Neil came down for that last weekend, but the night before my departure I was so weary that I fell asleep on him. I woke in the middle of the night to find him sulky and morose. He had been expecting a tender and loving farewell, and I had completely passed out from fatigue.
When I finally boarded the plane the next day, I had a breakdown of sorts. I suddenly felt freezing cold, then broke out in a sweat with a knife-sharp pain in my bosom. I’ve only experienced that feeling twice in my life, both times from complete and utter exhaustion.
By the time we landed in London, I was feeling a little better. My family was thrilled to see me, and it was a lovely time of telling tales and visiting with everyone. It was grand to see my siblings. Mum and Pop were indeed back together again, though I don’t recall that I saw much of him. He may have kept his distance—and I was certainly busy.
Soon after I returned to England, Neil followed. I believe he had a job offer. I knew in my heart that there was no point in discussing marriage anymore. We saw each other a few times in London, and I remember a taxi ride when we both agreed it was over.
Tony Walton had returned home from Canada in late 1954. Subsequently he had been studying at the Slade School of Art in London and was also working part-time at the Wimbledon Theatre, providing him with a wonderful combination of idealistic training along with the basics—the nuts and bolts of practical theater.
I was invited to his twenty-first birthday party. I understood that he had a new girlfriend, and that took me by surprise. Although we had corresponded during The Boy Friend, it had never occurred to me there might be someone else in his life. (Pretty crass of me, given my own behavior with Neil.) But our friendship was so unique, the bond between us so unshakable; we were as much like brother and sister as anything else. I felt a part of his family, he of mine. This new girlfriend definitely seemed like an intruder to me. I went to his birthday celebration, but I don’t remember her being there.
At some point, Tony and I repaired to his room to chat, and I asked him if he still had a record album of Daphnis and Chloe, which had been one of our mutual favorites. He put it on the phonograph, and hokey as it sounds, that music helped make it perfectly obvious to us both that there was still a great deal of feeling between us.
Everything about Tony felt so safe, so reassuring, known and loved. After the confusion of the year in America and the seesawing relationship with Neil, it was a huge relief to be close to someone I knew—and who knew me—so well.
I WASN’T ABLE to spend the entire three months at home. During the month of November, I flew to Los Angeles to appear with Bing Crosby in a television musical of High Tor, adapted by Maxwell Anderson from his drama of the same name. The music was by Arthur Schwartz, with lyrics by Anderson. It was my American television debut.
The trip to L.A. was pleasant enough, but it was a weird time in my life, almost a suspended moment. Lou Wilson planned to join me, but he could not get there until a couple of days after my arrival.
I landed at night in the vast, empty, sprawling city. My hotel was on the outskirts of Beverly Hills, with office buildings in every direction; no restaurants, no snack bars—nothing like New York or London. I began to unpack, and felt hungry. The hotel had no restaurant or room service, so I called the hall porter, who offered to send out for a sandwich. I didn’t know where I was in relation to the city, and I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get around. I was relieved when Lou arrived.
Arthur Schwartz and his wife took me under their wing. They could not have been kinder—treating me as a young protégée about to be launched on a waiting world. They wanted to show me off and have me meet as many people as might help my career. A dinner was held for me at their house in Beverly Hills. It was a big gathering and I was asked to sing a couple of the songs from High Tor. Arthur played for me, and though I felt shy, everyone was friendly and appreciative.
The television show was daunting, to say the least. I knew nothing about film, and I remember the early morning makeup calls, my inexperience with cameras and close-ups.
Bing had been told that I was twenty-four years of age—four years older than I actually was, because the producers felt (probably correctly) that he would have thought me too young for the role and would never have hired me. He was a pleasant man, relaxed and easy in his own skin.
One day David Niven visited Bing on the set and we sat together for a while. I listened as these two very attractive and charming men reminisced about their early years, and I have seldom laughed as much. They were truly funny, and kept topping each other’s stories, which were witty and outrageous.
Many years later, my husband Blake made two films with David, and we often saw him at our home in Switzerland. We adored him. I don’t know anyone who didn’t.
Bing and I worked together well, though I felt my performance was very stilted. I was just readying myself to go home for Christmas, when Bing asked if I would like to go to the Rose Bowl with him and his family to see an important football game. I think he felt I might appeal to one of his older sons.
I replied, “Oh, it’s terribly nice of you, Bing, but I’ve got a huge amount of packing to do. I think perhaps I’d better stay and do that.”
He looked at me in total disbelief.
“I have tickets in the owners’ box and my sons will be there. It’s the playoffs—almost the biggest game of the year.”
I looked at him blankly.
“Well, it’s really lovely of you,” I said. “But honestly, I do have to pack.”
I was shy, and couldn’t imagine what I would say to his sons, so I went home. What a dummy. What an experience that would have been.
Bing gave me a lovely little pendant on the last day of shooting: a pearl-encrusted angel, inscribed “Julie, thanks. Bing.” Alas, High Tor was not a memorable piece, and received only lukewarm reviews.
CHRISTMAS WAS AT home, as was the New Year.
Alan Jay Lerner writes in his wonderful autobiography, The Street Where I Live, that most of the cast of My Fair Lady planned to arrive in New York a week prior to the start of rehearsals on January 3, but I delayed traveling there until the last possible moment, because I’d had so little time with my family since returning from The Boy Friend in September. Alan couldn’t know the reasons behind my insistence on the delay, but I simply had to be home through the holidays, especially for Don and Chris.
Repacking with the knowledge that I was now going to be away for two years, my mind and emotions were in a state of chaos. The weight of responsibilities looming in every direction seemed more than I could shoulder. Though Tony had plans to join me in New York as soon as he could, I was once again deeply anxious about leaving the boys and my mother, and for such a long time. The situation at The Meuse had not changed. Who would keep them safe? Who would cheer them and help banish the bleak depression in the household?
I remember saying sad good-byes to the family at Heathrow Airport and boarding the huge Stratocruiser with Lou Wilson, who had been in London and was accompanying me back.
As our flight took off, I wept as if my heart would break. Lou seemed puzzled at first, then became quite concerned. I sat beside him and bawled my eyes out. I couldn’t explain why, and I couldn’t stop. It was a tidal wave of emotion.
The flight took about eleven hours, I think. The plane had fore and aft seating sections with stacked sleeping quarters in the center, much like berths on a train. I sat beside Lou and tearfully hiccuped my way through dinner, which I barely touched. I was grateful to climb into the narrow bunk, pull the curtains closed, and once more let go of my emotions.
THIRTY-ONE
DURING MY BRIEF stay at home, Alan and Fritz had come over to London, and I’d gone to see them in a hotel just off Bond Street. It was there that I first met Rex Harrison, who was to play the leading role of Henry Higgins. He was tall and thin, his clothes exquisitely tailored. He was sophisticated, with a clear sense of himself, albeit somewhat egocentric. He was definitely the center of
attention.
We listened to the new songs that had been added to the show. My Fair Lady was taking shape wonderfully.
Alan Lerner told me that My Fair Lady was originally entitled Fanfaroon—a man who blows his own horn. The title My Fair Lady comes from the song “London Bridge Is Falling Down,” those three words being the very last line of the ditty. Its melody can be heard briefly in the overture of the show.
I had been working on the music with Madame Stiles-Allen. She had recently donated the Old Farm outside Leeds to the Yorkshire College of Music and Drama, and had moved south to a pretty cottage in West Kingsdown, Kent. She prepared me for “Just You Wait,” which is a dangerous song for the voice because it has to be sung so angrily, even shouted at times. Madame taught me, as always, to emphasize the consonants for vocal clarity and safety.
REHEARSALS FOR My Fair Lady were held at the New Amsterdam Theater on 42nd Street. Lou escorted me there the first day. I was once again staying at the Park Chambers Hotel, this time in a room of my own. I remember scanning the streets as we drove down Broadway, superstitiously looking for a sign, some omen that would give me the much-needed confidence to begin the marathon. Strangely, I saw not one, but three.
There was the “My Fair Lady Nail Salon,” “Pygmalion Clothiers,” and “Andrews Coffee Shop.” Good!
The New Amsterdam had once been a grand and glorious theater, home to the famous Ziegfeld Follies. In its upper reaches there was a smaller rooftop theater.
I learned that when the Follies played in the main theater below, the chorus ladies went upstairs after the performance, removed most of their already scant costumes, and paraded on a glass catwalk above the tables of the elite club.
By the time we began rehearsals in 1956, both theaters were in terrible shape; the larger one was now a cinema. The upstairs was never used, run-down, filled with dust, an old empty space, though the little stage and remains of the catwalk were still there. But it allowed us enough room to put the show on its feet, and it afforded some seats on the floor area for the creative team to observe the rehearsals. It also gave us complete privacy. I believe our company was the first to use it after it had been shut for so many years. Since then it has been magnificently restored by the Disney Company and is the linchpin of the 42nd Street rejuvenation.
AND SO I come to Moss Hart. The great Moss Hart, the director of My Fair Lady, and later Camelot. The man who created six plays with George S. Kaufman; the man responsible for Winged Victory and for Lady in the Dark with Gertrude Lawrence; the man who worked with Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, Richard Rodgers, Kurt Weill, and wrote the screenplays of Gentleman’s Agreement and the original A Star Is Born, to mention but a few of his many accomplishments.
There has hardly been a day since that era of my life when my thoughts haven’t turned to dear Moss. He has been much in my mind during the writing of this autobiography. At times I have invoked his name aloud, asking for his guidance. I still sense him as a constant presence. How does one adequately describe a man who, over time, completely captured my heart? Hopefully, as these pages continue, he will emerge, and the reader will understand why it was that everyone loved him.
Simply, he was a well-built man, with dark, receding hair, full, gentle lips, piercing brown eyes, well-defined eyebrows, and surprisingly large ears. In retrospect, he looked a little like George Gershwin; they could have been brothers.
Moss’s aura was compelling, his intellect witty and sharp, his nature endearing. He was a unique and magnetic man. He had a slight stoop and, during rehearsals, would pad to and fro in the “earth shoes” he had specially made for him. He often clenched a pipe between his teeth, though, to my knowledge, it was never lit. He had a penchant for antique cuff links and wore a gold signet ring. He was warm, friendly, funny, and he embraced us all. Indeed, he embraced the world, and all the good things in it.
On that first day of rehearsals, the upstairs theater at the New Amsterdam had been made ready for the initial reading of the play.
The cast members were seated on rows of chairs, arranged in a shallow semicircle, the principals sitting in the front. I sat with Rex, Stanley Holloway (playing Eliza’s father, Alfred Doolittle), Robert Coote (Colonel Pickering), lovely Cathleen Nesbitt (Henry Higgins’s mother), and Michael King (Freddy Eynsford-Hill).
Opposite us, long tables and chairs had been set up for the production team: Moss sat in the center, and Herman Levin (our producer), Hanya Holm (choreographer), Oliver Smith (designer of the glorious sets), Cecil Beaton (creator of the exquisite costumes), Abe Feder (lighting), and Franz Allers (maestro of the orchestra) sat either side of him—plus members of the production and stage management staff.
In retrospect, I cannot think of a more celebrated, talented, awesome team to helm one show. Almost everyone connected with the musical that day had a distinguished biography that would fill several pages in Who’s Who.
Oliver Smith’s sketches for the sets and some of Beaton’s costume designs had been put on display for the company to see. Alan and Fritz sat at the piano to one side of the stage.
After some initial press photos were taken, we began the business of the first read-through. Moss read the stage directions; Lerner sang the songs. He wasn’t exactly a singer, and one was never sure he was going to make the higher notes (“…and ohhhh, the towering fee-ling” from “On the Street Where You Live” was a big hazard!). But he sang with conviction, and it is always riveting to hear a score interpreted by its author. Fritz played with enormous panache and gusto, smiling benevolently at everyone.
Our production stage manager, a bear of a man with a warm voice and comforting manner by the name of Samuel “Biff” Liff, was friendly, supremely professional, and patient. His two assistants, Jerry Adler and Bernie Hart (Moss’s brother), were affable and gracious, and sat next to him.
I was acutely aware that Rex appeared at home in his role already. All the cast members read well. I, on the other hand, was absolutely unsure of a single line I uttered. I remember feeling oddly distant, like an onlooker watching the proceedings from afar.
I had no idea how to do a cockney accent. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to study it before we began. Some idiotic part of me must have thought that I could wing it. A man called Alfred Dixon was hired as a dialect coach for me. I saw the irony of taking English cockney lessons from an American professor of phonetics—my own personal Henry Higgins!
Costume fittings for the show began almost immediately. I knew more about Cecil Beaton than I knew of Moss or Fritz or Alan. I knew that he was British, highly esteemed, and considered very grand; that he had created costumes for many British productions, including several Noël Coward plays; and that he was also a celebrated portrait photographer long favored by members of the Royal Family. I was pretty intimidated by him at first.
The costumes were being made at the Helene Pons Studio on West 54th Street. Helene was a diminutive Italian woman, very busy, very pressured, full of energy, and a little mother to me.
At one point in the show, I had to wear one costume over another in preparation for a very quick change between scenes. When Eliza returns from the glamorous ball, she is wearing a full-length black velvet cape, and one supposes she has her ball gown beneath it, but I was in fact underdressed with the skirt and blouse of a yellow suit. Eliza has a fiery argument with Higgins and storms out. There is barely time in the quick scene change to don the suit jacket and shoes and add a new hairpiece and hat for the scene that immediately follows.
The Helene Pons Studio was on the thirteenth floor of a skyscraper, and whenever there was a high wind, the building really swayed. One day in early February, I was fitting the yellow suit and the velvet cloak on top of it. Beaton was a taskmaster, and I had been standing a long time on a small dais while the hemlines were marked and the cloak pinned. Several seamstresses had been jostling and poking me. I felt the building swaying and I suddenly became unbearably hot. Then I began to sway, and I knew I was about to faint. I
broke out in a sweat and had to lie down on Helene’s couch. Beaton was not sympathetic.
“Oh dear,” he complained, flapping his long, delicate hands in a helpless fashion. “Somebody do something. Get her some water or a fan.”
AFTER MY BEAUTIFUL ball gown was made ready for the show, Beaton requested a photo session with me. I tried to give it my all—leaning against the balustrade in his studio as gracefully as I could, while he took lots of pictures.
“Lovely, lovely, lovely,” he murmured in a slightly bored voice, his camera clicking continuously. Then again, “Lovely…yes, lovely.”
I thought maybe I was making some headway and beginning to impress.
“Now give me a profile. Yes. Now look at the camera. Lovely!…Of course you are the most hopelessly un-photogenic person I have ever met.”
Beaton sort of got my goat. Because we were both British, I quickly picked up on something: he was grander than he had any right to be. Maybe I sensed arrogance or hidden ambition. Certainly he acted like a snob.
I began to tease him a little, using my developing cockney accent to good effect when I felt he was being condescending or indifferent. And he liked it! I would glimpse the teeniest crack of a smile on his pursed lips and a slight twinkle in his eye when I deliberately flaunted a lower-class attitude. Eventually I believe we came to appreciate each other, and his glorious costumes made one forget everything else, anyway.
MOSS CHOSE A late afternoon and evening rehearsal schedule, which allowed time in the morning for all the other things we had to do. We began working every day at 2:00 P.M., took a break for dinner at 5:30 P.M., and then reassembled from 7:00 until 11:00 in the evening. Stanley Holloway and I kept up the British tradition of a cup of tea at 4:00 in the afternoon, and soon everyone was enjoying that welcome little break.
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