Hellraisers

by Robert Sellers

  Camelot was a massive hit, one of the biggest Broadway had ever seen and celebrities crowded into Burton’s dressing room every night, including copious amounts of groupies. Some cast members felt that one of the show’s songs ‘I wonder what the king is doing tonight’ might as well have been ‘I wonder who the king is screwing tonight’. Like bees round a honey pot the company gathered to listen to his tales of growing up in Wales or his early days in Hollywood, always with a drink, or several. Lerner was constantly amazed by Burton’s capacity for booze, ‘when any normal man would have been placed on the critical list’. Amazingly, despite arriving at the theatre most nights considerably plastered, Burton never missed a single performance. There were some nights he’d arrive so smashed, his voice sounding like a car crash, that Lerner was sure he was incapable of going on, but something almost mystical happened when Burton walked on the stage: his voice would return resplendent and he’d deliver a brilliant performance. So intrigued by this feat was Lerner that he sought medical advice on it. ‘Welsh livers and kidneys seem to be made of some metallic alloy, quite unlike the rest of the human race,’ one doctor told him. ‘One day, like aeroplanes, they eventually show metal fatigue.’

  Basking in Broadway success Burton did a week’s filming on the epic war drama The Longest Day (1962), a faithful re-creation of the D Day landings and a film as star-strewn as any other in history – John Wayne, Henry Fonda, Rod Steiger, Sean Connery, Robert Ryan, Richard Todd and Robert Mitchum among many others. Sadly Burton didn’t share any scenes with his hellraising comrade Bob Mitchum.

  After a lifetime of Mitchum’s boozing his family persuaded him in the mid-80s to check into the Betty Ford Clinic and try to quit drinking. When he got out he met up with fellow actor Stuart Whitman who asked, ‘What did you learn over there, Bob?’ Mitchum replied, ‘More ice.’

  Defiant to the end, Mitchum died in 1997. ‘The night he died,’ his son recalled, ‘he sat in his chair and there was a stubbed out Pall Mall and an empty glass that reeked of tequila. He got up during the night, knocked off a shot, smoked a cigarette, got in bed, and died in his sleep.’

  Next for Richard Harris was a real blockbuster, Mutiny on the Bounty (1962). Director Carol Reed had been attracted by his Irish ruggedness and the actor said he’d lick the deck of the Bounty for the chance to appear opposite his acting hero Marlon Brando, but when the script arrived he rejected the role as too small. Friends told him of the risk he was taking but it worked because he was offered the much bigger part of chief mutineer alongside Brando’s Fletcher Christian. Still not satisfied, Harris upped the ante even more by demanding star billing with Brando, a patent absurdity. Fearing he’d blown his chance Harris at last got the call from Hollywood; there’d be no equal billing, but more money. He agreed and flew out to Tahiti, clutching a bottle of bourbon. ‘Good morning Mr Harris,’ the clerk said at the check-in desk. ‘How do you know me?’ said a bemused Harris. ‘I recognised you from your hand luggage,’ replied the official.

  What greeted Harris on that Pacific island was a production in utter chaos. Brando was unhappy with the script and new writers were being hired all the time, while the replica Bounty, built at huge cost, had been held up by storms. After weeks of delay and tens of thousands of dollars already wasted the film began. Brando was on edge the whole time, fluffing lines and dripping paranoia. Torrential rain hampered filming too and there were scorpions and rats to contend with. But Harris loved the primitive conditions; it was a chance to be like Robinson Crusoe.

  When the production moved to Hollywood all hell broke loose. Brando’s behaviour became ever more eccentric – when he deigned to show up on set at all – and he had Carol Reed fired and replaced by Lewis Milestone. ‘It was shitsville,’ said Harris, whose idolisation of Brando was battered to say the least. The constant rows with both directors and the star’s absenteeism wore Harris out and his frustration erupted during the filming of the scene where Brando’s Fletcher Christian strikes his character. Brando was absorbed with the method and mumbling away so his blow, when it finally came, was the dampest of squibs. Harris responded with a mock curtsy and waggled a limp wrist in the air. Brando didn’t get the joke. Take two and again the blow was almost non-existent. Everyone waited to see how Harris would react. They weren’t disappointed. Thrusting his chin forward he propositioned, ‘Come on, big boy, why don’t you fucking kiss me and be done with it!’ Brando glared back, white with rage. Harris then kissed Brando on the cheek and hugged him. ‘Shall we dance?’ Angry and embarrassed Brando stormed off and afterwards the two men refused to appear on the set together. Brando played his scenes opposite Harris’s stand-in, while Harris, adding insult to injury, used a packing case on which was drawn Brando’s face. On the final day of shooting Brando sought reconciliation and requested Harris’s presence on the set. The atmosphere was understandably tense. ‘Would you mind giving me your lines?’ commanded Brando. Harris refused, instead presenting him with the packing case. ‘You’ll probably get as much out of that as I got out of you.’ The two men didn’t speak to one another again for 25 years.

  Production troubles resulted in Bounty going millions over budget and six months over schedule. Harris looked back on the film as ‘nightmarish’ and ‘a total fucking disaster’ and was conspicuously absent from the London premiere. But it did prove a commercial hit. Harris had finally arrived.

  Playing the immortal role of Captain Bligh in Bounty was Trevor Howard, one of the great elbow-benders of movie history. Stories of his antics are legion. One tells of a dainty English theatrical visiting a New York bar when out of the gloom of a crowded corner booth came the sound of a familiar gruff voice. A closer look confirmed it was his friend Trevor Howard, red-eyed and unshaven, holding court amongst a group of young American actors. ‘Trevor, what on Earth are you doing?’ he said. ‘Look at the state of you. How long have you been here?’ An evil grin spread across Howard’s face. ‘Three days!’ he roared.

  Once, to relieve the boredom of a long theatrical run at Stratford, Howard and a fellow actor decided to attempt the ultimate pub-crawl. On market days in the town all 48 pubs stayed open from ten o’clock in the morning until ten at night. The plan was for both to drink a pint alternately in each of the pubs between opening and closing times. 48 pubs = 24 pints each. ‘Can’t be done,’ said one landlord. ‘Nonsense,’ replied Howard. ‘It’s only one pint every 30 minutes; nothing to it.’ ‘Maybe,’ continued the landlord, ‘but you’re forgetting something.’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘You won’t be on your feet for the last half of the trip.’ ‘Volunteers will pour it into us,’ said Howard, revealing his contingency plan. ‘We didn’t say we’d be fucking conscious!’

  In the 1940s a pint cost something like fivepence and when news spread of Howard’s challenge there was no shortage of people eager to contribute towards the booze fund. On the day itself the gallant pair was given a rousing send off but alas failed to complete the circuit, only managing to sink 15 pints each before sliding into a gentle coma.

  Whilst making the war film Von Ryan’s Express Howard attended a lavish party thrown by its star Frank Sinatra. Upon leaving, Howard saw his hire car was blocked in the driveway by late arrivals. Undeterred, and unaware he was plastered, Howard attempted to extricate the car himself; a big mistake. First he accelerated forwards, ramming the vehicle parked in front, which in turn rammed the one ahead. Next he reversed gently, or so he thought, but the car thudded into the one behind, which shunted and damaged the car behind that. The noise brought other guests spilling out of the house to watch open-mouthed at the devastation. Luckily as the accident took place on private property the police weren’t called, but the cost of replacing the damaged limos made it the most expensive night of Howard’s life.

  ‘On night shoots, waiting to be called,’ says critic Barry Norman, ‘sitting in a car just knocking back the booze, Trevor would get out, throw up, go onto the set and give an immaculate performance. He was almost thrown out of the Sydney cricket g
round for bad behaviour, which I would have thought was nearly impossible. He was watching a test series there in the late 50s and he was so drunk and making so much noise that he was warned that if he didn’t control his behaviour he would be asked to leave. You must be behaving pretty outrageously to get that kind of response at Sydney cricket ground.’

  Right up until his final days Howard was a boozer. Just weeks before his death he fell over in his bedroom in a drunken state and knocked himself out. His wife called an ambulance and by the time they arrived Howard had regained consciousness and was busy grumbling over the unnecessary fuss as he was lifted onto a stretcher. As the ambulance men negotiated the stairway Howard called out suddenly to his wife. ‘I’m here darling,’ she loyally responded. ‘What is it you want?’ Howard looked at her and growled. ‘I want another gin and tonic!’

  Tony Palmer was one of the last people to work with Howard and, fully aware of the actor’s habit of being regularly pickled, took the advice of fellow director Richard Loncraine, who’d just made the Michael Palin comedy The Missionary with Howard. ‘Richard told me, the way to deal with Trevor is this: see if you can find a really, really sexy, pretty wardrobe girl. And we did, she was stunning, red hair, a very pretty girl. I said to her, “This is what you’re going to do on day one. I’m told that Trevor will arrive with a brown paper bag, and in the brown paper bag is the booze, and you are going to appear, if not in your underwear, jolly close, and he’ll go for you. I’m just warning you that this is what’s going to happen. I’m sure you can deal with this. Now, the moment he is rebuffed by you he will head for the brown paper bag, but he’s already been seduced by your flaming red hair, so you go across and you smack his hand and you say, naughty boy Trevor, and for the rest of the week he will behave impeccably.” And it happened, and he did. Richard Loncraine told me that they discovered this very late, too late I think on The Missionary, that this was how to deal with him.’

  Film history might have been very different had producer Sam Spiegel got his way and cast Marlon Brando as Lawrence of Arabia. His director, David Lean, wasn’t so sure, anxious about the star’s ego and that the film might turn into Brando of Arabia. Next on the list was Albert Finney, but after an expensive screen test Finney rejected the role on the grounds that he didn’t want to be straitjacketed by a multi-film contract under Spiegel. Lean meanwhile was pushing for Peter O’Toole having seen him in The Day They Robbed the Bank of England. Spiegel, perhaps remembering the violin joke O’Toole had made, thought O’Toole’s rowdy reputation was too much of a risk on so expensive a film. ‘He thought I was a tearaway. He thought I lived up a tree. He didn’t want to have to go looking for me every day with a net.’ Finally a screen test was arranged and watching it even Spiegel had to admit that they’d found their Lawrence. The American producer called O’Toole with the news. ‘I want you to play Lawrence.’ ‘Oh yes,’ said O’Toole. ‘Is it a speaking part?’ Spiegel growled back, ‘Don’t make jokes.’

  After signing for the role O’Toole was flown out to New York to meet the Columbia executives backing the project, an experience he didn’t savour. ‘When I look at you,’ one of the suits said, ‘I see six million dollars.’ ‘How’d you like a punch up the throat?’ O’Toole replied. ‘I hate that stuff,’ he said later, ‘it made me feel like a prize bull.’

  With the role of Lawrence in his pocket O’Toole settled down to celebrate Christmas with Siân. Then he suddenly went missing. O’Toole had a habit of vanishing for days on end without Siân knowing where or what he was up to. She’d almost gotten used to it. On Christmas morning he turned up with a brand new Morris Minor tied up with a huge ribbon. Of course Siân had a horror of cars by now after so many terror-stricken journeys with O’Toole at the wheel, but was thrilled by the gift. It didn’t last long. O’Toole hastily commandeered the vehicle for a sentimental journey up to Bristol to bid the city farewell before leaving for Arabia. That night Siân received a phone call from the police. ‘I’m very sorry,’ said a voice, ‘but I’m afraid we’ve had to lock Peter in the cells. We thought you ought to know.’ O’Toole, rather the worse for wear, had driven the Morris Minor smack bang into the back of a squad car. After a night in the cells it was back to London. Sadly Siân never did see her Morris Minor again; it went to that great scrap heap in the sky of cars that O’Toole had wrecked.

  Few actors have had more of a baptism of fire for their starring debut than O’Toole, not just a bugger of a role in one of the biggest pictures ever made, but having to appear opposite acting heavyweights like Alec Guinness and Anthony Quinn. Guinness admired O’Toole’s talent and charm but as he watched him drink to excess on location his appreciation cooled. One day Guinness and O’Toole were invited to dinner at some local dignitary’s house. O’Toole got plastered, quarrelled with his host and threw a glass of champagne in his face. ‘O’Toole could have been killed – shot, or strangled,’ Guinness wrote to a friend, ‘and I’m beginning to think it’s a pity he wasn’t.’

  A lot of O’Toole’s scenes were played opposite another young, unknown actor, Omar Sharif. First introduced to the Egyptian O’Toole murmured, ‘Omar Sharif! No one in the world is called Omar Sharif. Your name must be Fred.’ Henceforth Sharif was known as Cairo Fred. The two have remained lifelong friends and on location for Lawrence behaved wildly, enjoying the flesh pots of Beirut, then known as the sin city of the east. Both were obliged to film non-stop for ten days, and then have three or four days off. ‘We had the use of a private plane to Beirut and misbehaved ourselves appallingly!’ recalled O’Toole. ‘We’d just drink,’ Sharif says. ‘And try not to sleep too much so that we didn’t waste any time.’ Sharif also loved gambling, so they’d invariably lose all their money at the casino. ‘We once did about nine months’ wages in one night,’ said O’Toole. ‘And then got up to the usual things young men get up to.’ Asked by a journalist if that entailed getting up to no good O’Toole gave a grin and replied. ‘Oh, darling, do you consider it to be no good? We considered it very good indeed.’

  Their revelries continued after filming. In Hollywood O’Toole took Sharif to see controversial stand-up comic Lenny Bruce and the trio enjoyed a night out on the town. In the early hours of the morning they staggered back to Bruce’s home where the comedian shot up in front of his two guests. The next thing they knew the living room was full of cops and they were being bundled into vans and taken to the local station. Bruce’s house had been under surveillance and it was a drugs bust. A sober Sharif decided to use his one phone call to ask Spiegel for help. It was three in the morning and the producer was fast asleep in his suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel. A groggy Spiegel took the call. ‘Sam, it’s Omar.’ The producer was still half unconscious. ‘Omar who?’ Sharif identified himself and then dropped the bombshell that he and O’Toole had been arrested. ‘You’re nuts,’ yelled Spiegel. ‘You kids are going to ruin me.’ The producer sent his lawyers to the precinct to bail the pair out but Peter was so taken with Lenny Bruce that he refused to leave the jail without him. ‘Sam was going out of his mind,’ Sharif recalled. ‘And finally we got Lenny Bruce released with us.’

  Lawrence of Arabia occupied O’Toole for the next two years, filming in seven different countries. His arrival in Jordan was accompanied by a massive hangover and he was warned that he was now in an Arab country and that if he got drunk the authorities would throw him out, film or no film. For the first three months he learned how to live as an Arab in the desert before a foot of film was exposed. He even visited Bethlehem, but was unmoved by the experience, calling it ‘Christ commercialised’. Coming out of a holy shrine he noticed a cinema across the street that was showing a clunky British movie called Circus of Horrors. On a hoarding outside was a large picture of his acting chum Kenneth Griffith wearing a sweater he’d borrowed from O’Toole for the film and had failed to return. ‘That was the reason that Bethlehem, I’m afraid, did not amount to a religious experience.’

  O’Toole also had to learn how to ride a cam
el and after his first lesson blood oozed from the seat of his jeans. ‘This is a very delicate Irish arse,’ he warned his instructor. Eventually mastering the task O’Toole was almost killed during the spectacular sequence in which Lawrence’s Arab army attacks the port of Aqaba. An effects gun loaded with small pellets went off too soon, hitting O’Toole in the eye, temporarily blinding him. Unable to control his camel, O’Toole was thrown in front of several hundred charging Bedouins on horseback. Luckily the camel stood guard over the prone actor, as they are trained to do, shielding him from serious injury and probably saving his life. Flown to hospital for treatment O’Toole was back on the camel the next day.

  By the end of filming O’Toole had lost two stones in weight, received third-degree burns, sprained both ankles, torn ligaments in both his hip and thigh, dislocated his spine, broken his thumb, sprained his neck and been concussed twice. The conditions were such that some of the crew couldn’t take it and left. At one point some feared O’Toole himself was close to a nervous breakdown, a combination of the harsh terrain and the pressure enforced on him by the tyrannical Lean. He begged Siân to come out and raise his spirits: ‘Here, you have to be a little mad to stay sane.’

  After six months in the desert O’Toole was allowed to go back to Britain for a few weeks’ rest. He immediately checked into hospital to recuperate. Once out he went on the ultimate bender. ‘After six months in the desert, I should think so.’ But he was arrested for driving under the influence, jailed for the night, fined £75 and disqualified for a year. Spiegel was not happy. ‘You’re not supposed to get up to that kind of caper on a film like this,’ he preached.