HOLDEN AND HEPBURN GO ABSOLUTELY APE IN Paris When It Sizzles”
That was the marketing strategy, and the slogan decided on to sell the picture. Holden agreed to do prerelease publicity. As he had said, he considered it an important part of his job, but Audrey, for the most part, was unavailable. Not only was she mired in My Fair Lady, the word on Paris was not good. Distancing oneself from a potential flop has always been a wise tactical approach in Hollywood.
It’s notable that when it came to their work, neither Audrey nor Bill sidestepped questions from the press. When Bill, interviewed on television in Britain, was asked what his favorite film was, he didn’t fire off any glib responses, along the lines of, “I love them all, it’s like asking who’s your favorite child.” Instead, he deliberated for a moment, then replied: “Sunset Boulevard. Billy Wilder, Gloria Swanson, Von Stroheim. I’d say that was my favorite film.” And there was no mention of the slew of other hits that audiences identified him with, including Sabrina. Audrey took a similar approach. She treated reporters’ questions seriously and gave thoughtful answers—sometimes too thoughtful and revealing, as far as whatever studio she was working for was concerned. Perhaps Paramount was better off not having Audrey talk about Paris When It Sizzles.
In the end, the film had not only not rekindled their romance; the former lovers wouldn’t have the satisfaction of having a final hit together. The film had some bright moments, but though it was filled with frantic, talky action, it was dull and lacked true momentum. At the time, it was known in the industry as Paris When It Fizzles. The classic cinema adage held true: the greatest stars cannot salvage a turkey. Lady L suffered the same fate, as would, shortly, Charles Chaplin’s über-flop, A Countess from Hong Kong. Chaplin, Marlon Brando, Sophia Loren, and Hitchcock discovery “Tippi” Hedren couldn’t save it.
For future film buffs, some of whom would regard Paris as a lost treasure, one is reminded of George Cukor’s comments regarding Greta Garbo’s last film, Two-Faced Woman, which he directed. It was a critical and box-office failure. Years afterward, when told how “good” it was, Cukor adamantly disagreed: “Well, I think it’s lousy. The script was bad—not funny. We all knocked ourselves out, but it just wasn’t funny. That’s the whole story.”
While Audrey had made it clear to her agent, Kurt Frings, that re-teaming her with Bill in any further films was to be avoided, one never knew. She remained concerned about him. She had once wanted to marry him, have children with him. When they’d been in love, in the Sabrina days, his adoration had filled her heart with joy. He’d been protective, warm, kind, passionate. And he still adored her. She did not want to see him drunk all the time
Thanks to Capucine, the latest on Bill—how he was doing, what he was doing—would usually find its way into their conversations.
Capucine was excited, anticipating a cruise. It was Sam Spiegel’s idea. The P. T. Barnum/Flo Ziegfeld–like producer of Bill’s Bridge on the River Kwai (among other great films, including Lawrence of Arabia and The African Queen) was a key player on the international movie scene. He made a grand gesture: he offered his friends Bill and Cap his yacht, the fifty-ton Malahane, complete with crew and master chef, for a fantasy cruise. Only the lovebirds, no other guests.
Bill wanted this relationship to work. Capucine made him happy. Thanks to her, he was (for now) able to remain sober, and he appreciated all she had done for him. He did not want to throw away the happiness they could still enjoy together. As he once noted, “I like to get in a situation that is real, where I can say, ‘Here’s a chance to react as a human being, not some windup doll or robot that goes round and round a track.’”
Cap was doing her best to understand him better. Nonetheless, she was nervous and constantly on edge when they embarked on their romantic odyssey, always alert to anything that might set him off and lead to that first drink.
All agreed that Cap more than deserved this marvelous interlude. The things she’d had to put up with, the binges, Bill’s periods of retreat from human contact. Bill felt guilty about all of it and hoped to make it up to her. But after two weeks of being alone with Cap with only the crew and the high seas for company, Holden grew moody and restive. If there had been doubts in his mind about marrying her, apparently this voyage confirmed them. By the time the yacht reached Barbados, their romance was over, although their relationship wasn’t. Specifics on what caused Bill’s change of heart were not forthcoming.
To Capucine’s disappointment and dismay, there was no longer any doubt: Holden was not looking to cast her to replace the current Mrs. Holden. The best Audrey could do was to console her depressed friend. Years later, asked if Holden had been about to divorce Ardis to marry her, Capucine replied: “That would never have happened.” Thanks to changing times, Bill could more or less openly carry on affairs without ever dissolving his marriage. It would take more than another woman, or a studio, or any agent’s disapproval, to spell finis to the Holden marriage, now in its twenty-fifth year. Outsiders could not comprehend how this was possible (twenty-five years!), though insiders had long since accepted it. Some even admired them. Comedian Henny Youngman once joked that the secret of getting along with one’s wife was simple: “Don’t spend any time with her.” It seemed to work for Ardis and Bill.
Bill’s career seemed on the verge of a renaissance. John Madden, a reporter for Variety and a film buff, regarded a Holden comeback as inevitable. It all depended on when the right part came his way. “He was too highly regarded as an actor and a star to be written off, even at his lowest point. His romantic leading man days were almost over, but there was always more to his appeal than that.” Bill had once described himself as the kind of guy that any other ordinary man could identify with: “If Holden can do it, the man thinks, then I can do it too.” He viewed his talent much as Audrey viewed hers: “I’m a limited talent,” noted Holden, “not a great actor. My forte always has been playing a kind of contemporary character that the audience can sympathize with.”
Producer Jennings Lang has explained: “It’s all about proper casting—if you have the right role for a star, you cast him, or her, even if they’d had a string of flops. Because casting is 95 percent of the game; if an actor is cast properly, you’re likely to win the crapshoot, which is what making movies is all about.” But casting a star with a serious drinking problem, who has also had recent flops, certainly compounds a producer’s dilemma.
Audrey’s marriage seemed to be following in the footsteps of the Bill-and-Cap fiasco. Filming Paris When It Sizzles must have seemed like carefree months in the country compared to what Audrey was going through with My Fair Lady in the fall of 1963. Even contending with Bill, four-sheets-to-the-wind, had been a pleasure compared to this.
Those working on the film were aware of heated arguments between Audrey and Mel, which often went into high gear and could be heard by anyone in the vicinity of her dressing room. Publicist Max Bercutt worked overtime on damage control. Warners had gone all-out in providing Audrey with every star-perquisite on the list. The Beverly Hills residence they rented for her was the ultimate in luxury. At her request, her dressing room at the studio was surrounded by a white picket fence, complete with a “Positively Do Not Disturb” sign on the front gate.
But it was Mel, it seemed, who was causing the major disturbance in her life. He was desperately trying to launch several projects, with no success. It was a classic Star Is Born–like dilemma. Everyone wanted Audrey for their productions, but few were interested in Mel’s projects if Audrey wasn’t attached to them. It wasn’t her fault—and it was understandable that Mel felt thwarted as far as his own ambitions were concerned. However: “You can’t share talent,” as Ava Gardner once observed about Frank Sinatra.
There was a film Mel wanted to do with Audrey: Isabella of Spain. But for Audrey, this was the worst time imaginable to have to deal with these matters, not to mention the latest stories she was hearing about Mel’s womanizing. He’d always been discreet, but that wasn’t necessarily the case with his inamoratas. A friend of Pat Gaston Manville’s, a beautiful brunette dancer, had had an occasional rendezvous with Ferrer during his first marriage. She told Pat that Mel was a typical Latin lover. “Fernando Lamas was the same type,” noted Pat. “Once, in Rome, I met Fernando at a party. He wanted me to go home with him. He was married to Arlene Dahl at the time, who was drop-dead gorgeous. ‘What do you want with me when you’ve got her at home?’ I asked. He went crazy. ‘Why do you bring her up?’ He went on and on. That’s how they think, dear. A roll in the hay has nothing to do with the wife at home.”
Bogged down in Fair Lady, Audrey needed every bit of Mel’s support and love; she depended on him. But soon he would begin filming his role in Sex and the Single Girl. Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood, Henry Fonda, and Lauren Bacall headed the star-studded cast, and Mel was happy to get the job.
Because of the negative buzz regarding Audrey’s singing, an extraordinarily ill advised idea was proposed: why not have her sing, informally, a couple of the My Fair Lady songs for gathered cast and crew? That would demonstrate once and for all that there was not going to be any problem with her singing. Audrey experienced firsthand, and perhaps for the first time, the meaning of the term “flop sweat.”
She was smoking a couple of packs of cigarettes a day. As filming progressed, despite the countless times Rex Harrison had performed his role onstage, he began having trouble remembering dialogue, while Audrey always knew her lines perfectly. Many takes were necessary, on many occasions, calling on Audrey to display incredible stamina. Her resolve was remarkable, but the process was exhausting. She disliked her acting in the Cockney scenes and, for the first time in her career, gave in to bouts of temperament. She shocked Cukor by stopping in the middle of scenes (the ultimate insult—only the director could “stop” a scene), exclaiming that she thought she was doing a bad job. There were tantrums, complete with tears.
There were no such problems when it came to filming the Ascot races sequence, which was superbly designed and staged, with Audrey jaw-droppingly gorgeous in a Beaton fantasy creation. And the sequence revealing Eliza’s final transformation into a lady, descending the stairs in Professor Higgins’s home, breathtakingly gowned, bejeweled, and coiffed for the Royal Ball—those were the times that Audrey felt completely in her element. In these scenes, she was, once again, portraying a shimmering Cinderella, the essence of aristocratic elegance, glamour, and beauty, worth every penny of her million-dollar salary.
The time arrived when Warners’ veteran music-department head Ray Heindorf met with Jack Warner and informed him that none of Audrey’s music tracks could be used in the final film, except for “Just You Wait,” and phrases here and there, of other songs. The task of telling Audrey was Warner’s, who assigned a lesser mortal to deliver the news (the mogul was famous for avoiding such scenes with his stars). When told they were not using her voice, Audrey left the set and went home. The next day, she returned and apologized, but she was so upset that even Givenchy, who came to see her, could not lighten her mood.
Another Audrey “first” occurred: she now insisted that black screens be placed strategically on the set, so she wouldn’t have to be distracted by the technical crew. At the same time, ever-more-sensitive Audrey tried to assuage any hurt feelings by hosting a special screening for cast and crew of Charade.
When she insisted that studio photographers be barred from the set—the clicking of their cameras was highly disturbing—the front office reminded her that their coverage of daily shooting was essential. She asked then that they wear black and be positioned behind the black screens, out of her sight line.
There were only two visitors permitted on the set: Givenchy and Doris Kleiner Brynner (the second wife of Yul Brynner). When baby Sean ran a fever, Audrey worried that her child’s life was in mortal danger. Her pet canary flew the coop, and despite heavy security at the studio, her diamond wedding ring was stolen.
It was the first time in her career that so much seemed to be working against her. At least she had Assam of Assam, Mr. Famous’s adorable successor, to dispense unconditional love.
The inevitable happened—Audrey collapsed. Production shut down, at great expense, so she could have several days of complete, undisturbed rest. Now that the end of filming was in sight, she wanted it to continue. It was a distraction from her troubled marital situation. However, a shock was in store. It had nothing to do with Mel, marriage, Cap, Bill, or My Fair Lady. On November 22, 1963, during filming on the Covent Garden set, there was calamitous news: JFK had been shot. Before notifying cast and crew, Cukor had an assistant verify the information, which turned out to be worse than expected. The president was dead.
Who would make the announcement? Audrey said she would do it, and she struggled to maintain her composure as she announced what had occurred. Her remarks were brief and heartfelt, and it was a profoundly sad moment. Jack Warner wanted filming to continue for the rest of the day, but the company disbanded. A pall hung over the remainder of production, which wrapped just before Christmas.
In an attempt to save her marriage, Audrey made a remarkable effort. She spent most of the next year constantly by Mel’s side, traveling with him throughout Europe—she spoke Spanish, French, Dutch-Flemish, and Italian—as he pursued his own dreams.
The international film community was still only a small town in terms of industry gossip. Capucine and Bill Holden had remained friends, and when Bill heard about what was going on with the Ferrers, he was concerned and wanted to know how Audrey was doing. She was doing what she felt necessary to salvage her relationship with Mel.
Ferrer starred in a minor film about the Spanish artist El Greco and worked on an independent production of his own. Industry observers could not come up with another example of a star of Audrey’s magnitude casting aside her career to physically help her husband make a movie in which she was not appearing. She performed jobs normally assigned to apprentice assistants. Hotel accommodations were third-rate, a far cry from the luxurious facilities she was accustomed to (although she drove a small car, a Volvo, and was no stranger to flying economy class). But Audrey had never forgotten the hard times she suffered during World War II, and she was still capable of roughing it.
Their social life was far from what could be considered roughing it. In Spain they were guests at a party given by the duchess of Alba, a friend of Mel’s. At the party was a beautiful and voluptuous sixteen-year-old singer and flamenco artist, Marisol (born Josefa Flores Gonzalez). She was already a star in Spain and Japan, having made many appearances on television and in Spanish films. She performed that evening, and both Mel and, supposedly, Audrey were entranced by her talent. Mel wanted to direct her in a movie. According to several of Hepburn’s biographers, Audrey thought that a marvelous idea. One might speculate, however, that perhaps Audrey’s thoughts were more along the lines of Ardis Holden’s when Bill brought Audrey home for dinner. In true European fashion, Audrey went along with her husband’s interest in Marisol, even bringing her to Paris so that her renowned Parisian hairdresser, Alexandre, could perform a makeover, preparing Marisol to look her best in front of the cameras.
“Can you imagine Elizabeth [Taylor], or [Marlene] Dietrich, or Tallulah [Bankhead], going along with something like that?” recalled an amused Bernard Drew many years later. “Tallulah would have smacked Marisol so hard that her head would have gone flying over Portugal!” But Audrey willingly became an integral behind-the-scenes participant in the movie, Cabriola, which was also the title of one of Marisol’s hit songs. She had suggestions on the script and even offered directorial suggestions; industry scuttlebutt suggested it might have turned out better if Audrey had directed the whole movie.
Hollywood could be a nasty, vengeful little town. My Fair Lady was nominated for Academy Awards in virtually every category, including Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Director. But Audrey had had the effrontery to snatch the leading role from the young woman most people felt was entitled to play it; how dare she? Dubbed singing voice and all, Hollywood was not going to reward her. She wasn’t nominated. And the voice behind Audrey, Marni Nixon, made a major mistake by letting it be known that she was the singing voice of Eliza. She was blacklisted in the industry for years.
After a decade of nothing but goodwill toward Audrey, suddenly she was on the receiving end of hostile personal comments. There was no love lost for Jack Warner, either, and the fact that the picture was proving to be a big hit was deeply annoying to Tinseltown’s artistic community. The mogul’s gamble on Audrey had paid off. “Jack wasn’t going to take any chance on turning over My Fair Lady to unproven talent, which Julie Andrews was as a screen personality at the time. He wasn’t about to produce a $17 million screen test for a newcomer,” said Charles (“Charlie”) Einfeld, Warner’s longtime publicity chief.
It seemed Julie Andrews might have the last laugh after all. She was nominated for the Best Actress Oscar for her debut film, Walt Disney’s Mary Poppins. It, too, was a big hit and at a substantially lower production cost than My Fair Lady. Andrews unquestionably had the overwhelming support of those who would vote in the Oscar derby. Audrey would not be attending the ceremonies. Why should she appear, feed the controversy, and boost ratings for the Oscar-cast when her work had been overlooked? George Cukor begged her to attend, arguing that the town’s hatred for Jack Warner was responsible for the snub. Incredibly, she honestly thought her performance simply had not warranted a nomination. If she had done the proper job, she said, all else aside, she would have been nominated.
Cooler heads prevailed. It made sense for Audrey to attend and not appear to be ashamed or embarrassed. Furthermore, why not have Audrey present the Best Actor Oscar? If Harrison won, there would be photos all over the world of the two of them together, Audrey presenting the Oscar to co-star Rex. A win for My Fair Lady no matter what.
Julie Andrews, weeks earlier, had won the Golden Globe over Audrey for Best Actress, for Mary Poppins. Andrews later said she realized that if she had done the film of My Fair Lady, she wouldn’t have been available to do Mary Poppins. So in her acceptance speech she thanked Jack Warner (“He laughed, thank God,” recalled Andrews).
Building up a rivalry between Hepburn and Andrews guaranteed great copy in the days leading up to the Oscar show, on April 5, 1965, at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. Audrey had flown in from Europe especially for the event. Toward the end of the evening, host Bob Hope included no humorous asides when he announced, to present the Best Actor award, “Ladies and gentlemen, the always gracious and wonderful Audrey Hepburn!” Walking to center stage, she looked spectacular, dressed in the perfect Givenchy gown.
She read the list of nominees: Richard Burton for Becket, Peter O’Toole for Becket, Anthony Quinn for Zorba the Greek, Rex Harrison for My Fair Lady, and Peter Sellers for Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. She paused, tore open the envelope, flashed the ultimate Hepburn smile, gazed directly at the audience and announced: “The winner is—Rex Harrison!”
There was thunderous applause as Harrison came up onstage and gave Audrey a long hug. She handed him the statuette. Then, in a most unusual move—prearranged, in the event Harrison won—Audrey continued to stand alongside Rex as he delivered his acceptance speech, his arm around her waist, clutching Oscar in his free hand. He glanced over at Audrey, and concluded with: “I feel I should split it in half.”
A slightly bewildered-looking Julie Andrews was seated in the audience close to the stage as Harrison looked her way, and said: “My deep love to two fair ladies.”
My Fair Lady was also awarded Best Picture, and George Cukor won Best Director. “I’m very grateful, very happy, and very lucky,” he said. His nemesis, Cecil Beaton, won for Best Costume Design. Andrews won the Oscar for Best Actress that night, and Audrey was first to congratulate her.
Bill’s movies were no longer Oscar-caliber; the projects were far from those of the “Golden Holden” years. He wasn’t interested in attending the many film festivals that had sprung up, especially those where Sabrina would be a highlight because of interest in Bogart, who was highly popular with nostalgia buffs. Audrey, too, bypassed these occasions.
Financially, Bill had no worries. He’d always been a shrewd businessman and was worth several million dollars. Bill’s life wasn’t that of a once-great star living a solitary existence in a small apartment, alone with his press clippings. “If only he’d been able to stop the drinking, he’d have remained in huge demand by all the top producers and directors,” noted Blake Edwards, who would work with Bill in the future. But, although there would be periods of sobriety, Bill would always crawl back into “that awful, black cave.”