Screaming his lungs out so all could hear, the director walked toward me with such hate in his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a fucking amateur?”
William Hurt did not support me, moving away when he saw Russell threateningly coming toward me.
As he raised his empty wine bottle I stood my ground and thought Don’t you fucking dare. I was ready to punch that bloated face if he did.
He backed off and quietly said, “Let’s try again.”
Suddenly I slipped into survival mode and, filled with raw emotion, William and I did five perfect takes. When it was over I stole straight to my trailer and sobbed my eyes out. I had never been so humiliated. During that last night, I was having dinner with Hurt and the crew when Russell walked in with two bottles of Dom Perignon, applauding our work. He sat down with us, oblivious to the trust he had annihilated.
The movie was a success and today is considered a classic. Years later while doing Mission: Impossible in Australia, I was asked to host the national daytime talk show with Ken Russell as my first guest. He was directing the opera Madame Butterfly in Melbourne. I told my producer at Channel Nine about my experience, and his advice was: “If he causes any disruption, just cut him off by saying ‘And now a word from our sponsor.’”
Oh my, a little power over Ken sounded delicious.
Ken appeared via satellite and was jovial, and reminded me what a “wonderful experience we had making the film.” That Hurt and I were “great actors with a job well done.”
I was stunned by his niceness, and for the first time since that film a healing took place. Ah, well, drama was his game and I played it with him. He died in November of 2011 of Alzheimer’s.
Dame Edna presented in Godowni’s Court. (Author’s Collection)
The Shining Dame
One of the greatest and most memorable experiences I’ve had in the industry was with Dame Edna, whom I consider to be one of the most hilarious human beings of the 20th century. His real name is Barry Humphries, but with costume, a wig and a high-pitched voice he morphs into a suburban housewife and international celebrity. A great star in England and an Australian treasure, his wicked humor consistently had people laughing in the aisles.
I met Barry in the late ’80s in a restaurant in Sydney. He made a great entrance with a black cape and hat and then proceeded to assess me. They were looking for an Australian actor to play Dame Edna’s love interest in Les Patterson Saves the World, directed by George Miller. I passed the test and we hit it off immediately. I played Colonel Godowni, an Arab leader with charm who became smitten with the Dame covering as a CIA spy.
It was another chance to go home and secure my family’s belief that Dykshoorn was right. My parents embraced me especially for the fact that I was working with an Australian icon. After all, they always wanted to see their children reach greater heights than they had.
I loved the director George Miller. He was a regular Aussie with a terrific sense of humor. While rehearsing a scene and trying to find my footing, George blurted out, “Lovely performance, Thaao, just take three weeks out of it, will you?” He could have said “Too bloody slow, Thaao,” but instead he did it without ridiculing me. That was the difference in bringing the best out of an actor without having to be a tyrant.
In one of the interviews I did with Dame Edna, the reporter asked, “I hear this is a great love story. Why do you think Dame Edna fell in love with the Colonel?”
“It was the uniform,” Edna responded happily.
I then replied, “Well, I think it was the day when she walked into my room with those Joan Crawford shoulders and when I dropped my drawers she fainted.”
Dame Edna was not amused. You see, she was a bit of a puritan and that joke was below the belt.
We worked together for two months creating a love story that had us laughing hysterically between takes. There was such a difference when Barry was his normal self. He was much more serious, and when in character as Edna another light shined through.
He kept his alter ego separate, never allowing the illusion to be broken. One day I was sitting in his trailer having a chat between takes when the assistant director came by with his camera and tried to take a photo as Edna was shaving. No longer in character, he used his normal voice when he said, “Don’t you fucking dare!”
It was always important for him to never smash that myth with his public. He had to be protective of that and always on guard. I traveled with him for three weeks all over Australia doing publicity, and he opened his door to me. One day he told me that he and his wife Diane wanted to renew their vows, and would I be his best man? I was very touched by the gesture and gratefully complied. We kept in touch for many years after that, and I will still say today there has never been a funnier, more gracious man than Barry Humphries—he lit up my life.
On set in Les Patterson Saves the World. (Author’s Collection)
Metaphysics, Katherine and Diane
When I arrived in Los Angeles I began my studies of metaphysics. I learned to meditate, and that helped eradicate some of the demons I had carried since childhood—getting rid of the shadows that frightened me, and to better understand and place light on fears.
My teacher was Katherine Hayward—an inspiring woman from England who understood my insights and limitations. When I first entered her house she immediately read my aura. “How dare you come here with the mind you have and the trash you associate with?”
I was stunned and did not return for another six months.
When I returned she said with a knowing smile, “Well, now you’re ready to listen.”
I continued to study with her for the next twelve years. She was extraordinarily perceptive. The knowledge I gathered from her still lights my way. When she died I felt the teacher had released her student to continue and live on by incorporating her work.
During the late ’70s, I met another student on the path, actress Diane Ladd. We became great friends, and her knowledge of metaphysics was powerful. We embraced much on the subject and she helped me understand the feminine quality of life. A tremendous talent, Diane and I shared the screen when I played a mysterious character in the movie The Lookalike, directed by the wonderful Gary Nelson.
When Diane was nominated for an Oscar in 1990 for Wild at Heart, she asked me to escort her to the ceremony. What a thrill that was for a Sydney boy to attend his first Oscar ceremony. Diane had been nominated for an Oscar three times but never won. But she certainly won many other awards.
I always felt that by weaving spiritual understandings into her characters, Diane delved into other dimensions. It was as if the knowledge came through her, not from her. Her ego never interfered. I learned so much from Diane, on and off screen.
Shirley, Barbra and Bella
One afternoon I stopped by a good friend’s home to deliver a Greek dessert for her to serve at a special brunch she was hosting. As I made my way into the kitchen I overheard Barbra Streisand, Shirley MacLaine, Bella Abzug and my friend, artist Ann Farrell, discussing an affair one of them was having with Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau of Canada. Standing quietly in the kitchen so as not to intrude, my ears perked up when his assets and passion became the subject of discussion. One of them said, “When you’re finished with him, can I call him?” Since the conversation was heading to awkward territory, I made some noise to alert them to my presence. The conversation stopped abruptly and Annie came out to see who was there. “I’d ask you in, Thaao, but the conversation is very personal.” “No kidding,” I replied. As I was leaving I heard one of them ask, “Who was that?” “My Greek lover,” she said. I heard someone say “Bring him back” as I walked out the door without looking back.
Three days later I was asked to have a read-through of the miniseries Out on a Limb, based on Shirley MacLaine’s successful memoir. At the roundtable were MacLaine and the actor Tom Hulce along with producers and the writers. I was reading the part of her lover, a politician from Australia. The role would be played by C
harles Dance in the television production. It was a true story that enveloped Shirley’s spiritual saga in Machu Picchu, Peru.
Shirley had great energy and a powerful and determined gait. Everyone was introduced and Shirley quickly sat in front of me, eyes direct, legs apart and said, “Start.” I was more amused than intimidated by the behavior. But I loved how fear somehow didn’t reside in her mind. I was facing a champion and she demanded that in return. Back and forward the dialogue went. Hulce was terrific as her adventurous guide, and I played the love aspect as convincingly as possible. Halfway through she asked for a break and without a word poured a cup of coffee. After a few minutes of silence she spoke and commented on my interpretation of her politician. “Thaao brought a sensitivity to the part that was not in the script, and I liked it a lot.” She came up to me and gave me a great embrace. “Thanks for bringing that to the table,” she said. And with that she smiled for the first time.
With Diane Ladd at the Oscars. (Author’s Collection)
We continued through the rest of the day with great success. At the end of it Shirley mentioned a four-day seminar she was holding in Los Angeles and invited me to attend. It was through this experience that metaphysics returned to my playground, with new voices waiting to be heard. In a hotel near Los Angeles International Airport, four hundred people gathered and meditated as the host elevated our spirit through music and words that helped sing out the potential and eventual recognition of self.
Shirley told us great stories of how she went through her own adventures, overcoming the obstacles and managing and moving through each experience. That kept sharpening the tools she brought in, while enhancing her work as an actor by being in the present. I thought it a great event and an addition to the life experiences I would carry with me.
Omar
Omar Sharif was one of my favorite actors ever since I first saw him in the classic Lawrence of Arabia. So, when director Gary Nelson asked me to work with him again in the miniseries Memories of Midnight with Sharif and Jane Seymour, I did not hesitate. It was being shot mainly in Yugoslavia and Greece. The story was loosely based on the rivalry between Greek shipping magnates Aristotle Onassis and Stavros Niarchos.
On the first day in the makeup trailer in Zagreb, Omar sat next to me, and when we were introduced he simply responded with a nod. Appearing on the set, which was the actual house of ex-President Tito, Sharif made his majestic entrance and announced to me, “When I knock you down and you go flying over this 18th-century table, please don’t break it.”
“Oh, Mr. Sharif, if I let you knock me down in our first scene together we will have nowhere to go for the rest of the story. After all, I am your nemesis,” I responded.
Suddenly the ice was broken and he embraced me with open arms, shouting out to the director, “I love this actor!”
With the wonderful Omar Sharif. (Author’s Collection)
Now he looked upon me as a trusted thespian and whispered, “Do you like champagne and caviar?”
Surprised with his sudden behavior shift, I quickly replied yes.
“Good—after we break for lunch, come to my trailer and we will celebrate.”
What a great beginning.
During lunch, Omar and I sat in his trailer like old friends, entertaining each other with wonderful stories complemented by delicacies befitting our appreciative tastes. He told me that I reminded him of his son but “the idiot married a hooker.”
I asked him about Lawrence of Arabia, and he loved telling me the tales that Peter O’Toole and he had experienced in their drunken stupor in Aqaba, Jordan. Because of the long shoot and the boredom in the extensive stretches of the desert landscape, they would get so intoxicated that they had to be tied to the camels so they wouldn’t fall off. At one point, Omar said, the camel wouldn’t stop and he ended upside down in the ocean and almost drowned.
That lunch lasted three hours, and every day we worked together the great stories continued. Except for one day when Omar had to go back to Paris and finish shooting another film; he returned exhausted. It was a big scene at an auction and our rivalry as the characters was heightened during a bidding war. He couldn’t remember his lines and he kept flubbing. The director, knowing that Omar and I had developed a close relationship, took a break and asked me to take our star behind the curtain and have a talk. I did and in private Omar had a breakdown and cried on my shoulder. I will never forget that moment when he trusted me with his emotions. Vulnerable as he was, we went back and shot the scene with his professionalism intact. He never faulted again except when he told an actress at dinner that she wasn’t very good at her craft, and the poor thing stormed off. He was a man who had worked with many great stars and made many classic films. His expectations were high.
When I said goodbye to Omar, a great sadness washed over me—and that was unusual. As an actor, you do the job you are hired for and then part ways, but not this time. He left me with such poignant memories. When I look back they had become part of me; they sharpened my being and sense of perspective. He invited me to visit him in Paris. I never did take him up on his offer and that I regret.
Impossible
I was able to go home again to Australia and shoot the series Mission: Impossible—and this time my father was really beaming. When I entered my father’s house and felt his rare emotion with a warm embrace, it was magical. It healed all those years of doubts—his and mine—and proved that making your own decisions at a young age can lead to success.
I loved working with the team of Mission: Impossible. Peter Graves was always the pro, and the rest of the cast—Tony Hamilton, Phil Morris and the lovely and talented Jane Badler—all loved him too. We all got along and everything was going well until one day I was called to the producer’s office, where I was delicately advised to cut my eyelashes. I told them that my mother calls them her “Vroutsoutses”—her “little brushes”—and she would be very upset if they were cut.
I was given the pilot to watch and was told I could make up my own mind about my lashes. After viewing it, I said no. I found nothing disturbing about the eyelashes, and besides, that’s who I was. They were accepting and I continued playing my multifaceted character without any more comments on my little “brushes.”
What I loved most about Mission were the disguises that allowed my character to infiltrate enemy territory while interacting with the rest of the team in those intrigue-filled episodes. I had to rise especially early on disguise days to have a mask fit to my face. It would become claustrophobic when I had to wait around for hours. Thanks to meditation I was able to control it some of the time. The masks would then have to be carefully removed because of the expense. It was part of the job and everyone did their part to bring a seamless ensemble to the screen. We were a great team.
Peter Graves, always the gentleman, passed in 2010 of a heart attack—he was a great guy from the old school. Tony Hamilton died tragically at forty-two of AIDS-related pneumonia. He had been adopted at two years of age from England by an elderly couple and brought to live in Australia, but he always felt like he didn’t belong. He did some crazy things that put him in hot water with the studio. He lived his many lives to the fullest and paid for that decadence. But I felt that even though he appeared ruthless, he was like a little boy that never felt loved.
With Phil Morris, Peter Graves, Jane Badler and Antony Hamilton. (Author’s Collection)
Endings
After Mission ended I returned to the U.S. to see my mentor Milton Katselas. He was semi-retired now and only taught the Master Class on Saturdays. He’d become a diabetic and lost three of his toes. His great pastime was basketball, but when he lost his footing something had died within him.
One early morning we were sitting in his courtyard in West Hollywood discussing our lives. He had a great career in the theatre and directed some of the country’s top stars, but when he was fired by Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in Private Lives something in him had shut down. He always loved his actors bu
t some could never take his directness. He was a Scientologist and even by them he felt betrayed.
I asked about his greatest disappointment. After much thought he simply replied, “People.” I thought at that moment he was thinking about those he brought closer to him and that trust was paid with betrayal.
And yet when a student had a “win” in this difficult business he was overjoyed as it reflected on him and his teachings.
Milton Katselas was the greatest influence of my life and the ultimate teacher in every way as my guide and my friend. He helped me look at my insecurities like they were my children, to nurture them and create from them. He taught me not to be afraid of my own personal expression. If we are fortunate, such people come just once this way in our lives. I was truly blessed.
I miss him dearly. He passed in 2008 at the age of seventy-seven not long after that special early morning talk. He took an excess of potassium and fell into a coma.
If he had asked me the same question, I would have answered the same way. “People.”
“We are the choices we make,” I wanted to tell him, but I never wanted to presume that I knew more than my teacher—that I had an insight into the pain he never overcame. We never did say goodbye.
Milton Katselas. (courtesy Mark Gantt)
Days of Our Lives informal cast portrait. (Author’s Collection)
II.
DODGING BULLETS
IT WAS THE LATE WINTER OF 2009 WHEN KEN CORDAY, executive producer of Days of Our Lives, left a message on my service. I was on a spiritual mission in Cuba visiting churches in pursuit of experiencing “faith” in a communist country.
Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives Page 4
