by David Niven
‘Let me see a ‘take’,’said Zanuck.
‘Put a white coat on him,’ said Ford, ‘and give him the first aid box…’all right, now try to pull yourself together for Christ’s sake…on your cue pull the stethoscope out of your pocket, then open the box and take out a dressing—okay, let’s go.’ White coat? Stethoscope? dressing?—these were new instructions.
The camera turned and George Sanders and Richard Greene played a lengthy scene. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Zanuck watching intently. I tried to concentrate on my cue and when it came, I put my hand in the pocket for the stethoscope and pulled out a large snake. Trying manfully to continue the scene, I dropped it on the floor and opened the first aid box when I saw it was full of little green turtles. I let out a yell and flung it in the air.
‘Print it,’ yelled Ford, amidst the ensuing guffaws. The scene which Zanuck had been a party to was run constantly in private projection rooms thereafter.
By now Flynn had separated from Lili Damita and I was looking for new quarters so together we rented Rosalind Russell’s house, 601 North Linden Drive and settled in to a fairly ostentatious bachelor existence. ‘601’ became a hotbed of fun and bad behaviour, the booze flowed freely, the girls formed an ever changing pattern and after Flynn came back from a trip to North Africa, we went through a long period when we smoked or chewed kif.
Kif had strange effects on me, sometimes everything seemed hilariously funny, sometimes I became quiet and introspective, sometimes I experienced pleasant imaginings or hallucinations. I got bored with it one day and just stopped taking it. Nowadays it is known as marijuana.
Flynn had a more lucrative contract at Warners than I had with Goldwyn so he paid the most rent and consequently had the big double bedroom. I was allowed to borrow it for ‘special occasions’.
Fairbanks had a small ranch down near San Luis Obispo, where the super newspaper tycoon, William Randolph Hearst, had built himself a hilltop castle dominating some two hundred thousand acres.
His sons, George, Bill, Jack, Randy and David, invited me up there constantly. They were all about the same age as myself and all were either just married, about to become engaged or sliding down the other side into divorce. The girls were beautiful, the boys were great fun and I spent some of the happiest times of my life at San Simeon.
W.R. Hearst lived there openly for years with the blue-eyed beauty, Marion Davies. The sons loved their mother who lived on Long Island. They also loved their father and they liked Marion enormously. It was impossible not to…a warm-hearted scatterbrain who worshipped ‘W. R.’
Mr. Hearst fascinated me. He was an avid collector of antiques on a massive scale. An entire Greek temple had been dismantled, shipped over and reassembled by the swimming pool. Glorious frescoes, paintings and tapestries were everywhere. Often I slept in Richelieu’s bed. Hearst had repositories of treasure still not unpacked and a large private zoo. He enjoyed going for rambles with the young and discoursing on every subject under the sun. One heard rumbles that he was utterly ruthless in business but, rather naturally, I saw no sign of that. In the huge, panelled dining hall, flanked by monks’ stalls, and decorated up high by sixty or seventy ducal banners from Venice, Siena and Florence, it always intrigued me that down the centre of the largest refectory table in the world stood clusters of H.P. sauce, Heinz tomato ketchup and paper napkins.
At the end of 1936, Irving Thalberg died. He was thirty-seven years old. He had caught a chill playing cards out of doors, pneumonia followed and very quickly he was gone. Hollywood was stunned. It was a staggering loss. Fairbanks organised the ushers at the funeral service at the synagogue, B’nai Brith. He told me to help at the entrance and said that he would seat the family personally in the front as he knew them all by sight. Knowing his penchant for putting the wrong name to the wrong face, this made me rather nervous, a condition that increased when I walked down the aisle to ask his advice about something and he showed me into a pew.
By Hollywood standards, the funeral was conducted with great decorum: the fans were kept at bay so nobody had a chance to repeat an earlier disaster when the widow had her veils ripped off—‘Let’s see your face, dearie.’ The only sour note was when some moron in the M.G.M. publicity department saw to it that the child actor, Freddie Bartholomew, who had just completed the name part in the film showed up in his black velvet Little Lord Fauntleroy suit.
It was probably the same source of good tase which, when jean Harlow died, took out full page ‘ads’ in the trade papers showing the Metro Lion dressed in white tie and tails with tears pouring down its face, placing a wreath on a tombstone: JEAN HARLOW IN MEMORIAM—and below on a scroll, the full list of her screen credits.
Norma was inconsolable and disappeared from view for months.
David O. Selznick was as big an independent producer as Goldwyn so when he borrowed me to play Fritz von Tarlenheim in The Prisoner of Zenda, I was very excited. Not only was it to be one of the biggest pictures of the year, it also had a spectacular cast—Ronald Colman, Madeleine Carroll, Raymond Massey, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Mary Astor and C. Aubrey Smith.
Colman was now very close to me and I did not doubt that on my behalf, he had put in his two cents’ worth with Selznick. Doug. Jr. I was meeting for the first time and we immediately struck up a friendship which is just as warm today. An added bonus was that Madeleine’s husband, Philip Astley, was coming out to spend three months with her in Malibu.
—My part was excellent. Seemingly the only comedy relief, I had never had it so good.
John Cromwell, the director, was rather solemn and steadfastly refused to let me play my part for comedy. I ploughed on, playing it straight as ordered, but was pretty sure the result was dim. Colman found it hard to be encouraging.
After about a week, I decided to make a stand and upon completion of a scene, I said, ‘Mr. Cromwell, would you let me do it again—my way?’ This was unheard-of insubordination and the entire crew shuffled about looking embarrassed.
‘All right,’ said Cromwell. ‘Do it once more—your way.’
By now, whatever it was I had dreamed up felt profoundly unfunny but I did it anyway.
‘Next scene,’ said Cromwell with no change of expression.
That night David Selznick called me.
‘I’m sorry, David, but somehow you’re not giving the part what I thought you would…I’m afraid I have to replace you.’
My legs turned to water. I went up to my room and sat on my bed in the dark. So I really couldn’t do it after all—Lubitsch and Wyler might have pulled me through but the first big chance had found me out…What was I going to tell everyone?
My next option with Goldwyn was just coming up…he would surely drop me. I felt panic rising. I heard Flynn come back about two o’clock and still I sat there.
At nine in the morning, Selznick called me.
‘I want to see you at once…come on down.’
I was taken straight to his office. With him was John Cromwell.
‘Look, David,’ said Selznick, ‘we have just seen yesterday’s stuff…the last thing you did was exactly what I want from you and John here agrees.’
‘I certainly do,’ said Cromwell. ‘It’s my fault entirely and David and I are going to build up the part so that we can get much more fun out of it…you’ll be great…go and get dressed.’
How many big directors are really that big, I wonder? Cromwell is another for my private Hall of Fame.
It was a long picture—over four months—and every day was fascinating. We all felt we were making a success and the enthusiasm ran high. I was given my own ‘stand-in’ for the first time. I asked Stuart Hall if he would like the job and for years thereafter he stood patiently being lit by cameramen so that I would be fresh when the moment came to play a scene. I had problems with my old chums among the extras. At 6.30 at night, they automatically went on a quarter extra salary. If I was playing a scene around that magic hour, they would make it clear they expecte
d me to ‘blow’ my lines and put them safely into overtime. My loyalty to David Selznick, who would have to pay them, also came into question…it was very tricky. In the coronation procession, Colman and Madeleine were in the royal coach, C. Aubrey Smith and I rode alongside and the two heavies, Doug. Jr. and Ray Massey, rode behind us.
Knowing the fixation that studios have that leading actors should be seen riding highly strung prancing steeds, I had a little chat with the Head Wrangler and exchanged mine for a quiet old mare. Unfortunately, she was in heat and the stallion that Ray Massey was riding decided to mount her, and me, in the middle of a ‘take’. I heard snapping teeth behind my head and just caught a glimpse of Ray’s appalled expression far above me as I flung myself to the ground.
Towards the end of the picture, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth visited President Roosevelt.
Someone had the bright idea that the British colony should do a special radio show on the Sunday which would coincide with a hot dog picnic which the President was giving for his royal guests at Hyde Park up the Hudson River.
We rehearsed for days and bashed our brains out being loyal and talented. Olivier gave the ‘Into the breach…’ speech from Henry V, Brian Aherne recited Rupert Brooke’s ‘The Soldier’, Aubrey Smith, Nigel Bruce and Roland Young sang ‘Three Little Fishes’, Reggie Gardiner imitated a train: Ray Noble’s band played and the rest of us—Vivien Leigh, Flynn, Colman, Madeleine, Cary Grant and myself, all did something.
I had an unexpected moment alone with Her Majesty a few years later and asked her how they had all enjoyed our efforts.
‘Oh, wasn’t it awful,’ she said, ‘the President’s battery ran down just before it came on.’
At the end of Zenda, Goulding called in a high state of excitement from his house in Palm Springs.
‘Come at once—I have good news, I think.’
I drove down to the desert to find Goulding hopping up and down in the driveway.
He led me down to his pool. There was a naked figure in it.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ said Goulding. ‘Garbo was coming over for a swim…we’d better go back up to the house.’
Up there he told me the news.
‘You’ve got it!’ he said. ‘They just called from Warners and confirmed it.’
‘Got what?’
‘Scotty in Dawn Patrol—it’s the best part, ever written for an actor.’ Warners borrowed me from Goldwyn and Goulding was right. It was a marvellous part…World War I story of the Royal Flying Corps. Flynn and I were pilots. At one point I was hungover and late and went up in my Sopwith Camel in red and white spotted pyjamas. I was shot down and fell in a lake. The officers’ mess was plunged in gloom at the loss when I suddenly walked in, still in pyjamas with an armful of champagne bottles. This was a true incident that had happened near Arras to a certain Flying Officer Pope.
Basil Rathbone played the C.O. and Donald Crisp was the Adjutant. Goulding was a most sensitive and inventive director. The picture really hit the jackpot and he achieved what he had always promised—he launched me in a great part in a great picture.
After that, things moved rapidly. I was given star billing and borrowed by Twentieth Century Fox to do a picture in England with the beautiful French actress, Annabella.
Trubshawe came to Southampton to meet the ship. He was now the Squire of Barton Hall in Norfolk and Margie had presented him with two daughters. For old time’s sake, he carried the dipsomaniacs’ delight. He also displayed a placard:
BARTON HALL VILLAGE FETE CRICKET MATCH SIDE SHOWS RAFFLE BOWLING FOR THE PIG CAWSTON SILVER BAND TO BE OPENED BY FAMOUS HOLLYWOOD STAR DAVID NIVEN
‘Better come, old man,’ he said. ‘It’s tomorrow and I’ve stuck these bloody things up all over the county.’
It was marvellous to be home again.
The picture was shot at Denham. Angie and Ken Thornton let me be a ‘paying guest’ in their lovely old house at Ascot, near the Weigalls, and a hundred old threads were picked up. I had time to go to Bembridge. Everyone made a great fuss of me and I wallowed in it.
On the return journey in the lie de France, I met an Austrian named Felix Schaffcotsh. He was on his way to Sun Valley, Idaho, where, at the request of Averell Harriman, he had designed and built a new ski resort. A handsome and affable ‘Graf, he was also a dyed-in-the-wool Nazi. He spent hours extolling the virtues of Hitler, sympathising with his problems and enthusing over his plans. I listened politely but took none of it seriously. I was far more interested in the script of my next film.
Shortly before sailing, I had been advised that Goldwyn had loaned me to Walter Wanger to co-star with Loretta in Eternally Yours.
Felix said that he was bringing over a dozen good ski instructors from near his home in Austria—‘all Nazis too’. I promised to go to Sun Valley after I finished the picture.
I arrived back in Hollywood to find that Flynn and Lili Damita had signed a truce and I had to find somewhere else to live.
John McClain was at the Garden of Allah so I rented a bungalow there, and although I missed F. Scott Fitzgerald, who had moved to Malibu with Sheila Graham, I had the great joy of meeting Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker. Benchley was one of the wittiest men alive but unlike most people full of funny things to say, he was rather retiring. Long the theatre critic for the New Yorker, he was now bravely putting on the other hat and embarking on a highly successful career as an actor. He loved to drink…’I must step out of these wet things and into a dry martini…’
There had lately been a big influx of ‘Easterners’ and with McClain and Benchley, I spent fascinating evenings at Cole Porter’s house where it was quite usual to listen to Cole or Irving Berlin or George Gershwin playing numbers from the half-written scores of their future smash hit musicals. When McClain moved back to New York, I moved down to Santa Monica and rented a small guest beach house from Marion Davies. I shared this with Robert Coote, an excellent English actor, and a mysterious Australian named Walter Kerry Davis.
Bob was quickly making a big name for himself as a character actor and Walter was hovering hopefully on the fringe of Los Angeles and Pasadena society where, rumour had it, he was trying to snag a rich wife. He so often failed to pay his share of the rent that he must have been finding the going very uphill.
It was a very happy combination, however, and we entertained twenty-four hours a day…so much so that Carole Lombard, Alice Faye, Ida Lupino and Cary Grant christened the house ‘Cirrhosis by the Sea’. We had this painted on a board outside the front door where it remained for over a year till we received instructions from W.R. Hearst to take it down.
Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers decided to make no more musicals together and the whole world mourned.
Fred went on from strength to strength with a series of different dancing partners and Ginger decided to return to straight acting. They were the king and queen of R.K.O. so it was immensely flattering for me when Goldwyn told me that he had loaned me out to co-star with Ginger in her first solo for a long time, Bachelor Mother to be directed by the immensely talented writer-director, Garson Kanin.
‘Everyone’s going to expect you to dance,’ said Goldwyn ‘show them that you can act instead.’
The script, by Norman Krasna, was a dream and Goldwyn decided that this picture was so important that he would not put me into anything else before it. It was then February 1938.
I kept my promise and went skiing at Sun Valley. The resort was just open, new and small. Only two hotels were built, ‘The Lodge’, very good and very expensive and ‘The Challenger Inn’ where I went, very gay and much cheaper. Averell Harriman had his own charming chalet and others were building. The skiing was perfect and I had a wonderful six weeks. Felix had made a huge success of the place. Given half a chance he was still liable to lay down the law about ‘Lebensraum’ but he was a most agreeable companion. Towards the end of my stay, I was surprised to get a phone call from Norma Shearer who had been virtually incommunicado since Irving Thalberg’s de
ath. She sounded desperately lonely so I persuaded her to come on up and booked her a suite in the Lodge. When she arrived Averell Harriman went out of his way to make life pleasant for her. She fell in love with the place, with skiing, and a few years later with a great skier and happily remarried. Bachelor Mother took most of the summer to shoot and was a most happy assignment. Thanks to Garson’s sure hand and novel ideas, the result surpassed the highest hopes and it was widely acclaimed as the best comedy of the year. It went straight to my head, of course, and I bought a Leica and went all over Los Angeles taking pictures of my name and likeness on the billboards.
During the filming, Garson said something that gave me pause for thought.
‘Do you realise,’ he said, ‘that I am the director of this picture and you are the co-star but between us we are being paid less than half what the cameraman is getting?’
There was no doubt that every time Goldwyn loaned me out he demanded huge sums for my services but I was still basically amazed that I was being paid at all and Goldwyn, after all, had given me a chance when nobody else would touch me. Nevertheless, the flea was in my ear so I had a talk with Leland Hayward, the top agent in Hollywood.
‘Leave Goldwyn to me,’ he said, ‘you’re making a fortune for him—I’m going in there to ask for a lot of money and a contract for five years straight with no lay-off and no options, a limited number of pictures and six weeks’ guaranteed vacation each year.’
On the day of Leland’s meeting with Goldwyn, he went in to the office brimming with confidence. I waited in the ante-room.
Two minutes later he was back.
‘Did you get it?’ I asked.
‘Not exactly,’ said Leland. ‘Goldwyn has barred me from the lot—now I can’t even talk to him.’
A really ridiculous war of nerves then started with Goldwyn. He didn’t speak to me when I met him and when I turned down what I thought was a really awful script, I was promptly put on suspension.
One day I saw a headline in Louella Parsons’ daily gossip column read avidly by the whole industry—‘NIVEN IMPOSSIBLE SAY FELLOW WORKERS.’ It went on to charge that because of recent successes I had got such a swollen head I refused to speak to old friends in the studio.
