Last Man Standing: Tales from Tinseltown (18 page)

Gregory Peck and David Niven were two very dear friends to me.

While making
The Omen
, Greg rented fellow actor Michael York’s house in Belgravia and one evening I went for dinner there. As I said, it was the mid-70s and at the height of the IRA attacks on London, and when I left, around midnight, I found Greg outside on his back, having crawled underneath my car, thoughtfully checking if there was a bomb.

That kindly heroic deed certainly fitted in with roles he
played. Mind you, he wasn’t averse to playing against type every now and again, as confirmed to me at a dinner one evening hosted by another pal, Johnny Mills. Fellow guest Laurence Olivier said, ‘Amazing man, Greg. Doesn’t worry about his image by playing a Nazi ...’ They’d just worked together in
Boys from Brazil
in which Greg played the evil Nazi, Dr Josef Mengele.

Anyhow, in
Sea Wolves
Greg was to play British officer, Colonel Lewis Pugh, and worked with a dialogue coach, the same one from
Boys from Brazil
I believe, to perfect his accent. He was a very meticulous actor and extremely well
prepared, and though I later read somewhere that Greg felt insecure about his British accent in this film, well, all I can say is I was not aware of it. It was a super film directed by Andrew McLaglen, produced by Euan Lloyd and co-starring David Niven, Trevor Howard and, initially, Diana Rigg; but, alas, it didn’t work out for one reason or another, and happily Barbara Kellerman took on her proposed role of Mrs Cromwell.

Greg, always handsome and debonair, was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.

Of course, during the shoot, we all socialized frequently in Goa and New Delhi, and very pleasant it was, too. In fact, we all had bungalows in the compound of Fort Aguada and would dine at one or the other each evening. Greg was joined by Veronique, and they were the most compatible couple ever, totally adoring of one another. It wasn’t an easy location, mind, as the heat was quite often unbearable. Our big relief after a day’s shooting was to immerse ourselves in the Indian Ocean.

We had New Year’s Day off and director Andy McLaglen and I ventured to the ocean early, I guess around 9 a.m. Having lain in the sun for a few minutes, Andy got up and stretched out his 6' 7” frame. He turned to me and said, ‘Rog, I think it’s time we hit the drink.’ (Meaning went for a swim.)

At that very moment, Trevor Howard appeared as if from nowhere and, overhearing, said, ‘Good idea! Do you think we can get a waiter down here?’

In actual fact, contrary to popular opinion, the Trevor I knew wasn’t really the ‘hell-raiser’ the newspapers described him as. A great cricket lover as well as being entirely devoted to his wife, Helen, Trevor undoubtedly loved a drink but he was in fact rather a quiet drinker on the whole, preferring to have a longer session in the corner of a pub, with a few
friends. Things could get a little noisy when the ‘Howard Roar’ went up, though. He always said, ‘I don’t raise hell, amigo, I just like to enjoy myself.’ And he really did.

However, having said all that, Trevor loved life to the full and was always open to new experiences, not wanting to miss out on anything. Which is why he was led, along with show business reporter Bill Hall, to Pamplona to run with the bulls. This was in 1972, and Trevor was no spring chicken at the time – he was fifty-six years old. Perhaps
he could be forgiven for having a few stiff drinks on this occasion.

With the inimitable Trevor Howard pointing out the location of the nearest bar, on a beach in Goa while filming
The Sea Wolves
.

One of my favourite photographs, featuring three of my favourite people.

The story goes that he’d been attending a film festival some miles away from Pamplona and seen that the world-famous bull run was taking place. After a few drinks with Bill Hall one night, Trevor suddenly announced that he wanted to do the run, and asked Hall to join him. Several hours later the two found themselves in Pamplona’s main square – still the worse for wear after several Bloody Marys – along with 2,000 other runners, waiting for the beasts to be let loose. Having seen this event several times on the TV, I can’t imagine what they were thinking of, but come the time, they set off running, given a head start before the bulls were released. After a few minutes, out of breath, Trevor slowed to a walk, with the crowds lining the streets and Bill Hall urging him on to keep running.

Suddenly the bulls appeared round the corner, thundering down the street at full pelt. Trevor, deciding enough was enough, tried to get over the barrier at the side of the road but got his leg stuck and simply had to cling on for dear life as the bulls charged past, missing them both but mowing down others in their wake. Luckily, both Trevor and Bill escaped unscathed and made their way to the nearest bar.

Good old Trevor!

John Mills, that rather straight-laced, fine English hero of many a war film and Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire, had a rather unique party trick, which extended to most film sets he worked on – not least in the cosy tents during the making of
Scott of the Antarctic
– where
he would drop his trousers, bend over and let off the most furious fart you can imagine but – as if that wasn’t enough to impress – he would have a naked flame on standby and would ignite said anal wind to the great merriment of all around.

With Johnny Mills and Lady Mary at Johnny’s eightieth birthday party at the St James’s Club on Sunset Boulevard, along with Dudley Moore and his wife Brogan Lane.

In the 1960s I was asked to become chairman of the Stars Organisation for Spastics (SOS, now SCOPE) but when I started playing Bond it became apparent, in 1977, that I would have to leave the UK if I wasn’t to pay ninety-eight per cent tax on my salary: an actor’s life in the spotlight is short, so we need to look after our pennies, and that’s why
I decamped to Switzerland with its lovely snow-capped tax benefits. I therefore realized I would have to cut back on a lot of my UK commitments, SOS being one.

The committee asked if I had any ideas who could step in to replace me and I suggested Johnny Mills. He joked as the ‘new boy’ coming in he was actually a lot older than the outgoing chairman, but that was nothing new as I was older when I took over Bond from Sean Connery. Cheek!

Johnny and I were near neighbours in the UK in the 1970s, when he lived, with his wife Mary, in a house previously owned by the film mogul Alexander Korda and his one-time wife Merle Oberon. (I actually appeared in an episode of a TV drama series with Miss Oberon called
Assignment Foreign Legion
, which was not filmed on location in the desert, oh no, but at Beaconsfield Studios in rural Buckinghamshire. Mind you, I never actually met Miss Oberon as she filmed her bits elsewhere. Bit of a pointless digression really, but I do like to name drop when I can.)

Anyway, back to the story. One day in 1976 I suggested John and Mary join my then wife and me for dinner at a rather upmarket dining pub in Denham – you know, the sort of establishment where you pay a small fortune for steak and chips. I think it’s fair to say Johnny probably hadn’t eaten at this establishment since his recent ennoblement by the Queen.

The headwaiter welcomed us warmly, ‘Ah, Mr and Mrs Mills ... and Mr and Mrs Moore ... let me show you to a nice table.’ He then proffered some menus. ‘Would you care for a drink first, Mrs Mills? ... And you, Mr Mills?’

‘Tonight, Mr Mills, I would recommend the T-bone ... Oh, and Mrs Mills, the Dover Sole is absolutely beautiful ...’ The friendly waiter probably said ‘Mr Mills’ and ‘Mrs Mills’
a couple of dozen times over the course of the dinner, just as he did ‘Mr Moore’ and ‘Mrs Moore’. Until Mary snapped, that is.

‘It is SIR John and LADY Mills,’ she hissed through clenched teeth.

Johnny’s head dropped down towards his dessert bowl and he said, quietly, ‘Well, I have waited long enough for it!’

Some years later, at Johnny’s eightieth birthday party in LA’s St James’s Club, Mary beckoned me over and asked, ‘Who is that man sitting over there, I know the face but I just can’t place him?’ I told her it was Omar Sharif, to which she looked at me rather vaguely. Anyhow, I was invited to say a few words and, after congratulating my host on his four score years, told the assembled company that Johnny owed most of his career to being the only actor in England who could stand full height in a submarine. Cue much laughter – except from the direction of Mary who looked at me decidedly more vaguely than ever!