Our story of the month: November 2005

But although my jaw-line had come out well in screen tests I did not pass the keen scrutiny of the head of M-G-M, the famous Dore Schary. When I was nervous I had a habit of clenching my jaw which made me sound ultra-British when I spoke. I was nervous meeting Mr. Schary, and when I left he said: "What, exactly, have we signed ? I can't understand him; tell someone to teach him how to talk".

They sent me to the drama coach, Lilian Burns. No longer nervous, my jaw relaxed, and I read only a few lines before she interrupted me: "I can't figure out why you've been sent to me. For years I've been trying to teach people to speak exactly as you do". But I spent an hour with her each day. I knew that as soon as I went on the set I'd be nervous and my jaw would clench up again.

I had a reason to be nervous. The stars of my first American film - The Last Time I Saw Paris - were Elizabeth Taylor and Van Johnson. They played husband and wife; I was a ne'er-do-well tennis-bum who tried to seduce the wife. I was a little awed at approaching the great Liz Taylor, an attitude she obviously found acceptable, since she was at all times remotely gracious. Van Johnson, in whose face I had to throw a glass of whisky without half an hour of being introduced to him, was very friendly and kind.

Next, they gave me a bigger part, with Eleanor Parker and Glenn Ford in Interrupted Melody. Eleanor was wonderful to me. Knowing I was inexperienced she went out of her way to help. In one scene where I, as her brother, had to introduce her, as Marjorie Lawrence the singer, to the head of an opera house, I took up my position with my back to the cameras. Quickly she grabbed my arm. "We'll another rehearsal", she whispered, "this is your scene. If you take me by my right arm instead of my left, you'll be facing the camera".

Thanking her afterwards I said happily: "Everyone is so nice on this picture, Glenn is being very kind too". Eleanor's eyes narrowed: "Is he?" she chuckled. "Then watch him!". I did that. Our respective stand-ins were pacing out a scene we had together for a camera men to put the chalk marks on the floor determining where we should stand. Glenn had a highly trained stand-in. I noticed all his chalk marks were right in camera range. All of mine were slighty out. I had a word with my stand-in and soon the positions levelled up. When Glenn and I got in front of the cameras Glenn noticed the levellin up, too. He moved up-stage. I moved after him. Again he moved: so did I. We went on busily inching each other out the way till the exasperated director, Curtis Bernhardt, bawled: "before you both disappear over the back wall do you think we could shoot the scene?". We both had our share of the camera, and what's more, I had another lesson in Hollywood gamesmanship under my belt.

Edmund Purdom and I were cast together in the next picture, The King's Thief. Ed was a neighbour of ours in Westwood Village. Dorothy (singer Dorothy Squires) and I had been married for eighteen months now and, since I was tied to the studios, had decided to live in Hollywood as she could always fly to New York or London for any variety or recording dates she wanted to keep there. Ed, who is an amusing nut, was being a little more nutty than amusing. He had taken to hi-fi in a big way, and the whole of his apartment was rigged out like radar room of a battleship with loudspeakers, and devices to draw the last vibration of sound from the hundreds of records he played constantly, operatic, symphonic, and jazz.

In addition, Dorothy was having piano lessons and spent hours practising. It was allright for them, but I got it in both ears at one. The movie, a swashbulking costume picture, require me to "escape" up into a bell-tower. While I was swaying precariously on the edge of the tower, my wrists manacled, the bell would swing, knocking me a "thrilling" sixty feet to the ground. They had a little chat about this and, deciding it was quite probable I'd break my neck, thought they'd better fit me with a safety wire. The wire had to be very fine so that it wouldn't show on film. They spent one whole afternoon testing the strenght of fine wires by bouncing me in a harness off a drop of ten feet - and that was terrifying enough.

"We'll shoot first thing in the morning", said director "Pop" Leonard. "No rehearsal. Get it first time, in case anything happens". I conquered the compulsion to tell him there was no "in case" about it. That very afternoon, too, they'd just told me I was getting my first starring role opposite Lana Turner in Diane. Sadly I took the news home to Dorothy. In my frame of mind it took quite an effort not to say: "I would have had star billing, if only I was going to live". At six I arrived at the studios,a nd they put the harness on me. Everything was ready, the red light was on for a "take". Simulteanously Pop Leonard and I looked up a the bell I knew would sound my death knell. Pop, the veteran of all Hollywood directors, reputedly suffered from sugar diabetes, and his wife sent him to the studios each days with bars of diabetic chocolate and bottles of low calorie, sugar-free, ginger ale. He always took great care of the ginger ale, personally going off to see that it was properly iced. He took a swig of it now, then halted everything while he climbed the sixty-foot tower ahead of me, to get a last, good view of the shot. Beneath him, my hands manacled, I waited in cold panic for the dreaded word "Action". Instead there was a shout from Pop Leonard: "scrub it... it's too dangerous". They took the manacles off my hands and, throat dry from nervous tension and fear, I spied Pop Leonard's ginger ale bottle, grabbed it, and took a swig. In that moment I discovered Pop's secret. The "ginger ale" was pure champagne ! But he'd just saved my life. I took another gulp and made a silent promise - that I'd never spoil Mrs. Leonard's devoted shopping by letting her know.

That champagne was the last drink I tasted for years. Two weeks later, in the middle of the dancing, fencing, wrestling, judo and riding lessons for my role as Henry II of France - Lana Turner was playing Diane, his mistress - I collapsed in agony.

The story continues next month

Read our previous stories of the month

August - September - October - November - December 2003

January - February - March - April - May - June - July - August - September - October - November - December 2004

January - February - March - April - May - June - July - August - Sept/october 2005