More doom and gloom followed when Michell was notified that O’Toole’s doctor had insisted he carry out no press work this side of Christmas, which rather scuppered things since that’s when the movie was opening in America. Michell joked that the least O’Toole could do now was pop his clogs, ‘Thus providing a wonderful synchronicity of obits and the PR flourish the film has been waiting for.’ Then O’Toole rallied, flying to New York in January to appear on several television chat shows and conduct a wealth of newspaper and magazine interviews. His publicist there reported that he had been a dream, completed every last interview, charmed every single reporter and was a real trooper. The hope was that this late flurry of publicity would help his Oscar chances. There had been significant buzz that O’Toole wasn’t merely up for a record-breaking eighth nomination for Best Actor, but had a real opportunity to win it. Everyone knew it was his last chance, but O’Toole simply refused to be part of the Hollywood charm offensive. ‘He was very ambivalent about it all,’ says producer Kevin Loader. ‘He could have won that Oscar, but he said to us, “I’m not going to be paraded around like a prize heifer!” ’ Forest Whitaker won in the end, for The Last King of Scotland.
On the eve of its release in the UK, after a successful US opening and rave notices, O’Toole sent Michell an email in which he called Venus a good picture, ‘a Roger Michell picture’, but then proceeded to lambast some of the cuts that had been made, the shortening and rearrangement of scenes, standard practice in post-production. Sadly Michell had really come to expect this. ‘The old cunt has made the whole process of making this film as utterly miserable as possible from practically the first moment. But even I didn’t anticipate this particularly vicious endgame.’ He contemplated sending a reply but didn’t bother. Kureishi thought, ‘The man is mad,’ and that Michell should ‘totally disregard his poisonous ramblings’.
On 22 January 2007 Michell attended the London premiere. ‘O’Toole true to form tottered around twinkling with that great self-deprecating leer he has perfected over the years, rather like the wolf in granny-clothes in the fairy story.’ Afterwards in the foyer, O’Toole shouted Michell’s name and made a great play of shaking his hand, but as the director caught a cab in the cold London night he could think of only one thing, ‘How pleased I am to be almost certain of not having to see him again.’
Looking back on the experience today Michell is marginally more warmly predisposed to the actor. ‘We were very lucky to have made a film with him, and I think we were right to make the film with him.’ Without any doubt the role of Maurice was O’Toole’s last great performance, and one of the most revealing he ever gave, full of self-reflection and drawing on his last forty years as a star. ‘And that’s the reason why the film works so well,’ says Michell. ‘When you see that picture of him in the obituary it’s terribly affecting to see this stunning young man looking back at you.’
TWENTY-SIX
While O’Toole knew it was highly unlikely he would get to play such a challenging role as Maurice again, especially as he was now in his mid-seventies, and looked at least ten years older than that, offers of work were still arriving. Largely these were for supporting parts, as had been the case now for several years, or cameos which added gravitas to a production, such as his appearance as the King in director Matthew Vaughn’s fantasy Stardust. There was also a recurring role as Pope Paul III in the major television series The Tudors.
One offer so intrigued O’Toole that he agreed to do it without reading a complete script, something he’d never done before. Ratatouille told the story of a rat who dreams of becoming a great French chef, and hailed from the animation studio Pixar, responsible for recent hits such as Toy Story, Finding Nemo and Monsters Inc. He had been asked to voice the character Anton Ego, a cynical restaurant critic. ‘There’s only one voice in my head when I’m writing this,’ director Brad Bird claimed. ‘And it’s got to be Peter O’Toole.’
O’Toole’s vocal performance was recorded in London over the course of six sessions, whenever a relevant section of animation had been completed. Before each session O’Toole always wanted the script pages a couple of days in advance so he could prepare properly. ‘He seemed to really enjoy the process,’ remembers producer Brad Lewis. ‘He always had that twinkle in his eye. You could tell by the end of the session sometimes he got tired but he always came in with a fantastic energy. I remember the very first session he walked in and asked the crew, “Anybody watching the cricket?” I think pretty much the general response was no, and he looked at us all and said, “Heathens!” ’
One thing Brad Lewis has never forgotten is that after twenty minutes, on every session, O’Toole would let rip with this tremendous roar, like a lion, several times between takes. ‘At one point I said to him that he might want to be careful, just because he might tire out his voice. And he said, “Do you know who I learned that from? You’ll never guess.” We didn’t guess and he said, “Audrey Hepburn.” I don’t know whether it was a throat clearing or head clearing exercise, or whatever, but it truly was a roar, and it was the roar of a twenty-year-old.’
When it opened in 2007, Ratatouille was a huge box-office hit, taking over $600 million around the world. Brad Lewis flew to London with a healthy bonus cheque for O’Toole. ‘Peter gave me the biggest and wettest kiss on my cheek that I’ve ever got.’
O’Toole was increasingly spending his time now in London. His trips to New York had virtually dried up; he had sold his house in Clifden and according to Paul D’Alton rarely returned now to Ireland, except to see his daughters, who retained homes in the country. O’Toole was proud of his children. Kate, who adored her father and had inherited his sense of humour, had gone into the acting profession, something Lorcan was also trying his hand at, while Patricia was a business education and arts training consultant. All agreed their colourful upbringing had helped immeasurably in their adult life. ‘Dad introduced us to a vast range of actors, writers, alcoholics, crooks, you name it,’ said Kate. ‘And he gave us great freedom to believe we could do what we wanted to do.’
In London O’Toole rarely went out, but was a pretty permanent fixture at the annual Oldie of the Year Awards held at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand, where he’d bump into friends Martin Bell and Barry Cryer. O’Toole loved the Oldie functions. ‘And he was lionized there,’ says Bell. ‘Top table, of course.’ At one Oldie lunch not long after the release of Venus Leslie Phillips was with him. Standing up to make a speech, Phillips looked over at O’Toole. ‘It was great fun, wasn’t it, Peter, making that film.’ With a deadpan expression on his face O’Toole replied – ‘No!’ ‘He loved wrong-footing people,’ says Cryer. ‘Saying something they didn’t expect.’
The last time Barry Cryer saw O’Toole was at one of those Oldie lunches. ‘His legs had gone, he had to be helped up out of his chair. He was so frail – but his mind wasn’t frail.’
Over recent years O’Toole had worked in films shot across the world: in America, in China on the TV mini-series Iron Road, in Mexico playing a martyred priest in For Greater Glory, based on the true story of the Cristero War of the 1920s starring Andy Garcia, and in Kazakhstan, appearing briefly in an action film called The Whole World at Our Feet. While in Kazakhstan, O’Toole picked up a nasty viral infection in his lungs and bladder. While he inevitably bounced back, this latest illness, along with all the other minor ailments and injuries he’d picked up over the years, forced him to reach the decision that filming overseas, even America, was now out of the question. ‘I can no longer walk from the check-in desk to an aeroplane, that’s a fucking journey in itself.’ His knees were particularly bad, one of them dreadfully swollen, ‘looking like a sack full of dead babies.’ He refused to have his cruciate ligament done, or knee reconstruction, because he was in no pain. But he did have trouble putting on a jacket due to his once proud bowling arm being ‘completely buggered’. Indeed, he had recently given up cricket altogether, playing and coaching. ‘I knew I was finished when I could hardly see the bl
oody ball.’
One offer of work that came his way only required a short trip to Pinewood Studios. For years first-time director Michael Redwood had been looking for finance for his Roman epic Katherine of Alexandria. In the hope of interesting private investors he sent the script to O’Toole and a host of other veteran British thespians. O’Toole was the first to respond, telling Redwood: ‘If anyone alters this screenplay other than to add a full stop, shoot the bastards with my permission.’ With O’Toole on board the likes of Edward Fox, Steven Berkoff and Joss Ackland signed up and the money quickly followed. Few guessed at the time, though, that it would prove to be O’Toole’s final performance.
Redwood had his services for just six days and neither he nor his crew were aware of how poorly he was. ‘If he was ill, he was hiding it really well because he brought a crackling energy on set with him.’ The bulk of his scenes were completed on the first take. Before the cameras rolled O’Toole would ask Redwood what was required, listen intently, pause for something like five seconds and then say, ‘You’ve got it.’
However frail and failing his body might have been, the mind was still alert and capable. ‘His memory was like a computer,’ confirms Redwood. ‘ He was always ten paces ahead of the crew.’ Almost up until the end of his life O’Toole retained an astonishing memory. The last time his old RADA classmate Gary Raymond saw him was a couple of years before his death at the Garrick club. ‘I went to speak to him and he knew immediately who I was and he was talking about things from way back, and he was totally there, although he looked a wreck. And it was wonderful.’
There were, of course, lapses. Playing a scene with Berkoff, on ‘action’ O’Toole began speaking only to stop and for nothing else to come out of his mouth. A few seconds passed before the continuity lady broke the silence and gave him the rest of the line. ‘How fucking dare you,’ he said, a stony glare in her direction. ‘Cut,’ shouted Redwood. ‘How fucking dare you,’ repeated O’Toole. Berkoff interrupted, ‘Don’t you know what a Mackenzie pause is, you idiot?’ Later that day Redwood collared O’Toole and asked him what the hell a Mackenzie pause was. ‘It means, for the uninitiated, I’ve forgotten my fucking lines.’
The one characteristic that Redwood found the most endearing about O’Toole was his infectious sense of humour; he was always up for a giggle, to have fun. ‘He would make the whole crew laugh. If he was filming a scene, he would say things afterwards like, “You’ve fucked that up and I’m going to tell everybody.” ’
While the other actors travelled to and from the set from their dressing rooms elsewhere in the studio, O’Toole insisted on installing a large tent on the floor itself, where Lucy looked after his every whim. ‘They were quite close,’ observed his co-star on the film, Nicole Keniheart. ‘Peter did feel very secure with her around. You could see that Lucy did take care of him.’ He took breakfast early each day before the rest of the cast, and it was always the same, steak and porridge to give him energy. ‘And he worked till he dropped,’ confirms Redwood. ‘From eight am till six pm on the dot. There wasn’t a minute he wasn’t ready and available.’
Towards the end of his time on the film O’Toole complained of stomach pains and Redwood went to see him in his dressing room. ‘Peter, your health comes first, I’ll bin this scene.’
Though visibly in distress O’Toole was having none of it. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘Look, your health comes first. Tell me what’s wrong.’
‘Fuck it,’ said O’Toole. ‘We’re going to do it.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
On 30 April 2011, O’Toole was joined by friends and family, including Kate and Lorcan, as he had his hands and feet enshrined in cement on the famous Hollywood walk of fame. It was a great honour and he was genuinely touched by the gesture.
In July 2012, not long before his eightieth birthday, O’Toole announced his immediate retirement from acting. He’d always said that one of the lovely things about being an actor was that you can go on for ever. ‘Although I have no intention of uttering my last words on the stage in fucking Macclesfield or something. No thank you. Room service and a couple of depraved young women will do me quite nicely for an exit.’
Typically, he penned the press release himself: ‘It’s time for me to chuck in the sponge. To retire from films and stage. The heart for it has gone out of me: it won’t come back. My professional acting life, stage and screen, has brought me public support, emotional fulfilment and material comfort. It has brought me together with fine people, good companions with whom I’ve shared the inevitable lot of all actors: flops and hits. However, it’s my belief that one should decide for oneself when it’s time to end one’s stay. So I bid the profession a dry-eyed and profoundly grateful farewell.’
Not long after this statement was released O’Toole’s friend Sarah Standing asked if he had any regrets about the decision. ‘I’m not bloody Edith Piaf you know,’ he answered. He did admit that he would miss the companionship. ‘We all had such larks. Yes, it was hard work but the friendships and the genuine respect we had for one another, that side I shall miss greatly.’ Other things, particularly the getting up at the crack of dawn bit, he wouldn’t miss. ‘And getting the old vocal equipment up to concert pitch at eight-a-fucking-clock in the morning, and keeping at concert pitch until eight at fucking night.’ In later life he’d taken to wearing a watch on each wrist so if he forgot which wrist it was on he would still be able to tell the time.
So, that was it. He’d done his bit, been a leading man for half a century. ‘That’s enough.’
What was he going to do now was the question. O’Toole had already produced two critically well-received memoirs, chronicling his childhood and his experiences at RADA. Certainly he took great care over them and was enthusiastic and dedicated to getting it right, as is vividly illustrated in a letter he wrote to his editor at Macmillan at the very beginning of the venture. It reads:
‘It is a tricky old lark this scribbling, isn’t it? Beginning being a particular bugger and it is finding and sustaining a tone which is mine, though you are right, the inky prattle of my letters is me, not a studied composition and that voice is hard to find when addressing no one in particular. I have found it though and the words are gently dropping off my pen. More, thus far I am enjoying this extraordinary adventure.’
Written in a Joycean stream of consciousness that some readers did find difficult to comprehend and follow, these jottings of a ‘demented poet’, in the words of Sheridan Morley in his Sunday Times review, were intensely personal to O’Toole. So personal in fact that he did have trouble letting go of it. He hated being edited. The rumour from those who worked on the book was that he argued over virtually every comma that was put in or taken out.
When it came time to produce an audio book of both volumes O’Toole was mortified to discover that they had been abridged. In a fierce letter to the publisher he let them know exactly what he thought of the situation. His letter ended with: ‘I shall now vomit.’
There was talk that now he had retired he would focus his attention on a third volume of memoirs, detailing his early film career and rise to fame. It was never to materialize. He also spoke of a desire to record all of Shakespeare’s sonnets. ‘They live at the side of my bed and are my constant companion.’ This was another ambition that would prove unfulfilled.
As he entered what turned out to be the final year of his life, O’Toole began to plan for what he knew was the inevitable. He certainly knew he was dying as he began to put his life in some kind of order. For some time Johnnie Planco had got the sense that O’Toole was beginning to distance himself. ‘Just at the point when I was beginning to take it personally, I looked around at our mutual friends and I realized he was pulling back from everybody, first emotionally and then professionally.’ Suddenly, and quite out of the blue, Planco was told by O’Toole’s lawyer that his services were no longer required. ‘Peter doesn’t feel the need for representation in America any more.’ Planco was underst
andably upset, more by the fact that it wasn’t O’Toole himself on the phone but his lawyer. ‘Can I talk to Peter, because we’ve been together for thirty years,’ said Planco. ‘No,’ said the lawyer. ‘He really wants me to do it.’ In the end Planco respected O’Toole’s wishes. ‘I think I sent him an email and that was it.’
Billy Foyle was at home in Clifden when he got a call that O’Toole was in town and wanted to see him. The two men had grown apart somewhat over the last few years. ‘We’d sort of gone our separate ways. I wasn’t socializing any more and he liked a bit of peace and quiet. So we’d met up every now and then but never went out boozing like we did in the old days.’ When O’Toole saw Foyle he threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly. Foyle was shocked, O’Toole had never been the most robust of men but there was hardly anything left of him but skin and bone. ‘He didn’t say anything to me but I had a feeling something was wrong because he looked terrible.’
As the two men walked slowly along the beach they talked. It was O’Toole who brought up all the old memories. ‘By this stage with me it was a bore – the drinks we drank, the songs we sang and the fights we had. I was tired of it all but we sat and remembered the old times. We talked about that first night he arrived in the town and how I’d helped him and how grateful he was. And when we parted that day with a hug I could see the tears in his eyes. Now, Peter wasn’t that emotional, he didn’t show his emotions, but I saw the tears that day when we parted. I think he knew then he wasn’t coming back. I think that’s why he wanted to see me.’
In the last few months of his life O’Toole was a virtual recluse, seeing people only in the company of Lorcan. The faithful Lucy was still around and his daughters were never far from his side. As he became frailer and too difficult to care for at home, he was moved to the Wellington Hospital in St John’s Wood where on 14 December 2013 he passed away; his body had finally given up on him. As arrangements were made for his funeral he lay in the same morgue as Ronnie Biggs, the great train robber, who died a few days later.
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