Home Work

by Julie Andrews

  I was a blubbering mess, knowing the courage it had taken for Emma to sing something for me. I was grateful from my soul to have a daughter able to voice such a loving thing. Perhaps it also had to do with resolving the pain that she and I had experienced when she left California.

  Later, I penned the following:

  In New York last week doing my interviews, I was treated a little like some kind of monument, or legend. I certainly don’t feel that way. Blake says it’s because I’m a “survivor.” Emma says it’s because I have done some memorable work. All of it has been fascinating and much of it has given me great joy, especially—always—the music. I certainly want to attempt more creative work, in addition to doing what I can to support the causes I care about. I still have the energy to bring to it all. At times, I feel younger now than I did in my twenties.

  While I don’t feel like a “legend,” I do feel a little more sure of myself; a little more capable. Another product of that trip to Southeast Asia?

  Early in the New Year, we began shooting The Man Who Loved Women. Both Truffaut’s original film and Blake’s adaption tell the tale of a serial womanizer whose passions lead to his demise. In Blake’s version, the main character is a sculptor, played by Burt Reynolds, who consults with a female analyst (me) about his obsession and subsequently falls in love with her. My role was challenging, in that half of it required being seated and holding very still in analytical sessions, while the other half was comprised of voice-over narration, since the story is told from the analyst’s point of view.

  I had never done narration before, and wasn’t sure how to approach it. How do you engage the audience when the speaker is unseen? Should I be vocally intimate, dramatic, oratorical? I finally decided, for the first time in my life, to consult with an acting coach. I asked several people—my agents, certain friends and colleagues—who would be the best person to work with, and one name kept coming to the forefront: Nina Foch. I made an appointment to see her.

  Nina’s acting career spanned six decades in Hollywood, and included such films as An American in Paris, Executive Suite (directed by Robert Wise), The Ten Commandments, and Spartacus, as well as a great deal of television work. She had been teaching acting for a long time, at both the American Film Institute and USC. I wondered if I might be intimidated by her knowledge and expertise.

  I was ushered into her house by an assistant, and left to wait for a couple of minutes. The main staircase descended into the living room, and I heard her voice before I saw her.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming! Sorry to keep you waiting!” I watched her descend the stairs with ease and command, every bit the actress making a grand entrance, and it made me smile.

  Nina turned out to be an absolute love. She was enthusiastic, perceptive, and completely frank. She began to dissect Blake’s screenplay, not in criticism, but in much the same way Madame Stiles-Allen used to break down a song. Why did I never think to apply one technique to the other? For every line of dialogue, she gave me suggestions as to what my character might be thinking; her objectives, the subtext. Although we only covered a few pages of the script in that initial session, Nina gave me the foundation for my work on the role, and she quickly became a close and trusted friend.

  In addition to my coaching sessions, I also began studying the Alexander Technique, a method I had been hearing about for freeing up tension in the body. This, too, I found immensely helpful.

  FILMING FOR THE MAN WHO LOVED WOMEN spanned the next several months. Burt was delightful to work with, but he kept very much to himself. Blake had searched long and hard for a sculptor whose work might best represent Burt’s character. Having recently begun sculpting himself, Blake had amassed quite a number of lovely pieces. One day, he shyly asked me whether I thought his work might be good enough to use in the film. I told him I thought it would be perfect, and he decided to take the gamble. I was so proud to see his pieces larger than life on-screen, and I feel they enhance the film considerably.

  Because of the film’s psychoanalytic theme, Blake had cowritten the screenplay with his own analyst, Milton Wexler, in addition to Geoffrey. Unfortunately, during production, Geoff and Blake had a falling-out due to artistic differences about the script. The two became estranged for a time, which pained Blake considerably.

  Milton occasionally served as a consultant on the set. One day, we were filming an analytic session. We had been experimenting with improvisation—something Blake had done with The Party and was increasingly intrigued by. I wore an earpiece, through which Milton’s voice guided me in my responses to Burt’s musings so that they would be appropriate and correct. I had the peculiar sensation of art imitating life, and it felt more than a little bizarre.

  Once my work on the film had concluded, I bounced back and forth between Europe and the States for the remainder of the year, still trying to uphold our Swiss residency while being present for my family as much as possible. These continued forced separations were tough on us all. The last two Panther films had not done well at the box office, and sadly, The Man Who Loved Women did not fare much better. Whenever I was away, I did my best to press ahead with my children’s book about the ship’s cat, which I had titled Little Bo: The Story of Bonnie Boadicea.

  I happened to be in London for my mother’s seventy-third birthday, and we had the rare experience of celebrating it with all my siblings under one roof. My brother John had recently remarried, a lovely lady by the name of Sharyn. Christopher was there also, with his wife, Ann, who was newly pregnant. Donald and his wife, Alma, had recently welcomed a baby son. Auntie was “starchy” as always, and as I had feared, Mum had slipped back into her old ways, but she did enjoy that evening.

  Emma turned twenty-one in November, and I was able to steal a couple of precious days to fly to New York and surprise her. By now she was auditioning regularly, and performing in off-Broadway plays, television soap operas, and commercials. She was working so hard, and I was proud of her accomplishments, but I wished I could somehow help her avoid the inevitable industry challenges and setbacks that I knew lay ahead.

  JUST AFTER CHRISTMAS, Blake took a meeting in Gstaad with Leslie Bricusse about adapting Victor/Victoria into a stage musical for Broadway. Blake had occasionally talked about this idea, but it had always seemed to me to be a “pie in the sky” possibility, way off in the future. When he told me about the meeting with Leslie, he conveyed his hope that the Broadway version would happen sooner rather than later, and that Robert Preston and Lesley Ann Warren would join me in reprising their roles from the film.

  I wrote:

  Blake never asked me, “How do you feel about it?” He just assumes that I’ll do it. Of course, I want to do it—I’m well aware how fortunate I’d be to have that opportunity. But I’m terrified already. It’s such an enormous gamble to go back to Broadway, and it would be a huge undertaking. What of Amelia and Joanna? Our lives? What if it is a long run? Do I still have the chops, the stamina? And what happens to our marriage if I’m dedicated and busy? Would Blake keep his cool through the whole process—and with me?

  Blake began to take more meetings, with various potential Broadway producers, about Victor/Victoria. He had also written a stylish screenplay for Clint Eastwood and Burt Reynolds. Unfortunately, the three personalities were not a good mix. Burt and Clint asked for many changes to the script, and finally wrote a version of it themselves, much to Blake’s chagrin. Warner Bros. backed the actors, and eventually Blake removed himself from the project.

  Fortunately, he had another project in development—a second collaboration with Dudley Moore. Micki + Maude was a quirky film about a confused bigamist. It was picked up by Columbia Pictures, and Blake began shooting it in Los Angeles in April, with Amy Irving and Ann Reinking rounding out the cast.

  At the same time, Blake became involved in a legal battle with MGM/UA, who had sued him for overages on Victor/Victoria and the two subsequent Panther films. Blake countersued, and MGM/UA counter-countersued. It was hugely s
tressful—and we spent a good deal of time that year meeting with our lawyers, giving depositions, and so forth. The suits were eventually settled out of court, but the experience took its toll on Blake emotionally, as did the continued estrangement from Geoffrey. Blake began to suffer from depression once again. He lost weight and complained of constant fatigue. Eventually, he was diagnosed with mononucleosis and Epstein-Barr.

  I did my best to be supportive, and also to be as present as possible for Joanna and Amelia, now nine and ten. They were going to the same UCLA Lab School that Emma had attended years before. Amelia was showing real talent in ballet class, and Jo was passionate about horseback riding and reading. I proudly attended their respective dance recitals and horse shows.

  Over the course of that year, I also gave a couple of benefit concerts, and cohosted the Tony Awards in New York City with Robert Preston. While I was there, I began looking at apartments we might rent should the stage version of Victor/Victoria come to pass. I also took the opportunity to spend time with Emma, who was moving into a new apartment with a fellow actress from her acting program.

  I happened to be in the city the night they moved in, and after a late supper with Emma, I received a call from her saying that she had returned to her apartment to find the place on fire. It was a ground floor walk-through, and apparently a passerby had flipped a cigarette butt into the pile of empty packing cartons that she and her roommate had left by the stairwell. The damage was extensive, and I stayed on through Thanksgiving to help the girls with the cleanup and restoration. Afterward, Blake flew in to meet me and we traveled on to Gstaad, hoping to spend a peaceful Christmas there.

  Three hours after we arrived, the phone rang. It was my brother Chris’s wife, Ann, who relayed that my mother was in the hospital for some tests. Apparently, Mum had been experiencing severe abdominal pain, and at first the doctors thought it might be pancreatitis. Within a day, the diagnosis was much more serious; she had an aneurism in her lower aorta. It was a ticking time bomb, and if it burst, she would most certainly die. The only hope was an operation, which in itself was dangerous, and from which recovery would be slow. Blake and I flew to London immediately.

  When we arrived at the hospital, Mum was pale, fragile-looking, and in considerable pain. Blake was very dear with her; he rubbed her back, and she flirted with him a bit. It warmed me to know that her humor and life force were still intact.

  The following day, my brothers joined me at the hospital. We saw X-rays and met with the surgeon, who explained Mum’s problems in great detail and what he needed to do. We had family conferences, trying to determine the best course of action. I was struck by the sadness of seeing Mum so desperately ill and close to death, stoically trying to get through a hospital meal of gray roast beef and green beans.

  When I returned to the hotel, I was shocked to discover Blake lying on the floor of our room in a fetal position. He claimed to be very ill—probably a gallbladder attack, he said. He was shaking and emotional. I wondered privately if his visit to the hospital had intensified his feelings of mortality; he avoided hospitals whenever possible, but had made an effort for my sake and Mum’s. I asked him to phone his analyst, which he did.

  The next morning, we learned that Mum was bleeding internally, and that the operation had to happen immediately. Mum said, “I just wish I’d had a little more time to prepare for this . . .” and later, “If I can just pull through tomorrow . . .” It was clear to me that she knew how serious the situation was, and my heart was breaking for her.

  Later, I wrote:

  I am in great distress tonight; for her fear, for her pain. I find myself praying she will be alright. She is going to have to be so strong, so brave. The latter, she is. I hope she can muster the former. Mostly I wish her some inner peace.

  I had wanted to spend that night with her at the hospital, but Blake was now in such bad shape emotionally that I ended up going back to the hotel to care for him. I was awake the whole night, trying to send Mum love and strength, and phoning the hospital every few hours to leave messages for her, while also tending to my husband. At times I found myself rocking forward and back, as if to steel myself against some impending doom.

  Once the operation was over, we were told that Mum’s situation had been much worse than the doctors anticipated. She had two aneurisms, one of which had ruptured on the operating table. Every artery was involved, and Mum had a graft on her main aorta from her diaphragm to her pelvis. They expected her to die within the hour, but somehow she rallied a bit and was sent to intensive care.

  Blake mustered the strength to join me as we visited her in the ICU. She was on a respirator, but clearly recognized him and lifted her hand to touch his cheek. But as the days unfolded, Mum’s recovery slowed, and my husband’s condition worsened; he became increasingly self-absorbed and desperate. We visited a gastroenterologist, who felt his problem was more likely emotional than gallbladder-related, but who recommended a battery of tests, nonetheless. Blake regressed further, becoming almost unremittingly childlike, and at one point I caught him writing a suicide letter. I asked him to again phone his analyst, who recommended that instead of going back to Gstaad for Christmas, Blake return to L.A. for more tests and possible surgery. Within two days, Blake was on his way back to California, while I remained in London, taking things a day at a time.

  Mum continued to struggle, and was given a tracheotomy to ease her breathing. The doctor advised us that she would remain in the ICU and not be awake or responsive to family visits for a while. He recommended that I leave her in his good care and return to my husband and family for the few days over Christmas. He said that he would remain in close contact with me, and since there was the possibility that Blake now needed an operation, I decided to take the gamble and join him and the children in California, and fly back to London at a moment’s notice if need be.

  I phoned the hospital from the airport, and was horrified to learn that Mum’s condition had suddenly deteriorated. My spirits plummeted and I was in an agony of indecision—but I boarded the plane, nonetheless. I don’t remember one moment of that flight. My emotions were in such turmoil: guilt, worry, confusion, deep sadness.

  Just a few hours after I arrived home, I received a call from the doctor. He said that Mum’s kidneys were failing, and that she was unlikely to survive another day. The following morning, she passed away. I will never forgive myself for not having been with her.

  My first reaction was relief that she was out of pain. Then grief overwhelmed me, and I bawled. I spoke to my brothers, and Auntie, who were equally distraught. We agreed to schedule Mum’s funeral in a week’s time, just after Christmas. I asked Auntie if she would like to return to Los Angeles with me after the proceedings, and she seemed grateful to have something to look forward to.

  ON THE DAY of the funeral, Dad, Auntie, and I formed a receiving line at the church. I was so touched by Dad’s being there with us. I mentioned to him how sad it was that Mum’s last years had been so unhappy.

  “It is sad, Chick,” he replied. “But that was your mum’s destiny, not yours. Yours is to live out whatever time is given to you to the fullest extent, to relish every day and make it count.”

  Aunt Joan and Jen Gosney had joined forces in my absence, and had done a Herculean job organizing all the details of the service. Somehow, I got through it without breaking down completely. I managed to join in the hymns, and even sing the descant to “The Lord Is My Shepherd.” I thought how Mum would have loved the music. I gave a little speech, and concluded by saying how proud I was to carry Mum’s genes. It was a comfort to think of the eight grandchildren that now carried those same genes forward, including Chris’s new baby daughter, Jessica.

  My mother’s best friend, Gladys Barker, gave a small reception at her house, which meant a great deal to me. As I left, Auntie Gladdy said, “Your mum was one of the bravest people I’ve ever met.” I understood what she meant. Mum had had such an uphill battle most of her life—with her parents
’ early death, her responsibility for Auntie, her poverty, Pop’s alcoholism. She had indeed been brave.

  Aunt Joan accompanied me back to Los Angeles, as I had hoped. She stayed for a month, during which time we talked of the possibility of her relocating to America permanently. Her rheumatoid arthritis was by now so bad that she was severely disabled and always in chronic pain. We found a little house for her, just down the road from ours, and she lived there for several months. However, like my mother, she missed her friends and her hometown, and eventually opted to return to England.

  Blake didn’t end up having gallbladder surgery, since his further tests never revealed a definitive diagnosis. But he did continue to decline emotionally over the next six months. I had never seen my husband so depressed. He complained of constant fatigue, nausea, aches, and pains. There were days when he could barely function at all. He had every medical test under the sun, including exhaustive blood work and bone marrow scans, with no clear results. One doctor said it was mono; another said there was no trace of mono at all, though he may have had it at one time. One doctor said he did have a gallstone; another said he did not. He was prescribed antidepressants, but claimed to have a bad reaction and stopped taking them.

  Although he was by now working on a new film—a valentine to Laurel and Hardy called A Fine Mess—the work didn’t seem to buoy his spirits as it usually did. He seemed to be going through the motions; getting the job done each day without energy or enthusiasm, and coming home early whenever possible. It became clear that he was abusing his prescription meds again. He would wake in the night with anxiety so acute, it rendered him trembling and tearful. Many times, I found him standing by my side of the bed in the dark, in an almost catatonic state. We would go for long predawn walks on the beach, during which he would often weep uncontrollably. Sometimes he had trouble simply putting one foot in front of the other. He increased his visits to his analyst, seeing him seven days a week, and occasionally twice a day. He even sought out astrologers and psychics, and devoured books on spirituality, as well as medical journals. But he only seemed to slide further down into despair. I tried to help as best I could; I held him, listened to him, encouraged him. Nothing seemed to make a difference.