I was cast in another Christmas pantomime, Little Red Riding Hood, in Nottingham, about three hours north of Walton. Mum and Auntie helped me settle in at a hotel, but then returned home. They were unable to visit much, and I was dreadfully homesick. Most nights after the performance, I ate dinner by myself in the empty hotel dining room.
Mum’s and my engagements were booked by a theatrical agent named Charles Tucker, who had been my parents’ manager for several years, and who became my manager when I made my debut in Starlight Roof. “Uncle Charlie” sent me to a good dentist, and berated my mother if he saw that I had holes in my socks or that they weren’t clean. He was a great help to me and to my family in those early years.
Whenever I was working or traveling, my constant longing was to be back home at the Meuse. When I was seventeen, it was explained to me that there would be tax benefits if I purchased Mum’s share of the house, which Charlie Tucker facilitated. Not long afterward, I bought out Pop’s share as well. It was now solely my responsibility to keep up the payments and ensure that we all had a roof over our heads.
Tony Walton and I continued our friendship. He graduated from school and headed to Canada to fulfill his National Service duties in the air force, during which time we exchanged letters. I was very fond of him, and was aware that he felt the same way about me, but I wrestled with the desire to experience more of life before committing to a serious relationship.
I continued to tour in musical revues, playing one week each in thirty towns across the UK over the summer and autumn of 1953. Vaudeville was in its dying days at this time; most of the theaters were filthy, and in a terrible state of disrepair. The paint on the ceilings and walls was cracked, stages were splintered, and everything was dusty, sticky, and stale. I tried to create a cheery space in every dressing room I occupied, laying out a cloth to cover stains on the makeup table, buying a posy of flowers, putting up a family photo.
My days were a blur of vocal exercises, performing two shows a night, traveling, and moving in and out of digs. The audiences were often drunk and unruly, their cigarette smoke spiraling down through the spotlights onto the stage. I began to have serious doubts about my prospects for the future. At seventeen, I was traveling endlessly, singing the same songs night after night. I had barely any education, and no other craft to fall back on. I was supporting the family financially, but I felt as if I was going around in circles. It never occurred to me that the performance and coping skills I was gaining would become invaluable to me in the years that followed.
As luck would have it, I was cast in the title role of Cinderella at the London Palladium. This prestigious and historic theater was nothing like the tacky vaudeville houses I’d been playing in. The show was glamorous, the costumes fresh, and the production values dazzling, complete with four white ponies pulling the gilded coach.
At the same time, another show was playing in London: The Boy Friend. I hadn’t seen it because of my own performance schedule, but it was very successful. To my surprise, I received an offer to play the lead role of Polly Browne in The Boy Friend on Broadway. The prospect of being away from my family for a year or more was agonizing, and given the situation at home—Pop’s drunkenness, and my mother’s and brothers’ attendant misery—I very nearly turned the job down. My dad paid me a visit, and in his loving manner, he persuaded me to accept the offer.
“Chick,” he said, “it’ll be the best experience of your life. America will open up your head. You should not miss this opportunity.”
A farewell party was planned for me at our house. Pop became horribly drunk and ended up smashing a ceiling lamp with his cane, then went on a colossal rampage. He shattered all the windows in Auntie and Bill’s house, then punched Bill in the face. The police were summoned, and my dad came to collect me, Mum, and my brothers. He took us back to Ockley for the weekend. Pop was held by the police for forty-eight hours, and Mum obtained a restraining order that prohibited him from coming near the house for several weeks, which allowed me to return and resume packing for my departure. After begging Mum to file for a divorce, I boarded the plane to America, depressed and consumed with worry. My mood was quite a contrast to the ebullience of my fellow Boy Friend company members, five of whom were on the same flight.
New York was noisy and hot, and I was miserably homesick. Our hotel was in Times Square, and my room was a tiny single that looked out over an airshaft. Worse still, I had no idea how to research a role or “break down” a script for a traditional musical. There were tensions between our American producers, Cy Feuer and Ernie Martin, and our director and writer, Vida Hope and Sandy Wilson. Eventually, Cy dismissed them and took over the directorial chores himself, which made for a sharper and livelier production. Yet I continued to feel at sea, and my uneven performance was resulting in an equally uneven audience response.
After our final preview, Cy took me out to the fire-escape steps in the alley beside the theater. He advised me to abandon every bit of camp or shtick, and to play Polly as truthfully as I could. I felt as if I was being given a lifeline. The show opened on the eve of my nineteenth birthday. After a rousing ovation, the audience danced the Charleston down the aisles as they exited the theater. The Boy Friend was a smash hit.
Although I was no stranger to hard work, I was unprepared for the amount of pressure and the sheer slog of performing on Broadway. I phoned home every week, despite the sizeable cost in those days, and looked forward to every mail delivery, in case there was a letter from Mum, Dad, or Tony. Alas, Mum and Pop were back together again, and the troubles at home had resumed. I sent half my modest salary home each week, which often left me scrambling to pay for groceries.
Performing the same role, day after day, week after week for a full year, taught me so much about the nuances of musical theater and how to conserve my energy during a long run. By the end of my contract, I was looking forward to going home. Any problems that awaited me were overshadowed by the anticipated joy of seeing my family again.
Just before I left New York, I received an invitation to meet with Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick (Fritz) Loewe, regarding the role of Eliza Doolittle in their new musical, My Fair Lady. After several auditions, I was offered the part, and a two-year contract. Despite the fact that it would mean a mere three months at home before returning to New York, it was too great an opportunity to miss.
I spent Christmas and the New Year with the family, during which time I worked with Madame Stiles-Allen on the songs from My Fair Lady. I also spent a good deal of time with Tony Walton. Having completed his military service, he was now studying at the Slade School of Fine Art in London and working part-time at Wimbledon Theatre, with an eye toward a career in theatrical production and design. Our relationship took another step forward, and we agreed that he would join me in New York as soon as he could.
I returned to America in early January. The situation at home had not improved, and I was once again deeply anxious about leaving my family for such an extended time. I spent the better part of the flight back to the States weeping copiously.
My Fair Lady was directed by the legendary director and writer Moss Hart. Moss was one of the most significant mentors in my life. It quickly became apparent in rehearsals, as it had been with The Boy Friend, that I was struggling with my role. Though I adapted easily to the songs, I was utterly out of my depth as an actor. I couldn’t master the Cockney accent, and searched desperately for any clue that would help me play this complicated character. Rex Harrison, who played Henry Higgins, seemed completely at home in his role, and was imperious and impatient with me.
Eventually, Moss set aside a weekend to work with me one-on-one. He literally shaped Eliza Doolittle for me. For forty-eight painful hours, he bullied, cajoled, scolded, and encouraged. I returned to rehearsals with the company more grounded in the role, and Rex was somewhat mollified.
Our out-of-town opening in New Haven nearly ground to a halt as the result of a whiteout snowstorm, monstrous technical problems, and
a major panic attack on Rex’s part. Not being a singer, he was having trouble finding his way with the orchestra, and he threatened not to go on for the first preview. During the ensuing weeks, Moss and Alan continued to refine the show, and by mid-March, when we opened on Broadway, we were in much better shape.
The show received a phenomenal reception, and thus began another great learning period of my life; two years of nose-to-the-grindstone discipline in order to sustain my energy, my voice, and my commitment to delivering a consistent performance every night.
Tony joined me in New York City in April, and from then on, we were inseparable. He began looking for a job, and eventually took one designing caricatures for Playbill and other magazines. He sat for the United Scenic Artists union exam, passed it, and got a job designing sets and costumes for a production of Noël Coward’s Conversation Piece.
During my second year in My Fair Lady, I was invited to play the title role in a live television production of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella. Live TV was a new and daunting experience, made all the more so by my discovering that the audience was projected to be in the millions. The ninety-minute special aired on March 31, 1957, and set a record for television viewership with more than 100 million people watching.
My final performance in My Fair Lady on Broadway was on February 1, 1958, but I had contracted to continue playing the role of Eliza for another eighteen months in the London production, where the show was a smash hit once again.
Not long after the London opening, Tony and I married. We shared a small flat in Eaton Square, where he commandeered the second bedroom as a workroom, since he was now designing a production of a new musical called Valmouth. Our honeymoon was a working vacation in Los Angeles, where I appeared on The Jack Benny Program. Immediately afterward we returned to England, where I resumed my role in My Fair Lady.
The stress of eight performances a week for such a sustained period of time began to take its toll. I suffered from frequent throat infections, came down with the flu, and at one point threw my back out. Tony’s father, a prominent orthopedic surgeon, diagnosed the problem as congenital scoliosis. I was eventually released from my contract two months early, and felt as if I had emerged from a long, dark tunnel into the sunlight.
I had my tonsils removed and Tony and I took a much-needed vacation, but my family continued to be a worry. Mum was now spending a lot of time at the local pub, and Pop was struggling through a succession of odd jobs. Auntie and Uncle Bill had separated, and Donald was away in the merchant marines. Chris, now thirteen and living at home full-time, was a lost and lonely boy. I found a good new boarding school for him, and though I knew he would be homesick, I hoped he would at least be safe and in a more stimulating environment.
Alan and Moss offered me the role of Queen Guenevere in a new Broadway musical they were preparing called Camelot. It was an adaptation of the Arthurian legend in The Once and Future King, by T. H. White. Tony and I traveled back to New York and took up residence in an apartment on the Upper East Side.
The cast for Camelot included Richard Burton as King Arthur, Robert Goulet as Lancelot, and Roddy McDowall as Mordred. It was an ambitious production, stunning to look at, but fraught with problems. While we were in out-of-town tryouts in Toronto, Alan was hospitalized with a perforated ulcer. Moss held the fort in his absence, but on the day that Alan was discharged from the hospital, Moss suffered a heart attack. We soldiered on without a director for several weeks, and our opening in New York was postponed. Eventually, we limped to Broadway and did the best we could, despite the fact that Moss was still unable to be with us. The reviews were lukewarm.
On opening night, Alan made a promise to us that once Moss was well, they would return to the show and improve it, despite the fact that it was by now up and running. We had good enough advance sales to hold us until then. Three months later, he, Fritz, and Moss honored that promise. Alan did some rewriting, Fritz wrote me a new song, and Moss cut forty-five minutes. Though the show never completely fulfilled its potential, it was greatly improved, and ticket sales soared. Unbearably, Moss suffered another heart attack and passed away in December of 1961. It devastated us all.
Early in the New Year, I was introduced to a brilliant young actress and comedienne by the name of Carol Burnett. She was appearing in Once Upon a Mattress on Broadway, and we hit it off immediately. Before we knew it, Carol and I had signed on to do a televised concert together. I took a week off from Camelot, and we filmed Julie and Carol at Carnegie Hall on March 5, 1962. Two and a half weeks later, I received the joyous news that I was pregnant. Aside from Tony, Carol was the first person I told.
During the remaining weeks in my Camelot contract, Walt Disney came to see the show. He visited backstage after the performance, and told Tony and me about a combination live-action/animated musical film that he was planning, based on the Mary Poppins books by P. L. Travers. He then asked if I would consider playing the title role. I was overwhelmed by the offer, but told him I was newly pregnant—thinking it would negate any possibility of my taking the job. To my astonishment, he replied, “That’s OK. We’ll wait.”
I was even more surprised when Walt turned to Tony and asked, “And what do you do, young man?” When Tony replied that he designed sets and costumes for the theater, Walt asked to see his portfolio, and subsequently offered Tony the job of designing the principal sets and all the costumes for Mary Poppins.
Our daughter, Emma, was born in London on November 27, 1962. Three months later, Tony, Emma, her nanny, and I boarded a plane for Hollywood, and thus began a brand-new chapter in our lives.
* * *
I FEEL THAT my professional life has consisted of four major stepping stones. The first encompassed my London debut in Starlight Roof at the age of twelve, and the subsequent years in vaudeville. The second was the good fortune that took me to Broadway; and the third, my film work in Hollywood. The fourth encompasses my eventual return to Broadway, publishing and directing projects, more films, and other creative pursuits that are still underway. Each has required me to learn a new craft, to place my trust in the hands of people that I did not know, and to do my homework.
The Hollywood years, the growth that followed, and most of all, the learning about myself during that time, is the substance of this book.
1
IT HAD BEEN eight years since I first made the leap across the Atlantic from England to Broadway. At that time, I was nineteen, totally on my own, and desperately worried about leaving my dysfunctional family behind and the huge unknown that awaited me. I didn’t know where I would be living or how to balance a checkbook, let alone function in an overwhelming metropolis like New York City.
Now, here I was, with three shows—The Boy Friend, My Fair Lady, and Camelot—and several thousand performances on Broadway and in London behind me, beginning yet another journey into a new unknown: Hollywood.
This time, thankfully, I was not alone. My husband, Tony, was with me. We were embarking on this new adventure together, along with our baby daughter, Emma. We were green as grass, had no knowledge of the film industry, and could not possibly envision what lay ahead—but we were industrious, open-minded, and we had each other. We were also blessed to have the great Walt Disney to guide us.
WHEN WE ARRIVED in Los Angeles, our flight was met by an exuberant gentleman named Tom Jones (no relation to the singer). Tom was the head of publicity for the Walt Disney Studios, and he soon became a friend.
We rode in a limousine to a cottage that had been rented for us on Sarah Street in Toluca Lake—a two-level Tudor, with plenty of space and a pool in the back with a pretty surround. The place had been charmingly furnished in English style, most of it pulled from the Studios’ furniture and prop storage. Everything had been chosen with enormous care, and every thought given to the creature comforts of “the British family” coming to stay.
Tony and I spent a few days getting over jet lag and settling in. Emma was only three months old, and we had broug
ht her nanny, Wendy, with us to help care for her during the five days a week that we would be working. On weekends, she could take time off and we would have Emma to ourselves. I was still breast-feeding my baby, and I hoped to do so for as long as possible. I had a fair way to go to get myself back into pre-pregnancy shape, so I was grateful that there would be a period of dance rehearsals before filming began.
A few days after our arrival, I went with Tony to the Walt Disney Studios, located in Burbank. Tony and I had visited there once before, and we were again struck by the sunny ease of the place; the shady trees and beautifully manicured lawns upon which people relaxed or played table tennis during their lunch hour. Neatly arranged bungalow offices, several large soundstages, construction sheds, and a main theater were dominated by a much larger three-story structure known as the Animation Building. Walt’s suite of offices was on the top floor, and below were airy workspaces where the artists and animators created their magic.
We had lunch with Walt and his coproducer/screenwriter Bill Walsh in the commissary, long recognized as the best in Hollywood for its great food and friendly atmosphere. Walt’s persona was that of a kindly uncle—twinkly-eyed, chivalrous, and genuinely proud of all he had created. His international empire encompassed film, television, and even a theme park, yet he was modest and gracious. Our new friend Tom Jones once said to me that you didn’t last very long at the company if you were mean-spirited or bad-tempered.
I was provided with a car and driver for the first two or three weeks, but eventually the Studios loaned me a vehicle of my own when it was assumed that I knew my way around. I was nervous about driving on the freeways and received guidelines: “Stick to the right lane, and get off at Buena Vista.” “Stay in the slowest lane; you don’t need to cross lanes at all.” “Go dead straight until you come to your exit,” etc. Being English, I’d never driven on a freeway, or on the right-hand side of the road, and it definitely took some getting used to.
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