*
There were a handful of other actors who could aspire to the same grandeur. One of these was Ralph Richardson. It was he who did more than anybody else to get the revived Old Vic under way. There was precious little except its name and its reputation to help in the resuscitation; the building itself had been badly damaged during the war, the management long disbanded. The Old Vic Board invited Richardson and Tyrone Guthrie to take over the New Theatre and, with some financial help from the Government, put the show back on the road. Guthrie’s role was ill-defined, he was heavily involved with the ballet at Sadler’s Wells and was not going to be able to provide much more than encouragement and, from time to time, advice. Richardson was eager to take it on but knew that he could not manage single-handed; he insisted that he must be able to recruit partners who would share the burden of the acting as well as the management. The first two men to whom he applied were Laurence Olivier and John Gielgud. “It sounds a harebrained scheme,” Olivier wrote to his American accountant, “but we feel very strongly that the Theatre should have some national representation in London, particularly at this time.” The Lords of the Admiralty were approached and, with almost offensive insouciance, agreed that he should be released from what were anyway increasingly nominal duties in the Royal Navy. His salary was to be a derisory £15 a week as a director; if he was also acting this would rise to £40. In recognition of the fact that he could earn many times as much if he returned to the cinema, it was agreed that from time to time he would take leave to make a film. In the summer of 1944 he resumed his career as an actor in the theatre.10
Gielgud proved more difficult to tie down. Richardson sent him a cable when he was performing for the troops in Cairo suggesting he should join himself and Olivier in this new enterprise. “I should like nothing better,” Gielgud told his mother, “if it is a partnership and plays and parts that I like.” Then he seems to have decided that in fact it would not be a true partnership. Probably he would have been more enthusiastic if Richardson had been the only other person involved. The thought of entering a triumvirate with Olivier was unappealing. “It would be a disaster,” Gielgud is said to have told Richardson. “You would have to spend all your time as a referee between Larry and me.” He already had his own independent company and decided it would be best to keep it going in competition with the Old Vic. In time he came to wonder whether he had made the right decision. When the Old Vic produced a series of unequivocal triumphs Gielgud admitted ruefully: “I was a bit down … I was very aware they had beaten me to the post and that he [Olivier] was now a much bigger star than I was, but I swallowed that, I was only sorry that I couldn’t live up to it. I enormously admired what they did.” Probably he was right in thinking that he and Olivier would never have made a happy partnership. Writing to a friend about his return from the United States in 1946, in which he happened to find himself on the same liner as the Oliviers, Gielgud remarked: “I hope to make the grade on arrival by hanging firmly on Mrs Olivier’s other arm as soon as the photographers get on board and refusing to be shaken off.” Deference and contempt could hardly have been more neatly blended.11
The fact was that neither man was entirely easy in the other’s company. Each had reservations about the other’s style of acting: Gielgud thought Olivier was too often vulgar, exhibitionist, over-physical; Olivier accused Gielgud of being anaemic, insubstantial, over-musical. Each admired the other’s strengths. Writing to Gielgud about his performance as Andrew Crocker-Harris in Rattigan’s “The Browning Version”, Olivier wrote: “Your old friend was bursting with pride and admiration. Your performance was quite flawless and dreadfully moving. It haunts me still.” Gielgud wrote appreciatively of Olivier’s “acting genius and his gift for leadership”. Both admitted that they were sometimes jealous of the other: Olivier’s jealousy being the more frequent and the more consuming. Yet there was also a sense of solidarity and common purpose. When Gielgud was arrested for importuning in a public lavatory Olivier’s response was to propose him for membership of the Garrick Club (he was blackballed, though elected later). A homophobic actor set to work putting together a group with the aim of getting Gielgud expelled from Equity. He was ill-advised enough to appeal to Olivier for support. Olivier summoned him to his dressing room in the interval of the play in which he was then acting. Delighted at the prospect of securing so prominent a backer, the actor rushed to the theatre. “Mr ———,” said Olivier. “If you persist in this resolution I shall make sure that you never appear on any British stage again.”12
*
Richardson and Olivier, then, would provide the main driving force behind the revived Old Vic, but someone else was needed to furnish the nuts and bolts of the operation. John Burrell was chosen, a theatre director in his early thirties working with the B.B.C. Burrell has sometimes been represented as a mere administrator who meekly carried out the bidding of his overpowering partners. This is unfair: he was himself a strong personality with ideas of his own. But he was inexperienced, little known outside a narrow theatrical circle and inevitably outshone. He became an indispensable part of the organisation, but if Richardson and Olivier were both resolved on a course of action there was little hope that Burrell would be able to deflect them from their course.
In the simplest analysis, there are two ways of putting on plays: deciding on the play and then looking for the actors, or engaging the actors and then looking for a suitable play. For the sort of ensemble acting which the Governors had in mind for the Old Vic, the emphasis would in principle be on the latter. In practice the process was almost always a patched-up compromise: reflecting a multitude of requirements. The needs of the permanent members of the company were certainly one, perhaps the most important, but there was also the need to present a balanced theatrical diet with a fair amount of Shakespeare as well as Ibsen, Shaw, Chekhov or Brecht and an occasional obeisance in the direction of contemporary British drama. It had been decided that the play to open the London season should be Ibsen’s “Peer Gynt”, so the first batch of actors had to be selected with that in mind. The cast required for “Peer Gynt” was, however, substantial and since by the time it began the Old Vic would already have opened in Manchester with Shaw’s “Arms and the Man”, it was obvious that the management could not afford the luxury of employing actors who were too narrow in their specialities. One of the first to be approached was Renée Asherson, a talented young actress who had played opposite Olivier in “Henry V”. Olivier urged her to keep the fact that she had been invited to herself. “It is a vague plan still,” he told her, “and we do not want to invite catty conjectures or exaggerated musings in the press … The offer, roughly, is that you should be our juvenile girl.” To the layman that sounds a rather unappealing proposition, but since Olivier went on to say that she would be asked to play such parts as Anne in “Richard III”, Hero in “Much Ado About Nothing” and Sonya in “Uncle Vanya”, it must have been clear to her that she would not be starved of challenging roles. “Three of these plays will be performed every week,” Olivier concluded, “so I think and hope it will be more fun to act in the Theatre than we have known it to be before.”13
In the event, Renée Asherson could not escape from her existing contract. There were other refusals, too. Ursula Jeans at first agreed to appear but then recanted because she wanted to act in a new play by Peter Ustinov. “I hope that when you come to see us next, you will bring your coffin with you, because you will need it,” Olivier wrote indignantly, concluding with: “My appalled, incredulous but always devoted love.” But such cases were the exception and occurred usually only when the actor concerned was committed elsewhere. Most people leapt at the opportunity of acting with Olivier and Richardson in such surroundings and agreed that it was likely to be “more fun” than an appearance in the conventional theatre. They did not do it for the money, though. Sybil Thorndike, Margaret Leighton, Alec Guinness, Miles Malleson, all of whom had appeared earlier at the Old Vic, were well-established figures much i
n demand on the West End stage. They could not have earned anything approaching the money that Olivier would have been offered if he had returned to Hollywood, but they could still have done a great deal better for themselves elsewhere. Olivier and Richardson had constantly to bear in mind that many of their most valued performers were making a sacrifice in working in the Old Vic and that their continued loyalty could not be taken for granted.14
The most powerful force in the London theatre at the end of the war was Hugh “Binkie” Beaumont’s company, H. M. Tennant. Beaumont dominated the West End stage; at one point eleven out of London’s thirty-six theatres were playing his productions. Many of these were of high quality, but his main concern was that they should make money: he eschewed the experimental and had little use for any except the most popular of classics. He was, as Michael Billington put it, the Fortnum & Mason of London theatre. Beaumont did not fear the Old Vic – he had no reason to – nor did he seek to do it down, but he presented a powerful counter-attraction. Even the most high-minded actor would hesitate to reject out of hand an overture from this magnetic figure. Olivier himself could afford to ignore his blandishments, but even he – apart from the fact that he rather liked him – hesitated to thwart him too overtly and realised how powerful his attraction was for many members of the company.15
When dealing with potential adversaries like Beaumont Olivier was adept at using kid gloves; in other circumstances he was ready to resort to knuckledusters. He was on the whole sensitive to other people’s feelings, anxious not to offend, taking care to wrap up criticism or bad news in a rich cocoon of treacle, but if he felt his patience was being abused or that he was being in some way put upon, his anger could be terrifying. A Mr Wanbon protested that he was being fobbed off with trivial roles and not treated with the consideration he deserved. “You talk about being thrust into a walk-on part as if you were deserving of something better,” retorted Olivier. “I have not been able to discover what should give you this idea … Your allegation that this very busy organisation should spare time to frame intrigues against you personally is, of course, absurd. The ‘ability’ which you speak of did not emerge sufficiently clearly to justify your engagement. Your letter is wild to say the least of it, and the manner of it endorses the reports of your behaviour. I should most strongly advise you to behave yourself and to fulfil your dearest ambition in a way that will not be a nuisance to other people. I wish you luck, but I doubt if you will have it unless you change.” Not many people fared as badly as the unfortunate Mr Wanbon, but Olivier was always liable to explode and if he was in a bad mood his anger could lie heavy on the whole building.16
That building, until the Old Vic had been patched up, was the New Theatre in London’s West End. Space for rehearsal was limited, so the company borrowed the National Gallery, which was standing empty pending the return of its pictures at the end of the war. Unfortunately this coincided with the arrival of the V-Is, the buzz bombs. To stand under the vast expanse of glass which roofed the Gallery while a V-I chuntered overhead cannot have been a soothing experience. Diana Boddington, the stage manager, claimed that neither Olivier nor Richardson ducked or flinched. If they did manage to keep up such an appearance it reflects great credit on them: Olivier remembers that they both went green and “wished we were back in uniform in a nice, comfortable mess”. They were spared, but most public meeting places in London were closed and at one point the Old Vic was one of only five theatres in London still open.17
Olivier could not indulge his temper with Richardson and Guthrie as he could with Mr Wanbon, yet at the time they were discussing the apportionment of roles in the first season he found himself consumed by barely concealed indignation. The plan was that, so far as was practical, he and Richardson would each play small parts in the production in which the other was starring: this would both help the spirit of ensemble and please the audience. But Olivier convinced himself that Richardson’s small parts were not nearly as small as his own. “My small part was so fucking small you couldn’t see it – it was the Button Moulder in ‘Peer Gynt’. I was on the stage for all of three minutes. And I resented it.” In “Arms and the Man” their parts were more or less the same size, but Olivier disliked playing Sergius and was convinced that Richardson had once more outmanoeuvred him. But the most profound grievance arose when Richardson and Burrell both insisted that Olivier, as his main role, should play Richard III to balance Richardson’s Peer Gynt. Olivier hated the idea, mainly “because that cunt Wolfit had made an enormous success only a year or eighteen months before. And I didn’t want to be compared with him because I knew bloody well the press would compare me ill with him because they adored Wolfit.” He protested that the part would be all wrong for him – he would play Richard II if they liked. They would have none of it: “‘Now, come on, old chap. We both think you ought to do it. We’re sure you’ll get through being compared with Wolfit alright!’ They could afford to be sure, couldn’t they? … I thought the other two were really piling on top of me in order to take down my position of popularity owing to being a film star, which Ralph certainly wasn’t … They thought it would be good for me not to do as well as Wolfit. They thought they’d got me where they wanted me.” Even Mr Wanbon could hardly have shown more paranoia. He voiced these thoughts – “thoughts”, perhaps, is hardly the right word – nearly a quarter of a century later. If he had felt so bitterly about it at the time would he not have continued to refuse to play the role? As it was, he gave in pretty quickly. The Old Vic’s first season was taking shape.18
Tyrone Guthrie does not seem to have taken much part in these deliberations, though he played an important role as director. Indeed, his rather nebulous supervisory role counted for little. At the end of the year Richardson and Olivier seem to have decided that they would be better off without him. “Do you mind leaving us alone?” they said. According to Olivier, Guthrie was exhausted and happy to shed the responsibility: “I understand. You want to be independent. Go ahead, I’m not necessary. No hard feelings!” Olivier deluded himself. Guthrie did indeed understand, but there were hard feelings. In due course he was to get his revenge.
*
One of the plays Guthrie had directed was the Old Vic’s first production with Olivier and Richardson – “Arms and the Man”. Convinced from the start that Richardson had got the better part, Olivier as Sergius put up a lacklustre performance and won few laughs. When Guthrie nevertheless congratulated him on his performance, Olivier made it clear that he thought the part was a weak one and his own rendering of it still worse. “Why, don’t you like the part?” asked Guthrie. “Don’t you love Sergius?” “Love that stooge? That inconsiderable … !” “Well, of course, if you can’t love him you’ll never be any good in him, will you?” Olivier claimed that this was the richest pearl of advice that he ever received and that it transformed his acting. It took him a week to adjust to the idea, but “by the end of it I loved Sergius as I’d never loved anybody”. He learned to love Sergius’s faults, his showing-off, his absurdity, his blind doltishness: his rendering of the part was transformed. It is hard to understand why Guthrie’s remark came as such a revelation to Olivier. Had he not loved Coriolanus? Had he not loved Heathcliff? Perhaps it was not so much a new concept as a reminder. Olivier had dismissed the part with contempt and so had not allowed himself to establish any real rapport with the man he was portraying. It was not so much a matter of love as of intimate identification. Encouraged by Guthrie, Olivier got to know Sergius, absorbed Sergius, was absorbed by Sergius, became Sergius. In the provincial tour Richardson had secured far better notices, Olivier’s part had been almost ignored. When it opened in London, though Richardson still got more space, it was clear that two great actors were playing the principal roles and that both deserved attention.19
By then the Old Vic season in London had already begun with “Peer Gynt”. “A tatty, artsy-craftsy production,” Noël Coward thought it. “Larry wonderful, but only on for five minutes at the end.” Mee
ting Olivier in the Garrick a few months later, by which time “Richard III” had already achieved immense success, Donald Wolfit merely observed: “Liked your Button Moulder.” Olivier took this to be a calculated insult, and so no doubt it was meant to be, but in fact, by a display of extraordinary virtuosity, Olivier did make his tiny part into something memorable and much commented on. It was still very much Richardson’s evening, however; and, until the third play, “Richard III”, very much Richardson’s season.20
This was the play that Olivier had wished not to do and which still filled him with dread. The shadow of Wolfit hung over him. He himself thought Wolfit’s treatment of the part “unspeakably vulgar, really bad and cheap and pantomime comic”. “‘Richard III’, Wolfit. Phew!” was the somewhat cryptic entry in his diary after he had been to see it. His own portrayal of the role was in part at least inspired by his determination to be as unlike Wolfit as he could contrive. But he could not escape the fear that he might fail. His friend and fellow actor John Mills was coming to the first night. He and his wife were surprised to get a message asking them to go round to Olivier’s dressing room half an hour before curtain up. They found him fully made-up and dressed. “I just want you to know that you are going to see a bloody awful performance,” Olivier blurted out. “The dress rehearsal was chaotic. I dried up at least a dozen times. It’s a dreadful production, and I was an idiot to let them persuade me to play the bloody part … Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I know. Also, I don’t give a damn. I’m past it.” Mr and Mrs Mills tottered across the road to fortify themselves with double brandies before the forthcoming debacle.21
There followed what Mills describes as “the most majestic and inspired performance I have ever seen”. Few performances can have had so many superlatives lavished on it. “The most theatrically overwhelming performance of the period” – J. C. Trewin; “absolutely terrific … even Binkie raved” – John Gielgud; “I think the greatest male performance I have ever seen in the theatre … He is far and away the greatest actor we have” – Noël Coward; “il m’a donné la plus grande émotion théâtrale de ma vie” – Albert Camus: one could fill pages with such commendations. Robert Stephens believes that, until the very last minute, Olivier had not decided how to play the part: it was only when his first entrance provoked a roar of laughter because of his exaggeratedly grotesque appearance that he realised the part must be played as comedy. This cannot be the whole story: Olivier had concluded from the start that the relish with which Richard III gloats over his villainy was always going to contain a whiff of the ridiculous and that to enhance it by adopting what Alec McCowen called “a slightly spinsterish deportment and manner of speech” was bound to make the performance more coherent as well as more entertaining. But though his Richard III raised many laughs, they were uneasy laughs; it was Olivier’s achievement to be at the same time ridiculous and infinitely menacing. Never for an instant did the audience doubt that it was in the presence of unadulterated evil. Guthrie’s advice, Olivier claimed, “had inched its way under my skin. When I came to it, I loved Richard and he loved me, until we became one.” Melvyn Bragg has suggested that part of Olivier’s reluctance to take on the role might have been the fear that it would permanently sear him: “Henry V left him in some way forever heroic, might not Richard leave him malevolent?” Whether or not the thought entered Olivier’s mind, total immersion, night after night, in a hot bath of such steaming evil must at the best have been uncomfortable, at the worst positively dangerous.22
Olivier Page 13