Earlier in the year, Elizabeth had received an Oscar nomination for Best Actress for her work in Butterfield 8. She had already received three previous consecutive nominations, but had lost each time. However, she had garnered such worldwide sympathy in recent months that winning the prized statuette her fourth time at bat seemed a foregone conclusion. At the awards show, held at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium on April 17, Yul Brynner, as the previous year’s Best Actor Oscar winner, had the happy task of announcing that, indeed, Elizabeth had won the Academy Award. Finally, at long last, her Oscar wait had ended. What a victory for her and her mother, Sara, who was in the audience with Francis. When Elizabeth’s name was called out as the winner, she appeared genuinely stunned. The applause was thunderous. Eddie helped her to her feet and escorted her to the top of the stairs leading to the stage. After kissing Eddie, Elizabeth, resplendent in a white Dior gown, her tracheotomy scar clearly visible, made her way unsteadily to the podium as the audience of twenty-five hundred rose as one, roaring its approval in a boisterous ovation. Once there, she stood shaking as the demonstration continued. Despite all that had happened to her in her life—and all she had done to provoke the public’s confusion and even its scorn—she was still very much the beloved icon, that much was clear. Indeed, she was one of the world’s greatest stars, and though the price of such acclaim had been dear, this truly was her shining moment. Finally, 162
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in a soft, whispery voice, she said that she didn’t know how to express her gratitude, except to say, “Thank you. Thank you with all of my heart.” She then turned, walked shakily across the wing and to the backstage ladies’ room—and fainted.
Marianne Lincoln watched the awards presentation on television. “I was so excited for her,” she recalled. “Of course, everyone was, but . . . dare I ask? No one ever has, in all of these years, at least not publicly: Why, oh, why could she not have at least thanked her devoted mother? That was what immediately came to my mind. Of course, she was weak and disoriented, that was clear, and it was what Francis would say when I asked him about it. But can you imagine the joy Sara would have felt in that moment if Elizabeth had just acknowledged her, in some way? I so longed for that moment for Sara. I think everyone did, but it didn’t happen.
‘Yes, it would have been nice,’ Francis told me. ‘But don’t worry about Sara. She’s okay. She’s just glad Elizabeth is still with us.’ It was a joyous time just the same.”
Elizabeth wasn’t so naïve as to think that her Oscar win was purely because of her work in Butterfield 8. She firmly believed that a major reason for it was that the Academy felt sorry for her for all she’d been through with the near-death experience in London. Calling this one “a sympathy award,” she felt that her work in the previous three movies had been much more deserving of such Academy recognition. “It was all clear to me,” she would recall. “I knew it wasn’t my acting, but rather my life, which won me the award.” However, she was grateful for the acknowledgment just the same, and heartened by such an important validation of her talent. Debbie Reynolds would later remark, “Hell, even I voted for her!”
Indeed, Elizabeth Taylor had survived, but, even more, she had thrived. Her great achievement at this difficult time in her life brings to mind a scene from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. In it, Elizabeth, as Maggie, tells Brick, played by Paul Newman, “Oh, I’m more determined than you think. I’ll win all right.”
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“Win what?” he asks. “What is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?”
She fixes him with a soulful yet defiant look, and answers, “Just stayin’ on it, I guess. Long as she can.”
Cleopatra Begins Filming
I t was September 25, 1961, the first day of principal photography on the newly revamped production of Cleopatra at Cinecitta Studios outside Rome. This day had certainly been a long time coming, with so many writers, directors, and producers having careened in and out of the project with such rapidity that it had become difficult for industry trade publications to keep track of all of the players. By this time, Peter Finch, whom Elizabeth had personally selected, the two having starred together in Elephant Walk, was out of the cast as Caesar, replaced by Rex Harrison. Stephen Boyd was also replaced as Mark Antony by Richard Burton. (Both Finch and Boyd left the production to fulfill other commitments.) A big problem, though, was that the script remained unfinished. Four-time Oscar winner Joseph Mankiewicz had by this time replaced Rouben Mamoulian as director. Mankiewicz—who was being paid more money ($600,000) than any director in history—
had done what he could to rewrite the script on his own, but now he and a team of writers would be forced to do the best they could with what they had, scripting the rest of the movie on the spot. (Mankiewicz had wanted Marlon Brando in the Richard Burton role, but Brando was still making Mutiny on the Bounty at the time.)
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in one of her movies, she had a way of making the smallest incidents of her life memorable. One can’t help but wish she’d always been followed by a camera crew, if only for posterity. Her entrance onto the set of Cleopatra on the first day of shooting is a good example of how this woman could take the routine and turn it into a moment. Wearing a full-length black mink coat, Elizabeth walked with purpose onto the busy set, fully aware that all eyes of cast and crew were riveted upon her. She was followed by a phalanx of functionaries: two hairdressers, two costume designers, a seamstress, secretary, assistant, maid, and, of course, a press agent. With her jet-black hair in an elaborate upswept style, her eyes heavily circled with black eyeliner, the rest of her makeup meticulously applied, she was most certainly ready for her close-up as monarch of the Nile. She walked past her costars, Rex Harrison and Richard Burton, without so much as a glance in their direction, though she must have known they were smiling at her, hoping to distract her for a few seconds of attention. She would soon have scenes with Rex, but it would be months before she would work with Richard. However, at this time, her attention was focused on her director, Joseph Mankiewicz, who was standing about fifteen feet away. She stood before him. Taking her in head to toe, he bowed. She extended her hand, palm down. “Are you ready, my Queen?” he asked. He took her hand and kissed it.
“I was born ready, dear sir,” she said. She then dropped her mink to the floor, where it fell behind her. Someone swooped it up and out of the way. Elizabeth took one step forward, a vision in gold brocade, sequins, and beads. For a few seconds, Joe appeared stunned. “My dear, you leave me breathless,” he told her.
“Of course I do,” she said.
Joseph Mankiewicz had directed Elizabeth to an Oscar nomination in Suddenly, Last Summer. She got along well with him, though he treated her with great deference, like most people in her life at this time. After many discussions about the movie over dinners with him and from reading so many script variations, Elizabeth believed that Cleopatra was a strong and ambitious role Her Destiny
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model for women, a worthwhile person to bring to life on the screen. She also felt that there were certain parallels between the Queen’s life and her own. For instance, as she would explain it, she felt that Mike Todd had been to her what Julius Caesar had been to Cleopatra. After Caesar’s death, Cleopatra was attracted to Mark Antony in much the same way, she felt, that she was drawn to Eddie Fisher after Todd’s death.
For the movie, the Roman forum site had been constructed at Cinecitta, while the Alexandria set, which would be utilized later, was built on a private beach at Anzio in southern Italy. At Cinecitta, Elizabeth’s dressing rooms were so large that they comprised an entire small building, which was soon dubbed “Casa Taylor.” Even Eddie had an office there, as well as dressing quarters. Elizabeth’s deal for the movie was a masterwork of negotiation on her and her agent’s part. It contained some of the most startling concessions given to an actress by a studio up to tha
t time. Of course, she was the biggest star in movies, it could be argued, and deserved whatever she asked for from the studio—her milliondollar fee was broken down into about $125,000 a week in salary, as well as other financial disbursements along the way. She also got $3,000 a week in living expenses, plus food and lodging, and first-class round-trip airline tickets to the movie’s locations for herself, three other adults, and her three children. She required two penthouse suites at the Dorchester in London, plus a RollsRoyce Silver Cloud limousine at her disposal at all times. Her contract said that the movie had to be made in Europe, not in the United States, for tax purposes. Elizabeth also demanded that it be shot in Todd-AO, rather than 20th Century-Fox’s own trademark widescreen process, CinemaScope, so that, as owner of that company—she had inherited it from Mike Todd—she would derive royalties from its use. (Expansive sets had to be built to fill this widescreen process, which accounted for a lot of the movie’s budget.) She actually also owned a third of Cleopatra through her own corporation, MCL, Inc. (the initials of her three children, Michael, Christopher, and Liza). She would also receive 10 percent 166
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of the film’s gross receipts. In the end, Elizabeth would make a fortune from this movie—more than $7 million, and in the early sixties that was a lot of money. Richard Burton put it best to historian Brad Geagley when he said, “Elizabeth taught me how to squeeze the studio executives by the balls.”
“The studio was always on me about the money being spent,”
recalled Joseph Mankiewicz. “But Elizabeth’s lifestyle was extravagant; she had to have the best of everything—the best linens, the best wines, the best champagnes . . . there were maids and butlers and other servants, which the studio was paying for. She had a villa she was living in with Eddie [called Villa Papa] which had fifteen rooms, a heated swimming pool, and a tennis court—all of which the studio paid for. It was a walled estate on about eight acres, seven miles from Rome and some fifteen minutes from the studio. There were dogs and cats and rabbits, kids living there, secretaries and publicists. Two of the kids were in school. [Michael and Chris were in the fourth and second grades, at the American Day School in Rome; Liza, three, was not yet in school.] It was a mad scene to go there and see her and Eddie.”
Actor and producer Chris Mankiewicz, Joseph’s son, celebrated his twenty-first birthday on the set of Cleopatra, working on the film as an assistant director. Part of his job was to hustle the actors around and get them to the set on time. “I was principally one of those people, being the son of the director of the movie as well, who was charged with dealing with Elizabeth if there was something very unpleasant or something that people were afraid they would not be able to get her to do. But there’d be no hiding the fact that it was a very tough experience in the sense that people were very . . . well, you know, she was just resented by almost everybody.
“Most European movies are shot under French hours, which is, they shoot from twelve o’clock in the afternoon until eight o’clock at night, without stopping. They have food available on the set but they don’t have any breaks for lunch. The result is that they work straight through, and then they can take their makeup Her Destiny
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off, have a pleasant evening, and sleep fairly late the next morning. The difference is that we had some actors, mainly Elizabeth and her friends, who bucked that system and would go off in the middle of the hot day for lunch and a bottle of wine. All of a sudden they had to deal with actors coming back to the set after lunch and acting a little tipsy. It affected the rhythm and ability to work quickly.
“When she didn’t show up for work, they’d send me to fetch her. They figured I had an advantage with her that others didn’t have, given my relationship with the director. I was a kid and she was a star, so I tried to be as pleasant as possible. I have to say my relationship with her was excellent. She was infallibly polite. I would say, ‘Elizabeth, please, they’re waiting for you.’ She would say, ‘Thank you, Chris,’ and then she would show up . . . usually. In truth, despite my best efforts, hundreds of hours were spent waiting for her. We joked that the movie should have been called Waiting for Elizabeth. But still, she was a fabulous star and when she gave you that smile . . . wow. Remember, she was at the height of her power. She was the most powerful woman in movies, the first actor—male or female—to get a million dollars. She had the studios kneeling in front of her and could do virtually anything she wanted. She was impervious to any kind of discipline, and completely enjoying it.”
After greeting director Joseph Mankiewicz on that first day of filming, Elizabeth Taylor stood in place as people swarmed busily about her. A makeup artist applied powder to her face while a hairdresser fussed with her coif and someone else adjusted her formfitting and revealing costume. Another person did nothing but stare at her, looking very worried. She acted as if she didn’t notice any of them. Meanwhile, her costar Richard approached. Once he was standing next to her, he leaned in and breathed on her neck. “You’re much too fat, luv,” he said, his voice a soft murmur, “but I admit, you do have a pretty little face.”
Elizabeth might have been insulted had the comment been made by anyone other than Richard Burton. However, coming 168
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from him, in that intoxicating Welsh accent of his, it somehow seemed like a compliment. She couldn’t help herself. She had to laugh. It erupted from her in the way a good laugh always did, like a horse’s whinny, loud and shrill, and full of joy. “Why, the nerve!”
she said, punching him on the shoulder. She then hurried over to Eddie Fisher and sat on his lap, as if to send a message to Richard that she already had a husband, thank you.
Richard Burton
I t’s not hyperbolic to say that the movie industry had never seen anything quite like Richard Burton—and to this day, no one has really replaced him in the business. Not only was he a singular man, he was a one-of-a-kind actor, his sheer presence filling the screen like no other. Certainly, few people expressed themselves like Burton, with his Welsh accent so musical in tone, his voice clear, rich, and distinctive. He was smart and witty, sexy and passionate—he had a smoldering quality about him that was irresistible, it seemed, even to many of the men in his life. Certainly he was an object of desire for most women with whom he crossed paths. His face was angled and, usually, serious. Even the pockmarks that scarred his face somehow worked for him, making him seem weathered, knowledgeable beyond his years. He had forevertousled brown hair, piercing blue-green eyes, and a rugged frame, though he was no more than five feet nine (which is astonishing when one considers his enormous onscreen presence). To know Richard Burton was to either love or hate him; there was usually no gray area when it came to one’s reaction to him. However, friend and foe alike had to agree that, on his good days, Her Destiny
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he was an electrifying man filled with a great zest for life, love, and work. He was a smart, mostly self-educated scholar who spoke four languages and had such an amazing memory that he could easily recite nearly any passage of Shakespeare—and many other literary works as well. However, though he had a bright personality, there was always a deep and profound sense of anguish about him, especially in later years. On his bad days, he was sullen and depressed, a dark person who could be cruel to even his closest of friends. In the end, despite all he would make of himself from meager beginnings, there was always something rather tragic about Richard Burton—which may be one of the reasons he remains so vividly alive in the memories of everyone he touched in his lifetime. He was born Richard Walter Jenkins Jr. on November 10, 1925, in Pontrhydyfen, Neath Port Talbot, Wales, approximately ten miles east of Swansea. (Pontrhydyfen is pronounced Pont-reader-ven.) He was the twelfth of thirteen children. He never knew his mother, Edith; she died giving birth to his youngest sibling. His father, known as Dic Bach, was fifty when Richard was born. He was a hardworking coal miner who did his best with what he had—a backbreaking job that yielded little money to
support his large family. The family was used to accepting rations of free soup from different charities in the neighborhood. Perhaps it was the anxiety in his life that drove Dic Bach to drink; he was an alcoholic. On what usually amounted to five shillings ($1.25 at the time) a week, Dic Bach was unable to support all of his children, so Richard was shipped off to live with his oldest sister, Cassie, and her husband. Attending school in Port Talbot (a town that was later to spawn another great Welsh actor, Anthony Hopkins), Richard spoke only Welsh until about the age of ten. Once in high school, the young man was taken under the wing of a teacher, Philip Burton, who brought the seventeen-year-old into his home and taught him drama and literature. He also worked on the tonal quality of his voice, giving him a strong and rounded sound, minimizing his strong Welsh accent and teaching him English in the process. Richard changed his last name to Burton, in 170
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honor of his teacher. He felt that the adopted name would afford him a better opportunity in the theater world in London, and hide the Welsh background he felt would be frowned upon by a classobsessed British society. The name change was also a way to distance himself from a father he believed never cared for him. When Dic Bach died in 1957, Richard elected not to attend his funeral.
Burton began doing theater in England in 1943 before spending three years in the Royal Air Force. In 1948, he made his British film debut in the Welsh yarn The Last Days of Dolwyn. It was on the set of this film that he met eighteen-year-old blonde Welsh actress Sybil Williams, whom he would always call “Syb.”
He would take her as his wife in 1949, after which she gave up her career as an actress.
During his rapid climb to stardom, Richard was rarely faithful to Sybil. He especially fancied actresses, and there would be plenty on his list of conquests, such as Tammy Grimes, Susan Strasberg, Zsa Zsa Gabor . . . the list seemed endless. “He did Alexander the Great and Look Back in Anger with Claire Bloom,”
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