Conversations in the Raw

by Rex Reed

  “Shall we have tea?” asks Leonard. “Paramount is paying for everything for the whole weekend, then we have to go back home, so we might as well have tea.”

  Leonard is a London boy with a cockney accent that he worries about a lot (Romeo is not supposed to be common) who lives with his family in a suburb called Woodgreen. Olivia was born in Buenos Aires, the daughter of an Argentine opera singer who died when she was two and an English mother who works as a secretary and lives with Olivia in a tiny flat near the Tower of London. For this particular weekend, they are both on their own.

  “This is a super room,” says Olivia, biting the ends of her hair. We all look around at the suite, which looks like the inside of a ship, with portholes, Thirties chrome lamps and slipcovers right out of old Myrna Loy movies. “I hate mine,” says Leonard, “it overlooks a brick wall. I’m going to ask Franco if I can get it changed to one of those suites that overlook the Thames.” Both of them are typically British teenagers, the kind who throw Granny Smith apple cores at bobbies in Piccadilly Circus. Ten minutes with them and you know they aren’t Romeo and Juliet.

  Tea arrives, as Leonard lapses into a deep discussion with the photographer, who is trying to snap pictures as he leaps about the room like a cocker spaniel. “Is that a Nikon? Could I work it?” “I hate tea,” says Olivia.

  Up in Franco Zeffirelli’s suite, the kids collapse on a Victorian sofa giggling over their press clippings. It is clear at once that both of them adore Zeffirelli, a cherubic-looking man with soft blond hair falling across his forehead who sits regally in a lavender rosewood chair in a room that looks like the inside of an Easter egg. “I saw 800 girls and 800 boys before I chose Olivia and Leonard. They had the exact qualities. She had to be strong and he had to be gentle. I created a chemistry in this pair. I didn’t want stars. The screen needs new images and new idols, and they are total unknowns.” (Well, not exactly. Leonard was the Artful Dodger for 15 months in the London production of Oliver! and appeared with Laurence Olivier for 13 months in Love for Love. Olivia appeared for two years with Vanessa Redgrave in The Prime of Miss Jean Broadie.) “I had to train them to have confidence. There were problems—” looking at them sternly—“but for every keyhole there’s a key. This is basically a story of young people finding identity in a troubled era, just like today. The way they play it, it is like today. You believe it. The main problem was to make them feel natural in every scene. I didn’t want actors who could pretend to be Romeo and Juliet, I wanted them to be Romeo and Juliet. It’s amazing. I watched them change cells, change bones, grow in the process of tragedy. They started like babies and ended up mature, with the tenderness of young animals. They are so dear, like young virgins.” Well, not exactly. Leonard has been out until 2:30 in the morning at the Bag of Nails, a popular London discotheque, and keeps complaining of a hangover. Zeffirelli shoots him shut-up looks as his assistant, a pretty English girl in a powder-blue suit, named Sheila Pickles, announces they must all break for a luncheon interview. “I feel sick,” moans Olivia, as the door to the Easter egg closes.

  At 2:45, I’m back at the Savoy waiting for the kids to be shuttled off to the BBC for a television interview. Leonard appears in a new Edwardian suit of navy-blue corduroy with an Aunt Jemima bandana around his neck. Olivia wears a simple A-frame mini-dress. We pile into the limousine and head up the Strand, around the National Gallery and up toward Buckingham Palace. “Is the flag down? The Queen must be out of town.” “She’ll be there Monday night, won’t she?” “I’ve never met the Queen. I’m scared to death.”

  Olivia sits silently, smoking Benson and Hedges, staring out the window in a mood. Leonard sings a pop song loudly. Zeffirelli says something shocking to Sheila Pickles in Italian and Leonard laughs. “You little bastard, you’re not supposed to understand Italian!” Zeffirelli grins, “They picked it up in Rome.”

  After we arrive at the BBC, the kids are led off to the studio where the interview will take place and Sheila turns to me: “Olivia is very shy. She doesn’t talk about herself. Leonard’s all right, but she’s very difficult. She did a radio interview the other day and the lady said, ‘Here you are with a plum role thousands of girls would love to have, how does it feel?’ and Olivia said, ‘It’s OK.’ We’ve had a time with them in interviews. Everyone expects them to be Romeo and Juliet, but they’re just ordinary, healthy, well-adjusted English teenagers and it’s hard for them to be something they’re not. We’ll all be glad when it’s all over.”

  From the control room we can see the announcer, Tony Bilbo, trying to warm them up over the color monitors. “I’ll start with you, Mr. Zeffirelli, and then continue to Miss Hussey.”

  “Oh no!” cries Olivia, “I don’t want to . . . you won’t ask me very much, will you?”

  Leonard is picking his nose. Olivia bites her fingernails. “Well,” says Bilbo, “then I’ll ask young Whiting here how he got started as the Artful Dodger.” “I just went in and did my bit,” says Leonard. We all wince. “Well,” says Bilbo frantically, “what kind of TV do you watch?”

  “I never watch TV.” “Do you not like it or what?” “I can’t afford to buy one.” Miss Pickles moans audibly.

  Crisis! Olivia needs some chewing gum. “Give her a chew of tobacco,” quips one of the engineers, who receives a hard stare from Miss Pickles.

  “Leonard’s got a running nose, anybody got a tissue?” Leonard comes into the control room, blowing his nose.

  “It reminds me of the time we did a telly in New York,” says Miss Pickles gaily, trying to soothe everyone’s jumbled nerves, “and it was very tense. Five-four-three-two-one … then the announcer said, ‘Many good things come from Italy, one of the best is’—and Franco got up to be introduced—‘spaghetti. Ronzoni Spaghetti.’ We were all so embarrassed.”

  Out on the set, the announcer is trying to cheer Olivia. “Have you seen the new Bet Davis film?” (The British always mispronounce Bette as “Bet.”) “It’s very funny.” No response. “They clamp a red eye-patch on her eye.” Olivia frowns. “I didn’t see it.” Bilbo dashes into the control room. “She’s warming up.”

  They’re all warmed up now. Franco is cool, reading the paper. Leonard is humming. Olivia is tapping her foot. “Now, Olivia, the first thing we’ll ask—” “Don’t ask me anything. I get so muddled.”

  The show begins anyway. Olivia looks like Dresden china in color. She quickly stubs out her cigarette. (Juliet must not be seen smoking.) Five-four-three-two-one …

  Mr. Zeffirelli, how many actors did you see for the roles of Romeo and Juliet? “It was about 80 each for the boy and girl.” (It had been the third mention of the number that day—each time the number changed.)

  Olivia Hussey, had you read the play? “No,” she said, biting her fingernails.

  Leonard, had you read the play? “No.”

  Do you agree with Mr. Zeffirelli that it is a contemporary drama? “Yes, acting in it you forget the age.”

  Do you think young people will go see it? (Pause.) Well, yes or no? “Yes, I think so.”

  There was a lot of publicity surrounding the making of the film in Italy. Were you polite to the journalists? “We just sat and listened. They didn’t know what to ask.”

  What about the publicity, Olivia, involving the nude scene? Today’s paper carried a headline that read QUEEN TO SEE NUDE JULIET. “It’s all very boring, really.”

  How can you top Romeo and Juliet? Have you made any plans for the future? “No.”

  It was a total disaster. The control room went wild. “Do it again,” said one engineer. “Lead them in a community sing,” yelled another, beating his temples.

  Miss Pickles poured into the studio to comfort Olivia. “Darling, you’ve got to relax!” Zeffirelli stared at the ceiling.

  They started all over again with a new video tape. This time they began with Zeffirelli, who sounded off about the movie: “The way Shakespeare portrayed these kids, it is similar to kids today. This general breaking of the rules and pat
terns was revolutionary then, because if you think of them in the setup of a Renaissance society, they were quite revolutionary.”

  How many aspirants did you see? “About 5,000.” (Miss Pickles covered her head in the control room. “The number gets bigger each time,” she said.)

  At least Leonard was talkative this time. “I find Shakespeare very boring, but in Franco’s film there’s a lot of action, so I don’t think of it as poetry at all. The only time the photographers bothered us was during the hard scenes, then Franco would throw a big Italian fit and throw everybody off the set.”

  Zeffirelli stalks toward the limousine, smiling for photographers’ flashbulbs. “I don’t think people are going to understand what you were talking about,” said Olivia. “Not everybody is as stupid as you are,” snaps Zeffirelli. “Did I sound too cockney?” asks Leonard. The car speeds back to the hotel in hostile silence.

  “Freedom at last,” sighed Olivia, closing the door and kicking off her shoes. “I can’t stand it when people talk all the time. I hate interviews. I just want to be with my friends.” Olivia’s best friend, Annabelle, came bounding into the room wearing penny loafers, slacks and a boy’s crew-neck sweater, looking very American. “Americans expect all English girls to be dollies. We’re not mod, we’re just modern.” Annabelle’s mother had given her permission to move into the Savoy for the weekend, to share Olivia’s excitement.

  “We’re too young to go to nightclubs in London, but we manage to get in somehow. There’s always some boy who lies and gets us in.” Their favorite clubs are the Revolution and the Speak Easy. They dig modern jazz, and own lots of Jimmy Smith, Ramsey Lewis and Oscar Peterson records. They also like Vanilla Fudge and what they call “fuzzbox music”—fuzzy electric guitar with a beat “played by anybody.” Annabelle put on “Disraeli Gears” by Cream. Olivia began to dance about the room like a wood nymph. “We don’t smoke hash just because our friends smoke. It makes you dizzy,” she said.

  “Olivia has really matured since she went to Italy,” said Annabelle.

  “I was scared to death and homesick at first. We lived in Franco’s villa for nine months and it was super, but they assigned this chaperon who was 75 years old and I had to be in bed every night at seven. I couldn’t go out. Every time I wanted to go to the toilet I had to say, ‘May I be excused, please?’ Leonard didn’t have a chaperon at all. I finally raised so much hell they got rid of her and got me one who was 25 and after that we went dancing every night at the Titan.”

  Olivia left the room to try on some of her new clothes and Annabelle kept talking. “Olivia is a super actress. She was Rossano Brazzi’s daughter in The Battle of the Villa Fiorita. We just love movies. Did you see Valley of the Dolls? I had to go into the ladies’ and have a good blabber in that one.”

  Olivia came back into the room modeling a Marlon Brando motorcycle jacket purchased for $20 at the Chelsea Antique Market. She wears no makeup except mascara and washes her hair every day.

  Was she nervous about playing Juliet? “No,” she shouted over the stereo, “I just did it. But the nude scene bothered me. I had flesh-colored panties at first, but Franco made me take them off because they showed. Everybody left the set except the electricians and they turned their backs. I don’t think they saw anything.” Annabelle giggled. “If you want to be an actress, you gotta get used to that. I’ll probably have to do it a lot before I’m old.”

  The door swung open and two Italians popped in fresh off the train from Rome. “They’re two guys we met while we were making the film. They can’t speak English. Listen, I’ve got to wash my hair now. I’m tired of talking about Juliet anyway. I think the first thing I’ll do when all of this is over is get my appendix taken out.”

  Annabelle, who couldn’t speak any Italian, went into a fast watusi with the two Italians, who couldn’t speak any English. Olivia went into the bathroom and locked the door. Everyone seemed to be communicating just fine.

  Sunday morning at 11:30 the autograph hounds lined up in front of London’s massive Odeon Theatre in Leicester Square as the stars arrived for the dress rehearsal. You don’t just say hello to the Queen. You have to rehearse. “We have a jolly nice ending for the two stars of the evening,” said a merry little Charles Dickens character from the stage. “Take the lineup order from center position. Danny Kaye will be on Miss Hussey’s left.”

  A full orchestra was lowered into the orchestra pit as Richard Attenborough introduced David Hemmings to the tune of “Camelot.” Hemmings introduced Lynn Redgrave, who plodded onstage several months pregnant in a black miniskirt. One by one, they took their positions and practiced their bows: Karl Malden in a turtle-neck sweater, Joanna Pettet in a cowboy hat, Richard Chamberlain in long Shirley Temple hair (Even the Queen watches television) not looking too happy about being introduced as “a refugee from Blair Hospital” to the tune of “Hi-Lili-Hi-Lo,” Joan Collins, Peter Ustinov, Tommy Steele, etc., etc. Leonard and Olivia huddled together in the empty theatre like startled robins imprisoned in a shoe box. “Nobody introduced us to anybody,” whispered Leonard. “Which one is Carol White?” “Shh,” said Olivia, punching him in the arm.

  Three hours later, when the bows and curtsies were perfected, the doors opened to the press and the entire assemblage was thrown to the lions. “Is it true you had a romance in Italy?” one pushy British journalist kept yelling, following Olivia into the ladies’ room.

  By five o’clock, Romeo and Juliet had completed three more television shows and been interviewed by 25 people. Back at the hotel, I found Leonard in his new room overlooking the Thames, with a sweeping view that took in everything from the Old Vic up to Tower Bridge. “Super, don’t you think?” he asked with his mouth full of toothpaste. “I never thought they’d leave me alone long enough to brush my teeth. God, it tastes good. Ever since I got into this movie my life has been lived in two parts. About 30 percent of it is very happy and the other 70 percent tells me I’m going buggy. Then I have to sit down and ask myself what’s happening. The more success I get, the more insecure I become. I just talked to a friend on the telephone. Not an especially good friend, just someone I knew in school, but now I find I need him. Then I hung up the phone and looked in the mirror and said, ‘You just played Romeo. Christ, who are you?’ I’m a very ordinary person. I live in an ordinary house with my parents. After all this is over Monday night I’ll go back home. When I go home I can spill tea on the carpet and say, oh hell, and nobody cares, but when I’m around all these movie people I can’t spill anything because everybody’s watching me all the time. I feel like I’m losing touch with everything that is real. Do you want to order something? They told me I could order anything I wanted.”

  We ordered Cokes with lots of ice (You can’t find ice in England unless you ask, not even at the Savoy) and he stretched out on the bed and told me about Leonard Whiting. “I live in a suburban neighborhood with two sisters. Very normal. Dad works in a store. He said, ‘If they don’t want you any more you can always come and work with me in the store.’ I’ve been Romeo for a year now without stopping and I hate Shakespeare. I don’t even know what I’m thinking anymore. In Italy we lived in Franco’s villa. It was OK. My mum always made spaghetti Bolognese for Saturday afternoon treat, so I loved that part of it. But I couldn’t drive—no license. So I couldn’t go out much. I want to save my money and buy a car. A red car. I used to walk two miles to school everyday uphill and watch all the people drive by in cars and I made a vow I’d never walk anywhere when I got money. Now I’ve become suspicious of thinking phony thoughts and I don’t know what I feel. I never had much money as a kid so it was a great feeling when I first started acting and I had pocket money. I had an uncle who was trying to get a pop group started and he used to make me sing at Jewish weddings. Then one day during one of his recording sessions one of his boy’s voices broke and I tried singing his part and this guy heard me and said why didn’t I go and try out for one of the boys in Oliver! and I got the part of the Artful Dodg
er. I made $35 a week and saved $25 of that and put it in the bank. When I had saved enough, I made a down payment on my family’s house. I still don’t have any money. Do you know what they paid us for making Romeo and Juliet? We got 1,500 pounds each (about $3,600)—enough to bring my parents to Rome for two weeks. They had never seen a movie set or met people like Jane Fonda before. They had a super time.” He sucked on a piece of ice, then threw it in the bathtub. “Deep down inside I don’t like change. I have a lot of growing up to do yet. I’m not vain. People have been telling me I’m pretty since I was a baby. But look, my nose turns up on one side.” He went to the mirror to see if his nose was still turning up, hoping it would be. It looked fine. “Women always have to look good. Men don’t. Look at that pimple.”

  I asked him what he expected from his future. “I don’t know. Ambition frightens me. I don’t want to be cruel and ruthless. I always lived in a clique neighborhood and I love just being around the kids I grew up with. Listen to me, already I’m beginning to sound like Michael Caine. Now suddenly I’m in a business I used to respect for its art and I’m doing a nude scene. I don’t think they put that nude scene in the movie for any other reason but money and publicity, and that bothers me. So I don’t know if I can become an actor like Orson Welles and Marlon Brando, because you have to do a lot of things you don’t believe in to get anywhere. I don’t want to be a star. I guess I’ll get married, but the idea of forever terrifies me. The more one sees of life before marriage the more one learns. Once you’re married, what can you learn? I don’t want to get married until I’m at least 40. I’m not much of a conformist. Hey, you want to see what I’m wearing to meet the Queen?”