All This in 60 Minutes

by Lee, Nicholas

  After the interview Clint hung round for another couple of beers before making his goodbyes. ‘I like hanging with you guys,’ he said, ‘but I’m an old man now. I need my sleep and I need to be on set at six in the morning.’ He was just a great bloke, all class and style.

  •

  Just like my all-time favourite of them all, the great Katharine Hepburn. Yet again she is living proof of my ‘nothing to prove theory’. The greater the talent, the nicer and smarter they are.

  Over many years every reporter and producer at 60 Minutes had tried to get the one-on-one interview with Katharine Hepburn. Everyone who tried proudly displayed their rejection letters on the wall of their office.

  Mike Munro, a hugely infatuated fan, put in a request for the big interview, and rather than a rejection he scored a maybe.

  I was in Nicaragua with Mike, and after Nicaragua we had a not-too-certain story to shoot in New York. To cover our arse in the Big Apple (should the iffy story fall through), Mike made daily phone calls from Managua to Ms Hepburn in New York, pushing the maybe. He didn’t get to speak to the megastar herself, only Bridget her Irish housekeeper. Mike turned on the charm and Bridget went in to bat for him. His charm, persistence and timing were perfect—Ms Hepburn just happened to have a book to push.

  We were in, and the interview was lined up. Bridget must have gone overboard raving about Mike. A day before the interview Mike and I were invited to check out the layout of Ms Hepburn’s house, a magnificent four-storey brownstone in a leafy street in the very upmarket east side of Manhattan. And there to greet us at the door was the star herself, wearing running shoes, bright red socks, her hair up and no makeup. She was stunning. With introductions over we followed her inside, and as we walked down the hall she said, ‘Who’s the cameraman?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, Nick, where do you think you’ll put me?’

  I had no idea where, but I had to say something fast, because even though we had only been in her presence for a millisecond I got the feeling she couldn’t tolerate indecision.

  ‘Do you have a favourite chair?’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘Then that’s where I’ll put you.’

  ‘Nick,’ she smiled, ‘that was the right answer.’

  Wow. How smart was I?

  Hepburn oozed charm, intelligence, class and confidence. This woman was Keeff, Shirley and Clint rolled into one. With the major decision over, she offered Mike and me orange juice and brownies she had made herself. While we were getting stuck into the brownies, she pointed to a bright shiny metal sculpture standing proudly on her desk, exactly where anyone would place their Academy Award if they’d won one—and she’d won four. She leant over, grabbed the sculpture and proudly showed it to us.

  ‘See this hip joint, it’s the latest titanium ball and socket type, exactly the same as the ones I’ve had put into my hips. Isn’t it beautiful?’

  Orange juice, homemade brownies and laughter with the greatest Hollywood star that ever lived—how could we ever top that?

  Mike and I left the house with our heads spinning. ‘I am now in love with an 80-year-old woman.’

  We had lined up the interview for 11 a.m. the next day, and as we were leaving she told us not to be late or she wouldn’t open the door. And I believed her. She had such a powerful presence, you could somehow tell she knew exactly what she wanted, and when and how to get it. She was famous for her intellect and no bullshit attitude, two things that would have been truly alien to the not-so-bright misogynistic bullies that ran most of the film studios in her time. During that period she’d often been accused of being arrogant, mostly by the press because she was renowned for not suffering fools gladly and never giving autographs.

  On the big day, with a tonne of gear, the whole crew of six arrived nice and early so that we wouldn’t upset Ms Hepburn. And guess what? Not a minder in sight. Just housekeeper Bridget.

  The early arrival was to give me plenty of time to do a really nice lighting job. I wanted Hepburn to look like a million bucks, though with her beautifully angular face I could have lit her with a torch and she’d still look great. As beautiful as she was, I decided not to shoot her too tightly. She was suffering a slight Parkinson’s shake, and I was hoping the looser the shot the less it’d be noticed.

  After setting up the lights I was doing a bit of fine-tuning, checking for shadows etc. with our producer Jenny in the chair, when I heard Katharine Hepburn coming down the stairs. I looked at my watch and it was only 10.30. Shit, what is she doing coming down now? I’m not ready. She got to the entrance of the room, pointed at Jenny and said, ‘Nick, who’s that?’

  ‘That’s Jenny, our producer.’

  ‘What’s she doing in my chair?’

  Now I started to panic. Have I committed a huge faux pas here by putting a common producer in the great woman’s chair?

  ‘I wanted to check the lighting to see how it’d look with someone in the chair,’ I said feebly.

  ‘There’s no point having someone else sit there if I’m the one being filmed. Wouldn’t it be better to have me in the chair?’

  ‘It sure would,’ I said with more confidence. ‘But you don’t want to be sitting here for half an hour while I fuss around with lights.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do a much better job lighting me,’ she said. And plonked herself down in the chair. I spent the next twenty minutes lighting around her while she chatted happily with everyone.

  And things only got better. The interview was one of the best I’d ever seen from Mike Munro. The two of them had such a rapport, and Mike had not only done his homework, but he flirted with her. She loved it, and him. Mike was as in love with her as I was.

  In the middle of the interview while she was discussing the making of the African Queen, my lights blew a fuse, plunging the whole house into darkness. I nearly died with shame. But Hepburn was as cool as a cucumber, making easy small talk while we fixed the fuse, then smoothly picked up the interview, telling Mike what a great bloke Humphrey Bogart was.

  ‘A charming actor, a charming man, a sweet, honest, nice, direct fella. Remarkable.’

  Bogart had said some pretty cool things about her, too. He’s quoted as saying, ‘She’s actually kind of sweet and loveable, and none of this late on the set or demanding close-ups or any of that kind of thing. She doesn’t give a damn how she looks. She doesn’t have to be waited on either. You never pull up a chair for Kate. You tell her, “Kate, pull me up a chair willya, and while you’re at it get one for yourself.” I don’t think she tries to be a character. I think she is one.’

  We’d been warned that Hepburn didn’t ever talk about her ‘friendship’ with Spencer Tracy. For 50 years the whole world had wanted to know all the saucy details of the relationship, but though we’d been warned it was a no-go area, any journo worth his salt must at least give it a try. Morley Safer from the American 60 Minutes had recently interviewed her. One of the great TV reporters, he’d tried to go there, but had got nowhere.

  Mike gave it his best shot. He asked about the seemingly amazing chemistry she and Tracy had on screen. She saw straight through the question, held up one finger, waved it from side to side and said, ‘Uh uh uh, don’t go there, Mike.’

  Giving it another shot, he said the world couldn’t seem to get enough of seeing the two of them on screen, so ‘What did you put that down to?’

  ‘I said don’t go there, Mike,’ she replied with a wry smile.

  ‘But the world embraced you as their couple, do you think?’ said Mike.

  ‘I’m not surprised. I can understand that. He was a wonderful sort of character and I was okay, and we suited each other. Don’t you think? And we suited the period that we were in. I was a rather feisty type and he was able to control it and that was what was the style in that day.’

  ‘There weren’t many people that could control you, but certainly he could,’ said Mike.

  ‘Well, I don’t know that I’d say that but
, uh ... We’ll let that pass.’

  ‘Did he cut you down to size?’

  ‘Now you are getting very personal. We’ll change the topic.’

  Mike knew he had more than he ever thought possible, and figured it wouldn’t be wise to push his luck. Besides, why upset her? We were all still in love.

  Mike then asked about Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, a real tear-jerker of a movie adored by the public. Not so the critics. But some critics, so enamoured with the two actors, tried desperately in their reviews to ignore the film and concentrate on Tracy and Hepburn. The London Observer wrote ‘A load of rubbish, but with Tracy and Hepburn on the screen the most savage criticism is replaced by gratitude’. Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner was the last movie Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn made together. Tracy died in June 1967, two weeks after shooting finished.

  Mike mentioned how moving he thought Tracy’s final scene in the film was.

  ‘I’ve never seen it,’ she said. ‘Never seen the picture.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Couldn’t look at the picture.’

  I zoomed in for a close shot, her eyes welled up for a split-second, then she was back in control.

  Hepburn scored an Oscar for Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner, making it her second. A year later she had her third for The Lion in Winter and thirteen years after that, her fourth Academy Award for On Golden Pond. Not once did she attend the ceremony to pick up her statue.

  ‘I’m not terribly interested in honours because so many people go to contributing to that honour that for you to pick it up and take it seriously is liable to misinform yourself about how good you are.’ Wow.

  But then she went on, ‘Now at the same time from a vanity point of view I wonder if the reason that I don’t go is that I’m afraid that I’m not going to win it.’ Big laugh, then ‘So, there you have the human animal.’

  She’s human after all and I’m more in love than ever. At the end of the interview she leant across to Mike, patted him on the knee and said, ‘You know you got a much better interview than Morley.’

  Then she stood up. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘lunch is on downstairs.’

  Unbelievable. There were six of us. As I packed the lights I was wondering how I could ask Kate (as I now called her, as I’d decided to marry her) whether I could have an autograph, something I’d never done. I always figured it was bordering on the rude and tacky, having been in the inner sanctum, so to speak. This was the first autograph I’d ever requested. I couldn’t pluck up the courage to ask her, so I asked Bridget if it was possible. ‘No,’ she said regretfully, ‘Miss Hepburn never gives autographs, and besides, now she has Parkinson’s her handwriting isn’t the best.’ I apologised and let it go.

  Fifteen minutes later Kate shouted from the doorway, ‘Nick, I understand you want an autograph.’

  Shit, what do I say? Have I crossed the line and buggered a good day?

  ‘Yes I did ask. I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve got a daughter called Kathryn.’

  ‘How do you spell it?’ she asked.

  ‘K A T H R Y N,’ I spelt out.

  ‘It’s wrong, change it!’

  Not knowing what to say I mumbled, ‘I guess that’s the Russian in me.’

  ‘That ain’t Russian!’ she said.

  She then asked how many children I had. I told her I also had a daughter called Jessica. Ten minutes later I had in my hot little hand an autographed copy of a beautiful black and white portrait shot of Kate from the 1940s, and written in what looked like a child’s handwriting thanks to the Parkinson’s, was ‘To Jessica and Kathryn from Katharine Hepburn’.

  Lunch downstairs was one of the most unforgettable hours of my life. I have no idea what we ate, but I made sure I sat right next to Kate. She talked about Hollywood, women in Hollywood, Hollywood stars, feminism, Academy Awards, Huston, Bogart. It would have been great to shoot, but she knew and we knew that we had the story she’d planned on giving and we were more than happy. So we just listened, enthralled.

  And once again I couldn’t believe my luck. It was my job to be at that lunch and everywhere else in this book. To think I was actually paid for that story. And for all those stories, and more.

  Tick tick tick tick tick ...

  Can’t understand why the Israelis thought I looked Palestinian. Photo Ray Martin

  My Colombian assistant. He couldn’t do enough. Photo Mark Brewer

  This trip, 24 bags. The trolley gets its own trolley. Photo Micky Breen

  Preparing for a day at the office in the Masai Mara National Reserve, Kenya. Photo Micky Breen

  With Micky, trying hard to attract a Masai wife. Photo Stephen Taylor

  IRA soldiers firing over Bobby Sands’ coffin.

  Mike Munro watches on as the IRA show us the 12mm machine gun that brought down a British Sphinx helicopter.

  Mike Munro in Northern Ireland, illegally, with five IRA members.

  Mr Cool—Legishon—presenting me with a perfect birthday cake that he’d baked in an ammo box. Photo Stephen Taylor

  With Tara Brown in the Masai Mara. Photo Stephen Taylor

  Bumpy landing of hot air balloon after filming aerials of the wildebeest migration. Photo Stephen Taylor

  In Africa—looking the wrong way. Photo Stephen Taylor

  With producer Stephen Rice and Micky waiting for mum and cubs to wake from a drug-induced stupor. Photo Tara Brown

  Trapped in the van. Tara Brown about to become lunch.

  The end of the longest day. The poor dead stag being loaded onto the pony. Photo Mike Munro

  With Mike Munro, Micky, and the one and only Katharine Hepburn. Photo Ben Hawke

  Richard Carleton cooking dinner in the deep south of the USA.

  Relaxing in Swaziland with George Negus (middle) and Micky Breen. Photo Andrew Haughton

  Producer Allan Hogan with pygmy chief and his mate holding the very dead monkey.

  Paris, 1980, with Ian Leslie, Allan Hogan, Peter Fragar and, balancing the frame beautifully, Alice Springs, wife of photographer Helmut Newton. Photo Helmut Newton

  On patrol with the Israeli army—two out of three are happy.

  One of many trips to Gaza. Photo Micky Breen

  The ever-handy portable dark room. Photo Ray Martin

  Hollywood star Lee Marvin ‘hunting’ marlin. Photo Ray Martin

  Shooting George. Close-ups were big in the 80s. Photographer Vaughan Gentle

  In London with new reporter Bob Hawke. Behind Bob is his new best friend, Steve Edwards, our good mate and driver.

  Getting an exterior of Amin’s torture headquarters, the State Research Bureau.

  With Ian Leslie, Peter Fragar and Isaac Sowanga, reading the secret files of Amin’s tortured political prisoners.

  Richard Carleton and Allan Hogan on their way to interview ‘mass murderer’ Radovan Karadzic. Photo Paul Boocock

  With Ian and Peter checking out one of the wonders of the ancient world. The horror horse ride is yet to happen. Photo Allan Hogan

  Breakfast in yet another amazing pub. Photo Stephen Taylor

  Before breakfast in a not so amazing pub. Bruce Stannard and me sleeping on deck. Photo Ray Martin

  Thanks

  For all their help and encouragement, I’d like to thank Micky Breen, Tara Brown, Joanne Duncan, Liz Hayes, Allan Hogan, Anne Kirby, Belinda Lee, John Little, Helen Lunn, Kirsty Thomson, Ray Martin, Michael Munro, Stephen Taylor, and a special thanks to my brother Christopher for all his writing and editing tips.

 

 

 
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