Hellraisers

by Robert Sellers

  Dumping Christopher Plummer Elizabeth had found solace in the arms of Rex Harrison, despite the fact he was still married to Rachel Roberts. One day Rachel confronted the lovers determined to resolve things one way or the other. The three of them stood for a while in silence in the lounge of Elizabeth’s flat, her dog Dodger sniffing excitedly round their feet. ‘All right Rex,’ said Rachel, breaking the uneasy silence. ‘Make up your mind. Which one of us do you want? You must make a choice, now!’ Rex looked at both women in turn, paused, then pointed to the dog and said, ‘I’ll take Dodger,’ and made a run for it.

  It was only a matter of time before Harrison left Rachel and Elizabeth became the fifth Mrs Rex Harrison. Harris joked that at least his ex-wife didn’t have to change the initials on her luggage. He also kept in touch and when he read in the papers that Harrison had slapped her in a restaurant he phoned the man up in a rage. ‘If you ever do that again I’ll come round and knock off your hairpiece.’

  Alone, and without the addictive and combative relationship she’d shared with Harrison, Rachel Roberts took her own life by drinking weed killer, ensuring a lingering and agonising death. Hours after drinking the stuff she was still alive and in her torment broke through a glass door in her flat, butchering herself in the process. It was loss of blood that finally killed her.

  Harris hit the new decade with a sudden spate of films, but his first was a disaster. The Molly Maguires (1970) focused on Irish immigrant miners in Pennsylvania and co-starred Sean Connery. It bombed. Harris was livid that Robert Evans, the mercurial head of Paramount, had tossed out the movie with no fanfare whatsoever. A big New York premiere was promised and Harris had agreed to the promotional gimmick of going on a glorious bender and getting his pissed mugshot in the papers. ‘I was willing to lie in the gutter for those fuckers,’ roared Harris, when the premiere was cancelled.

  One good thing to come out of the film though was a lifelong friendship with Connery who became one of Harris’s very few showbiz pals. On the whole Harris didn’t have much time for actors. ‘I don’t like them,’ he once said. ‘I find them fucking boring. Connery is my only genuine friend. I’d spend an evening with O’Toole, Roger Moore and Burton, but I can’t be bothered with the rest of them.’ Oliver Reed felt much the same when it came to friendships with his fellow thespians. ‘I’m more interested in my barman and the scotch he’s got for me than some actor rambling on about his next film.’

  After the dismal showing of Maguires much more popular was A Man Called Horse (1970), even though Harris was fifth choice after the likes of Robert Redford had turned it down. The role of an English aristocrat who becomes a Sioux Indian ranks alongside King Arthur as the film character audiences will always remember him for. But his overwhelming public image was still that of a brawling hellraiser; Harris made the papers once again after a fistfight at the Talk of the Town nightclub. He was watching Sammy Davis Jr in cabaret when a heckler started to chant anti-Jewish remarks. In court Harris told the magistrate that he asked the heckler twice to shut up but he refused, ‘So I hit him.’ Unfortunately Harris also hit two detective constables who intervened in the resulting brawl. He was fined £12. Two weeks later he was in court again, this time charged with harassing a female traffic warden by embracing and dancing with her after being given a ticket. ‘You must not think that everyone enjoys being hugged and jigged around by a film star,’ the magistrate cautioned.

  Peter O’Toole’s first film of the 70s, Murphy’s War (1971), was another gruelling location shoot, this time on a stretch of the Orinoco River that was polluted from countless oil drills and sewage from nearby villages, notwithstanding piranha fish, alligators and water snakes whose poison had no known cure. ‘We are all dead,’ one crewmember was heard to mutter, ‘and this is our hell.’

  Not surprisingly O’Toole, playing a torpedoed British merchant seaman obsessed with destroying a German U-boat, was in a foul mood for the duration, not helped by the fact that he and the rest of the cast had to live for seven weeks in cramped conditions on a former Belfast ferry. He was drinking heavily too, knocking back spirits early in the morning, and lived almost in isolation, hardly talking to anybody. One crewmember described the atmosphere on set as ‘picnicking on Vesuvius’. Making matters worse was a recent upsurge in terrorist activity in the area with various foreigners being kidnapped by guerrilla types. Taking no chances the Venezuelan government sent 75 soldiers to surround the set. O’Toole had to suffer three personal bodyguards armed with Smith and Wesson .38 revolvers.

  To escape the drudgery of movie making O’Toole took to exploring the region: taking a helicopter and tracking down lost tribes. He even convinced the pilot to land next to the top of an enormous waterfall where no one had ever landed before. Later he chartered a tiny open boat to go up the Orinoco, managing to get 400 miles further upstream than a BBC film crew complete with hovercraft and armed guards.

  On one expedition he met Hank, a missionary, and was invited back to his hotel room for a drink. Hank grabbed a bottle that had a worm floating in its neck. ‘I’m going to lock all the doors now,’ he said after they’d shared a couple of swigs. ‘Why?’ asked O’Toole. ‘Because funny things happen with this stuff, it’s mescal.’ O’Toole had never tried mescal before, nor would he ever forget the experience. Both men killed off the bottle and then Hank sent O’Toole to walk back to the cabin he was staying at nearby. It was near dawn and O’Toole sensed that he wasn’t alone. ‘I turned around and looked; and it was me – only very small. It didn’t disturb me in any way. We kept each other company for about 24 hours.’

  On his return from Brazil O’Toole was exhausted and recuperated in hospital near his Hampstead home. Hungarian director Peter Medak visited him in his room to talk about doing a movie. ‘I went to see Peter and he was not supposed to drink, but he was sitting up eating caviar and having vodkas.’

  Medak had wanted to film Peter Barnes’s satirical play The Ruling Class for some time and saw O’Toole as the perfect candidate for the lead role, that of an English Lord who believes himself to be God. O’Toole saw the play and was so entranced by it that he literally bought the film rights to it that very evening. Alas this initial burst of enthusiasm was followed by a period of inactivity while O’Toole was busy on other projects. ‘Then one night we came back from the theatre,’ recalls Medak. ‘And to go home with Peter meant stopping at every pub between Soho and Hampstead, and it didn’t matter that it was after closing hour because he would knock on the door and just say, “Peter’s here,” and every door opened for him. So about three o’clock in the morning we staggered into his house and he said to me, “Come on, let’s do Ruling Class.” And I said, “You say you’re going to do it but then nothing happens.” And he picked up the phone and called his manager and said. “I’m with the crazy Hungarian and I know I’m drunk but I give you 24 hours to set this movie up.” And the next day I got a call from United Artists and the deal was made.’

  A comrade of Richard Harris, Medak naturally knew all about O’Toole’s reputation as a drinker. ‘But the problem with Peter was because he used to drink so much, he just needed a little touch to put him over the edge. I’ve been in situations with him which are kind of unbelievable. I took Peter Barnes up to Ireland to meet Peter and we had lunch in this restaur ant in Dublin that had a steep staircase leading up to it from the street. During the meal Peter didn’t touch a drop, but afterwards the chef came over to our table with a bottle of champagne saying, “With the compliments of the restaurant.” He opened it and Peter just took a sip. I turned away to pay the bill and when I turned back he wasn’t there any more. I looked down and he’d fallen all the way down the stairs, he just went, whoops!’

  Filming at Twickenham Studios O’Toole installed his own bar in his dressing room, which was for after-shooting parties. ‘But in those days everybody was drinking,’ says Medak. ‘Each of us used to drink a bottle of wine at lunchtime at the studio and I don’t know how we went on working after that,
but that was nothing, everybody drank, it was the culture. But it was a wonderful experience working with Peter. He was incredibly intelligent and bright, on a genius level. He also had a photographic memory, so it took him only one reading to remember a script, and everybody else’s lines. Yes, he was very demanding, but all those great actors were demanding, but once they knew the person that was directing them was not a total idiot then you could get anything done.’

  The Ruling Class (1972) is rightly regarded as one of O’Toole’s best films, and it’s remained something of a cult hit ever since. The supporting cast was also extraordinary, full of great English character actors like Alastair Sim, Arthur Lowe and Nigel Green. Most famous for his role as a gruff sergeant major in the film Zulu Green was a complex man and a tortured soul who suffered from depression. He was also a hellraiser. When drunk he could be aggressive and rudely intolerant. At a party held by the then biggest theatrical agency HM Tenant, Green, at the height of the festivities, bellowed, ‘You’re all a load of poofs.’ Binkie Beaumont, head of the company, went over to fill his glass and with a smile said, ‘Are you enjoying yourself, Nigel?’ It was the end of Green’s career with HM Tenant.

  When he married, Green left his weeping wife at the wedding reception after a massive row and went on a monumental drinking binge that lasted two days. That was the end of a marriage that never truly began. In 1972 Green was found dead in his flat in Brighton after the collapse of his second marriage. The coroner’s verdict was accidental overdose of sleeping pills. He was only 47.

  Oliver Reed consolidated his fine work for Ken Russell in Women in Love by appearing in the director’s even more controversial The Devils (1970). Its story of devil worship in the 17th century really got everybody frothing at the mouth, with its scenes of masturbating nuns, torture and full frontal nudity. None of that bothered Ollie, or the fact that in his role as a persecuted priest who is tortured and burnt at the stake he had to shave his head and legs, but he balked at Russell’s suggestion that his eyebrows also had to go. Russell flew into a rage. ‘We might as well not make the film at all.’ ‘Don’t be bloody silly. It can’t make all that much difference,’ said Reed. ‘Of course it’s important,’ blasted Russell. ‘They shaved off all his bodily hair and then stuck red hot pokers up his arse.’ Reed finally relented but only on the condition that his eyebrows were insured for half a million pounds in case they didn’t grow back properly.

  Co-star Brian Murphy saw the volatile and often playful nature of Reed’s relationship with Russell first hand. ‘He was a great practical joker Oliver and it seemed to me that he and Ken played games with each other. I remember one particular scene: Oliver had done several takes but Ken wanted more and in the end Ollie stormed off the set. Everything ground to a halt. Then word was sent to me, Max Adrian and Murray Melvin, who were also appearing in the scene, would we all go to Oliver’s dressing room. So we did and we all sat down and Ollie was grinning from ear to ear. “We’ll have a drink in a minute,” he said. “Have you got something?” I asked. “No,” he replied, “but we will have.” There was a knock at the door and this assistant came in with a bottle of champagne and said, “This is from Mr Russell and when you feel ready for it Mr Reed, we’ll see you back on the set.” I think he was up to those kinds of things all the time.’

  The film when it opened drew howls of outrage from critics; the distinguished film critic Alexander Walker called it ‘the masturbation fantasies of a Roman Catholic boyhood’. Russell got his revenge on Walker on live TV, by thwacking the pompous critic over the head with a rolled up newspaper.

  Ignoring the fact that Reed gave an outstanding performance in The Devils the press still revelled in his image as a mad, boozy loon, which to be honest Reed did very little to dispel. He told one astonished reporter that he believed in leprechauns and searched for the little beggars on Wimbledon Common. He even engaged in conversation with some of them, on the way back from the local no doubt. Then there was an appearance on the radio show Desert Island Discs, in which the guest is cast adrift on a fictional island and to pass the time must choose his favourite records and one luxury item. It proved to be a troublesome recording, with Ollie choosing an inflatable woman as his luxury item, and afterwards the normally placid host Roy Plomley was heard to mutter, ‘The only island that man should be cast away on is Devil’s Island.’

  Most interviews with Reed were either conducted in pubs or hotel bars and the journalist was under an obligation not just to drink, but drink to excess. ‘A small glass of wine please,’ one reporter said when asked by Reed what he wanted to drink. The actor returned with a pint pot of wine slopping over the brim. At another interview Reed, drinking sangria with wild abandon, suddenly stood up and pulled open his shirt to display his stomach at the reporter. ‘Look at that! Do you know what I am? I’m successful, that’s what. Destroy me and you destroy your British film industry. I’m the biggest star you’ve got.’ He then began pointing accusingly at the bewildered hack. ‘But it took years for it to dawn on you that I was worth writing about, pig, didn’t it. I’m Mr England.’ Getting increasingly agitated Reed knocked into the table sending the reporter’s glass crashing over. Reed’s brother Simon was on hand though to expertly field it, getting a crotch full of sangria for his pains. Reed darted off into the pub and returned with a bottle of whisky, which he handed to Simon. ‘That’s for saving the glass.’ He then turned on the terrified reporter again. ‘Do you know who my grandfather was? He was Sir Herbert Tree. Sir Carol Reed is my uncle. And I’m Oliver Reed – Mr England!’

  Of course much of this bluster and bad behaviour was put on. ‘I do like to clown around. Christ, life would be pretty boring without it.’ Filming Dirty Weekend (1973) on location in Italy Reed showed up on set unshaven, dishevelled and fell out of his car and lay motionless, apparently unconscious, on the road. No one noticed, or cared, so he got up and went and had a coffee. His co-star Marcello Mastroianni and the Italian crew did become a little perplexed with Reed’s behaviour as filming went on. One night in his hotel Reed playfully scuffled with some mates but too boisterously for the barman who fled in fear of his life.

  There were inevitably more incidents on location in Italy. Reed was drinking in the bar of his hotel with Reg Prince, his stand in, a tall, burly ex-Navy man and former junior boxing champion. After a few bottles they wandered outside to be greeted by a huge looking bastard who was known locally as ‘Jesus’ because he used to think he was God’s gift to women. He didn’t speak a word of English, and was approaching Ollie with his arms outstretched. Fearing he was going to be attacked Ollie pounced on him and bit his nose.

  Just then two cars pulled up and some sinister looking chaps got out. ‘I think there’s going to be a little bit of trouble here, Reg,’ said Reed. ‘It’s the local syndicate.’ Suddenly the two men heard gun shots and hit the dirt. When they realized it was only a radio programme on one of the car radios Ollie and Reg tore into the mob and everyone started chasing each other around the cars. One of the Italians did happen to be the local heavy of the Mafia and felt very indignant that he had lost face against two true blue Englishmen. Luckily for Ollie a contract wasn’t put out on him: the gang ended up buying him and Reg drinks and spaghetti.

  Probably the biggest example of Reed’s shock tactics and playing to the gallery was his habit of removing his trousers, or worse, showing his cock in public: ‘My snake of desire, my wand of lust, my mighty mallet.’ The first recorded instance of this was at a press conference for his film Triple Echo in 1972. The questioning turned to Burt Reynolds’s recent decision to pose totally naked in Cosmopolitan magazine. Reed had turned down a similar opportunity. ‘I love the thought of a lot of girls masturbating over a nude picture of me,’ he’d said, but coming so soon after Women in Love he didn’t want to get stuck in that particular rut. At the press conference he was asked why he’d declined the offer and replied it was because his dick was too big to fit on the page. ‘Prove it,’ demanded an elderly femal
e journalist on the front row. Without pause Reed dropped his pants and flashed the end of his knob. ‘Is that it?’ said the woman. ‘Why have you stopped?’ ‘Madam,’ replied Ollie. ‘If I’d pulled it out in its entirety, I’d have knocked your hat off.’

  Reed’s dick would make periodic appearances over the years in the most unlikely places. Michael Parkinson was hosting a radio chat show with American actress Elaine Stritch and Reed was late arriving. ‘I was talking to Elaine,’ Parky recalled, ‘when the door burst open and there he stood, Oliver Reed, absolutely drunk, naked except for a pair of green wellies. Elaine Stritch looked at him and said, “My dear Oliver, I’ve seen bigger and better quite frankly.”’

  Richard Burton’s career had never been in so much trouble, from the dizzy heights of the late 60s he was making interminable rubbish like Raid on Rommell (1971), a war film patched together wholesale from action sequences ‘borrowed’ from the much better Tobruk. There was also Hammersmith is Out (1972) in which he played an escaped mental patient in a film that probably only appealed to escaped mental patients. He knew he was slumming it but how else could he afford to live in the style to which he and Liz Taylor had grown accustomed. ‘I find it ludicrous, learning some idiot’s lines in the small hours of the night so I can stay a millionaire.’ It’s a quote fairly indicative of Burton’s attitude to his profession. ‘Actors are poor, abject, disagreeable, perverse, ill-minded, slightly malicious creatures,’ he once confessed. ‘And of that august company of idiots, I’m afraid I’m a member.’

  At least The Assassination of Trotsky (1972) had at the helm the distinguished Joseph Losey, but it failed to ignite. For much of the filming Burton was on the wagon, although strangely some of the crew noticed that Burton sober was sometimes not as good an actor as Burton the drunk: he was tense and hesitant on dialogue. One evening Norman Priggen, the assistant director, received a call from Liz Taylor explaining that Burton would not be working tomorrow. ‘Why’s that?’ asked Priggen. ‘Well you’d better get back to our hotel and look in the bar and see for yourself.’ Priggen drove quickly to the hotel and found Burton and Peter O’Toole, both as drunk as lords, lying on the floor, fondly embracing each other and singing ‘Happy Birthday’. They had been there since lunchtime. Burton was furious at being interrupted and it took a number of staff to carry him to his suite. Priggen was certain the actor would be in no state to work the following day. Yet, the next morning Burton gave what many considered to be his best performance and best day’s work during the whole shoot.