Back at the Villa Pappa, the talk was not of Elizabeth as an actress, but of Burton. Earlier in the day, she’d received a call from Monty, who had seen three of Burton’s movies. “I’m not impressed,” he told her. “He’s self-indulgent. I feel that when he speaks, he is merely listening to the sound of his own voice—and getting off on that. To me, that is not acting. It’s masturbation.”
After the call, she was deeply disturbed. She’d come to believe that Burton was the greatest actor on the stage, even better than Olivier. But now, she feared that her romantic attachment to him was taking the place of her sound judgment. Would she, in fact, be laughed off the screen during her scenes with him?
She couldn’t present any of these fears to Fisher, lest she tip him off about her growing sexual interest in Burton.
Besides, when she communicated with her husband these days, he was smoking a cigar, the kind Mike Todd always preferred, and wanted to talk about film projects subsequent to Cleopatra, now that she was no longer under contract to MGM. “We must decide what your next film will be after this session in hell called Cleopatra,” he said.
“At that point in their relationship, Fisher seemed more like Elizabeth’s business manager than her husband,” Roddy said. “He hovered over her like a hawk. He allowed her only one glass of red wine at night. Imagine that allowance for Elizabeth, she of the hollow leg.”
Personally, Elizabeth wanted to star in a movie based on the life of Isadora Duncan, the American dancer. The problem with that idea was that Elizabeth could not dance. She next told Fisher that she wanted someone to write a script for her based on the life of Sarah Bernhardt.
Fisher rejected such ideas as preposterous and beyond her range. He wanted something “sleazy and sexy” that would almost guarantee millions at the box office.
He was negotiating several movie deals for her, including The Carpetbaggers, based on Harold Robbin’s steamy bestselling novel that was loosely based on Howard Hughes’ involvements in Hollywood.
When Elizabeth rejected all of his ideas, he came up with another project that had more prestige, a vehicle that would cast her opposite Charlie Chaplin.
The film projected with Chaplin was entitled The Gouffré Case. It was based on a novel by German author Joachim Mass in which Elizabeth would be cast as a murderess in turn-of-the-20th-Century Paris. Chaplin was to come out of retirement to play the aging police inspector who goes after her.
Encouraged by Elizabeth, Fisher flew north to have lunch with Chaplin, who was in retirement at Vevey, Switzerland. Chaplin welcomed him with grace and listened attentively to the film proposal.
Assistant director Hank Moonjean and John Valva, Roddy’s lover, accompanied Fisher to Switzerland. At Vevey, these men discovered Chaplin living in a house that looked like a miniature version of the White House in Washington, D.C. They were introduced to his pregnant and much younger wife, Oona O’Neill Chaplin, the estranged daughter of the famous playwright Eugene O’Neill, who had strenuously opposed her marriage to Chaplin.
Charles Chaplin with Oona O’Neill Chaplin in 1975.
As Moonjean later reported, the lunch was interrupted by Chaplin every fifteen minutes, rising from the table and performing “a strange little dance” for them, in which he used the cane and top hat he’d worn in all those silent films as The Little Tramp.
Finally, at the end of the luncheon, Chaplin told Fisher, “You’re a good salesman, and I’m flattered by the offer, an old man like me. But I must turn it down. However, I’d love to meet Miss Taylor. I’ve known Marilyn Monroe intimately, as have my sons, but I never had a chance to meet Miss Taylor and introduce her to the eighth wonder of the world.”
It had to be explained to Fisher later that The Little Tramp was actually referring to his legendary twelve-inch penis, which had been enjoyed by everyone from Mae West to America’s most famous evangelist, Aimee Semple McPherson, plus dozens of bimbos in the countless brothels he used to frequent.
From Vevey, Fisher and his friends drove to the chic ski resort of Gstaad. He and Elizabeth had been advised to establish a residence in Switzerland as a means of avoiding painful American income tax. He had been told that a Texas oil millionaire had built the Chalet Ariel for his ballerina bride, but the marriage never survived the honeymoon.
The elegant Chalet Ariel was on the market for about $350,000. He called Elizabeth in Rome, telling her it was idyllic for both of them and their children, although he warned that it might cost another $100,000 in renovations.
“Buy the fucker!” she said.
Her neighbors would include the Aga Khan, Robert Wagner, Julie Andrews, and Peter Sellers.
After signing the papers, Fisher headed for Geneva for a final stopover. He liked to spend money as much as Mike Todd had done, even if it wasn’t his own loot he was tossing about. In Geneva, he bought a $50,000 diamond necklace for Elizabeth from the prestigious jeweler, Vacheron Constantin.
Valva thought Elizabeth would “adore” the necklace, and he wanted to be at the Villa Pappa to see the expression on her face when Fisher presented her with the costly gift.
In Rome, Valva later asserted that Elizabeth examined the necklace very skeptically. “How much did you pay?” she asked. When Fisher told her, she said, “There’s not one god damn good stone in it. You were taken.”
Nonetheless, on his birthday, she presented him with another Rolls-Royce, this one a sports coupe in emerald green. In return, he purchased for her an ivory-colored Maserati as a means of celebrating Christmas of 1961.
After inviting Dick Hanley to go for a drive with her long the Appian Way in her new Maserati, she returned disappointed and skeptical to the Villa Pappa. “I detest this junk heap,” she told Fisher on her way upstairs. Dick said that Fisher looked utterly humiliated, but later got his money back by selling it to actor Anthony Quinn, who was in Rome at the time.
When Burton heard about the purchase of the chalet in Gstaad, he told Roddy that, “The best gift Eddie can give Elizabeth is the ruby-tipped snake he keeps inside his trousers.”
What Burton knew, or didn’t know, about Fisher’s penis at that time remains something of a mystery.
Roddy was among the first to realize how serious the love affair between Elizabeth and Burton had become. “Although she still wore Eddie’s wedding ring, Burton asked her to take off the wedding band that had been retrieved from the wreckage of Mike Todd’s airplane in New Mexico. Her removal of Todd’s ring was a symbol of the influence Burton had in her life. I feared that Eddie’s day as the consort to the Queen was nearing its end.”
On January 26, 1962, Mankiewicz broke the news to Wanger: “I’ve been sitting on a volcano for too long. Burton and Liz are not just playing Antony and Cleopatra.”
His announcement was the first of what became the most public adultery in film history.
Jack Brodsky, Fox’s assistant publicity manager in Rome, became, in his words, “more sought-after than the Pope, at least for a while. Every reporter was trying to get the scoop from me.”
Burton was consumed with such guilt he spent sleepless nights. He was especially concerned with Sybil and his family, including his young daughter, Jessica, who had been born mentally retarded. [She was later diagnosed as an autistic schizophrenic and was placed in a mental institution at the age of six.]
At a private meeting with Wanger, the producer urged Burton to go back to his wife, warning that “this thing with Elizabeth can ultimately harm everybody. Fuck Elizabeth on the side if you must, but don’t destroy Sybil and bring harm to your family.”
At least for the moment, Burton seemed to agree with this assessment.
Within his villa, Burton had a long talk with Roddy, who, while still one of Elizabeth’s closest friends, was also extremely friendly with Sybil and wanted Burton to save his marriage and be a father to his two daughters.
Although he knew that Elizabeth would turn on him, feeling that he had betrayed her, Roddy nonetheless urged Burton to drive over to
the Villa Pappa— “and put an end to this whole thing. It can only cause pain for everybody.”
Burton finally agreed and, without warning Elizabeth, got into his car and drove to confront her.
On February 16, 1962, at 10pm, Burton walked into Villa Pappa. Elizabeth must have known something was wrong because he did not rush to take her in his arms, as he usually did. He had a stern look on his face. As he’d tell Roddy, “I wanted to make it short and sweet and get it over with.”
To her stunned face, he said, “Our love affair was just one of those things that often happens between a leading man and a leading lady when they make a film together. It was fun, luv, while it lasted.” Then he turned his back and headed for the front door. All he heard in the background were her sobs.
As Elizabeth confessed in a memoir, “I had to be with Richard. I knew it was wrong. I knew it would hurt people. I knew. I knew. But I also knew what I had to do. God help me. I had to be with Richard.”
She became so upset that she raged through the villa breaking glass. Dick had to restrain her and called her doctor, Rex Kennamer, to give her a sedative. He phoned Mankiewicz that Elizabeth would not be able to report to work.
At around noon of the following day, Wanger went to the Villa Pappa to check on Elizabeth’s condition. He found her in bed but barely awake. She told him she’d taken a sleeping pill and hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours.
He went downstairs to ask the chef to prepare her a sandwich and pour her a glass of milk.
Suddenly, her upstairs maid came running downstairs and into the kitchen, holding up an empty bottle. “Miss Taylor…Miss Taylor. She’s taken these pills.”
Wanger ordered Dick to call an ambulance as he rushed upstairs and pulled a nude Elizabeth from bed. He practically walked her, dragged her, around the room until the ambulance arrived.
Someone in her household tipped off the newspapers. When the ambulance pulled up at the emergency entrance of the Salvator Mundi Hospital, at least thirty paparazzi were there.
Wanger put out a story that she’d consumed some “bad oysters and was suffering an acute case of food poisoning.”
Roman newspaper editors were too savvy to fall for that line. That night, the entire world, it seemed, learned that LIZ TAYLOR ATTEMPTS SUICIDE OVER BURTON AFFAIR.
Sybil had already flown out of Rome heading for New York to tend to an ailing Philip Burton, her father-in-law. She faced reporters demanding to know when she was filing for a divorce. She dismissed such claims. “Elizabeth is one of my best friends. I absolutely adore her. There is no romance between Richard and her—no divorce coming up.”
Burton was stunned at the newspaper coverage of their affair. “I’ve had affairs before,” he said. “But how did I know she was so bloody famous? She knocks Khrushchev off the fucking front page.”
After Burton’s rejection, Elizabeth, in the words of publicist Jack Brodsky, “went coconuts. She wanted to junk the whole picture and bankrupt Fox. Imagine any guy turning her down.”
Brodsky was asked if Burton were merely a beard for the Mankiewicz/Taylor affair. Jokingly, Brodsky asserted that the real story was “I’m the one in love with Richard Burton. Elizabeth is the cover-up for us. Send it out!”
Believe it or not, that comment from Brodsky went out on the Associated Press wire services.
Mankiewicz added to the gay rumors by standing in full view of a stunned journalist. Mankiewicz then grabbed Burton, placing his hand firmly on his crotch and tongue-kissed him for about a minute. He then turned to the journalist and said, “There you are. I’m the one having the affair with Richard here.”
Time magazine reported that Elizabeth was merely using a rumored affair with Burton to conceal the real truth. “She is mad, mad, mad for her personable director, Joseph L. Mankiewicz, who is fifty-three years old.”
Wanger greeted Burton when he returned to the set. In his journal, the producer wrote: “The romance is front page all over the world. Reporters are flocking like vultures to Rome from all over the continent. Burton on the set today—very gay, cocky, with a glass of beer in his hand. When he came to this picture some months ago, he was a well-known star but not famous. His salary was good but not huge. Suddenly, his name has become a household word. His salary for his next movie has skyrocketed. The romance has changed his life, but I don’t think he realizes how deeply involved he is.”
In New York, Monty told Marlon Brando at the Actors Studio, “Poor Bessie Mae. She’s hooked up with a hustler. She’s the most famous woman in the world, and he’s using her to promote his own career. I am told that Burton wants fame at any price.”
Hundreds of newspeople wanted interviews, but Burton rarely granted them. He did tell a reporter in Rome, “I will never leave Sybil. She loves and understands me.”
The Cuban Missile Crisis of 1960 may have brought the United States and the Soviet Union to the brink of nuclear disaster, but the illicit love affair of Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor seemingly generated more headlines.
An extracurricular affair between two world famous stars would hardly merit such attention today—in fact, would be commonplace. But in a different time and place, “Liz & Dick,” as they were called, were accused of sparking the sexual revolution that grew to fruition before the end of the decade of “free love.”
When Truman Capote came to Rome for a visit and saw the affair up close, he was skeptical. “Elizabeth loved Burton. He didn’t love her. He wanted her because he wanted to be an international movie star, far bigger than the picture actor he was. That was the career he wanted—money, money, and more money.”
Sometimes, Elizabeth was enraged at the press coverage, screaming about how unfair it was. “The most famous man on the planet, John F. Kennedy, is fucking the second most famous woman on earth, Marilyn Monroe, and not a word gets into the press. But let me screw around with some Welsh actor and the media goes apeshit.”
Distressed about his diminished importance within Elizabeth’s emotional landscapes, Fisher didn’t know what to do. He went and purchased a revolver which he carried with him at all times, planning at some point to assassinate Burton, perhaps even to shoot Elizabeth, too. He told Roddy, “In Italy, the courts are easy on crimes of passion.”
When Elizabeth showed up on the set to film a love scene with Burton, “The tension was so great that you could cut it with a knife,” Mankiewicz said. “I told Burton he’d better go to her dressing room and work things out. He was in there for three hours, and I just assumed they’d made love. He later told me, ‘I now know the truth: I can’t live without her. We’re back together again.”
In the meantime, Sara and Francis Taylor had flown to Rome from California, although Elizabeth didn’t really want them.
Throughout the filming of Cleopatra, a sleek white Roman ambulance was seen parked day after day outside the studio. Wanger had ordered it “in case Elizabeth tries suicide again.” The crew referred to it as “the suicide mobile.” A gleaming silver-colored stomach pump had been installed as part of its equipment.
The next day, Burton was accompanied to Bulgari, according to publicist Jack Brodsky, by a procession “of parents” (Sara and Francis), a hairdresser (Guilaroff), and other members of Elizabeth’s court to purchase an emerald necklace for her for $150,000. Francis actually made the final selection.
“I introduced her to beer,” Burton later said. “She introduced me to Bulgari.”
When Fisher showed up on the set of Cleopatra, he went first to seek Burton instead of heading directly for Elizabeth’s dressing room. He discovered Burton discussing a scene with Mankiewicz. Before Fisher could say anything, Burton moved menacingly close to the singer.
“You don’t need her any more,” Burton said to Fisher, standing so close to his face he was peppering the singer with his saliva. “You’re already a star. I’m not, but she’s going to make me one. I’m going to use her, that no-talent Hollywood nothing.” Burton made this astonishing statement in front of Mankiew
icz, who later revealed it in an interview long after Cleopatra had been released to theaters.
That night, over a private dinner with Roddy, Elizabeth shared her own feelings about Burton. She was surprisingly articulate: “He’s a devious snakepit of contradictions. If a prefrontal lobotomy was performed on him, like what Katharine Hepburn wanted to have done on me, out of Richard’s skull would emerge poisonous snakes, tadpoles, frogs, worms, and bats from hell. What a man! I get an orgasm just listening to his voice.”
The next day, on the set of Cleopatra, Burton proved Elizabeth’s point that he was a man of contradictions, coming up with a completely different set of feelings about her.
While Fisher was talking to a seated Elizabeth, Burton walked over and reached to fondle one of her breasts. “You know, old thing, I’m in love with your girl.”
“She’s not my girl.” Fisher snapped. “She’s my wife and she’s going to remain my wife.”
“Okay, Dummkopf, I’m in love with your bloody wife then.”
Elizabeth sat silently through this exchange and made no attempt to remove Burton’s hand from her breast.
At around five o’clock that afternoon, Dick and Roddy arrived at Burton’s dressing room before Elizabeth and the entourage came to patronize what had become known as “Burton’s Bar.”
Sitting in the nude in front of his vanity mirror, removing his makeup, Burton told Elizabeth’s two friends, “The woman who brings out the best in a man—who is good in bed—is very rare. In my entire life, I’ve enjoyed only four such women—Elizabeth Taylor, Marilyn Monroe, Jackie Kennedy, and an almost toothless middle age maid in Jamaica.”
Although she didn’t exactly announce it to the world, Elizabeth was attracted sexually to Burton as she had been to no other man, not even the aging Mike Todd, who had been her greatest lover before Burton.
Biographer Kitty Kelley wrote: “In this one man seemed to be all the men she had ever loved. As rich as Nicky Hilton, Richard Burton possessed Michael Wilding’s quicksilver humor and Mike Todd’s energy and command. He was as physical as Ingemar Johansson, as intellectual as Max Lerner, as mellifluous as Frank Sinatra and Eddie Fisher.”
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