Always the Bad Guy

by Shane Briant

  Carroll Baker, Helmut Berger in Rome.

  Over the years I've returned to the stage ever less frequently. I have no idea why – it's not as though I am a totally hopeless stage actor. Maybe I just think I'm a better film actor. It's my preferred medium because it's more intimate, and you generally have the evenings free.

  In August of 1976 Peter Coe cast me in a play by American novelist and playwright Irwin Shaw called 'Lucy Crown.' The stars were Carroll 'Baby Doll' Baker and Roy Dotrice. Ralph Nossek and I were the support.

  Carroll Baker in 'Lucy Crown.'

  Ralph became a good friend – we both had Adza as an agent and we both loved her dearly.

  The novel was one of Shaw's first, but hardly his best work. A

  later novel 'Rich Man, Poor Man' was produced as a BBC television series and was a huge success, as was the book.

  The story of 'Lucy Crown' was of a wife and mother who has a dalliance with a nineteen-year-old college student while on holiday in a resort in Vermont. Aged thirty, I was cast as the teenager because I never looked my age. Maybe now?

  The critics found the play 'verbose and overlong.'

  The plan was to tour England, and then slip into the West End somewhere. Carroll was the Hollywood draw card, and Roy was very well known to theatre audiences in London.

  From the very start of rehearsals I felt extremely uncomfortable in the role. I was far too old to be playing a callow American teenager, and had no personal experience of the American college way of life to draw on. However, that was just too bad, I had to do my best until Peter Coe chose to fire me – which he once came close to doing! Only Carroll standing up for me saved my bacon.

  Peter and I didn't get along at all well. Possibly because he realized I had been grossly miscast. He had a habit, during plotting, of placing my character in very unusual positions on stage. For instance, during one scene I was asked to lie on my back holding a chair above me. During these rehearsals, Peter would sit in the gods and shout down to me. "Can't hear! Can't hear!"

  I know my voice then wasn't the strongest, but I had no problem with projection at the Apollo during 'Children of the Wolf,' so this chant soon began to irritate me, and I am afraid I let that show.

  As I recall, we opened at the Billingham forum close to Stockton-on-Tees. It's a chemical town, once the home of ICI, and I found it rather grim. Carroll, Peter and Roy were housed in a nice pub, while the rest of us were farmed out to a ghastly building run by the council that had rooms to let. As a consequence I made enemies with bed bugs the first night, and had to grin and bear the appalling itching on stage every night for a week until we returned to London and I saw my doctor.

  My mother had an answer for these establishments. When she was an actress on the road with a play, if her lodgings were 'horrid' and the people 'not nice,' she'd buy a fresh herring and nail it to the underside of the bed when she left.

  Carole and I became close friends. Ralph Nossek was also a great pal. We played The Theatre Royal Bath, a very lovely theatre, then played the Richmond Theatre in Surrey, which just happened to be where I grew up, so that was a thrill. Even better was the thought that my mother had played this very theatre with her name above the title in a thriller by the name of 'Death on the Table.'

  Incidentally, my mother played the Lyric and Criterion Theatres too, as well at the Apollo. So in the 'West End Stakes' she's two up on me. Of course, hopefully I 'm not finished yet!

  Finally we arrived at the Theatre Royal Brighton, which was to be our final halt before producers found a suitable West End theatre to move into.

  During the run, Roy Dotrice would often play jokes on me on stage. If I were upstage of him, he would turn to me and make a face, trying to make me corpse. It was often difficult not to, as his 'faces' were very funny. There was no harm to it, but I have to say I didn't think that these gags added much to the performance. Otherwise, he was a consummate pro and a very gifted actor. On other occasions he would enjoy teasing me. For instance, before our third performance in Brighton, he popped his head around the door of my dressing room and said, "You want to know who's front of house this evening?" As I hate knowing who's out there, I begged him not to tell me. He nodded. "Okay. Fair enough." He then left, then reopened the door. "Olivier! Want to know where he's sitting?" "NO!" I almost screamed. "Okay, fair enough," he replied, pretended to leave then said: "Second row stage right!" When I walked on stage, to speak my first cheery nineteen-year-old line (a real dog; 'Hi there! I'm Jeff Bunner!') I was acutely aware that Lord Olivier was just a few feet away, most likely heaving a sigh.

  His chair was vacant after the interval.

  Along the way, most actors do work they are not proud of, and this was definitely one of them. The lukewarm reviews persuaded the producers to forget about a London run, so that was that.

  Carroll had been anticipating at least six months in London, so she had to change her plans radically, deciding to return to Rome where she had an apartment and had been living for some years.

  One evening over a drink she suggested I should give Rome a try – it'd be a whole new experience, and she told me she knew everyone there and would be happy to introduce me.

  This sounded like an amazingly generous offer – one I would be foolish to turn down, so I accepted her offer and within a few weeks I was in Rome meeting agents, casting people, and producers.

  Almost immediately, I had secured an Italian agent, a short, swarthy, impeccably dressed man by the name of Vittorio Squillante. Let me say this; I'm sure there are several Vittorio Squillantes in Italy – probably all in the film business. I know that my agent then had that name, but on close research I see that a Vittorio Squillante was later the executive producer of one of my favourite films, 'King of New York,' with Christopher Walken. Don't want to upset a man of such calibre, eh?

  Within a few weeks I had a meeting with a director, whose name eludes me now, the upshot of which was that I was cast in a leading role in this film that had not yet achieved all its funding. During the following seven months that I spent in Rome I met with this director about once every ten days and on each occasion he assured me "Two more weeks! Justa two more weeks. Then we begin! For sure!" It never happened, and I never made it in Cinecita. A shame. But I had a great holiday. Carroll offered me a room in her huge apartment and it was like being on a very long holiday.

  Living in Rome wasn't as expensive as I'd imagined. If you knew the right restaurants it was as cheap as chips.

  One of Carroll's favourites was predictably called Mario's – a very small place that served the most perfect hot creamy chilli penne. The owner was always trying to get me to order 'un buon filleto' because it cost more, but I always stuck to the pasta – it was divine.

  In the evening, quite often Carroll would be asked to join friends in bars, restaurants and nightclubs as she was very much a part of the Roman party scene. The most popular spot was of course the famous 'Jackie O.' It was always packed with showbiz people, a lot of whom wondered how close Carroll and I were. Well, these were showbiz people – they adore a gossip! And many had crushes on Carroll, such as famous pop star, 'Little Tony.' There was no future in telling them we were just good friends, we had to bear a lot of teasing asides.

  On one night, I was dancing with a girl and I was spun around

  let me go for several seconds. Whoa! He then introduced himself as Helmut Berger. He'd also done a version of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' in 1970, so we were kindred spirits. He was a real party animal.

  Carroll sitting next to 'Little Tony' at Mario's in Rome.

  On another occasion Carroll and I were in 'Jackie O' and 'Little Tony' was thinking of finally making a move on Carroll. But he still was convinced we were an item. So he made a phone call and twenty minutes later a lovely girl was seating herself at my elbow asking me to come to her place. Clearly, the singer had given this young lady an incentive to get me out of there.

  One of Carroll's closest pals was a costume designer. He wa
s short, rotund and very jolly. He was also very gay.

  He told me this wonderful story – I'll give you the gist of it, exactly as I remember it. At the time a producer friend of his called Tinto Brassi was about to shoot a film called 'Caligula.'

  "So…I get zis call from Tinto. He say…'you wanna be in miya film?' I say 'Tinto! Of course, I would lika to design youra film.' Then he say, 'No, not design my movie. Act! I want you to act!' I say, "But Tinto. I am not actor. What you want me to do?' He then say, 'In the

  film John Gielgud look through a hole in the wall. I want to film a scene – eet is what he is supposed to see. An orgy!' So I say to Tinto, 'Okay…so whata I do? Be naked?' And he reply. 'I want you to be ---- by a mule.'"

  The costume designer was shocked to the core. Was Tinto serious? Or was it another of his bad jokes? I like to believe this was Tinto's idea of a joke.

  I never saw the film but I believe there was an orgy scene in one of the director's cuts, one that Sir John was supposed to see through a hole in the wall.

  During those months in Rome, Wendy came to visit me. She brought with her our great friend Rupert Byng. Each time we traveled on Rome's buses, we played 'The Bus Game.'

  Bus driver's in Rome think they are Fangio reincarnated and have a habit of not only driving far too fast with no regard to their passengers, but like to swing the buses into each turn and jack-knife them out. So, the game is as follows. The players have to stand, not sit. They can't hold onto anything – that's immediate disqualification! It's a kind of 'Interior Bus Surfing,' and a lot of fun. Try it on any bus – it's not as easy as you think! Another thing Rupert enjoyed doing was attaching an ice-cream to a helium balloon, biting off the bottom of the cone and allowing it to drift over St. Peters Square and study the drips. Or was it a 'stronzo'?

  TV movies

  'THE FLAME IS LOVE,' LIMOS, & BEDS IN IRELAND.

  In the winter of 1977 I was fortunate enough to be cast in a wonderful BBC 'Play of the Month.' It was an adaptation of Georg Büchner's 'Danton's Death.'

  Yet again I was surrounded by the cream of Britain's finest thespians. Norman Rodway played Danton, and Ian Richardson was Robespierre. Ian had that signature clipped way of speaking, similar to Peter Cushing. Don Henderson was Mercier. All have now

  passed away.

  I was fascinated by Rodway and Richardson's voices, as well as Richardson's way of staring at people to make them feel uncomfortable. Always in character of course. But he was the master of what I call the 1-2-3; the pause, the look, then the dialogue. Each one had a long beat in between.

  A young Michael Pennington played Saint-Just. Even then he was a theatre star, and his work impressed me enormously.

  Soon after, I was cast in a play for Yorkshire television called 'The File on Harry Jordan.' Directed by Gerry Mill it also starred Bernard Gallagher and Georgina Cookson.

  I thought it a very original 'Play of the Week', about a young man with endless ambition who is determined to get to the top – whatever the cost. Once his promotion is announced, he enters the lift and ascends to the top floor. In a huge office that occupies the entire floor, he speaks to the outgoing CEO, a man who looks incredibly tired and depressed, yet welcomes Jordan to the top job. He then shares one secret with him. The CEO is never allowed to leave the 13t h floor. He lives there all his life until replaced. Horrified, Jordan tries to leave but he's locked in. At that moment the retiring CEO leaps out of the window – the only option to leave.

  In the spring of 1978 I was cast in what was to be the pilot for a series of all Barbara Cartland's romantic novels; 'The Flame is Love.'

  My character, an English aristocrat, goes to live in late nineteenth century Paris, joining the 'Symboliste' movement. He falls in love with an American heiress who is there on holiday, and ultimately has to battle a satanic movement bent on sacrificing the girl he's fallen in love with.

  The script was written by Hindi Brooks, based on Barbara Cartland's novella. Michael O'Herlighy directed, and the iconic Ed Friendly produced. Ed was a man who seemed to have met everyone from Gloria Swanson to Douglas Fairbanks Snr. This time, incredibly, I was the good guy! That role was handed to Timothy Dalton. The heroine was Linda Purl. The legendary Joan Greenwood ('Kind Hearts and Coronets') was to play 'The Duchess of Grantham.'

  It was the first time I had been cast as a squeaky clean,

  delightfully normal Englishman, and I knew I'd have to struggle mightily with this paradigm − bad guys are not only more fun, but easier to play. Good guys are normally rather dull because they don't have the inventiveness to be devilish.

  The film was shot in and around Dublin, Ireland. This was a delight for me, as I couldn't wait to get back to the country that had been so good to me.

  With producer Ed Friendly on the set of "The Flame is Love."

  I flew back to Dublin, hoping everyone would be pleased that I'd made a modest name for myself and was about to star in another American television movie. I was to be a little disappointed with the reaction of the locals.

  Even my old friend Bob Collins was less than thrilled when we met at our hotel. I found this sad, since for four years at Trinity we'd been as close as brothers. Maybe I am misremembering.

  When an American show comes to Ireland, word gets around like wildfire, and every Irish actor wants a part of it. It was no different with 'The Flame.' All the usual suspects were cast, and then some more. My fiends on the Dublin theatre scene snaffled some great cameos – Godfrey Quigley, Jim Fizgerald, Maureen Toal, Meryl Gourley, Paeder Lamb, John Malloy, Ann O'Dwyer, and Eddie Golden amongst many others.

  With the very kissable Linda Purl in Barbara Cartland's 'The Flame is Love.' CBS.

  Our hotel was in Killiney, a small village a few miles south of Dublin. A very picturesque village right on the water. I'd had a wonderful working holiday, struggling a bit with my role because 'Pierre Valmont' being so desperately decent and ordinary. Michael O'Herlihy is a joyous man to work with – a consummate professional, and very much at home in Ireland. Linda Purl was a sweetheart and perfect for her role as the innocent American heiress 'Emmaline Nevada Holz.' Each day I'd be picked up from my hotel in a beautiful white shiny Mercedes and driven to the set by an elegant chauffeur. A great day's shoot and a beautifully catered lunch later, I was driven back to my hotel to dine.

  This was to change with the arrival of Tim who didn't arrive

  until late one evening after we'd completed a week of filming and joined Linda and I for dinner. I found him very affable, amusing and friendly. He had some great stories and enjoyed telling them. Tim was an extremely likeable man.

  That evening, after dinner, as we made our way to our rooms, Tim asked if he could take a look at mine. I replied, "Of course, but as far as I know, all the suites are the same."

  I don't think Tim was convinced.

  He looked into my room. "Hmmm. Interesting. Your bed is much bigger than mine," he observed sagely. "Really?" I replied. I couldn't see any difference. "Really. Take a look at my bed," he said, crossing the corridor and opening his door. The room was exactly the same as mine, but his bedspread was blue while mine was cream coloured. "Looks the same as mine," I said. He didn't reply – he simply muttered something indiscernible.

  The following morning I was called late to set, so I had a leisurely breakfast, eventually walking outside at the appointed hour to climb into my dazzling white Mercedes. But instead of my lovely chauffeur driven limo, I was greeted with a ten-year-old weather-beaten Ford Torana. The driver was engrossed in a novel, chain-smoking. The ashtray was brimming with butts. I knocked on the window, unsure whether this was my lift to the set. The elderly man, who looked as though he'd just milked a dozen cows, climbed out and said hello.

  "I'm Shane. Are you taking me to set," I asked.

  "Royt!" was the reply. "Hop in."

  I enquired where Alex and his Mercedes were that morning.

  "Royt! Thaz Mister Dalton's car, sir. You only had it 'cos he was away." />