By Myself and Then Some (80 page)

When I arrived in Los Angeles, I received a phone call telling me the dinner was cancelled. Roddy wasn’t up to it. I spoke to Sybil who told me to get over to Roddy’s as soon as possible. She said she thought Elizabeth would be coming the following day. I quickly called Elizabeth – asked her assistant if they could pick me up at the hotel so that we could go together. Absolutely – it was arranged and that’s the way we went, both nervous at what we might find and sad beyond words.

The following day Elizabeth and I, with her assistant at the wheel, headed for Roddy’s house in the Valley. It was the beginning of the saddest of sad days. Entering the house was traumatic. No Roddy to greet us. No lights on in the living room. The house was dark – the only life left in that house full of laughter and friendship was Roddy upstairs in his room gradually slipping away. The front door was opened by his assistant who told us to wait while he told Sybil we had arrived.
Elizabeth sat in a chair in the lifeless living room filled with apprehensions at the prospect of meeting Sybil for the first time. ‘She must hate me. I know she does.’ I said, ‘Don’t worry, Sybil will make it all possible. This is about Roddy, nothing else.’ I went out to the entrance hall and saw Sybil coming down the stairs. I told her Liz was in the living room – very nervous. As I stood behind Sybil, I saw her enter the living room, look at Elizabeth with outstretched arms welcoming her to the house. They gave each other a great, big hug with their mutual love of Roddy being their bond. After the years of pain sustained by Sybil, it was more than remarkable that she was able to do that. You see, the welcome was not about Elizabeth, it was about Roddy – a recognition of the importance to him of that bond between them, of their years as child actors, growing up together and sharing all of both their lives’ happy and unhappy times. And, most importantly, it was about Roddy’s dying. It was about each of us saying our goodbyes to a friend who meant so much to us. So one by one we went upstairs and had our private time with Roddy. There he was in his bed with his beloved opera music (Puccini, I think) sounding loud and clear. I went over and hugged him. We kissed each other and I sat by the bed holding his hand. He clearly had been given some drug to lessen the pain so he smiled at me. I told him how much I loved him, listened to the music with him – the glorious voice of Renata Tebaldi (who he adored). It was the music that transported him to a happy place. I had so many pictures in my mind that began in the days before
Camelot
in which he appeared with Richard Burton and during which his friendship with Sybil came to fruition. So many great evenings in his apartment on Central Park West over forty years ago. Suddenly Elizabeth came into the room. I was brought out of my reverie and I leaned over and kissed Roddy once more on his cheeks and on the hand that had been on mine. That was the last time that I saw that extraordinary man, friend, talent.

The following day he was gone and with him went that part of me that was connected only to him – his wit – his warmth – his total commitment to his friends – his loving generosity, never asking for himself. He was a truly unusual man whose life ended much too soon. We were Virgos together, we shared our aloneness together. For me, it was the first loss of one of my contemporaries. It was the beginning of my awareness of my own mortality and also of the gaping hole that was left with Roddy’s leaving. It all happened so quickly – like a blink. There
was no way to be prepared. He was young, too young. Always the good guys die young – the bad guys seem to go on forever. And it also brought home to me the luck I had in having such a friend and how careful I must be with those who are left that I value so highly.

I
had worked with Kirk
Douglas in the Fifties in
Young Man With a Horn –
he who had been my great infatuation at age sixteen while at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts together. Now, in 1998, I had an opportunity to work once more with this remarkable actor – who had become my friend over the last twenty years – in a movie called
Diamonds
. How lucky a woman am I! He has had some bad collisions with health but he has risen above it all. The movie we made together was his first after his stroke. He was amazing. To have always been this macho man – a wonderful actor – in control – then to have risen above his challenges in such an open, super-charged way – has been more than admirable. He continues, giving more of himself than ever before, learning more, accomplishing more. It was a marvellous and enlightening experience for me to work with him and get to know him again and his equally amazing wife.

After
Diamonds
, there were a couple of movies that did not set the world on fire. The people were wonderful, the places they were made were wonderful – Majorca (which was new to me and which I loved) and Venice (which I have always loved) – but the movies, for reasons beyond my control and understanding, have never been finished. Not because they were bad, but because they were seemingly taken over by money people who had no understanding of the stories, thereby making a confused I-don’t-know-what of them.

Then, in 1999, after hoping for too many years, a mini-series came my way. My first, and a terrific time I had. It took fifty years to finally be in a mini-series – never before and maybe never again as they seem to have stopped making them. The subject was the heiress Doris Duke, her life and death. She was always an interesting, fascinating woman.
Too Rich
was the title and was the basis of her demise. I had met her a couple of times and liked her.

What makes a mini-series so good to be a part of – what sets it apart from TV sitcoms – is that it is complete. It consists of two two-hour showings – that’s four hours of whoever or whatever is the focus so there
is, as in the theatre, a beginning, a middle and an end. And a mini-series, right or wrong, is treated publicly by both networks and producers as being an event. As for playing the part of Doris Duke, I was called upon to portray her many facets covering the last ten or fifteen years of her life.

Having been chosen to play her somehow made me feel very special. There was an aura around Doris Duke for obvious reasons. So much money. Money, which seems to be what everyone wants. We all need some, but is there ever enough? Money has brought destruction and misery more often than not. It may bring you comfort – it will certainly not bring you peace of mind. And in the case of Doris Duke, neither luck nor health nor personal satisfaction. She was used by so many. I always thought of her as being truly sad. When I met her, though briefly, she was friendly, waved to me, told me how she loved my mother. My mother was an exceptionally brilliant secretary – could do anything, including shorthand, typing – she had been working for Louis Bromfield who had known Doris Duke. Exactly when and where it all happened, I do not know. I only know that it did and for all I know my mother may have done and probably did do some work for Doris Duke. Whatever it was, the two women connected in a very positive way. Doris Duke always remembered my mother and always mentioned her with great affection so that automatically made her shine in my eyes. That made her a winner in every way.

Though her life ended tragically, as a victim of some of the people around her, she herself was a decent, generous woman. She did some good things with her fortune. Her downfall was her desperate need for love, thereby trusting all the wrong people. As an actress playing her, I not only learned more about her – the light and dark sides – but it made me wish I had known her then. Perhaps I might even have been able to help her.

The locations included many weeks in Montreal, two weeks in the glory of Hawaii and time in Los Angeles. I got to work with Richard Chamberlain again whom I had scarcely seen since his days as
Dr Kildare
when I guested on one of his shows. And I worked for the first time with John Erman, a class A+ director and my new friend. We had a great time – the series was well received. It was such a good story, such an interesting and sad, sometimes freaky life. In the end she was used and abused.

T
hat summer an old producer
friend, Alexander Cohen, sent me a script for the theatre, a little known play by Noel Coward, now to be produced in celebration of his one-hundredth birthday. The play had been put on once, years ago in England, but never got anywhere. I was not sure it was something I wanted to do. Noel was a much-adored good friend and I was very sentimental about him. Alex was a great salesman – relentless – giving me all the whys and wherefores, telling me how great it would be for me and I for it. He prevailed. He had chosen the director, Michael Langham, a man I didn’t know. Alex could sell you anything, convince you of anything. He had Rosemary Harris for the other leading role, which was very fine with me as I’d admired her for years. So come fall, into rehearsal we went.

I was still uncertain, no apparent reason except that my last appearance on stage (though it was Chichester) had been the disappointment of
The Visit
in 1995. It had been such a contrast to the special experience for me – such a happy one, and such a hard act to follow – of Tennessee Williams’s
Sweet Bird of Youth
some years earlier. In the case of
Waiting in the Wings
, I knew no one. I weighed the pros and cons – the pros far outweighed the cons – they included the cast. Everyone in the play was of the theatre, all first rate actors. It was an ensemble piece, which is a form that has always attracted me. The major con was that the director was completely unknown to me. My approach to all my work, be it movies, theatre or television, has always been to work in tandem with the director. I have never entered a rehearsal room with a ‘star’ attitude. Actually, rehearsal time has always been my favorite time. Feeling your way in a play, getting to know your fellow actors, loving the work and having fun. Unhappily my problem in this instance was the director – the last person I would like to have difficulty with. He had some kind of preconception of me – something to do with stardom – my name being recognized – all sorts of ideas that I could never figure out. So from the beginning there was unspoken friction. He expected everyone to do everything his way. He was a very experienced director with many years spent in the British theatre and repertory in the U.S. He was not really interested in the opinion of actors.

Often when I have started work in a movie, or anything for that matter, some people have the preconceived notion that I am formidable, difficult and opinionated. I am opinionated, I confess – the other questionable attributes come I think from the lower register of my voice
and from rumor – people’s idea of my life with Humphrey Bogart, thereby making me tough. From my own self-analysis, which I seldom indulge in, I am what I am. I mostly aim to please. I am insecure. I love to be part of a group of actors I am working with. I cannot work under tension, certainly will not fight unless backed against a wall. Even then, it is not why I became an actress in the first place. It is not supposed to be a competitive atmosphere or profession. Despite the difficulty with the director and the fact that I was slaughtered personally and professionally by the
New York Times
critic, the play had a successful run and I had a lovely time with my fellow thesps and count many of them – Barney Hughes and Helen Stenborg, Dana Ivey, Trish Connolly, Simon Jones – as my friends. We really did have and do have ongoing relationships that I value very highly. I wish my friend Noel Coward had been around. He would have added spice and put up with no nonsense from anyone.

Then, too, I had to sing a song (‘I’m Old Fashioned’ by Harold Arlen) in a scene in the second act where we (all women except for Barney Hughes and Simon Jones) were celebrating being alive. Anyway, I had to sing it more or less alone with my only guiding light being Trish Connolly at the piano (lovely, funny, one of the perks of the challenge). She had to learn the song in my key and play it on the slightly tinny piano on the set. Had it not been for John Kander, who came to the theatre several times to coach me and to give Trish my key which was somewhere between B minus sharp and outer space, I could never have gotten through it. Not being a singer, I, of course, needed a full orchestra behind me, which I couldn’t have. Talk about living dangerously. Every performance was an adventure. Trish would try to give me the first note, I would try to hear it and then hit it, and, as if that wasn’t enough, then I had to sing the song. All the while, everyone on stage knew what was going on – all of us hoping I’d get through it and not entirely embarrass myself or break up laughing. That’s what I love about the theatre – we own our own space on stage – we know what to expect and we hope for perfection. We were not about to have either the expected or perfection in this musical interval but we did have fun. Through all this the audience sits wrapped up in the play (we hope) and the characters (please God), and we do so want to please them. I choose to think that we succeeded, at least most of the time. It’s the little things that stand out, the little things that make being an actor such a wonder – when it works.

And the play was so worth doing. It was Noel Coward, for heaven’s sake, and though not so well known, nor the most successful of his plays, it was still his idea – his writing – which is not only good enough for me but better than many a play. Anything of his is worth doing – being a part of. And Noel was very much a part of the Anglophile in me. As was John Gielgud – they were all connected – all the other actors who became friends.

S
uddenly it was the millennium
. And just as suddenly that millennium brought with it the start of a series of losses that made England a sadder place for me – the first being John Gielgud. John and I met in London before Bogie’s and my African trip. We had several mutual friends so we met on each London visit and I saw him in every one of his theatre roles. After Bogie died, I came to London before leaving for India to film
Flame Over India
. After two months there, we returned to London for final scenes at Pinewood Studio. It was then that I began to see more of John, and our paths also crossed when he came to New York. I was in awe of him and his great talent and recalled to him my childhood experience of seeing him on Broadway in
Hamlet
and how I was so mesmerized by his performance, so affected that I kept walking into doors and pillars on leaving the theatre. That performance I believe left no doubt in my mind that I was determined to become an actress in the theatre. You must understand that John Gielgud’s theatre history is unparalleled. If I am correct, he actually gave Alec Guinness his first break in the theatre when Alec was seventeen or eighteen years old. Gielgud’s aunt was Ellen Terry, considered to be the great actress of her time. So theatre was the most natural venture for him – in his blood – where he belonged.