In Spite of Myself: A Memoir

by Christopher Plummer

  Robert Wise, carefully preventing us from drowning in sentimentality

  More than frequently, over time, I have found myself returning to that part of the world, almost as a force of habit. I have appeared in other films made there and have visited as an admiring tourist and an avid fan of the festival. With each visit I noticed how much more prosperous everything seemed to appear, Austria having submitted to a major face-lift. No matter how modest, every schlöss had been freshly painted, their window boxes by the thousands overflowing with fresh multicolored flowers. The restaurants had made giant steps towards improvement and were booming. The hills and valleys, more alive than ever, were manicured to the bone—there was nary a blemish on the landscape. In fact it almost cried out for dear Mr. McCord, who had sadly left us to come back from the dead with his filters to make the whole countryside look less like a fairy tale. There was no doubt that “S & M” had helped turn Austria into a far richer country. Almost a billion dollars has poured in due to the avalanche of tourism the film has generated. Over the years, the people’s attitude has altered considerably. They have entirely come to terms with it; there are “S & M” tours by the cartloads and Julie, Robert and I have accepted honours from both Salzburg and Vienna for our contributions to the pot. Every time I arrive there I feel rather like a Hapsburg reclaiming the throne. The old charm still exudes everywhere—the one and only disappointment was the little Bristol Hotel.

  I snuck in one day to take a look. I was curious to see if any of the old atmosphere still prevailed. How I ever imagined it would beats me; after all, this was all almost forty years ago. Gretl, Bruno, Fritz, Karl and the Count were all long gone and there was little hope that they had left anything of themselves behind. I stood for a moment in the lobby with my eyes closed and tried to conjure up the smallest trace of that past which had found such a permanent place in my heart. I suddenly missed my little family terribly; I had adored my stay there, living in a crazy Ruritanian dream. It was like being part of a play of Ferenc Molnár’s with incidental music by Oscar Strauss and Franz Lehar. I opened my eyes. No, there was nothing of that anymore. I didn’t recognize this place at all. The Bristol was now just another hotel, any ordinary hotel, cold and heartless. I turned away and walked out into the bustling life of Makartplatz and the air that comes down from the mountains—the familiar, comforting soft air that is still part of my memory and thankfully refuses to change.

  ABOUT A YEAR or so ago in Connecticut, I went to a children’s Easter party. They were going to show “S & M” as an after-lunch treat. Oh, my God, I thought, how am I going to escape? My friends, the hosts, pleaded with me to stay. “It will be such fun for the kids to watch Captain von Trapp watching himself on the screen.” Oh, sure, I thought, the monstrous little fiends! Well, I stayed. I had not seen the movie for years and the more I watched, the more I realized what a terrific movie it is. The very best of its genre—warm, touching, joyous and absolutely timeless. I suddenly could see why it had brought such pleasure to so many people. Here was I, cynical old sod that I am, being totally seduced by the damn thing—and what’s more, I felt a sudden surge of pride that I’d been a part of it. How beautifully it had been shot, how natural the choreography, how rich the arrangements, how excellent the cast. And Robert Wise, with his innate good taste and judgment, had expertly held in the reins lest it all canter over the cliff’s edge down into a sea of treacle.

  But the picture belongs to Julie. Of that there is no doubt. It is her movie, her triumph. The familiar saying that the camera never lies is one I will gladly dispute anytime, anyplace. In Julie’s case, no camera, true or false, could stem the flow of her particular genius. She thoroughly infused the story with her own spirit, her own enchantment. Of course, that glorious golden sound of hers still echoes in the shell, but her performance was the antithesis of a musical comedy turn. Banishing all artifice, she was real, true, funny and vulnerable. She had lit up the screen and spilt her blood. There was no turning back now; it was far too late, for before anyone could even whisper the name “Maria,” a hopelessly infatuated world had already made her its hostage.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “WILL WE EVER?”

  Natalie Wood picked up her knife, wiped it, and using it as a mirror, a regular habit of hers, proceeded to reapply her lipstick. Now normally, making up at the dinner table would be considered bad manners and extremely gauche. In Natalie’s hands, it became a thing of beauty and more than acceptable. We were dining in a booth at La Scala on Little Santa Monica in Beverly Hills—B.J. (the Powder Puff), Natalie and I. “La Scala Good Evening” as we nicknamed it was a consistently warm and inviting Italian bistro in the days before Corporate Hollywood, when there was a lot more humour and fun about the place and stars were not averse to leaving their ivory towers and actually eating out; it was a most informal, friendly gathering place for producers, writers and actors who were not ashamed to be seen together. There was none of today’s tension. We all knew each other no matter our status (even I, on the fringes, was made to feel welcome) and we would sit in dark red leather booths and throw roles or small talk across the tables at each other. It was one of Miss Wood’s favourite spots and would become one of mine as well. The Powder Puff, who had known her for some time as her regular makeup artist and friend, beginning their relationship in Kazan’s Splendor in the Grass, had set up this first meeting of mine with the raven-haired beauty. B.J.’s silly off-the-wall humour was at its best that night and we spent most of the meal giggling like giddy children. She had the most unabashed childlike giggle, which rippled musically through the garlic-scented room, and by the time the check arrived, I was infatuated.

  Natalie photographed by Roddy McDowall

  Kurt Frings (still my agent) had procured costar billing for me under Natalie Wood’s name for a film called Inside Daisy Clover, adapted for the screen by Gavin Lambert from his book of the same name. Gavin, an amusing British writer was based in Santa Monica near his mentor Christopher Isherwood. Natalie would play his heroine Daisy, a young undiscovered star in the making who was to be groomed for success by the studio head played by me—a character based on the famous young genius at MGM, Irving Thalberg. The story was very lightweight fare but with some attempt at style, and it marked Alan Pakula’s first film as a producer along with his partner, the director Robert Mulligan (To Kill a Mockingbird, etc.). Pakula had married my friend Hope Lange (the Powder Puff’s sister-in-law) so the atmosphere on the set was cozy and had a distinct family feeling about it. Robert Redford (one of his first films) had a supporting role, the great Ruth Gordon played Natalie’s loony mum and Roddy McDowall was my sinister right-hand man. Added to this, Herb Ross did some choreography for Natalie, and the music and lyrics were taken care of by André and Dory Previn.

  On my first day in front of the camera, the old propman, who’d been at Warner’s all his life, came up to me and asked what I usually liked to drink. “At the moment it’s Scotch,” I answered. After my very first shot was in the can, there he was right in front of me handing me a Johnnie Walker Black Label on the rocks in a beautiful crystal glass. “What’s this?” I asked, flabbergasted. “Hell, it’s only 9 a.m.” “It’s a tradition here, Mr. Plummer, for after everyone’s first shot and from now on, the bar is open.” The courtesy and professionalism of the entire crew at Warner’s who were all getting on and had been there forever, I have never seen the likes of since. These veterans had seen everything and had some stories to tell, no question about that. How one longs sometimes for those old Studio Days to come back.

  LA was a lot smaller then and the movie colony was more like a village, far more intimate, an indication of what it must have been like in the twenties and thirties. There was still in the early sixties a sense of adventure about the place, particularly as the “independents” were about to rear their heads.

  With the help of a hotel PR lady, the gracious Helen Chaplin, I found myself occupying the rooftop penthouse of Hernando Court-right’s Beverly Wi
lshire Hotel. After the last elevator stop, there was this little staircase, which led to my private aerie in the clouds. At night out of my windows I could see the canyons on one side and the Hollywood Hills and Las Filas on the other. If I wanted fresh air, I just had to step out of my cabin and the rest of the roof was mine. It was just me and the sky. Warren Beatty, or “The Kid,” as Natalie and B.J. had called him often, used this charming abode for his clandestine romances. It had, in fact, “love nest” written all over it.

  Trish was still in London—our marriage now seriously on the skids. I was hopelessly restless and Trish was drinking heavily again. The doctors had tried so hard to convince her that booze could damage dramatically the scar tissue on her brain. They even pleaded with me to persuade her to desist, but she didn’t seem to care. So many magazines and journals had offered her some interesting positions as a writer, but since the accident she seemed to have little will to work at anything. I’m afraid I wasn’t any help anymore—we fought horribly when we were together, so putting distance between us seemed the only solution.

  At the time, the Daisy was the newest and hottest disco in town and I spent most of my nights there partying with Hope and Alan, Natalie and B.J. or playing pool with Peter Falk in the room next to the dance floor. The whole place vibrated with temptation. There was no shortage of beauty there and life seemed for a while wrapped in a golden haze.

  On the set next to ours, Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr., were filming some light pastiche. There was a long bar set up on the stage where drinks were flowing like water from early call till the day’s wrap. But Frank was always wandering over to our set to visit Natalie for whom, like many a respectful gentleman, he nursed a serious crush. Jack Warner, the boss, would do the rounds but his favourite set was ours. He particularly admired the office the designers had built for me, which boasted a magnificent long refectory table as my desk. Warner would appear quite frequently when we were filming and chat with me in that rapid staccato rat-tat-tat speech of his. I was most flattered and quite believed he was obviously impressed with what I was doing. I was wrong. It wasn’t me he gave a damn about—it was my desk. One day I overheard him bark at the production manager, “When this set is struck, I want that desk in my office.”

  Trish arrived for a rare visit and suddenly my little cabin in the sky was filled to the brim with the English contingent. It was fun for a while to see old friends such as dear mad Ian Bannen, but the celebrations went on much too long. The late nights were taking their toll and I had to rise at ungodly early hours to get to the studio. The brilliant Tony Hancock, one of England’s great comedians, turned up one night and stayed two weeks. Like some comics whose humour comes from pain, his everyday life was a sad and lost one. He was hitting the bottle seriously and had come to LA to make a film but had never once reported for work. Roddy, who was doing a cameo in the same flick, called me. “Is Tony with you? We’re all waiting for him on the set.” Trish and I tried to get him into the elevator but to no avail—he would simply pass out—a complete deadweight. We finally got Security to carry him down and drive him to his own hotel. His loyal, long-suffering wife who loved him so deeply appeared SOS from London and took him back home with her across the Pond. Poor Tony never made it before the cameras, a tragic and unbelievably talented man.

  Jack Warner’s man Friday who arranged his entire social and business commitments was a veddy British ex-army major called Richard Sculley. He enjoyed playing Mosca to Warner’s Volpone and clearly knew all the dark secrets. For some reason, Jack must have thought I too was British and an important representative of that country, for there was Richard on the blower inviting Trish and me to a small dinner for Lord Louis Mountbatten at the Warner mansion. The call caught us in the midst of a heated squabble and she yelled out loud and clear while I was still on the phone, “You can damn well go on your own!” The car whisked me up the long driveway peppered from top to bottom with plainclothesmen and police. I sought out Mr. Warner and apologized for coming on my own because my wife was ill. Not in the least concerned about her health or my apology, this highly superstitious man, looking most upset and annoyed, ungraciously mumbled under his breath, “What am I going to do, for Christ’s sake, that makes it thirteen!”

  Being a sort of actor manqué, Lord Louis loved Jack Warner, loved Hollywood, loved showbiz and loved the ladies, especially his date for the night, Shirley MacLaine, whose film Irma la Douce in which she played a prostitute had just come out. In the men’s room I overheard him whisper to his son-in-law Lord Brabourne, “By God d’y know she researched it all in Paris by actually shacking up with the real whores? Can y’believe the guts?” Just before dinner I was introduced to him. He was wearing a black armband and standing beside Warner in a corner of the room towering over him. There was an awkward pause and I racked my brain for something to fill the void. Winston Churchill had just died and I remembered during that splendid televised funeral service Lord Louis had made a very stirring and moving tribute. I now gave voice to this and told him how touched I had been. Unbending for a moment and with a grandiose charm he thanked me most sincerely. Jack Warner took this as a cue for some ribald repartee, slapped Mount-batten on the back and lighting his own oversized cigar quipped, “Well, Winston tastes good like a cigarette should.” I pretended to enjoy the gaffe by laughing a little too long and a little too loudly, but I caught sight of Lord Louis’s extravagantly bushy eyebrow travel up the length of his ample forehead and down again.

  At dinner I sat next to the new number fourteen—the dynamic and ultra-attractive Stella Stevens, one of the few Hollywood blondes with a sense of humour who could also act! Opposite me sat Mountbatten flanked by Binnie Barnes (rollickingly funny) and Shirley (ditto). Lord Brabourne sat at Stella’s left and Warner took the head. The dinner service was solid gold (vulgarly pretentious as if the Pope was expected any minute) and the meal for such grandiosity was very ordinary indeed—overdone filet mignon and rather sad-looking vegetables. For some bizarre reason there was no red wine at all to quaff down the beef—only Dom Pérignon, which unsuitably accompanied every course. The dessert arrived elegantly served on smaller gold platters promising some rare and succulent creation, but on closer examination it seemed to be a collection of rather tired-looking strawberries with a lifeless runny cream à coté. Lord Louis was, by now, having fun with all this, mercifully teasing Warner, who didn’t take teasing too well. “Let us consult our menu cards, shall we, to see what sort of concoction this pretends to be.” There it was in exquisite writing at each place setting— “Fraise Grimeures,” looking suspiciously like made-up French. “What does ‘Fraises Grimeures’ mean?” asked Stella with that perpetual naughty twinkle in her eye. “Haven’t the foggiest,” retorted Lord Louis. “Probably should have read ‘Fraise d’ Hier.’” There was a lot of laughter at the table and Warner, who had no options left but to join in, turned out to be a good sport after all.

  We were all marched into the screening room to watch a sneak preview of Irma la Douce. Mountbatten and Shirley were two rows in front of me. His arm was around her and tsk! tsk! Was it the boozy haze clouding my heavy eyes or did I not catch sight of them spooning in the dark? Tsk! Tsk! When the lights came on we all attacked the afterdinner drinks with much relief. Jack Lemmon was itching to play some jazz piano. “Let’s meet down at the Daisy and bring His Lordship,” he called over his shoulder. Lord L. was clearly dying to break loose, so the younger group (in which I included myself) went to work on him. He pointed sadly at his armband and said, “I’d honestly love to, but my sister the Queen of Sweden died last week and I can’t exactly be seen gallivanting about the town. But God love you for asking!” For a man who occasionally lost little opportunity to remind the world he was a direct descendent of Charlemagne, Louis Mountbatten was a good man underneath—handsome, witty, one of the boys, who with his beautiful late, lamented wife, Edwina, had undoubtedly helped bring an effortless glamour to the carefree twenties and thirties. When we go
t to the Daisy, there was Lemmon gettin’ down’n’dirty on the keys, Alan Pakula, Hope, Roddy, Gavin, Matt Crowley (whose play The Boys in the Band had broken ground for gays everywhere), the Powder Puff and in the middle of it all, brandishing a cigarette holder, with joy sparkling in those enormous dark eyes, Natalie Wood.

  Natalie was then a big star at Warner’s. She deserved to be. She had weathered the storm since she was five. She had been bullied, pushed, cajoled and bribed by an overly zealous, overly ambitious stage mum throughout her infancy. “We need Natalie to cry in this scene and she won’t cry—do something, can’t you?!” Directors would appeal to this iron lady and she would do anything to comply, including catching butterflies and pulling their wings off in front of the child. That usually worked. Natalie told me this herself one night when we were playing True Confessions. Otherwise that was the extent of Natalie’s confidences. She never betrayed her parents to anyone but always remained staunchly loyal and respectful and for years had financially supported the whole brood. Now she had built for herself a small fortune—she owned apartment blocks all over town and her money had been invested wisely. She was one hot property. She had been Jimmy Dean’s on-screen girl in Rebel Without a Cause, Beatty’s in Splendor in the Grass. As a star she had cornered the young market.