In Spite of Myself: A Memoir

by Christopher Plummer

  Robert Wise took one look at me and turned pale. “Young man, you better go on a diet right away. How are you going to get into your clothes?” He was right—the good life was showing only too obviously. All my costumes had to be let out to their fullest, a couple of them were entirely remade and the makeup man was obliged to use an inordinate amount of dark shading as I was beginning to resemble Orson Welles.

  However dissipated I appeared, I was obviously presentable enough for one person who had arrived out of the blue—the real Baroness von Trapp—the actual Maria, a jolly, chortling frau of ample proportions who could not have hidden her oversized shoes under any convent bed in Europe and escape detection. The baroness did not exactly boost my confidence by informing me how much more handsome I was than her husband. My God! What could he have looked like?! But she was very bouncy and bossy, laughed a lot and really was most likable. Incongruously for an ex-nun, she was an expert channel swimmer, a prizewinning world-class champion, in fact. All at once she announced in booming tones that she couldn’t stay with us very long and I imagined that yet another channel somewhere was already bracing itself for her plunge. The baroness remained long enough to watch Julie and me shoot our first meeting in that glorious mirrored room, which had been a part of the great Max Reinhardt’s old mansion on the outskirts of town. To see this buxom, bovine Maria gazing at the other Maria—her slim, trim alter ego—was quite uncanny.

  The second scene on my agenda was with Julie and the children singing “Edelweiss” to the townspeople at Salzburg’s Riding School. Back in the forties, Germany and Austria had barely surrendered when the real von Trapp family had given a concert there. They had not been received with the usual enthusiasm they expected. At that moment, they were extremely unpopular, having just returned from America where they had safely lived out the war while their countrymen suffered humiliation and defeat. To drive the stake in deeper, the von Trapps had insisted that the poor audience put on black tie and evening dress! But the fictional scene we were to shoot took place before the family’s escape; we were all attired in more modest Tyrolean peasant costumes and the general reception was meant to be one of warmth and emotion, a Teutonic love-in, one might say. The Riding School was in the open and the dark night air combined with Irwin Kostal’s lovely arrangement on the guide track gave the proceedings an aura of wistfulness that quite infected us all. “Edelweiss” was also, thank God, the easiest song of the bunch to sing, and my favourite.

  Every now and then when not “on call,” I would visit the set and watch Julie do her stuff. “Do-Re-Me,” for example, was filmed all over Austria’s countryside at various locations ending up in charming Mirabellplatz close by the Bristol Hotel. At the coffee breaks Gretl would appear accompanied by her young waitresses bearing trays of mouth-watering pastries. On the sidelines I would stand, lost in admiration at Julie’s inexhaustible energy. With the help of those talented choreographers Mark Breaux and Dee Dee Woods, she made the simple dance numbers appear completely natural and improvised and that big heart of hers burst through everything she did. There was a radiance in her she couldn’t suppress even if she’d tried.

  In the meantime, Gil Stewart had been taken ill. It was inevitable of course. The bar was like a morgue without him. Poor old Bruno was lost, wandering aimlessly about, wondering what to do. From time to time I would catch sight of Gretl disappearing into the lift carrying bowls of soup up to Gil’s room. She looked after him and cared for him so intensely that in a week she had nursed him back to health. It was none too soon for as he left his sick room and gingerly groped his way down to the bar, Fritz and Karl (Tweedledum and Tweedledee) were waving sheets of paper in the air. “Herr Stewart,” they shouted. “Congratulations! Vunderbar! You are vorking! Tomorrow!” As the butler, it was to be his one and only day’s work in ten weeks. Fritz, Karl, Bruno, the Count and I put our heads together and arranged a surprise celebration that would be waiting for him when he returned. Signs were made with “Welcome Home, Gil,” “You Made It” and “Who Needs Hollywood” scribbled all over them. We got at least two hundred balloons to fly above the front entrance and the bar. Gretl had the kitchen prepare huge platters of cold meat and salads and two large jeroboams of champagne were put on ice. It was just going to be us five—the Bristol’s skeleton crew as it were.

  Wouldn’t you know that Gil didn’t begin shooting till 9:00 p.m.! We waited for the last customer to vacate the premises and then started to put up balloons and get everything ready. At 1:00 a.m., Gil had still not materialized. As on a ship’s watch we took turns napping, Bruno nodding off at the bar, Fritz and Karl sprawled over the front desk, Fes-titic stretched out on a sofa. I went upstairs to lie down. About four in the morning a very sleepy Count called me in my room. “He’s outside now!” “Turn all the lights out,” I barked; “it’s got to be a surprise.” As the unsuspecting Gil walked through the door, all the lights went back on. He just stood there, gaping. Raising our champagne glasses in a toast we sang “For he’s a jolly good butler” at the top of our lungs. Gretl appeared in her dressing gown. “Keep your voices down. You vill vake ze guests. Oh vell, never mind, gif me a vhiskey instead,” and joining our revels, she stayed to the bitter end. Gil, completely overcome, became more British by the second, salvos of his deep basso profundo ricocheting off the Bristol’s walls.

  The film company shipped Gil out two days later. He couldn’t handle it. As they were loading his bags into the van, he came up to me in the lobby. “I don’t want to go back, you know. I’ve loved it here,” he said. I could see that he was shaking and trying to fight back his tears. “I say, old man, do me a good turn, won’t you? Tell Gretl thanks for everything and say good-bye for me. I simply couldn’t face her. She was the best mother I ever had.” He tried to laugh it off but was clearly inconsolable. He hugged Fritz and Karl and Festitic, then Bruno, who said nothing but whose expression spoke volumes. And then he was off for Munich airport. Bruno still stood at the bar stunned. Half an hour went by before Gretl came down in a white rage. “Vere iss Stewart? I can’t find him anyvare! I’m taking him to ze airport. Vere is he!!??” she shouted at Fritz and Karl who were trembling behind their desk. Not satisfied, she added a barrage of German invectives and hurled them in everyone’s direction. I summoned up my courage. “He’s already left, Gretl, I’m afraid; he wanted me to say good-bye for him. You see—” but I didn’t finish. She was slamming the car door and taking off in a horrible smell of burning rubber. Gil told me much later: “I was sitting in the airport lounge waiting to board when I saw Gretl, her graying hair wild and unkempt, racing toward me. I stood up. In front of everyone she came up to me—I could see she was crying—and slapped my face so that it stung like hell, looked hard at me for the longest moment, then turned on her heels and left. The last thing I wanted to do was get on that plane. I loved that woman, you know.”

  Before starting out for work late one morning I went to the bar for a pick-me-up. There was no Bruno. That was most unusual—there was always a Bruno. In fact, the bar was empty except for Festitic in a corner, puffing away on his cigarette holder. Fritz and Karl came over to me and, as always, Fritz spoke for Karl. “Bruno has not come to vork for two, sree days.” “And Frau Hübner?” I asked. “She has taken to her bed; ve don’t know ven she vill come down.” I knew they missed the Englishman, but I had not realized how deeply.

  The unit car picked me up and drove me to Bavaria, where we were to shoot the last scene of the picture in which the von Trapp family escapes the Nazis by climbing over the Alps to Switzerland, neutrality and freedom. It was now afternoon, and the sun was casting long shadows across the breathtaking hill they had chosen. A normal camera would have made it all look much too pretty and cute, like a picture postcard. But Ted McCord, our brilliant D.P., had taken care of that by inventing a special lens that gave back to the countryside all its natural beauty, just as one views it with the naked eye. I have always thought that last scene amusingly ironic, for over the brow of that h
ill supposedly lies sanctuary. In reality, at the top of our particular hill lay the ruins of a terrace, all that remained of Hermann Göring’s home, called the “Eagle’s Nest.” A little way below was an empty plot where Herr Goebbels’s house had stood, and farther down the hill the huge empty fish tanks of the Berghof overlooking Berchtesgaden itself—a last reminder of Adolf Hitler’s private lair. So it would appear that instead of “freedom” for the von Trapps, they had inadvertently wandered straight into the hornet’s nest.

  Finally, the moment had come for the unit to move back to the States—time to bid farewell to our beautiful Austria. The film company threw a “wrap” party that was anticlimactic to the point of redundancy as we would all meet soon again in Los Angeles to shoot the remaining interiors. Trish and I had made another attempt at temporary reconciliation, so as I had a fortnight free, I would join her in the south of France for a brief holiday at the luxurious Hotel du Cap, Eden-Roc. I spent the last two days, overcome with nostalgia, wandering through Salzburg whispering secret good-byes to my favourite haunts. Back at the hotel I bumped into a busload of “blue-rinsed” ladies from mid-America. They had just had lunch and were standing in the lobby waiting for their transportation. Fritz and Karl were going quite spare answering a barrage of impossible questions. The noise was deafening. Festitic was hovering in the background being his usual charming self—all the old ladies had instant fantasies about him, I’m quite sure. In the midst of the fracas, I heard one woman, who was standing right next to Festitic, shout out to Fritz and Karl in a particularly harsh twang, “How much do I tip the Count?!”

  Well, I knew what I was going to give Fritz, Karl and Bruno as a parting gift—money! Which was easy and which they would surely need. But the Count? What on earth would I give him? “Ach! He doesn’t expect anything,” said Gretl when I asked her. “But if you must, gif him a cigarette case; he doesn’t own one.” I went to the best shop in town and had them engrave his initials inside a very smart dark brown leather case. He bowed stiffly when I presented him with it and though he seemed grateful, I had the distinct impression that he would have preferred money.

  It was checkout time. To go that short journey to the front desk was like walking the last mile. I cannot describe it. I knew exactly what Gil had gone through on his last day. It was awful. Fritz, Karl and Bruno gave me a big hug. Then I gave Fritz, Karl and Bruno a big hug. Then we did it all over again and started blubbing as if on cue. This could have gone on forever had not Gretl put a stop to it. I had sent my luggage on ahead with the unit van because Gretl had insisted on driving me to the airport. “Come on, hurry up. Ve can’t stay here all day.” I noticed she didn’t look at me and I certainly couldn’t look at her. I didn’t have the control. She walked out of the hotel and waited for me in her car. Our good-byes spilled over onto the street, Fritz, Karl and Bruno following me out. I suddenly wanted to take them all with me. Festitic was standing straight as a ramrod holding the car door open for me. Elegant as he was in his morning coat and stripes, I noticed his shirt collar and cuffs were slightly frayed. It gave him a look of faded grandeur and he reminded me a little of the White Knight in Alice Through the Looking Glass. I was about to climb in when he grabbed my arm. His eyes were cast down and he said quite solemnly in those deep, soft accents of his: “You have been a good friend.” There was a pause and then: “Vere vill you go now?” “To the south of France,” I answered. He gave a little sigh. “Ze south of France,” he whispered dreamily, “how vunderful.” “When were you last there?” I asked. “It was so long ago. I vas a little boy.” In his eyes I caught a glimpse of a little boy’s longing to escape. “I’m afraid you will find it terribly changed now,” I offered. “It’s all become so commercial and built up. Where did you stay when you were there?” There was another pause. “Oh, I don’t remember qvite,” he murmured, “but it vas very beautiful. Ve vere staying vis King Edvard ze Seventh.”

  It was as if all the clocks had stopped and we were suspended above the pavement. It was the first time that Festitic had ever referred in any way to his former life. He was still gazing down at his shoes. There was something so absolutely fin de siècle about the old man. For a moment, he looked up but his sad eyes were staring past me into some far-distant time which no one, not even he, could possibly resurrect. I held out my hand.

  “Plummer! Hurry up. Get in!” cried an impatient Gretl at the wheel, the blast of a car horn renting the air. “You’ll miss your plane.” And, with a sudden jolt, we were back in the present.

  ON ITS FINAL LAP at the Fox Studios in LA, “S & M” sped rapidly towards its completion. It was now all work and not much play except for a few redeeming moments such as filming the Lendler, that graceful dance during which Maria and the Captain first fall in love. It was a welcome interlude in what had become a rather strenuous schedule and, in spite of my two left feet, a breeze, due to my partner’s formidable expertise.

  Then there was the new song Rodgers and Hammerstein had added to the film score, “Something Good,” which Julie and I were to croon in soft, intimate tones as we squared off to face each other in a gazebo. McCord had provided some low filtered lighting for the nonce, which was extremely flattering and bathed us most romantically in semisilhouette. Everything was set up, the mood was established, but just as the cameras began to roll, the thought of us both singing at such close range with our noses touching suddenly struck me as thoroughly bizarre. It must have struck Julie as well, for we both started giggling shamefully. Cut! We tried again—no dice! Each column of the gazebo had been lit for moonlight effects and it all looked suitably romantic. We began singing again and everything for the moment seemed under control when two elusive carbons rubbing accidently together made a sound as if someone was prodigiously and continuously farting. We collapsed. Cut! Take twelve! By this time we were holding on to each other, clawing away at our clothes, dissolved in raucous laughter.

  It was a contagious disease that was spreading fast, for it had infected the entire crew, including Mr. Wise. Our sides hurt—I’m sure thirty takes at least had gone by, none of which were printable, when mercifully we broke for lunch. Coming back to the set one hour later, convinced we’d sufficiently pulled ourselves together, we steeled ourselves for the moment and prayed for control. Jools had even taken a Valium, terrified lest she let her side down. Then the arcs began their revenge, and the farting continued. We buckled over in exhausted and helpless agony. This was getting serious. Bob Wise always had a pocket watch on a chain, which he rubbed like a touchstone. It must have had a soothing effect upon him, like a patience drug. Not today. “Turn off the lights. We’ll shoot it in the dark,” he shouted. And we proceeded to play in silhouette, hoping no one would see us giggling. How we finally got it in the can I’ll never know. I imagine we were just too drained to laugh anymore and had no option but to do it straight. The word “print” is a lovely word and makes a lovely sound at moments like these and our relief was well earned, for in the end result, something not bad at all had come out of “Something Good.”

  Spooning “Something Good,” trying to keep straight faces

  To further shake me up, the final recording session was upon us. Daunting is not a strong enough word to describe it. Julie and I stood side by side in a small glassed-in cubicle facing two microphones. Surrounding our prison cage sat seventy-five musicians like hungry jackals waiting to pounce, led by their keeper, Irwin Kostal. Warbling softly into a mike is far more difficult than singing full out in a theatre as I was later to discover. One is much more likely to catch and collect “frogs” in the throat, whereas projecting usually gets rid of them. I tried so hard not to look like a complete basket case. Julie, sensing my nerves, took hold of my hand and held it throughout the session. It must have taken her days to recover the use of it afterwards, I had squeezed so hard. No matter how diligently I’d slugged away at my lessons, I was still untrained as a singer. To stay on a long-sustained note was, for me, akin to a drunk trying to walk the straigh
t white line, whereas you can bet the very first cry that Julie let forth as she emerged from her mother’s womb was in perfect pitch! Listening to the playback, there was no disputing we were on separate planets. In the end, Robert Wise managed to hire someone to take care of my elongated passages, and the balance was somewhat restored.

  Things had begun to markedly change on the “S & M” lot. There was a low buzz that seemed to indicate early hints of success. Reporters began skulking about; celebrities paid visits to the set. I remember a delectable Shirley MacLaine popping in quite frequently (she was on the next stage filming Irma la Douce). Agents and managers in growing numbers appeared more regularly. Well-respected directors would turn up to pay homage to Robert Wise. There was a distinct scent of success in the air. Julie took me aside one day and whispered, “Do you get the feeling we might be famous one day?”

  WELL, THE REST is history of a kind. Here was a forgotten story that had collected dust at the bottom of a studio drawer for eight years, which would one day save that same studio from bankruptcy. Cleopatra had totally wasted the Twentieth lot and The Sound of Music became the Good Samaritan and put it safely back on its feet once more. I have never recovered from my shyness toward the glaring lights of a film premiere. I am a complete hypocrite, of course, torn between the thrill of mob recognition on the one hand and my aversion to the sheer vulgarity of it on the other. I therefore spent most of our premiere with a few chums including Robert Wise in the bar next door. The critics generally pooh-poohed the enterprise and it’s always been my opinion they were too ashamed to admit they liked it lest their cynical, hard-boiled comrades of the press might call them sissies and banish them to the nearest convent. However, the film won the Oscar and the public, eager for a “family feature,” wasted no time in boarding the speedily revolving roller coaster of praise; by the year’s end, most countries had cheerfully risen to its bait. Most, that is, except Austria, which, for some time, had been fairly saturated by an onslaught of Trappamania. A well-made, detailed German documentary on their lives had been shown ad nauseam when “S & M” was a mere embryo; not to mention the family’s persistent habit of yodeling themselves sick whenever an alp or two loomed into view. The Austrians too had somewhat understandably objected to the liberties taken by our costume department and regarded our apparel as so much Hollywoodized lederhosen. They also, not quite so understandably, decried the movie as being painfully schlag and sentimental, which, coming from that country, was tantamount to calling the kettle black.