Eighty Is Not Enough: One Actor's Journey Through American Entertainment (13 page)

On occasion people ask who were the most talented actors I’ve ever worked with? I never hesitate: Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne.

I’m not alone in that opinion. The great English actor, Lawrence Olivier paid the highest tribute saying: “Everything I know about acting I learned from Alfred Lunt.” And one of those very few on the same rarified level of Olivier, Sir John Gielgud, described Lunt and Fontanne as “a perfect combination which we can never hope to see again.” Olivier and Gielgud knew what they were talking about.

Onstage, Lunt and Fontanne were pure magic. I had the extraordinary privilege of working with them for four years in the hit comedy,
O Mistress Mine
—two years on Broadway at the Empire Theatre starting in 1946, and then on the road again in cities all across America.

The Lunts were unique; they acted in a way I’d never seen before, literally speaking over each other. While Alfred was talking, Lynn was talking too. Yet somehow they blended together perfectly. Ordinarily, it would be considered breaking the rules. With lesser actors, they would be accused of stepping on each other’s lines. It’s pretty simple; if two people talk at the same time, neither gets heard. But every single one of the millions who ever watched these two onstage knows just what I’m talking about. There was a kind of magic in the effortless way they wove their lines together like musicians playing different notes, but always in harmony.

And, of course, it only seemed effortless. Everything they did was planned and rehearsed a thousand times. The Lunts knew they had something special, but they also knew that all the talent in the world was no substitute for hard work. It was with the Lunts that I fully realized that it is only through relentless practice, rehearsing over and over again, that the best performances are created.

It is impossible to understate the impact of the return of Lunt and Fontanne to Broadway in 1946. It was simply the most anticipated American theater event at the close of World War II. Prior to leaving for England in 1942, the Lunts had been on the road with my friend, Monty Clift, in the Pulitzer Prize winning play,
There Shall Be No Night
. After Pearl Harbor, the play closed in the United States, but, a year later, the Lunts decided to bring it to England’s Aldwych Theater, although Monty had, by then, moved on and couldn’t join them.

When, three years later, the Lunts returned with their new play
O Mistress Mine
, every single young actor in New York City and beyond wanted to land the role of their son, Michael Brown. As Ward Morehouse later wrote in the
New York Sun
, there were seven parts, “but only three of them count.” The buzz throughout the city’s theater district was palpable, and I was fortunate to be there in the running. But to fully grasp the magnitude of their return, it is well worth taking a brief step backwards to see the fascinating events that led to this extraordinary moment.

*  *  *

Terence Rattigan was a former officer in the British Royal Army who, after fighting in World War I, embarked on a career as a London playwright. Rattigan had written a hit comedy in 1936,
French Without Tears
, and by the time of the war he had established himself as one of the principal London playwrights.

In 1941, he wrote a play that was a largely autobiographical examination of his own life. It was, in part, a self-criticism of what he believed to be his failure as a young man in living up to his own idealistic principles. Rattigan was a socialist. He was haunted by the fact that after finding success as a playwright he had compromised his socialist ideals, giving in to the irresistible lure of money. At a deeper level, Rattigan understood that life has a way of tempting us to betray our own values—the ideas that define who we are, and the ideals we consider most precious often become casualties in a battle with practical concerns and the enticing power of money to make our lives more comfortable.

And so, self-doubt and inner conflict led Rattigan to write a play where the central character was presented as a kind of “Hamlet” figure—a young man haunted by doubt and uncertainty as to what actions to take when confronted with the vagaries of life. That was the character of Michael Brown.

But this was England in 1942, and, as Rattigan wrote his play, London was being devastated by the relentless bombing raids of the German Luftwaffe. Confronted by the terrible reality of his country under siege, Rattigan decided that the public needed an escape from these horrors, even if only for a few hours at the theater. So he turned his story of inner conflict into a comedy. Michael Brown’s internal struggle—in essence Rattigan’s own personal torment—was presented as humorous rather than tragic. As it turned out, it was the right decision, not just for the British audience, but for the success of the play itself.

The play was originally titled,
Less Than Kind
. Michael Brown was the seventeen year old son of a British widow, Olivia Brown. His father had died while fighting in the war, and Michael was sent to boarding school in Canada at the age of thirteen. He studied there for four years, and the play begins with his return to England in the midst of the war.

While Michael was away, his mother began dating Sir John Fletcher, a conservative Minister in Churchill’s War Cabinet. Michael, who had developed into a socialist while studying in Canada, is appalled to learn upon his return that his mother is now living, unmarried, with Sir John, who Michael views as a right wing war-monger.

While Rattigan was writing his play, the Lunts were still performing
There Shall Be No Night
to sell-out crowds at the Aldwych Theater. In Jared Brown’s
The Fabulous Lunts
he details their astonishment that in the midst of all the perils of war and the constant fear of attack, Londoners just kept coming to the theater. One evening, right in the middle of a performance, a bomb landed next the Aldwych. Lynn Fontanne later recounted for a friend: “A buzz bomb hit very near. I was on the stage and he [Alfred] was in the wings waiting for his cue when the smash came. I found myself somehow on the other side of the stage. The scenery was buckling like sails in a high wind, things were falling. I looked for Alfred. There he was pushing a canvas wall up with one hand and starting to make his entrance. Then I saw the fire curtain coming down and heard him shout in that metallic voice he gets when he is excited, ‘Take it up! Take it!’

“Like a shot it went up, and then he turned to me and curious as it may seem, the precise line he had to speak in the script at that very moment was, ‘Are you all right, darling?’”

The theater erupted with applause—and the play went on, even as the bombs continued exploding outside.

In the final scene of the play, Alfred delivered a soliloquy that again possessed an eerie, but uplifting relevance: “Listen, what you hear now,” Lunt told the Londoners, “this terrible sound that fills the earth—it is the death-rattle of civilization. But choose to believe differently…. We have within ourselves the power to conquer bestiality not with our muscles and our swords, but with
the power of the light that is in our minds
.”

Again, the audience stood for a huge ovation and, again, it was unsure if these were the actual lines in the play—which they were—or if Lunt was simply stepping out of character to address them about the perils outside that they had all just experienced. Whatever they thought, it was a stunning performance and lifted Lunt and Fontanne to even greater heights in the English imagination as heroes of the resistance.

Their London engagement at the Aldwych with
There Shall Be No Night
, ended tragically on June 30, 1944, when a bomb from the Luftwaffe struck the theater directly, killing a young British soldier who was purchasing a ticket at the box office. The Lunts, however, persisted, taking the play to the countryside, where the English people continued filling the theaters and responding to the world’s two greatest actors with unbridled enthusiasm.

There Shall Be No Night
closed its run in the summer of 1944. It had brought the Lunts an unprecedented stature, not just as great actors, but as great humanitarians. Alfred and Lynn understood the significance of what they were doing to boost English morale, and they wanted to continue to entertain the British people for as long as their nightmare endured.

And so they began looking for another play. It turned out that a friend of Terence Rattigan, composer Ivor Novello, learned the Lunts were on the hunt for new material and he arranged a meeting with Rattigan. As Geoffrey Wansell, Rattigan’s biographer notes, Rattigan was absolutely elated that “the theatre’s most famous acting couple” was interested in his play. The Lunts took a draft from the meeting, and a few days later, Alfred called Rattigan, telling him, that he and Lynn “would be proud to do your play.” But, he had two conditions: first, that Alfred direct it and second that there be a few changes to the storyline.

Rattigan immediately agreed, although he soon learned that the changes Alfred envisioned were substantial. The play had been written principally for the characters of Michael Brown and his mother, Olivia. Lunt’s role as Sir John Fletcher would have to be greatly expanded. Rattigan would later write to his own mother of Alfred’s demands: “I didn’t realize that he was asking me to write a new play.” Still, Rattigan was pleased with Lunt’s intervention, eventually conceding that Alfred had been correct: “In the end,” he said, “I wrote a far better play because of his suggestions.” When it was done, the changes were so significant that Rattigan felt it prudent to resubmit the play for a new copyright under a new name,
Love in Idleness
.

It was interesting for me to learn recently about the relationship between Lunt and the young English boy, Brian Nissen, who landed the part of Michael Brown. Rattigan wrote to his mother about Lunt’s strict treatment of Brian: “The boy, poor little brat, is having a terrible time…. Alfred’s way of rehearsing him is to take him over three lines in three hours, finally reducing him to tears and hysteria. It is hard to see whether he will be good or not, but I am willing to bet that if he survives the next two months he is going to become the best juvenile actor on the English stage.” Many people have described Alfred’s easy and amiable personality, but when it came to his profession, he was a perfectionist and could be as stern and demanding as any director I’ve ever known.

Love in Idleness
opened on November 27, 1944, in Liverpool and the following week in Leeds. The critics were not kind. In both cities they concluded that the play “was not worthy of the Lunts’ time and efforts.” One particularly derisive critic was their close friend, playwright Noel Coward, who told them the play was terrible and continued trying, as Rattigan believed, to sabotage the production.

In the end, the critics and Coward were wrong. The play was wonderful and turned out to be the longest running production of Alfred and Lynn’s fifty-year theater careers.

But much like
The Skin of Our Teeth
, the play was only saved when it reached the big city. On December 20, 1944, despite a terrible fog, Londoners came out to see the Lunts open the play at the Lyric Theater. They absolutely loved it—and the critics, while not entirely onboard, were much more accepting than their counterparts had been on the road. Alfred was grateful for their response and later wrote to his friend, William Le Massena, “We always loved playing in London but never more than now.”

With the Lunts settled in the Lyric, the Allies were winning the war. The troops were marching toward Berlin, and the Lunts felt a whole new optimism among Londoners. Alfred recalled that earlier during a performance of
There Shall Be No Night
, Winston Churchill had sent a giant cigar backstage. Lunt held onto the cigar, as Jared Brown notes, keeping it carefully “preserved in cellophane, and he used it as a prop in
Love in Idleness
.” In the play Lunt spoke the line, “I left Number Ten [Downing Street, where Churchill, as Prime Minister, lived] only half an hour ago.” Fontanne asked, “Was he nice about it?”—referring to Churchill, and Lunt then pulled out the old cigar from his pocket and replied with that inimitable Lunt timing: “Very!” The English crowds loved it, as they were all fully aware of Churchill’s penchant for a good Cuban cigar.

One evening, while waiting for curtain call, Alfred and Lynn suddenly heard “cheering in the street.” From backstage they watched as Winston Churchill walked “down the aisle to his seat in the front row, waving to the applauding audience.” This was a victorious Churchill. The war was nearly won, and there was a general euphoria about this man who had led his people through England’s most trying times.

Throughout the performance, Lunt recalled, Churchill just “sat there smoking” his cigar, with “everybody watching him more than us. When at the regular time I pulled out the cigar”—the one he had preserved in the cellophane wrapper—“such a cheering started as I’d never heard before by any stretch of the imagination. For five minutes…they cheered and cheered and Churchill got right up, turned around and stood there waving and waving back to them.” It was for Alfred and Lynn an intoxicating moment.

The Lunts soon took the play on the “foxhole circuit.” They played for victorious troops in France and Germany—even going as far as liberated Nuremberg where they performed for the American GIs. Lynn Fontanne had sent a letter of gratitude for being allowed to play for the troops, and she received a response from General George Patton: “I feel,” wrote the General, “that you should not thank me but that I, on behalf of the Third Army, should thank you, Mr. Lunt and the others of your cast for the great pleasure which we derived from your unparalleled performances.”