Home Work

by Julie Andrews

  Thankfully, Patty made a full recovery, but Blake and I worried about the long-term impact of these experiences on Geoff, and also on Jenny, who was now thirteen and still living with her mother in London. She was attending boarding school during the week, but it was traumatizing for her nonetheless.

  WHEN DARLING LILI opened, the reviews were tepid. Blake and I were disappointed, of course, and aware that this did not bode well for either of our careers, especially mine on the heels of the failure of Star! The reception didn’t totally surprise us, since the film had been overhyped by the studio and made to sound like a splashy musical comedy, when in fact it was simply a romantic spy story with occasional songs that extended from plot and character.

  Fortunately, Blake’s western, Wild Rovers, had been picked up by MGM, so he had another project to focus on. At this point, I made a conscious decision to take a step back from work for a while and focus on family, as well as a few humanitarian causes that were becoming important to me. One was Hathaway Home, an esteemed residential center for boys with behavioral problems; another was the Committee of Responsibility, a group that consisted of concerned citizens, surgeons, and doctors. Its objective was to rescue children severely wounded in the Vietnam War and bring them to the United States for medical treatment. All services were donated, and Blake and I were very impressed by the sterling work the organization was doing. We signed on to help promote its activities, speaking about the group whenever possible in the press and on TV.

  As was now routine, Emma went off to spend part of the summer with Tony, Gen, and Bridget. Their vacation included a spell on Alderney, where they would be staying in the little cottage, “Patmos,” that Tony and I had purchased so many years ago. We still owned it, as we intended to give it to Emma one day. While I hated having to say goodbye to her, it was lovely to know that she would be on that sweet island and that the cottage was being used and enjoyed.

  I accompanied Blake as he scouted locations for Wild Rovers in Colorado and Arizona, during which time we also went to San Francisco for a few days for a very particular reason.

  In his forty-eight years, Blake had never met nor spoken to his real father. Some months earlier, he had commissioned Ken Wales to begin a search to see whether the man was still alive, and if so, where he was living. Eventually Ken traced Don Crump to an assisted living community in San Francisco. Arrangements were made for a meeting between father and son, and I went with Blake for this monumental event.

  Don opened the door to greet us. It was immediately clear that he was Blake’s father. He was handsome, white-haired, slim—like his brother, Blake’s uncle Owen. The two men embraced each other awkwardly, and we were ushered into the modest living room. I sat discreetly to one side and chatted with Don’s wife, Ruth, so that father and son could converse privately, but the emotion, the chemistry, the power of things left unsaid, was palpable.

  At some point during the conversation, Blake asked his father why he hadn’t stayed in touch. Don replied that Lillian’s vitriol had made it difficult, and that he had not wanted to cause further emotional upheaval to his son, particularly since Blake had a stepfather and was settled into a new way of life. It seemed like a cop-out to Blake and to me, but those were different times.

  When Lillian learned of the visit, she was angry with Blake; how could he have gone behind her back after all these years? Up to this point, she had controlled the narrative concerning Don, and Blake’s initiative had upset her. Perhaps she was worried that Blake would develop a relationship with Don, and that her stories about her first husband might be revealed in a different light. On the contrary, after that initial meeting Blake chose not to pursue the relationship with Don further, beyond the occasional exchanged Christmas cards. Don must have felt the same way, for he didn’t push for more communication either.

  When we returned to L.A., Patty and Jenny arrived for the summer. Patty rented a house, and Geoff went to spend some time with his mother there, while Jenny came to stay with us. She initially seemed fragile and forlorn, but after a few days, she rallied. I was pleased to note that our relationship was still on solid footing.

  Patty, however, called three times a day. I tried hard to keep my cool and be compassionate—but her conversations with Blake were endless and all about her own problems, or her struggles with Geoff, who wanted to come home to us. He was apparently acting out, getting to bed too late, watching too much television. One day, he and Patty had a fearful row and he packed his bags, which was fuel for further calls at all hours. When Geoff returned to us, Jenny went back to Patty’s rental house, whereupon the phone calls continued. Eventually, Blake persuaded Patty to take a session with his analyst, and then Blake had a session of his own about the situation. The analyst advised Blake to make a clean break from his ex—saying that it was the only way she would get on with her life. He also told Blake that Jenny was hugely envious of Geoff’s living with us, which I had already sensed, and could identify with, having often felt the same way about my brother John living with our dad.

  Thankfully, Emma was still away and was spared most of the drama, but I knew she would be home soon. As much as I looked forward to seeing her, I worried about her coming back into such emotional chaos.

  When she returned from her holiday with Tony, she was in good shape. She had grown, and lost another tooth, which gave her an adorable lisp. She seemed to have put everything connected with her two lives and two families into perspective. I sensed that she was feeling stronger in her own identity. She had brought a present for each of us—ties for Blake and Geoff, a belt for Jenny, and a pair of knitted gloves for me. She had chosen everything herself, and I thought it dear of her to do such a generous thing.

  Not long after her return, my brother Chris came over to the house with his girlfriend. I had been nervous about seeing him, since we hadn’t been together in some time. He was stoned, and asked for money. Emma and Geoff were adorable during his visit, keeping up chatter, showing off our new kitten, and helping to ease the tension. Later, Emma said, with amazing perceptiveness for a seven-and-a-half-year-old, “I thought you might need some help, Mummy.”

  AT THE END of the summer holiday, Jenny reluctantly returned to London with Patty. After she left, I had a sweet and simple opportunity to bond with Geoffrey. His favorite toy was a stuffed “Baloo” bear, from Walt Disney’s film of The Jungle Book. Baloo meant more to him than anything in the world, largely because Blake would sit on Geoff’s bed in the evenings, when settling him to sleep, and, using a funny voice, communicate “through” the bear. Over the years, the bear’s nose had worn very thin, and Geoff asked if it could be mended. Although I’m a hopeless seamstress, some instinct made me step in and volunteer to do the job. The results were well worth it. Geoff was ecstatic when he discovered his newly patched Baloo. He came running in to give me a big hug, and later told Blake that he was seriously considering calling me “Mummy.” Quite a reward for the small gesture of a mended nose.

  ON MY THIRTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY, Blake and I made an offer on a new house. Much as we adored Hidden Valley, with Emma and Geoff in residence and Jenny visiting often, it had become too small for us. We also had quite a menagerie—in addition to Blake’s Great Dane, we had acquired a French spaniel and, more recently, a Scottish terrier. Then there were two cats, which quickly grew to four, due to Jenny’s penchant for rescuing lost creatures, plus assorted fish, hamsters, and a canary (mine!).

  Blake had found a beautiful house on Copley Place, a small cul-de-sac in Beverly Hills. It was a classic Mediterranean colonial, with stucco walls, terra-cotta roof tiles, and wrought-iron railings. There was even a multilevel reflection pool overlooking the Los Angeles Country Club golf course.

  We had looked at a couple of other homes, but this one had everything we needed and then some, including offices for us both. Despite the fact that it was pricier than we’d hoped, we made an offer, which was accepted, though it would be several months before we closed on the property.


  In November, Blake began shooting Wild Rovers in Arizona. I joined him there on our first wedding anniversary. It was great fun for me to be a visitor on the set, rather than “on duty.” I watched as my husband gazed through his viewfinder to establish his framing, conferred with the actors, and joked with the crew. It was obvious that he was in his element. He was in full control, but he also trusted and empowered each member of his team, which was why people loved working with him.

  Every morning, I’d accompany Blake to his Monument Valley location at the crack of dawn. I had long wanted to see the site where so many famous westerns had been filmed. While Blake set up his first shot of the day, I’d hang out near the catering truck, stuffing myself with warm bacon-and-egg sandwiches, chatting with the crew, and trying not to freeze in the biting cold air. The majestic panorama was extraordinary, and I thrilled as I watched the great actor William Holden racing his horse flat out across the desert, tracked by a camera on a fast-moving mobile crane, which Blake invited me to ride.

  One evening, when I was back in L.A. and Blake was still on location, he phoned me in great excitement. Earlier that day, he had shot a horse-breaking sequence in the film. He sensed that he’d captured something special by employing occasional slow motion in following the wild herd, and the breaking of Holden’s feisty black mare, all set against virgin snow.

  Back in LA, when it came time for this sequence to be scored, Blake called from the studio.

  “Can you drop everything and come over?” he said. “I want you to share this with me.”

  I hurried to MGM. On a vast recording stage, Jerry Goldsmith, the film’s composer, stood before a full symphony orchestra. On the giant screen behind them, the horse-breaking sequence was cued up. Goldsmith raised his baton, the click track engaged on-screen, and he gave the downbeat. Wild mustangs thundering across the snowfields; two jubilant cowboys—Holden riding the bucking bronco, Ryan O’Neal doing cartwheels in the snow; and the Copeland-esque score soaring over all combined to create a small masterpiece of a scene. To this day, I watch it whenever I can. It remains one of my favorite pieces of Blake’s filmmaking.

  Alas, Blake’s joy in making the film was supplanted by an editing process that can only be described as madness. James Aubrey had pulled MGM back from the brink of financial collapse since his takeover, but he was widely reviled for his cruel nature and the degree to which he controlled every aspect of a creative project. In the industry, he was referred to as “the smiling cobra.”

  From the beginning, Blake had had no intention of writing a typical western—he wanted to turn the genre on its ear, so to speak, and do something a little different. Geoff had inspired the film, having asked his dad to write a western—and he even played a small role in it. The story centers on an aging cowboy who mentors a younger colleague, almost in father-son fashion. There is also a secondary storyline about a ranch owner and his two very different sons, who compete for their father’s attention.

  I consider Wild Rovers to be the first of several films of Blake’s that are particularly revealing of his character. The dialogue is often introspective, reflecting many of his philosophies of life—such as seizing the moment, rooting for the underdog, and having a conscience. It may also have been an attempt on his part to better understand fatherhood, since he’d never had a father of his own, or much of a mentor in his stepfather.

  During postproduction, Aubrey turned Blake inside out and upside down in his attempts to force him to cut the film to his liking. Blake was riddled with anger and indecision. In those days, he didn’t have “final cut”—the last word as to what ends up on-screen. He tried to compromise with Aubrey’s demands, allowing one deletion in order to keep another scene he felt was essential.

  Watching my husband go through these emotional contortions was agony. He would come home and tell me what Aubrey had insisted on, then brainstorm aloud as to what he could do to preserve the original intention of his movie. The final blow was when Aubrey cut a pivotal scene that changed the entire theme of the film, reducing Blake’s intended Greek tragedy to a mere “cops and robbers” premise.

  WILD ROVERS OPENED in America with Aubrey’s ruinous cut, and it failed. Blake was devastated. His beloved baby had been butchered, both physically and by the press, and the entire experience challenged his reality. He took a nosedive into depression.

  Surprisingly, Aubrey offered Blake an apology, along with another film, The Carey Treatment, as a sort of “consolation prize.” For reasons I can only guess at, Blake took the bait. Perhaps there was some compulsion on his part to make things right, or perhaps he simply wanted to finally win out against the man who had caused him such pain. In any case, he plunged into writing and preproduction for the next film.

  Around this time, we moved out of our beloved Hidden Valley house and into the one on Copley Place. I had mixed feelings: we couldn’t really afford the upgrade, and things were further complicated by my having recently received an offer to do a television series for ABC to be made in England.

  The night before the move, I went to check on the children in bed. Emma and Geoff were tucked in tight in their empty rooms—all pictures and toys having been packed for the morning. I prayed that Blake and I could see this time through for the children in a positive way. My familiar feelings of separation anxiety bubbled up as I remembered when my own parents moved to the Old Meuse; how scared I had been of a new bedroom, and the barn owl outside my window in the silver birch tree. I worried that the children wouldn’t love the new house as much as the current one—then I realized that it was actually me who was afraid of that, and projecting it onto our kids.

  Once the new house became ours, we made it our own and loved it. We restored it to its former glory by stripping away tacky wallpaper and linoleum to reveal lovely old murals and handmade tiles. Blake engraved a heart with our initials on a big tree in the courtyard. I began a tradition of gathering the family—and anyone else in the house—for English tea each afternoon, in the pretty conservatory overlooking the garden, which everyone seemed to enjoy.

  Not long after we moved in, we were invited to a party at the home of a very powerful Hollywood agent. I can’t remember why we chose to attend; we were so seldom partygoers. When we arrived at the house, we were confronted by a classic “scene” for those days, but one that I had yet to witness. A group of guests were doing lines of coke in the sunken living room. During dinner, the coke was passed around as dessert. When it was offered to Blake and me, we both declined.

  The hosts began pushing me hard, curious to see how “Mary Poppins” would react. The peer pressure was intense.

  Blake came to my aid. “She doesn’t need any of that stuff,” he said. “She’s high enough on life as it is.”

  Mercifully, they backed down. When we left, there were bodies on the floor, leaning against the wall, totally wasted.

  Back at home, I stood at my open kitchen window and looked out across the golf course, trying to make some sense of the surreal experience. Suddenly all the sprinklers came on. As they arced over the greens in the starry night, I felt the coolness of the air and smelled the water on the earth. It brought me back to reality and restored my equilibrium.

  TROUBLE WITH MY brother Chris erupted once again.

  He had married his girlfriend, and she had given birth to a baby daughter. Not long afterward, he was busted for selling drugs and went to jail, pending trial.

  I had recently chanced to meet a California judge. I happened to mention that my brother was having problems, and he said, “If it ever gets out of hand, call me.” In desperation, I took advantage of the judge’s kind offer. He said he knew the justice who would be presiding over Chris’s case, and would ask the court to consider deportation rather than a fifteen-year jail sentence. Chris was deported two weeks later, taking his wife and baby with him. I felt some relief that he was back in England, but also guilt that my mum was now saddled with his problems.

  AT THE BEGINNING of the summer, Carol
Burnett and I began rehearsals for another special together, this one to take place at New York’s Lincoln Center. It had been almost ten years since our previous special, and we had always wanted to do another. In fact, we’d hoped to do a whole series of them—but we had both been rather busy. Carol was now doing her very popular television series, and we hadn’t seen much of each other beyond the occasional family dinner. Happily, ours was a friendship that always seemed to pick up where it had left off.

  For this special, we did a long medley of popular songs from the sixties, and a silly homage to Martha Graham. We ended the show with something we’d always wanted to do: a rousing version of “Wait Till the Sun Shines Nellie,” dressed in sou’westers, hats, and rain boots. We taped three complete shows back to back in one day, enjoying every minute—and it rained, much to Carol’s delight.

  When the special was done, Blake and I traveled with the kids to Europe, where they would be joining their other parents for summer vacation.

  The scene at the London airport resembled a Noël Coward farce. Patty brought Jenny, who brought her dog to show Blake. Tony, Gen, and Bridget were also there, to meet Emma. There was a confusion of kisses and cars, gifts and greetings; definitely messy, and no one knew what the hell anyone else was doing.

  We spent the week in London, during which I visited my family in Walton. Blake came to fetch me one afternoon. I showed him my mother’s new cottage, and despite my misgivings about seeing it again, I also took him over to the Old Meuse, wanting to give him a glimpse of my childhood. We wandered through waist-high weeds where once there had been a wide and generous path to the empty house, which was still standing.

  Everything was damp and covered with dust. Blake saw my old bedroom, the kitchen, and the music room, and we went into the garage that had once been my aunt’s dance studio. It was still filled with memorabilia, including an old traveling trunk of mine and a wartime rationing card. Blake didn’t say much, but I was grateful that he was with me, to keep me rooted in the present and remind me how very far I’d come since those early days.