her to me. Don’t just stand there—call the vet—I’ll get the car.” As I turned to leave, I noticed Paddy was skulking behind the tree, looking more than guilty—a look no dog can ever conceal. So that was it. Her jealousy had gotten the better of her, and she’d finally snapped.
I drove ninety miles an hour with Toadie in the back, Fuff holding her and wiping away the blood with a towel. Once inside, the vet opened the door of the operating room, literally pushed some poor old heavily sedated German shepherd off the table and lay Toadie down in his place. “If you’d been ten minutes longer you’d have lost her. Don’t worry, we’ll fix her up. If you just look into her eyes so she knows you’re here while I give her a shot—that’s it.” I’ll never forget those sad little eyes looking up at us with such love and fear.
Twelve days later, the vet called. “You’d better come down now and take Toadie home. She’s going to be okay. At the moment, she’s got steel clamps holding each jaw in place, which she’ll get used to, but she needs to see you both because she thinks you’ve all left her and she’s losing her will to live.” We tore down and the moment she saw us, that poor beaten face lit up. The rest of the pack was glad to see her, even the culprit Paddy seemed happy. They sniffed her a lot and were very interested in the steel jaw our bionic patient kept opening and closing with a resounding crack that resembled a bear trap going off. We took her for a walk with the pack and Rags was so gentle with her, licking her stitched-up face and generally being so attentive that Paddy, once more overcome with jealousy, attacked her again, opening her stitches. Blood started to pour and there we were, déjà vu, rushing her back to the vet.
Once the overwhelming desire to be a pack leader is satisfied and once blood has been tasted, there is no turning back. We should have known that. It was our fault. Poor Paddy didn’t know what she’d done. She loved her sister more than anything and never stopped looking for her. In desperation, I called my friend Barbara Johnson, Polly’s daughter-in-law, who lived in Senneville, Quebec, on a six-hundred-acre farm. Her husband, Louis, had just died—she was alone and I was hoping she might like some company. “I know this is a long shot, Barbara,” I began, “but we have a dog, a lovely dog who, if someone doesn’t take her, we might have to put down.” I then told her the truth of what happened and I tried to describe Paddy as best I could. “Well, I think she sounds terrific,” said Barbara. “You think so?” I said, my heart pounding away double time. “Let me send you some pictures of her and her papers and everything before you make up your mind.” “No,” said Barbara, “don’t send me anything—just send me the dog!” I was so choked I could barely get the word “thank-you” out of my mouth. Well, it worked out. Paddy lived to a great old age, loving her life with her friend Barbara, as the “star” dog with no competition, ruling the roost.
“THERE IS THE AWFUL insinuating and overwhelming significance of money in the affairs of life. It is the string with which a sardonic destiny directs the motions of its puppets.”
Mr. Somerset Maugham may well have hit the nail on the head, but every so often I bless that sardonic destiny. Lest we forget—prostitution is also an art! So I said yes to my first television series. It wasn’t all that bad, actually. Counterstrike, in spite of its title, had a certain swashbuckling style to it and enough edge not to make it clawing. I played the part of a billionaire modern-day financier who sponsors his own private group of sleuths to rout out crime in the international corridors of power that the law’s arm has failed to reach. I admit for a while I had good fun playing this character—a contemporary mix of Howard Hughes and the Scarlet Pimpernel. I got wonderfully paid for working no more than forty days a year, leaving me enough rope to hang myself in plays or movies.
The series shot in Toronto and Paris. The exterior of my office was in Paris, the interior in Toronto. For the most part, I never left my office. I just sat behind a gigantic desk and issued cryptic orders over a sophisticated hookup apparatus from which I could speak to anyone in the world. Ensuring that I was not required to do stunts, in fact nothing exerting—not even much walking—I insisted the character Mr. Addington always sport a cane as his leg had been shot up in the war. What war, I didn’t care—just any war would do. My only real physical action each day was to get in and out of a very expensive well-cut wardrobe, made especially for me. As I was usually seen sitting at my desk, I didn’t even have to learn my lines. They were all spread out before me, either mingling with the official papers or on the teleprompter, an actor’s dream. My partners in hunting crime were the main private eye played by Simon MacCorkindale, an Englishman, and a couple of very attractive French girls—no complaints there. The “suits” behind the series were Alliance Films, run by Robert Lantos in Canada, some very smooth suits from Canal Plus in France, Kay Coplick of USA Network, in partnership with the most hands-on team of Sonny Grosso and Larry Jacobson—all of them “characters” in their own right, especially the last two.
Sonny Grosso was the real-life personage that Roy Scheider played in The French Connection. He had been heavily involved in enforcing the Marseille drug cartel back in the early seventies and gained fame as a hero cop, a supercop. Now he was retired. What was he to do? Become a producer, of course. So he invaded the portals of television and with his partner, Larry Jacobson, produced the smash-hit cop shows Night Heat and Top Cops. As the main technical advisor on French Connection, he had learned very quickly about the world of film. He also had a good eye for a story. Like all really tough guys, he had a kind and gentle side and loved taking us all to suppers in little trattorias that had the Mafia’s blessing. Ironically, he seemed better known and more respected in underworld circles than in the so-called law-abiding world. He was a walking hero right out of a comic strip, and he always carried a gun. As he sat down at the dinner table, there it was, bulging in his belt. He kept a large launch, which he shared with Larry in the Norwalk docks in Connecticut. I went to supper one night on board and there, for the first time, I saw his vulnerable side. Sonny hated the water, so that big beautiful boat of his hardly ever left its moorings. He would wait for the other boats to return from their day’s outing—then he would go on deck and swab it off with the hose to make it seem as if he’d just got back to shore.
The series, after three years, was still doing well and the ratings were improving, when suddenly Sonny closed it down. I’ll never know why exactly, but one thing was sure, he was stubborn as a mule, and I remember him saying of Kay Coplick (a terrific lady, by the way), “I guess I just can’t work wit broads!” What an enigma! And what fun! Our paths separated, and I miss him a lot.
It seemed destiny could be sardonic after all—I guess I was never meant to be a rich man. Comfortable, perhaps, but not rich. Instead I was doomed to go back to the meager scraps the theatre had to offer and remind myself that the higher the quality, the less one gets paid, for the telephone rang and my old friend Jason Robards was rasping in my ear, “Come on, doctor, come back to the stage and let’s do Pinter’s No Man’s Land together.” That sounded good enough for me.
SOME OF THE SCREEN ICONS of bygone days I have appeared opposite are: Bette Davis, Greer Garson, Gregory Peck, Kirk Douglas, Ray Milland, Buster Keaton, Sylvia Sidney, Henry Fonda, Sophia Loren—all superprofessionals. The camera loves them and the spell they cast manages to penetrate the lens with laserlike precision aimed at a vast illusionary public they can only imagine is out there, somewhere, beyond. And in the process, what they give their fellow workers such as myself, is as generous, genuine and truthful as they can offer, considering the chaos that surrounds them; the ever-present publicity machine, the hangers-on, the arc lights, sound booms, cranes, squeaking dolly tracks, clapboards, not to mention the cynical crew who has seen it all before. Impervious to these distractions, they remain resolute, determined to gu
ard that special quality that has made them popular, without any audience reaction to reward them. They have been, for me, a fascination and a pleasure to watch and work with.
But nothing is as thrilling or satisfying as sharing the stage with a first-rate theatre actor and that other indispensable partner—the reallife groundlings who have paid through the nose for their seats and who work every bit as hard as we. For we are now in the marketplace, the arena where it all began, and once we set foot on those boards, there is no doubt that the circus has come to town. At each performance, as the climate changes in the house, we change with it. Even before the raising of the curtain, we know by sensing the waiting crowd just how much energy they are willing to expend. Sometimes, as one man, they refuse to react at all. All we can do is to win them over as best we can. It may be a bumpy ride—even a minor war can break out—but we must fight like hell to gain control; if they get the upper hand, we’re done! And in the end when we’ve all come through the wars together, it is our duty to make certain that that bond between us is stronger than ever. That is a rule of the game.
The theatre is not for sissies. It separates the men from the boys. My actor-partner knows that. There is a gleam in his eyes—the promise of adventure, a challenge to invent. At every performance his eyes tell me a different story—I can see in them the events of his day. I can sense what he’s feeling behind his character. This is not just a play we’re in together; there is a life going on here on both sides of the footlights. The eyes of a truly fine actor are constantly negotiating—save me and I’ll save you, they seem to say. That is the bargain we’ve made and that trust is all we can hang on to as we steady ourselves on the tightrope. My partner begins to sniff the air—he smells the scent of danger and excitement. He knows the jungle well. Such an animal was Jason Robards Jr.
In Spite of Myself: A Memoir Page 70