Life's a Scream

by Ingrid Pitt

  When we returned I tried to keep out of George’s way but he reminded me of our bargain and salted the pot by telling me about a film called Gemini which he had negotiated for me. Later, when George and I had one of our vicious rows, the producer, Arnold Barber, sent a big bouquet of flowers with a note telling me that he was sorry but George had demanded that I be dropped from the cast . . . George asked me to come with him to Monaco for a Disney convention and reluctantly, on the proviso that I could bring Steffanie, whose birthday was imminent, I agreed.

  At dinner one night we ran into Jack Kelly, Princess Grace’s brother. He came over all gallant, ignored George completely and rabbited on with a highly fictionalised account of the dates we’d once had. I could see the steam coming out of George’s ears but I was beginning to enjoy myself and did nothing to cool the situation. Jack invited me to join Princess Grace’s party at New Jimmy’s, down on the seafront and, as there was no way George was going to leave me alone, he came along as well.

  Grace was wonderful. We talked babies and I told her that I had Steffanie with me. She instantly suggested that I brought her to tea the following day, Steffi’s birthday, to meet Princess Stephanie. I was so excited I woke Steffka up when I got back to the hotel and told her my great news. We would have tea at the palace on her birthday.

  At breakfast the next morning, however, George told me that the Disney people had heard about Steffanie’s big day and had organised a party at the Hotel de Paris where we were staying. I reminded him of the invitation to the palace and how rude it would be to cancel it but he scotched that straight away: we were there for business. I was furious.

  The Disney party turned out to be pretty marvellous, however. There was a big cake and all the Disney characters sang ‘Happy Birthday’. The only discordant note was me. And I was making enough discords to drown out the Wigan Colliery Brass Band. The journey home was sub-arctic. I desperately wanted to say something that would make us mates again but neither of us knew how to step down.

  Back home the situation didn’t improve. George didn’t send around lorry-loads of roses and I wasn’t going to ring him. It was this sort of atmosphere that brooked no good to anyone.

  I was hoovering when the phone rang. A voice said it was Federico Fellini.

  ‘Of course you are!’ I snapped, willing to believe that George had put one of his mates up to the call so that he could relish my disappointment when nothing came of it.

  ‘No rrreally, Ingrriiid. I want you to come to Cinecittà and make a test for me. Will you do that?’

  I said ‘You hum it – I sing it!’ or something equally stupid and hung up the phone. It rang again.

  ‘If you don’t believe me, ring me in Cinecittà and see if it is not me who rang you. I have seen a picture of you and want you to be in my new film, Amarcord.’

  ‘Okay, give me the number,’ I said.

  ‘Everybody knows that number.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  He gave it to me and I began to wonder if maybe he was telling the truth. So I dialled Rome – but couldn’t get through. I tried a couple more times with no luck, so carried on cleaning. He rang again. I decided that if he was that persistent maybe I should believe he was who he said he was and we made arrangements to set up a screen test.

  I arrived in Rome at the Parque di Principe full of trepidation. Was this going to be another Beverly Hills Hotel fiasco? When I saw the massive bouquet of flowers Fellini had sent, I felt a bit better.

  Fellini arrived at the hotel first thing in the morning. He kissed my cheek, plonked himself on the sofa and pulled me on to his lap. Sensing that I wasn’t too happy, he gave a big laugh and let me get up. Before I could get to the storming out and packing stage he confirmed that a screen test had been arranged for the following morning and I was appeased.

  I arrived at Cinecittà the next day and was pounced on by a make-up man. Italian make-up men who play for the other team are a race apart. They prance and mew, and do outrageously camp things. That day’s campness seemed to centre around my make-up – I looked ridiculous. I crept on to the set and waited for the Maestro (as he was referred to by everyone) to do his nut. He came over, looked at me from different angles, nodded approval and directed me on to the set. The test was hell. Every other second somebody shouted ‘una cozza tecnica’ and rugby scrums formed around whatever piece of equipment was misbehaving. They’d scream into each other’s faces until they’d had their fill of halitosis and then they’d start again.

  I wanted to know something about the character I was to play – we thespians have to have our motivation right or we feel we’re not being taken seriously – but Fellini said: ‘Just count numbers in any language you like, cara.’ I was stunned. Surely there was more to acting than counting numbers. Not according to Federico Fellini. He saw himself as a highly motivated shepherd and actors as moronic sheep. He’s probably right but it was a bit caddish of him to make it so obvious.

  At dinner that evening he asked me how long it would take me to get fat.

  ‘Fat? What sort of fat?’

  ‘Bloody fat,’ he said.

  I didn’t like the sound of that. For once I used my head. ‘Do I get fat before or after I sign a contract?’

  He looked pained and said until he knew what I looked like fat he could make no promises. I was a svelte nine stone and planned to stay that way – unless a juicy enough carat was slipped into my financial diet. In the end I didn’t get the part and it went to Sandra Milo. I believe she was probably always going to get it as she was in most of Fellini’s films. I spent a couple of days sightseeing various production offices, signed an agent and caught the flight back to London and Steffka. I wasn’t too put out. I hadn’t got the job but at least someone serious was looking at me.

  George, predictably, was furious. Fellini was beyond his control and where I was concerned he had turned into a control freak. For the sake of peace I played down the trip. When he simmered down he told me that we were going to a première. Like a good little girl I asked when. Anything to keep the peace. As it turned out it should have been one of those times when bells rang, buzzers buzzed and lights ignited the sky.

  The film was Alfred the Great. At the party afterwards I sat next to Hammer Films supremo James Carreras. I hadn’t a clue who he was and I’m sure he didn’t recognise me either. Gradually, however, it dawned on me that he was an active producer, a rare species indeed in the British film industry at that time. He hadn’t a chance. By the time he left I had his card next to my heart and he had promised to see me at his office the following day.

  The next morning I had a hell of a time trying to make up my mind what was the best thing to wear to get a movie mogul to discuss long-term film contracts. As the grimy winter daylight struggled to take over from the night I came to a decision. It was snowing so I needed something a bit glam but winterproof: Russian boots were a must and a maxi-coat and wide-brimmed slosh hat to keep out the draught were de rigueur in Sixties London on Wardour Street. As I left and looked up to the window to wave goodbye, Steffanie was standing there, giving me a Churchill victory sign.

  I arrived at Hammer House and ascended the stairs with confidence. ‘This’, I assured myself as I stood before the big double doors, ‘is my lucky day!’ I threw them open and went in. Where there should have been a twittering receptionist just waiting for my grand entry was a vacant chair. For a moment I didn’t know what to do. Then an inner door opened and a secretary with a broad smile and bouffant hair came into reception. I told her what I wanted and she looked surprised. Evidently my arrival wasn’t the big event I had anticipated. Jimmy Carreras hadn’t even told his secretary. She excused herself and went back through the door. I stood there, the snow that had collected on my coat and hat thawing and dripping around me. I felt my confidence ebbing away and prepared myself for the worst, but when the secretary came back the news was good: ‘Mr Carreras will see you now.’ I thanked her profusely and didn’t care if I was overdoing
it. At the same time I was pumping up my own ego. Back to plan A.

  Jimmy was sitting at his desk. Around the walls of his office were pictures of him with various celebrities.

  ‘Hello, Colonel Carreras . . .’ I said brightly and with a practised movement I swept off my hat and let my carefully prepared hair tumble around my shoulders. Act one. Another deft movement rid me of my maxi-coat. I tossed it negligently on to a chair and let him get a crack at the skimpy sweater and even skimpier micro-skirt I was wearing. He didn’t bat an eyelid when I slunk across the Axminster and hitched a thigh on to the corner of his desk. I’d seen Brigitte Bardot do the same thing in La Parisienne and I’d earmarked it for just such an occasion. He was a perfect gent and didn’t fall about laughing. Now I was perched on the corner of his desk I wasn’t quite sure how to continue. I was saved by the secretary appearing in the doorway and asking if I would like coffee, which gave me a chance to unhook my gam and sit in an armchair.

  Jimmy thought for a moment or two, or maybe he was just making sure he could talk without laughing, then offered me three roles. I nearly fainted. Three films? ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘One film – three roles.’ Only faintly disappointed, I nodded encouragingly. The film was based on a Sheridan Le Fanu short story, ‘Carmilla’. It was about a vampire lady with a penchant for biting impressionable young girls, was called The Vampire Lovers, and was to start shooting in a month’s time.

  Back on the street, the awful winter weather had changed to halcyon summer. I floated along, bought a copy of ‘Carmilla’ and wafted home, high as a kite.

  Twenty-Five

  Becoming part of Hammer Films was like being welcomed into a family. I was very aware of it as an institution and was honoured to join the ranks of luminaries who had made their mark there.

  Hammer Films’ publicity department decided to go to town: ‘The new face for the Seventies!’, ‘Queen of Horror’, ‘The most beautiful Ghoul in the World!’ I was thrilled and wallowed in it. I probably should have been cool and cynical. Unfortunately when they handed out attitudes, cool and cynical wasn’t – and isn’t – in my bundle.

  Jimmy Carreras, Michael Styles and Harry Fine – producers of The Vampire Lovers – were fantastic to me and Tudor Gates’s brilliant script combined with Roy Ward Baker’s solid, imaginative and tasteful direction made The Vampire Lovers the best of all the many adaptations of Le Fanu’s short story.

  Roy was fabulous to work with. Before filming actually started we met a number of times at my mews house and discussed the way I should play the part of Carmilla. Roy patiently guided my thinking until we both knew exactly what we were aiming for. After that, filming was a doddle.

  The film involved nude scenes. I’d never done the full-frontal bit before but I was proud of my body and not too reluctant to show it. Madeleine Smith, who played my second victim, had also kept her gear on in front of the cameras so far. She was a little more apprehensive but saw the relevance and agreed to get it off. Nevertheless, we both had reservations, especially as we weren’t too familiar with the producers, so I spoke to Jimmy and asked him if we couldn’t have a closed set: the producers and other non-essential personnel could go to London and see rushes. He agreed at once.

  When the day came for me to shoot the scene in the bath, I came out of my dressing-room clad in nothing but a white towelling dressing-gown held loosely in place over my naked body. As I walked down the corridor Harry Fine and Michael Styles, the excommunicated producers, were coming towards me. They looked so depressed and miserable that I felt guilty for having robbed them of their fun. We were just about eyeball to eyeball when they looked up, and I knew what to do: ‘Whee!’ I threw my robe open to let them see what they were missing. They certainly went off with a renewed spring in their step. It’s so easy to make men happy.

  I discovered that when you’re naked on set everyone is terribly nice to you and looks after you beyond the call of duty. This is particularly the case when you’re doing a bath scene, which I seemed to do a lot of at Hammer. Is the water hot enough? Is the water too hot? Are the towels in the right place? How about the light? Are people leering? Would you like some cognac? They’re terrified you might lose the mood or – God forbid – want to get dressed. Jimmy had sent champagne to the set, and Madeleine and I indulged ourselves.

  Not everything went smoothly filming The Vampire Lovers. When the time came to kill the Kate O’Mara character, who believed I loved her and was unaware of my vampire tendencies, I first slung her on to the floor, knelt to take her in my arms and smiled down at her. As the camera moved in close and I displayed my fangs inches from her neck, suddenly out popped the fangs, straight into her cleavage. Time and again we had to do the scene and the bloody things sprang out like exocet missiles homing in on her breasts. I could feel myself beginning to lose the mood but, determined to be a pro, I told Kate I was going to kill her with or without fangs. That didn’t help the situation much. Kate was helpless with laughter. Roy was unbelievably patient but I wanted to get it in the can. I’d seen the clapper boy chewing gum so I called him over, took it out of his mouth, stuck the fangs in with it and killed her – clean, quick – and she laughed no more.

  I met Peter Cushing for the first time on the set of The Vampire Lovers. I was having my wig fitted when the hairdresser warned me that Cushing was doing terrible things to me on the set at that very moment. In spite of the red light I stormed into the studio and saw, way over in the distance, a man holding something like a cabbage in one hand and swinging a sword in the other. ‘Swish’ it went – and I realised I had just had my head cut off. The censor cut this scene from the film but it was a hell of a way to stage an introduction. I let out a startled yelp and Peter rushed over to me and introduced himself.

  ‘My dear, how awful to meet like this.’

  I forced myself not to come up with a smart-arsed reply like, ‘I feel a bit cut up too.’

  We became great friends after that. On my father’s hundredth birthday I had champagne brought to the set to celebrate. When Peter heard what the party was about he invited me to dine with him and his wife Helen in the Thatched Barn. After dinner the maître d’ brought a cake, covered with candles, on which was written in icing sugar ‘For Ingrid’s Papa’.

  Helen knew Russian quite well and we used to write short letters to each other after that, using Peter as postman. Then, all of a sudden, she fell terribly ill. The illness – it was cancer we found out later – raced through her poor thin body with such force that in three months it was all over. Peter seemed never to recover from her death. Some time later I met him by chance in Whitstable. That afternoon in a café he told me that he couldn’t go on living without Helen. I thought I had to talk him out of doing harm to himself, although I know if it happened to me I’d feel the same. What is the use of living without love?

  The House that Dripped Blood was another film for 1970, a vintage year for me. It was made by Amicus, Milton Subotsky and Michael Rosenberg, a sort of ersatz Hammer. In fact, one of the best known photographs of me as a vampire is from the film. It was in four parts. I had wanted the first, but after a lunch with Peter Duf fell, the director, and Jon Pertwee (whom I knew from a Dr Who episode ‘The Time Monster’), Jon talked me into doing ‘The Cloak’. He made it sound such fun that I immediately said yes. ‘The Cloak’ was the last story in the film and a comedy. It was great to see the audience leave the cinema with a giggle.

  After The Vampire Lovers I considered myself a part of the Hammer stable, not exactly in the same class as Michael Ripper, of course, but a paid-up Hammerite none the less.

  When I heard that they were setting up a new film I was all ears. I discovered it was to be a film about Elizabeth Bathori, the biggest female serial killer of all time and a relative of Vlad Tepes – the Impaler. That was enough for me and I called James Carreras immediately. ‘Now, Jimmy Darrlink!’ I said. ‘I must have the part of Elizabeth Bathori. Please, give it to me and you won’t look back!’

&nbs
p; Silence.

  ‘Jimmy?’

  ‘Hang on a minute, darling, I have to think about this. Peter wants Diana Rigg to play her.’

  ‘Sod Peter, whoever he is. I want it, Jimmy, give it to me. Please! Anyone else would be wrong for the part. Only I can play it right. I simply have to have it!’ I whinged.

  ‘I’ll tell you what – if you can convince Peter that you’re right for it, you can play the Countess,’ Jimmy said slowly, thinking on his feet.

  ‘Who is this Peter? What does he do?’

  ‘Peter Sasdy, the director.’

  ‘Who’s the producer?’

  ‘Alexander Paal. They’re both Hungarians – like the Countess . . .’

  Peter was fantastic and very approachable. He invited me to lunch at the Gay Hussar in Soho and I convinced him that he had to have me. When I have a cause, I have the nerve to win the war.

  Everything about Countess Dracula was perfect. The script by Jeremy Paul was excellent, giving the old Countess a lot of depth, and I was sure I would shine in the role. I made my mother come and stay, and I studied her way of speaking as she had the kind of voice and intonations I thought the Countess would have had. I gave her the sort of croakiness that Eastern Europeans have when they smoke and drink a lot of vodka. After each take I would rush to the sound man and listen to the play-back. I was happy with the result.

  Sasdy and Alexander Paal were less so. They had terrible rows in Hungarian on the set. The atmosphere was almost unbreathable at times. In the end I couldn’t stand the constant bickering any more so I got a friend of mine, a fellow countryman of theirs, to teach me some Hungarian swear-words. The next time they rowed I appeared at the top of the stairs. In colloquial Hungarian I shouted: ‘Do be quiet, you carry on like shitty little gnomes. We’re losing time here . . .’ They were shocked. They thought I had understood what they had been saying all the time.