by Colin Clark
At about the same time my father, Kenneth Clark, had been made controller of home publicity at the Ministry of Information. This meant that he was responsible for extricating British actors and actresses from the armed forces so that they could work in patriotic films. He made frequent visits to the studios around London to see how they were getting on, and I persuaded him to let me come too. His principal ally was Alexander Korda, who was the most powerful British producer at the time, and whom my father had persuaded to join in the ‘war effort’. Through him my father and mother met all the stars of the film world. Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh became their close friends, and William Walton, who was composing the music for Olivier’s Henry V, was made my godfather to replace the original one who had been killed by a bomb. Another Hungarian producer, Gabriel Pascal, had managed to persuade George Bernard Shaw to let him have the film rights to all his plays. He came to our house in Hampstead with a beautiful young American actress called Irene Worth, and promised to buy me a pair of white peacocks if I would act for him, offering me the part of Ptolemy in his production of Shaw’s Caesar and Cleopatra (with Vivien Leigh). My parents said no, but I was not the least bit disappointed: I knew that I could never be an actor, and I also knew that those white peacocks were as much a product of Pascal’s imagination as Caesar and Cleopatra was of Shaw’s.
I had become completely fascinated by the concept of a fictional idea being made into a real film, which is in itself an illusion. It is a fascination which I have never lost. At the age of twelve I explained this to my father, and told him of my determination to be a film director. My only worry was that all the directors I had met were fat and ugly. To my surprise he took me seriously. Although he was involved in all the performing arts – opera, ballet and theatre as well as film – his main love was painting. He pointed out that painting contains the same elements of illusion and reality as film, and that Michael Powell and David Lean were both successful directors, and they were thin.
From then on, a visit to a film set was like a dream fulfilled. I saw Noël Coward in a tank of oily black water making In Which We Serve; I saw Vivien Leigh being carried on a very wobbly litter in front of a plaster Sphinx on the set of Caesar and Cleopatra; I saw her again in Anna Karenina – she had offered me the role of her son, again refused; and many more. I was not in love with the magic of film the way many children are with theatre or ballet: I was in love with the way in which that magic was made.
When I got to Eton in 1946 it became clear that I had chosen a pretty eccentric path. ‘Art’ did not then have the respectable connotations that it does today. My family, though wealthy enough, was as far from the typical ‘hunting, shooting and fishing’ set as it was possible to be. None of my more conventional contemporaries had ever heard of an art historian, and I was forced to describe my father as a professor (he had been Slade Professor of Fine Art at Oxford). My friends could not understand me at all – many still can’t – and as if to underline the difference between us, I chose to be a pilot in the RAF during my National Service rather than to go into the Guards, and then to get a job as a keeper at London Zoo rather than work in a merchant bank.
In the summer of 1952, while on vacation from Oxford, I went on a motoring tour of Europe and found myself stranded in a little palace in the mountains of north Portugal. It belonged to an Englishman called Peter Pitt-Millward, and apart from his occasional guests, I had no one else with whom to converse for over two months. To make things worse, I fell passionately in love with someone who could speak nothing but Portuguese. I could not even confide in Peter about this as he was also in love – with the same person. So I started to keep a daily journal in which I could explore my emotions, and my loneliness. This feeling of isolation persisted throughout the remainder of my time at university.
By the time I got the job on The Prince and the Showgirl in 1956, my diary had become a firm friend. However tired I was, I could not sleep before I had written down some of the things that had happened during the day, and confided some of the opinions that I had not dared to express to anyone, scribbling away in an old ledger which I kept wrapped up in my pyjamas. I did not always get things right, and as I never expected anyone else to read what I had written, I had no need to be what we now call ‘politically correct’. Even so, in this published version of my diary for June to November 1956, I have cut very little out. I was a well-brought-up boy, and when you see ‘f — ’ in this book, it is because I wrote ‘f — ’ in my diary.
When the filming of The Prince and the Showgirl was over, it was many, many years before I dared to read my diary of that time again, just as it was many, many years before I could bring myself to see the film in a cinema. Even now I have trouble seeing past the pain and anxiety in Marilyn Monroe’s eyes.
This book is really all about Marilyn. For five months, whether she turned up or not, she dominated our every waking thought. I was the least important person in the whole studio, but I was in a wonderful position from which to observe. The Third Assistant Director is really a kind of superior messenger boy. I got to meet everyone and go everywhere, unencumbered by responsibilities which might tie me down, or narrow my viewpoint. No one can feel threatened by a 3rd Ast Dir (except perhaps the ‘extras’, who he has to keep under control), and most of the people involved in making the film felt they could be more open with me than with a possible rival. When the filming was completed I was almost the only person who was still on speaking terms with everyone else. That alone probably makes this diary unique.
The Prince and the Showgirl
CAST LIST
ELSIE MARINA Marilyn Monroe
THE REGENT OF CARPATHIA Laurence Olivier
THE QUEEN DOWAGER Sybil Thorndike
MR NORTHBROOK Richard Wattis
THE KING OF CARPATHIA Jeremy Spenser
MAJOR DOMO Paul Hardwick
MAISIE SPRINGFIELD Jean Kent
LADY SUNNINGDALE Maxine Audley
FANNY Daphne Anderson
BETTY Vera Day
MAGGIE Gillian Owen
FOREIGN OFFICE MINISTER David Horne
THEATRE DRESSER Gladys Henson
HOFFMAN Esmond Knight
LADIES-IN-WAITING Rosamund Greenwood
Margot Lister
VALETS Dennis Edwards
Andrea Melandrinos
PRODUCTION CREW
PRODUCER AND DIRECTOR Laurence Olivier
EXECUTIVE IN CHARGE OF PRODUCTION Hugh Perceval
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER Milton Greene
ASSOCIATE DIRECTOR Anthony Bushell
FIRST ASSISTANT DIRECTOR David Orton
DIRECTOR OF PHOTOGRAPHY Jack Cardiff
PRODUCTION DESIGNER Roger Furse
PRODUCTION MANAGER Teddy Joseph
ART DIRECTION Carmen Dillon
EDITOR Jack Harris
CONTINUITY Elaine Schreyck
CAMERA OPERATOR Denys Coop
SOUND RECORDISTS John Mitchell
Gordon McCallum
LADIES’ COSTUMES Beatrice Dawson
MAKE-UP Toni Sforzini
HAIRDRESSING Gordon Bond
SET DRESSER Dario Simoni
SCREENPLAY Terence Rattigan
MUSIC COMPOSED BY Richard Addinsell
DANCES ARRANGED BY William Chappell
THE DIARIES
SUNDAY, 3 JUNE 1956
Now that University is behind me, I’m going to get a job – a real job on a real film. At 9 a.m. tomorrow I will be at Laurence Olivier’s film company to offer my services on his next production. The papers say it will star Marilyn Monroe, so it should be exciting.
Two weeks ago, Larry and Vivien came down to stay at Saltwood3 for the weekend. Mama told Vivien that I wanted to be a film director. I was mortified, but Vivien just gave a great purr and said ‘Larry will give Colin a job, won’t you Larry darling!’ I could see Larry groan under his breath. ‘Go and see Hugh Perceval at 146 Piccadilly,’ he said. ‘He might have something.’
So t
hat is where I have an appointment in the morning. And every night I am going to write this diary. It could be fun to look back on, when I am old and famous!
MONDAY, 4 JUNE
This is going to be really hard. I know absolutely nothing about making films. I’m totally ignorant. Did I really think they were actually shooting a film in Piccadilly?
At 10 a.m. I turned up at the office of Laurence Olivier Productions, punctual and sober.
The offices themselves are very few. A large luxurious reception area with sofas, a secretary’s office at the far end, and Mr Perceval’s office leading off that. It is clearly the ground floor of what was once a private house. The secretary, friendly but detached – would I wait. Mr Perceval was on the phone. Soon I was ushered in, anxious now. There didn’t seem to be enough going on. Mr P is a tall, thin, gloomy man with black-rim spectacles. His sparse black hair is brushed back and he has a black moustache. He puffs a pipe continually.
‘Yes. What do you want?’ (No introductions whatever.)
‘I want a job on the Marilyn Monroe film.’
‘Oh, ho, you do? What as?’
‘Anything.’
I suppose he could see that I was a complete fool and he softened a little.
‘Well. We don’t start filming for eight weeks. You really should come back then. At the moment we have no more offices than you can see here, and no jobs. I only have my chauffeur and my secretary. I am afraid I misunderstood Laurence. I thought you were coming to interview me about the film.’
Blind panic set in. I must say something.
‘Can I wait here until there is a job?’
‘For eight weeks??’
‘In the waiting room – in case something comes up?’
‘Grmph.’ Very gloomy, and bored now. ‘It’s a free country, I suppose. But I’m telling you, it’s going to be eight weeks. And then I can’t promise anything.’
Gets up and opens door.
‘Good day.’
I went out and sat down on one of the sofas in the waiting room. The secretary gave me a very cold look. She’s quite pretty, but is certainly not flirtatious.
I just didn’t know what to do. I had expected huge offices, even studios, lots of work going on – willing hands needed in every department, and a bit like the London Zoo when I turned up there and asked for a job as a keeper in ’53 (and got one!4).
So I just sat and waited.
At lunchtime I was saved by a friendly face. Gilman, Larry and Vivien’s chauffeur came in, brash and cockney as ever.
‘’Ullo Colin. What you doin’ ’ere?’
I explained.
‘Hmm. There’s no work here. I’ve got to get his nibs’ lunch. Come and have a drink in the pub.’
I went gratefully (but only ½ of bitter). Gilman told me what was going on. He was on loan to Perceval. Every morning he did errands, for Perceval or for Larry, and then came back here to get Perceval’s lunch. This never varied: two cheese rolls and a Guinness.
‘You won’t get work from him, Colin. Miserable bugger.’
‘Well, I’ve got nothing else in the world to do but wait, so I might as well wait.’
‘OK. Good luck. We can always have a pint together at lunchtime.’
We went back with Mr P’s sandwiches and drink and Gilman sped off in the Bentley. I waited until 6 p.m., when they all packed up and left.
‘Night all,’ said Mr P gloomily, without a glance at me. I had a large brandy and water in the pub. I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.
TUESDAY, 5 JUNE
I was there at 8.30. The secretary arrived at 8.55. Mr P punctually at nine. He just gave me a grim stare as he came in. Then he gets on the phone and stays there most of the day. He never smiles and he never raises his voice. The secretary gets the calls for him and then taps away at the typewriter. She is polite but not friendly. She treats me like a client. I wonder if she knows that ‘M and D’5 are friends of Larry and Vivien?
She went to lunch at 12.30 with her handbag and gloves. Gilman arrived at 12.45. Then we went to the pub, and got back with Mr P’s lunch at 1.15. I wonder if this is a regular situation. Maybe I can make something out of it. Mr P grumbles at the delay but Gilman is irrepressible.
Vivien had told me why she had hired Gilman. He was a relief driver, sent along when their old chauffeur was ill. On the first day, as he drove her and Larry down Bond Street, he suddenly slammed on the brakes. ‘Cor. Look, what a lovely waistcoat!’ he cried, pointing to a very exclusive man’s-shop window. Vivien adores that sort of unspoilt character and hired him on the spot. Needless to say he now worships both of them, and is fanatically loyal. He is a Barnardo boy and very tough, so Larry probably thinks he is a good bodyguard for Vivien too. He certainly is a good pal to me and saves my life when he appears.
I get a bit nervous in my role as the invisible man. But I was more relaxed there today, and so was the secretary.
Now I’ve got to use my head.
WEDNESDAY, 6 JUNE
Yes. There is a pattern, and it should be possible to exploit it.
I am completely ignored all morning, but as there is no door between the waiting room and the secretary’s office, I hear quite a lot. Also, she often leaves Mr P’s door open when she is in there with him.
Today I didn’t go to the pub with Gillers. I just gave him a wink which he picked up immediately. This meant Mr P was alone for 45 minutes. During this time, he keeps on working and the phones keep ringing.
He has three lines. I just ignored them, but after five minutes he opened his door and glared at the empty secretary’s desk. Then he slammed his door shut again. Two minutes of phone ringing later, he opened it again and glared some more, this time at me.
‘You still here? Well you might as well answer the phone. Don’t think you’ve got a job, though. There’s no chance of that at all.’
He slammed out.
Phone rings. Mr P answers. Next phone rings.
‘Hello. Is that Laurence Olivier Productions?’
‘Yes. Can I help you.’
‘Is Sir Laurence there?’
‘No, I’m afraid he’s in America until the end of the week.’
‘Oh. Thank you. I’ll ring next week.’
‘Any message?’
‘No thank you.’
Click. Mr P’s door opens.
‘How did you know that Sir Laurence is in America until the end of the week?’
‘I heard him tell my mother.’
‘Hmph. Why didn’t you put the call through to me?’ (There is a buzzer on each phone.)
‘There didn’t seem to be a need to bother you. But if you want every single call . . .’
‘Hmph.’
Door slams again. Phone rings.
‘Laurence Olivier Productions.’ I’m chirpy now!
‘Is Mr Perceval there?’
‘Certainly. Whom shall I say is calling?’
‘The Daily Mirror.’
‘Hold on please.’ Click. Bzzz. ‘Yes?’
‘The Daily Mirror for you.’
‘Hmph.’
I put through about eight calls, and I was beginning to enjoy it when the secretary (Vanessa) came back at 1.30. She didn’t look very happy at first, but I had left her a note of all calls and messages, so she began to smile again.
Finally Gillers returned with Mr P’s rolls and Guinness. He was 20 minutes late and he gave me another terrific wink, which I was frightened that Mr P saw, but he gave no sign.
I had hoped to go back to the pub for my lunch with Gillers, but Mr P sent him straight down to Notley.6 So I had to go alone. I had a large pink gin with my sandwich, and sure enough no one addressed a word to me all afternoon.
But it doesn’t matter. At least I have a role to play from 12.30 to 1.30. I must make the most of it.
FRIDAY, 8 JUNE
By now Mr P takes it for granted that I am on duty at lunchtime. Only one week here and already I am part of the furniture.
Being e
fficient is the easy part. Suppressing one’s ego completely for hours at a time is really hard. Gilman phoned in to say he was staying with Vivien all day, and what Vivien wants, Vivien gets; no question of that.
I went round to the pub and got two cheese rolls and a Guinness before Vanessa left at 12.30. Then at 12.45 I walked silently into Mr P’s office and put it on his desk. Mr P was on the phone – a long-distance call to America (he must have got someone out of bed). He puffed at his pipe and gave me a mournful stare over the top of his hornrim glasses. I think he realises I’m going to win in the end! I crept out and shut the door without a word from either of us.
When Vanessa came back, I left. ‘See you Monday,’ I said. ‘8.30 sharp.’ She just laughed, but in a friendly way. I’ll bet she reports every word I say to Mr P. At the same time, her private life is obviously more important to her than her job – unlike Mr P, or me for that matter. So she is really a non-combatant.
After lunch I got in the car and came down here to Saltwood for a break.
‘How is the new job?’ asked Mama.
‘Very good.’
‘Settling in nicely? It was kind of Larry to give it to you.’
But she is too shrewd to be convinced. Actually I don’t think she believes either of her sons can get a good job or ever will.
I told Celly7 the minimum. She is incredibly sympathetic as usual, but she leads such a busy life that I didn’t think I could quite explain my ‘wait eight weeks’ policy. It does sound a bit hopeless when looked at from down here, but I am committed to it.
MONDAY, 11 JUNE
I was surprised to find myself glad to be back at 146 Piccadilly at 8.30 this morning.
Vanessa turned up at 8.55 with another girl. Are there to be two secretaries from now on? Mr P has moved faster than I thought, hence the mournful stare. My heart went to my boots, but incredibly, at 12.30 they both went out together for lunch. By this time I had already rushed out to the pub and got Mr P’s two cheese rolls and Guinness. If Gilman had turned up I would have explained, but luckily he didn’t, so I was alone as usual. Vanessa and her companion regard me with complete indifference and don’t seem to be bothered by Mr P either. They chattered away all morning as if he hardly mattered, except for phone calls and typing. I think he is scared of them. When I took his lunch in at 12.45 he didn’t even look up. ‘War of nerves’. However, by 1 p.m. he needed help.