by Anne Edwards
So in 1953 Notley once again became her safe retreat. The doctors had recommended rest. Compulsion to be active overwhelmed her and she seldom took to her bed. She would sweep Notley’s stately halls, dust the nooks and crannies, spend hours pruning trees and plucking dead blossoms. The end of summer brought Olivier home to rest. Immediately she showed signs of improvement, but The Beggars Opera was soon to be filmed and he would be forced to leave her alone again.
There were rumors of her “illness,” but her friends were faithful and no one verified them. Olivier was in a torturous dilemma, plagued by guilt and yet driven by his own need for survival. Then Irving Asher, a Hollywood producer, appeared, as though in answer to Olivier’s silent prayers. Asher was planning to go into production on a film to be called Elephant Walk, which was the story of an English tea grower and his wife living on a plantation in Ceylon and of the plantation foreman with whom the wife has an affair. Asher thought the Oliviers would be ideally cast as the married couple. Olivier could not consider the film even if Asher postponed his plans for an immediate production, because he had theatre commitments for the entire coming year. He therefore suggested the possibility of Vivien appearing in the film with Peter Finch, whom he had had under his management. Asher, having met with Vivien, was now fearful of “her delicate state of health.” But her doctors felt a change of scene might benefit her condition, so Olivier assured the producer that though Vivien had suffered a lung flare-up she was perfectly able to make a film, and, indeed, that the work was exactly what she needed. The suggestion of Vivien having anything other than a physical illness was never hinted at, and it would seem that Asher had not heard any of the rumors.
Vivien was not terribly impressed with the script, but she knew there were other considerations, money not the least. The proceeds from Streetcar and Carrie were now depleted, and production costs for all the endeavors planned by their company were not only rising but nearing crisis proportions. Asher had agreed that Paramount would pay $150,000 for Vivien’s services, $50,000 of which would be paid over on the signing of a contract. It is difficult to fathom how Olivier, the doctors, or even Vivien herself thought she was going to be able to endure a most trying role which called for a month of location work in Ceylon, where the heat would be close to intolerable and where she would be called upon to ride horseback, escape a herd of stampeding elephants, and play one scene with a snake wrapped around her neck. But they were all quite confident, and Olivier put her on a plane with Peter Finch and his wife and then went off to Italy for some location work of his own.
Ceylon, situated southeast of India, was a part of the world that she had not been in since childhood, and it evoked many memories—blurred and only dimly recalled. She had not really known what to expect, and it was far more beautiful than she imagined. Everywhere there was an abundance of nature. It was the most scenic of islands. The big sea stretched blue to the horizon, the tropical jungles were emerald green, and the seashore was palm-fringed. There were the ruins at Anuradhapura, the mountains and glaciers that rose above the jungles, the sense of witchery and legend. Ceylon (called Seren-dib in Arabic) was where Sinbad the Sailor played out his adventures, and it seemed a part of the Arabian Nights, with nothing real or tangible; and the unreality loosened Vivien’s hold on whatever security she had left.
The film was directed by William Dieterle. Dana Andrews played the foreman. She did not identify well with either man. The heat was worse than she had anticipated and the loneliness was terrifying. For the first time in her life she had difficulty memorizing her lines. She found it impossible to sleep and walked around all night, haunting the beaches and the coves and alarming the rest of the cast and crew. The rushes were not good. She looked tired, old, and somewhat wooden. Dieterle took her aside and told her so. “I’m not young,” she retorted. “What’s wrong with that?”
In the last week of location she began to hallucinate. She followed Finch around the set with hungry eyes and called him “Larry.” He had a great fondness for Vivien and tried to do what he could to protect her and to conceal what he feared was the truth—that she might be building to a complete nervous collapse unless she got out of Ceylon.
It took an entire day and two huge but harmless snakes to film the sequence where the reptile was wound around Vivien’s neck. By nightfall it was fairly obvious to everyone that the day’s work had unnerved her, but Finch was aware that it had done a great deal more than that. She had begun to recite Blanche’s dialogue from Streetcar and sobbed uncontrollably throughout the night.
The remainder of the film was to be shot on the Paramount lot in Hollywood. The plane trip took seventy-two hours and only moments after take-off Vivien suffered an attack of hysteria. She was sedated, and Finch remained staunchly by her side. Flying had always sent her into a panic, and seventy-two hours was a terrifying ordeal. She tried to tear off her clothes and to jump out of the plane. By the time the plane was ready to put down at Burbank Airport her hysteria had been subdued, and Finch and his wife were able to take her to their rented home. No one knew exactly what to do next. An astronomical amount of money was at stake. If Vivien was replaced, all her location scenes would have to be reshot. If she continued, there was always the possibility that she would break down at a stage when nothing could be salvaged and the film would have to be scrapped. Nonetheless, forty-eight hours later, the decision was to continue. Vivien, though looking spent and seeming unusually edgy, appeared considerably improved.
Olivier was vacationing on the island of Ischia near Naples, having completed work on The Beggar’s Opera. It was to be a short respite before he plunged into a mass of responsibility and ambitious plans. He had been put in charge of film and theatrical activities for the Queen’s coronation that summer. (A production of Terence Rattigan’s The Sleeping Prince, to star Vivien and himself was a part of those plans.) A decision was made by those close to Vivien not to notify him of her attack.
In Hollywood that Monday, Vivien appeared at the studio not quite her old self but very much composed. The columnists had got wind of the situation and were bombarding the film’s publicist with requests for interviews. The studio, feeling it would augur better for all concerned if Vivien saw at least one member of the press, insisted she agree to this. Vivien sent word to Louella Parsons that she would like to see her. The meeting was arranged for Tuesday, the following day. The two women chatted, Vivien quite gaily, if somewhat drawn and nervous. “I think this will be my last picture,” she told Parsons. “Life is too short to work so hard.” She was charming and pleasant to the writer as they walked in the Paramount gardens.
Vivien tired quickly and Parsons had the grace to cut the interview short. They had spoken about generalities—Ceylon, the coronation, the danger that wearing high heels posed for your voice, since it threw your body out of line. Parsons departed and Vivien retired to her dressing room. She was scheduled to appear on the set in half an hour’s time to shoot a scene. When called she could not remember her lines. She took a drink to calm her nerves and began to sob hysterically. Finch came to her dressing room to see if he could help, but she turned on him, calling him “Larry.” She screamed at Sunny Lash and would not let the studio doctor near her. Dieterle stood helpless in the doorway.
“Get out of here quick before I start screaming fire!” she shouted, her voice taking on Blanche’s Southern lilt as she repeated Streetcar’s famous Scene Nine curtain speech. “Get out of here quick before I start screaming fire!” she repeated, bolting for the door. “Fire! Fire! Fire!” she gasped desperately, and then collapsed into a sobbing heap on the floor, refusing to rise. Someone thought of calling David Niven because he was an old and close friend of both of the Oliviers. Niven immediately came over to the set. He saw her alone and remained with her for quite a time. Eventually they both came out, Vivien resting against his lean body for support. Her co-workers tried to avoid looking at them, but they stopped what they were doing and fell silent. She was in a dazed, uncomprehending
condition as Niven led her across the cavernous and hushed soundstage to a waiting car.
Olivier set out for Hollywood as soon as he was notified. The trip took nearly three days. The only way out of Ischia was by boat to the mainland. Olivier was then driven to Rome, flown to London, where he met his agent and good friend, Cecil Tennant, and the two of them continued on to New York, finally to board a connecting flight to Burbank.
Vivien, confined to bed, remained there until Olivier’s arrival. Announcements had been made that Elizabeth Taylor, then twenty-one, would replace her in the film. All the doctors concurred that, despite the possibility of further trauma induced by an extended flight, Vivien should be returned to England. Calls were made to her English doctors, who suggested a hospital they claimed had treated similar cases with dramatic success.
Vivien, heavily sedated, traveled by ambulance on a stretcher to the airport with Olivier, Tennant, and two nurses. Olivier hovered by her side as photographers flashed their cameras. “Be careful with the flashbulbs,” Olivier pleaded. “She’s a very sick woman.” As Vivien’s stretcher was carried aboard the TWA Constellation, Olivier began to shake with sobs. Niven put his arms around his shoulders. The two men stood clasping each other in emotion for several moments. Finally, Olivier pulled away and followed Vivien’s stretcher into the aircraft’s lounge. He sat down beside her and took her hand, but she was not aware of his presence.
Danny Kaye met them at New York’s LaGuardia Airport with his chauffeured limousine. Then conscious, Vivien smiled at reporters as she leaned heavily on Olivier. The two nurses and Tennant closed ranks behind her as they walked from the plane across the field to Kaye’s car. An uneasy moment followed as Kaye came to greet her and to help Olivier. The two men had been extremely close friends for many years, but since the time of the making of Streetcar, Vivien had grown intensely jealous of the relationship. She got into the car, however, and was driven to the Long Island home of a friend of Kaye’s, where she was once again sedated in preparation for the long overseas flight to London.
Plans had been made for her stretcher to be used to carry her aboard the BOAC plane that was to fly them home. Wrapped in a blanket, her sleeping figure was placed across Olivier’s and Kaye’s laps for the ride to Idlewild International Airport. The two nurses sat on the jump seats, Tennant in front with the driver. The sedation did not last, and at the airport Vivien belligerently refused to be moved from the car to the plane on the stretcher. Both Olivier and Kaye tried to quiet her, but in the end Kaye got out of the limousine, which then drove onto the field and directly to the ramp of the waiting plane. Finally, after Larry’s pleading and Tennant’s cajoling did no good, she was pulled from the car screaming. Flashbulbs exploded on all sides, and Viven sobbed and wildly shook her fists at the photographers. The nurses pushed her forward and into the plane, with “Uncle Cecil” and Larry close at her heels.
It was unreal, surreal actually, and Olivier followed her flailing figure into the cabin with pain etched heavily on his famous brow. Where had the young beautiful years gone? Were they to end with Vivien declining into madness? He stood by and watched as the nurses sedated her and got her settled into a seat. He could not bring himself to look at her until she had slipped into a heavily drugged sleep. Even in that state and after all she had put herself through, she was unbelievably lovely. At that moment—her head back, her eyelids sealed in sleep, her profile to him, her neck bare and the color of pale veined marble—she looked like a carved Rodin head. The rest of her was covered by a blanket, but even so, he could see how heavily she was breathing. He did not know what he would do if her illness caused her to be institutionalized. She slept throughout most of the journey and he sat across the aisle, unable to close his eyes.
When the BOAC plane set down at the London airport, Vivien was calm but extremely weak, and Larry was exhausted but relieved that they had made it home. Three doctors and another nurse came on board as the rest of the passengers left the aircraft. Vivien seemed dazed and not quite sure of where she was. Larry helped her apply some makeup and comb her hair, and a representative of BOAC sent a bouquet of red roses aboard. A half hour later Vivien, grasping the flowers to her, her hands trembling, smiled as she walked haltingly down the ramp on Olivier’s supportive arm, with the entourage of medical staff following closely behind.
By nightfall she slept under heavy sedation in a private room in a wing of Netherine Hospital, which stood in tree-fringed park land near Coulsdon, in Surrey. Administered by the South-West Regional Hospital Board, Netherine was famous for its work in the treatment of nervous conditions. Vivien was placed in the care of a top psychiatrist, who immediately barred any visitors, including Olivier; and all messages, gifts, and flowers were forbidden. Olivier, having been told she would be isolated for several weeks, drove back to Notley exhausted and disheartened. He was terrified that Vivien might never regain her sanity and he felt quite helpless. There was no peace, even at Notley. The telephone rang incessantly, reporters brazenly trespassed, photographers stood ready at the gates, their flash cameras poised. Unable to see or speak to Vivien, he returned by plane to Italy the next day so that he might at least have some privacy to think things out.
For three days and three nights Vivien was kept sedated with round-the-clock nurses in attendance. Then a course of psychiatric treatment was begun. She was packed in ice to lower her body temperature as far as it could safely be lowered. From time to time the ice packs would be removed and she would be fed raw eggs for nourishment. After several days of this her confusion and apathy began to pass. She would scream out whenever the eggs were to be fed to her, the smell helping her associate “feeding times” as her only conscious chance to rebel. “I thought I was in an insane asylum,” she told intimates later. “I thought I had to scream so that someone would help me get out.”
After three weeks Vivien left Netherine and went home to Notley, but she had suffered a trauma that had left her permanently scarred.
Chapter Twenty-three
Vivien refused to accept the fact that she was a manic-depressive. She and Larry had been trying for a number of years to have children and she desperately longed to give him a child. Her youth was gone, and her talent did not seem enough to prevent her from feeling sterile. Always energetic, able to go on little sleep, with each waking hour programmed and accounted for, she was losing her ability to concentrate or relax. The horror of her illness was that it caused her to turn on Olivier. The memory of this was often blurred, and when the attacks had passed she was once again his adoring handmaiden.
Olivier faced each day not knowing what to expect, grateful when she was “my Vivien,” and treating the other—the manic Vivien—as an untouchable. Work and his career were the only constants he knew, and he concentrated wholly on them. But there never was any question of his deep love for Vivien, and when she was her loving, giving self he was as bewitched by her as he had always been. He thought of her in much that way—a witch, a sorceress: the air, the wind, the sky. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, an enchantress, not like any other mortal being.
Olivier was not the only one to be mesmerized by Vivien. In childhood it had been the Mother General and her peers at Roehampton. Hadn’t she received special privileges without arousing the jealousy of the other girls? Leigh had worshiped her and gone on loving and caring for her long after she had left him for Larry. Jill had never been able to be unkind to her. Old friends of Jill’s and Larry’s, who at first thought her behavior reprehensible, were immediately won over by her. Men adored her and pandered to her, but women seldom felt envy or competitiveness. “Can one envy a goddess?” a close woman friend inquired. “Or hate the sea because it storms or the sky because it darkens? No. One waits, grateful to be alive, until the storm calms and the sea is breathless and glittering blue again and the sun rises in a matchless pastel dawn. That’s how it was with Vivien.”
When Larry returned to be with her at Notley, she was slimmer, paler, more be
autiful than ever. There was a new aura about her, not a sadness, but a pervading sensitivity, as though she had somehow ascended to a higher level of perceptiveness and understanding. She was humbly appreciative to be home, to be with Larry. She had received a warm and moving letter from Noël Coward that she read and reread constantly and kept in her pocket or in her purse at all times. “Dear Lord, I’m so grateful I’m still loved,” she would say and pat Coward’s note.
Plans remained for Olivier to stage Terence Rattigan’s The Sleeping Prince that August of 1953 for the coronation festivities, and he was quickly becoming convinced that no medication, treatment, or rest would be as beneficial to Vivien as her active participation in the project. He consulted the doctors, who warned him it was chancy but nonetheless worth the chance. Only six weeks after she had been released from Netherine Hospital, it was announced at one of Vivien’s first outings—a party in honor of Rattigan—that she and Larry would star as the Prince and the showgirl in his new play to be directed by Olivier at the Phoenix Theatre.
“Am I finished with Hollywood? Good heavens, no!” Vivien told a reporter at the party. “I shall certainly go back there if there is a film to make and fly there, too. I did some hard thinking while I was ill. I just felt all washed up and never wanted to see a camera or a stage again. But I stared myself in the face and mapped out a new way of living. I shall work just as hard, but rest harder, too. It’s early to bed from now on. And as for Elephant Walk—well, you mustn’t blame the elephants.” She grinned wickedly.
She flew to the Riviera, where she relaxed on Alexander Korda’s yacht, Elsewhere. Korda’s influence on her was always steadying, and much like Leigh’s. She admired him intensely and greatly respected his sense of family loyalty. And wherever Sir Alex was, other Korda family members were sure to be. The yacht was at once a place of luxury and a floating family home, as Alex restlessly alternated between the desire to anchor in the harbors of idyllic fishing villages and his equal passion to play chemin de fer at Monte Carlo or Cannes.
