Tony arrived at the Copley house two days shy of his nineteenth birthday. He was a raw country lad with a thick Irish brogue and bad teeth, but he quickly proved to be invaluable. He drove the kids to and from school and various appointments, went shopping, took care of the cars, and did household chores. Geoffrey was initially wary of him, but Emma took to him immediately, and he soon became a member of the family.
Two weeks after Tony arrived, Blake had his wisdom teeth pulled. The dentist said to him, “Be careful not to get a dry socket.” Of course, Blake promptly got a dry socket, and was in excruciating pain. I was discovering that in addition to being a hypochondriac, my new husband was inclined to develop any ailment suggested to him.
MY TV SHOW was to be taped at the ABC facilities at Prospect and Talmadge, a run-down neighborhood in Los Feliz, just east of Hollywood, about an hour from home. Scenic construction began, writers were hired, and we held daily script and production meetings, all under the loving guidance of our producer, Nick Vanoff. During this preproduction period, I tried to keep some mornings free for writing Whangdoodles, knowing that once taping for the series officially began, I would be too busy to continue.
Blake suggested we make a small documentary about preparing for the series, to air just before its launch. We shot it at a shabby but comfortable beach house situated on the bluffs in Malibu that we had rented for the summer.
“If you’re going to work this hard, you’re going to need somewhere to crash on the weekends,” Blake had said. The house soon became a godsend as our daily pressures escalated.
In July, Jenny came to live with us permanently. Blake and I had been growing increasingly anxious about her, since her life in London had deteriorated to an almost Dickensian level. Patty agreed that Jenny would be happier living in Los Angeles, with more stability. Adjustments had to be made to every aspect of our lives; a school needed to be found for her, space in our home allocated, and Geoff and Emma had to adapt to her being with us full-time, as did I. I quickly learned that being a stepmother takes a lot of patience and maturity. I had to allow for the time and attention my stepchildren needed from their dad, and also understand his guilts and his need to make up for lost time with them. Both kids tested Blake and me, and poor Emma was often the “odd man out.” I hoped that she had the emotional foundation to know that my heart was with her, even though my attentions were sometimes elsewhere. Fortunately, she hero-worshiped Jenny, who was six years older, which helped.
One day, when I was passing Emma’s room, the door was open, and she was standing in front of her full-length mirror, with both hands on her flat, nine-year-old chest. Unaware that I was watching, she viewed herself right and left, then declared quietly, “Hah! Coming along just fine!” I found it adorable, and Emma and I often quote that phrase to this day.
I HAD BEEN thinking about a theme song for my series, and I’d come up with a little melody that I hoped might work. My friend Leslie Bricusse was in town, and I dared to ask him to listen to it and perhaps write a lyric. He showed up a day later with a gentleman named Ian Fraser—a musical director, conductor, and arranger who had worked with Leslie for many years. Ian played piano, and Leslie sang the lyric he had magically written overnight. My song sounded a million times better with Leslie’s lyric and Ian’s talented arrangement. I instantly wished that Ian could be part of the series, but alas, he was heading to New York to work on a Broadway show.
Shooting for The Julie Andrews Hour began in early September. We had a phenomenal creative team—wonderful writers, and the great Nelson Riddle and his orchestra supporting me onstage. Nelson was widely renowned in the industry for his work with Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, and Judy Garland, to name just a few. His agreeing to do my show was a gift, and I relished working with him. I was also blessed to have a truly stellar lineup of guests: Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé, “Mama Cass” Elliot, Donald O’Connor, Sammy Davis Jr., Jimmy Stewart, Henry Mancini, and Peggy Lee, among many others. Rich Little and Alice Ghostley were regulars.
The schedule, however, was grueling. We had merely five days to complete each episode. On Mondays, we had a script read-through, and set the songs so they could be immediately orchestrated by Nelson. On Tuesdays, we learned the dance moves with our choreographer, Tony Charmoli, and staged the comedy sketches. Wednesdays were devoted to rehearsal, and prerecording in the evenings. Thursdays were spent marking everything in the studio to be ready for Friday’s taping. That last day usually began at the crack of dawn, and went into the wee hours of Saturday morning. Every three or four weeks, we were given a week off from shooting, during which time there were more production meetings and wardrobe fittings in order to try to stay ahead of ourselves.
The rented beach house was my salvation. We spent every weekend we could there. Blake painted in an outside studio that faced the ocean, and I pressed ahead with Whangdoodles. We took long walks, and had cookouts on the beach. Emma made friends with the children next door. They had horses, and she frequently rode bareback with them across the sand and surf. The house was old and scruffy, but indestructible—which was great with three kids. We fell in love with the area; the perfect combination of sea and countryside.
But mostly, I worked. It quickly became obvious to Nelson and to me that the amount of music each show required was overwhelming, and we had too little time to do it justice. With wall-to-wall music in every episode, we were both floundering. Miraculously, I received word that Ian Fraser’s Broadway show had not materialized, and he was able to come aboard to assist with the orchestral layouts and arrangements. The difference was palpable to everyone. Ian and I became close friends. More than that, he quickly became my most trusted musical advisor.
Every episode of the series was more like an hour-long “special”—one that would normally take six weeks or more to shoot. But we did have fun, in spite of the hard work. Ian made me try things musically that I never thought I could accomplish, and I attempted a number of other things I hadn’t tried before, with varying degrees of success—roller-skating, performing Shakespeare, doing imitations, all in a supportive, nurturing environment under the leadership of our excellent director, Bill Davis.
Now that I was “back in circulation,” so to speak, I began to have some challenges with enthusiastic fans. They followed my car when I was dropping the kids off at school, or when I drove to private appointments, such as sessions with my analyst.
One evening, the family and I were at dinner when I saw a pale face among the bushes in our back garden.
“There’s someone out there,” I gasped. Blake went to check and confronted a timid and mortified young lady, who had merely wanted a glimpse of what our family life was like after hours. I found it difficult to balance my appreciation for the fans’ affection and loyalty, which was always so generously given, with my natural desire to maintain a modicum of privacy and to protect my family.
THANKS TO THE weekends at the beach house, I finally finished the first draft of The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles. There was still a lot of correcting to do, but the bulk of the work was done, and Harper & Row had agreed to publish it, as they had Mandy. Every member of the family presented me with a rose, and Emma made a drawing for me, all of which touched me deeply.
I sent the manuscript to my dad, asking if he would pass his eye over it, as he had for my first book. He returned it to me with suggested corrections that amounted to half as many words as I had written for the entire manuscript. I was initially disappointed that he had found so much fault with my writing—but then I realized what a supremely generous and loving gesture it had been to take the care and time to so improve my literary efforts.
Work on the series continued apace, and there were decisions to be made regarding the film that Blake and I were scheduled to make for Sir Lew the following year, during the hiatus from the TV show. It was to be a romantic thriller called The Tamarind Seed, and Blake had adapted the screenplay from a novel by Evelyn Anthony. We were to
film in Europe and the Caribbean, which fit in nicely with Blake’s growing disenchantment with Hollywood—but not with my obligation to the series, which had a possible option for a second season.
In addition, Blake began to complain about my working such long hours. One morning I got home at 6 a.m.; another morning at 4. Blake accused me of staying late out of perfectionism, but with working those hours, I was more focused on survival than perfection. I was deeply hurt. How could I abandon the work before it was finished? I longed to be home as much as he wanted me there, and I felt miserably torn between my professional and familial obligations. I reminded him that he had encouraged me to do the series in the first place, and that we were in this together. It didn’t help much. I guess he hadn’t fully considered how much of my time would be consumed by this work.
Finally, the pressure became too much, and I blew my stack. I said to Blake and my agents that I wanted out of the commitment; doing the series wasn’t worth the stress. Of course, it was impossible to quit—I was under contract, and in truth it would have gone against my nature to do so.
I wrote in my diary:
I am longing to take a break from the television show. We are planning a brief Christmas in Gstaad in our newly-renovated chalet, and in the spring, after the last eight episodes are in the can, there is the film to be made. If the series is not renewed, will we move to Europe permanently? I wonder.
As I predicted, it has been a terribly tough year.
The day before we left for Gstaad, I worked at the studio from 8:30 a.m. to 6 a.m. the following morning. I ached in every bone.
Although the chalet was still in a state of renovation, it was heavenly to be there, and I soon rallied. On New Year’s Day, Blake and I took a walk, and talked about the year ahead; about being apart while I taped the last eight episodes of the series in L.A. and he prepped the film in England. As always, I felt depressed at the prospect of leaving Switzerland.
I STRUGGLED THROUGH the last of the TV shows. We still had the rented beach house for the weekends, and the kids and I tried to make our days there cheerful, but I missed Blake terribly.
On the last day of taping, there was a wrap party. Nick Vanoff screened irreverent outtakes, and Ian and Nelson presented me with a private album of my solo songs from the show.
The Julie Andrews Hour was nominated for ten Emmy Awards and won seven, but it was not picked up for a second season. The general feeling was that one had to “put on a suit and tie” to watch the show, which didn’t garner us a mass audience. I’ve never been more relieved.
Fortunately, Sir Lew Grade still wanted to continue our collaboration. In lieu of doing another season of the series, he offered Blake and me six television specials, to be shot at his studios in London. Because of our contractual terms—one film per year that we worked for him—this would guarantee us at least one more movie after The Tamarind Seed concluded. I wasn’t consciously choosing to work exclusively with Blake, but this was such a convenient and lucrative contract . . . and it kept our whole family together, which we greatly appreciated.
SINCE WE WERE now going to be in England for at least a year, we rented out the Copley house with an option to buy. I organized the packing of books, files, clothes, toys—trying to be ruthless about what to give away and what to keep in storage. Thank God for Tony Adams, who was a tower of strength throughout the process and kept us all in good spirits with his great sense of humor.
Meanwhile, in London, Blake moved into a service flat on Upper Grosvenor Street, directly across from the American Embassy, and began preproduction for The Tamarind Seed.
The week before I was to join Blake was madness. I made arrangements for all our animals to be re-homed. Emma and Jenny were both sick, and I discovered that Geoff, now thirteen, had been smoking pot, and had to confront him about it.
Geoff and Jenny would be finishing their terms at school and spending some time with Patty, who, ironically, had moved back to Los Angeles to be closer to them. They were to join us in Europe in a few months’ time. We made plans to hire a summer tutor for Emma, who would be accompanying me, so that she could catch up with the schooling she would miss due to our travels.
Jenny had her sixteenth birthday just days before our departure. It was our last weekend at the beach house. We decorated the place in yellow and white, with big baskets of daisies. Blake flew in as a surprise, and Jenny screamed with delight and burst into tears of joy at the sight of him. She had sixteen guests, and everyone had a grand time. It was a lovely farewell to a great home.
12
THE FIRST THING I noticed upon arrival in London was the daffodils in Hyde Park—hundreds of them, cheery and bright. But the apartment that Blake had rented was unbelievably small. Once Emma and I arrived, it was bursting at the seams with our personal belongings, office supplies, and more. The ceilings were low, and the place was always filled with people—Tony Adams assisting Blake with preproduction, drivers waiting in the kitchen, Blake’s secretary working in the dining area. There were endless phone calls and doorbells. Emma was a ten-year-old angel. One day she made sixteen cups of tea for various visitors and production staff. We mostly took meals at home, just the three of us, in the kitchen late at night.
I wrote:
I am so torn between countries, times, emotions, memories. This next project will be a way station—we’re on our way to something; to new feelings, new thoughts. I liken us to pilgrims, crossing the water, beginning anew. It will be good for us, shake us up. But I feel a bit useless here. The past year required that I give out so much of myself, and now I’m a little lost.
Blake was dashing around, scouting locations and seeing to all the business of The Tamarind Seed. We did makeup and hair tests, and I met Omar Sharif, with whom I would be costarring. I liked him immediately—he seemed gentle and fun.
Finally, we departed for Barbados, where we would be living and filming for the month of May. The Caribbean island was hot, and very humid, but quite beautiful. We stayed in an exotic beach house that was almost entirely open to the elements, with few walls or windows. Bougainvillea climbed the trees, and bizarre-looking cacti were grafted onto the trunks. The beach was pristine, and the ocean beyond it a clear aquamarine blue. During our first weeks there, we swam every morning. We dined in the lovely outdoor dining area and watched beautiful birds with odd-sounding names. Emma did her best to adjust to a new place, a new schedule, and her new tutor, though I sensed that she was beginning to feel the strain of so much traveling and so many moves. Blake set up the production offices and prepared for filming to begin.
On our first day of shooting, I developed a sunburn, as did several other members of our company. It was clear that filming in the Caribbean was going to pose a challenge in terms of keeping freckles at bay and looking cool and graceful on-screen.
That said, it was very pleasant to be working with Blake again. He was always at his best on a film set, and he was clearly enjoying the experience of working with a British crew. He seemed very much at ease, tending to each day’s work in baggy shorts and a big sun hat. For me, the more leisurely pace of making a film was a welcome change after the rush and compromise of the TV show.
Omar was easy to work with, although he had a rather endearing, almost Inspector Clouseau–like clumsiness. Being a chain smoker, he often dropped ash on my costumes, and once he accidentally stood on the hem of my dress and tore it. But none of that mattered, because of his charm.
One evening, we were filming a fairly intimate scene, and we heard a loud “clackety-clackety-clack.”
“Cut!” Blake yelled.
Giant crabs, the size of dinner plates, were scuttling up from the beach by the dozens, their pincers held aggressively aloft. They climbed walls and trees, and the crew had to use brooms to sweep them out of range of the camera.
“Everybody wants to be in show biz!” Blake joked. Crab-management became standard procedure during night shoots.
When I wasn’t filming, I continued t
o work my way through my dad’s copious notes for Whangdoodles. Blake generously offered to help, and we spent most evenings and every Sunday working together on the final revisions for the manuscript.
LOCATION SHOOTING FOR The Tamarind Seed moved to Paris, and we found ourselves back at our beloved Hôtel Le Bristol. By now, Emma had finished her work with her tutor, and had pulled up to grade level, but I was still concerned about her. She seemed to be a mess of nerves, and was frequently queasy and anxious. As she was about to head off to her dad for the last two months of summer, I tried to spend as much time with her as I could, taking her on excursions in Paris—shopping, sightseeing, visiting museums. I loved spending time with her, and in spite of all the upheaval in our lives, I sensed that she felt the same way. By the time she left for New York, she seemed more like her old self.
Geoff, however, had joined us in Barbados and was a worry. He was just thirteen, but he was now six-foot-one, and had started drinking and smoking. It’s hard to do much finger-wagging when you’re looking up at someone and he is looking down at you. Like most teenagers, he was moody: one day he wanted to return to L.A., the next, he changed his mind. I suspected that the same things that had been bothering Emma were bothering him: our moves, the upheavals, the prospect of a new school. Finally, Blake gave Geoff a job as a gofer on the film, which was a good idea. Geoff embraced the hard labor, and enjoyed working alongside the crew and being “one of the guys.”
TONY ADAMS HAD been scouting somewhere else for us to live in London, and finally found what appeared to be a nice townhouse in Chester Square. Once we moved in, however, it turned out to be anything but. On our first night there, we had no curtains and no running water. The following morning, within five minutes of the water being fixed, a pipe burst and our kitchen became a swimming pool, with a little fountain spraying out of the cutlery drawer and a big one coming from behind the refrigerator.
Home Work Page 20
