“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Blake said. “But she’s in desperate need of money. This way, she can get into the designers’ union. It’s the only thing I can think of to truly help her.”
I reluctantly agreed. To my surprise, Patty’s choices made me look fresh and hip. She dressed me in snug leather jeans, luxurious jackets, and great boots, and I recognized that I looked the better for her efforts. Although her personal problems were ever-present, working together did improve our relationship.
Patty also introduced me to a man who was to become one of my closest friends and professional colleagues. John Isaacs was at the height of his fame as a brilliant hairdresser and cofounder of the esteemed Michaeljohn salon in London, with a second salon in Los Angeles. John agreed to style my hair for 10. Little could I guess the number of other films and projects that he and I would work on together in the future, and how close our families would become.
THE SEARCH FOR a gorgeous young actress to play the title role in 10 was the biggest challenge for Blake. Recommendations were made by casting agents and other industry colleagues, and he and Tony conducted dozens of screen tests. One afternoon, he phoned to say he’d found the perfect “10.”
Bo Derek was the third wife of actor/director/photographer John Derek, and she had been recommended to Blake by an industry colleague. Blake had set up a meeting with her.
“I walked into my office and came to a skidding halt,” he told me. “There she was, dressed in some sort of hopsack and very little else, and I just knew.”
“Can she act?” I asked.
“Jesus. I don’t know . . .” he said, but it was quite obvious that he couldn’t care less. Bo never did a screen test. But she did do makeup and hair tests, as we all did—and she asked Blake’s permission to try the iconic cornrows she wears in the film. Blake readily agreed to the look. In those days, it was considered an inspired choice. Today, we recognize it as cultural appropriation.
GEORGE SEGAL WAS originally cast to play the lead role in the film. A week before we were to start shooting, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, he withdrew. It was devastating for Blake. Orion promptly shut down production, and everything came to a grinding halt.
Dudley Moore happened to be attending the same group therapy as Blake.
“There I was,” Blake said, “looking right at him. I suddenly knew that was the way I wanted to go.”
This choice surprised me. Dudley was so different from George Segal, and the way the character had originally been written. I was to play Dudley’s longtime girlfriend, whom he forsakes for the fantasy of his “10,” but returns to in the end, a wiser and more devoted partner. I worried that Dudley looked younger than me, and I was certainly several inches taller than he was. I told Blake that I would understand if he wished to replace me with someone more compatible with Dudley on-screen. Blake said he actually wanted that contrast.
“Think of Sinatra, or André Previn,” he said. “Neither man is tall, yet both are incredibly attractive and charismatic.” I instantly comprehended what he was getting at.
My first day of shooting for 10 was in early November. We shot a scene on the beach, just up the road from our house. The following day, all hell broke loose with our babies’ new nanny. Tensions had been escalating, as she was not happy being in Los Angeles. Amelia was sick, and I had to go to work. When I returned home that evening, the nanny was nowhere to be found. She had left Amelia and Joanna in the care of our housekeeper, packed her bags, and boarded a flight back to London.
Fortunately, I was not scheduled to work the next day. I canceled other appointments and focused on the children. The next stretch of filming was to take place in Mexico, and I had been planning to go there a week ahead of the company since the days allotted on my U.S. visa were almost up. Blake and I decided that I should take the girls with me. Five days later, Amelia, Joanna, and I departed for Las Hadas, in Manzanillo. Blake, Emma, and Clare were to join us there the following week.
Las Hadas was a pretty ocean-side resort, looking much like an iced wedding cake against the parched landscape. Amelia and Joanna settled in easily. We swam every day, Amelia eventually learning to do so independently, and both children reveled in getting undivided attention from their mum. We made cards to welcome Blackie and the older girls when they finally came down, and arranged flowers for everyone’s rooms. Emma and Clare took maximum advantage of the sun, sea, and sumptuous dining.
Blake was in rare form, clearly enjoying this film, which despite its bumpy start was now proceeding smoothly. Dick Crockett was ever-present at his side, directing all the stunt sequences and second unit photography, as he did for most of Blake’s films. I noticed that Blake wasn’t taking any pills, which made it all the more pleasant for us to spend time together.
Watching some of the scenes being shot, it was quickly apparent that Dudley was going to be superb. There was a scene in the hotel bar with Dudley at the piano, playing his own arrangement of Henry Mancini’s lovely theme song. An accomplished pianist, Dudley often played extemporaneously on the set. He was a brilliant comedian, endearingly authentic and generous, both on-screen and off. I looked forward to working with him in the New Year.
The company took a brief hiatus for the winter holidays, which we spent in Gstaad. While we were there, I learned that my mum was very ill with bronchitis. She hadn’t been to the doctor because she knew that he would put her in the hospital. Auntie reported that Mum was experiencing severe depression. I felt desperate to do something to help once again, but what? She was too ill to travel. I hoped I might persuade her to come visit in the New Year, once she was well enough to do so.
Emma was having her own difficulties. Now sixteen, she was feeling her oats. She had begged to be allowed to go to Alderney for Christmas with Jen and Clare. I understood her desires, but I told her that I wanted her with me. She then arranged to join her dad in New York for the second half of the holiday. I tried to be supportive, but it made me blue.
On the day after Christmas, Blake confessed that he had been flirting with pain pills again. I had sensed it. I knew he must be feeling out of phase, having stopped working so suddenly after having been so creatively stimulated in the prior months. Peter and Lynne Sellers were in town, which made things uncomfortable, since we bumped into them here and there. Also, Blake’s back had been troubling him again—always a red flag.
Although completely sober during the day, by the dinner hour he became distant or argumentative, often disappearing upstairs to our bedroom as early as possible. I found myself making excuses to the kids, saying “Dad’s feeling tired tonight,” in order to cover for him. Thankfully, Charley had returned to us for a spell, which brightened their spirits.
When Blake finally confessed his problem to me, he became tearful, asking me to be patient, and to try and help him. Afterward, his mood lifted considerably, as it so often did once he had unburdened himself.
I did my best to do as Blake asked. At this point in our marriage, I was aware that his issues with drugs were all about calming his anxiety and stress levels. He didn’t take uppers, nor did he drink, smoke, or take recreational drugs. Prescription pain medication was always his panacea of choice, and since I knew his pain was real and chronic, I found myself between a rock and a hard place in terms of what to do. I was torn between compassion and the suspicion that he might be using his physical challenges to enable his addiction.
On New Year’s Eve, I wrote:
Another difficult year. However, Blackie has now resolved yet again to try to keep away from the drugs. The difference when he does is phenomenal. He’s human, and reachable. This evening he stayed up until 2 AM playing Scrabble with us all.
Happy New Year, world. I wonder what lies ahead of us next year.
When we returned to Los Angeles, Blake resumed shooting on 10, and I started filming my scenes a few days later. I was initially aware of watching myself too carefully and felt my performance was contrived. Eventually I settled into
the role and began to enjoy myself.
There was a secondary plot in the film involving a neighbor who, in contrast to Dudley’s character, has a prolific sex life. Blake hired a consultant from the adult film industry to assist with the casting and staging of an orgy scene. He came home on the first day and said he couldn’t remember a funnier or more bizarre experience at work, and that I must come and visit the set to see it for myself. I arrived to find naked bodies strewn around, waiting for a shot, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
When the assistant director said, “Touch-ups, please, for the next scene!” I was astonished to see combs produced and pubic hair teased and fluffed, with no embarrassment whatsoever.
Blake conceived an adorable shot of Dudley walking naked between two tall women, his arms encircling them both. It started as a headshot of the three, then as they pass the camera and climb steps to a telescope, it revealed the rear view: three bums, with Dudley’s considerably lower and smaller one in the center.
“I’ve never been so happy in my life!” his character says dreamily.
This was a lot to ask of Dudley. He was self-conscious about his body, having been born with a clubfoot. Blake promised he would be very discreet and shoot above the knees. He even offered to allow Dudley to wear a towel, but Dudley gamely opted to strip down and go for the comedy. Later, Blake said how impressed he was by Dudley’s courage.
A week later, we received shattering news: Dick Crockett had committed suicide. We had noticed in Las Hadas that his voice, always gravelly, had become nothing but a hoarse whisper. I instinctively knew that something was very wrong and had mentioned it to Blake, who said he would encourage Crockett to see a doctor. Apparently, he had been diagnosed with throat cancer, and had been told that he would need immediate surgery. He opted for oblivion instead. He left a note for Blake, who was utterly devastated. Later, Blake dedicated 10 to Dick Crockett.
17
CROCKETT’S PASSING WAS the first in another series of family dramas. I learned that my mum had again broken two ribs, this time due to excessive coughing from her lingering bronchitis. Geoff suffered broken ribs as well, along with a fractured hand, due to a tiff with his girlfriend’s brother. Jenny and Kayti, who had temporarily moved back in with Tom, returned to live with us again. Amelia and Joanna began acting up as a result of all the tension in our packed household. Jen and Clare moved into a rented mobile home just up the road from us, and Emma began spending more and more time up there. I could hardly blame her.
At breakfast one morning, Amelia, Joanna, and Kayti were bickering. I suddenly heard myself saying, “We will have harmony in this house!” as I whacked a pancake onto a plate.
I RECEIVED A script entitled Little Miss Marker, a remake of the Damon Runyon film starring Shirley Temple as a little girl who is left as a marker for a bet. Sorrowful Jones, the bookie with whom she is left, was to be played by Walter Matthau. Tony Curtis was costarring, and the film was to be directed by its screenwriter, Walter Bernstein, at Universal Studios. The chance to work opposite Matthau appealed to me, and I accepted the offer to play the widow who becomes romantically involved with him.
The film was set in the 1930s, and I wore some beautiful costumes designed by Ruth Morley, famous for her work on Annie Hall, The Miracle Worker, and Kramer vs. Kramer, among others. My new friend John Isaacs was brought in to do my hair, but I was in search of a new makeup artist. Lorraine Roberson, who had been my hairdresser on Hawaii and Star!, was working at Universal at the time. She called me and said, “There’s a young man I think would be perfect for your makeup. I’ve seen his work, and he’s great. Come and meet him?”
Rick Sharp seemed absurdly young, but the makeup tests we did looked terrific. From then on, Rick became my go-to makeup man, and he remains so to this day. He and John Isaacs hit it off immediately, and working with these two gents was, and continues to be, a true pleasure. Their moods are light, and they tease me and each other affectionately, making long and arduous workdays pass more quickly and joyfully.
In early March, a few weeks before filming was to commence and before I’d had a chance to ask her myself, my mother uncharacteristically telephoned to ask if she could come for a visit. Her arrival would coincide with my work on the film, which involved time away on location, but of course I said yes. I arranged for her to have a complete checkup with Dr. Tanney, who confirmed that she was not a well lady and put her on several different medications.
Despite the fact that I was working, Mum seemed to enjoy herself. She had her hair done, visited the set, and spent time with Joanna and Amelia, now four and five, and with Emma, now in her junior year at Brentwood School. Emma had just made the Honors List, and a little later was elected senior prefect and editor of the school yearbook. I was immensely proud.
Working with Walter Matthau was delightful. He was funny, and surprisingly shy. Because he’d had heart issues, he maintained a rigid discipline in terms of his work schedule—always quitting at 6 p.m. on the dot, and never working on weekends, which suited me fine.
The film company flew to Palo Alto for two weeks’ location shooting, and my mum went to San Juan, Mexico, to spend the last part of her holiday with my brother Donald, who had relocated there. He had separated from his first wife and was now remarried to a lovely woman named Alma. (Chris had also remarried, and was still living in England. He was working as a photographer, and though struggling financially, was trying to stay sober.)
After Little Miss Marker wrapped, Emma, Jen, and Clare headed to Alderney, where they would be spending the better part of the summer. Blake and I went to Gstaad with Amelia, Joanna, and Charley.
Instead of the summer of idyllic peace we had hoped for in Gstaad, we very quickly found ourselves in the midst of the usual Edwards chaos. Jenny and Kayti arrived a few days after we did. I had promised Aunt Joan that she could visit while we were there, and she arrived soon thereafter.
Blake then received word that the top brass at Orion Pictures, who had committed to S.O.B., his screenplay about the madness of Hollywood, were now questioning budget issues and threatening to pull the plug. He began pitching the film to other studios. We had to make a quick trip to London the same week, for screenings of the latest cut of 10, and for me to record the theme song for the film with Henry Mancini. We rather nervously left Auntie, Jenny, Charley, and the three children behind at the chalet, and wondered what problems might arise from that mixture of personalities.
Our trip happened to coincide with my mother’s sixty-ninth birthday, so we arranged to take her to dinner. She was in a dark mood and made little effort. Blake and I found it exhausting to keep the evening light and festive.
When we returned to our hotel, we watched a televised program about Luciano Pavarotti. Song after song poured out of the great tenor, and the beauty of his voice made me tearful and filled us both with awe. After the program ended, Blake asked me what I felt made great singing so moving to listen to.
“I think, when singing, one exposes one’s soul,” I said.
“How so?”
I struggled to explain. “Dancers can look at a mirror, a writer can look at a page, and a painter can look at a canvas and see their work reflected back at them. But singers can only hear and feel what they are doing. After all the training, technique, use of breath, and placement of sound, it boils down to an emotional response to music and lyrics—and the way they touch one’s heart and soul.”
Blake nodded understandingly. We kissed, said good night, and turned out the light. About ten seconds passed, and in the darkness, I heard a slight clearing of the throat, and in a little voice like that of a child, Blake began to sing “Sweet Leilani.”
I exploded with laughter and turned on the light.
“Don’t laugh,” Blake said. “I’m showing you my soul.”
He then proceeded to sing a medley of golden oldies, from one corny love song to another, in the same little-boy voice. His eyes glinted with delight at his own antics, an
d I laughed until I literally wept. I had one of the best night’s sleep of my life.
BLAKE MADE A few trips back and forth to Los Angeles to do some reshoots and work on the marketing for 10, which was due to open in October. He also received word that Lorimar Pictures was now on board to produce S.O.B., which was to begin shooting in the New Year.
It had never occurred to me when we made the great escape from Hollywood that residency in Switzerland would eventually lead to such long periods of time away from my husband and children. At the end of the summer, I was once again facing just three weeks left to me in the United States until the end of the year.
Despite having set up a wonderful support system—Jen and Clare in L.A. for Emma, Charley for Amelia and Joanna—I was worried stiff about what the long-term consequences might be for them without the consistency of a mum and dad in residence full-time.
My anxieties were somewhat mitigated by the knowledge that Emma was having one of the best summers of her life on Alderney. She and Clare were living with another friend in Patmos, our little cottage. They had been enjoying a form of freedom, living independently yet being quietly monitored from a short distance by Jen Gosney, and Mum and Dad Walton, who had now retired on the island, and whom they saw often. The girls had found jobs—Clare managing a small clothing boutique, and Emma working as a waitress and chambermaid at two of the island’s small hotels. There was of course a lively social scene, and they were having a ball.
Near the end of August, however, I received a terrifying phone call from Jen, telling me that she and Emma had been in a car accident. Jen had accompanied Emma from Alderney back to England, and was about to put her on a plane to New York to visit her dad. En route, Jen’s car blew a tire, resulting in their careening into the guardrail, and then back across the highway and down into a ditch. The car had accordioned and was smoking profusely, but miraculously, Jen and Emma emerged unscathed, except for a mild case of whiplash. It was the stuff of my worst nightmares—the very thing I worried so much about whenever any of my family were away from me. Though I longed to rush to Emma’s side, I refrained, since she was on her way to see her dad.
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