In Spite of Myself: A Memoir

by Christopher Plummer

  FRANCHOT’S leave-taking was the cue for a number of departures. Johann went back to his trolls and the magic of Norse mythology; Ruth McDevitt to New York and a new Broadway play. Ditto Marian. Kate’s mother, Babby, having demolished a tray full of Manhattans, took the next plane home, and others had fled to employment far afield, but employment nonetheless. And I, the leading man, the jeune premier, “the offspring of David and the bright and morning star”? What of me?! I had nothing to go to—nada, ninch! I was about to seek out Kate, Mister Billie and the few little loyal stragglers that remained and drown my sorrows—when the telegram arrived.

  My dear Gerard. On expiration your Bermuda engagement report Chamberlain/Brown Agency W. 42nd Street N.Y.C. sign contract U.S.A. tour Nina commencing immediately your arrival. Your friend Adolphe—signed Edward Everett Horton.

  God bless Eddy! I always knew somehow he’d come through! My American career was about to be launched! I’d be costarring with that fabled old genius of comedy—my pal Eddy. I didn’t walk or strut or saunter—I ran to the bar, knocking into half the audience on the way. I couldn’t wait to tell Kate—in fact, I didn’t—I shouted the news at the top of my voice. The bar was packed that night, and they all put down their drinks and gave me an ovation. The bar was almost always packed now. The audience had accepted us finally, and many of them usually stayed behind to mingle—hangers-on included. In fact, I think we got a bigger attendance at the bar than in the theatre.

  There was one rather strange young lady from New York staying at the hotel. For two or three weeks now, she had attached herself to the company. She was in her midtwenties—good to look at, deeply tanned, had jet black hair and was the proud owner of two gorgeous, nut-brown legs. She hung about the lounge perfectly content to listen to our gossip without contributing anything herself in the way of conversation. What she did contribute was purely visual. She had the purest, softest of faces, yet there was a toughness, a hardness about her, a restlessness that was most unnerving. She was also a diabolical tease. Scantily clad always, she deliberately never wore underpants and made certain that wherever she sat, on a bar stool or on a couch, she positioned herself in such a way that everyone could get a first-class view. We christened her “Miss Snatch.”

  That night I noticed for the first time that Miss Snatch was missing. Someone told me she’d packed her things that very day and had left the island in a great hurry. We decided there had always been something a little shifty about her, a girl her age, traveling alone, and so on. She looked so dissatisfied, so discontented most of the time, okay—she was after something all right. Whether she ever got what she came for, I’ll never know; but I was to know one thing for sure—she got Billie.

  THE NEXT MORNING walking through the lobby, my telegram still clutched tightly in my fist, I felt there was something different about the hotel. It was quiet, deadly quiet; it seemed to know something but wouldn’t tell. And then I knew why—there was no whistling. I began looking all over for him, in the kitchen, in the washrooms, by the pool, everywhere—not a sign. I went to the front desk and asked one of those faceless, tight-lipped colonials:

  “Billie? He’s in prison, sir!”

  “Prison! Where? Where can I find him?”

  “You can’t sir—no one is allowed sir.”

  “What on earth is he in prison for?”

  “He’s awaiting trial.”

  “Trial? What happened, for God’s sake? What did he do?”

  “We are not permitted to say.”

  It didn’t take me long to find out. It seemed our young lady friend had enticed him to her room on some pretext or other. Once he was inside the door, she must have flashed him and I guess poor Billie couldn’t help himself. I know as sure as I know my name that Billie was too shy with the ladies, too simple, too innocent, to have done anything harmful or rash—he probably just touched her where he shouldn’t have and that was all. Whatever happened, when he left the room, she called downstairs to the desk, threatened the hotel with one hefty lawsuit and demanded the police. When they arrived, she told them he’d raped her.

  We felt we’d been kicked in our stomachs. We knew there could be no trial. A black man charged with rape? On that island, at that time? No way. He wouldn’t see the light of day again. He would live and die in whatever hole they’d shoved him in. It was over for Billie. His curtain had come down.

  FROM THAT MOMENT ON, things started to deteriorate. The season was over anyway. Most of the paying public had gone from the island. There was only a staunch little band of them left and, on matinées, the same eight old ladies more or less. There were no more “stars” so we played our last play as a company. It was that dreadful old warhorse of a domestic comedy, George and Margaret, a perennial summer-stock standby. Barbara, Kate and I were so tired and played out that whenever we made eye contact onstage, we simply corpsed. I don’t honestly believe the eight old ladies knew the difference or gave a damn. I hardly think it mattered. We knew we had come to the end of our rope—it was the moment to leave.

  We shall lose our time,

  And all be turned to barnacles, or to apes.

  —THE TEMPEST

  IT’S A PARADOX. Whenever I’m about to say farewell to a place in which I’ve lingered too long, and know I must get out—damn it, if I don’t get hooked. I’d known all along that these jewels set in azure waters were a romantic group of islands whose history was as baffling and mysterious as the triangle that bears their name. If Bermuda had been created by any other than some sea god, it had certainly been christened by a force called Shakespeare. If it had been born merely in a poet’s mind—a poet who had never seen it—what a rich, magnificent birth. But it did exist; it was real. In the beginning of time, the sea had belched it forth. It was Caliban’s island, wild, lush, painfully beautiful—I suddenly wanted to stay:

  I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ the island …

  I’ll show thee the best springs, I’ll pluck thee berries …

  I prithee let me bring thee where crabs grow …

  Wilt thou go with me?

  —CALIBAN

  THE FEW FREE DAYS that remained would find me on my well-worn moped covering the countryside for all I was worth searching for more “subtleties of the isle,” afraid lest I should ever forget. I would scour the reefs in glass-bottom barks gazing down into the laser-clear depths watching the big lazy morays undulate slowly, seductively—their mouths opening and shutting in silent screams.

  I would watch for hours, paralyzed by the underwater beauty of countless fish of all shapes and sizes and the never-ending sunken gardens reaching to infinity—radiating colors too unimaginably rich ever to describe.

  Full fathom five thy father lies;

  Of his bones are coral made;

  Those are pearls that were his eyes …

  Our little trio, Kate, Barbara and I, would try to relive nostalgic moments at “21” over evening cocktails, not succeeding too well, invariably falling back into long pensive silences. Even the sight of Errol Flynn one lunchtime, standing at the bar sans entourage and quite accessible, didn’t cheer us up much. Then I would go up to “Ariel’s nest” and sit, snuggled among the rocks, the wind whistling about me. I would squeeze my eyes tightly shut till I swore I could faintly hear Prospero’s voice echoing against the cliffs:

  Thou hast done well …

  Thou shalt be free

  As mountain winds.

  I THREW MY CLOTHES into my suitcase. They were so damp from the cloying spring I could have wrung them out—and they stunk of mildew. Brand-new clothes from Triminghams I had yet to pay for, and I’d never worn them! They looked like secondhand junk. Two official-looking men from the tourist board, dapper in shirts and ties, long kneesocks and those hateful Bermuda shorts, drove us to the airport—at least we were going out in style. I kept looking out the back window to make sure I wasn’t being chased by bailiffs or salesmen brandishing chits. So far so good.

  When we arrived on the tarma
c, Kate, Waverly and Zachary, who had come back for her, were all there to see us off. Waverly made a quick dash for the plane—she suddenly wanted to come with us (that would be awfully nice, I thought), but Kate pulled her back and Zach in the background just stood there making outrageous comic faces. We settled in our seats. I looked out the window. Kate had turned away and tears were streaming down little Waverly’s face. Inside the plane, we all seemed pretty controlled, if a trifle tight-lipped. I was thankful we were able to hold it in and that Waverly was doing the crying for all of us. The doors shut with a clang. No gendarmes—no militia to cart me away—I’d made it! We took off.

  My body was transported through the first bank of clouds but my mind was still on the ground. I began to think back. I thought of the hotel—the cozy, old hotel with the pink stucco walls—and the endless days and nights I’d spent there. It had been our ship—our vessel. It had sailed us safely through many a storm. We had worked hard there and played even harder. We had met some extraordinary people and had learned much—a lot of growing up had gone on within its walls. So it came as a special shock when we heard only a few weeks later that the hotel had burned to the ground. It had burned so rapidly that nothing was saved. It had gone to grief on its very own reef.

  Had I been any god of power, I would

  Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere

  It should the good ship so have swallow’d.

  —MIRANDA (THE TEMPEST)

  We would joke amongst ourselves, long afterwards, that it was the audience who had done it—that they’d had enough of us dumb actors, so they torched it to prevent any more such punishment. But that was just to cheer us up. I think most of us pretty much shared the same view—that the day Mister Billie went to jail, the old hotel gave up its ghost and decided one night when no one was looking, to set itself on fire. For with no more Billie to care, no more whistling, laughing and singing in the corridors, no more shared secrets in the dead of night, no more whispered stories to send it to sleep—the heart had gone out of it—it just wanted to die.

  CHAPTER TEN

  AN AMERICAN DÉBUT

  Gingerly I climbed the long, creaking staircase. Once at the top I stood for a moment in order to get used to my gloomy surroundings. With all the bric-à-brac on the walls, the heavy volumes and papers bulging the shelves, I could have wandered straight into Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe. The scent that greeted my nostrils was the musk of ages. From behind a lopsided old rolltop at the far end of the room through a thick curtain of dust rose a tall cadaver in a shabby ill-fitting cardigan I doubt had ever seen better days. A few wisps of straggly hair tried unsuccessfully to hide his parchmentlike temples, but his ears, for some obstinate reason of their own, sprouted voluminous tufts of healthy dark fur—a most unsettling sight indeed. In a clawlike hand, he was clasping some documents, which he abruptly thrust toward me—“Plummer?” echoed a voice from somewhere inside that hollow frame and without waiting for an acknowledgment, it snapped—“Sign here!”

  There was no doubt I was in the presence of one Lyman Brown, the other half of that ancient firm of Broadway flesh peddlers—the Chamberlain Brown Agency—so old and timeworn, in fact, it was said that John the Baptist had once been a client. Certainly they had managed Edward Everett Horton from his earliest vaudeville days right up through the Hollywood years and Eddy, being such a grateful and loyal gentleman, had never left them. Indeed, he was probably one of the only clients they still had and, most likely, the sole reason for their very existence. From this room, at one time, considerable power had been wielded, but now it was a dead and creepy place. I eagerly signed but before the ink had dried Mr. Brown was loftily dismissing me—“Edward Everett instructed us to look after you while you’re here,” he hissed; “now run along and don’t keep him waiting!” My audience was over.

  I couldn’t believe the cab driver didn’t get out to help old Eddy hump his many pieces of luggage. Ed caught my look of astonishment and immediately rebuked me, “Oh, you won’t get that here. Oh, dear me, no. This is New York, sonny; this is New York,” and we sped off to our season of Nina and my introduction to that long-abandoned but much loved tradition—the “summer circuit.” And a glorious summer it was as we hopped from one country town to another—Cape Dennis, Falmouth; Stockbridge, Massachusetts; Sea Cliff, Long Island; Ogun-quit, Maine; etc., etc. Nina proved perfect holiday fare—light and frothy. Marta Linden, a lady of glamour, sophistication and real warmth, took Marian Seldes’s place as Nina and at each theatre the resident leading man would play the small part of the butler. When we reached Niagara-on-the-Lake, the role was played by a Canadian ex-army fella from the war who had decided to become a professional actor. His name was Bill Hutt. Not too far down the road he would one day be known as the great William Hutt, one of our finest classical actors.

  The theatre at Niagara-on-the-Lake was run by Franchot Tone’s aunt, Maud Franchot, a passionate patron of the arts and a generous friend. Everywhere we played we were wonderfully welcomed and, of course, everyone adored Edward Everett. All the rich old ladies in each town knew him personally; he had been charming them for years, and they were all quite dotty about him. They would throw these sumptuous after-theatre suppers for him, great spreads they were, but he stubbornly refused to go unless all of us, the entire cast including the stage management, were invited. A democratic star if ever there was one. Before the curtain went up each night, not thinking of the play at all, he would rub his hands together with great relish and announce, “Oh my goodness! Are we ever going to have an elegant supper tonight! Mm-Mm! Elegant! Oh my!”

  Eddy Horton, Marta Linden and me on the road in Nina

  For a man in his seventies Ed possessed a superhuman, almost obnoxious energy. He organized everything—our days, our nights! Marta finally got so wrung out she began to feign various illnesses to escape his tenacious schedules. For instance, he insisted I play tennis with him every day at 9:00 a.m.—rain or shine (I began to think he’d hired me only because I was good at the game). He would appear on court clad in something which resembled Churchill’s boiler suit but turned out to be his long winter underwear (quite a sight first thing in the morning) and he demanded I hit the ball straight to him at all times so he would never have to move. This applied to rallies as well as actually playing a set. If I hit one out of his reach by so much as a yard he would stamp his foot, flounce off the court and go sit in the clubhouse and sulk. It only took about fifteen minutes till he deigned to speak to me again and then, with great renewed enthusiasm we would return to this very original form of play.

  The only private recreation I had any time for was a short-lived caprice with two lesbians. A girlfriend of mine turned up one night with this very pretty, very wealthy young lady. I hadn’t realized she basically preferred the fairer sex. “Little Miss Rich” owned a huge sleek Caddy convertible which I was longing to drive. So after the show we would pub crawl—she’d throw me the keys and I’d drive, while they necked. We would sometimes go back to their hotel room, where only occasionally was I allowed to participate in any way, but most of the time, I would just sit and watch the two of them go at it, hammer and tongues! I need hardly have complained; I just felt a little left out!

  Ed, through Lyman Brown, had now extended the engagement to include Portland and San Francisco. So, packing my duds, I decided to write a farewell note to the two little dikes which I signed, “I shall always remain, erotically yours, The Lone Ranger.”

  Portland was largely memorable for its hospitality and its Olympia oysters. But San Francisco in 1952 produced a spectacular impact. It was an elegant, chic, breathtakingly beautiful city—a far cry from what it is now. We played the Alcazar for almost a month. I lived over in Sausalito for most of the run with my old producer friend from Montreal, Joy Thomson, who owned a house there. Her brother Harrison, one of the world’s great skaters (star of the Ice Follies and Ice Capades) had retired and was running a lively bar-restaurant on stilts by the water called the Glad Ha
nd, just a few hundred yards down from a famous old whorehouse, the Valhalla. Sausalito was mercifully uncrowded then and very bohemian—artists of every shape, size and specialty living on the water in barges to escape the tax—the whole place sizzled with atmosphere.

  In San Fran itself I also had a marvellous time—what variety! On my night off I saw Jussi Björling, my favourite tenor, and the great Renata Telbaldi sing at the Opera House. On another, Ed took me to see Danny Kaye in his miraculous one-man show. Kaye burst onto the stage singing “Jambalaya an’ a codfish pie-a.” He made us laugh, cry and scream for more. He brilliantly mimed, playing a harp to Saint-Saën’s “My Heart at Thy Sweet Voice”—his body and hands creating a ballet of their own. And then he would follow it with some sidesplitting nonsense by his wife, Sylvia Fine. What an extraordinary versatile talent—much more apparent from the stage than on the screen! As he bowed to the audience at the end he noticed Ed and, beaming from ear to ear, he pointed to him and beckoned us both to come backstage. Did I ever glow with pride?! Danny quite obviously had been a fan of Ed’s from infancy and he invited us over to the original Trader Vic’s where he had a special table and treated us like visiting royalty!

  One evening Ed took us to the very popular Top o’ the Mark for supper. He had no reservation. God knows he never needed one. On arrival we discovered the entire roof restaurant was shut down. The maître d’ at the door, recognizing Ed, apologized profusely, explaining it had been taken over for a private party. We peered through the glass partitions from which one could see the whole room—it seemed absolutely empty. “But there’s no one in the place,” sputtered Mr. Horton with growing irritation. “Oh yes there is, sir, over there,” corrected the maître d’, pointing to a solitary couple seated far away in a corner surrounded by a phalanx of attentive waiters. It was a very young Debbie Reynolds and her host, Howard Hughes, who had bought the whole place out just to serenade her—a quiet tête-à-tête à deux!