In Spite of Myself: A Memoir

by Christopher Plummer

  I was aroused from my reverie by a sound like distant thunder coming from the stage. Orson had made his entrance. You could hardly miss him—he had become gargantuan—he was Ahab and the whale. I crossed my fingers and ran down to meet him. He looked through me with those eyes of fire, and then, a huge beaming smile spread itself across that moon-face of his, and he said in a deep rumble, “Hello, you son of a bitch.”

  No need for explanations, Orson had forgiven me and he became, for the duration of the film at least, my dearest friend. His overwhelming warmth was as surprising to me as was his quick Mozartean wit. He kept us mesmerized with his brilliant mimicry—another surprise. His voice which normally boomed away in the lower registers had an unexpected range that could travel up and down the scale at will. I realized that in spite of his size, he could have been most proficient as a light comedian. His appetite for life was, of course, legendary, and, my God, those breakfasts in the makeup room! Flown in from Athens, they included huge platters of pastrami, mortadella and salamis of all nationalities as well as large plates of jambon de Parme—enough for an army. While we were filming the noise of military helicopters flying much too low over the location played havoc with the sound. This would go on all morning. The reason for it was soon made clear. Orson’s very attractive wife, a lovely dark-haired Italian contessa (Beatrice’s mum), took to sunbathing in the briefest of bikinis on the hilltop above the theatre. The military, with nothing better to do, had decided to take a closer look. Orson shouted to anyone who would listen, “Someone tell her to come down off that goddamn hill or we’ll never finish the picture.”

  Between takes we sat under huge parasols to avoid the heat. These parasols were held aloft by young Greeks on the payroll. Orson the raconteur would regale us with the most wonderful stories. As he spoke, the parasols became palanquins borne by slaves and the stories—tales from Sheherazade. One morning, he invited me to coproduce with him a film version of Julius Caesar in Mussolini dress uniforms which would be shot in Rome. This would be reminiscent of the early Blackshirt version he so famously produced at the Mercury Theatre in New York. I became much excited at the idea and egged him on. Apart from my producer status I would also play Mark Antony as admiral of the fleet and he would cast Trevor Howard as Cassius. “And for Brutus,” he began to say, but I cut him off at once knowing that if he undertook such a substantial role it would jeopardize him as director. I jumped in—“What about Paul Scofield?” His eyes narrowed to slits for a second. “Of course. What an ideal choice.” I could almost hear his teeth grind. Then, quick as a flash—“Then I will play the small role of Caesar. But I will have huge blowups of myself as the Emperor on billboards plastered over the walls of Rome so no one will forget me after I’m gone.” A great guffaw exploded deep inside his chest and his rich diabolical laughter echoed off the ancient stones around us.

  Orson Welles telling me outrageous stories

  Orson Welles was never one person; he was, quite simply, a crowd. He was not only a Renaissance man caught in the twentieth century; he was comfortable in any period. He belonged to all ages except, perhaps, the Age of Reason. Maybe it isn’t such a bad thing after all that they don’t make critters like him no more. At least we mere mortals can breathe what little oxygen he has left us.

  GREEK COOKING though occasionally delicious when expertly done (their lamb, moussakas and those mouth-watering langoustines) is far from versatile and can, if one stays too long in the country, become monotonous. Orson the gourmet gourmand was getting particularly fed up; in fact, to put it mildly, he’d had it! The day finally arrived when they would film Tiresias’s famous psychic warning to Oedipus. It was to be Orson’s last day. But the shooting had progressed very slowly that sluggish morning and by late afternoon they had still not shot Orson’s long speech. He was becoming understandably impatient and restless. I could sense his temper beginning to boil. “I have a plane to catch,” he announced loudly. “I’m not staying here one more day, you know.” The sun would soon disappear behind the hill. They began dismantling the camera. The assistant yelled, “I’m afraid we’ll have to wrap—we’ve lost the light.” “No, you haven’t!” boomed Orson. “Put that camera back on its feet at once and shoot down at me from above. I’ll be looking straight into the sun; there’s still enough of it left and it will accentuate my blindness.” As speedily as they could they tried to comply. But Orson wasn’t going to wait. He launched straight into his speech. I’ve never seen a camera get ready so fast. They began to roll—he went on without a pause and did the whole speech to me staring straight into the sun. His eyes looked like sockets. It was absolutely uncanny. He spoke it quietly and with a great nobility, but it wasn’t all Paul Roche. I distinctly recognized bits of Lear or Ahab and for a moment I was sure I’d caught a portion of a Clarence Darrow summation as well, but it didn’t matter. It was riveting; he was quite magnificent. Joshua had halted the sun in the sky; it had waited for him and the moment he finished, it disappeared. Two of the Greek boys led him up the hill. As he passed, he winked at me—“See you in Rome, kiddo.” Mr. Welles had made his plane.

  FROM THEN ON everything was an anticlimax. The film began to rapidly wind down. I enjoyed one good scene I had with my mum Lilli Palmer whom I accused of giving everyone she came in contact with an Oedipus complex. I was being complimentary, of course. Donald Sutherland, who stayed up nights even later than me, would arrive on set hungover in the extreme, his mumbling now reduced to a whisper. God love him—he kept up the mirth. We shot the flashback scene where I see my father at the place where the roads meet and then proceed to kill him. Poor Oedipus had made all the wrong choices. Count Friedrich looked magnificent as old King Priam standing proud and tall in his chariot—his shock of white hair making him appear even taller.

  Diana Rigg had gone back to London so Philip, Bambi and I had a few final farewell dinners together and then I left. It was sad saying good-bye to Bambi, who had been so good to me and such a joyous relief from the tension of the set. I privately took my leave of the old amphitheatre. It looked so beautiful with no one in it all by itself, except for Duncan Grant sitting on a rock still furiously sketching away wearing his great floppy hat—shades of Gordon Craig. I beat myself regularly once a year for being so stupid as not to get one of his drawings. He even drew me several times and like an idiot I never thought to ask him for one. Aside from their historic significance, think what they could be worth today. As I drove away I caught sight of Friedrich far off on the slopes. I rolled down the window and waved at him, but he didn’t see me. He had two horses on either side of him which he was leading down the hillside and in the afternoon light, playing tricks as is its wont, it looked very much as if he were carrying them under his arms. The little horses, now so spruce and groomed, had found their new god. Friedrich had finally won!

  Count Friedrich as King Priam

  I ARRIVED IN LONDON and checked into my favourite hotel, the Connaught. Since my separation from Trish, I had actually been living there, pampering myself rotten. Well, if the movie companies paid for it—why not?! This time it would only be for one night as I was to fly to Canada the next day where, believe it or not, I would be playing yet another Mark Antony, this one in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. I had just had a long rich and sumptuous dinner in the hotel’s Grill Room—English cooking at its best when administered by French chefs. Filled to the brim with wine and brandy I staggered off to bed. About 3:00 a.m., the phone rang. There was a lot of mumbling at the other end and because I couldn’t understand a word of what was being said, I knew at once it was Donald Sutherland. As far as I could make out, he was trying to tell me that he had an important audition in LA at the end of the week—so important, in fact, it could change his life. But he didn’t have the money to get there, could I lend it to him? Still half asleep I murmured back rather grandly, “See my accountants in the morning, my good fellow,” or something to that effect and hung up. I called them the next morning and he went to see them. It was
the best investment I ever made. It did change his life. I got my money back and he got M*A*S*H!

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A TASMANIAN DEVIL ON THE LOOSE

  I dreamt there was an Emperor Antony.

  O, such another sleep, that I might see

  But such another man!

  Cleopatra is the greatest of Shakespeare’s women and certainly one of the finest roles (male or female) ever written. Most actresses dare not touch it and the occasional few brave enough to try generally reach no more than halfway up that massive climb to the summit.

  Some famous ladies from the past soon found that out. Katharine Cornell’s “Serpent of the Nile” was far too prim and proper, much too polite, and she was about as regal as a rich Long Island matron. Tallulah Bankhead probably achieved the requisite naughtiness, but her every utterance would have become an obscene double entendre in the Mae West manner and John Mason Brown’s caustic review simply stated: “Last night Miss Bankhead barged down the Nile and sank.” Edith Evans must have spoken it beautifully and brought out the inherent sarcasm brilliantly but, knowing her as I did, she could never have become that untamed, wild Macedonian gypsy queen. The beauteous Vivien Leigh played it opposite her husband Olivier as Antony, but her voice was too thin.

  There is so much variety in the role, so many personalities bubbling beneath the surface, so many colours to capture, so much abandon to exhibit and sudden fire to ignite that one can only imagine a Cleopatra of one’s dreams. Little did I know as I walked into the theatre halfway through rehearsals and caught sight of Zoe Caldwell letting fly for the first time that I had walked straight into that dream.

  From the inception it was evident that Zoe and her “Eastern Star” had instinctively bonded. They had even managed to climb into each other’s skin. The unnerving mood swings, the remnants of the sex kitten were all present and accounted for as was the towering magisterial temper. There was no question Zoe had the voice for it—a voice whose four-octave range could summon up an incredible variety of tones, from the deep cello notes to the violin’s high-pitched whines. Her movements were liquid, sinuous as a snake and in her grief she swayed like a palm tree in a hurricane. Most Anglo-Saxons have built-in restrictions where emotion is concerned, but being native Aussie, Miss Caldwell’s lack of inhibitions served her admirably. Her vulgarity was outrageously shocking and screamingly funny, and when in anger, her voice was as “rattling thunder.” It was clarion clear to me that this performance was to reach greatness and that Zoe, who seemed blissfully unaware of her own powers, had suddenly joined the gods! O Day of the World! Was I going to have to work my butt off as Mark Antony!

  The tragedy itself is Shakespeare at his most sophisticated—a risk commercially in any century because of its preoccupation with failure, the decline of power and success, the terrible price of fame and the disintegration of two fading stars whose fatal attraction becomes the instrument of their destruction. There is something uncomfortably familiar about political icons brought down by scandal, dysfunctional royal families or great heroes toppling from their pedestals only to reveal themselves as fragile and pitifully human.

  People will always derive macabre pleasure from seeing the mighty fall. But failure is different. They are not too fond of watching failure take its course—it’s not attractive—it worries them. And the very fact that it causes this uneasiness and hits too close to home is what makes Antony and Cleopatra such a tellingly modern play.

  I loved taking a stab at Antony—what a glorious ruin he is. Olivier once described him to me as a movie star whose career had hit the skids, a slight oversimplification, I would say, but that’s the part I got on the nose. The libertine, with his wenching, drinking, gourmandizing was fairly familiar territory for me and not too tough an assignment. What I didn’t get at all were the flashes of the once great conqueror, legendary leader of men who “with my sword / Quartered the world, and o’er green Neptune’s back / With ships made cities.” Bob Jiras (the Powder Puff) had arrived to help line my face and age my hair, but my body was far too young—I was too young, only thirty-seven. Let’s face it—I was Antony, Jr., still wet behind the ears.

  Tanya Moiseiwitsch, with her usual brilliance, had designed the costumes, or rather clothes that looked as if they’d been worn for ages. My mentor Langham had given the piece a beautifully mounted production, most cinematic in its rhythmic lighting, which made those swift, sharp, geographical scene changes dissolve into each other with unobtrusive smoothness, and I was perfectly content to stand around, just as the real Antony might have done, and watch this whirling dervish circle all about me, play with me, taunt me, make me laugh. What gave Zoe so much added energy and spark was the fact that she was in love. She and her beau, my old friend Ratty Whitehead, last of the gentlemen producers, were on the brink of marriage, and Ratty commuted back and forth from New York every weekend to be with her. It was an exciting and joyous time altogether. The World’s Fair (Expo ’67) and Separatism had both hit Montreal, the queen was about to visit, tout le monde had come to Canada and, though chaotic, all seemed very right with the world.

  Someone high up in government circles invited me to officially greet Her Majesty on her arrival and make some welcoming remarks, but it meant a plane trip to Parliament Hill on the very day I was playing Antony. Declining, I put it to them that if they wanted someone from the arts, Robert Whitehead, top Broadway producer and a Canadian to boot, was in the country and might appear in my stead. Of course, they were delighted at the possibility of such a distinguished replacement. I remember we were standing by the bar at a rather stuffy reception in the theatre’s VIP lounge. “But I can’t do it,” said Ratty. “I didn’t bring a dark suit.” I happened to be wearing one freshly minted from Savile Row. “Here, try this on for size,” and amidst many a jaw-drop and raised eyebrow, we stripped in front of everyone and exchanged clothes. My Sunday best fit Ratty like a glove! So off he went.

  Zoe Caldwell, a firebrand as Cleopatra

  Where have you been so spruce and clean? Kissing ass and bussing the Queen!

  Alan Bates had come over from England to give us his Richard III, and William Hutt was superbly funny in Langham’s other production that season of Gogol’s The Government Inspector. Apart from the New York and London press, a lot of friends from all over the globe came to see us. Natalie Wood looking ravishingly beautiful visited with her about-to-be husband, my pal Richard Gregson. Appearing in a revealing bathing suit at the Quarry for a swim, she nearly started a forest fire! Arthur Miller (a great friend of Ratty’s) and his photographer wife from Austria, Inge Morath, came up to stay—Inge taking some sensational production photos. Enter Julian Bream, world-famous guitarist, to give concerts and master classes, but he was having such fun hanging around with us hams, he wouldn’t leave. James Kennaway, author of that splendid film Tunes of Glory and a close drinking buddy, came over for a weekend, fell for a French girl predictably called Francine and got so drunk going to parties, he stayed for most of the summer, some of it recovering in a local hospital.

  The hosts most responsible for those entertaining soirees were Jean Gascon and his lady Marilyn, who had taken an apartment for the season. He was directing as well as playing the lead in the French version of Dance of Death and giving us in English a superbly whimsical Dr. Caius in The Merry Wives of Windsor. More important than that, every other night, he and Marilyn cooked delectable feasts for us, which we washed down with stinging eau de vies and beefy wines. When the French and the Anglos are thus joined, that’s what Canada is all about. My good friend Jean would one day in the future take over the Festival as artistic director. He had gone as far as anyone could go in the arts of our country—he was head of the National Arts Centre in Ottawa and had run Canada’s two principal theatres, both French and English. He continued to blend our two cultures while ever burning the midnight oil. Then one day, his gigantic heart, much too big for one human, burst. The only cruel thing he ever did was to leave us all behind for the lo
ngest time, lost without him.

  THE 1967 SEASON was Michael Langham’s swan song as Stratford’s figurehead. It seemed inconceivable that we were actually saying goodbye to the man who had been head of our “family” for twelve long years and who, more than anyone, had brought such enormous distinction to the Festival with his consummate style and taste. His Government Inspector and “A and C,” were visible proof that he was leaving on a crest. As a last duty, he brought both to Montreal in the fall to represent Canada at Expo ’67.

  My city looked more impressive than ever with its new skyline and the magnificent panorama of architectural inventiveness created for the Fair by countries from all over the world. They spread across man-made islands in the St. Lawrence River like giant-sized lace, glistening silver and gold in the afternoon sun: Habitat, a new igloo-influenced cluster of modern condominiums designed by the brilliant Moshe Safdie; a most dignified French pavilion from Paris; Buckminster Fuller’s imaginative American pavilion; the Swiss and Czechoslovakian pavilions—the Czech edifice winning all the prizes.

  Perhaps the simplest and most original of all was the pavilion from Ireland. It was simply nothing but a pub—Guinness on tap and every trimming known to the Emerald Isle. Sean Kenny, sure enough, its designer and innovator, was ever present night and day, presiding with glass or mug in hand. Besides the pub, he had designed and built Gyro-ton, a massive funicular railway with silver train tracks high above the buildings running the entire length of the exhibition from which you could get a bird’s-eye view of the whole experience from your seat in the sky. A prize student of Frank Lloyd Wright, Sean, Ireland’s mad, baby-faced maniac, made up of blarney and genuine magic, was in his element as Mine Host of the Garter. Every conceivable nationality convened at his pub. It became a kind of headquarters to the World’s Fair.