The Moon’s a Balloon

by David Niven

  A quick intake of breath followed by a longish pause alerted me to the fact that it was not Fred. When the Bishop had recovered from the unaccustomed greeting, he told me what was on his mind.

  ‘We have a Convention of several thousand Anglican clergy coming to Los Angeles from all over the world, we are holding a service in the Hollywood Bowl and we would be very happy if you would read the Second lesson.’ He explained that it was several weeks away and when I enquired why he had selected me, he told me that as the Archbishop of York was coming from England, it had been decided to invite what he kindly described as a prominent British resident of Los Angeles.

  The day approached and what had for some time seemed no more than a minor chore, now assumed the proportions of a major hazard. I had meetings with the Bishop and enquired about my wardrobe for the occasion…dark suit. We discussed the ‘script’…Galatians, Chapter IV.

  I did not understand it…’What is uncircumcision? He explained patiently and told me with a smile not to worry about who was to read the First Lesson—‘You won’t have to follow Bob Hope…I will be reading that myself.’

  On the night before my appearance at the giant Hollywood Bowl, I was so nervous I was unable to sleep. In the morning, I had a high fever and had completely lost my voice.

  Hjordis telephoned the Bishop and explained while I listened on an extension…I could tell from the disappointment in his voice that he was having a hard time being a believer so I went down there anyway to let him hear me croak, I think. He said gently, ‘You could try it, they will understand that you have something wrong with your voice and they will be terribly bored if I read them both lessons.’

  When the moment came, with my knees clanking together like castanets, I walked out on to the desert-like stage while the thousands of clerics rustled themselves into seated comfort. A massed choir of hundreds stood in tiers behind me as I turned to face the vastness of the. Bowl.

  ‘Somebody’ up there loved me that day. I opened my mouth to whisper the announcement of the Lesson and out of my hitherto totally constricted throat came the deepest and most resonant sounds I had ever heard. On the Fourth of July in the United States American friends point out, with unholy glee, that the crack of each firework is symbolic of the breaking of a redcoat’s neck. Bogart was always at his most sardonic on this occasion but once, in celebration, he broke all his rules and invited women aboard Santana.

  ‘Betty’, calling her husband ‘Captain Queeg’ after the half-mad sadist he had portrayed in The Caine Mutiny came along to keep Hjordis company. We dropped anchor in Cherry Grove and Frank Sinatra moored alongside us in a chartered motor cruiser with several beautiful girls and a small piano. After dinner, with Jimmy Van Heusen accompanying him, Sinatra began to sing. He sang all night.

  There were many yachts in Cherry Cove that weekend and by two in the morning, under a full moon, Santana was surrounded by an audience sitting in dozens of dinghies and rubber tenders of every shape and size. Frank sang as only he can, with his monumental talent and exquisite phrasing undimmed by a bottle of Jack Daniels on top of the piano.

  He sang till the dew came down heavily and the boys in the listening fleet fetched blankets for their girls’ shoulders.

  He sang till the moon and the stars paled in the pre-lawn sky—only then did he stop and only then did the awed and grateful audience paddle silently away. Noel Coward was about to appear in Las Vegas. He was sitting in a deep sofa at Bogie’s one evening, discussing the problems of his show.

  Bogie and I were facing him in two easy chairs. Suddenly, we realised that little $tevie, the five-year-old Bogart son and heir, was stalking Noel from behind, his target, obviously, the top of Noel’s head. In his hands he bore a large brass tray.

  The impending assault was so horrible that Bogie and I just sat there unable to move like two dogs watching a snake.

  Little Stevie raised the tray high and brought it down with a crash on Noel’s unprotected cranium. His head almost disappeared into his shirt. Noel never looked round. His voice never changed nor did the rhythm of his speech alter.

  ‘Bogart, dear,’ he said, ‘do you know what I am going to give darling little Stephen for Christmas? A chocolate covered handgrenade.’ The famous ‘Sinatra Rat Pack’ should now be put in perspective. All sorts of people were for years stuck with this label, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Shirley MacLaine, Peter Lawford, Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh to name a few. They were guiltless.

  During Noel’s appearance at the Desert Inn, Sinatra invited a few friends to go with him to Las Vegas for the opening. When anything is organised by Sinatra, the arrangements are made with legendary efficiency and generosity. We boarded a bus outside Bogie’s front door. Caviar and champagne sustained us during the drive downtown to the Union Station and there, with a cry from our leader of ‘yellow armbands, follow me’, we trooped aboard a private coach on the train for the overnight trip to Las Vegas. The group consisted of Betty and Bogie, Mike and Gloria Romanoff, Ernie Kovacs and his wife, ‘Swifty’ Lazar, Sid Luft and Judy Garland, Angie Dickinson, Hjordis and myself.

  Sinatra provided individual apartments for everyone at the Sands Hotel and a large communal suite with hot and cold running food and drink twenty-four hours a day: a big bag of silver dollars was presented to each girl in the party to gamble with.

  We saw Noel’s triumphant first night and on subsequent evenings we visited all the other shows in Las Vegas. We gambled endlessly, only occasionally poking our noses outside to sniff the desert air and gauge the time of day. After three days, Judy Garland slipped me something that she promised would keep me going. It was the size of a horsepill and inside were dozens of little multi-coloured ‘energy’ nuggets, timed to go off at intervals of forty minutes.

  After four davs and nights of concentrated selfindulgence, the only one of the party who seemed physically untouched was Sinatra himself. The rest were wrecks and it was then that Betty Bacall, surveying the bedraggled survivors, pronounced the fatal words—‘You look like a Goddam Rat Pack!’ A week after we returned to Los Angeles and forced ourselves back into some semblance of good health, the Rat Pack gave a testimonial dinner to Sinatra in the private room, upstairs, at Romanoff’s. A surprise package, tied with pink ribbon and flown down by Jack Entratta, the entrepreneur of the Sands Hotel, awaited every one of us. Inside each was a white rat. Several escaped during the unpacking and hot-footed it into the restaurant—sowing instant alarm among the chic clientele and eagle-eyed columnists belowstairs—thus heralding the end of the short, happy life of Sinatra’s Rat Pack.

  So much has been written about Sinatra, of his talent, his generosity, his ruthlessness, his kindness, his gregariousness, his loneliness and his rumoured links with the Mob that I can contribute nothing except to say that he is one of the few people in the world I would instinctively think of if I needed help of any sort. I thought of him once when I was in a very bad spot: help was provided instantly and in full measure without a question being asked. It was not, incidentally, money. On New Year’s Eve of 1956, Annie and Charlie Lederer stretched a striped awning across their back garden, boarded over their swimming pool and gave a very beautiful party for a couple of especially glamorous visitors, the Shah and the Empress of Iran. ‘Le tout Hollywood’ turned out in force. Hjordis and I were dancing and beside us, ‘Betty’ Bacall, a particularly active and dedicated exponent of modern dancing, was gyrating, bumping and grinding round the guest of honour—a comparatively subdued performer. In an effort to re-establish some sort of contact with his partner, the incumbent of the Peacock Throne said, ‘You are a wonderful dancer, Miss Bacall…you must have been born to dance.’

  ‘Betty’ tossed back her mane of tawny hair, gave one more convulsive heave and answered loudly in her husky-sexy voice.

  ‘You bet your ass, Shah.’ Betty Bacall was the perfect wife and companion for Bogie. I don’t know how long she knew he was seriously ill but she was courageous and dedicated through the whole heartbreaking p
eriod. I had heard his nightly coughing bouts on my last trips with him in Santana but he said it was just his smoking, nothing more. Then, he began to lose weight but he never had been much interested in food.

  Suddenly, there was an emergency seven-hour operation and the slow slide began.

  ‘If I put on weight—I’ve got it licked,’ he told me.

  Hjordis and I went away to Rome for three months while I made The Little Hut with Ava Gardner and Stewart Granger and afterwards we spent a short time together in Sweden.

  From there, I brought back the radical plans and specifications of a new yacht that I thought might interest Bogie and took them to his house. I was shocked at the change.

  We spent a day aboard Santana, but she remained tied up alongside her dock. She never put to sea again with Bogie.

  He no longer referred to his illness and with Betty in permanent attendance, preserving somehow, God knows how, her marvellous gaiety and fun, he slowly wasted away. When he became too weak to make the trip downstairs for his ritual evening drink with his friends—now invited only one at a time and carefully selected by Betty—they converted the little service elevator, took out the shelves, and sharp at six o’clock, Bogie would have his terribly emaciated frame carefully dressed and be lowered below, sitting in his wheelchair.

  One of us would always be waiting—Huston, Sinatra, Harry Kurnitz, Nunally Johnstone, Joe Hyams, ‘Swifty’ Lazar—a few others, and on special occasions, ‘Dum Bum’.

  At four o’clock one morning, Betty called us and said very quietly, ‘My darling husband is gone.’

  ∨ The Moon’s a Balloon ∧

  SIXTEEN

  On a Sunday afternoon, the phone rang in the Pink House.

  ‘This is Mike Todd. ‘I’m over at Joe Schenck’s. I wanna see you. Get your ass over here.’

  I was halfway through a polite excuse before I realised that he had long since hung up. I had never met Todd but I had heard a hundred stories about the legendary master showman, gambler, promoter or con man—everyone saw him from a different angle.

  We had a houseful of friends that afternoon and the consensus of opinion was that, whatever else, Todd was always interesting and I should indeed get my ass over to Joe Schenck’s.

  When I arrived, Todd was by the pool. Of medium height and perfect proportions, he was tanned dark mahogany. He wore the briefest of swimming slips. On his head was a white ten-gallon hat, in his mouth was a cigar of grotesque proportions.

  He had no time for preliminaries.

  ‘Ever heard of Jules Verne?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’.

  ‘Ever read Around the World in 80 Days?’

  ‘I was weaned on it.’

  ‘I’ve never made a picture before but I’m gonna make this one…How’d you like to play Phileas Fogg?’

  My heart bounded. ‘I’d do it for nothing.’

  Todd tossed aside his hat and cigar.

  ‘You gotta deal,’ he said and disappeared beneath the surface of the pool. From that moment till the time, six months later, that the picture was finished, I lived in an atmosphere of pure fantasy. Nobody knows where Todd raised the necessary seven million dollars and he certainly didn’t raise it all at once because several times production ground to a halt while strange, swarthy gentlemen arrived from Chicago for urgent consultations. For weeks on end we went unpaid. Todd induced S.J. Perelman to write the screen play and employed John Farrow to direct it.

  The Mexican bullfighter comedian, Cantinflas, arrived to play my valet, Passepartout, and Shirley MacLaine was signed to play Princess Aouda. ‘But who the hell do we get to play Mr. Fix the Detective?’ said Todd, chomping on the inevitable cigar.

  ‘How about Robert Newton?’ I suggested.

  Todd was enchanted with the idea and immediately put in a call.

  ‘But I warn you, Mike,’ I said, feeling every kind of heel, ‘Bobbie is a great friend of mine but he does drink a lot these days and you must protect yourself. Lots of people are scared to employ him—he disappears.’

  ‘I want to see Newton,’ said Todd firmly, ‘and when he comes in, I want you here in the office!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t tell him I said anything,’ I begged, ‘he’ll never forgive me.’

  A little later, Bobbie Newton shuffled in. I hadn’t seen him for some weeks and it was obvious that he had been on a bender of heroic proportions. Todd went into his routine.

  ‘Ever heard of Jules Verne?’

  ‘Ali, dear fellow,’ said Newton, ‘what a scribe.

  ‘80 Days Around the World?’

  ‘A glorious piece, old cock:

  ‘How’d you like to play Mr. Fix?’

  ‘A splendid role,’ said Bobbie, rolling his eyes. ‘Do I understand you are offering it to me, dear boy?’

  ‘I might,’ said Todd and I felt like the slimiest worm when he continued, ‘But your pal, Niven here, says you’re a lush.’

  ‘Aah!’ said Newton, ‘my pal, Niven, is a master of the understatement.’ He was hired immediately and gave his word of honour to Todd that he would go on the wagon for the duration of the picture. He stuck manfully to his promise.

  On location at Durango, Colorado, Bobbie and I went off every evening after shooting to catch big, fighting rainbow trout in the mountain lakes. One cold autumn sunset with streaks of blue wood-smoke clinging to the surface of the water and the last rays of the sun falling on the glorious colours of the aspens and beeches, Bobbie confessed to the that his promise to Todd had not really been all that difficult because that very morning his doctor had warned him that one more session with the bottle would almost certainly be fatal. Two weeks after we finished the picture, Todd called some of us back for an added scene on a ship. Bobbie Newton was only required for one day but when he arrived for work, a roaring delivery of ‘Once more unto the breach…’ announced alarming news. ‘Oh, Bobbie,’ I said, ‘what have you done to yourself.’

  He put his arm round my neck and tears rolled down his swollen cheeks. ‘Don’t chide me, dear fellow, please don’t chide me,’ he said.

  Within a very few days, the doctor’s warnings to that Warm-hearted, talented and wonderful soul proved tragically correct.

  If Todd had difficulty in raising money for his epic; he seemed to have none persuading the biggest names in show business to play small ‘cameos’ for fun. We started shooting in Spain with Louis Miguel Dominguin playing himself in the bullring, and there, after a falling out, Todd replaced the director, John Farrow, by the young Englishman, Michael Anderson. In London, more cameo parts were played by Noel Coward, Beatrice Lillie, Hermione Gingold, Hermione Baddeley and Glynis Johns, and back finally in California for the major portion of the work, I became inoculated against surprise when I found myself playing scenes almost daily with different distinguished visitors—among them Ronald Colman, Charles Boyer, Marlene Dietrich, Frank Sinatra, George Raft, Red Skelton, Victor McLaglen, Andy Devine, Joe E. Brown, Cedric Hardwicke and Buster Keaton.

  Somehow Todd also found time to collect someone specially for himself and, radiant with happiness, Elizabeth Taylor became a permanent fixture. Nothing ‘phased’ Todd…when a flock of several hundred sheep stopped our car on the way to location in Colorado, he bought the flock. ‘Great idea!’ he said. ‘We put the sheep in front of the train to hold it up.’

  The sheep had been on their way to market so now feed had to be provided at great expense to keep them alive till their big moment. When it came, far from stopping the train, they scattered before it like chaff.

  ‘Sell the goddam sheep,’ ordered Todd, ‘we need a herd of buffalo.’ He found them too, in Oklahoma, and the scene was reshot with several hundred gigantic beasts stampeding in every direction.

  In Paris, shooting with Todd-luck on the only sunny day in five weeks of continual rain, we were joined by Fernandel and Martine Carol. Todd needed all the luck at his disposal when he took over the Place Vendome and ordered cars towed away in the early morning which mig
ht interfere with his day’s shooting.

  One of the offending vehicles turned out to be the property of a Cabinet Minister who was spending the night away from home. Todd was ordered to stop shooting and the police moved in to enforce the order. Todd promptly paid two taxi drivers to stage a head-on collision in the rue de Rivoli and during the ensuing diversion, he completed his work.

  In London, he ‘stole’ a shot of a company of Guardsmen marching out of Wellington Barracks and separating on either side of his camera by the simple device of camouflaging the machine on a vegetable barrow and pushing it directly in front of the oncoming soldiers at the last second…that, not surprisingly, proved to be our final day’s shooting in the streets of London.

  At Balboa, Todd converted an ancient sailing yacht into a paddle steamer of the period by building on deck a large superstructure which housed the ponderous engine of a San Francisco cable car to turn the paddle wheels. Not only was the yacht now dangerously top heavy, but, as we chugged out of the harbour, full laden with actors, crew, lights and cameras, it was made clear to us that a nasty passage was ahead. I pointed to the storm-warnings being raised by the coastguards at the end of the breakwater. ‘I can’t see a goddam thing,’ said Todd, ‘I’m Nelson.’

  In the event the boat proved too dangerous to turn round in the heavy seas and we had to go all the way to Catalina before we dared try it. With gorgeous Elizabeth by his side, Todd remained undefeated to the end even when the sheriff of Los Angeles locked up the finished footage of his picture, thereby immobilising his only asset within the State of California till various local creditors had been mollified.

  Todd was allowed to assemble and score the film during the day time under the watchful eye of a sheriff’s deputy but at night, back it went into the vault.

  ‘Somehow, Todd staved off the enemy and, at last, the picture was ready for presentation. The sheriff was ‘persuaded to allow the film to travel to New York for its big gala opening at the Rivoli Theatre.