A couple of years after they made The Devils together, Georgina Hale remembers Ollie saying to her, ‘You know, Georgie, I could have gone to Hollywood but I chose life instead.’
Only much later, in the nineties, did Oliver admit that he should have made the switch to Hollywood when he had the chance, when he was at his peak. ‘It might have made all the difference.’ Much more of a calamitous mistake was turning down two Hollywood blockbusters, since the parts on offer were real game-changers. Both heralded from the same man too, Hollywood producer Richard D. Zanuck. The first was the role of Doyle Lonnegan, a crooked gangster swindled by con artists Paul Newman and Robert Redford in The Sting (1973), one of the most popular films of the decade. The second was to play the grizzled shark hunter Quint in Jaws (1975), which went on to become one of the most commercially successful films of all time. In an email Zanuck confirms that Ollie was indeed offered both of these roles and rejected them. In reference to Jaws Zanuck says he approached Ollie after Robert Mitchum and Sterling Hayden had already turned Quint down. One can only speculate where Ollie’s career might have taken him had he accepted either of these films, especially Jaws. One can quite easily visualize him playing Quint, shouting and screaming at Richard Dreyfuss and Roy Scheider on his rickety old fishing boat while downing bellyfuls of whisky. In a strange quirk of fate both roles ended up being played by Robert Shaw, quite brilliantly too. But what a shame Ollie didn’t do at least one of them. ‘Certainly had Oliver done Jaws he’d have been a big star,’ says Michael Winner. ‘A serious star, not sort of wobbling about headlining British films. But he was nervous about going to Hollywood, he was nervous of being where he didn’t feel secure.’
Oliver had already had a ‘taste’ of Hollywood, which predictably ended in disaster. Steve McQueen flew into London to meet him with the intention of talking about their making a film together. Ollie invited McQueen to Tramp nightclub, where he got quite dreadfully drunk and vomited over the American superstar. The manager found some new jeans for McQueen to wear but, alas, couldn’t offer him replacement shoes. ‘So I had to go round for the rest of the evening smelling of Oliver Reed’s sick.’ Needless to say, the film project died a death.
Having spurned his chance of Hollywood fame and opting instead to remain in Britain to be the biggest fish in a small pond, however tepid and stagnant that pond was, Ollie stood exposed to the vagaries of his native industry’s death throes. David continued to field offers for his brother, some good, some indifferent and some just plain bizarre. Into that last category one must place Blue Blood, a British film made for the staggeringly low cost of just £55,000. Ollie agreed to take part, for a very low fee, provided the film could be shot over a two-week period when he was free. Based on a novel by Lord Alexander Thynn, 7th Marquess of Bath, and filmed at his palatial home, Longleat, the film has Ollie as a malevolent butler who uses satanic means to replace the master of the house, played by a very young Derek Jacobi. Esteemed film critic Leslie Halliwell wasn’t wrong when he wrote that the film ‘plays like a Grand Guignol version of The Servant’.
With only a fortnight to make the film, speed and efficiency were of the essence. But, according to producer Peter James (now a best-selling author of thrillers), ‘Ollie was, to put it mildly, a nightmare.’ It didn’t take him long to organize a crawl of the local pubs. Everyone piled into their cars – Ollie was then driving a rather beautiful Bentley Continental – and off they went. ‘In those days one wasn’t so worried about drink-driving,’ says James. ‘I remember we were completely and utterly pissed and ended up in a restaurant where this po-faced maître d’ approached our table and said, “Anybody here has a Bentley Continental?” and he gave the registration number. Ollie said, “Yes, why?” The maître d’ said, “It’s just rolled into the wall of the conservatory, sir.”’
Later that same evening everyone ended up back at the hotel propping up the bar. At around one o’clock people started slipping off to bed. ‘The next morning,’ James recalls. ‘A waitress was taking somebody up breakfast and she saw Oliver naked and fast asleep in the corridor, curled up around a radiator. What had happened, he’d gone into his room, taken all his clothes off, and gone into the bathroom, except he hadn’t gone into the bathroom, he’d walked out the door into the corridor. Of course, the door locked behind him, he didn’t know what to do, so he just curled up and went to sleep.’
Midway through shooting, Ollie approached one of the producers, a nice chap called John Trent. ‘I’ve got a problem, John,’ he said. ‘There’s this absolute cunt in London I’ve fallen out with, he’s part of an underworld gang and he’s threatened to come down here and duff me up.’
‘Oh shit,’ said John. The last thing the crew wanted was Ollie getting a black eye or even a cut, anything that would delay shooting. ‘For Christ’s sake, if he turns up just let me know.’
‘Don’t worry, I will,’ said Ollie, walking back to his caravan.
About two days later John was on the set when Ollie sidled over to him. ‘You know that bloke I was telling you about?’
‘Yes,’ John said.
‘Well, he’s just driven into the car park.’
‘Right, who is he?’ Two men, behemoths in suits, were walking purposefully forward. John told Ollie to get lost and went over to confront them. ‘Yes, can I help you?’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ one of the guys said.
‘I’m the producer.’
‘I want to see Oliver Reed,’ the thug replied, his face impassive but deadly.
John stood his ground. ‘I’m sorry, he’s on set at the moment.’
The thugs pushed John out of the way and carried straight on towards a visibly shaking Ollie. ‘We want a word with you.’
‘You cunts,’ yelled Ollie. ‘Fuck off.’
About to see his star seriously pummelled, John gallantly dived in between the two goons. ‘I said, get off the set!’
One of the men picked John up by the lapels as if he were a twelve-year-old and hurled him to the floor. Getting up, John rammed into them again and a fist fight broke out. After several right hooks had been thrown, John became aware that the entire crew were standing in a circle watching and grinning. ‘The whole thing was a set-up,’ says James. ‘Ollie had arranged it all. John got a bloody nose, loosened teeth. It was a nasty prank.’
In spite of the pranks and pub crawls, James confirms that Oliver was utterly professional when it came to the actual work, mindful of the incredible time constraints on everyone, and the film was finished on schedule.
Next Ollie flew into a pre-revolution Iran to take the lead role in an all-star adaptation of one of Agatha Christie’s most famous and often told tales, And Then There Were None. He stayed with the rest of the cast at the glamorous Shah Abbas Hotel (now the Abbasi Hotel) in Isfahan, which also stood in for the film’s location. In Christie’s novel ten guests, all with a guilty secret, are invited to a lonely mansion on a deserted island by a mysterious host who then proceeds to kill them off one by one. Producer Harry Alan Towers had shifted the action to an abandoned desert hideaway more in keeping with the cosmopolitan cast he’d assembled, the likes of Richard Attenborough, Elke Sommer, Stéphane Audran and Charles Aznavour.
At the helm was Peter Collinson, best known as the director of The Italian Job. Collinson and Oliver took an instant dislike to each other, which probably explains the reason for the violence and carnage that followed. A witness to it all was the actress Maria Rohm, wife of Towers, and her evidence seems to point to the fact that Collinson was a disagreeable presence to just about everybody. ‘I don’t believe anybody liked Peter Collinson. He was very rude and crude to everyone.’
Unwarranted rudeness had always rankled with Oliver, as it smacked of bad manners and lack of professionalism, but his anger boiled over when Collinson turned on Maria one evening when she and Ollie were innocently dancing in the hotel’s nightclub. ‘Collinson made rude remarks about me which set Ollie off and they got into a fight. Ollie was
not very precise with his punches but Reggie was. The crew was mostly Spanish and sided with the director: it’s an honour thing. The whole situation got way out of hand and some crew members got really hurt. There were knife wounds, hospital visits and stitches. The actor Adolfo Celi took care of me but I felt rather guilty for having been the initial reason for the altercation. It was all very traumatic.’
Just a couple of days later Maria witnessed something else that chilled her blood. ‘The hotel had a beautiful courtyard and I saw Peter and Ollie walk towards each other with broken bottles. I was truly concerned and ran out into the courtyard and together with some of the crew managed to keep the two men apart.’
Elke Sommer also found Collinson ‘crazy and horrible’ and she and Ollie spent much of their time bitching and moaning about him. One morning on the set Ollie confided to her, ‘Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’re gonna take care of him.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘You’ll see,’ said Ollie, grinning.
That night there was another massive ruckus in the hotel between the Spanish crew and the Brits working on the film. ‘One of the Spaniards took a pop at Ollie when he wasn’t looking,’ recalls Simon, who witnessed the whole thing. ‘And within about six seconds this guy had been laid out by Reg – bang – and another guy had been laid out who’d come in to follow up. Everyone who saw it said it was one of the most impressive things they’d ever seen. The way Reg reacted was unbelievable.’ Then it all kicked off with tables and chairs flying everywhere. ‘And the next day Collinson came on to the set and he had his arm in a sling,’ recalls Elke. ‘And Ollie just looked at me and winked and said, “I told you. I told you.”’
In the end it was left to Richard Attenborough to attempt to calm things down by organizing a kind of court hearing where people could thrash out their disagreements without resorting to violence. ‘We always called Dickie the judge after that whenever we met,’ says Simon. So a room was hired and all the Spaniards sat on one side and the Brits on the other, with dear old Dickie in the middle presiding. One gets the feeling it didn’t work. ‘It was a very nasty atmosphere after that,’ says Simon. ‘Because I think the Spanish lot were after Reg and Ollie.’ Indeed, Maria confirms that Ollie and Reg had to move to another hotel.
In spite of all the problems, Maria was very fond of the enduring double act of Ollie and Reg. ‘If I’m honest, I was somewhat afraid of them to start with. But Reggie turned out to be the nicest of people and I learned to love Ollie despite both of them looking and acting rather intimidating at times. And there was the drinking. Yes, Ollie was drinking rather heavily, yet he was always a complete professional on the set. I remember once Ollie and Reggie had a drinking contest with one of the film’s Iranian backers. Very much a gentleman, he could not decline and he did not know how to handle the situation. His manners did not allow him to leave and he ended up very drunk. He couldn’t stand up by the end of the evening. I was very concerned and felt sorry for him but I am glad to say he survived it all OK.’
Elke, too, had a soft spot for Ollie, and in spite of his temper problem she got along with him very well. ‘We had fun together and we laughed. I liked the fact that he was intelligent but he was always a little proletarian in his behaviour, in his looks, actually in everything, very down to earth. We became good friends.’
As a souvenir from his time on And Then There Were None, Ollie brought back with him a hookah which he gave to Christensen as a present. ‘And we used to get a half ounce of roll-up tobacco and to make it more fun he poured a bottle of gin in the hookah instead of water and a couple of rose leaves and a shot of Angostura bitters.’
Moon the Loon
Early one morning the peace of Broome Hall was shattered by an ear-piercing roar that seemed to be coming from overhead. ‘What the bloody hell is that?’ yelled Ollie. Outside, a helicopter was making several sweeps over the house looking for a suitable place to land. Adjacent to the terrace and the rose garden was an open field and the whirring machine deposited itself on it. Oliver stormed out of the house, ranting and raving, then suddenly the door of the helicopter opened and out stepped Keith Moon. ‘And Oliver’s face was a picture,’ says Jacquie. ‘They ran up to each other and they hugged and they kissed. “I’ve come for lunch,” announced Moonie. He ended up staying a week.’
The helicopter was a spectacular show of ostentation and Ollie was suitably impressed. Grabbing Moonie, he took him on a guided tour of Broome Hall and its grounds. Afterwards Moon suggested they play a game. As Ollie remembered it, ‘I was supposed to run round the fields while he chased after me with the car to see if he could hit me.’ Exhausted but still alive, Ollie suggested they head off for a liquid lunch at the Cricketers, where Moon failed hopelessly to keep up with his host. Victorious, Ollie proceeded to take his clothes off but was hauled back home before exposing himself to the local punters. How had all this madness come about, this merging of the film and rock worlds? Blame Ken Russell.
Since their fraught experience on The Devils Oliver and Russell had patched things up, with Ollie appearing very briefly as a railway guard in the director’s recent Mahler for the princely sum of three bottles of Dom Pérignon. More importantly, Ollie wanted Russell to direct a project he was working on about the four knights who murdered Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral. Oliver had helped write the script and also expressed an interest in producing and starring in it. Invited round to Broome Hall to discuss the film, Russell must have twigged that something was up when Ollie opened the door dressed in his Athos costume, bowing and donning his hat with theatrical absurdity. ‘Welcome, your eminence.’ Russell should have bolted there and then. ‘I knew I was going to be put to the test again.’ But no, professional curiosity won out.
Instead of discussing the project, all Ollie seemed to want to do was re-enact his musketeer heroics, walking about the great hall swishing a rapier with one hand and holding a glass of brandy in the other. ‘Shouldn’t we talk about this film of yours, Oliver?’ Russell asked, exasperated.
‘I’d clean forgotten about that,’ said Oliver, throwing the sword to the ground and walking across to the grand fireplace, where an ominous-looking broadsword hung on display. ‘The man in the shop swore this was a thousand years old.’ Carefully, with love almost, Ollie lifted down the sword. ‘I’m sure it’s authentic.’
Russell looked the thing up and down, all six foot of it. ‘It’s certainly very rusty.’
‘Blood, dried blood, that is.’ The devilish merriment in Ollie’s eyes was enhanced by the flames flickering in the fireplace. ‘A sword like this killed Becket.’ Ollie raised it up as if he were holding Excalibur itself. ‘Priest or no priest, Becket was quite a swordsman. He must have put up a hell of a fight before they killed him.’ Ollie threw the lethal weapon at Russell, who just about managed to catch it. ‘Imagine you are standing on the altar steps, Jesus, and I’m coming at you, coming to spill your guts and rub your sanctimonious nose in them. It’s you or me, trying to split each other in two.’
Russell looked at the sword in his hands. ‘Where’s yours?’
‘My what? My sword? You don’t imagine I’ve got two of those big bastards, do you? I use the rapier.’
‘I rather see Becket defending himself with a crosier,’ said Russell hopefully. ‘I don’t suppose you . . .’
‘Bullshit, Jesus!’ yelled Ollie, practising a few lusty swipes. ‘Now get up on the altar steps.’ Russell had no choice but to obey. ‘Prepare to meet thy maker, heretic.’ With those words Ollie lunged at him.
As Russell was later to recall, ‘I knew that I’d have to fight him properly otherwise he’d kill me. So we were duelling and I brought the blade down with all the force I could muster. It crashed across his chest, tearing open his shirt.’
There was silence. Ollie dropped the blade to the floor and ripped open his costume to see a gash in his chest. ‘Excellent!’ he roared. ‘Now we’re blood brothers.’
Removing a stuffed par
rot from a Victorian glass dome on the fireplace, Ollie threw the creature on to the blazing fire and replaced it with his bloodied shirt. It remained there for years as a memento. The Becket film fared rather less well and never came to fruition. In the meantime, Russell had become attached to a film that would prove to be one of the most striking cinema experiences of the seventies.
In 1969 Pete Townshend, the John Lennon of The Who, wrote his rock opera Tommy. Inspired by his own scarred upbringing by warring parents, Tommy deals with the alienation of the post-war child. ‘I was trying to show that although we hadn’t been in the war we suffered its echo.’ It was musical impresario Robert Stigwood who saw Tommy’s movie potential and secured Russell’s services, no doubt influenced by his skill in marrying images to sound. The director insisted Oliver be cast as Tommy’s stepfather, Frank, a surprising decision considering the entire film was to be sung and Ollie confessed that he possessed the vocal dexterity of a rugby forward. So David was called into Stigwood’s office to do the deal. ‘It was a very imposing office,’ he remembers. ‘I always had unimposing offices.’
The canny Stigwood was pushing David to agree to a fee for Ollie out of future profits from the movie soundtrack. David said no: Ollie wanted cash up front. Stigwood tried another tack: Ollie could have a fifth of a per cent of this and that and whatever. David wasn’t having any of it. ‘So in the end, which I invariably did as a theatrical gesture, I put all my papers in my briefcase, said thank you very much, and walked out.’ Unbeknown to David, he’d played an absolute blinder. ‘It wasn’t just Ken who wanted Ollie, so did the money men. The financing was totally dependent on bringing Ollie on to the project. I didn’t know this, so in the end Stigwood had to give in to our terms.’
What Fresh Lunacy is This? Page 28
