The Happy Years (1944-48)

by Cecil Beaton

  I became somewhat restless in bed and felt I was missing so much amusement downstairs. I telephoned to ask Diana: ‘Can you talk to me now?’ ‘No, twenty people in the room.’ However, I was not lonely for long. Fellow house-guests dropped in: Juliet Duff to pick up a magazine she had lent me, Louise de Vilmorin to give me a book on Ledoux. (She, too, has been alitée. Her ‘bronchoscopie’, in which tubes, lights and scissors are put down her throat to the bottom of the lung, had taken place on Friday.) After dinner the Oliviers brought up with them the two chaps who are here to work on the filming of Hamlet — Roger Furse (décor) and Tony Bushell (manager). They had spent the afternoon discussing plans and designs, and had thrown out two weeks of Furse’s work. But they had made a valuable discovery: instead of building whole sets they would decide what would be the most suitable and pictorial background for each shot and reverse shot, then they would only build the necessary. This seems to be logical, yet is a complete reversal of the normal procedure of building an entire room, then wondering whereon earth are the right angles to shoot.

  ‘Abstract,’ Larry answered when I asked how the production would look. He then proceeded to describe the film in hearty schoolboy phrases. With arms flailing he emulated with a big ‘whoosh’ a great curtain falling down here — a pillar ‘pffutting’ down there — ‘a hell of a lot of smoke and emptiness all over the place’. Instead of using words that could be found in a dictionary he would illustrate his intentions by making prep-school sounds — of pops, bangs, and corks being drawn, of internal combustion explosions, ‘farts’, and all sorts of other coarse noises. The camera would ‘raspberry’ down onto the castle at the beginning of the film (‘An old-fashioned idea, but then I’m old-fashioned’), and then ‘raspberry’ away at the end — and the castle that was shown wouldn’t necessarily tally with the sets but the atmosphere would be the same. Larry is, heaven knows, serious about his career, but the project on hand is referred to only in ribald terms. No question of ‘Wouldn’t it be beautiful to have...?’ ‘Mighn’t it be extraordinary to...?’ — just: ‘A great blob here (bang! bangho!)’ — ‘A great cowpat there (bungho!)’

  It was a most gymnastic performance that we were treated to. Larry’s imitations have about them something of the original clown or, at least, the essential entertainer, who can be found in some remote music hall or performing in the street outside a pub. This was the real Larry — the mummer, the ale-drinking Thespian — not the rather overwhelmed and shy cipher with wrinkled forehead that goes out into society.

  I was vastly entertained and Vivien, who had joined us, sat by, amused. Larry was conscious of an excellent audience though the two chaps looked on a bit anxiously: they knew this routine of old, and their expressions of slight anxiety were inspired by the dread that the ‘conference’ might continue far, far too late into the night.

  Sunday

  Disappointed in myself. My throat again agonizingly sore, and my condition weak — no question of getting up. Vivien spent the afternoon sitting on my bed and regaling me with stories about her stage experiences. Larry was meanwhile working with the Hamlet chaps in his sitting-room. Later they all came in to show me the tentative designs. They are less abstract than Larry had described, and I thought Ophelia was too positively Holbeinesque. But Furse can be relied upon always to do a thoroughly professional job, and his drawings are always sensitive and in fine taste.

  While the others were out at a dinner at the Vilmorins’ house at Verrières, I enjoyed looking through illustrated eighteenth-century books with Sheridan at the back of my mind. But I could wait no longer for the others to return so went to sleep.

  It was not long afterwards that Larry, rather muzzy, came into the room and regaled me, in the darkness, with stories of the evening. It had not been entirely successful. Diana, furious that the men had not mixed with the women after dinner, said: ‘The English have corrupted French manners!’ ‘The Game’[23] was played, and the amateurs and professionals were at war. Juliet had previously confided to me how badly the actors perform in ‘the Game’, and tonight the professionals complained of the slowness of Juliet’s reactions. ‘You silly old goose — do something! Act, Juliet! Go on — oh, go on, Juliet!’ Vivien came into the dark room, surprised at our chortles, and joined in the tirade against Juliet. ‘On, she was so slow! She wouldn’t give an indication of what she was!’ When, later, Vivien and Larry were fumbling their way out of the still black room, Larry, behind the bedscreen, stumbled across the bolster which I always throw out of my bed before going to sleep. ‘What on earth is this here?’, and I amused him by replying: ‘Lady Juliet Duff, by all that’s wonderful!’

  Diana said: ‘Should I play the Queen in Hamlet?’ (Larry had invited her to do so in his forthcoming production).

  ‘No,’ said Louise de Vilmorin, ‘it would ruin a lovely film for me. I’d be too nervous to see it.’

  Sunday

  I have the days mixed, but no matter. Still in bed but decided to get up for lunch. Duff in his nicest mood. He has perhaps the most civilized mind of anyone I know: his intelligence, erudition and general knowledge make me feel inadequate. There is no subject — even photography or design — about which he does not know more than I; even after all these years I am shy with him. He can be alarming — for he does not suffer fools gladly and at any moment his temper may get the better of him — then the result is stupendous. But generally he is the most docile of people. He is never hurried and has the born writer’s gift of leisure. He manages to get through an enormous amount of work, yet always seems to have time for reading. I broke into the library the other morning to find him sitting peacefully at his desk reading Horace. Diana, on the other hand, must be ‘doing’ something.

  After lunch today, unable to relax and do nothing, she arranged for Duff to read aloud. Diana sewing a piece of black and white watered taffeta; Vivien and I listening to Duff, in dry, slow and rather sad voice, read three stories of Elizabeth Bowen. Outside a forlorn, melting snowscape.

  On the Korda set

  At long last we assembled, on a certain cold Monday morning, at the Shepperton studios outside London for the initial day of shooting of An Ideal Husband.

  For me it was like going for the first time to a public school. Korda’s brother gave me word-pictures of some of the people we would be working with. ‘Perrinal, the camera man, is the Nadar of cinema photography. He can always get the rich tones of the master, but he has no enthusiasm, for he is always a pessimist. Madame Natalie Calmus is the abandoned wife of the man who invented Technicolour. She is a great bore because, having money and nothing to do with her time, she wants power. She enjoys motoring all the way down from her flat in Park Lane with an eye-filter to put a few useless spokes in wheels about colour separations, vibrations, etc. Don’t pay too much attention to her idiotic talk. Her assistant Miss Bridge, a “colour” expert, runs about with odd microscopic pieces of material and butts in with a lot of shop talk. Vincent himself, sad, weak and disillusioned, gives the impression of having sold his soul to the devil. He has been in the film-world for twenty years and shakes his head from side to side and says: “It’s a terrible pissiness this.”’ I discover that he has a heart of gold and a great deal of tact. He expounds the disadvantages of fighting with the people with whom one is working.

  Sure enough, Miss Bridge is soon confiding to Korda that Madame Calmus does not approve of Paulette Goddard’s ball dress. ‘Why?’ asks Korda. ‘It doesn’t give her enough lift.’ Korda smiles. ‘Why, I’m even proud of having myself suggested that Mr Beaton should drop those shoulders.’ Defeat of Madame Calmus. Two days later Madame Calmus and Miss Bridge gang up on me again. ‘We want a little talk. In your pink boudoir set you are having a yellow evening dress. Is that not so? Well, will the colours harmonize?...’ Korda interjects: ‘Mr Beaton on his own has now decided against the yellow dress.’ ‘Oh!’ — complete bafflement of Technicolour experts, and a clever lie.

  Clarissa Churchill, who during the past
two years now has been a close friend, has recently been given a nebulous job by Korda (‘You will find your own niche,’ was all he explained to her) and together we went through the ‘breaking in’ process. Together we started off for the motor-car journey in fog or early morning mist. Soon we became exhilarated and interested in watching Korda’s direction. We were full of admiration for his quickness, perception, subtlety and flair. But by his choice of cast he gave himself insuperable difficulties, and when the hard job of acting had to be faced he discovered that two of his leading actors were completely inadequate. He soon realized that Paulette Goddard, who was to be the wicked Mrs Cheveley, could not possibly play the part as an Englishwoman (her attempt to be a mixture of Lady Diana Cooper and Sylvia Ashley Fairbanks, as suggested to her by Noël Coward on the boat that brought her across the Atlantic, was really rather painful) so I was told to look through other Wilde plays for reference to Americans and we interpolated a few lines from A Woman of No Importance to make a joke about, and justify, Paulette’s accent. Martita Hunt was called in to coach Michael Wilding, but she professed no confidence in the success of her results. ‘He’s too common for the part,’ she said. ‘All the people who see the film will be common,’ said Korda, glib in reply. But an easy comeback is a mistake. By degrees I began to realize how readily Korda excuses himself when he is in the wrong. His intention was to make the highest quality film. When I complained about a library set being particularly phoney and vulgar he shrugged: ‘Well, the Chiltems are nouveaux riches.’

  That is not what Wilde intended them to be. That is not why we went to Paris for the hats, and to Wildenstein to hire Louis Quatorze tapestries.

  One evening after the shooting Korda was shown ‘rushes’ of the previous week’s work on a faulty projector. Perrinal had been told to produce some particularly striking lighting ‘effects’ in order to submerge the gaudy bookcases in the library set. Now Korda thought the ‘effects’ too dark: the actors’ faces were out of focus. Korda has been working until three o’clock each morning on projects for three other pictures that are about to be simultaneously put into production. No wonder he is exhausted. He raised hell: a week’s work was wasted. Everything was blamed: everyone was summoned to give their advice. Then, of course, chaos broke loose. ‘Paulette’s head looks too small.’ ‘The cape’s too “musical comedy”,’ said Paulette. ‘It’s because of the orange velvet Mr Beaton has designed,’ said Madame Calmus. ‘Why not make it blue?’ suggested Miss Bridge. Madame Calmus and Miss Bridge had a field day. The discussions were disastrous. Perrinal was told to lighten the background. From then on his work on this hideous set was entirely ruined.

  When Korda saw the offending ‘rushes’ on a proper projector a few days later the results were as richly ‘Nadaresque’ as only Perrinal could make them. But it was too late now to alter his instructions and all the scenes in the library were shot with its vulgarity carefully highlighted.

  My admiration for Korda was soon mingled with astonishment. At the time that he was most engrossed directing and producing An Ideal Husband (by no means a small production) his company directors were getting desperate to call a meeting, but Korda was busy negotiating a lawsuit in Hollywood. Suddenly, just as an Anna Karenina production was about to go before the cameras, Korda at last got around to reading the script which had been written by Anouilh and Duvivier (the film’s director). Korda realized their efforts were unworthy.

  Hell let loose. Korda again sleepless. Constance Collier, with magnificent ram’s profile, important nostrils and prognathous jaw, is playing the part of Lady Markby on the Ideal Husband set. Today she bared her salted-almond teeth and chuckled: ‘Look at the lamb: he’s not with us at all. He’s not directing this film — he’s directing Tolstoy. Look at him reading Anna Karenina between shots.’ Sure enough — there he was, with Tolstoy pressed close to his myopic eyes, oblivious of the electricians and grips moving dangerous equipment within inches of his head. Occasionally he would make a mark in the margin. Constance bared her salted almonds again. ‘Look! He’s making a few notes so he can impress them at the conference and let them know he’s read the book.’ After one Ideal Husband scene had been taken he called for a stenographer and sat on the stage, under an arc light, dictating.

  When the result of this dictation appeared a few hours later it was a revelation. In spite of the conditions in which he had been working, he had written an absolutely brilliant analysis of Tolstoy’s book. He pointed out where the Anouilh-Duvivier script had gone wrong, and why and where it must be re-written. These notes showed him to be endowed with acute sensitivity and an appreciation of fine literary nuances. It was also a passionate appeal to respect the true Tolstoy.

  I felt that from now on, however much I might differ from Korda in certain aspects of taste, it was up to me to concentrate on his best points and to realize how remarkable a man he is.

  A few days later I discovered that Korda had given his notes on the re-writing of the script to a hack-writer who has just completed a bad picture. When challenged by Vivien Leigh on the wisdom of this Alex said: ‘If I give the job to Rodney Ackland, or a good writer, he’d produce his version of Anna. I want my outline to be copied faithfully.’ The result — which appeared ten days later — was certainly better than the former, but naturally, since it was a ‘rush job’, was not really up to the mark.

  May 7th, 1947

  Korda in a bad mood: all sorts of irritants make him like a bear with a sore head. Our set is teeming: over two hundred guests are assembled on stage in their expensive finery. Lord and Lady Chiltern are receiving at the head of an imposing staircase. For the fiftieth time the ghostly-looking butler rings out: ‘The Earl of Caversham.’ The beautiful Diana[24] does her extraordinarily ugly, but charming, grin: Aubrey Smith bows with as much spontaneity as if he were running through the performance for the first ‘take’. Suddenly Glynis Johns cannot be found. ‘Who allowed her to go for breakfast?’ screams Korda, and the two men responsible for giving her leave to go to the cafeteria are given a fine display of temperament. ‘Now where’s Miss Goddard?’ ‘In the Medical Aid.’ The technicians around the camera are on their guard against more disasters. One of the electricians calls sotto voce to an unseen figure among the fights aloft: ‘Save the scoops and trim your arcs when I tell you to, for God’s sake, or there’ll be bloody murder.’

  Volte-face of Miss Bridge: ‘Mr Beaton, I must tell you I like your costumes — even if others don’t.’

  ‘Don’t others like them?’

  ‘Well — Madame Calmus doesn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, well — she’s well-known for interfering — for being a nuisance. She never likes anything she doesn’t do herself. You know, a leopard can’t change its spots. Now if you like a thing you stick to it. There’s no mystery about Technicolour — it’s just the same as colour in life except that it intensifies or glorifies colour.’

  ‘Rushes’: The projection room is empty except for the hairdressers and others of the make-up department. As they watch the ‘rushes’ they interrupt the on-screen performances by the stars whom all the world adores.

  ‘That wig join’s better.’ ‘What about that mount in front?’ ‘The dye’s come off his tam-o’-shanter.’ ‘That shot was taken late in the evening: he doesn’t look shaved: he’d been hanging about all day and was just leaving when they called him onto the set, and there wasn’t time to touch him.’ ‘Oh, I’m sick of her by now! She has such huge jowls, and the neck goes into three great creases every time she turns her head. What’s more, she’s got a moustache, and her skin is just a bed of acne.’ ‘There’s too much rouge on the poor bugger’s lower lip.’ ‘The poor bugger can’t keep his eyes open he’s got such a hangover.’

  Without a word of warning I arrive, in full battle cry, on the Ideal Husband set to find the place deserted. Korda has called a halt while he flies to America to fight that lawsuit. A postponement of two weeks: complete dispersal of crew: high tension sla
ckened.

  The elusive sun now does its summer’s work. For two weeks we are bathed in a heatwave. On the Anna Karenina set they are wearing furs, and laying snow on the ground to be seen through windows on which the ‘prop’ men are nailing icicles.

  Vivien Leigh, so companionable and perky in private life, becomes sadly changed as soon as the strain of picture-making begins to tell. There is no fun any more. The difficulties are overwhelming and absorbing. I go into her dressing-room one morning, confident of finding her in a great state of elation, for the newspapers have just announced that her husband has been knighted.

  I open the door. ‘Oh, I’m so happy for you about the great news!’ A face of fury is reflected in the mirror. ‘Really, it’s too stupid! Would you believe it — the dressmaker from Paris was waiting at her hotel the entire day yesterday and the studio forgot to order a car for her. Really — I’ve never worked on such a film as this!’

  Later, Vivien instructs me: ‘Please tell Clarissa how to behave when she brings journalists on the set. I don’t want them turned off, but I want to have them announced first and presented.’ When the message is relayed to Clarissa, she has already received it from half-a-dozen other sources.

  It is difficult for me working concurrently on two large productions. There is no camaraderie between the two companies. If I excuse myself: ‘I have to go to the Ideal Husband set,’ I am told: ‘Oh, leave them to it!’ It is particularly foolish to plan to shoot two of the most elaborate scenes on the same day. For the Ideal Husband hundreds of elegant extras representing the world of fashion in Hyde Park are strolling up Rotten Row while phaetons, broughams, every sort of curricle, bicycles, and horseback riders are also on tap. There are guards parading in full dress, Salvation Army bands, horses, dogs, etc. The studio is not geared to this pitch of work. Yet on the Anna Karenina set fifty ballroom guests have been lined up complete with hair-do, jewels, etc.; director Duvivier snarls: ‘They all look like English girls that haven’t had enough to eat. (Rationing is still in force.) Get some full-bosomed girls that look like Russian aristocrats.’ This criticism, coming at this time from a Frenchman, is not considered tactful by ‘Wardrobe’ who, having worked all weekend, has now the impossible task of re-fitting all these costumes.