The Hübner family had, in the past, successfully owned and operated a chain of first-class hotels throughout eastern Europe. But times had changed, fortunes had been lost and they were now reduced to one, the Bristol, which Gretl, the last of her line, had inherited and was caring for with a devotion that only a mother might have for her ailing offspring. The hotel was, for her, both a toy and a roof over her head, which she shared with her American husband, a comfy old codger, General MacKristol, retired from the U.S. Occupation Forces in Germany after World War II. But the general rarely appeared, spending most of his days fishing at Bad Ischl and anyway, everyone at the hotel, staff and guests alike, were quite convinced that the real general was Gretl. She also ran the place as if it were a ship foundering in heavy waters, heavy waters she herself stirred up, if for no other reason than to keep things from being boring. Certainly during my stay it was far from boring. In fact, at times it rather resembled a reform school presided over by a strict, slightly wacky headmistress! Once inside the Bristol, there was something about the heady, pungent air that made you want to be naughty. Diabolically, Gretl seemed to encourage this just so she could come along later and straighten you out!
The food left a lot to be desired, but that was soon forgotten by the constant gemütlich atmosphere at the bar where schnapps, every known eau de vie, liqueur and some excellent local wines were affectionately administered by faithful old Bruno the bartender. Although the lobby and dining room were fairly shabby, a rundown look of faded red plush, it couldn’t have mattered less for it was always kept fastidiously clean. Gretl insisted on dressing her clerks at the front desk, Karl (shy and slim) and Fritz (jolly and stout), in well-tailored cutaways and striped trousers—an obvious attempt to distract from the general dilapidation. But it was the people, the varied personalities and eccentricities of the staff and guests, which made the place jump. Gretl had seen to that. It was her mixture of opera divas, writers, politicians and local impoverished aristocracy that gave it its colour. And always present in the front lobby night and day was the majordomo, the most eccentric of them all, kissing hands, murmuring sweet nothings, welcoming anyone and everyone who passed through those portals. A six foot four slim, elegant gentleman in his early seventies, with a shock of salt and pepper hair, heavy, bushy eyebrows, a chiselled face and aquiline nose, he was known by everyone including the odd busload of day-trippers as the Count. Handsomer than any matinée idol, he looked much too grand to be a mere employee. So, one day, I asked Gretl where on earth she’d found him.
“It vas 1958 during ze Communist takeover in Hungary. Vun afternoon zere vas a man at ze door of ze hotel. He vanted to see me. He looked terrible. He vas very tired, filthy and starving. His clothes vere like rags. But zere vas somesing familiar about him. Zen, I remem-bered—he had stayed vith his family at some of my father’s hotels. I couldn’t believe it.
“‘Festitic? Is it you? Vat is wrong?’
“‘I have been on the road for veeks,’ he said. ‘I have walked the length of Hungary and Austria to get away. All our lands have gone. They have taken everything—there is nothing left. I have no money, nothing anymore. Please, can you give me a job?’
“It was all I could do to meet my payroll as it was—but I could not refuse him. ‘Festitic,’ I said, ‘vat can you do?’ He vas silent. ‘You’ve never done anysing. Do you know even how to open a bottle of milk?’ He was silent. ‘No. But I can speak six languages.’ Zen a light vent on in my head. ‘Go up ze street to zat tailor shop. Get fitted for a morning coat. Tell zem I vill take care of it. Zen go and get somesing to eat. You have a job, Festitic! You can greet ze guests. You are my new major-domo!’”
The name “Festitic” (pronounced Festitich) in Hungary was synonymous with ancient nobility, wealth and power. Their vast estates and numerous castles made them one of the largest landowners in the country. The Count’s mother had been companion and bosom friend to Austria’s Empress Elizabeth. Young Festitic had grown up on equal terms with the Hapsburgs. As children, they played together in palaces across Europe and were accustomed to armies of servants. So it was all too evident that opening bottles of milk was a mysterious practice that would never have occurred to any of them.
Of course, that was another world, but here and now, at the moment of his ruin, with food finally inside him and freshly attired in brand-new tailcoat and stripes, Festitic must have looked splendidly to the manner born as he eagerly reported for duty. Excited as a baby, he had joined the workers of the world. In his autumnal years his life had some purpose at last. Gretl had made a man of him and he’d never felt so proud or so grateful. He too had come home.
Once acquainted with the background of the “inmates”—that gallant little staff (Karl, Fritz, Bruno, Festitic), all apparently on the rescue list, it took me no time to realize that I too had joined the pack of Gretl Hübner’s lost children. Kind and sympathetic, they allowed me to bore them to tears with my daily trials and tribulations. During the early stages of filming “S & M” (my perverse nickname for that musical epic) I was not a happy camper. It did not promise to be one of “my favourite things.” I had absolutely no right to feel that way, of course, surrounded as I was with such talented and respected company. Here was I, working with the distinguished director Robert Wise, formerly a top film editor (Citizen Kane, Magnificent Ambersons), a member of Hollywood’s old guard and a gentleman to his fingertips; Eleanor Parker, one of the legendary beauties of the forties (who played the Baroness); the irrepressible Richard Haydn (Uncle), inventor of the comical character Mr. Carp, a “fish expert,” who kept us laughing at all costs; the charming Peggy Wood (Mother Superior), who had once been Noël Coward’s leading lady on the London stage; a gaggle of very personable youngsters playing the Trapp children, all highly professional; Gil Stewart, my limey drinking pal who played the butler as if he’d really done it; the writer Ernest Lehman, ace photographer Ted McCord, designer Boris Leven, the Baird Puppets, the brilliant arranger Irwin Kostal, the music and lyrics of Rodgers & Hammerstein, and first and foremost in importance Eliza Doolittle and Queen Guinevere wrapped up into one magical rosy-cheeked bundle of British pluck, my friend forever, the once-in-a-Blue-Moon Julie Andrews!
Riches such as these should have added grist to anyone’s mill, but during the preproduction days back in Los Angeles things had gone badly for me from the start. Originally, I had accepted Robert Wise’s offer simply because I wanted to find out what it was like to be in a musical comedy. I had a secret plan to one day turn Cyrano de Bergerac into a Broadway musical. “S & M” would therefore be a perfect workout in preparation for such an event. I also had never sung before in my life, not even in the shower, and obviously needed the practice. Most likely, however, it was due to the vulgar streak in me that made me fancy myself in a big, splashy Hollywood extravaganza.
Well, my first punishment came when they insisted I immediately record the guide track with Julie before shooting began, some of which would be used in the final picture. I was stricken—absolutely terrified! No way was I ready for that. Hell, I was still struggling with my singing lessons. I appealed and was denied. Twentieth Century-Fox insisted or they would get someone else to record. I saw my career as a second Maurice Chevalier dwindling fast. I threatened to walk off the picture. But my agent, the remarkable Kurt Frings, came to my aid, tap-danced his way into their hearts and saved my bacon. He also saved me from a two-million-dollar lawsuit. With a lot of persuasion from Mr. Wise, it was finally agreed that I could mumble the guide track and record properly after principal photography was complete. I remember Darryl Zanuck’s young son, Dick, who had taken over the studio, coming down onto the set accompanied by his partner, David Brown. He shook me by the hand in front of the entire cast and crew and said in soft-spoken tones but tinged with an unmistakable hint of somber warning, “Congratulations, Chris. Welcome back to The Sound of Music.”
The next hurdle was my role as the Captain. The part of von Trapp was all right in its way, but
certainly far from exciting. The Broadway book had not served him well. Even in the screenplay, he was still very much a cardboard figure, humourless and one-dimensional. Human flesh urgently needed to be grafted onto those bare, brittle bones. Mr. Wise was kindness itself; he thoroughly understood my concerns and at once brought Ernest Lehman and myself together, made a cabana on the lot available for us and told us to stay in there until we made the improvements. Ernie Lehman was not just one of Hollywood’s best screenwriters; he was a prince among men. He made me feel that all his invaluable ideas were mine alone; not only was it fun to work with him; it was an honour. Of course, it was impossible to turn von Trapp into Hamlet, but Ernie had made remarkable strides and the result was a far cry from the tepid original. At least now the poor soft-centered Captain had some edge to him.
In my way, I was grateful of course, but still felt uncomfortable generally. I was not very experienced on film as yet—one or two major roles had been thrust upon me much too soon—and yes, all right, I’ll admit it, I was also a pampered, arrogant young bastard, spoiled by too many great theatre roles. Ludicrous though it may seem, I still harboured the old-fashioned stage actor’s snobbism toward moviemaking. The moment we arrived in Austria to shoot the exteriors I was determined to present myself as a victim of circumstance—that I was doing the picture under duress, that it had been forced upon me and that I certainly deserved better. My behavior was unconscionable.
One morning I woke up late with a raging hangover to discover that the film company had left me no call sheet for the day’s work. Had they no respect at all? Paranoid that I had been overlooked, ignored—I went ballistic! I threw my clothes on and ran all over Salzburg trying to find the unit. I finally came upon them filming a scene with Julie and the children on the outskirts of town. They were in the midst of a take, but I didn’t care. I walked right into the shot and let forth a stream of abuse at Mr. Wise and everyone present for their lack of manners. My blood was racing, my heart pounding; I was apoplectic! The first assistant director, that good old pro Reggie Callow (he’d been an assistant on Gone With the Wind) gently led me away toward a nearby park bench in order to calm me down. With the patience of a saint he tried getting it through my thick skull that no call sheet had been sent me simply because I wasn’t needed that day. Ashamed and embarrassed to the point of despair, I slunk back to my hotel, my tail between my legs. I was not, to put it mildly, in the greatest of shape.
I began to hit the schnapps with a vengeance and vent my spleen on the poor innocent baby grand in the Bristol bar night after night. There was no one around to take me in hand and snap me out of it. The only ones who would listen to me were that faithful little staff who indulged me most dreadfully. As I moaned on, they sat attentive and quiet, but I knew what they were thinking: “What is this bloody idiot complaining about? He’s the male lead in a big Hollywood movie, making terrific money, probably more than we’ll ever see and he’s young to boot! What the hell is he bitching about?” Very gradually, Fritz, Karl, Bruno, the Count and Gretl herself soothed the savage hyena in me. I slowly began to see the error of my ways. The cure was working; I was off the critical list, and pretty soon primed with beer and schnapps we were falling off our barstools laughing at the utter absurdity of it all.
Part of the problem from the start was that most of us on the film were lodged in separate hotels. The only other cast member at the Bristol was Gil Stewart, usually to be found holding up the British Empire at the end of the bar, happy in his own little world. Every now and then his loud guffaw would resound above the din—the only evidence of his presence. None of us, therefore, could really share our cares and woes so, once on the set, a certain aloofness prevailed. Probably due to an excessive number of nuns in the cast, there was also, at times, an atmosphere of overreverence which irritated me no end. I was determined in my resolve to take the opposite view, to play the cynic, to be Peck’s bad boy—anything to prevent my character or indeed the film from becoming dangerously mawkish or ultrasentimental. Although Mr. Wise, true to his name, was tolerance itself, the one person who seemed to understand my motives completely and acted as if there was nothing untoward was Julie, the busiest of us all. I was so grateful to her for that, but I never told her. Away from work we hardly ever saw each other. At the then gloomy Osterreichischer Hof where she was staying, her hands were full tending to her child Emma, then a tiny tot. She was also in the midst of a painfully sad separation from her husband, the well-known stage designer Tony Walton, and of course, as Maria she was never off the screen.
All this combined to make of her life one long list of gargantuan responsibilities; the pressures were tremendous. Yet she never wavered. Her optimism, delicious humour and selfless nature were always on parade. It was as if she’d been hired not just to act, sing and carry the entire film, but to keep everyone’s spirits up as well. She did. She held us together and made us a team. Julie was quite transparent. There was no way she could conceal the simple truth that she cared profoundly for her work and for everyone else around her. I think that beneath my partly assumed sarcasm and indifference she saw that I cared too. As two people who barely came to know each other throughout those long months of filming, we had somehow bonded. It was the beginning of a friendship—unspoken, but a friendship nonetheless.
Julie the nun and Baron von Trapp
WELL, IT WAS TIME we got married—in the script, that is. About 25 kilometers from Salzburg lies an enchanting little town nestled beside a small, very beautiful lake. It is called Mondsee and it boasts a miniature cathedral built in exquisite baroque style right by the water. This is where Maria and the Captain tied the knot in one of the film’s most delightful scenes. I fell in love with that little church and with Mondsee. Down the road nearby was an old castello which stood beside the lake. It was owned by Miche Almeida, a colourful, high-spirited Portuguese contessa who had been the mistress of Otto von Habsburg. It was rumoured he had bought the castello for her as a gift. To make ends meet she had turned the ground floor into a restaurant, not just any restaurant, but certainly one of the very best in my memory. It was known as the Castello Bar, but most visitors simply called it “Miche’s.” The eclectic and exclusive clientele descended upon that little haven like famished wolves. They came from all over Europe and even across the Atlantic—an odd mixture of British and German diplomats, American impresarios and deposed royalty. But no matter who, everyone was required to have some sort of entrée to Miche or they couldn’t get in. I got in because of Gretl, and Julie got in because she was Julie.
Some of us would take that drive every other night for dinner; it was well worth the trip. I remember introducing “Jools” (Julie’s nickname) to Miche’s ultrahot peppers. Her throat was instantly on fire and she turned a deep scarlet. I explained to her that because she sang so well and I couldn’t, this was my revenge. The great filmmaker Michael Powell arrived one day with his designer Hein Heckroth. They wanted me to play Caliban in their projected film production of Shakespeare’s Tempest and wished to discuss it. I took them to Miche’s, which they so enjoyed, I think they completely forgot why they’d come. The menu was always small and select and everything tasted absolutely home cooked. The fish and the meats were succulent, the wines exceptional, but it was the vegetables and the manner in which they were prepared that was out of this world. It was almost as if they’d been perfumed. I still hold on to an image of Miche, that most entertaining of ladies, who personally served at table with a smile as big as the room, bearing in her arms enormous platters of these superbly cooked vegetables—the very signature of the place. My mouth still waters to think of it.
WELL, AFTER OUR von Trapp wedding was “in the can,” I was granted some time off. Several weeks in fact, a sort of lone honeymoon, you might say. God knows where my real-life bride was—somewhere in England, no doubt. Trish and I had begun to lead separate lives, our absences becoming longer and longer. So, deprived of a playmate, I indulgently took advantage of this reprieve and we
nt on a rampage—cultural and otherwise. I headed straight for Lanz, the famous lederhosen shop, and was outfitted in two or three very smart Tyrolean coat and trouser combinations, and one particularly chic dark loden green smoking jacket. I was ready to conquer. Today Lanz, tomorrow ze world!
I border-hopped back and forth between Austria, Bavaria and Hungary. I did Vienna, beloved Vienna; went to the Büch Theatre and the opera; visited Schönbrunn, the Hofburg, the Belvedere and Schwarzenberg palaces; ditto the Spanish Riding School to watch the Lipizzaner horses pirouette to Mozart. I booked myself into the great Sacher Hotel with its quaint sloping floors, its sumptuous Sacher tortes and immovable feasts. I played the piano at the Drei Husaren while that famous restaurant’s resident pianist sat nearby, his face a picture of disdainful mockery (shades of The Third Man). On my way to Budapest I gazed fascinated at the legendary storks perched on the steeples and rooftops of all those picturesque border towns. Once inside Hungary, I made a beeline for the Empress Elizabeth’s summer palace of Gödöllö, meandered through the Esterhazy estates and strolled beside the waters of Lake Balaton. Passing through Salzburg I let the lush sound of the Vienna Philharmonic envelop me as I sat in on von Karajan’s rehearsals. In fabulous old München, I gorged myself on Wiener shnitzel and weisswurst ünd kalbsbraten; in Bavaria I wandered through Mad Lüdwig’s castles pretending I was Wagner and got myself in a deal of trouble with a fast young crowd led by that beautiful, decadent adolescent Helmut Berger. This wayward Adonis would later play King Lüdwig most effectively in Visconti’s splendidly photographed movie. And oh, those Austrian girls! With their dark hair and deep flashing eyes—when they are gorgeous, they are fairly unsurpassed.
In Spite of Myself Page 45
