In spite of such incidents Reed claimed not to be as nasty or fierce as the press often made out. He did though admit that many of his outrageous pranks were deliberately stage-managed. It wasn’t that he wanted to shock people so much as his love of cocking a snoop at the establishment and po-faced conventionality. Perhaps more than as an actor, Reed saw his role in life as that of a showman. People had come to expect him to be outrageous and he didn’t like to disappoint them. Give the public what they want was his motto. Once, dining quietly with a friend in a restaurant, Reed realized that the manager was arranging for newspaper photographers to come and take photos, so Ollie obliged. ‘Watch this,’ he whispered to his colleague. He got up and, passing an empty table, ‘accidentally’ knocked into it sending the chairs and place settings flying. Next day one tabloid headline ran: ‘Drunken Ollie wrecks restaurant.’
Such behaviour also derived from the fact that Reed was easily bored, like a child. While he was sitting in a pub, a woman entered collecting for charity. Ollie took off his jeans and gave them to the startled woman. He also once bet someone that he could pronounce and spell the word ‘masseuse’ correctly; he couldn’t and for his forfeit shaved his head. And who else would own a racehorse called ‘Gorn Myson’? It only raced once under that name and afterwards the relevant authorities ordered a change of name as it was unfair to hear the racing commentators apparently call out, as the horses went down the final straight, ‘GO ON MY SON!’ Reed even took part in the inaugural lawnmower racing championships. Unfortunately he lost control of his machine and demolished the VIP toilet tent, without injury to driver or occupant. ‘Luckily, dear boy,’ he said, ‘because we were both seated at the time.’
By the end of 1982 Richard Burton had separated from Susan. She put most of the blame on his drinking. The final straw was a car accident that resulted in Burton being shut up in a local loony bin. Burton had enjoyed a couple of drinks in a bar near his Swiss home and driving back in his new Mercedes-Benz, up a hill, accidentally jammed the gear stick into reverse. The car went into a spin and four other vehicles smashed into it. Burton himself was thrown through the windshield. Having scrambled home Burton asked Susan to call his doctor. Instead an ambulance arrived that under her orders took him to a mental institution where he claimed he was kept for nine days. ‘I thought I might actually go mad in there.’ During his enforced stay a tall blonde woman accosted him in the wards. ‘Follow me,’ she said, and thinking it to be Susan Burton obliged. She drew him down onto a bed and they made love. ‘Then I realized it wasn’t Susan at all, but another patient – a nymphomaniac. They couldn’t get her off me.’
When he got out, Susan announced that she was leaving him, she could no longer deal with his drinking and the burden of his ill health. Burton was now a virtual cripple, his body broken. At one stage he literally couldn’t lift cutlery and had to be spoon-fed for weeks. People implored him to rest. Instead he took on the biggest and most punishing film role of his entire career, that of composer Wagner in an epic TV mini-series. The seven months of filming all over Europe, with Burton appearing in virtually every scene, was a killer, but he was determined to do it. The director was Tony Palmer. ‘We filmed with Burton for 157 days and lost four days because of…let’s call it emotional tiredness. He had a physiotherapist with him pretty well the whole time, because he knew this was going to be a long haul, which was one of the reasons he wanted to do it, he was testing himself. I think he saw the Wagner film as an opportunity to prove both to himself and to the world that he was still capable of delivering the works; a big performance.’
Another incentive was the calibre of the supporting cast, especially the chance to act opposite the theatrical knights Laurence Olivier and John Gielgud. All of them were good friends and delighted to be at last working together. ‘Richard frequently said during filming, I’ve never had so much fun,’ says Palmer.
According to Palmer, Burton knew he was an alcoholic and the director had taken advice about how to deal with alcoholics, and that it was the level of alcohol in the blood that mattered. ‘I had supper with him three nights a week, every week, for seven months and he would have on the table in front of him two glasses, one filled with wine, the other filled with water. I remember one memorable dinner we shared with Olivier, and Richard was telling funny stories and Olivier was being wildly indiscreet about practically everybody you could think of, and Richard just got carried away and his hand went to the red wine. I was sitting right opposite him, watching, and I almost stopped him, but I thought, I can’t, it’s not my place. Within five minutes, maybe ten, but certainly no more, it was Jekyll and Hyde. So, from having first been he and Larry talking about the old times, ten minutes later Olivier was a cunt who destroyed the British theatre and destroyed his career. It was just a tirade. Olivier was extraordinary; he just sat there and watched it all. Afterwards Richard said to me, “I blew it, didn’t I.” I said, “Well I think you owe him an apology.” And so he went to see Olivier and apologized; they kissed and made up.’
The Wagner crew were filming in the mountains of Austria in freezing conditions when news broke about Burton’s split with Susan Hunt. He was expecting it to leak out eventually so was quite sanguine about it, but did ask Palmer if he could do his best to keep the press away. The director managed to keep a few hacks at bay but didn’t count on the resourcefulness of Royal Correspondent James Whittaker, who’d just taken pictures of the pregnant Princess Diana on holiday in the Bahamas and was now heading with his photographer directly to Austria. ‘I kept making diversionary tactics,’ recalls Palmer, ‘but they hired a bloody helicopter and they went up the mountain to where we were filming and landed and Richard said, “Don’t worry I’ll deal with it,” and out got these two guys in their Bahamian shirts and shorts, you’ve never seen anything so funny. Richard agreed to pose for a photograph provided they went away. Only the photographer got his finger stuck on the camera; he couldn’t take the picture because the whole thing had frozen solid and his hand had actually frozen to the camera. So they asked us if we could get the hospital helicopter to come, and we did and they, humiliated, went away.’
News about Burton’s impending divorce went round the world and was music to the ears of Elizabeth Taylor who began repeatedly calling Burton’s hotel room at all hours. Unable to get any sleep, Burton asked Palmer if he would mind swapping rooms with him. ‘I agreed to this and nothing happened for two or three nights but then, sure enough, three o’clock in the morning the phone rang. “Oh darling, darling, I miss you so much.” I let this go on for a bit and then said, “Elizabeth this is Tony Palmer, not Richard.” She was desperate to get to the location, to be with Richard, she was crazy about him, always crazy about him. She was also the serious drinker; she could drink anything and anyone under the table; including Burton. So I said to Richard, “What do I do? Do you want her here?” And he said, “If she comes, I go.” So we cooked up a story. The next night she phoned again. “Elizabeth,” I said. “There’s one tiny little part for you in the film. It doesn’t involve lines I’m afraid, but it’s perfect for you.” She said, “When do I start?” I said, “I’m afraid it’s quite soon.” She said, “That’s no trouble. Can you give me a brief outline of the part?” And I said, “Well Elizabeth, it’s to play the role of an Eskimo.” There was a pause of a milli-second and she said, “I’ve always wanted to play the part of an Eskimo.” Whether she knew then that it was a joke I don’t know, but she never called back and I saw her about a month later and she didn’t refer to it so I think she got the point that she was being sent up. Richard thought this had been brilliantly done.’
On the set of Wagner Burton was to meet and fall in love with the woman who would become the last person to share his life. Sally Hay was Tony Palmer’s secretary and the director saw the burgeoning romance first hand. ‘About a month after the story broke on Suzy Hunt, Richard sidled up to me one day and said, “I’ve got some letters which I need typing out, could I possibly borrow Sally
one evening.” I said, “Richard she’s over there, go and ask her.” He said, “I think I’d prefer if you could ask.” So I went to Sally and explained things and she looked at me, she was a woman of the world, let’s say, and said, “All right but will you promise to come and knock on my door an hour after to make sure I’m OK?” I saw her the following morning and asked what happened. “Nothing,” she said. “I turned up, I wasn’t even offered a cup of tea, I did the letters, went away, typed them out, brought them back, he thanked me very much and that was it.” A week or so later Richard came to me again. “I’ve got a couple more letters.” “Richard, for God’s sake ask her yourself.” “No, no.” Well, he was courting her. He was absolutely courting her. It wasn’t until the fourth or fifth occasion this had happened that I said to Sally, “What happened?” And she said, “Well, one thing led to another.” I thought that was very revealing about Richard, that he was absolutely formal and proper in his intentions.’
As Burton and Sally drew up plans to marry, Liz Taylor gatecrashed once again, persuading Burton to team up for a Broadway revival of Noel Coward’s Private Lives. Amazingly both stars were given £42,000 a week, the highest salary ever paid out on Broadway. Worth it, though, the theatre was sold out every night. The critics had a field day, however, trashing a production that was more of a circus than a show. Burton remained sober throughout, but Taylor invariably turned up late and instigated the majority of backstage squabbles and fights. The strains of her squawking, ‘This is the last time I’m working with you, you cunt,’ would fill the corridors. For Burton it was the last straw: ‘This has proved it. I can never get together with that woman again.’
It was during that Broadway run that Burton and Sally married. ‘It was the only one of my weddings at which I have been sober.’ Suddenly Burton was revitalized, managing to get back into reasonably good shape and displaying a renewed intention to give up the booze for good. ‘No doubt the distillers and the tobacco barons will be weeping over the loss of such a good customer.’ Life was looking good, with numerous projects in the pipeline, and he gave one of his most chilling performances too as the torturer O’Brien in the screen version of Orwell’s classic book 1984 (1984).
Originally Paul Scofield had been cast in the role of O’Brien, but proved unavailable and Burton’s name was mentioned. The producer rang Tony Palmer to check if Burton was reliable. ‘The last thing they wanted, being on a tight budget, was a raving drunk turning up they couldn’t control. I told them that not only was he absolutely under control, 99% of the time, but also it was a stroke of genius that casting and I was sure he’d deliver the goods, because he’s one of the few really great screen actors who understands that less is always more. It was a great performance.’ Few knew at the time that it would prove to be his last film.
At 58 he looked old and physically frail. He was in pain and weak, unable even to put on his jacket without assistance. One crew hand on 1984 remarked, ‘He’s like a wild beast whose spirit has gone.’ One day on the set an aide brought Burton a ready-opened can of Diet Pepsi and many wondered if he was having them laced with vodka. Word got back to Burton and the next day he offered everyone a swig to prove it was OK.
Mostly true to his vow of giving up drink, Burton could go on the wagon for weeks, sometimes months, and then indulge in massive binges. On the set of the TV mini-series Ellis Island, for which he provided a short cameo, he drank heavily. ‘He just hated life without drinking,’ said one crewmember. A visiting journalist to Burton’s home asked one houseguest what it was like up there. ‘Wall to wall empty bottles,’ was the grim reply.
Work was still coming in though. Euan Lloyd, the producer of The Wild Geese, was determined to land Burton for the much-anticipated sequel. ‘Get Reggie Rose to do the script and I would certainly be interested,’ went Burton. The plot this time had the mercenary gang out to rescue Rudolf Hess from Spandau prison in Berlin. In three months a script was ready and a director was in place, Peter Hunt, who’d made one of the best of the Bonds, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. The icing on the cake was the casting of Laurence Olivier as Hess. Burton and Lloyd met up in Geneva to tie up the final details. Burton told of his delight at working with Olivier again and agreed to report for work during the second week of filming.
Sadly it was never to be. On Sunday August 5th Burton complained to Sally of a headache and decided to retire to bed early. In the morning Sally noticed he was breathing very heavily and that he couldn’t be woken. Something was wrong. She called an ambulance and at the hospital it was discovered that Burton had suffered a cerebral haemorrhage. He was rushed to a medical facility in Geneva for an emergency operation. It was likely to take hours, Sally was told, she’d be better off at home instead of pacing up and down corridors, but once back there she just sat and waited by the phone, dreading its ring. When it did it was a doctor pleading with her to return fast. She was too late. Burton was dead. There was some consolation in the fact that even had the operation been successful Burton would have ended up confined to a wheelchair, unable to speak. According to one report Sally found her husband’s last words in a note on his nightstand; Burton had jotted down a line from Shakespeare’s The Tempest: ‘Our revels now are ended.’
Euan Lloyd had been shooting in Berlin for ten days on Wild Geese 2 when he got an early morning call from Brook Williams. ‘Brook was in Switzerland at Richard’s home. He gave me the devastating news. My responsibility to the cast and crew took second place to the magnitude of his passing. I slipped into depression.’ The film’s backers, EMI, gave Lloyd just seven days to replace Burton, or else. With the film collapsing before his eyes Lloyd suddenly heard Burton’s voice inside his head. It was an echo of a conversation they’d had years before in which he told Lloyd how impressed he’d been by Edward Fox’s performance in The Day of the Jackal. Bingo, Lloyd had found his replacement. ‘But alas, Wild Geese 2 turned out to be a distant cousin of the first,’ confesses Lloyd. ‘And still, the tragic loss of Richard hurts to this day.’
Tony Palmer too was shocked when he learnt of Burton’s passing, as the last time he saw the actor he’d been fit and well, ‘although Richard did have quite a serious collapse after we finished filming Wagner, just from absolute exhaustion. I visited Richard and Sally fairly frequently in Switzerland, really to support Sally who was going through quite a tricky time. She was keeping him off the drink, but he did become very depressed and rather morbid and thought he’d never work again. Then after he recovered I saw them again and he was absolutely full of beans. He was shooting 1984 and he and Sally came round several times to have supper and he was absolutely in fighting form, he wasn’t physically on the decline at all. So it was a real shock when he died.’
As in life Burton caused chaos in death. The family wanted him laid to rest next to his parents in Wales, but Sally insisted he be buried in the tiny Swiss town of Celigny that he had made his home. Still, Burton went into the ground a Welshman, adorned head to foot in red with a copy of the complete works of Dylan Thomas. His coffin was covered with a large wreath decorated with the Welsh flag and as it was lowered into the plot his family suddenly burst into song with a bawdy Welsh rugby anthem. There was only one person conspicuous by her absence: Elizabeth Taylor, reportedly too struck with grief to attend; perhaps she didn’t make an appearance out of deference to Sally. Elizabeth made her pilgrimage to Burton’s grave a week later, bringing with her, predictably, the world’s media. Even in death, Burton couldn’t escape the prying camera lens.
Harris was asked to take part in a Hollywood memorial tribute to his old friend and thought how apt it would be to start his eulogy with a quotation from Richard II: ‘Let us sit upon the ground…’ But as the words came out he found he couldn’t go on; instead he broke down and left the podium. Out of sight of the audience Richard Harris wept uncontrollably. Back on stage he forced himself to continue the line, ‘…and tell sad stories of the death of kings.’ Later in his speech Harris admitted to the audience, �
�If Richard could have seen me a moment ago he would have been howling with laughter.’
Burton’s death predictably made front-page headlines around the world. Critics hailed him, others mourned the fact that he wasted his gifts, that had he not sold his soul to Hollywood and stayed in Britain and been true to the craft of theatre he would have equalled if not surpassed the pinnacle achieved by Olivier. ‘I had an enormous amount of respect for Richard,’ claims Waris Hussein, director of Divorce His and Divorce Hers. ‘I thought he was a wonderful person. But his literally was a Faustian pact: he sold his soul and he never really got over it. He had the talent of the greats. He was a great stage actor, a wonderful voice; he looked incredible in his early years. You don’t often get that combination of looks and talent. I remember seeing him as Hamlet at the Old Vic and he was just charismatic. I was walking around in a daze for about a fortnight afterwards, I just thought I’d seen a deity come down; he was just amazing. Years later when I was working with him I told him that I’d seen his Hamlet and thought he was wonderful and he literally started to get tears in his eyes and said, “Do you remember that?” I said, “Yes,” and he said, “Not many people do.” It was very sad.’
Maybe the Hollywood fame was simply to mask a deep-seated insecurity. ‘I think Burton was a fragile man his whole life,’ says Tony Palmer. ‘I think he was desperately insecure and I think the vulgarity came as compensation because he thought, if I can be brash they won’t notice that I need two whiskies to get on stage, which is something John Gielgud told me. He said, all great actors are nervous of going on stage, but Burton more than most. So the bravura, and all the money and yachts, were all somehow to compensate for this insecurity.’
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