I took to calling him “Blackie,” partly as an endearing adaptation of “Blake,” and partly because he had such a black sense of humor. When he was being wicked, his dark eyes had an anthracite flash to them. He took the nickname in stride, and told me that in fact, one or two other people also called him that. Apparently, when he arrived in Cortina d’Ampezzo, Italy, to film exterior scenes for the first Pink Panther, he was welcomed by a huge local committee. They had strung a banner across the street, which read “Welcome Blak Edwards.” It was a source of much amusement to Blake and the crew, and “Blak” had morphed into “Blackie.”
Emma took to calling him Blackie, as well. Their first meeting was not until several months into our relationship. Blake stood in front of my fireplace, legs astride, hands clasped behind his back. My three-year-old came into the room, sized him up, and then walked to the fireplace and stood beside him in an identical pose. Looking down at Emma, Blake grinned at her spirited display of equality. In retrospect, it was very much a symbolic representation of what their relationship would eventually become.
IN MARCH, BLAKE and I escaped to Ojai for a weekend away. My mother and Pop had left the day before, somewhat to my relief. My mother had flirted outrageously with Blake, showing a leg and betraying her bawdy nature. I went streaking off to my analyst to complain about this behavior. With a quiet smile, he said, “I think it’s rather delightful that this lady of a certain age still has enough spirit to play the coquette.”
Some mutual friends had very kindly agreed to let Blake and me borrow their farm for a couple of days. We arrived late in the afternoon, and went down to the local market to get some food.
As we were leaving, we spotted a record player. We knew there was no radio up at the farm, so on a whim, we bought it and looked to see what albums we could find. We picked one of Ravel, along with a few others.
At dinnertime, Blake declared, “I’m going to make you one of my famous hamburgers.”
I had no idea what a great cook he was. He served up the biggest hamburger I had ever seen in my life, trimmed with peanut butter, crushed peanuts, cheese, tomato, mayo and mustard on a bun. It was absolutely delicious, but I only managed to get through about a quarter of it. He pretended to be very hurt, but he knew that I’d loved it.
We plugged in the record player and lay on the carpet. The first thing we played was Ravel’s Piano Concerto no. 2. The perfumed Ojai air, the romantic setting, and that glorious piece of music made for a magical evening. That concerto became a beloved favorite of ours, and from then on, Blake and I developed a habit of listening to classical music together. If, after work or a dinner out, say, we heard a compelling piece on the car radio, we would remain in the darkness even after we’d pulled into the garage, and hold hands until it concluded.
SOON THEREAFTER, MY new beau asked me to come with him to Newport Beach. He wanted to show me his boat.
“You have a boat?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, I have three.”
“Well, lah-di-dah!” I thought.
“I’m in the process of selling two of them,” he explained. “This is a small motor yacht that I’ve just acquired. She’s called Tempest.”
Tempest was trim and classy, and I instantly fell in love with her.
Over Easter, Blake and I escaped on the boat for a week’s vacation. Emma was on holiday with Tony, so I had the luxury of time to spare. We boarded on Good Friday, intending to head south to Mexico. All was panic and bustle. I met Blake’s associate producer, Ken Wales, and his wife, Kären, who were joining us for the trip, along with the boat’s skipper and first mate. There were cases, crates, cartons, a typewriter, a vacuum cleaner, and endless paper bags filled with foodstuffs lying around everywhere.
By the time we pulled away from the harbor, I thought I might burst with impatience and happiness. I stood on the bridge and gazed out at the sea, inhaling the fresh air. The skipper pointed out John Wayne’s boat—the Wild Goose—heading in the other direction, going home to Newport. We pulled into San Diego in the early evening.
That night I wrote in my diary:
A million thoughts . . . and a feeling of expectation. What will this trip reveal? Will I be mentally refreshed? Will I ever want to work again? Blake and I look a little grey in the bright light. We’ll soon change that, I think.
We had decided to travel all day and night to make it to Turtle Bay in Baja California by Easter Sunday. I adored the feeling of being rocked by the sea as I slept . . . though I quickly discovered that showering while under way was something of a comedy act. We saw whales and porpoises, flying fish and seabirds, and as I so often did, I thought of my dad and how much he would have loved it.
Days and nights blended into one long round of sleep and sun and sea. We spent nights in Santa Maria and Cabo San Lucas, dining on local abalone and fresh yellowtail caught by our crew. Blake and the others planned to sail on to Acapulco, but I had to return to L.A. at the end of the week. I had been nominated for an Academy Award for The Sound of Music, and had agreed to be a presenter and to accept on behalf of Bob Wise if he won for directing. Julie Christie won for Best Actress that year, which was expected, since actors don’t normally receive Oscars two years in a row. Happily, our film picked up five awards, including Best Picture and Best Director.
Alas, it was a while before I saw Tempest again, as I was about to start work on a new project.
SOMETIME DURING THE shooting of Torn Curtain, George Roy Hill had come to my house to discuss another film he hoped we would do together. Thoroughly Modern Millie was a stylized valentine to the 1920s. Ross Hunter, who specialized in glamorous comedies and dramas, was the producer for Universal Studios.
George described a concept he’d been toying with for the look of the movie. Though it was to be shot in color, George envisioned a black-and-white palette, with one additional key color for each important scene. He also envisioned that I would engage in direct-to-camera glances from time to time that would break the fourth wall.
The more we read through the script, the more we laughed.
“It’s so silly!” George kept saying. I had to agree. Seeing him crack up, I realized that I had never known this side of him on Hawaii. That had been such a huge, serious endeavor, and had made so many demands on us both. Since we were now good friends, the opportunity to work together again, especially on something lighthearted, was very appealing.
Shooting for Millie commenced in May of 1966. Joe Layton was our choreographer, and his assistant, Buddy Schwab, had been in the company of The Boy Friend with me on Broadway in 1954. The cast included Carol Channing, Mary Tyler Moore, Beatrice Lillie, John Gavin, and James Fox.
Elmer Bernstein was to score the film, and André Previn was commissioned to arrange and conduct all the songs, which were mostly standards from the 1910s and 1920s, along with a few original songs by Jimmy Van Heusen and Sammy Cahn. Having had an early exposure to twenties music in The Boy Friend, I delighted in the familiar flat cymbals, the soprano saxes and clarinets, and the spare, wacky sound.
Ten days after we began shooting, I received word that my stepfather, Pop, had died after a series of small strokes. My brother Chris was still living with me and attending photography school. Mum telephoned us with the news, and I told her that we would get on the first flight possible. It would have to be a mad turnaround, as the studio couldn’t spare me for more than a day or two.
Fortunately, Emma was away with Kay visiting Tony in New York, so I didn’t have to make arrangements for her. I made a plan for Chris and me to get on a red-eye flight to arrive in London the following morning, attend the funeral that afternoon, and return home the same evening. Strangely, our flight was canceled, and there wasn’t another until the following day, by which time we would have missed the funeral. I called my mother to tell her, and she agreed that it didn’t make sense to come.
To be truthful, while I was saddened, I felt a measure of relief at the thought of my mother finally being releas
ed from Pop’s alcoholism and abuse. Even so, I knew Mum wished I could have been there, and I was wracked with guilt that I wasn’t able to support her when she needed it most.
I BEGAN TO notice that Chris was behaving in a strange manner. I said to Blake, “I don’t know what it is with him. He’s evasive; he’s never really present. He sleeps till all hours, and his room is an absolute mess.”
Blake looked at me for a moment, then said, “Julie, he’s probably on drugs.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Believe me,” Blake said. “I know.”
Given what Chris had told me in Hawaii, it made sense, but I hadn’t connected the dots. My analyst advised me to get Chris into therapy, and I promptly did, but I was beginning to have doubts as to whether I could do anything to truly help my youngest brother with his troubles.
THESE DISTURBING EVENTS notwithstanding, the work on Millie was a pleasant distraction. I think the entire company felt it was a joyful experience. Every nuance we found as we went along delighted us. The film allowed me to be something of a clown, which was welcome after the seriousness of Hawaii and Torn Curtain.
Mary Tyler Moore and I became fast friends. I’d originally wondered if I should play her role and she should play mine, because she was so great at comedy. But George was insistent that my sort of “chirpiness” would be the appropriate thing for Millie, whereas Mary was better suited to being the classy Long Island heiress.
Her character’s name was Miss Dorothy, and some years later, seeing her in a supermarket, I yelled across the aisle, “Miss Dorothy!” She responded instantly, “Millie!” We never referred to each other as anything else.
Carol Channing was charmingly eccentric. Though she was the darling of Broadway, she’d made very few films, and she had serious problems with her vision. This contributed to her signature look of wide-eyed vulnerability. Carol confided to me that she was quite nervous about being on a film set, so I made it a point to be there for her whenever I could, and she seemed to really appreciate it.
When I heard that the great comedienne Bea Lillie was cast, I was thrilled. I don’t think anyone else knew how huge a star she had been in England. Sadly, she was now suffering from early dementia, and she couldn’t remember her lines. We used cue cards, and when I was off-camera in a scene with her, I fed her the lines and she repeated them back to me. Nevertheless, her comic timing remained faultless.
One day, we were filming a sequence outside a supposed Chinese fireworks factory. We were on the back lot of Universal, and there was a large crowd of extras all dressed in Chinese “pajama” suits. Suddenly, someone slammed into my shoulder, and I stumbled.
I turned around and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” thinking it had been my fault for not looking where I was going.
As I made eye contact, I realized I was speaking to Blake’s friend Dick Crockett, the stuntman who had been prickly with me at the screening we’d attended. I’m pretty sure he bumped into me deliberately to see how Blake’s new lady would respond. The fact that I didn’t show any irritation must have won him over, because from then on, he became my protector and friend.
Toward the end of the film, I inadvertently closed a set for the second time in my life due to laughter. I was doing a scene with John Gavin, who was absurdly handsome and playing a “Dudley Do-Right” sort of character. The square of his jaw and the jut of his pipe between clenched teeth, combined with an extra-silly line reading, set me to giggling. Eventually I put my head on the desk and simply sobbed with laughter. My “vamp” makeup ran in rivulets, and it would have taken at least an hour to repair, so George called a wrap for the day. I slunk home, shamefaced but grateful.
Shooting for Millie wrapped at the end of August. Unfortunately, Universal Studios decided that the film was going to be a box office bonanza, and they refused to make any of the cuts George wanted. He’d envisioned a light soufflé of an entertainment, but the Universal brass wanted to keep it road-show length, and even burdened it with an intermission. I met with Lew Wasserman, the head of the studio, to advocate for George’s version, but received a condescending put-down in response. George quit before the film was scored and finished. Although there is much to love about Thoroughly Modern Millie, I feel that it could have been an even better movie if our director’s cut had been allowed.
DURING THAT SUMMER of ’66, my dad and stepmother, Win, came to visit. When Blake and my father first met, they were as wary as two bucks circling each other. I think that Dad wanted to carefully assess this new man in my life.
One evening, contrary to pleasant dining protocol, we got into a discussion about capital punishment. To my total surprise, my dad said, “I believe in an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. The punishment should match the deed.”
I’d never heard him express that point of view. Blake argued for incarceration and studying the criminal mind to better understand what led to aberrant behavior. The conversation became quite heated, and the evening ended on an acrimonious note. Blake thought nothing of it, but I said to him later, “I’m so sad. My dad used to be the most open-minded, generous man. He was nonjudgmental and fair to everyone. I guess there comes a time later in life when one’s opinions become inflexible.”
The following morning, I went for an early swim. I heard a splash, and discovered my dad in the pool beside me. We did a couple of laps together, then he rested his elbows on the tiled edge and said, “About last night, Chick . . . I’m not sure—but Blake’s got a point, I think.”
I loved him for that more than I can say. Later, I relayed the story to Blake. “Dad still has an open mind,” I said. “It just takes him a little longer to get there these days.”
From then on, Blake and my dad embarked on a friendship rooted in affection and mutual respect.
HAWAII HAD ITS premiere in New York in early October. While I was there, I saw several of the productions Tony had designed, including screenings of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum and Fahrenheit 451. Our friendship had never wavered—after all, we’d known each other since we were twelve and thirteen years old. Despite the fact that I was dating Blake, and Tony had just started seeing a lovely lady by the name of Genevieve (Gen) LeRoy, who had a daughter just a year younger than Emma, my “ex” very generously escorted me to the premiere of Hawaii. The film was warmly received by the critics, and I was delighted with the way George’s monumental piece of work had turned out.
On my return to L.A., I went into the hospital for foot surgery. For most of my life I had suffered from painful bunions, aggravated by wearing too-tight shoes as a child, since my parents could seldom afford new ones. The 1920s-style pumps I wore in Thoroughly Modern Millie had cut across my instep and caused further inflammation; I was now in chronic pain, constantly removing my shoes to rub my sore feet. It was clearly time to do something about it.
Blake insisted that I recuperate at his house, for which I was truly grateful. Emma and I moved in with him for two weeks, during which time Blake spoiled me royally with flowers, meals, and chauffeured follow-up visits to the doctor. The surgery had involved cutting bone, and the recovery was painful and slow. I couldn’t wear proper shoes for weeks. My surgeon suggested that I buy a pair of sneakers, cut out the toe box, and leave the sole and laces, giving me a platform to walk on and a modicum of support, with no pressure on my scars.
When I was just able to get up on my feet, I visited my analyst. After my session, I came out of his door and began shuffling slowly to the elevator. I heard a door open behind me, and suddenly felt an arm around my shoulders. A complete stranger said to me, “Oh, come now, it can’t be that bad . . .” He was another analyst on the same floor as mine, and he had obviously assumed that I’d just had the worst therapy session ever. I pointed to my feet, we both laughed, and he apologized profusely.
ON NEW YEAR’S EVE, Blake and I invited some friends, including André Previn and his wife, Dory, over to my house for a late supper. We had just finished drinks and hor
s d’oeuvres when the most exquisite sound emanated from the courtyard. I looked out the window, then said to Blake, “There’s a whole group of people outside!”
“Well, open the door!” he replied, with a twinkle in his eye.
It was the Young Americans, a singing group comprised of young men and women between the ages of fifteen and twenty-one, who were all the rage at the time. Blake had invited them to come and serenade us into the New Year.
“This is amazing!” I said. “But—I don’t have food for everyone!”
“Honey, relax,” he said. “Hot chocolate and dinner for all is being delivered as we speak.”
The Young Americans spread out in my living room, on the steps of my open staircase, on the floor, and all along the hearth. Some had brought guitars; André played the piano; I sang, they sang, and we all shared a magical evening of music, long into the night.
7
DURING THE SOUND OF MUSIC, Bob Wise and Saul Chaplin had discussed with me a possible film based on the life of the famous British actress and singer Gertrude Lawrence. The darling of London and Broadway in the 1920s and ’30s, “Gertie” was well known for her friendship with Noël Coward, who wrote several highly successful plays for her. Her career culminated in the role of Anna Leonowens, opposite Yul Brynner in the Rodgers and Hammerstein Broadway musical The King and I.
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