Ever, Dirk: The Bogarde Letters

by Unknown

  The nephew who was here for five months [ … ] is now back in Chicago and hell bent on returning as soon as he can. He just cant take it there. It’s not that he misses his boudin blanc, his glass of wine, Coulommieres just au point, and sitting on the Croisette in the sun eating his oysters .... it’s the total lack of apprehension, of awareness, of conversation without ‘a lift’ … the lack of nuance … the excesses of Drugs for every single ‘turn on’ and the ugliness of everything around him … and the narrowness of the Bible Belt mind. And worse still, he finds, the total lust for money and power and everything haveing to be, as you say in your letter, a high Grosser. Success is all. And Money is success. Natch. But how refreshing to be able to be not-so-rich but expiriment. Anyway he’s coming back to Europe and taking a job … anything rather than spend four years in an American University.

  This letter is pretty ‘all over the place’. Sorry … I miss talking to you … and miss you. Which is pleasant. But then I think you have always known that. At least I remember assuring you years ago. You were probably not as trusting then as you are today? Water under bridges … but sometimes in life people really do mean what they say.

  Good luck with ‘Agatha’ … I mean the book … and when you know a little what your plans must be, do let me know. A P.C does very well if there is’nt time for more. And there probably wont be .... but dont go away …

  My devoted love – D.

  To Norah Smallwood Clermont

  28 April 1978

  My very dear Norah –

  Although the sun is out, at last, and eight dozen petunias stand impatient for planting, not to mention white geraniums and a host of phlox Drummondi and a rather obscene looking root which, I am assured by Mmme Schnieder, is a Lotus with flowers as large as dinner plates and which must be shortly buried in the sludge of the pond … inspite of all these temptations .. here I am at my little Electric and relying to your lovely, encouraging, letter of the 26th.

  I’m better now. Thank you. It was all my own fault because I ate quantites of pomme de terre Grenobloise, two helps, which are vastly rich and fearfully dangerous for someone like myself who has almost no liver at all … or rather a liver which must resemble, on close inspection, a shredded dish-cloth. Apparently all ones organs are very much concerned with each other, which is irritating … and one scrumptious dinner can cause havoc all down the line. As it did with me. And so no booze, maddening, for ages .. and no cream, sauces, butter, fats, anything, in fact which is delicious to eat, for as long as I can stand it. And now I am reduced to the dullest diet of ham and salad or white fish BOILED, and hard cheese, and .... oh the hell with it all.

  Glad the captions are alright [ … A]nd two ‘snaps’ on the page are far better than three … I always think a cluttered page is a cluttered page. I like to have a good look at things … unless they are pictures of H. Nicholson or a bad car crash. Different, but both unpleasing in their ways. Oh! the ‘neatness’ and the chicken-bottom-mouth of Nicholson!

  A ‘rehearsal’ by Dirk for his drawing of Clermont in Snakes and Ladders.

  I really must stop! A diet of Leese Milne1 is dangerous on an empty stomach. Finished him off, gladly, last night.

  A scratchy, snobbish, little saga. Very well worth reading but a kind of Jennifers Diary written with acid. Clever fellow I admit. About Adams and Gibbons and Emeralds ‘Ordinaries’ … now starting the Tolstoy.2 So that’ll be a bit of a rest from spite and self-pity.

  Oh, I’m honest enough alright. Not ambigious much .. which has got me into all manner of trouble in the last fifty years or so. People, in general, dont awfully like honesty. It has to be carefully administered .. like small doses of cortisone. The side effects can be hideious! I know only too well.

  […] I am glad, if surprised a little, that you like the idea for opus 3. I think it’ll work myself. Calling it, provisionally, ‘Postscript’.1 Which may not be any use … and is not the prettiest of words .. but I do have to have a title to work to. Do you know what I mean?

  I shall be honest! But I must cut a lot of guff and emotional stuff which is faintly sick-making read out of context. And a lot of stuff which has been covered in Vols 1 and 2 already … Grandfather in his Chinese bed … starting with Rank … the family background … etcetera. But there is a mass of amusing, sad, curious stuff … a long letter I came across written after the filming of DIV in which I am calmly convinced that I have ‘fucked it up’, not greatly, but ‘just enough to ruin the chance I had been given.’ It is a curious letter, written from the calmest of hearts, and not a little bit hysterical or anything … but exactly how I most privatly felt.2 I was wrong-ish, as it turned out, but it was a ‘near miss’ I feel.

  Anyway: I’ll have a go at things … not immediatly of course, there is much to do on ‘Snakes’ … but it is seething about in my head like a simmering casserole. Thats a condradiction of effects, is’nt it? A casserole either simmers OR seeths. Well mine is doing both now .. for the gestation period is upon me. I must just work out what to eliminate from the point of view of things already written .. and things which might be tiresome for her3 family and friends, many of whome, I gather still survive all over the place, and who knew, eventually, about this odd correspondance between a brilliant Lady Librarian and a Fillum Star. You can imagine Mr Leese Milne on that!

  Now: this wont do. Writing away like I am … and boring you … and irritating the petunias who wait with drooping leaves looking very longingly at the beds already prepared. Rather like an invalide who has been carried to a chair while the nurse re-makes the couch, and plumps up the pillows. A longing to return. […]

  Love

  Dirk.

  To Kathleen Tynan Clermont

  14 June 1978

  Dearest Kathleen –

  I wonder where you are? I am sending this to the only address I have for you .. knowing (or believing) that you are soon to vacate the place. Where to then?[…]

  The proofs1 and a very glossy cover arrived a couple of days ago. I started almost at once, and then had to give up and make lunch for six … that sort of time here as you may remember. I got as far as chapter three only … so for the moment I rest. Until I can get to bed tonight or find a corner of the day into which I may drag both book and body away from people wanting ice for drinks, towels for the Hippo Pool, a trowel for the weeding or a stamp for a postcard.

  Facinated how you have managed Truth-Fiction and have no idea where the one begins or the other ends … so far all VERY persuasive indeed .. and a super Period athmosphere … and a sort of Katy-did-her-very-own Whodunnit, which is a splendid departure for Katy, and very interesting indeed. Mind you, by the time I get to Chapter 11 or so I may be as irritated as I usually am by Whodunnits. Even D. L Sayers ones! But, seriously, so far so very, very excellent, economical, swift, and holding.

  The Festival (Film) was a sort of Nightmare as usual. A record crowd of foul people … and foul-er films. The main poster in the town was one for something called ‘The Stud’2 which showed a ladys bum with a fellows hand sliding into the crevis. Simple I suppose.

  In the Carlton bar, the first afternoon I had to go down there, we were slightly astonished, at three in the afternoon, to see a completely naked lady standing at the bar swigging beer from a bottle and spilling the foam into her pubic hair. To be utterly fair, she was wearing a cowboy hat and a gun holster. Her name was Eadie Williams3 I gather, from the U.S, and she had recently buried an axe in her husbands head. It was a noticed case. Everyone one hates most was there with different wives, wigs and cigars … Rank were advertising splendidly. ‘Apres dix annes de silence Le Gong De Ronk (sic) Sonnez Encore!!’ cried the banner headline.4 The films ranged from ‘The Wombles’ to another re-make of ‘39 Steps’ .... we were spellbound. Especially an Argentinian Distributor who asked me anxiously how he could be expected to sell ‘Tarka The Otter’ and ‘The Wombles’ in Rosario ....

  The Star Names were the ubiquitious M. York (plus wife) and someone called Jenny
Agutter … which by all standards she should change. It sure as Hell made for a glamorous line up. We entertained a good deal .. had House Guests from Connecticut for two weeks … one being Mrs Cornelieus Ryan who is a new widow and busy writing a book on her husbands last months which is to be called ‘The Cancer Tapes’1 … she made tinkling laughter on the terrace. A wild flurry of escapees came up for supper and lunches .. Skolimowski2 from Warsaw, a grumpy Pole with considerable charm who patently looked forward to his return there … Givenchy with a cluster of nobles and a sun-tan .. a tall Russian who MAY direct a film with Signoret and myself in Spring, or even earlier, whose name I cant spell but the last part is Kontchalovski3 and who had a sparkling eye and too-tight jeans .. (according to Capucine who was deeply suspicious because he was wearing a Cartier watch and had delayed his trip home to Moscow to have dinner with me. She was worried that he had no interpreter or ‘watchdog’ and sensed not all was ‘well’ somehow.) However he seemed very pleasant and creative .. and was prettier, and much taller, than Nureyev and seemed to be enjoying everything except Cannes.

  Eventually everyone left and the town was fumigated and I went to the dentist … seem to spend a lot of my time there now … and life settled into it’s natural Summer Orbit with London Pale Guests and flagons of Cotes de Luberon which Ken would despise but which is cheap and not quite what Kathleen Whitehorn insists on as ‘plonk’. Blazing sun for a time and rain today and folorn guests watching the rain splatter the Hippo Pool and bow the Petunias. No watering tonight! Hurrah!

  My second effort comes out on October 5th … just done the damned Proofs .. hate that part .. and caption for the snapshots .. hate that too … and Forwood has done, very generously, the Index. 500 names … some 350 pages of book to wade through .. I think it is okish. Or should that be OKAYISH? Anyway the Book Society has ordered 12.000 already … so I hope to make a little sale. I suppose the Garland-Kendall-Losey-Visconti bit will help.

  I have to ‘do’ the whistle stop tour with it in England. Gone are the days of elegance when someone bought your book … or did not … now you have to go out and bash the shit out of them for their wretched six quid. If Ustinov could do it I suppose I can .. although, it must be faced, he is marginally funnier … if you have’nt heard the patter before.

  Spent a week in London (did I tell you?) in April. Ma’s birthday and so on .. and Publishers. Connaught super. Bill astronomical. I did’nt get pissed this time but Tote practically passed out with a whacking great double abscess on a tooth … and that was a dainty dance of cherchez the dentist at dawn. I HATED London. Dirty, sour, bad-tempered, expensive and doomed it seemed. I was deeply glad to get home. Bought a few bits and pieces at Acquescutam .. cant spell it .. and some soap and bath oils from Floris .. and Veganine and a mass of books from Hatchards and fled. Saw no one really but family. And missed none.

  So here we all are, then. In the rain. And June almost half way through … when will you come out to play? Or wont you? And what news of the Film anyway? Rumours in Cannes were rife … family problems, Script problems, as you know only too well, and Production problems. All sounds deeply familiar and I only hope to God you got paid [ … ] I wonder what [J. Pierre1]’ll say when he discovers that as well as Veganine and grey flannels I also bought an IMMENSE Leonard Roserman2 at the Fine Arts ..... well: I like it. It arrived in a crate last week and now hangs supreme in the cock-pit here. I wince a little at the price and open another flagon of cotes de Luberon. And better, this very minute, go and make some Earl Greys (plural did you know? Not in ‘Agatha’) and hope that no one will ask me to light the fire [ … ]

  You are missed considerably … actually it is true to say that T and I said flatly and honestly after the last lot departed that you are the only POSSIBLE person to share this house with. Even for a couple of weeks. And that is the highest accolade I can offer you. And it’s true. So there.

  And come and share the place again soon .. please? Who knows how many more summers we shall have on this pleasant terrace. Who can tell?

  With devoted love –

  As ever

  Dirk.

  To Ann Skinner Clermont

  21 November 1978

  Annie dear –

  It is always such joy to have a letter from you. Even if it is carping. I mean about the Index of ‘Snakes’ of course. But you see, well … I mean if you read the sodding thing you’ll discover just how impossible it was to avoid the Dreaded Baron.3 She got me the job!

  I DID try to mention every single loving name within the pages but Chatto and Windus got uptight, naturally, and so I made it a bit shorter. The list I mean. However there is quite a lot left for you to play with … and remember … and a great deal written between the lines on account of Libel in England! I said some tough little things about some very tough little men: all out. Even had to call Judy’s god-awful Agents by a jokey name instead of Leopold and Loeb: which is what they are and what she called them. No go. So you see it is quite a frustrating business writing your memoirs! However it has been a rollicking success so far. Second print within the first four weeks … and according to the Bookseller it’s been on the Top Ten for five weeks alongside the paperback of ‘Postillion’. So thats alright. Kenny More secretly came out with his book1 on the same day. Which shattered everyone in sight. In Publishing it is as henious a crime, and as daft, as us opening a couple of Movies on the same subject with many of the same players on the same night in neighbouring cinemas. But for very differing Companies. However he has slipped a bit at the wayside I hear. (Seven people only turned up at Selfridges for a signed copy … not much fun.)

  I had a super Tour of the Provinces myself. Rather dreaded it but simply loved it once we were off … British Rail to Birmingham, Bristol .. (Remember Bristol? ‘When did you last read a book?’2 Oxford and etcetera … it was a glorious wallow in nostalgia for me. I had not been around those parts for many years and really DID think that no one would bother to come, or would remember, or even have heard of me.

  The reverse was true. It was very moving indeed. Actually, in Birmingham, I did manage to controll a quite large lump in my throat and a suspiciously moist eye! Such warmth and kindness was totally unexpected. And no one blamed me for going abroad. They merely wistfully said ‘Why dont we make those Movies any more … we’re sick to death of Telly’ which I could heartily endorse.

  After I got back from every Trip to the Connaught at eight something in the evening I just crashed down with a brandy and soda and had a baked potato and cold beef and watched an hour, nightly, of Telly … and then went to bed like a good boy, to get my face un-crumpled for the next day. No good going off to the Provinces with a face like an old douche-bag. But the Telly I saw was ghastly! The Bruce Forsythe thing .. first show, saw Bette Middler and was spellbound, but apart from her … Wow! Even lovely Ian Holm as J.M. Barry made me anxious to fully retire. And there was nothing much else in the whole ten days .... parlour games, dire Policiers, dreadful Lillie Langtry … with all the nobility talking with voices from Cheam to Chester. Oh dear.

  But of all the super things I discovered on my trips the MOST super was that I had bridged the Generation Gap unknowingly. While five hundred elderly ladies with shopping bags grabbed my hand and spoke wistfully of ‘A Tale Of Two Cities’ or ‘The Wind Cannot Read’ five hundred ‘kids’ in jeans and old scarves or tee shirts, banged away at me with tremendous questions about things like ‘Despair’ and ‘Providence’ and, most especially, ‘Night Porter’. All VERY serious. All super. Naturally ‘Death In Venice’ was THE movie, and I signed as many copies of the Penguin paperback and recordings of Mahler as I did my own effort. I was tremendously thrilled. I tell you all this only because you are about to embark, dangerously, into a world of Commercial Shits and you must have your courage strengthened! There is an audience for the kind of movies we try to make, you and I [ … ] but the only people who are’nt aware of this are the Distributors themselves … or the ghastly men who run Rank and EMI an
d the frail rest. It’s all re-makes of old hits with new, and dreadful, ‘stars’. I mean, alright, she’s pretty .. but who is Jenny Agutter .. or the Dotrice girls all neat and tidy from Wimbledone .. or Someone Mckorkindale1 … and of course all the ‘Yorks’ and ‘Alice Bates’ .... if you know what I mean! I love Alice. Think some of her work is splendid … most spurious [sic]. But why does no one ever use Felicity Kendal REALLY? Or Julie Covington? Helen Mirren? Tom Courtney? … ah shit. There are lots more … but they work in the Theater. In my day it was exciting. Even in your day too, at the beginning … Julie … where is another ‘Julie’ today? Maybe Felicity … where is there a Kay Kendall?

  Enough.

  Smashing news that you still go on with Pinter. I have read all the reviews for ‘Betrayal’ with mounting fury. Why do they disparage him so? Why do they constantly prove how little they actually know … and how out of touch they are with the Public! I love him so, that I twist with anger at the dumbness of the twats who review. Especially Madam [Bernard] Levin who is cloaking herself in the raiment of the old Masters, she thinks! like [James] Agate and even, I grudgingly agree, [Harold] Hobson … but it is false raiment. He was down here this summer on a Hol. I have never seen such affected nonsense in all my life! A timely reminder about Mr Tynan would’nt come amiss there.…

  [ … ] Had Betty Box down for a week .... rather sad and heavy going. Her world has crashed around her it appears … and the effort now to try and start a movie is almost too much for her. I did my best to bully and bash, she is a bright woman and was a splendid Producer .. far better than Thomas was ever a Director. But she is worn out, disillusioned, lost .... hateful to see. And, what is far worse, out of touch. Oh dear. She said that you might be doing a film for him? If so I can only hope it is to secure the roof or pay the Rates … there cant be any other reason I feel.