by David Niven
Hollywood was going through a ‘British period’ and the studios were indulging themselves with such epics as Mutiny on the Bounty, David Copperfield, National Velvet, Bengal Lancers, Edwin Drood, Disraeli, Lloyds of London and Sherlock Holmes…it was a bonanza for the British character actors. The captain of the Hollywood Cricket Club was the redoubtable, craggy C. Aubrey Smith. A famous county cricketer, he had a penchant for suddenly nipping out from behind the umpire and firing down his fast ball .…He had been nicknamed ‘Round the Corner Smith’. His house on Mulholland Drive was called ‘The Round Corner’; on his roof were three cricket stumps and a bat and ball serving as a weather vane. Ernest Torrance and his wife Elsie were other leaders of the British colony. Henry Stephenson, E.E. Clive, Eric Blore and H.B. Warner were members. Later arrivals, Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, were fiercely independent of the label ‘British colony’ and Herbert Marshall spent all his time with Gloria Swanson and Reggie Gardiner with Hedy Lamarr while, aloof from it all, living the life of a hermit is his house at the end of Mound Street, was Ronnie Colman. There he entertained only his intimate circle—William Powell, Richard Bartlemess and Noll Gurney. He had just overcome an unhappy marriage and was trying not to fall in love with Benita Hume.
The hard core British colony took tea on Sundays at the Torrances or the Aubrey Smiths…the atmosphere was very like the Marsa Polo Club in Malta.
Nigel and Bunnie Bruce became, for me, the Norah and Lefty of the West Coast.
‘Willie’ Bruce, immortal as Doctor Watson in Sherlock Holmes, was fat and jovial and generous. Bunnie was thin and gay and, generous. They both adored their two little girls, Pauline and Jennifer. They kept open house in an old Spanish-style mansion on Alpine Drive and happily spent every penny that Willie earned.
It was Willie who made me join the Hollywood Cricket Club. He was keen and had played first class cricket before he collected eleven machine-gun bullets in his left leg at Cambrai. After the war he went on the stage and appeared often with Gerald du Maurier and Gladys Cooper. Once he was invited for the weekend to play country house cricket at some ducal monstrosity.
He arrived the night before the match and was shown his room by the butler with that subtle mixture of alarm and condescension reserved exclusively for actors. Out of his window, Willie saw the house party gathered round the Duke, sitting under a giant yew tree, tea cups and cucumber sandwiches were in evidence and Willie shuddered.
Finally, he plucked up courage to go down and meet his host and fellow guests but to put off the evil moment as long as possible he made a detour through the orchards and greenhouses. There he came across a small peach tree bearing one solitary peach. He ate it and continued on his way to the giant yew. Nobody, including the Duke, took the slightest notice of him so he huddled miserably at the back of the group and toyed with a piece of fruit cake. The butler appeared and announced, ‘The Gentlemen of the Press are here, your Grace’. This caused considerable excitement and an anticipatory buzz arose. Willie tapped his nearest neighbour. ‘What’s all the excitement?’
‘Oh, haven’t you heard? The Duke is the first man in the world to succeed in growing a full-sized peach on a miniature tree.’
Willie tiptoed away, packed and left before dinner.
Having a highly publicised contract with Goldwyn made it obvious that I was not about to parlay an invitation to dinner or tennis into an embarrassing hint for work. New doors were ajar. I played tennis with Constance Bennett and Gilbert Roland, with Dolores del Rio and Cedric Gibbons, golf with jean Harlow and William Powell. When Garbo was not nursing him, I spent sad afternoons with John Gilbert who was fighting a losing battle with the bottle in his hilltop hideaway. The Thalbergs, Douglas Fairbanks and Sylvia became close friends; so did Merle Oberon of unbeatable beauty. Ronald Colman slowly made me persona grata at Mound Street and a lasting bond was formed with Phyllis and Fred Astaire.
John McClain suddenly arrived from the East with a contract to write scripts for R.K.O. and my cup overflowed.
My social life was picking up nicely but my professional career was not in top gear. My first speaking part was at Paramount in Without Regret. Elissa Landi was the star and I said ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ to her on a station platform.
Howard Hawks produced The Barbary Coast with Miriam Hopkins—I got the part of a cockney sailor, with drooping moustache.
‘Orl rite—I’ll go,’ I said, and was thrown out of the window of a brothel in San Francisco and into the mud. Miriam Hopkins, Joel McCrea, Walter Brennan, thirty vigilantes and some donkeys walked over the top of me. I was employed by Woody Van Dyke to play a whole scene with Jeanette MacDonald in Rose Marie at M.G.M. She and Nelson Eddy were the stars and a lanky young actor from New York was making his debut in the same picture. James Stewart was his name.
This looked better—a whole scene in a big important musical!
It was a short piece so I was not given a complete script, just a couple of sides with my stuff’ on it. It took place in a theatre in Toronto. Jeanette MacDonald had just come off the stage from singing some aria to a packed house and was rushing to the arms of Nelson Eddy, her lover in the Mounties, who was supposed to be waiting in the dressing room.
She flung open the door expectantly and all she found was a top hat protruding above a screen. Underneath the hat was a drunken stage-door Johnnie (me) who, after a short altercation, was forcibly removed. Van Dyke seemed happy enough with my efforts and by eleven o’clock I was out of the studio.
He was a very fast worker. M.G.M. sent me two tickets to the preview and I took a girl friend along.
‘What’s the story,’ she asked.
‘I’ve no idea, but when they get to Toronto—that’s me after the song—a top hat behind a screen. I’ll tell you when it’s coming.’ We settled back expectantly.
The picture trailed on and finally it was clear that the song in Toronto was over and Jeanette MacDonald was heading for her dressing room. ‘Here I come,’ I whispered. The girl held my hand.
‘There!…there’s the hat—this is me!!’
The hat moved and a perfectly strange man stepped out from behind the screen and played my scene.
Apparently, I had been so bad that they had got rid of me early and sent for another actor to come and do it correctly.
Van Dyke was a very fast worker.
A1 Santell was a director at Columbia and I have blessed him forever. He was directing A Feather in Her Hat with Ruth Chatterton. I was employed to play a long and difficult scene in a big party sequence. Leo, the poet, was my character.
The party had been in full swing for some time with much build up towards the arrival of Leo, the poet.
‘I wish Leo would come, he’ll liven it up’, etc., etc.
Finally, all gaiety and light, I had to burst in through a door and for at least three minutes, I was supposed, single-handed, to raise the whole tempo of the party, with a wise-crack here and a kiss there. The scene was in a continuous shot with the camera on a rail moving with me from group to group.
The ‘extras’ on the set, some hundred or so, were Dress Extras. Stuart Hall was there full of encouragement but most of the others were of the highly critical ‘would-be star’ category. It was an appallingly difficult scene and I hadn’t slept all night from anxiety.
I didn’t own the tail coat I needed for the occasion so Herbert Marshall lent me his. ‘Bart’ Marshall had lost a leg on the Somme so for some technical reason, his fly buttons did up the wrong way, like a woman’s coat. I was shaking so badly in the wardrobe department that a seamstress had to do my flies up for me with a button hook.
I waited around in an agony of apprehension till finally, I was sent for to do the scene. Santell was kindness and patience itself and walked me gently through many rehearsals but I still couldn’t relax.
This was my big chance but I was rigid with terror.
‘Okay, Dave, let’s take a crack at it—do it just like that last rehearsal—that was just fine.’
Miserable and sweating, I stood outside the door and listened to the happy sounds of the party inside. After an eternity, a red light glowed—my signal to burst in.
I did. My toe caught in the track and I nearly fell over. I bumped a dowager in a chair; I spilled somebody else’s drink and said all the wrong lines to the wrong people but somehow, I staggered through to the end.
Everyone on the set applauded.
I couldn’t believe my ears. Santell rushed up.
‘Hey, that’s great, Dave! Just what I wanted…perfect! Now we have that one in the can we’ll just take another for safety…Oh! this time don’t hit the track, and watch out for the old dame’s chair…one or two little changes…just clean it up a little…but it’s great and we have it already—this one’s a luxury:
I stood outside the door looking at that red light…I couldn’t wait for it to go on. ‘This is easy,’ I thought, ‘this is fun!’
I sailed through the second take, loving every minute of it, completely relaxed.
At the end of the day, Stuart Hall and I were celebrating in a bar: he told me the secret. Santell had addressed the whole ‘set’ while I had been shivering and shaking in my dressing room.
‘The boy who’s playing Leo—this is his first big scene in a picture and we’ve all got to help him loosen up. After the first take, however bad he is, I want you all to applaud then I’ll put some film in the camera.’ Santell is in my private Hall of Fame.
‘Go get yourself experience,’ Goldwyn had said…so I went to the Pasadena Playhouse. This was by far the most highly regarded of all the ‘showcases’ and almost impossible to break into. The magic name of Goldwyn opened the door.
I was welcomed by Gilmour Brown, the Playhouse director, and given a minute part in Wedding.
It was all very ‘arty’. The curtain was up when the audience arrived. It never came down between acts and it remained up when they left.
I was one of the guests. There were sixty others and most of them were queer. One with whom I shared a cubicle dressing room was different. He was an ex-footballer from Notre Dame with a forgettable Polish name. When last heard of he was a dentist in Lancing, Michigan. He was a devotee of Scotch whisky and had a large stock of a brandy called ‘Mist o’ the Moors’. It tasted like rubbing alcohol. I think it was made in Japan.
My part was as follows: Early in Act I. I sauntered on carrying a large bowl of punch. This was a very important prop as there was an urgent message for someone underneath it. I arrange the bowl carefully on a table and sauntered off again.
Act II. I had to enter left looking distracted, suddenly see off stage someone I was looking for, smile with relief and exit hurriedly, right. Act III. Was my big moment. I had a snatch of conversation with my Footballer Friend.
Niven: ‘I tell you the King of Siam does.’
F.F.: ‘Well, I know the King of Siam…and I tell you he doesn’t.’
Niven: ‘I see.’
EXIT
During the two weeks’ rehearsal, I went to many parties in Hollywood and without actually lying I propagated the idea that I was starring in a play at the Pasadena Playhouse—good propaganda…’Yes, I am opening with a very interesting girl at the Playhouse next week…I think she’ll go a long way…’ That sort of thing, not lies really.
On opening night, thanks to the ever present Mist o’ the Moors, I was completely relaxed. When my moment came, I picked up my bowl of punch and wandered on stage.
I received a thunderous ovation.
In alarm I shielded my eyes from the footlights, an unforgiveable thing to do, and saw that ‘Bart’ Marshall had brought a surprise party of about thirty people to witness my great star debut. I caught a glimpse of-Gloria Swanson and Charles Laughton among other famous people filling the first three rows and tottered off the stage with the bowl of punch, thereby ripping irreparable holes in the plot.
Downstairs in our cubicle, the F.F. tried to calm me.
‘Have a little Mist, Dave, don’t worry about ‘em…screw ‘em…’
He gave me a great umbrella stand full of the stuff.
Act II. I thought ‘they mustn’t see me’—so I shot across the stage from left to right like a meteor.
Act III. And after several more calming draughts of Mist, I had changed considerably—‘Many of these people’, I said to the F.F. ‘have come from as far as Malibu to see me…let’s go.’ He blinked and shook his head in a dazed way, then followed me meekly on stage for our snatch of conversation.
We swayed on and I led him by the arm right down to the footlights. ‘Now look,’ I said giving him an intimidating stare, ‘I don’t want to impose my rather strong personality on your very dull brain…but I have it…on the very finest authority…straight from the horse’s mouth…that the KING OF SIAM DOES.’
The F.F. looked utterly stunned, then in an awed voice he said, ‘Jesus Christ!’
Gilmour Brown was waiting for us in the wings—‘Get out of my theatre—both of you.’
Reactions to my performance were mixed. ‘Bart’ Marshall said he wouldn’t have missed it for the world; Charles Laughton gave me an angry lecture about ‘bastardising my profession’. Goldwyn treated me to a mild dressing down. He had been pacified in advance by the news that the great Ernst Lubitsch had just seen my ‘relaxed’ performance as Leo, the poet, and wanted me to start immediately at Paramount in a very good part in Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife with Gary Cooper and Claudette Colbert.
Working with Lubitsch in the company of such professional experts and such privately wonderful human beings as Gary Cooper and Claudette Colbert was a joy that lasted for about three months.
The screen play was by another expert—Billy Wilder.
Lubitsch sat, like a little gnome, beside the camera, perched on a small step ladder, giggling and hugging himself at all his own wonderful inventiveness. A vast agar was always in his mouth. He was patient, understanding and encouraging: what more could any actor ask?
I learned major lessons about playing comedy during that time and will forever remember a statement of his: ‘nobody should try to play comedy unless they have a circus going on inside.’
Thank You,7eeves was the next. I was borrowed from Goldwyn by R.K.O. to play Bertie Wooster and the indelible Arthur Treacher played Jeeves. But it was a ‘B’ picture, a curtain raiser on the programme for the main feature. It was my first leading role, however. Virginia Field was the leading lady. Then I was sent for by Warner Brothers, where Michael Curtiz was testing actors for The Charge of the Light Brigade. Errol Flynn was the star—his second picture. His first had been a smash hit—Captain Blood. Now he was the big white hope of the studio.
Curtiz had a reputation for eating actors for breakfast. An ex-cavalry officer and very Prussian in his approach to subordinates, he was a daunting sight when I reported for work, outfitted in riding boots and breeches and carrying a fly whisk.
I was testing for the part of Flynn’s friend: destined for a sticky end in the Charge. The whole scenario was a loose adaptation of the true story and the Charge itself took place on the North West Frontier of India, but no matter, those were the days when Hollywood was reshaping British history to conform to budgets and available locations. I was to play the test scene with Olivia de Havilland so, I realised with dismay, were a dozen other hopeful young actors all dressed in exactly the same uniform as myself…all standing around and, a refinement of sadism, allowed to watch each other perform. By the time the scene had been played half a dozen times, and six actors curtly dismissed by Curtiz, everything I had hoped to do had already been done. My mind was a blank when Curtiz, with heavy accent, called out, ‘Next man.’
I was led out of the shadows by an assistant and introduced to Miss de Havilland and Curtiz. She smiled a tired resigned smile and shook hands. Curtiz said, ‘Where’s your script?
I said ‘You mean the four pages I was given for the scene,’
‘Yes…where is it?
‘Well,’ I s
aid, hoping it was true, ‘I’ve learnt it, Mr. Curtiz. I don’t have it with me.’
‘I asked you where it is!’
‘Well, it’s in my dressing room at the other end of the studio.’
‘Run and get it,’ he shouted.
My uniform was thick and tight. It was 100°F in the shade and the sound stage was not air-conditioned…also, after witnessing the efforts of the others, I reckoned I had no chance of getting the part anyway.
‘You fucking well run and get it,’ I said.
His reaction was instantaneous.
‘Dismiss the others—this man gets the part.’
We got along famously all through the picture…’that goddammed Sandhurst man’ Mike called me and built up my part.
My friendship with Flynn dated from that picture. I had met him once or twice at Lili Damita’s bungalow in the Garden of Allah and we had reacted to each other with wary distaste. Now he was married to Lili and we made a new appraisal of each other.
Flynn was a magnificent specimen of the rampant male. Outrageously good looking, he was also a great natural athlete who played tennis with Donald Budge and boxed with ‘Mushy’ Calahan. The extras, among whom I had many old friends, disliked him intensely.
They were a rough lot too, the toughest of the riders from Westerns, plus the stunt men who specialised in galloping falls. Flynn, they decided, had a swollen head, having made too big a success too soon. They were the 27th Lancers. Flynn was their commander; I was the second in command. One day they were lined up on the parade ground of our fort, somewhere in the San Fernando valley. Flynn and I were slightly in front of our men when one of them leaned forward with his lance, rubber-tipped to cut down accidents, and wriggled it in Flynn’s charger’s dock.
The animal reared up and Flynn completed the perfect parabola and landed on his back.
Six hundred very muscular gentlemen roared with laughter.
