Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment

by Dick van Patten

While Michael was away, his mother began dating Sir John Fletcher, a conservative Minister in Churchill’s War Cabinet. Michael, who had developed into a socialist while studying in Canada, is appalled to learn upon his return that his mother is now living, unmarried, with Sir John, who Michael views as a right wing war-monger.

  While Rattigan was writing his play, the Lunts were still performing There Shall Be No Night to sell-out crowds at the Aldwych Theater. In Jared Brown’s The Fabulous Lunts he details their astonishment that in the midst of all the perils of war and the constant fear of attack, Londoners just kept coming to the theater. One evening, right in the middle of a performance, a bomb landed next the Aldwych. Lynn Fontanne later recounted for a friend: “A buzz bomb hit very near. I was on the stage and he [Alfred] was in the wings waiting for his cue when the smash came. I found myself somehow on the other side of the stage. The scenery was buckling like sails in a high wind, things were falling. I looked for Alfred. There he was pushing a canvas wall up with one hand and starting to make his entrance. Then I saw the fire curtain coming down and heard him shout in that metallic voice he gets when he is excited, ‘Take it up! Take it!’

  “Like a shot it went up, and then he turned to me and curious as it may seem, the precise line he had to speak in the script at that very moment was, ‘Are you all right, darling?’”

  The theater erupted with applause—and the play went on, even as the bombs continued exploding outside.

  In the final scene of the play, Alfred delivered a soliloquy that again possessed an eerie, but uplifting relevance: “Listen, what you hear now,” Lunt told the Londoners, “this terrible sound that fills the earth—it is the death-rattle of civilization. But choose to believe differently…. We have within ourselves the power to conquer bestiality not with our muscles and our swords, but with the power of the light that is in our minds.”

  Again, the audience stood for a huge ovation and, again, it was unsure if these were the actual lines in the play—which they were—or if Lunt was simply stepping out of character to address them about the perils outside that they had all just experienced. Whatever they thought, it was a stunning performance and lifted Lunt and Fontanne to even greater heights in the English imagination as heroes of the resistance.

  Their London engagement at the Aldwych with There Shall Be No Night, ended tragically on June 30, 1944, when a bomb from the Luftwaffe struck the theater directly, killing a young British soldier who was purchasing a ticket at the box office. The Lunts, however, persisted, taking the play to the countryside, where the English people continued filling the theaters and responding to the world’s two greatest actors with unbridled enthusiasm.

  There Shall Be No Night closed its run in the summer of 1944. It had brought the Lunts an unprecedented stature, not just as great actors, but as great humanitarians. Alfred and Lynn understood the significance of what they were doing to boost English morale, and they wanted to continue to entertain the British people for as long as their nightmare endured.

  And so they began looking for another play. It turned out that a friend of Terence Rattigan, composer Ivor Novello, learned the Lunts were on the hunt for new material and he arranged a meeting with Rattigan. As Geoffrey Wansell, Rattigan’s biographer notes, Rattigan was absolutely elated that “the theatre’s most famous acting couple” was interested in his play. The Lunts took a draft from the meeting, and a few days later, Alfred called Rattigan, telling him, that he and Lynn “would be proud to do your play.” But, he had two conditions: first, that Alfred direct it and second that there be a few changes to the storyline.

  Rattigan immediately agreed, although he soon learned that the changes Alfred envisioned were substantial. The play had been written principally for the characters of Michael Brown and his mother, Olivia. Lunt’s role as Sir John Fletcher would have to be greatly expanded. Rattigan would later write to his own mother of Alfred’s demands: “I didn’t realize that he was asking me to write a new play.” Still, Rattigan was pleased with Lunt’s intervention, eventually conceding that Alfred had been correct: “In the end,” he said, “I wrote a far better play because of his suggestions.” When it was done, the changes were so significant that Rattigan felt it prudent to resubmit the play for a new copyright under a new name, Love in Idleness.

  It was interesting for me to learn recently about the relationship between Lunt and the young English boy, Brian Nissen, who landed the part of Michael Brown. Rattigan wrote to his mother about Lunt’s strict treatment of Brian: “The boy, poor little brat, is having a terrible time…. Alfred’s way of rehearsing him is to take him over three lines in three hours, finally reducing him to tears and hysteria. It is hard to see whether he will be good or not, but I am willing to bet that if he survives the next two months he is going to become the best juvenile actor on the English stage.” Many people have described Alfred’s easy and amiable personality, but when it came to his profession, he was a perfectionist and could be as stern and demanding as any director I’ve ever known.

  Love in Idleness opened on November 27, 1944, in Liverpool and the following week in Leeds. The critics were not kind. In both cities they concluded that the play “was not worthy of the Lunts’ time and efforts.” One particularly derisive critic was their close friend, playwright Noel Coward, who told them the play was terrible and continued trying, as Rattigan believed, to sabotage the production.

  In the end, the critics and Coward were wrong. The play was wonderful and turned out to be the longest running production of Alfred and Lynn’s fifty-year theater careers.

  But much like The Skin of Our Teeth, the play was only saved when it reached the big city. On December 20, 1944, despite a terrible fog, Londoners came out to see the Lunts open the play at the Lyric Theater. They absolutely loved it—and the critics, while not entirely onboard, were much more accepting than their counterparts had been on the road. Alfred was grateful for their response and later wrote to his friend, William Le Massena, “We always loved playing in London but never more than now.”

  With the Lunts settled in the Lyric, the Allies were winning the war. The troops were marching toward Berlin, and the Lunts felt a whole new optimism among Londoners. Alfred recalled that earlier during a performance of There Shall Be No Night, Winston Churchill had sent a giant cigar backstage. Lunt held onto the cigar, as Jared Brown notes, keeping it carefully “preserved in cellophane, and he used it as a prop in Love in Idleness.” In the play Lunt spoke the line, “I left Number Ten [Downing Street, where Churchill, as Prime Minister, lived] only half an hour ago.” Fontanne asked, “Was he nice about it?”—referring to Churchill, and Lunt then pulled out the old cigar from his pocket and replied with that inimitable Lunt timing: “Very!” The English crowds loved it, as they were all fully aware of Churchill’s penchant for a good Cuban cigar.

  One evening, while waiting for curtain call, Alfred and Lynn suddenly heard “cheering in the street.” From backstage they watched as Winston Churchill walked “down the aisle to his seat in the front row, waving to the applauding audience.” This was a victorious Churchill. The war was nearly won, and there was a general euphoria about this man who had led his people through England’s most trying times.

  Throughout the performance, Lunt recalled, Churchill just “sat there smoking” his cigar, with “everybody watching him more than us. When at the regular time I pulled out the cigar”—the one he had preserved in the cellophane wrapper—“such a cheering started as I’d never heard before by any stretch of the imagination. For five minutes…they cheered and cheered and Churchill got right up, turned around and stood there waving and waving back to them.” It was for Alfred and Lynn an intoxicating moment.

  The Lunts soon took the play on the “foxhole circuit.” They played for victorious troops in France and Germany—even going as far as liberated Nuremberg where they performed for the American GIs. Lynn Fontanne had sent a letter of gratitude for being allowed to play for the troops, and she received a response from General
George Patton: “I feel,” wrote the General, “that you should not thank me but that I, on behalf of the Third Army, should thank you, Mr. Lunt and the others of your cast for the great pleasure which we derived from your unparalleled performances.”

  On August 8, 1945, with the war in Europe over and England safe, the Lunts came home to the United States on an American military transport. Arriving at La Guardia field in New York City, wearing U.S. Army uniforms with insignias reading, “Camp Show,” Alfred and Lynn modestly rejected the idea that they had been heroes in Europe. Alfred spoke to the New York Times about their performances amidst the bombing: “You take your cue from the audience in that kind of situation. They are sitting there all through the storm, quiet, intense bending forward…readier with applause and laughs than any other audiences ever were. That’s the opportunity of a lifetime for an actor.”

  Maybe so, but their humility aside, Alfred Lunt, Lynn Fontanne and the entire English cast and crew of Love in Idleness demonstrated true courage under the most difficult circumstances imaginable for any theatrical production. Everyone on Broadway was proud of its emissaries abroad, and when Alfred and Lynn brought Terence Rattigan’s play, once again re-titled as O Mistress Mine, to Broadway, everyone awaited with tremendous anticipation. And when word got out that they would be looking for a new actor to play the coveted role of their son Michael Brown, every young actor in America was desperate to land the part. I know because I was one of them.

  * * *

  The Lunts were certainly taking the audition for Michael Brown very seriously. As veterans of the theater, they recognized that a role like Michael Brown “could elevate a young actor to stardom.” Lynn Fontanne was particularly sensitive to the pitfalls. Discussing the difficulties in the audition process, she wrote to her friend: “It could easily turn out to be a disaster for the young actor who plays it. It could convince him at the start of his career that he knew all there was about acting, and he’d never learn another thing. There is a great responsibility in giving a sure-fire role to an unseasoned player. We must pick someone who will hold his head.”

  I remember going with Mom to the Shubert Theater for the tryouts. I was sixteen at the time, a relatively young age since Michael Brown was seventeen, and actors typically play characters who are younger than they are. But I was glad to be at the Shubert where I had first stepped on a Broadway stage ten years earlier in Tapestry in Grey. It seemed like there were thousands of young men there, although there were probably about forty or fifty.

  Among them were at least two future stars, Marlon Brando and Roddy McDowell. It’s ironic that Brando had just finished the Broadway production of a play called I Remember Mama, about a Norwegian immigrant family in which he played the oldest son, Nels, the same character I would play when the show was made into one of the earliest television situation comedies in 1949. Marlon had received high acclaim for his portrayal of Nels in Mama, and, according to Jared Brown, Alfred Lunt wanted him to take the part in O Mistress Mine. Brando was four years older than me and, therefore, three years older than the character, but, as mentioned, such an age difference is not at all uncommon.

  The initial reading was onstage with Alfred Lunt. That alone was thrilling. There are people who today can tell their grandkids that, for a few minutes, they read a part with the great Alfred Lunt. We all came in through Shubert Alley and waited inside the stage door as one by one we were called in to read by John C. Wilson, the Lunts’ renowned producer. Regardless of all my experience onstage, I still remember the thrill of that first reading. I can’t say I was nervous. For some reason I felt very comfortable, with the role and immediately I knew that whether or not I actually got the part, this would be a fun audition. No doubt, Lunt’s effortless style made it a little easier for all of us and may have helped to offset any nervousness that would be natural to feel in such an auspicious moment. I’m sure that as Marlon Brando rose to a stature similar to that of Lunt and Fontanne, there were many young actors who felt the same sense of awe working with him that he, no doubt, felt as a young man that day onstage with Alfred Lunt.

  When all the readings were done, Alfred asked three of us to stay in the theater—Marlon, Roddy and myself. Wilson brought us to one of the dressing rooms, where we awaited the arrival of Lynn Fontanne. When I first saw Lynn she looked like a queen. She had a regal bearing that was stunning. As I told Jared Brown, when she came into the room, heads went up. Each of us read a scene with Alfred, while Lynn watched from the audience.

  Although Marlon was better known at the time, I thought the real competition was Roddy. He had an English accent, which I believed was an asset for him. I later learned that the Lunts felt that since the character had spent so many of his formative years in Canada, too much of an English accent might not be credible, particularly with an American audience. After we finished reading, Alfred, Lynn and Wilson went outside to the lobby. Suddenly, I noticed that I was the only one still there. They must have sent Marlon and Roddy home while I was back in the dressing room. I began to get very excited. If they chose me, I would be working with the greatest stage actors of the time, and the wait while they were out in the lobby seemed like eternity.

  After about twenty minutes, they came back inside. Alfred Lunt walked up and spoke to me. I remember his exact words: “We like you very much. We recently worked with another young boy named Montgomery Clift, who was wonderful, and we hope we can have the same result with you.” He then asked if I would come out to their farm in Wisconsin to study the part with them.

  I was ecstatic—and so was my mother. To be chosen for this part with these people was overwhelming. It was also tremendously flattering. Later I learned that Fontanne had written to her English friend Habetrot Dewhurst: “The American cast is on the whole an improvement on the English one…. The part of the boy is taken by a young American. He is really very wonderful. Only seventeen and a brilliant young actor. We are very pleased and excited about him.” Such praise from a woman considered by many to be the greatest stage actress of her generation is something I will forever treasure.

  Shortly after being selected, I packed my bags and boarded a train for Milwaukee where I was picked up and driven to Alfred and Lynn’s beloved summer retreat, Ten Chimneys, in Genesee Depot, Wisconsin. Upon arrival I was struck by the rustic character of their life on the farm. It reminded me of the times I had thought, myself, about the life of a farmer. Ten Chimneys was full of animals, and every day Alfred was up with the roosters, tending to all the animals and working the farm. He talked as much about farming as theater. In an interview with the Wisconsin State Journal in 1947, Alfred explained his rigorous daily routine on the farm: “I get up about 4:30 or 5 o’clock. I don’t milk—we have four cows—but I run the separator and bottle the milk…. I’ve got a pig pen out there—three pigs—that’s more spic and span than this dressing room.” Through the years I noticed that when the time for a break from the show neared, Alfred and Lynn became visibly excited about getting back to their beloved Ten Chimneys.

  Today, Ten Chimneys is a museum. Even though it’s located far from Broadway, there are many travelers and theater enthusiasts who stop in to see the home of American theater’s first couple. Sadly, there are not many of us around anymore who saw the Lunts onstage, and each year the number is dwindling. This year I scheduled a trip to speak at Ten Chimneys, but my plans were interrupted by heart surgery. Hopefully, I’ll get back there soon.

  In 1945, I spent three weeks living on the farm and working with the Lunts on O Mistress Mine. I stayed in the bedroom reserved for their close friend Noel Coward. Each day we rehearsed the play for several hours in their living room. Later I went swimming in their pool, and in the evening Alfred, who was a master chef, cooked us dinner. When I think back on those weeks at Ten Chimneys, I’m astonished at how fortunate I was. Imagine a sixteen year old actor today being invited to live with and rehearse every day with someone like Anthony Hopkins, Kevin Spacey or Meryl Streep. I learned more about acti
ng in those three weeks than I ever imagined possible. They taught me their technique of overlapping lines, and after intense practice sessions I began to get the hang of it. It was all about timing the lines so that it appeared we were talking at the very same time, but never in a way that disrupted the clarity of the words.

  After taking the play on a short road trip in the winter of 1945, O Mistress Mine opened in New York at the Empire Theater on January 23, 1946. Although I generally don’t get nervous before a performance, I remember being anxious that first night on Broadway as every single critic in the city came out to see the Lunts triumphant return. I think I also felt more of a responsibility than ever before. This was a special moment for both Broadway and for the Lunts, and a great deal was riding on my performance. If I did poorly, it would ruin this wonderful moment. Fortunately, it all went well.

  “They came like a whirlwind to the Empire last night,” wrote Lewis Nichols in the New York Times. “The theater is cheerful again. The Lunts are back.” John Chapman of the Daily News exclaimed, “The most celebrated married couple in the modern history of the stage returned from the war in Britain in a comedy which permitted them to make unmarried love to each other.” And Vernon Rice of the Post simply declared: “Good old-fashioned magic returned to the theatre last night.… Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne are home again.”

  And, thankfully, they liked me as well. Ward Morehouse wrote, “Dick Van Patten plays the rebellious Michael, the adolescent Hamlet, and he moves right along with the stars. He has force and a sense of comedy values and his scenes with Lunt are enormously amusing.” In the Times, Nichols reminded his readers of my history onstage as a child and acknowledged that I had moved on: “Dick Van Patten, who used to be Dickie as a child actor now has grown into fierce young manhood. He is serious and intense: some of the best passages are where the minister knows the boy as a viper and the widow knows him not at all.”