of gaps—that was only tiresome. What was awful was that, as I read the scene aloud to the woman I loved, I realized how false it was, how sentimental, how permissive in the wrong way. She too knew how bad it was and that made me angry. I threw it away. ‘How can I read it to you,’ I demanded, ‘if you interrupt and criticize? It’s only a draft, after all.’
But I knew that the whole book was hopeless. I said, ‘If only I could die before the book is published. It’s got to be published to earn money for the family.’ The thought of Russian roulette came to me. Had I recently bought a revolver or was that a dream? My mistress tried to comfort me but it only made things worse.
X
Stage and Screen
A strange experience remains printed on my brain like a newspaper headline—‘The Suicide of Charlie Chaplin’. It began with a rumour of my friend’s death. I was in a great crowded cinema and I expected that at any moment an announcement would be made. I was even a little afraid of a panic among the audience at the news. However, later, the rumour was denied. A ring came at my flat door and when I opened it Charlie was assisted in. He really looked a dying man. Apparently he had taken poison but presumably not enough, and he made a gesture to indicate how much as he lay down. The poison had come from a tin. I asked his companion to give me the tin—‘It might prove useful for me one day.’ It was an ordeal to watch Charlie slowly dying, as I believed, but the situation suddenly changed—he recovered and was able to leave without assistance.
In January 1984 I went to see a classic play called
The Game of Croquet
. I had a seat in the front row of the stalls and I felt a little nervous because a few days before in the opening scene Paul Scofield, who played the leading role, had inadvertently sliced a croquet ball into the stalls and blooded a spectator in one eye. However on this night nothing unfortunate happened. I found myself listening to a very interesting dialogue. The play was about three students who for final exams had to go to the house of an old academic and attend a party where each would be judged on his behaviour. One of the three was obviously very shy. The academic proved to be most friendly, and he seemed to be helping the shy one through his paces—helping him in fact to grow up and become adult. The dialogue ran easily and amusingly. I felt as though I were making it up myself.
In May 1965 I was closely involved in the production of a blank-verse historical play with RichardBurton and Elizabeth Taylor. I found them both more agreeable than I had expected, and Taylor more beautiful than I had thought, and a better actress.
The play was presented, for the first time, in the open air in Canterbury with the cathedral in the background. Burton made the opening speech before the appearance of a half-mad king—Henry VI?—played by my friend Alec Guinness. Guinness missed his cue and Burton covered up for him by improvising a verse referring to ‘the recesses of this cavernous tent.’ The audience laughed sympathetically when they realized what he was at, while Guinness looked around and said, ‘I dried up.’
I was furious. I had the feeling he was behaving like this through jealousy of Burton, and I leant forward from my front seat and said, ‘You swine.’ He looked at me with injured surprise. Burton was unperturbed, but the performance for that night was off.
The opening was postponed till the following night. It was hoped that the critics would wait in Canterbury, but the next night the seats were all empty. Guinness played with his part in his hand, and although a television camera was there Burton treated the occasion like a rehearsal, interrupting the other players. A disaster!
Later in 1965 I was engaged in making a film with Peter Glenville, from an original story set in Mexico in the nineteenth century. Peter wanted to go riding with me and he had found a small black horse
But I knew that the whole book was hopeless. I said, ‘If only I could die before the book is published. It’s got to be published to earn money for the family.’ The thought of Russian roulette came to me. Had I recently bought a revolver or was that a dream? My mistress tried to comfort me but it only made things worse.
X
Stage and Screen
A strange experience remains printed on my brain like a newspaper headline—‘The Suicide of Charlie Chaplin’. It began with a rumour of my friend’s death. I was in a great crowded cinema and I expected that at any moment an announcement would be made. I was even a little afraid of a panic among the audience at the news. However, later, the rumour was denied. A ring came at my flat door and when I opened it Charlie was assisted in. He really looked a dying man. Apparently he had taken poison but presumably not enough, and he made a gesture to indicate how much as he lay down. The poison had come from a tin. I asked his companion to give me the tin—‘It might prove useful for me one day.’ It was an ordeal to watch Charlie slowly dying, as I believed, but the situation suddenly changed—he recovered and was able to leave without assistance.
In January 1984 I went to see a classic play called
The Game of Croquet
. I had a seat in the front row of the stalls and I felt a little nervous because a few days before in the opening scene Paul Scofield, who played the leading role, had inadvertently sliced a croquet ball into the stalls and blooded a spectator in one eye. However on this night nothing unfortunate happened. I found myself listening to a very interesting dialogue. The play was about three students who for final exams had to go to the house of an old academic and attend a party where each would be judged on his behaviour. One of the three was obviously very shy. The academic proved to be most friendly, and he seemed to be helping the shy one through his paces—helping him in fact to grow up and become adult. The dialogue ran easily and amusingly. I felt as though I were making it up myself.
In May 1965 I was closely involved in the production of a blank-verse historical play with RichardBurton and Elizabeth Taylor. I found them both more agreeable than I had expected, and Taylor more beautiful than I had thought, and a better actress.
The play was presented, for the first time, in the open air in Canterbury with the cathedral in the background. Burton made the opening speech before the appearance of a half-mad king—Henry VI?—played by my friend Alec Guinness. Guinness missed his cue and Burton covered up for him by improvising a verse referring to ‘the recesses of this cavernous tent.’ The audience laughed sympathetically when they realized what he was at, while Guinness looked around and said, ‘I dried up.’
I was furious. I had the feeling he was behaving like this through jealousy of Burton, and I leant forward from my front seat and said, ‘You swine.’ He looked at me with injured surprise. Burton was unperturbed, but the performance for that night was off.
The opening was postponed till the following night. It was hoped that the critics would wait in Canterbury, but the next night the seats were all empty. Guinness played with his part in his hand, and although a television camera was there Burton treated the occasion like a rehearsal, interrupting the other players. A disaster!
Later in 1965 I was engaged in making a film with Peter Glenville, from an original story set in Mexico in the nineteenth century. Peter wanted to go riding with me and he had found a small black horse
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