In Spite of Myself

by Christopher Plummer

  It was a small-budget film directed by Irving Lerner, a well-respected documentary filmmaker (the definitive film on Toscanini), and rather interestingly shot by a cameraman called Roger Barlow who had once apprenticed under the great Robert Flaherty. There was no script per se, so we used an edited version of the play with Shaffer’s blessing—he never showed up and left us totally on our own. Robert Stephens, whom I had seen give an inspired performance of my role at the National Theatre, made little birdlike noises whenever he spoke or reacted, making of Atahuallpa a fantastical creature, utterly removed from this world. I decided to do the same only more so by learning some Quechuan, a dead forgotten language, which could sound very much like wild bird cries. It was almost impossible to learn, but what I did manage to apprehend I added to the English dialogue.

  Anthony Powell, the costume and set designer (who later designed Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Dragon Slayer, and Travels with My Aunt, etc., winning countless awards) sat in a little room at Madrid’s Sevilla Studios sewing hundreds of birds’ feathers together to make Atahuallpa’s cloak—probably one of the most beautiful costumes I’ve ever worn. I was nervously pacing up and down the corridor outside, memorizing my Quechuan dialogue out loud, which I was just about to put on camera. Each time I passed the little room, I could see Anthony calmly sewing away, every now and then shaking his head and raising an eyebrow. Obviously he could take my Quechuan ramblings no longer for he called out, “You’re wasting your time, dear. You do realize what all that means in English?” “No,” I answered, “what?” “The cat sat on the mat!”

  As Atahuallpa in the film of The Royal Hunt of the Sun

  I had now run the gamut of nicknames for Elaine Regina Jane Taylor from Regina Jane, Reggie, Lainey, Bobby, Fuffenstein to Fuff. Don’t ask me what Fuff means—I suppose a Fuff is a small cuddly creature. Anyway, Fuff stuck. We settled down in a most attractive casa just outside Madrid with a clear view of the mountains. Naturally, I took her to every bullfight I could all over northern Spain—Aranjuez, Toledo, Sevilla, Escorial, etc. The smaller rings were the most exciting because of the intimacy and the danger. The barriers were so low one could easily step over them and in some towns there were no barriers at all—an angry bull could jump into the audience at will. This happened twice while we were present; once an irate bull jumped over and gave an innocent spectator a serious goring. Back in Madrid we saved every Sunday afternoon for the big ring where afterwards at a little boîte nearby we would devour delicious venison cooked in whiskey washed down with a full rich marques de Murrieta.

  Fuff had become almost as much of a bullfight fan as I and together we sought out every matador we could. There were the usual suspects—the clumsy El Caracol, the great Miguelin, the ever reliable and popular Paco Camino, and the promising nineteen-year-old Linares who insisted on fighting barefoot—so dangerous on a windy day. At Escorial we watched the great star El Cordobés, whose smile lit up the arena, turn down toro after toro for being too frisky, heavy or bad-tempered, finally picking a rather small docile bull, weighing in at five hundred pounds as opposed to seven hundred. The great man was getting lazy. The audience loved to boo him and he had made millions because of it. That day he was followed by the old master El Viti. What a difference! Perfection! The old classic style—standing so close to the bull we were not aware of any technique—just a lovely liquid rhythm, a ballet—giving back to the corrida all the artistry there is in it.

  One breezy Madrid afternoon, a young novilleros in his teens had been given the chance of his lifetime. What he didn’t have in technique he made up for in reckless courage. From the start, the crowd was aware that the boy was dealing with one oversized angry beast who had a nasty habit of hooking with his left horn very much like the famous bull who once took the life of the immortal Manolete. Nonetheless, the boy insisted on working so perilously close to the bull, our hearts were in our mouths. The crowd fell in love—they went wild. His last set of veronicas was staggering and he sauntered proudly away, his back to the snorting bull, dragging his red cape behind him through the sand. The crowd rose to its feet. I looked away for a second to see how Fuff was reacting to all this, but when I looked back, the boy had turned into nothing but a piece of paper, tossed about, flying through the air as if blown by the wind. Not a sound was heard in the arena. When he landed one could see that the whole area around his belly and groin was drenched in blood—his splendid new suit of lights covered in a deep scarlet.

  He staggered around for a while, not quite knowing what to do. The horroniadors rushed out to distract the bull but the lad would have none of it—he fought them off and ran towards the beast. In his moment of pride and glory he hadn’t noticed his state nor his pain. He drew his sword from the cape and fell backward on the sand. As they carried him off in silence, no one dared move, but the bull was still standing and had to be dealt with. There was one person near the barriers who had been watching the tragedy. It was Paco Camino, dressed in an ordinary business suit. He leapt into the ring, grabbed a sword and with one clean strike dispatched the bull and ran off to attend to the boy. I had never seen those cynical old Madrid afficionados quite so shaken. To this day I do not know if the lad lived, but I have strong doubts.

  Most days off, Fuff and I spent largely at the Prada. Of course, there was never enough time to take it all in. We would follow this by lunching at Horchers, the Jockey Club or 21. Then we would sneak off to Philip the Second’s great monastery fortress, Escorial, outside the city, its endless galleries filled with Tintorettos, Titians, Canalettos and da Vincis. There was always something brooding and sad about that immense palace and one could easily conjure up an image of the solitary Philip, supported by his cane, moving slowly through the long corridors, torn between his pious devotions and the daunting task of running the world.

  The Royal Hunt as a movie didn’t quite come off as it should. It was neither a play nor a film. There also was not enough in the kitty to photograph the whole story in the real Andes, but there were the occasional moments of suspenseful beauty (the snow scenes, particularly) and a general atmosphere that suggested something out of the ordinary due in large part to the Shaffer dialogue, what was left of it. However, for me it was an absolute boon because Atahuallpa took me out of myself, made me dare, forced me to invent and welcomed me into the world of character-acting.

  To help with their social and professional life, Robert S. and Mary had hired a young Australian called John Kirby to help them out. As fate would have it, the Shaws no longer required him when the film was over and before I could say anything, Robert stomped straight into “mi casa” without knocking and announced with his usual brusqueness, “You’re getting Kirby!—Good boy—damn efficient—poofy as they come, but harmless. Take care of him—you’ll be grateful.” Our lives decided for us, I obediently hired John. He was both popular and charming. He spoke Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, French and, having lived in South Africa, Swahili, which of course Fuff and I were desperately in need of. He was witty, single and enthusiastically gay. Every time the Spaniards teased him, “Ah bonito! Como esta, hombre?” quick as a flash, he would lisp back, “Gracias por lo hombre!”

  For a holiday, we went straight to Majorca from Madrid. That lovely island has to this day remained relatively unspoiled, unlike so many others, and is very beautiful, the colour of the water a rich turquoise. We took Kirby with us and he proved invaluable, negotiating in Spanish with the owners of a luscious villa outside Formentor that I was angling to buy. It was snugly hidden away from everything and had its own inlet, which led to the sea beyond. I must have been mad to think my meagre fortune was a bottomless pit, and Fuff immediately put her foot down and saved my bacon. We stayed a month in the Formentor Hotel and explored the island. Kirby went everywhere with us, we’d become extremely fond of him. He took a load off our plates and became our trusted man Friday all over Europe. But down the road, all too soon, and quite unintentionally, I was to make a fatal boo-boo, causing the sensit
ive Aussie much anxiety and unhappiness. The severest way to test a friendship is to invite that friend to join you in Brezhnev’s forbidding Russia of the seventies; and then set him down in a grisly little town near the western Ukrainian border called Uzgorod, the City of Snakes, which sits on a stinking bog, brown with sewage—a miniature hell on earth.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  THE TWO GLOBES

  Once upon a time, many centuries past, there was a playhouse. It was round—round as the world was round. Of all the jewels in the Crown, it was the most precious, the most vibrant, the most alive. A very great poet called it his “cockpit” where “once sat expectation in the air.” It wasn’t his alone, for his fellow writers who shared it with him were formidable indeed. He was in glorious company and so it followed that from that little playhouse came some of the noblest language ever conceived by man. It shone like gold in a Golden Age and then, one day, it turned to ashes. It was just a memory—time had swept it away.

  ONE RAINY LONDON DAY, there was a loud knocking at the door of no. 15 Donne Place. “Who’s there in the name of Beelzebub?” I yelled, as the Porter in Macbeth. The guilty party responsible for this blustering racket was none other than blustering George Murcell. Though as English as Falstaff in his bawdy good humour, his Italian blood gave him that extra passion which most Englishmen, when they have it, try to hide. Not our George! “Sit down, Tig,” he commanded. Elaine’s nickname for me had obviously stuck. In fact, we four, George, his wife Elvie, Elaine and I had become respectively Pooh, Piglet, Roo and Tigger. “I’ve got some sensational news!” He was breathless with excitement. “That old church in Islington—St. George’s, you know the one—that circular edifice as round as an amphitheatre—the one they copied from an ancient house of worship in Salonica? Well, they are about to tear it down, the bastards, demolish it, but I’m going to save it and you’re going to stop pretending you’re some big movie star and you’re going to help me. We’ll turn it into an Elizabethan theatre, the shape is dead perfect, just like a globe, and we’ll form a company of players. Don’t forget, Islington is Burbage/Shakespeare country and St. George’s is only a stone’s throw from where they worked together, where it all began. Then when we’ve done that, we’re going to resurrect the real old Globe Theatre on the South Bank as well as the Anchor Pub and The Swan—and you’re going to be my partner. Come on, Tig, get off your bum. Let’s go!”

  When George ‘Pooh’ Murcell got hold of an idea, he was as tenacious as a terrier who won’t let go of his bone. He was demonic, charismatic. Before I had time to think, I heard myself saying “Yes!” Well, the upshot was that he did save the fascinating old structure from demolition. To form an arsenal, we managed to persuade such actors as Peter Sellers, Paul Scofield, Dorothy Tutin, Vanessa Redgrave, Richard Johnson, and others to come on board. Also Sir Roy Strong, the new wunderkind custodian of the Tate Gallery. With names like these, the press got behind it and had a field day, and George, bless his chutzpah, had also commandeered Sir John Betjeman, poet laureate and head of the Historical Society of London, to come to our aid. He even button-holed the Bishop of Southwark. How George, with hardly a penny to his name and less collateral, was able to bend the ear and hold the attention of these men of influence is quite simple. His vision never once wavered. His enthusiasm and charm never flagged. His manner was totally persuasive, convincing. He told a wonderful story and believed every last word of it.

  Plans for interior of St. Georges, Islington

  Now that one dream had been realized—the small dream—the large one was next, looming over us in all its magnitude—the total restoration of the Globe Theatre itself and with it London’s South waterfront. So Pooh, Piglet, Roo and Tig took a trip to County Mon-aghan in Ireland to pay a visit to Christopher Robin in the person of the great man himself, Sir Tyrone Guthrie, and his wife Judy. Our mission—to beg him to be our Chairman of the Board. They gave us lunch in their massive old house on a huge overgrown estate called Ana-ma-Kerrig, which rambled down to the water—high ceilings from which hung wildly theatrical chandeliers and long refectory tables strewn with a bizarre collection of bric-a-brac, mostly props from bygone productions. The rooms reminded one of Miss Haversham’s living quarters without the cobwebs, perhaps, but certainly a plentiful amount of age-old dust caught in the shafts of light filtering through the tall windows. Tony Guthrie very kindly agreed to our proposal and we went away as happy as clams, knowing that we could now boast as our figurehead such a precious catch. With his name attached, everything began to slowly fall into place. Our new Board consisted of the same actors mentioned as well as Sir Roy Strong and Sir John Betjeman. Even Jennie Lee, the Minister of Culture, promised her help. Gradually more influential figures, seduced by the venture, began to join forces. We now had the full blessing of the Bishop of Southwark and, thank our lucky stars, our architect was in place. One of the McAlpines agreed to join the Board—the McAlpine family owned just about the largest building/contracting firm in the UK and “Pooh” was heavily occupied in persuading him to take on the construction job for a song and for the honour of “jolly ol’” and all that. The green light was on.

  It was then that people started dying off—Tyrone Guthrie was the first to go. The great bird of prey. The last spirit of sweeping panoply, the High Priest of Drama died of heart failure, leaving a gaping empty hole the size of a crater in theatre all over the world. Donald Wolfit, the famed touring Shakespearean scenery chewer, conqueror of the Provinces, knighted at last, to his great relief, stepped into Tony’s shoes as Board Chair. Meanwhile, Pooh, who was immersed in nightmarish meetings with the GLC (Greater London Council) nevertheless seemed to be making headway. One of the most powerful men in England, solicitor in general to the prime minister and the government and who sat on all the major corporate boards in the country, Lord Goodman, agreed to be our chief advisor. Things were really looking pretty good, when suddenly Wolfit up and died—the position of chairman had begun to look fairly ominous.

  Nonetheless, our august little Board could boast a good number of heavy hitters. The next step in raising funds was to get ourselves a patron—preferably a Royal one. Pooh spoke up: “That frustrated young actor, Charlie, is crackers about the theatre. Let’s go after him.” So Lord Goodman and Sir David Lewellyn put pen to paper and were just about to send off a formal request to Prince Charles when the news broke—the news about the other project. It appears there were two Globe Theatre projects—ours and Sam Wanamaker’s. Without our knowing a thing about it, except for the odd rumour perhaps, Sam had been going about his business all along, steadily, painstakingly. While we were getting all sorts of media attention, he had been quietly soldiering on, unheeding, with one vision on his mind.

  Sam Wanamaker was an American who years ago had left the United States, then very much under the cloud of McCarthyism—in other words, the witch-hunt. An exciting young actor, writer and director, he had been suspected of leftist leanings, so to save his name and reputation and disillusioned by his country, he emigrated to England where he soon became recognized and highly respected. Sam, like Pooh, was a dreamer—a dreamer from afar albeit, but unfortunately a dreamer with the same dream. Now, suddenly, he was headline news. He had raised a considerable amount of money, much from America, he had his architect and Prince Philip had agreed to be his patron! What the hell were we going to do? We had been gazzumped!

  My gregarious good friend, George, or “Pooh”

  Sam called Pooh and arranged a meeting—I came along. Pooh was devastated—so was I. “That bastard—I’ll sue him. He’s stolen our idea. We were there first! He just wants our board.” Trying to placate Pooh was like trying to calm an enraged rhinoceros. “Anyone can have an idea,” I said, “and besides, I suspect he was there first.” At any rate, we all met. Sam was apologetic, charming and generous. Pooh circled him like a wild beast, sniffing at him at intervals. “There’s only one thing we can do,” Sam offered. “Let’s join forces. We could really make this work if
your team hooked up with mine.” But Pooh wasn’t having any of it. “And you’ll be head man?” he demanded of Sam. The answer was yes. “No way,” said Pooh and left. I hurried after him. “It’s not a bad idea, you know.” “It’s a lousy idea and I’m finished with the whole thing,” muttered Pooh as we walked to his car. “But you don’t own the rights to the Globe. Nobody does—it’s anybody’s. Four hundred years old kind of makes it public domain. Come on, let’s all get together with both our strengths and we’ll see it happen.” But stubborn old Pooh had had it. He would never admit defeat. I felt so sad for him—he’d worked so hard—he’d slept, dreamed, lived and suffered for the scheme. He was out of pocket because of it, but he didn’t care because he was that kind of man, a man imbued with that Elizabethan energy that sparked his heart and his mind and his ambitions. Sam had seen it in him, because Sam was the same and he understood loners—he was one himself.

  Well, try as I might, I could not get Pooh into Sam’s camp. It was nonsense of him, of course, but he felt betrayed, his whole project shattered like broken glass. Also, our board was dispersing, some already joining the so-called opposition. Pooh threw himself with all guns blazing into the St. George’s Islington venture, forming an acting company and tirelessly raising funds to transform the old church into a proper theatre. He had done a glorious thing rescuing it from certain ruin—he should have been happy, proud, content; but Pooh had history on his mind. He had seen the one restoration as a necessary stepping stone to the other, a neat compact package in which North and South London together could once more resurrect their shining past; that Glorianna would in our century again fly its splendid flag over the rooftops and gables. We saw quite a bit of him and Piglet over the next few years. His bubbling, gregarious nature never deserted him, but I think the whole Globe experience had a profound effect upon him that not only altered his life, but shortened it. He could never find anything to match that dream.