Brussels was a total culture shock after Ireland. We stayed in a bizarre rented house full of stuffed animals—not the toy kind; the taxidermy kind. There was a fox, a pheasant, a cat on a chair, a dog by the fire, even a bird in a cage. Appalled, we crammed them all into a closet and shut the door.
Over the next three weeks, we shot many locations that served as suitable substitutes for Paris. During that time, Star! had a royal premiere in London. I had hoped to attend, and right up until the last minute I thought I might be able to fly in, but we were night shooting and I didn’t make it. I felt simply awful about it—I knew I was letting down that company and disappointing my family, who were planning to be there—but there was nothing I could do. I was miserable, and the British press were none too pleased with me either.
The Darling Lili company was finally able to transfer to Paris, where we were to film some scenes at the Louvre. Blake had determined that one shot would be by the famed Winged Victory statue. Rock and I rehearsed the scene once, and then a long wait ensued—so long that we sensed something was wrong. We soon discovered what it was: blue smoke from the carbons in our arc lights had filled the room and was threatening the priceless art. Mayhem followed, as skylights that hadn’t been used in years were frantically opened. The curator of the museum was called, and our work was suspended. André Malraux, the French minister of cultural affairs, was brought in, and we were forbidden to continue filming there.
We were all devastated. We were ready to shoot, the Victory had been brilliantly lit, and Rock and I were fully rehearsed. Finally, we were given five minutes by the authorities to get our shot, and get our lights off the premises. It could have been done—the scene lasts no more than a minute—but it wasn’t our day. Two of the arcs began to flutter, and our five minutes went up in smoke, as it were. I was heartsick, and Blake was a wreck. In the end, we were given a small reprieve; we were told that if it was possible to light the shot with smaller, non-carbon lamps, we could go back and try it. We did—although Blake was none too happy with the result.
Another of our locations was the Villa Windsor in the Bois de Boulogne; home of the former King Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson, the American woman for whom he abdicated the throne. We only shot exteriors in the courtyard, but the Duke would occasionally step onto a balcony, and watch the proceedings. At one point, he came down for a brief visit, and we struck up a conversation about the riots in Paris. The Duke said to Blake and me, “Those students are throwing Molotov cocktails at our poor policemen. I wouldn’t be a policeman for all the tea in China.”
I couldn’t help thinking, “Well, sir, you could never have been a policeman in the first place!”
One evening, Blake and I were returning to the Hôtel Le Bristol after a long, hot day of filming. Just as we arrived, the heavens opened. We stood by the car for a moment and let the summer rain wash over us. Then we leaned in and kissed each other, long and very sweetly—much to the delight of the front doorman.
GEOFF AND JENNY came to visit again, and all three children had a fine time together. In the evenings, I read them a favorite book from my childhood, The Little Grey Men, which they seemed to enjoy. They were, however, often unruly and left chaos in their wake—so one day, in desperation, I devised a game. If they managed to keep their rooms tidy, pick up their laundry, and brush their teeth, they’d win a prize. If not, they’d pay a forfeit.
“You have to play, too,” Jenny said. When I asked her what I had to do for my side of the bargain, she replied, “You have to stop swearing so much.”
I wasn’t aware that I’d been swearing, but apparently the kids had noticed an uptick in my use of juicy adjectives. Needless to say, I was the first to lose the game. I asked Jenny what my forfeit should be.
“Write me a story,” she said.
As I began to think about that story, I realized that I wanted it to be special—something meaningful and substantive for her. I remembered the charming Shell Cottage at Carton, and decided to write about a young orphan girl named Mandy, who discovers a similar abandoned dwelling, and tries to make it her own.
When I shyly mentioned the idea to Blake, he said, “That’s really charming. Do it! And don’t stop writing. Just let the pages build and build.”
I started working on Mandy whenever I had a spare moment, and was surprised by how much I enjoyed the writing process.
THE DAY BEFORE Geoff and Jenny were scheduled to return home, Blake suggested that we accompany them back to London for the weekend.
“I think it would be easier on them,” he said. “None of those awful goodbyes at the airport, and I can meet with Patty to discuss the kids. You’ve been wanting to see your mum and her new cottage . . . this might be a good moment.”
I agreed that it sounded like a good idea.
I asked Rosemary and my assistant, Joan, to look after Emma, and to take her to an ice cream parlor as a special treat. Emma seemed excited at the prospect.
Once in London, we checked into the Dorchester Hotel, where Geoff and Jenny were to spend the night with us. My arrival seemed to send my family into a tizzy. Don made plans to collect my mother, who was down at the coast in her holiday trailer. He arranged for her new cottage to be cleaned, and notified the architect and his wife, who began to organize a lunch for us all. I worried about everyone going to so much trouble, since I was only able to visit for a couple of hours.
In the car to Walton, I stared out at the rain. Hyde Park was awash, but I was so lost in my own thoughts that I hardly noticed the scenery. Geoff and Jenny had slept poorly due to a storm in the night, and they had looked tired and pale as I left. Blake would be meeting with Patty when he dropped them off, which made me feel strangely anxious, though I didn’t really know why—something about the past intruding on the present—and visiting Walton, with all its attendant memories, was always unsettling.
When my car pulled up to Mum’s new, as yet unfurnished cottage, the familiar driveway was totally waterlogged. I picked my way across a large plank leading to the front door, rain still pouring down. Mum, Auntie, Donald and his family, my former sister-in-law Jen (Walton) Gosney, and the architect and his wife were all there to greet me.
I had expected the cottage to feel small, but it was remarkably roomy, and I liked it immediately. There was central heating, and a nice kitchen with a separate dining area.
Staring out of the French windows, I could just see the old house further up the drive, behind the trees. It was sad to see it standing in the rain, run-down and unloved. I didn’t want to go near it. I knew it would be dark, cold, and filthy inside, and filled with ghosts of the past. I didn’t want to see my former bedroom, or the damp lounge where I’d sat alone, practicing my singing for so many hours. I hated the thought of the overgrown orchard behind the house, the untended rose arbor, and the abandoned tennis court. Presumably the planned council housing would replace it all. At least the new cottage was warm and bright, and promised a better existence for my mother. Perhaps, once a screen of trees and a new fence were installed, she wouldn’t have to be reminded of her former life.
Eventually, everyone left except for Mum, Auntie, and Jen. We stood in the empty living room. A small fire made of leftover pieces of wood burned in the fireplace—the one cheerful thing in the drab early afternoon. I longed to sit down, but there was not enough room for us all on the stairs, and the floors were muddy.
All too soon, it was time for me to leave. I could tell that my mother was near tears; it was hard to know when we’d see each other again. I sensed that although she had her brand-new house, she had not yet found a brand-new life. She was still a lost and lonely lady—more so since Pop’s death. No matter how much she occupied herself with the new cottage, it wouldn’t be a home until she filled it with a new history. We clasped each other, me blinking furiously. Then Mum, Auntie, and Jen drove off to have their lunch with the architect and his wife. I was much relieved that she had company.
Back at the hotel, Blake shared that
the meeting with Patty had gone well, although it had been a strain. When it came time for goodbyes, Geoff had nearly broken Blake’s heart by whispering, “Am I being brave, Daddy?”
I spoke of my afternoon, my impressions of my old home and family, and found myself once again fighting back tears.
An hour or so later, we headed for the airport, but with rain delays it was one-thirty in the morning when we arrived back at Le Bristol. As we climbed into bed, Blake turned out the light. We raised up on our elbows and kissed each other.
“Good night, darling. I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too,” I said, settling down. Then, as wave after wave of fatigue rolled over me and the world began to fall away, I said, “God—I feel as if I’ve been through about nine emotional blankets this weekend! What with family and fatigue and weather, and . . . well, the whole damn thing of just being in England!”
“Oh, that’s right . . .” Blake murmured sleepily. “We were in England, weren’t we?”
9
OUR FILM COMPANY made an unexpected return to Ireland, to reshoot some scenes in Darling Lili and to capture a few new shots that had been added. It was a delight to be back at Carton, which was now in early autumn splendor.
It happened to be my birthday while we were there. I was working with Zoë most of that day in a photo shoot, and unbeknownst to me, Blake had planned a surprise party; we were to have dinner in the grand dining room with about twenty guests, mostly members of the cast and crew. Ken’s wife, Kären, garlanded the marble pillars with flowers, and the long table was bedecked with silver candelabra, the finest linen, and the best china, the way it must have been in days gone by.
Blake had arranged for three different groups of musicians to entertain us: a group of minstrels wandered around the table singing old Irish ballads while we dined; a more modern band played contemporary Irish songs during dessert; and later in the evening, another ensemble played popular favorites in the library as we took coffee and occasionally sang along. It was a wonderful evening, and I so appreciated the effort it had taken to pull it all together.
Location shooting finally wrapped, and we headed back to Los Angeles. Having spent the entire summer living together, it seemed unthinkable for Blake and me to go back to our separate homes. Blake moved into my newly renovated house in Hidden Valley, and that was that.
Filming resumed at the studios, and we shot the opening song, “Whistling in the Dark.” Blake’s concept was to shoot the song in one complete take, which required an enormous amount of rehearsal, special lighting effects, and disciplined camera work involving focus changes and cable-pulling. I danced with the camera, moving this way and that, which required that I hit my marks exactly and lip-sync without fault from start to finish. It took the whole day, but Blake and I went home that evening feeling we had achieved something quite special together. It was a beautiful piece of filmmaking on Blake’s part.
Despite the tensions with the studio with respect to budget and schedule overages, Blake and I felt good about the film. We had so enjoyed working together. We agreed that, although we would not be mutually exclusive to each other, we would try to work together as often as possible. Our newly combined family, with the children’s various comings and goings and their adjustments to our shared life, was also a priority. We began to look for other projects to collaborate on.
Although my agent had been discussing other film options for me with various different studios, most of the roles offered felt too close to Mary Poppins, and I was keen to avoid repetition. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was one example. It was to star Dick Van Dyke, and Marc Breaux and Dee Dee Wood were choreographing. Songs were being written by the Sherman Brothers. As tempting as it was to work with them all again, I felt it might seem as though I were trying to recycle my Poppins image, so I regretfully declined.
For some time, there had been discussion of my doing a film for MGM called Say It with Music, featuring the songs of Irving Berlin, but nothing had come of it. Eventually, that project was swapped out for a film adaptation of the Broadway musical She Loves Me, which Blake and I were excited to work on together. Blake began to take preproduction meetings.
Star! had its Hollywood premiere on Halloween, having opened in New York the week before. Alas, when the reviews came in, they ranged from lukewarm to negative. The reception was a huge blow. Everyone who had worked so hard on the film had given their very best, and we had all enjoyed the challenge. Despite the fact that large-scale movie musicals had begun to go out of style, I think audiences were expecting another Sound of Music, and were disappointed that this film was more of a biopic with music, rather than a musical per se. It also seemed that contemporary American audiences had little interest in Gertrude Lawrence. Although the film did poorly at the box office, I remain proud of the work, and I’m happy to say that in the years since, audiences seem to have found it again and are appreciating it more.
I did my best to take the film’s failure in stride. I knew enough to realize that nonstop success in a career is impossible—you can’t stay on a pedestal forever, and from that position, there’s nowhere to go but down. Nobody sets out to make a failure, but you can never guarantee success either. I hoped that Darling Lili might fare better.
WE OPTED TO spend the winter holidays in Gstaad once again, in the same rental chalet that we’d had the year before. We flew via New York, where Tony took Emma back to the heart of the big city for Christmas. I held it together, but I was fairly devastated after she had gone. Geoff and Jenny were to spend Christmas with Patty, and would join us for the New Year, as would Emma. Ken and Kären were with us, as was my brother Chris, who was still struggling with sobriety but made an effort to keep it together over the holidays.
On Christmas Day, we phoned our families, and I discovered that Emma had been in bed with the flu. She didn’t want to leave her dad, and begged for more time with him now that she had recovered. I was disappointed, but I agreed to allow her to stay through the end of the holiday.
Patty then suddenly postponed Geoff and Jenny’s arrival by several days, and was subsequently unreachable by phone. We ultimately gathered that she had been suffering from a deep depression. This made Blake worry about the kids, but they did eventually arrive, and after an initial period of guardedness and tension, they began to settle in. They wouldn’t discuss the situation at home and changed the subject whenever we tried to approach it—but they gave Blake a cassette tape recorded by Patty, filled with paranoia, angry demands, and threats.
Some outrageous and untrue articles had appeared in various supermarket tabloids, alleging that I was neglecting Emma and that she was distraught over my relationship with Blake. One even reported that Blake and I were indulging in “threesomes” with Rock Hudson. Patty had apparently taken the press at their word. She demanded that Jenny and Geoff’s visits with Blake be limited, and that he no longer phone them from our house. Blake was outraged, but after some discussion we agreed that it would be best to take no action and wait until the drama subsided, which it did.
We were able to calm the children and give them a good second Christmas. Jenny and I put on mock ballet demonstrations for the guys, and Geoff reveled in snowball fights, sledding, and snuggles. By the end of the holiday, I found myself wishing that both kids could come and live with us. They were relaxed and seemed genuinely happy in those last precious days in Gstaad, and I so wanted to preserve that for them somehow.
But Geoff and Jenny returned to London, and we returned to Los Angeles, where another vitriolic article about me awaited us. The gossip columnist Joyce Haber claimed that I was having an affair with Sidney Poitier, and that I had been persuaded to terminate it for the sake of my “image” in the South. I had only met Sidney once, when he had presented me with the Academy Award, and I was appalled by the racism implied and the falsehoods generated in this mean-spirited article.
I ended up suing the tabloids in question and was awarded retractions in the same size and type as t
he original articles, along with a considerable sum of money, which I donated to charity.
I wrote in my diary:
How I wish we were back in Switzerland. I know now that it is where I really want to live. There is a solidarity to those glorious mountains—they aren’t going to be swayed by anyone. I feel a sense of permanence there.
I HAD PROMISED Emma that if she remained unhappy at the Lycée, she could switch schools after the New Year, and I kept my word. She began first grade at University Elementary School, now called UCLA Lab School, at the end of January. She was instantly happy there, and began having regular playdates and sleepovers with new friends. The school’s research into child development and progressive teaching practices was a model for others across the country. They recommended that Emma participate in their unicycle-riding program for physical education, and she quickly became a whiz at it. She spent hours after school wheeling around the garden, a small exclamation point of balance and coordination, which delighted me.
Blake, meanwhile, was having problems with the postproduction for Darling Lili. Bob Evans, the head of Paramount, was furious about the budget overages. He and Blake didn’t have the best relationship to begin with, and when Bob took Blake to task over the issue, Blake lost his temper and challenged Bob to “step outside.” Thankfully, Bob didn’t take him up on the challenge, but tensions were high, and word began to get out that the film was in trouble.
To make matters worse, we learned that Geoff was struggling at school in London. He wanted desperately to come and live with his dad. Patty surprisingly agreed to Geoff’s request. I admired her at that moment; it must have been hard to let her son go.
When Geoff arrived, he was in bad shape. He suffered from nightmares and often came thundering up the stairs to our bedroom in tears in the middle of the night. We found a good therapist, whom he began to see regularly.
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