by Unknown
In the theater the whole audience rose to applaud as we walked down to our seats. The film was followed in utter silence. Not a cough, a whisper, only very soft sobbing! At the end, just as the picture faded and BEFORE ‘Fin’ appeared, the whole place rose as one and applauded until it became embarressing! That is why I feel that it was a triumph. And why we were all, Tavernier, Jane and myself, really overwhelmed. Consider: a modest picture with three players. In a small, tatty, bourgeoise, villa. Cinemascope, brilliantly used, and in which nothing-very-much-happens. Except that EVERYTHING people experience does. This was clear to an audience if not to that idiot Walker in the Standard who complained that it was unbearably slow and dull, and cliché…. well: Johnson2 in ‘The Times’ got the point. So did all the European Press. Not ONE British person was present at the Conference, which lasted for an hour and a half. Unusual3 if you are not Munroe or Brando! But no member of the British Isles. Odd. Sad. And irritating.
Perhaps, because the film is the French entry and in French for the most part, they felt it was not their business. But, surely, the Cinema is every critic’s business? Anyway there it is .. it was a super evening and the descent down the staircase was even better than the ascent! How they yelled and cheered. Tears were not far away, I assure you. I had come back .. and the wait of eleven years to do something really worth while was worth it. Tavernier is the most adorable of men. I am SO proud for him. He was so quietly overwhelmed. And, a most endearing moment, the film, on a seperate screen all alone in it’s majesty, is dedicated to … Michael Powell. I thought that was pretty decent. It made it fullcircle for me, too, for the very last time I was in that sal[l]e I presented Powell with the highest honour the French can bestow on a film-maker. He was 82 then .. and fiercly proud of getting it. As I was giving it to him. We wont win anything I bet:4 but it does’nt matter .. we won the hearts of a very tough audience completely .. and although I look ghastly (real cinema-verity!) it’s a better performance than ‘Venice’ and more complete, because it is not hacked about in the editing, than ‘Despair’. It’s a much better way to end than that!
At length, to amuse and comfort you, for me! No nightmares .. I cant THINK what I was doing in the middle of the night. Do you? And I talk so much I never notice your silences. Perhaps I bore?
Oh Lord.…
My love dearest –
Dirk XXXX
To Bertrand Tavernier Cadogan Gardens
18 July 1990
Bertrand –
Your letter has given me infinate pleasure. I have been talking about you all bloody week!
To ‘Premier’ and ‘L’Express’ and, yesterday for five long hours, to a guy called John Halpern (?) [Heilpern] for Vogue, New York.
Apparently our film is ‘terrific’ and you and I will be the rage of New York. I’ll believe that when the time comes .. if it does!
But, clearly, the film has made an impact. I am so glad for you .. you took the risk with me. I pray it works.
[…] Nunnaly Johnson1 was a glorious man: I adored him. We made one terrible film (which he wrote very well but could’nt direct) in Rome and southern Calabria. It was originally called ‘La Sposa Bella’ and it starred, originally also, Montgomery Clift and Ava Gardner, Joseph Cotton, Aldo [Fabrizi] and Vittorio de Sica plus Enrico Maria Salerno. They replaced Clift (insurance would’nt take him on) with me.
Well: a big shock for Ava and for Nunnaly .. I arrived from L.A the day before shooting. All was delight! Ava and I loved each other instantly, like Birkin and me .. and Nunnaly. We shot for veritie … she wore no make up, one awful old dress, it was good. After three weeks MGM saw the first set of rushes, had hysterics, ordered the whole 3 weeks to be reshot with Ava dressed by Valentina, shoes by Ferragamo, make-up ta ta ta ta. We all gave in and did as we were told and the film was a disaster. And, as far as I know, was only ever shown on TV late at night. Nunnaly once said to a Press Conference in Rome. ‘Dirk is a very strange guy. I have ruined his career with this picture and he still likes me!’
I did too. So did we all. But he was not a Studio Man and just died when they insisted on glamour. It was, after all, a film about the Civil War in Spain. We were all rather good .. but not dressed by Valentina and Ferragamo and so on. Nunnaly tried to live in London for a while, wrote scripts but nothing much else. He was a wonderful, civilised, man. I still remember him with great affection.
[…] The Harmer1 story sounds a marvellous idea: I dont quite know what you have in mind. Remember, cher amie .. that Micky Balcons daughter, Jill, is still very much alive, and his grandson, Dan Day Lewis is very much in evidence. Mad, but brilliant they say. So you would have to fictionalise the whole thing, and I am not too sure that I am not now far too old to play either of them! Or would be by the time we could get ready to shoot anything. The idea of playing an idealist who is thawarted by the Studio-Setup and driven to drink and death intrigues me greatly. I watched it happen to Bob, he was a sweet, brilliant, funny man, as perhaps you know. I saw it happen to Lewis Milestone, and, eventually, to Cukor. The cruelty and the visciousness was absolute. They had no chance to exist.
It breaks my heart that Huston made such a mess of ‘Under The Volcano’, the only film I have ever longed to make2 .. and nearly did three times, once with the Mexicans, once with Cukor who backed out, and once with Losey who, eventually, dumped me and went with Burton. It never got made … until the Huston debacle which we saw in Cannes at ‘our’ Festival.
But the destruction of an idealist has always facinated me.
I am too old for Volcano and anyway it’s done now, but cant we think of something to do together before I have to play Santa Clause?
[ … ] I miss you. I still have a pile of interviews to do for you and for France. They are already beginning to call us Les Aimants … and I do see why!
[ … T]hank you for ‘Hunted’.3 It arrived this morning. Enfin!
Now all I have to do is go and buy a Video! All my old tapes were the other thing, BTA or whatever it is called. I cant face the idea of chucking them away, on the other hand transferring 150 tapes to VHS will be expensive. So far ‘Hunted’ is my only VHS version .. but I have, as yet, no where to play it.
We’ll see what happens.
Happiness and love ..
As ever
Dirk
To Pat Kavanagh Cadogan Gardens
18 July 1990
Patricia my dear –
There can be nothing worse, I am certain, than a whining author except a whining actor. Disaster strikes when the two are combined!
Which, frankly, is why I have never really tried deliberatly to disturb you in the ‘turning of a sock’ .. I have never truthfully felt that I actually ‘belonged’ somehow.
Apart from loss, which is always devestating when quite unexpected, the gradual decline of ones powers, both physical and mental, is an ugly additive. And when that decline encompasses one’s work, that is to say what one actually does for a living, however modest, then everything slithers into despond. Hence frog in muddy pond.1
Which is where I was. Am, I feel, clambering back to the bank very slowly, but no longer huddled in sludge simpering with misery, rage and, undeniable, frustration of the soul!
The cinema in the shape of Tavernier has wrought a minor, very minor, miracle after twelve fallow years, and now writes to say that he wants to work with me again and will I agree? Can we discuss doing something together and from scratch. That was a splendid lift this morning … and alongside that letter, from Ullapool of all places where he presently is sitting by the sea, is yours.
So it’s a good morning for cheer. For a re-habilitation into the area of self-confidence and belief in ones self. I had completely lost that. Utter, despairingly, wonderingly, hoplessly. Gorn .. as they say. Hence frog and mud metaphor (?)
But thank you.
No. Indeed, there will never be another Tony nor will there ever be another Norah! Impossible. Norah was critic, teacher, bully, vain of me, and determined to
FORCE me. I needed that then. She set me on the rail .. but she’s gone, Tony has gone, and the rail is still there.
I just dont quite know how to get back on again. I will. Never doubt me. I merely doubt myself .. a different matter. And once I am certain that I can manage I bloody well will. You’ll see.
It’s just that I felt a terrific lack of spur .. of a feeling of interest .. going it alone is something everyone has to cope with, and it can be managed. But a bit of a push, a tiny shove in a direction to take, a feeling of enthuasism perhaps .. do rather help.
I felt a loss of that terribly. But now, well, last Sunday even, I felt the prick of a spur when I saw that I had got onto the list again, not bad I said aloud .. thats good. 4th on one 9th on another. And a not-altogether satisfactory book. Read the reviews? I did.
But, you see, no one told me. I got no feed back from Wrights Lane2 of any kind. And of course dont expect it when I see the huge deficite on my Returns. I really did think that perhaps I’d cover most of my advance. But not so. And that really screwd me up. I plodded off to the BBC to do my Start The Week .. flogged the book as best I could, but there was no one there from the firm. No one even knew that I had done it I suppose? [ … ]
However I stray from my path. As usual. Your letter gave me great heart. I will continue. Just let me get the maggoty books on poor Garbo1 out of the way (God! They are dire) for the Telegraph and then I’ll bash on. I can, and I will .. ‘Fade To Black’2 will emerge. I have a shape. All I have to do is write the bugger.
[…] Thank you, dear Pat, for patience and for sense and for help.
And, above all, for believing.
With love –
Dirk
P.S. Maria my Colombian Lady Who Cleans has just said. ‘Me see you Piccadilly yesterday eveningtime.’
I demurred politely. I was doing an interview for Vogue N.Y.
‘No’ said Maria. ‘One shop. You very, very big. And all this book. Many many books. Peoples laughing. Very happy. Big, bigger than the Christus ..’
Okay. I’ll buy that. Hatchards3 one supposes? Good old shop. D.
To Ulric Van den Bogaerde Cadogan Gardens
2 August 1990
Most dear Nephew –
What delight today, at luncheon, to discover your fat, not to say bulging, letter which arrived by the second post. A breathless scrutiny assured me that you were A. Well, B. that I now have yet another grand-nephew4 (Brock has already sired a foul little thing called Leo. Leo and Moses. Christ! A better double-bill I have not heard of. Playing bones? Or jews-harps?) […]
I am busy with the French Press. They arrive every Monday morning from Paris at 11 am .. and depart, exactly,5 at 1.30am. Very civilised and nice, and only want to discuss the film and etc. The sort of conversations which you would enjoy .. and they are, male and female, all Young.
Film, now called ‘These Foolish Things’ in English .. they really could not take Daddy Nostalgi here .. as I knew they would not .... opens in Paris on the 11th Sept .. on the evening of the 10th I have to go to a huge retrospective of my work at the Cinematheque, they are doing about twenty-five clips from my early films which the French have never seen! Including clips from Doctor At Sea in which they will see an 18 year old ravisher called B. Bardot. First time around!
I rather dread it all, but everything is being paid for, and I have my old suite at the Lancaster. So I should worry. Did I tell you that I have had ALL, repeat ALL, my teeth removed? Wonderous. Implants and a flashing smile again without fear of abscesses or bad breath!
I honestly dont know why I did’nt have it done years ago. Too damned expensive I suppose. But it’s worth it. I suppose having a twenty year old smile in a face like an armidillo is a bit silly; but very nice and comfortable. And, so far, no one has commented.
I have been doing my Masterclasses at the Olivier, Old Vic and at the Guildhall .. great fun if a bit tireing. Three hours on yer feet with bouncing questions is a bit tough, but worth doing. I shall take it on again after holidays in November.. fit in between exams .. I really do like being with the young who WANT to learn. The only sad thing, and it really is bloody sad, is that none of them, as far as I can see so far, have a hope in hell. The old saying is cruelly true: You’ve either got it, or you’ve HAD it. But one carries on with them .. why not?
Two of my girls sleep in an empty car by Waterloo Bridge. If they can do that then I reckon I can spare them three hours of my time.
I am really typing very badly today. I hate this daft machine which rings bells and screams and tries to correct my spelling. But they no longer make gods-honour-bang-bang machines. We all have to be so damned clever. Which I am not […] Also we are in soaring temperatures of 35° and London is pretty bloody. People fainting everywhere and squealing about the Heat. Idiots. We are not allowed to water gardens or lawns and there are mutterings about rationing water soon. Apparently each time you have a shit it takes over two gallons to flush it down the pipes into the, crumbling, sewers. All great fun. It’s even getting hard to buy Evian or Volvic. Except that I am Teachers Pet at the grocers and am assured that I’ll be alright. I mean, really! What are we all coming to? Brock in for a beer last night and brought a mass of my old Videos having had them transferred from BETAMAX to VHS for my new machine. Rather wistfully I looked at a long documentary about my house in the Alpes Maritimes .. the last one I agreed to do in the terrible summer of ’86. How pretty it all was. And how certain it all seemed! No such luck. Anyway. Nice memories as well. It was just seeing the dogs again which stung a bit.
[ … ] Next time you write I suggest that you use letter paper rather than cardboard sheets. Cheaper. And someone ripped off one of your rather fancy stamps. I wonder which one it was? The 2.30 ones were all intact. Honestly, you cant leave a fag-end in an ash tray in this benighted city.
Much love …
Your ageing Uncle
Dirk.
OXXO
P.S. Thanks for the snaps of the Child. They have been sent on to the Natural History Museum for their archives. A missing link is ALWAYS vastly interesting to them.
Jack (‘Tony’) Jones died on 12 October.
To Christopher Whittaker1 Cadogan Gardens
16 October 1990
Dear Christopher Whittaker –
It was very good of you to write and give me the news of Jack’s death.
They are not easy letters to write, as I well know, but it is so much better to find out that way than from the Deaths Columns.
We very much lost touch after the war; but he was a brave and valient sailor … and was much respected.
He had, as you are very well aware, a pretty wretched war .. the wounding never healed, and he was constantly in pain but seldome complained.
Alas! the vine gets barer .. thank you so much for writing and please accept my heartfelt sympathy.
Very sincerely
Dirk
To John Osborne Cadogan Gardens
24 October 1990
Dear John –
Do you, I wonder, remember as acutely as I do that very wet Sunday when you and M.U.2 walked up from the Green Line Bus stop in Little Chalfont and, sodden as a pair of seals, you changed clothes, got fed, and handed me the script (type-script) of ‘LOOK BACK IN ANGER’? Remember that? I know that you had the laplander slippers from the cover of ‘A.B.C.O.P’,3 and you said so. All that preamble simply to remind you that, even though we do not see each other now, we have known each other for a very long time.
And since when.
Your letter today has given me the greatest possible pleasure.1 To be judged by ones Peers is always a rather worrying business, but to be judged with such care and encouragment verges on sheer hysteria of delight! I am terrificaly glad that you liked the Independant bit. It has, of course, been greatly misunderstood as a sort-of cry of loneliness and despair. Which, to some extent, it possibly was. Or the sub-text was. But it really WAS supposed to amuse! Those things actually happened to me in my first year i
n this daft town. Those people, as you must know, really did exist .. and in consequence the telephone does’nt even ring on weekdays!2
But I had hoped that it would have amused people rather than got them so sad that they have offered me caravans on sites from Salcombe (with a view of the bay and resident caretaker on the site ..) to Dunoon. People have offered to read to me, write to me, take me [for] walks in Kensington Gardens or, are you ready, the Yorkshire Dales (Peaceful, bliss, REAL people. Not grotesques like London ..).
I do not complain, you understand. Merely fret that people will read things in a different light.
I packed up acting for twelve years in order to try and develope another string to my bow. I really did foolishly think that my life was finally settled in the farm (small holding) in Provence, and that I would never have to leave. I never wanted to. Hence junking the Movies. Idiot fellow. At sixty seven I had to start out all over again. One manages: I went back to the cinema (In France. With Tavernier) and had a whopping success. Gratifying after so many years away!
I think it opens here in Feb. We’ll see. But before that another book has to be delivered somehow. I’m at Chapter 7. It’s agony. I cant write in this town. However; never look back and never look down lest you fall.
One day, perhaps, before I am raddled to death, you and I might be able to get together and do something? It’s about time you know. I admire you greatly; I always have. And you write whopping things for actors to do. I dont mean like the recent bash at ‘L.B.I.A.’3 .. that was disgraceful I thought frankly. Never mind .. rummage about and see if you could find something. Not a Theater Piece. Cant cope with that now. Next time you come up to honour Oscar4 try and remember that I am four hundred yards away. In Lily Langtry’s Laundry.
And it would be terrific to see you again.
