Home Work

by Julie Andrews

  On March 18, we began shooting. That evening, I wrote:

  I think I functioned in a fairly normal manner, and managed to conceal my extreme nerves at working with Blake, but inside I felt distant, unconnected and wary. What will working together do to our relationship?

  Blake was obviously nervous, too, for that first day he paced endlessly and worked himself into a state. I eventually discovered that this was his modus operandi whenever he began work on a new project, whether directing or writing. Much like me, once he found his footing and felt at home with his concept and choices, he was able to settle down.

  Blake was trying out a new technique called “video assist,” which he was an early pioneer of, along with Jerry Lewis. A video camera was set on top of the film camera to record each scene simultaneously. In later years, it became integrated within the camera itself, which is how the equipment works today. The best thing about it was that it allowed the company to immediately see a scene that had just been shot, rather than waiting for the dailies to come back a day or so later. This saved an enormous amount of time, money, and film footage. It was the first time I’d had this kind of immediate feedback, and it was invaluable in terms of correcting a choice, an angle, a costume malfunction, and so on. Darling Lili is credited as being one of the first films to employ this technique, in addition to Blake’s The Party.

  Most of the early weeks of shooting were spent on the set of the Café Can-Can. I was filled with admiration for Blake’s cinematic knowledge. He occasionally discarded the formal techniques of a master shot, and subsequent close angles, in favor of a more fluid kind of movement. The camera was constantly following the actors or shifting focus, which for me was very new. Our entire crew was enthusiastic about working this way—one day, they burst into applause at the creativity of a certain zoom lens shot.

  Rock Hudson, who played Major Larrabee, Lili’s American love interest, joined us in the third week of shooting. We had met briefly before filming began, but we didn’t know each other well, and our first scene together required a passionate kiss—not easy when the director of the film happens to be your beau, and says, “That was fine, darling, but I know you can do it better!”

  Rock turned out to be affable, funny, and a generous acting partner. That said, he was a private man, and we didn’t see much of each other beyond the set.

  Blake’s and my physician, Dr. Herb Tanney, was not only a good friend and a superb diagnostician, he was also a wannabe actor. He once said to Blake that he’d love to have a walk-on role in a movie, to impress his five daughters. Herb was warm and cuddly, but not remotely photogenic, and he couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag. Nevertheless, Blake gave him a walk-on in Darling Lili. In the years that followed, there wasn’t a movie in which Tanney didn’t appear; he became a sort of lucky mascot for Blake.

  For this debut performance, Blake cast Herb as a “gypsy violinist,” since he could actually play the violin. Herb had jokingly said to Blake that he should have his own dressing room, and to my surprise, Blake concurred. It was to be the first of many pranks that Blake played on Herb. The dressing room was the oldest trailer on the lot. It was a tiny wooden square on two wheels, and the prop department decorated it as tastelessly as possible, with cobwebs hanging from the walls and ceiling, a leopard-skin throw on the small sofa, and hideous bric-a-brac. Herb took it all in stride.

  Just before we left for location shooting in Europe, we filmed a scene on a train where Lili becomes unglued. Blake wanted me to really cry, and I was having a hard time letting go. Knowing that I had an absolute phobia of loud explosions—gunshots, balloons bursting, fireworks—he had the foolish idea to shoot off a revolver unexpectedly, thinking it would so upset me that I’d weep authentically.

  When the gun went off, I became icy with rage. I spun around and said, “Don’t do that!” My anger did lead to tears, mostly from fright. Because he needed them for the scene, and I didn’t want to publicly embarrass him, I allowed them to flow. That said, he shouldn’t have done it, and he knew it. Later he apologized, and never played a trick like that again.

  THE DIVORCE FROM Patty had by now gone through, and although Blake wasn’t pressuring me further about getting married, he did pointedly remark that it was somewhat inappropriate for me to still be married to one man while seriously dating another. I knew he was right, and that it was time to take the next step forward. While I still wasn’t ready to jump into another marriage, I talked with Tony, who had by now moved in with Gen, and we agreed to file for divorce.

  Nevertheless, on the morning I was due to appear at the courthouse, I was an emotional basket case. I slipped into Emma’s room to check on her. She was still asleep, and I crawled into her bed, fully clothed, and cuddled her. I’m not sure who was supposed to be comforting whom. I was so reluctant to hurt her, or Tony, or anyone else. Even though Tony wouldn’t be in attendance, and I only had to show up with my lawyer and affirm my decision before a judge, I felt like a complete failure. It was one of the most miserable days of my life.

  Five days later, Blake, Emma, her new nanny Rosemary, Ken, Kären, and I departed for Dublin, Ireland, where location shooting was to commence at the end of May. Though the film was set in France, Ireland had been chosen for its “unblemished” countryside—it had few visible television aerials or other modern contraptions, which would have damaged our World War I period look. We also needed the very talented Irish Air Force, who had been hired to perform the flight sequences.

  We would be both living and filming at Carton House, a magnificent Georgian manor house originally built in the seventeenth century. Set on a thousand acres of gently rolling countryside in County Kildare, Carton has magnificent views from every room. Our company had rented the private estate to serve as the location for many of the interior and exterior scenes in the film, and also as housing for our family.

  There were two dining rooms; endless bedrooms (including a “Chinese Boudoir” where Queen Victoria had once stayed); and a large kitchen with a vast fireplace and a cauldron on a swinging arm.

  The massive property had beautifully manicured formal gardens; a medieval tower on a far hillside; and a huge lake with an island in the center of it, along with a boathouse, herons, swans, and ducks. There was also a working dairy decorated with delft tiles; stables with Gothic arches over the stalls; kennels, vegetable gardens, pens for breeding wild fowl, a bird sanctuary, and acres of beech woods. Hedgerows were filled with blossoming hawthorn trees, rhododendrons, primroses, bluebells, daisies, and daffodils. At the back of the house, there was a rose garden surrounded by neat box hedges. There was also a Gothic “folly” known as “Shell Cottage,” since its interior walls were decorated with shells from all over the world.

  During the first week or two at Carton, I almost forgot that the film company existed, and kept thinking I was on holiday. The days seemed to be a blend of beautiful fresh mornings, cloudy or sunny afternoons, and long twilight evenings. I roamed around with Emma, both of us wearing sturdy Wellington boots, inhaling the glorious country air. Sometimes a wall of rain crossed our view, as if a curtain were being drawn across the scene. I poured tea in silver servers for visitors and checked on fires and mealtimes, very much enjoying the game of being “Lady Muck.”

  It wasn’t all tea and crumpets, though. Blake developed a painful strep throat, and lost his voice. A local physician prescribed antibiotics, which helped. This was the first I’d seen of many “health crises” that Blake continued to have over the ensuing years whenever a new project was beginning. There was no doubt that he was genuinely unwell each time, but I was starting to realize that he was also a serious hypochondriac.

  Emma, on the other hand, was absolutely thriving during her summer vacation. Her cheeks were rosy from being outside all day. We had horses to ride, with a pony for Emma. With so much privacy on the large property, I didn’t fear for her safety, and was happy to let her come and go.

  One afternoon, Emma and I were out riding, and we
ended up in the formal gardens at the back of the house. Blake had been resting in our bedroom—but hearing our repeated calls, he came out onto the balcony.

  Suddenly, with a loud roar, six colorful World War I planes barreled down from the sky and flew low over Carton House. Those crazy Irish pilots flew around and around—banking and dipping, obviously “buzzing” their director. Standing on the balcony with his arms folded, Blake looked rather like Napoleon reviewing his troops. We waved and cheered, encouraging them to go around once more before the squadron finally disappeared into the dusk.

  However, the work we were there to do was inevitable, and eventually the assistant director and members of the crew arrived for meetings and to begin preproduction.

  I RECEIVED A letter from my dad saying he was on his own for a few days, as Win had gone to see Shad, who was now living in Yorkshire. It occurred to me that he might like to come over on a spur-of-the-moment visit. I phoned him just as he’d returned home from teaching, and he was eating scrambled eggs and cornflakes. It was one of his great pleasures to cook scrambled eggs, stir in some crispy cornflakes at the last minute, put the warm pan on his knees, and eat directly from it. “One-stop cooking,” he always said. I invited Dad to pop over for the weekend, and he was all for it.

  We had a grand few days together. Dad spent most of the weekend out and about, and even biked around the entire estate. At some point, he mentioned how appalling it was to him that one family could have owned so much—a grand manor house on a thousand acres, with outlying farms and holdings beyond that.

  I said to him, “True, Dad . . . but at least in those days, every cottage was full, and everyone had a job. So many people maintained the estate, cared for the gardens and livestock, and provided for the larger community.” Later, he returned to the subject and said, “I’ve been thinking about it, Chick, and you’re absolutely right.”

  I hoped I might be able to treat my mother to a similar visit, but as she so often did, she declined to come.

  LOCATION SHOOTING BEGAN at the Gaiety Theatre in Dublin. I went in ahead of time to work with our choreographer, Hermes Pan, and to get used to the Gaiety stage. Hermes had been Fred Astaire’s principal choreographer, and I was somewhat awed to be working with him, albeit in a minor capacity.

  Driving into the city, I was feeling a little lost at being off the estate and out in the “big world” again. I began to look around me, and suddenly had a rush of memories. The houses, the people, the villages, all vividly reminded me of touring England in my early teens when I was performing in vaudeville.

  I wrote:

  I noticed an ancient couple—hobbling and bent, their arms linked, making their way slowly and painfully to the shops. Another old woman had her hand on her back as she walked, and still another was buying a huge head of fish—dead and gaping—from a street stall. I noticed a young boy in a shiny, boot-black suit and an old cap, stroking a weary cart horse, and a big, shaggy dog, running alone with a pipe in its mouth. I saw a man with a waistcoat and long overcoat, but no shirt collar, tie or socks.

  The biggest sense memory occurred when I arrived at the Gaiety. I picked my way through the front entrance, over a thousand electrical cables, through the main bar smelling of stale beer and cigarettes, through the pass door, into the “green room,” and then on to the dark stage—and my past came up and hit me right between the eyes. There were the old footlights—colored celluloids broken, the orchestra pit with its surrounding brass rail, the center microphone that rose up out of the trap, the faded gold proscenium, the dusty, tasseled house curtain, and the three tiers out in front—circle, upper circle and balcony.

  Suddenly I remembered Monday mornings and band calls—getting my orchestrations laid out on stage in time for rehearsal, placing them to the right of the band books already down ahead of mine, and waiting my turn. Unpacking the steamer trunks each week, and climbing endless stairs to the wardrobe room at the top of the theater in order to press my theatrical gowns. The halting, uneasy first performance on Monday nights, and the difficult 2nd “houses” on Saturdays. The smell of paint, turpentine, and dust, the depressing staleness—and the awful pretense of glamour.

  Hermes remarked that I looked sad—and I was. Stunned, is maybe the word. It wasn’t until I began rehearsing the song with him that I pulled out of my reverie and returned to the world of 1968.

  At the Gaiety, we shot all the theater scenes in the film. We had about five hundred local extras for our audience, with marvelous faces full of character. Between takes, they sang Irish songs. When Blake appeared at the start of the day, they raised the roof with their cheers, then sang a rousing rendition of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” On my last day with them, they presented me with a bouquet of flowers and sang a song inviting me back to Ireland again one day.

  When Rock arrived, we moved outdoors to film the dawn flyover of Larrabee’s squadron, which was actually shot at sunset. The evening heat brought out a million little gnats, and within seconds, I was covered in them. They were attracted to the glue holding my wig in place, and were crawling all over my scalp and biting. I nearly went mad. I wanted to tear the hair from my head, but our light was fading, and it was essential to get the shot. I did my best to keep calm—even put a plastic bag over my wig to prevent any new invaders, and sat in a car between takes. But I was utterly miserable, and ready to scream. Rock, on the other hand, sailed through the scene without so much as a nibble. When the wig finally came off, I looked like I had the measles.

  Another evening, Blake and I discovered about fifty huge bluebottle flies buzzing around our bedroom. Blake vowed to “get ’em”—and get ’em he did. He rolled up a newspaper tightly, and for the next half hour he proceeded to hurl it at the flies with unerring aim, and with lethal results. He leapt about from the bed to the chairs to the floor, throwing the paper straight up above him like an exploding rocket, or hurling it across the room like a boomerang. I was under the covers most of the time, as it seemed to be raining bluebottles. Eventually, the last fly bit the dust. My hero!

  On June 5, we heard the terrible news of Senator Robert Kennedy’s assassination. It was a somber time, as we reflected on the enormity of the Kennedy family’s loss and what it meant for the United States. We felt very far from home.

  Geoff and Jenny came for several visits, and my dad came again, this time with Win. Dad was a huge fan of cricket, rugby, and soccer, and Blake was passionate about American football. Occasionally they sparred about which was better. Dad attempted to teach Blake the principles of batting, and seeing them playing together was the first time I realized how genuinely fond of my dad Blake was. I suspected that Dad was the father Blake wished he’d had.

  One miraculous Sunday, Blake and I had Carton all to ourselves. Emma was in London visiting Tony, and everyone else was out for the day.

  In the morning we rode together, just the two of us, slowly walking the horses around the estate in the sunshine. At lunch, we had a hilarious episode. The old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece over the fireplace struck two o’clock at 1 p.m.—it had never chimed correctly since we’d been there—so Blake vowed to fix it. He stopped the mechanism, slipped the hands around carefully, and it chimed perfectly each time: nine o’clock, ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, twelve . . . and at last, to one, whereupon again the clock struck twice. We then wondered what would happen at two o’clock, so we moved the hands forward—but it correctly struck two. Round we went again, laboriously waiting for each hour to chime. The room was filled with ding-dongs, and our ears were splitting. Finally, we reached one o’clock again—and again, two chimes. I was on the floor with laughter. Forevermore that clock struck two at one o’clock, though it was perfectly able to strike one at the half hour. We adored it so much that I bought it from the owners as a surprise gift for Blake’s birthday.

  That afternoon, we went for a walk to the bird sanctuary, passing through a gate that led to a path alongside the water. Suddenly, hundreds of ducks, mostly chick
s, emerged from the reeds and floated down the river like a miniature armada. They came toward us, then hopped up onto the embankment in single file. They walked through tunnels in the high grass, staying close together—milling around us, gently nibbling our shoelaces, reaching up to see if we’d feed them. When they discovered we had no food, they did an about-face, as if at a given signal, and walked back along the same paths, to return to the water. I’ll never forget the enraptured smile on Blake’s face.

  After dinner, we took a boat out onto the lake. We laughed at a swan who seemingly got his jollies from flapping into mad flight toward us, skimming the water like a jumbo jet, then calmly easing back in a few feet away. We felt so rested and happy that evening, and we vowed to try for another such day—though alas, we were so busy that no such opportunity presented itself again.

  CHARLIE BLUHDORN, the film’s producer, came over to check on the film’s progress. He visited the set, chatted with Blake, saw the dailies, and talked to the production manager. His visit happened to coincide with a day when the crew was waiting for some clouds to appear to match something that had already been shot. Apparently, it seemed to Charlie that everyone was just lolling around in the brilliant sunshine, doing nothing. This resulted in his ordering the top brass, Bob Evans and Bernie Donnenfeld, to visit the set themselves—much to Blake’s chagrin.

  The following day, I returned from an invitation to tea at the local convent to discover that Bob Evans and Bernie Donnenfeld had arrived. They were in a heated conversation with Blake. We had intended to shoot the entire film on location in Ireland, but after the visit with the Paramount brass and because of the relentless weather challenges, Blake was forced to move the company to France. Just before we were to make the move, a series of student uprisings and strikes in Paris diverted us to Belgium instead.