As so often, Tynan found the most compelling phrases to praise Olivier’s performance. “It was,” he wrote, “an unforgettable concerto of grief … One hears great cries which, like all of this actor’s best efforts, seem to have been dredged up from an ocean-bed of fatigue. One recognises, though one has never heard it before, the noise made in its last extremity by the cornered human soul.” But again – as so often – Tynan could not resist a dig at Vivien Leigh. She received, he wrote, “the news that she is about to be ravished on her husband’s corpse with little more than the mild annoyance of one who would have preferred foam rubber”. Such criticism from Tynan might have been expected, but Gielgud, usually ready to defend her, was equally condemnatory. She seems in a very bad way, he told a friend. “She is utterly ineffective on the stage – like paper, only not so thick, no substance or power.” Worst of all, Olivier himself agreed. “I was terribly disappointed,” he recorded. “She didn’t act the part at all, she was beyond it then, she couldn’t bloody well act. For the first time I felt ashamed of her.”19
It was during the run of “Titus Andronicus” that Vivien Leigh moved irrevocably closer to total breakdown. It was not just her lacklustre acting that signalled what was happening. Offstage, wrote Gielgud, she is “haunted, avid, malicious and insatiable, a bad look-out for the future and for poor Larry, who is saint-like with her”. Noël Coward visited Stratford and thought “Titus” “a very, very silly play with some good moments”. Afterwards: “Vivien was in a vile temper and perfectly idiotic. Larry was bowed down with grief and despair … Personally, I think that if Larry had turned sharply on her years ago and given her a clip in the chops, he would have been spared a mint of trouble.” The comment does not suggest that Coward had the remotest perception of what lay behind Vivien Leigh’s behaviour, but, coming from a man who up till then had tended to think of her as more sinned against than sinning, it illustrates vividly the pressures under which Olivier was now living.20
*
In spite of his own resounding success, Olivier did not enjoy the Stratford season. He was longing for an end to it: “I feel I cannot take any more of that lowering Stratford atmosphere,” he told Mu Richardson. It was not so much Stratford as the state of his marriage which caused the atmosphere to lower. Peter Finch, whether there or not, seemed omnipresent. Olivier accepted the relationship yet resented it. He told Hamish Hamilton how much it pained him “to go into her dressing room and see the photograph of that god-damned Finch on her dressing table”. She made no effort to keep her feelings hidden and seemed almost to exult in the pain she caused her husband. She told Trader Faulkner, a close friend since the tour of Australasia, how “warm, sweet and thoughtful Peter was, like a wild, sensual Pan”, while “Larry could think of nothing but his career”. Peter was “an old soul, full of timeless wisdom”, Larry “a new soul with a plastic Karma”. At least Finch was only present at Stratford in photographic form; at Notley, where they went almost every weekend, he was a regular visitor. Leigh would bombard him with telephone calls and send her car to collect him; when he was there her devotion to him was obvious and, to Olivier’s friends at least, embarrassing. “The best you could say about them,” wrote Finch’s biographer, Elaine Dundy, “was probably the worst you could say about them; they did nothing behind Olivier’s back.” To the casual observer it seemed as if Olivier condoned or at least was indifferent to his wife’s behaviour; in fact he felt rejected and resentful. Once there were fire-works after dinner. “I had the distinct feeling,” wrote Susana Walton, “that Larry was pointing a rocket directly at Peter, but reluctantly changed his aim at the last minute.”21
Olivier’s pride told him that he should not make a scene or show how deeply he was being hurt; on the other hand, the situation could not drag on indefinitely. The trouble was that he still liked Finch and could not blame him for what was happening. Eventually, he decided that there must be a confrontation. The two men met in the library after dinner but, although Olivier was resolved to settle matters, somehow the encounter evolved into an enjoyable conversation. It was broken by Vivien Leigh putting her head round the door to ask which of the two men was going to bed with her. In the end it was the guilty couple who brought things to a head, by escaping together to the South of France. Olivier pursued them and pleaded with Leigh not to make a public scandal which would damage his career and destroy hers. Possibly the flames of passion between her and Finch were burning lower, possibly discretion overcame her romantic urges; at any rate, she returned to the fold. For a time, in the public eye at least, the marriage was reestablished. “Larry and Vivien have decided to present a united front,” Noël Coward noted early in 1956. He wished them well; especially since she was on the point of appearing in his new play. He was less pleased when the rapprochement was followed by the news that Leigh was going to have a baby and so he would have to find another star. Yet more annoying, Binkie Beaumont heard about the pregnancy before he did, so injured pride was added to his irritation. In a letter to a friend Coward indulged in some disobliging reflections on the likely destiny of the unborn child. “To be born into such a turbulent ménage might possibly be far from easy, what with Daddy shrieking ‘Fuck!’ and bellowing ‘Macbeth’, and Mummy going briskly round and round different bends, and never less than twenty people to lunch, dinner and supper.” When Coward met Olivier in Dublin he made a violent scene, then realised he had gone too far and apologised for being so clumsy and self-indulgent. “The only possible excuse was that I had been miserably hurt by being shut away from your confidence,” he wrote. “This, considering that I have been so intimately concerned with your and Puss’s troubles for so long, made me very angry and hurt like hell. After all, you are both very dear to me.”22
Olivier professed himself, and probably was, delighted by the prospect of becoming a father again at the age of fifty. He told the Daily Sketch that he thought he would prefer a girl; if it were one she would be called Katherine. He hoped that a child would cement his marriage and give Vivien Leigh a measure of stability. “Thought it might help her,” he told Tarquin. “I was worried I was sterile. Tests showed I’m as fertile as Hercules.” Perhaps the baby would have helped; Leigh had shown immense pleasure at the thought of being a mother and a nursery was already planned for Notley. In the fourth month of her pregnancy, however, she miscarried. Though neither of them knew it at the time, the last hope for their marriage was extinguished.23
One person who had not looked forward to the birth was the putative Katherine’s half-brother, Tarquin. He had been very reasonably affronted when he read of his stepmother’s pregnancy in the newspapers rather than hearing of it from his father, and he made his resentment clear. Olivier grovelled. He had suspected that Tarquin would be upset by the news, he wrote: “Believe me, I do understand your feelings. When my father threatened me with the same possibility, I felt sick.” As a result he had put off passing on the news until it had leaked to the press and then it was too late. He urged his son to look on the bright side: “I beg of you to try and feel happy about it, it is a thing that pleads for joyful feelings.” Now the joyful feelings were in abeyance: Vivien Leigh seemed to be more settled but Finch was still in the background and the possibility of another breakdown had obviously not disappeared.24
Even when she was calm the pace of her social life remained hectic. Notley was not a place where Olivier could hope to relax, every weekend the house was filled with guests and loud with parties. In London they had abandoned Durham Cottage as being too small and spent a few months squatting in the Waltons’ house in Lowndes Square. They tried to buy a house in Lord North Street, but were pipped at the post by Harold Macmillan and finally settled for “a beautiful new flat” in Eaton Square. He and Vivien both loved it, Olivier told William Walton. “She is exceedingly bonny and better than she has been for ages, and all is merry song in the birdcage.” That was late in 1957. Walton was one of Olivier’s closest friends and he would not have sought to mislead him. He must hav
e suspected, though, that the merry song was not going to last for long. The pace of her social life grew ever more frantic; even in a period of remission her mood swings were unpredictable; it could be no more than a lull.25
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
L.O.P.
At the end of the Stratford season Olivier made a speech on the stage, without notes, in the course of which he thanked ninety-seven people by name; including the box-office staff. At the end he apologised in case he had forgotten anybody – “I never was any good at names.” “It was a show-off,” he cheerfully admitted. It was also one more illustration of a memory which was at the worst excellent, at the best prodigious. Roger Furse paid tribute to his “stubborn memory”, his alarming capacity to conjure up pieces of information which had been given him many years before and which the original informant had long forgotten. He had told Churchill that once he had stopped playing a part it vanished quickly from his mind. He belittled his capacities. The part had in fact not been forgotten, merely filed in a waiting tray from which it could quickly be recovered. At the age of forty-eight the sharpness of mind which had enabled him to learn a part in half the time needed by Ralph Richardson had perhaps been blunted, but he had perfected techniques which helped him retain otherwise evasive material. One of them he called “the Green Umbrella”. He was playing a part which was proving particularly intractable. Then, in a shop window, he saw a green umbrella and knew at once that it was the sort of thing the character would have owned and cherished. He bought it, carried it at every performance and never forgot another line. Not all talismans proved so miraculously effective, but in one form or another green umbrellas became a valuable weapon against the terrors of a failing memory.1
It was partly because it was not necessary to keep a long part in one’s head that he had felt the cinema to be a lesser calling than the stage. By 1956, however, that feeling had evaporated: he was immensely proud of his Shakespearean films, particularly “Henry V”. He was above all anxious to add “Macbeth” to the list and devoted almost as much time and effort to trying to set up a production as he had done to making any of its predecessors. He had been playing with the idea for several years; a screenplay and detailed production notes show how much thought he had given to the project. The problem, of course, was the cost. “Macbeth” was not a film that could be made on the cheap. The appearance of Scone, he considered, should be “a little more effective than its present-day aspect would seem to suggest that it was”. Any other thousand-year-old castle would look a thousand years old, which would clearly be unsatisfactory. It would therefore be necessary to build a castle. The early battlefield scenes could be on a small scale, but Birnam Wood could not come to Dunsinane without some significant display: at least eight hundred extras would be needed. “Henry V” had made a profit of £100,000, Olivier pleaded, “Hamlet” more than £300,000, “Richard III” £400,000, “which I think shows that the public were being educated to these Shakespearean epics”. He did not mention how long it had taken for each of them to reach these happy conclusions, nor were the figures immune to challenge; most accountants, for instance, would have said that “Richard III” was still in the red. Economically, the timing was unfortunate. “The production of ‘Macbeth’ under present conditions is, of course a highly speculative proposition,” warned John Davis of Rank.2
Mike Todd had seemed the most likely backer, but his death had ended that hope. Korda at one moment seemed interested, but he deferred a final decision until he too was dead. Filippo del Giudice claimed he could raise the money, but he inspired little confidence. William Walton thought he had found an American millionaire, but he too proved a will-o’-the-wisp. Sam Spiegel appeared to be more promising and the National Film Finance Corporation promised a loan of £65,000. Lord Wemyss agreed to let the film be shot on his estate at Gosford in East Lothian.3 Olivier got as far as commissioning Walton to compose the music. At one point confidence was so high that a bottle of champagne was opened and a toast drunk to the new enterprise. And then came closure. “Macbeth” had been “indefinitely postponed”, Olivier told Walton. “We went on and on until things got to a point at which … the building would have had to have started in Scotland on the following Monday, and we could no longer continue without the money.” It was one of the most bitter disappointments of his life. “Don’t worry, I’m not too discouraged,” he told Tarquin. There was still a faint hope, but “even if it does come off, the recent peddling has tired my spirits and dulled my enthusiasm”. More than most people, Roger Furse knew how much Olivier had invested in the enterprise; financially but, more, emotionally. It must have been a terrible strain on his nerves and a grievous disappointment at the end: “But you’re a great boy at taking it and the reward for your courage and patience will be great.” If he meant that the film might still one day be made, he deluded himself. Olivier’s film of “Macbeth” was lost for ever. Not merely was posterity robbed of a permanent record of one of his finest performances, but another question had never been resolved. Was Gielgud right when he speculated that Vivien Leigh’s Lady Macbeth would have been stronger and a better complement to her husband if she had played it on the screen? If so, the film would have been memorable indeed.4
L.O.P. was not short of other projects. “There have been some changes in the set-up of my Company, for financial reasons, and I am not quite the little autocrat that I was,” Olivier told Michel Saint-Denis, when regretting he could not offer to bring the French company to London. It was a convenient excuse, but in fact the members of the Board – Bushell, Furse and Korda – were either not closely enough involved or too much in awe of Olivier to prevent him doing anything on which he had set his heart. This did not mean, though, that his liberty was unrestricted. He wrote to T. S. Eliot, asking if he had a new play coming up which might be suitable for him. He was “gratified and flattered”, Eliot replied. Unfortunately, he was committed to Henry Sherek as producer, but if Olivier wanted to play “a leading part (the leading part) I should like nothing better”. He was finding it hard to finish the play he was working on (presumably “The Elder Statesman”) and it would be a year or more before it was likely to be ready. By then Olivier was engaged elsewhere. He did not miss much: Lord Claverton was a bleak part and when the play reached London it quickly closed. Another aborted project was a film of Graham Greene’s The Quiet American. Olivier admired the book, but he was nervous of it “because I would never wish to be thought anti-American”. Joe Mankiewicz, the director, assured him that he had no intention of putting “a Coca-Cola swilling, crew-cut, Mom-loving, dollar-waving Yankee on the screen”. In fact, his script did the opposite and ended up with a bland hero-cum-villain who, Greene thought, betrayed the message of the book. Olivier was still doubtful, however; if he did make the film, he insisted, there must be no changes made to the agreed script: “I’m not a difficult person, you understand, but a teensy bit too old to have my pants removed with becomingly boyish submission.” In the end he read Mankiewicz’s outline, disliked it and turned it down.5
Another project which at once attracted and repelled Olivier was a film of Nabokov’s brilliantly written story of the girl-child Lolita and her seduction by, or perhaps of, the middle-aged Humbert Humbert. In the end Olivier recoiled. “Having scrutinised the book curiously and intensely during the last week,” he told Stanley Kubrick, “I do not find my mind grasping a film conception of the subject … The chief merit of the book lies in the author’s brilliant, original and witty descriptive powers, and I can’t see how this particular virtue is photographable. I fear that, told in terms of dialogue, the subject would be reduced to the level of pornography.” It was a shrewd judgment and was proved right by the final film which, though not a disaster, was far from a success. A part of Olivier, though, still hankered after the challenge. Some years later, he was filming in Paris with Sarah Miles, his mistress at the time, when he heard that James Mason was to play Humbert Humbert. Miles noticed that he seemed disappointed and asked whether
he wished he were doing it himself. “I suppose so,” Olivier confessed. “But I’d sooner live it,” he added as an afterthought. “He gave me a sleepy look. ‘I never ever dreamt that I’d be tempted by anyone so young.’”6
One venture that did come off was the filming for television of Ibsen’s “John Gabriel Borkman”. Until then Olivier had dismissed television with lofty scorn. He didn’t want to appear “in a medium where squiggly lines appeared across the screen every time a car went past”. Television, he pronounced, was “intellectually unrespectable as well as technically primitive”. But recently, both intellectually and technically, things had got better. Olivier was still not ready to accept the new medium as being the equal of theatre or cinema, but provided the money and the producer were right he would give it a go. His agreement to play in “John Gabriel Borkman”, wrote Michael Meyer, “was a great turning point for television in Britain. At a stroke it made it respectable.” He was far from satisfied with his own performance, though; believing, in particular, that he had made a mess of the great final scene on the mountain. So strongly did he feel about it that he refused to allow the recording to be shown in America: “which was bad luck for the rest of us,” Meyer wistfully observed.7
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