Hellraisers

by Robert Sellers

  Peter O’Toole found the Harris/Caine spat all rather amusing. ‘When Caine made those comments Harris got on the phone to me straight away, saying, “This asshole, Jesus, fuck!” I hadn’t read the piece, and I still haven’t, though I read what Harris said about him and croaked with laughter.’ When pressed, O’Toole refused to take sides, believing both actors could handle themselves perfectly well without him. ‘Though,’ he told one journalist, with a hint of menace, ‘I think a caution to “watch your big mouth” is in order.’

  He was a hit back on the London stage with Jeffrey Bernard, but alas O’Toole’s film career was nowhere near matching his stage success. He was making pictures that went unreleased, unwatched, like The Rainbow Thief (1990), which at least reunited him with his old Lawrence of Arabia co-star Omar Sharif. Filming one dangerous stunt, Sharif almost drowned on a flooded sewer set. O’Toole naturally saw the funny side of it. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing funnier than an angry, wet Egyptian.’ The two men had stayed in touch and were close friends, meeting now and again in a bid to relive their golden heyday. ‘The last time Omar and I were together was in Cairo a few months back, and we misbehaved ourselves all over again. Even though we’re venerable gentlemen, we can still misbehave ourselves appallingly, and we did what young men do, only perhaps marginally more slowly.’

  Another O’Toole movie misfire was King Ralph (1991) about a brash American who becomes King of England when the entire Royal Family are killed in a freak accident. O’Toole knew he was making a piece of crap. ‘It was meant to be a light-hearted, quick little frolic that suddenly turned into this dull, plodding nightmare.’ At least he found solace in the supporting cast of fruity British thespians. ‘The only thing that got us through was that John Hurt and James Villiers were on it, so at least we had a decent poker school.’

  The star was John Goodman, who didn’t hide his complete awe of O’Toole. During a break in filming, Goodman asked to borrow an ashtray. O’Toole, with characteristic flair, flicked his ash on the floor and declared: ‘Make the world your ashtray, my boy.’

  Since the late 1980s Oliver Reed had been pretty much unemployable, appearing for the most part in appalling TV movies. ‘If you look at Oliver’s career as the career of an artist,’ says Michael Winner, ‘it went into the toilet. It basically vanished.’ He made one film alongside O. J. Simpson, but the money ran out and it was shut down. Director John Hough heard one story that Ollie and Simpson were drinking in a bar and got into an argument over whether American football or English rugby was the tougher game. ‘Suddenly O. J. charged across the room and crashed into Oliver, sending him flying, and said, “That’s what it’s like in American football.” Up came Oliver and charged back and knocked Simpson all across the room and said, “Well that’s what it’s like in English rugby.” They kept doing it and quickly it got out of hand, they were like two bulls charging against each other. Then this little Welshman, who was sitting drinking his pint of beer in the corner, suddenly stood up and said, “You’re spoiling my drink,” and with one blow knocked out O. J. Simpson and with the other blow knocked out Oliver Reed. The film’s stunt man, who was supposed to be looking after the two stars, jumped in to try and restrain this Welsh guy and he felt his muscles and they were like solid steel. He told me, “There you’ve got a real tough guy.”’

  Reed’s friend Ken Russell cast him in his own TV film, Prisoner of Honour (1991). The two hadn’t worked together for years and Russell saw in his old sparring partner that the spark he once loved had burned out. ‘There was always an animal lurking under the surface and the animal had either been tamed or driven out of him. It wasn’t the same Oliver. He was a different man.’

  It didn’t take much, though, to raise the sleeping loon within Reed. One night at home in his kitchen he’d been drinking steadily. The lights were on too bright and when he tried to work the dimmer switch he was foiled. Angry, he declared, ‘I know how to turn the fucking things off,’ and jumped onto the table and punched out each bulb in turn. He cut his hand so badly that he needed hospital treatment.

  Reed also made a short appearance in the forgotten British comedy Funny Bones (1995), about an American comedian in Britain. It was shot in Blackpool, and regulars of a local pub complained that Reed drank its entire stock of imported lager while working in the city. At least he was fit again after suffering from a bout of health scares. Delighted to be given the all-clear after a medical check up, Reed phoned a friend in London and invited himself over. This mate lived on the fourth floor of an apartment block, which at the time was covered in scaffolding. Reed didn’t care. Armed with an eight-pack of beer Ollie climbed up the scaffolding, meeting workers and distributing cans on the way, got on the roof and banged on the skylight of his friend’s flat. For the next few days Ollie insisted on using this route to get in, once even stopping off to lay a course of 60 bricks.

  When Ollie did manage to land what could have led to a renaissance in his career, such as a role in the blockbuster movie Cutthroat Island (1995), he blew it, big time. At the pre-production party he went around showing everyone his cock or his ‘mighty mallet’ as he still fondly referred to it. Star Geena Davis was not amused and Reed was promptly sent home. ‘Thank you very much,’ said the producer. ‘We’ve seen your cock, now get on the next plane; we’ll have someone else do the part.’ For his friends and supporters it was all too common a tale. ‘Oliver lost a lot of work through that kind of behaviour, no question,’ says Michael Winner.

  After a long absence Richard Harris was now back on the booze, but only Guinness or maybe the odd glass of wine, not spirits, ‘because they were my undoing’. It was a move precipitated by attending the funeral of one of his brothers. Having lost his father, two sisters and two brothers to hereditary heart disease, it was fear of death that had prompted Harris years before to abstain from booze. Now, he thought, wouldn’t his relatives all like to get out of the grave just for five minutes to enjoy a pint of Guinness? Harris searched out the nearest pub and sampled his first pint of stout for 13 years. It tasted better than ever. ‘It was delicious. Better than making love to Marilyn Monroe.’ Those 13 years of abstinence he claimed were the most boring years of his life. ‘Nothing is worse than a group of people having a drink and you’re sipping Perrier water and they’re getting funnier and you’re getting more and more bored.’

  From now until his death Harris enjoyed a daily tipple. ‘You need to stay lubricated, just to remind yourself you are still living and breathing.’ The drink also came in handy on one occasion when in a New York bar a man came up to Harris and for no apparent reason hit him and then fled – but not fast enough. With deadly accuracy and a fair degree of venom Harris hurled his empty pint pot at the fleeing stranger, striking him on the head causing a vicious wound. ‘A cracking shot,’ exclaimed a triumphant Harris.

  Even at this late stage Harris was still never very far away from violence erupting, especially in pubs. Around this time it emerged that Harris had crossed swords with fellow Limerickman Frank McCourt, the author of the best-selling Angela’s Ashes, which the actor believed was derogatory about his birthplace. They’d first met in an Irish pub in New York, and Harris even then despised the writer’s bitter feelings about Limerick. As their discussion grew more heated McCourt suddenly belted Harris on the nose. ‘Then, like a hare running from a hound, he raced towards the exit door and ran out of the pub,’ Harris claimed. ‘I have never yet been confronted by a Limerickman who ran away from a fight. We don’t do that in Limerick, we stand our ground and we fight. To run from a fight is not part of the Limerick character at all.’

  Director Peter Medak, who’d been a close friend in the 60s, met Harris again in 1997 when he directed him in a TV movie of The Hunchback of Notre Dame and discovered that the man had hardly changed at all. ‘He was the same. He had that same kind of wonderful madness in him. He just lived every second of his life. I don’t think he ever mellowed; Richard was the same person all the way. When I wa
s doing post-production with him in London’s Soho he said, “Fuck it, that’s it, let’s go and have lunch,” and it didn’t matter where you were in the world with him, whether it was in Prague or in London, or wherever, there was an Irish pub just round the corner. “That’s where we’re going,” he’d say. He used to buy drinks for everybody. He was incredibly personable. But all the great actors were like that; they had no pretence about themselves. They were great stars back in the 60s, not like stars today who are so isolated from the real world, from the public. Back then they were in the street. Burton would go back to Wales into the local pubs, everybody knew him and could talk to him; nowadays they have 18 bodyguards. It’s because Burton and Harris and the others came from working class roots and that never really left them. They were real people.’

  Medak didn’t know that Harris had taken up booze again when they met to discuss the film at the Savoy hotel. ‘I called him and said, “Where are you?” and he said, “I’m in the bar.” By the time I arrived there were empty champagne bottles and I said, “Richard, you’re not supposed to drink.” He said, “Fuck it, that’s not drink, this is milk.” He was knocking it back. I don’t know how many we had. It just didn’t matter to him. Drinking Guinness or champagne for him was really milk.’

  But still the regrets were there; the fact that often he couldn’t remember incidents from his own past. ‘I often sit back and think, I wish I’d done that, and find out later that I already have.’ A story that is pure Harris occurred in 1997 when he was looking through a stack of old photographs and noticed one of himself standing next to a Rolls-Royce, except that he didn’t remember ever owning such a car. He called both his ex-wives and they didn’t know, so he called his LA accountant who said, ‘Yes, it’s been in a garage in New York since 1974 at a cost of $400 a month.’ Over time the bill had mounted up to $92,000. Immediately Harris had the car shipped to England, restored and put up for sale because he couldn’t bear the thought of driving round in a posh car like Michael Caine.

  Peter O’Toole continued to appear in absolutely nothing of any worth whatsoever. It seemed that Hollywood producers were choosing to ignore him for major movies. But the O’Toole name still carried with it the aura of legend and he made arguably one of the greatest entrances in television history in 1995 when he appeared on the David Letterman chat show. The host introduced him to the roar of the audience but nobody emerged from behind the curtain. A couple of seconds went by, still no sign of O’Toole. More seconds passed, still no sign of him. Then to the surprise of everyone a camel strode out from behind the curtain with none other than a beaming O’Toole perched atop it. The camel turned fully around in a tight circle at centre stage, O’Toole skilfully manoeuvring the animal with a combination of gentle taps from the end of a long switch. The audience roared their approval as O’Toole commanded the camel to assume a full kneeling position, one that allowed the actor to dismount. Before the audience had a chance to catch its breath O’Toole pulled out a can of beer from his jacket, popped the top and toasted the crowd and Letterman before gulping down a healthy swig.

  The crowd was in hysterics by now, but O’Toole had one further surprise up his sleeve. Turning to the camel, which though kneeling still carried its head a good two feet above his own, O’Toole offered the beast the can of beer. Without hesitation the camel’s rubbery lips reached out and wrapped themselves around the can, tugging it out of O’Toole’s hand and guzzling down the entire contents. Finished, it tossed the empty can across the stage floor, licking its lips in complete satisfaction. Milking the moment, as if he were back on the boards of the Old Vic, O’Toole bowed to the audience and his animal partner before taking his seat next to Letterman. It took quite a while for the applause to finally subside; when it did O’Toole said, ‘I think that’s called a stupid pet trick!’

  In 1995 Oliver Reed moved from Guernsey and relocated to County Cork in Ireland, a long cherished dream of his. He settled in easily and the locals all accepted him and weren’t fazed at all by a notorious hellraiser and film star moving in amongst them. Soon after arriving he was invited on Irish comic Patrick Kielty’s TV chat show. Reed turned up in Belfast at one o’clock in the afternoon pie-eyed and proceeded to stand in the Green Room with an equally drunk mate shouting Shakespeare at each other. ‘My good man, I’m the finest actor,’ declared Reed. ‘I think you’ll find Ollie that I am the finest actor.’ And so on. By the time the show went out live in the evening Reed could barely string a sentence together. The production team was running around panic stricken in a bid to rustle up a last minute replacement, but there was no one, it had to be Reed or there was no show. So out he walked to the strains of ‘Wild Thing’, playing it up to the hilt.

  Reed sat down and Kielty opened with the first question. ‘Well Oliver, how long have you been in Ireland?’ The question barely seemed to register on Reed’s befuddled face. Then he answered. ‘Young man…how long…is your dick?’ The audience roared with laughter. ‘You haven’t been here that long then,’ the comic hit back. ‘It was just a nightmare,’ Kielty later recalled. ‘We ended up drinking till three in the morning. And…oh, just bizarre.’

  The career, however, was still a concern; Reed hadn’t made a major movie for ten years. It was his old friend Michael Winner who brought him back into the limelight with a role in Parting Shots (1999), a black comedy about a man (played by rock star Chris Rea) who learns he only has six weeks left to live so decides to take revenge on the people in his life who’ve deeply pissed him off. Reed promised Winner he’d behave and not drink and was pretty true to his word. The problems started after filming when Winner was plagued by a series of phone calls from a sozzled Reed, often late at night. The conversation would inevitably begin with ‘I love you, Michael,’ before sliding into a series of slurred messages. ‘That’s very nice, Oliver,’ Winner would say. ‘Is Josephine there?’ The phone would be handed over and Winner would chat with Josephine while Ollie shouted thoughts and opinions in the background. Suddenly Winner would hear over the line the dull thud of Ollie hitting the floor. ‘I’ve got to go,’ Josephine would then say. ‘Oliver needs me.’

  During post-production on Parting Shots Winner requested Reed’s services back in London to dub one particular scene due to an awful sound recording on location. Phoning the Hampstead hotel Reed was staying at, Winner was told by the receptionist that Ollie had gone out the previous evening, got blind drunk and been arrested outside the tube station. Winner dialled Hampstead police station. A desk sergeant answered the phone. ‘I understand my friend Mr Reed spent the night with you,’ said Winner. ‘We’ve just released him,’ replied the officer. ‘He was arrested at ten o’clock for being drunk and disorderly, but we haven’t charged him because he was so charming.’ Just minutes later a taxi drew up outside Winner’s house and Reed clambered out. He was in no fit state to dub his voice and the recording session proved useless. As he left, Reed turned to Winner and said, ‘You know I mustn’t travel without Josephine. She looks after me.’ Reed once even rang his wife from California to ask her how the video recorder in his hotel room worked. ‘He was very humble and ashamed that he’d spent the night in the cells,’ recalls Winner. ‘And then he went off, and that was the last time I ever saw Oliver Reed.’

  About halfway through production of Parting Shots Reed had sauntered over to Michael Winner and said, ‘I can’t believe it, Ridley Scott wants me to go and read for him. But I’m a star.’ Winner said, ‘Oliver, don’t fuck with me. You’re not a fucking star. You’re out of work and you’re not old enough to retire, you haven’t got enough money to retire, so you need a third act to your career. Obviously they think if you’re working with me you can’t be as drunk as people think you are. So go to Ridley and read. End of story, Oliver. And if he wants you to read twice, read twice.’ Reed took Winner’s advice. The role was for Gladiator (2000).

  Once Scott had cast Reed in the role of a world-weary slave merchant and ex-gladiator, the film’s insurers, concerne
d about his reputation, reportedly wrote asking how much he still drank. Ollie returned the form saying, ‘Only at parties.’ The insurers are said to have written again, asking nervously, ‘How many parties do you go to?’

  The insurers were right to be worried. Reed was still getting into trouble, recently going on Sky News live where he was asked what his future plans were and he replied, to make love to the channel’s female presenter. In January 1999 he was arrested at Heathrow airport for throwing beer over customers in a restaurant. He was given a caution and released. It was to be his last reported misdemeanour.

  On the set of Gladiator the old Reed mischief was never far away. In a scene opposite stand up comic Omid Djalili, playing a slave trader, Reed squeezed Djalili’s testicles throughout the take. Just before the camera rolled Reed had enquired of him, ‘Are you a method actor?’ and then stuck his big, fat mitts on his balls. ‘Not many people can say Ollie Reed has fondled their nuts,’ said the comic.