Home Work

by Julie Andrews

  Location filming began with two days at sea, on board the old Danish trader that had been converted into our double-masted brigantine, the Thetis. In the days that followed, I became windblown and sun-ravaged. My feet and legs ached from balancing against the mountainous swells—the ship rolled and bobbed like a cork—but the experience was amazing. The ship’s real-life captain had ten young sailors working under him; beautiful, bronzed, tousle-headed boys of varying nationalities, fascinating to watch as they scrambled over the rigging, pulling ropes and hauling canvas.

  I had been warned that the “head” (the toilet) on the Thetis was worse than the black hole of Calcutta. It was belowdecks, all generator fumes and other smells, pitch-dark, and everything damp with seawater. Eventually I had to brave it. I took a small flashlight, stumbled and slipped and hung on, becoming a contortionist in my efforts to hike up my nineteenth-century dress, all the while holding the flashlight between my teeth. Finally, I emerged, triumphant, and was greeted with cheers. Apparently, I was the first member of the crew to have survived the head without becoming seasick.

  Our filming shifted to the historic Hawaiian village that had been built for us on the other side of the main island: an entire community of grass huts on a stunning white beach, an hour and a half away from where I was staying. Dozens of mostly naked extras, children included, roamed around, along with the occasional dog or pig. It felt like stepping into the past.

  Filming with so many extras was challenging, however, as were the problems of water reflection, wind, and frequent rain showers that interrupted our shooting daily. George was concentrating on the Polynesian cast members, most of whom had never acted before. We inched along, averaging about two takes a day.

  Richard Harris was playing Captain Rafer Hoxworth, the sailor whom Jerusha had originally hoped to marry. I liked Richard, but I found him difficult to work with. He was undisciplined as an actor, changing his approach or dialogue with every take, questioning everything he was asked to do. This resulted in long, huddled arguments between director and actor, while I sat around, fuming with impatience. Eventually, I got used to his improvisations, and began to figure out how to work with him, although I sensed that he found me very boring.

  WORD LEAKED OUT that all was not well behind the scenes between the producers, Walter and Marvin Mirisch, and George, due to our many delays and attendant budget overages. Our shooting schedule was all over the place. I would get a call at 11 p.m. to come out to the set for a night shoot, which would then be canceled two hours later.

  Meanwhile, out in the “real world,” the hostilities in Vietnam had escalated. The news reports coming in daily were beyond disturbing, and the contrast between our creative work in that island paradise and the atrocities going on in Southeast Asia preyed on me.

  The state of my marriage was also a continuing concern. I spent hours wondering whether to make one last effort to remain with Tony, or to formalize our separation. However, I always came up against a block that wouldn’t let me break through and decide. I missed Tony’s friendship, his dignity and gentleness, and wanted to hold on to that. I worried that I risked losing it by not making up my mind. My sleep was chaotic and disrupted, and I wrestled with fearful dreams, loneliness, and depression.

  One evening, I saw a hive of activity on the water in front of my house. Little lights bobbed and weaved, and larger lights moved majestically along behind them. I suddenly realized I was witnessing the arrival of the first of the yachts in the Transpacific Yacht Race originating in California. I raced up to Diamond Head to find hundreds of other cars, radios blaring, and the big lighthouse lamp blazing across the water. The beautiful ketch Ticonderoga, or “Big Ti,” was just slipping through the beam and over the finish line as I arrived, setting a new world record. The sight of its shadowy, billowing sails was so poetic, it made my heart ache. The boat felt like a direct link to Los Angeles, which I was considering more and more to be home.

  I longed to resume work with my analyst, and finally managed a quick trip back to L.A. Seeing him helped to allay some of my anxieties. I also saw Arthur Park, and learned that although the situation with Charlie Tucker was almost straightened out, I would need to keep working as much as possible, since most of my savings had gone toward the severance settlement. Arthur mentioned that Paul Newman had been signed to play the lead in Torn Curtain, a Hitchcock film in which I had been offered a role. Knowing this made me inclined to accept.

  Around this time, my business manager, Guy Gadbois, told me that there was a house in Coldwater Canyon that he felt would be a good purchase. He reasoned that I was spending too much money on rent. I loved the place, and my lifelong craving for continuity, for a true home, suddenly kicked in. This desire had been sidelined by years of work-related transience, and a constant sense of obligation to others—to my entire family in England, to Tony, to Emma, to agents and managers.

  I still needed to make a final decision about our marriage and the apartment in Wimbledon, but I was in a dangerous mood. I was anxious to take some action that I could control; to establish something that was mine alone. Within a week of being back in Hawaii, and without consulting anyone else, I signed on to do the film with Hitchcock, and the house was mine.

  THE TENSIONS BETWEEN George and the producers proved to be real, as at the end of July we received news that George was to be replaced. I was stunned, as was the entire company. I felt that with the chronic weather problems, the number of nontheatrical extras in the film, and the huge technical challenges, it was unlikely that any other director would be able to do better. There was a great deal of kerfuffle, and the entire Polynesian cast, led by Jocelyne LaGarde, who was playing the majestic Hawaiian queen, staged a walkout in protest. Twenty-four hours later, the situation had reversed itself. George agreed to heavy cuts, and filming resumed.

  In the midst of all this, my youngest brother, Christopher, arrived for a visit. I had asked my mother to come, but she had declined. Instead, she begged me to treat Christopher to a vacation, saying that he was going through a bad patch and could use the break.

  I almost didn’t recognize him when I picked him up at the airport. At nineteen, he looked pale, gaunt, and lost, with a heavy beard and unkempt hair. I had begun keeping a diary on this film, and one entry reads:

  It disturbs me deeply to see Chris. So many memories surface as he talks of life at home . . . layers of suburbia, and prejudice, and conditions over which he has no control. The question is, what should I do? Do I help or hinder by exposing him to my comparatively broader world? I know there’s a gentle, bright soul locked away, oh so deeply . . . I wonder if he’ll be strong enough to seize the opportunities that could lie ahead.

  I chose to watch and wait; to decide how best to help him once he’d settled in and we had spent more time together.

  THE COMPANY BEGAN shooting the big sequence involving the fire at the church. One night, I very nearly got burned to death. The cameras were rolling. George was yelling “Get in there, Julie!” so I dashed in under a flaming roof, and caught a blast of heat from the burning wall. I staggered out to witness real fire engines racing up the hill. Apparently, our church actually had caught fire. We all watched as the firemen stilled the blaze, leaving a charred, steaming mass of straw and debris in their wake. There were cinders and ashes in our pores, hair, noses, throats . . . even inside my bra. The next day, I had little blisters all over my cheeks.

  Another hair-raising episode involved a scene in which two pieces of burning pitch were supposed to hurtle past me from the roof (carefully aimed by a Hollywood grip), and one was to ignite the hem of my dress. This couldn’t be done with a stunt double; the cameras were too close, and George wanted authenticity.

  I was wearing long fireproof underwear and an asbestos underskirt. A fuse was attached to the hem of my chiffon dress to help ignite the garment. I don’t think I have ever been as scared as I was that night. I kept wondering at what age women had heart attacks, and whether I might faint, or burst
into tears, from the tension.

  At the first tentative rehearsal, when the flaming pitch was thrown down, my skirt caught fire so fast that fire extinguishers were sprayed and blankets were thrown on me. A new skirt had to be sent for.

  I became almost sleepy with fear as we waited for the next shot. I sat slumped in a chair, unable to talk to anyone. I couldn’t help thinking that a dreadful accident might occur. I was terrified my flimsy sleeves would also catch fire, or that my long wig would go up in flames—and having that wretched fuse attached to my hem made me intensely claustrophobic.

  The first take went well, although the burning wall was too hot, and the breeze was blowing the flames in my direction. But everything worked, and afterward I was liberally doused with foam and smothered with blankets once again.

  George, however, wasn’t satisfied. “Not enough flames on the skirt!” he pronounced. So we had to do it once more. At this point, things became really dicey.

  I could feel the intense heat creeping up my backside, and looking down, I could most definitely see the flames . . . but from where George was sitting, they didn’t register on camera. Again and again I darted into the fire, all the while muttering, “Christ, it’s hot!” and then yelling, “Goddammit, George . . . NOW?”

  “No, no, not yet . . .” George replied. “Stay in the flames!”

  As the heat started to scorch my waist, I finally screamed, “Put it out!” More foam, more blankets—and still he felt we hadn’t got the shot.

  “Dinner break!” the assistant director called. I realized I would have to sweat it out for another hour and a half while everyone had supper. I was unable to eat a thing.

  By this time, I was seriously pissed off. I had a sneaking suspicion that George was getting a slight kick out of my misery. After yet another failed attempt, I yelled at him, “You do it! If you can do it, I’ll do it.” Given that it was in front of the whole crew, he couldn’t lose face.

  He headed straight for the burning wall, then broke right, making a complete circle and emerging on the other side, saying, “It is a bit hot in there, isn’t it?”

  It made everyone laugh but me. Eventually, we got the shot. After it was over, I hit a high C to ease my tension, and got a round of applause from the crew.

  Several days later, we saw the dailies. The camera had picked up every detail of the flames engulfing my skirt, yet we could hear George’s voice in the background insisting, “No, no, can’t see a thing!” At that point, I joined in the laughter until I nearly wept.

  Immediately after the fire sequence, we shot the devastating measles epidemic. From storms to fires to plagues, our film was an epic account of the never-ending disasters the missionaries encountered, and subsequently imposed upon the Hawaiian people.

  AS I’D HOPED, my brother Chris did indeed blossom during his stay with me. He took to the sun, the fresh air, and the beauty of the island. He confessed that he’d been getting into drugs at home. Lovely Hawaii gave him a new perspective.

  In early August, Chris and I were invited to Schofield Barracks to visit the 25th Infantry Division. The feeling was that our visit might cheer the troops before they shipped out to Vietnam.

  We traveled by army helicopter to a mock-up of a typical Vietnamese village. We were accompanied by Major General Weyand, who was enormously tolerant of my being there. I felt sure that this sort of visit must be a pain, and a waste of time for him. We were given a live demonstration of how a village was captured and taken, with explosions, gunfire, and fake blood. We also watched a fake ambush enacted with bombs and machine-gun fire, which was extremely realistic and disturbing.

  Afterward, I met with about a hundred and fifty young men, all of whom were due to travel to Vietnam within the next two weeks. When presented with a scroll stating that I was the first honorary member—and first woman—of the 25th Division, I was at a loss for words. Feeling emotional, I mumbled something about being deeply touched, and said that my love and thoughts would be with the men, and that I hoped they would come home safely. Major General Weyand quickly steered me away, quipping that no one would go at all if I carried on much longer. I signed soldiers’ caps, and a number of the fellows gave me their badges, which I still cherish. Those young men nearly broke my heart.

  I HAD A few days off, and jumped at the opportunity to go back to L.A. for a short spell. I managed to see my analyst for one brief session, and discussed Chris; whether I should help him further, and if so, how. Chris was passionate about photography, and I decided to look into photography colleges, either in London, New York, or Los Angeles. When I mentioned this to Chris on my return to Hawaii, he seemed most keen to try his wings outside of England. He decided to come to L.A. I knew this would mean extra responsibility for me, but he was doing so well, and I wanted that to continue.

  While in California, I met briefly with Alfred Hitchcock regarding the upcoming film, Torn Curtain. As I walked into his office, the famous profile was silhouetted against the window.

  “You sent for me, ma’am?” he intoned, in a voice resembling Jeeves the Butler. He was so famous that I was frightened he’d be unapproachable and that we wouldn’t connect, but he turned out to be just the opposite. He was funny and lugubrious about himself, and I learned that he was a great connoisseur of wine and art. I left feeling excited to be working with him.

  Back in Hawaii, we tackled one of my most difficult scenes in the film: the childbirth scene. It took two days to shoot, during which I was “bearing down,” yelling, screaming, acting my head off, flat on my back. I almost passed out from hyperventilation.

  Max was incredibly generous as we filmed this sequence. We seemed to share an unspoken agreement to not break the mood between takes, so while grips, technicians, soundmen, and others went about their work, we stayed together on the bed, chatting quietly and trying to sustain the personal connection the scene required.

  At the end of the day, I was amazed that we’d managed to shoot such an intimate scene in front of the entire crew. I had hardly noticed they were there.

  That evening, my phone rang.

  “Hallo, Julie?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Max von Sydow.”

  “Oh . . . hallo, Max!” The formality of his using his full name made me smile.

  Throat clearing. “Er—how are you?”

  “Fine . . .”

  A pause.

  “Actually, I called for two reasons—well, three. First, I wanted to say I thought you did a wonderful job today. Er—second, that I enjoy working with you. And also—I finished reading The Once and Future King, and I want to thank you for introducing me to T. H. White.”

  I was touched. It had been the most totally absorbing week I’d spent on the film thus far, and I sensed that Max felt the same way.

  THERE WAS ONE other day on Hawaii that I will never forget. Max and I had been summoned from our trailers to the set. As we walked along the golden stretch of beach, Max mentioned that he had always wanted to do Restoration comedy. I was surprised, having only seen him in the dark, dramatic films of Ingmar Bergman.

  To prove the point, he suddenly began doing wonderful antics—whisking a handkerchief out of his sleeve, bowing, cavorting. Being so tall, with elbows and knees so sharp and pointed, and dressed in his narrow black suit and stovepipe hat, he resembled a Jules Feiffer cartoon. I laughed so hard, and he seemed delighted to be amusing me.

  CHRIS EVENTUALLY HEADED back to London. I hoped that when he returned to attend college in L.A., he would still be in good shape.

  My birthday was approaching, and Emma was near to bursting in the days leading up to it. Kay had told her to keep my gift and cards a secret, but my two-year-old kept whispering to me, “We got you a present . . . but shhh! It’s a secret!” Finger to lips, very conspiratorial and dear.

  A couple of days before my actual birthday, she suddenly burst into a full rendition of “Happy Birthday to You,” with dance steps thrown in for good measure.

  On
the big day, Emma was beside herself. She and Kay brought me breakfast in bed, along with presents, and another rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Emma kept stroking my arm, saying, “It’s your birthday, isn’t it, Mummy?” And then of course she opened every gift for me. Adorable!

  At one point during the making of Hawaii, I did a photo shoot with Philippe Halsman for Look magazine. Emma and I strolled along the beach, splashing about and playing with two Labrador retrievers that showed up, Philippe photographing us all the while. The photos were lovely, but I later realized, when the issue was out on the stands and I saw myself and my little girl on the cover, that I had been foolish to allow her to be so publicly exposed. From that moment on, I made a concerted effort to keep Emma away from all cameras, other than my own.

  MY LAST DAY on the film was October 8. Although there were still two weeks left for Max to shoot, there was an early wrap party, and we enjoyed a festive luau.

  Back in Los Angeles, my dear friend Mike Nichols asked if I would like to see a screening of his film adaptation of Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? starring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. He offered to pick me up, and we planned to dine at his place afterward. I brought a delicious trifle for our dessert, knowing how much Mike loved them.

  Mike had recently acquired a Rolls-Royce, and as I slid into the front seat with the trifle bowl on my lap, I marveled at the immaculate soft leather and the exquisite “new car” aroma. We set off, and suddenly Mike had to brake. I watched in horror as the trifle slithered back in its dish toward me, then reversed course and hurtled forward, out of the dish, disappearing into the Rolls air-conditioning vents. I was utterly mortified, but Mike roared with laughter, and assured me it would clean up fine. I later learned that the next time he turned on the air-conditioning, rancid custard squirted all over his passenger.