Warner Brothers Studio clearly didn’t mind the fact that I’d been fired by MGM when they dangled another seven-year contract before my eyes in 1958. They had big plans for me. The first project on offer was The Miracle–hooray, I was back in movies!–to be directed by Irving Rapper. He had wanted Jean Simmons for the female lead, and she in turn suggested Stewart Granger to play opposite her. However, Irving wanted Dirk Bogarde. Everyone knew that the studio was offering it to one person, while the director was offering it to another, and they all got rather fed up.
Things were settled when Dirk wrote to Irving and suggested me, even though I’d never met him. I thought it was a very generous and gracious thing for him to do and for many years afterwards I tried to thank him in person. Even years later, in the 1970s when we lived in neighbouring villages in the South of France, Tony Forwood, Dirk’s manager and partner, would never let me speak to him. It was all very odd. I never got to thank him and I regret it, as Dirk really was responsible for my being offered the Warner’s contract.
I tested with Gladys Cooper and got the part, but Dame Gladys was then told that she wouldn’t be hired. She adored the sun and did not have ‘the pale white complexion’ they’d envisaged for a nun. They thought I looked fine, but said that I was perhaps a little ‘too English’. I didn’t quite understand. I was playing the Duke of Wellington’s nephew. How English was he? They asked if I’d mind working with Joe Graham, a dialogue director. I said no, I didn’t mind.
Joe proved to be a wonderful, wonderful man. He’d also directed a couple of movies for the studio, and legend has it that when Jack Warner–the boss–said to him, ‘You were made to direct films for me,’ Joe replied, ‘No, you were made so that I could direct films.’
They thought he was a little weird, what with that and being a vegetarian too.
Joe wore a hearing aid, and was always rather serious. I am known to clown and joke around, but that never seemed to bother Joe. One day I asked him, ‘How can you put up with my awful jokes?’
He looked at me quizzically. I said it again.
‘Hold on a minute,’ he said, and turned his hearing aid on.
A very thoughtful man, Joe once asked me if I believed in God. I thought this was a bit odd coming from a dialogue director, but I said yes, ‘But my vision of God isn’t a man with a big white beard sitting in the clouds. I think God is intelligence. I think of God as the “brain” that created all of this.’
‘Yes, you’re on the right track,’ he replied, enigmatically.
Joe reckoned that if I believed our universe was created by some intelligence, then there has to be a reason behind that intelligence–and the reason is that we are all required to acquire further knowledge. He added that if you then believe that what you have been given is only on loan, the biggest sin you can commit is not to use what you have been given.
Quite profound.
‘You are six-foot-one,’ he observed one day. ‘Why do you only stand five-foot-ten? Stand six-foot-one. Did you ever go to university?’
I said no.
‘Are you afraid if you say something you might use the wrong word?’
I said yes, I was.
‘That’s why they think you’re too English. You don’t open your mouth because you’re subconsciously afraid of what might come out.’
Immediately, I felt my jaw loosen.
‘It doesn’t matter what you say or mispronounce when we’re working together. I’ll be there to make sure you get it right.’
Our conversations carried on in this vein over several sessions and Joe worked on every production at Warner’s with me. I found that I began to speak more fluidly, no longer worrying about what people might think of me. Joe taught me so much about acting, about human nature, and about humanity. I always felt he was more psychiatrist than dialogue coach and remain eternally grateful for all the advice he gave me.
Virtually all of the exteriors of The Miracle were shot on the Warner Brothers’ ranch in Calabasas, which at that time was just miles and miles of rolling hills, populated by horses. We also went to the MGM lot where they had a permanent bridge and river. We used it for a love scene between Carroll Baker, the female lead, and myself. No one noticed until rushes the next day that after our lips pressed together and we parted, a 12-inch stream of spittle from one lip to the other was left glistening in the sunshine. A retake was called. Not that I minded a retake with Baby Doll Baker.
Two major friendships were born for me on this picture: Irving Rapper and Gordon Douglas. Irving was a great actor’s director but Gordon came in, as a favour to Irving, to handle the battle sequences and the action sequences. He didn’t take a credit. We immediately hit it off.
For the Battle of Waterloo scene, I had a beautiful costume with white britches, a tight jacket and a brass helmet. The problem was I couldn’t wear anything underneath the britches, such as an athletic support, as the line would show through. A solution was found in the shape of Rosalind Russell’s toreador girdle from Auntie Mame. It was fine, but at the end of a hot day sitting on a horse, my arse was ribbed like a sheet of corrugated iron. I still carry the marks.
As the Duke’s nephew, I had to lead the charge of a couple of hundred horses. I was positioned twelve lengths out in front and the special-effects guy said, very matter-of-factly, ‘Now, Rog, there’ll be a few explosions.’
It always unnerves me when the man who says this type of thing holds up his hand to reveal two missing fingers.
I asked where and he pointed out the trees that would blow up. ‘When will they blow up?’ I wanted to know.
‘After you’ve gone past and before the others who are following.’
Great. I whispered in my horse’s ear that this was what was going to happen. It seemed simple enough. We started off and, just as I reached the first tree, it blew up in front of me. Not behind, in front!
My horse shied and I lost my stirrups. I was shouting ‘Help! Help!’ but we were shooting without sound–MOS–and they all thought I was bravely laughing and smiling. There were no microphones to record my actual vocabulary. The buckles on my britches, meanwhile, were cutting into my knees and blood was pouring down into my boots. They were right, I was brave, but scared shitless. (MOS, by the way, came about when one of the Hungarian directors turned to his soundmen in Hollywood and said, ‘We vill shoot zis mit out sound’.)
Torin Thatcher played Wellington, my uncle. (Squires told me that he had once tried to put his tongue down her throat–for which, I imagine, he got very short shrift.) Anyhow, he’s looking down from his vantage point above the battle, and thinks he sees his nephew blown up. I’m now, in character, on the ground. The script says that my helmet has split in the explosion, and I am to reach forward for the helmet while being puzzled that I am alive and not dead.
Gordon, in his rough raspy voice, said, ‘Roger, when I say action there’ll be a few horses coming through, but they’ll be behind you and in front of you.’
Two horses came in front and three behind, and as Gordon barked, ‘Now reach for it. Reach for the helmet,’ another horse came through, put its hoof on the helmet, which sank into the mud.
‘Pick up the helmet, Rog,’ he called.
‘I can’t find it! I can’t find the bloody thing!’
That was a day I would not care ever to repeat.
I enjoyed making the picture, though. It was good to be in Hollywood again and on a movie. Movies generally have a little more time in their schedules, and a little more money. Breaking out from the constraints of TV felt quite liberating. I thought The Miracle was a happy start to my time at Warner’s.
In 1959, Squires and I acquired a new neighbour. Josef Locke, the famous Irish tenor, arrived in LA with his new young bride from Manchester and moved into an apartment that directly faced our pool. Joe had worked in variety for years and so knew Squires and me. He would often come over to chew the fat, and one day admitted to us that his younger bride was driving him mad. He’d never actually wanted to move to LA, he claimed–it was her. Her mother had already moved to LA to be near her son, and so the daughter (Josef’s wife), wanted to be there too, and encouraged Josef to uproot himself. He had recently received substantial tax demands from the British authorities and declined to meet them, so he probably didn’t take too much persuading to leave for the US.
Joe was full of the Irish blarney. One night I was with him in his car driving home, and he was pulled over for some minor offence. He wound down the window and spoke in a three-times broader Irish accent than he had before–and as it happened the cop was Irish, so Joe got off scot-free.
As time went on, Joe became more and more determined to do something about his wife and her ‘mother fixation’. ‘She can’t stand bad language,’ he told me ‘…which is fecking terrible for me.’
He decided on a separation, but said that first he needed to recover some of the money he had deposited in a Dublin bank in her name. So he had her sign a piece of paper, which he told her was some customs document. Without thinking twice, she duly signed it. He then put in a letter above her signature, addressed to the manager of the bank in Dublin saying, ‘please transfer all my assets into my husband’s account’.
Every morning, Josef intercepted the mail, waiting for the reply to confirm the transfer, which eventually arrived. So he got his money back.
‘You know, I bought her a lot of furs,’ he told Dorothy one day. The very next morning, he turned up at our apartment carrying two suitcases. They were stuffed with fur coats.
‘Would you look after these?’
The next morning he came in laughing. ‘Oh it’s all happened this morning!’ he said. No doubt she’d noticed the absence of her furs. ‘As a wife, she’s never done anything for me. She’s never made me breakfast. She is a lazy tart,’ he claimed.
That and his wife saying, ‘I think I’ll go across town to see mother today,’ started an almighty row.
‘Fuck your mother! She’s an old cunt and she’s dying,’ he shouted.
There was a scream and she rushed out the door, leaving him for ever. I don’t think he minded.
A week or so later, Josef came over to join us for a drink on our terrace. ‘You know, Roger, I gave her a lot of jewellery. I’d like to get that back.’
He had me drive him across town to the mother’s apartment. Outside he used the phone booth to make a call. I’m not sure what he said, but minutes later the two women rushed out of the building and around the corner. Joe then dashed up the fire escape. Moments later he emerged clutching handfuls of jewellery. I was rather concerned that we were actually committing a robbery.
‘Oh, fuck her!’ said Joe.
‘But how will she live? You’ve taken her money, clothes and now jewels,’ I said.
‘She’ll become a whore,’ he snapped.
Josef really was a bastard, but he had a charming side. He would always stage a terrific show, and delight audiences with his repertoire of songs. At the end of each one, he would say, ‘Now any requests?’ I was there one night when the cry went up, ‘Mother Macree’.
‘Did you say “I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen?”’…and he would launch into it. He’d launch into that song regardless of what was requested.
I don’t think Josef stayed in LA for long. He returned to Ireland and laid low away from the tax authorities.
Dot continued to travel between Britain and America when I was out there, in between her tours and engagements. In LA, she appeared at the Moulin Rouge club in Hollywood. One of her biggest fans was a young Elvis Presley, who attended most of her performances and repeatedly asked her to sing ‘This Is My Mother’s Day!’ He came backstage and, being very nervous, introduced himself to me–as though I didn’t know who he was.
‘Hello, I’m Roger,’ I said.
‘How are you, sir?’ he asked. ‘Lovely to meet you, sir.’ He insisted on calling me ‘sir’ throughout our brief chat, and acted as though he was in awe of me. Him! In awe of me!
Elvis told Dot how much he admired her and hoped he might have just a little of the success she had achieved. If only he knew. If only I knew! I’d have signed him up, as I was, after all, an ‘actor-manager’.
Like MGM, Warner Bros had its stable of contract players, but unlike MGM, most were employed in television productions. In fact, Warner’s were the leading producers of TV and many TV shows were being made on the lot. When I signed with them it was discussed that I might go into TV, but during The Miracle my contract was rewritten and TV became part of the deal. So it was that, soon after The Miracle, I guested in an episode of Maverick, with Jim Garner and Jack Kelly–series regulars Brett and Bart. Little did I know that I was actually being lined up to take over from Jim. Les Martinson was the director and we nicknamed him ‘Les the Weeper’, because he would get very upset about everything and start crying.
‘I’ve got the son of a bitch who doesn’t want to make it [Garner], the other one who wants to clown all the time [Kelly] and where is my sun?’ he would lament, when the sun went behind a cloud.
However, before I took over in Maverick came The Alaskans. After my spell in Ivanhoe I was familiar with the conveyor belt production system, limited budgets and tight schedules. But while Ivanhoe had been thirty-minute shows, The Alaskans was a series of one-hour shows. It would be tough going for a year, though my apprehension was appeased somewhat when I was told it was going to ‘be a very big production’. It was big. Stage 12 at Warner’s, in the heart of Burbank, was transformed into a Yukon setting, with fake mountains and trees that were nailed to the floor. There were giant boxes up in the roof that, on the flick of a switch, opened to jettison tons and tons of fake snow, made from gypsum and cornflakes, but which soon started including six-inch nails and lumps of wood. You wouldn’t have wanted to be in an avalanche!
All was not happy or healthy, though. We soon realized that the air was full of choking dust particles, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there had been asbestos in there. The crew were equipped with masks and goggles, but we actors were bare-faced. It meant that, at least twice a day, you had to go and see the nurse and have your eyes washed free of all the dirt and grit.
The champion dog-sled team from Sun Valley were signed up. They came down and looked very happy woofing and barking at the sight of all this snow in summer. The sleds had little wheels underneath, so it was relatively easy for the dogs to pull us along. I was taught to say, ‘Gee, mush’ to turn right; ‘Haw, mush’ to turn left; ‘Mush’ to go ahead; and ‘Whoa’ to slow or stop. ‘Action!’ was called and I mushed my way forward down the first slope. The lead dog immediately stopped at the first tree to relieve himself, followed in turn by the other eight. I was saying, nay, begging–‘Please, mush, any mush’. It really was a load of mush.
Then, out on the back lot, we had to shoot the Skagway streets, which were dressed with gypsum and fake snow: we were all dressed in giant snow boots, fur boots, gloves and parkas. Outside, the temperature was in the eighties. The smell would get pretty bad by the end of the day. Still, it kept my weight down.
The female lead in The Alaskans was Dorothy Provine, a highly attractive and talented young actress from Seattle. Jeff York, who had been under contract to Disney, was the other male lead. He was a lovely fellow but his one failing was that he liked a tipple, and if they weren’t ready for him first thing in the morning, he’d stride out of the gate and across to the Ranch House, a bar opposite the studio. At one point the production manager, who was, I think, an ex-sergeant major from the marines, with a shaven head and a big moustache, went over to get Jeff. An hour and a half later he came back in Jeff’s arms; Jeff carrying him, as drunk as a skunk. Jeff’s excuse was that he had come into a big inheritance and was celebrating. I discovered he had invented this vast non-existent inheritance on at least three other occasions.
We had a wonderful series of directors on the show, including Robert Altman. However, there had been a writer’s strike during the production, and so scripts would appear, written by ‘W. Hermanos’, the Spanish for Warner Brothers. They recycled scripts from other shows, but hardly bothered to change any dialogue, just the names. So here was I, Silky Harris, an Alaskan gold prospector, with lines like, ‘As my old pappy used to say’ which was a Jim Garner Maverick line. I’d change it to ‘As my paternal grandmother would say…’
As in all episodic TV, we had several guest stars, and one in particular, an actress, was a great follower of the ‘method’ theory. It drove me mad. She had to be shot in one scene, and asked me, ‘What happens if you’re shot?’
‘I guess you fall over,’ I said.
‘No, what happens inside?’
‘You bleed, I presume.’
‘No, what happens mentally?’
‘Well, have you ever been kicked up the backside?’ I said, doing so and running away rather quickly.
For all the high hopes the studio had for The Alaskans, there was an early thaw that year, and Warner’s plans for a second season went with the snow.
With my newfound fame and fortune in Hollywood, I decided to buy a Jaguar XK150 car. I drove it proudly to Burbank every day, but it developed a nasty habit of stalling and stopping, and every damn day it would stop and wouldn’t want to start again. One afternoon, just before closing time, I managed to get it into the Jaguar showroom on Hollywood Boulevard, which had a repair shop on the first floor. They said I’d have to leave it as they couldn’t attend to it for a day or two. I was furious, and with my best Stewart Granger ‘I’m a fucking film star’ type attitude, I said, ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll just drive it through that window there and leave it on Hollywood Boulevard. I’m sure the press will be interested to hear that I did it because you wouldn’t service it!’
They serviced it there and then. I don’t recommend this approach in every instance, but do bear it in mind should you find yourself fobbed off.
There was some speculation about the nature of my relationship with my leading lady on The Alaskans, Dorothy Provine. Being young and unusually reserved for a beautiful woman in Hollywood, Dorothy was someone I warmed to and we became good friends on and off set. When Squires came to hear of our friendship she was naturally upset but, fortunately, some cabaret engagements in the UK meant that she had to leave Hollywood, and this gave us both some much needed time to calm down.
It was around this time that Dot and I had one our most embarrassing evenings. She was back in LA for a while and one Sunday, together with her agent, the legendary Billy Marsh, we went to see a new and very controversial American comedian called Lenny Bruce. I was quite enjoying Bruce’s off-the-wall humour, until he made a negative remark about playing at the London Palladium. Suddenly, to my horror, Dorothy, who had by now consumed three large gin-and-tonics, screamed, ‘You’d like the fucking chance to play there…you cunt!’
‘Fucking spell it!’ countered Bruce, glowering in our direction.
This drew a ‘Fuck you!’ from Dot. Billy and I were trying desperately to shut her up, but she went into full sail and the insults were flying right, left and centre. In a bid to make an exit, I called for the bill. Lenny Bruce shouted that he wanted to pay, which infuriated Dot even more. Shouting and swearing reminiscent of that in a second-rate fish market ensued. And this on a Sunday too! We managed to flee, unscathed, dragging our Welsh diva behind.
I did pay the bill though. Fool that I am.
Having had a bellyful of fake snow, dogs that wouldn’t mush and recycled scripts, I was rather relieved to hear that, next on my Warner’s contract, was a film: The Sins of Rachel Cade. Better still, my mate Gordon Douglas was directing. Peter Finch and Angie Dickinson were the main stars. I wasn’t in the film until the second part, as I was still shooting The Alaskans when they’d started, which meant all of my scenes were condensed into a fairly tight part of the schedule. My first day was also Peter Finch’s last day. We never had a scene together, but they wanted us both there to pose for publicity stills. Finchie suggested that if they wanted him to do stills, they should send down a crate or two of Dom Pérignon. We proceeded to get totally pissed, and I can’t quite recall how many crates we got through in the end…but it’s probably evident in the publicity stills…
Although set in the Belgian Congo, the entire film was shot at Warner’s and they used stock shots from The Nun’s Story for the location footage! Can you spot the joins?
It was great to work with Gordie Douglas again though, and lovely to work opposite Angie Dickinson. Angie would come in everyday and say, ‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ to Gordie.
‘Morning, Angie,’ he’d rasp, and then they’d embrace and cough heavily, causing their hips to come into violent contact. I said to Gordie that I wouldn’t mind having a go at that greeting the next morning, to which he rather dryly said he didn’t fancy doing it with me…
With the end of shooting in sight, I made tentative enquiries as to what other properties Warner’s might think me suitable for. Oh no! I was told that I would be starring in Maverick as Brett’s English cousin, Beau. Jim Garner had done a walk at this point, and said, ‘No more.’
They assured me that I wasn’t replacing him. Oh, yeah? Then why did all of my costumes have ‘Jim Garner’ in them, semi-scratched out? They just took two inches out of the waist. I wasn’t that thrilled about doing the show, particularly after I’d just served my time on The Alaskans, but the carrot of further films was dangled. Maverick was OK, as it happens, and I thought some of the scripts were quite funny.
One day we were sitting on the back lot doing one of those interminable interviews that we were forced to do to publicize the series, and I said to this faceless journalist, ‘You know, the reason there were so many shootings and killings in the Old West was because of cowboy boots.’ The reporter stared at me. Feeling fuelled by his gullibility, I continued, ‘Because they pinch your feet and make you mean.’
When this story came out, William T. Orr, who was Jack Warner’s son-in-law and in charge of TV, sent for me and gave me a right rollicking. ‘Acme boots–who supply all of our boots–are very upset about this publicity,’ he said.
Considering myself told off, I said I was terribly sorry. In my next interview I added that they all wore Acme boots!
Again, we had some lovely guest stars and when Lee Van Cleef was appearing in an episode my parents came to visit. It was their first visit to Hollywood, and quite an eye-opening experience for two ordinary folks from south London. My mother, in particular, was a huge Western fan, and Lee Van Cleef was one of her favourite actors. So to be in Hollywood, on a Western set, meeting Lee was a thrill and a half.
Incidentally, on arriving in LA, my parents were quizzed for some time by customs officers over the contents of their luggage. Back in London they’d been warned that American food was horrible and that there was no ‘proper’ food–like bacon and eggs–available. So they’d brought over tins of Walls sausages! So much for the British abroad. Mind you, I’m just as bad. One night during the 1980s, when I lived in glamorous Gstaad, my phone rang. It was Michael Caine.
‘Hallo, Rog,’ said the familiar voice. ‘I’m here with Leslie Bricusse and Bryan Forbes. We were just talking about you and your posh lifestyle in Switzerland. What are you up to?’
‘Actually, Michael,’ I replied. ‘I’m sitting in front of the telly watching a video of Dad’s Army, eating baked beans on toast.’
Such glamour!
Back in Hollywood, meanwhile, Jack Kelly (Bart) remained a regular in the series after Jim Garner had departed. Jack and I got on really well, on and off set. In true Maverick style, I’d regularly join Jim Garner, Jack Kelly and their wives for a poker school at Jack’s house on Sunset Boulevard. I was never particularly lucky in cards, but had my fair share of luck in the other side of the old adage.
We had five or six days to shoot an hour episode–the same time we’d had to shoot a thirty-minute episode of Ivanhoe. The hours we worked were long and arduous. OK, it wasn’t as though we were digging roads or building houses, but it was tough. American crews were less unionized than their British counterparts, so there was none of the English, ‘Charlie, it’s 5.20 p.m., pull the plug.’ We just shot until we’d finished what needed to be done.
We did protest at one point. Jim Garner, Clint Walker and I (all contracted players of Warner’s) went up to meet Ronald Reagan who was then President of the Screen Actors’ Guild. Others egged us on, but remained on the sidelines. What did we achieve? Well, we ruffled feathers and gained a sympathetic ear. Meanwhile, Warner’s decided to punish us by putting in a time clock–in the make-up department. Actors had to punch in every morning. I refused to be part of such a stupid scheme. I bought my own make-up and never punched in.
‘He hasn’t punched in,’ I’d hear them saying on set, as I stood in the wings. ‘He hasn’t punched in and wasn’t in make-up.’ I’d walk on the set and say, ‘I’m ready to shoot.’ Jack Kelly was similarly minded, and one day took the time clock and used it as a football.
As another form of punishment, Warner’s would put an actor, (who shall remain nameless), whom I really hated into the shows. I’d had the misfortune to work with him on stage in London and then in Hollywood in my episodic TV series. He was very arrogant and downright rude. One of the hairdressing ladies was crying one morning, and I asked her what was wrong. She said Nameless had been very unpleasant to her. I didn’t think that was very nice, so I went up to him and said, ‘Listen, I’m breaking a rule here, as I told myself that I would never speak to you except in a scene, and I’m speaking to you now.’ He looked at me with hatred. ‘Why are you so goddamn rude to people?’ I went on.
‘I’m not in this business to win a goddamn popularity award,’ he replied. ‘I’m in it to be a good actor.’
That was my cue. ‘Well, you’ve failed in that,’ I told him. ‘So why not go for runner-up in the popularity stakes?’ He chased me all over the studio. If he’d caught me, he’d have killed me. Anyway, he’s now gone to that great cutting room in the sky–as Tony Curtis used to say when he heard of a Hollywood personality passing away.
They say that England and America are two countries divided by a common language. This was really brought home to me on Maverick when, after being called to the dubbing theatre one day, I was asked to re-voice myself in quite a few scenes.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘You say been instead of bin,’ came the reply.
‘What?’
‘You say been instead of bin… “I’ve just bin to the stables.” You say, “I’ve just been”. That’s incorrect.’
Astounded by what I was hearing, I made my point by asking, ‘Do you say Boston Baked Bins then?’
Around this fourth season of Maverick–my first and last–I was offered another film with Warner’s, Gold of the Seven Saints. A rather prophetic title as it turned out, since I made Gold after that in South Africa; then I made The Saint; and double-o-seven played a big part in my life, and I made seven of them.
Gordie Douglas was directing, and Clint Walker was my co-star. Clint was a giant. He would curl enormous weights. Well, in fact, he’d just pick up cameras, and camera stands, and curl. Legend has it that he was once a skier–one day he fell on his ski pole and it penetrated his chest. He held the pole in front of him, still in his chest, skied down the hill and checked himself into hospital. It would have killed anyone else.
The film centred around two gold prospectors–Shaun Garrett, played by me, and Jim Rainbolt, Clint’s character–who had found gold and were carrying it back to Seven Saints on a packhorse. Sadly the horse dies and Shaun is sent off to the nearest town to get another. He is caught trying to steal a horse, and ends up paying for it with a gold nugget. Rainbolt is horrified, as it means the whole town will know they have gold. Thus ensued a chase of the townsfolk, with the two prospectors trying to get to safety at Seven Saints.
We made good use of the terrain and locations. Moab was a curious place. They’d discovered uranium a few years before, and overnight they had three or four thousand people descend. They didn’t build houses but lived in trailers. The place became a land of trailer parks. They had one restaurant that, during the day, was a courthouse and in the evening the judge became the cook. We used to go there and have two-pound steaks put on the fire, with a pile of French fries and we’d drink a lot of Jack Daniel’s and beer–in an attempt to put fluid back into our bodies after gruelling days under the hot sun. It was a very hot, dry location and they had to oil our costumes to make it look like we were sweating. While you do sweat, it’s so hot that the sweat dries before it reaches your skin. Your lips get dry and crack. For one sequence we scouted a high ledge between the junction of the Green River and Colorado River. It was 2,000 feet up, a sheer drop, and quite spectacular with it. Bill Kissell, our assistant director, got out of the car at the top, said, ‘Whooah,’ got back into the car and refused to get out again. Being brave actors, Clint and I dutifully stepped forward. We had to ride our horses into the scene; all the time, my character was cracking jokes and singing.
At one point, Gordie said to Clint, in his gravelly voice, ‘Clint, when Rog says that line, give a little laugh.’
Clint, swallowing the words at the back of his throat, said, ‘Can’t do that, Gordie.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t think it’s very funny.’
‘I don’t care whether you think it’s funny,’ Gordie persisted. ‘The character thinks it’s funny, so give a chuckle.’
Clint took me to one side, put an enormous arm round my shoulders, and said, ‘Rog, how do you laugh?’
‘What? The technical trick of appearing to laugh?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, you let all your air out and on the intake of breath you catch your vocal cords–hahaha.’
‘No, I can’t do that,’ said Clint. ‘I find people expect me to laugh, and tell me jokes. A joke has to get me unawares.’
I started telling him jokes, trying to get him to chuckle. I eventually succeeded. It was bizarre. I mean, who doesn’t know how to laugh?
Gordie of the raspy voice, by the way, had an extraordinary background. He was born in New York and started out as a child actor, before the legendary producer Hal Roach gave him his break as a gag writer on the Our Gang (The Little Rascals) series, and then on the Laurel & Hardy comedies. It was Gordie who came up with the classic thumb-lighting-the-pipe for Stan Laurel that was used in a few of their films.
Over dinner on one of our many evenings spent together during shooting, Gordie told me some wonderful stories about Hal Roach, who was a huge practical joker. One of my favourites was about a writer from New York whom Roach had invited to Hollywood for a few weeks to do some work on one of the company’s films. One night Roach invited this chap to his house for dinner. He said it would just be Mary–his wife–himself and the writer. They have a nice dinner and after, when they’re all sitting around chatting, Hal says to his wife, ‘Have we got any of that Courvoisier left?’
‘No,’ she says, ‘it’s all gone.’
‘Oh, OK then, I’ll whip down to the liquor store to get some more,’ says Roach. The writer offers to go with him, but Roach says, ‘No, no. You stay and look after Mary. I won’t be long.’
The minute Roach leaves, Mary eyes up the writer ‘You look rather cute,’ she says.
‘Oh, well, thanks,’ he replies, blushing.
Suddenly she lunges forward and shouts, ‘Give it to me!’, pulling up her skirt.
Excited, but terrified that his boss might come back at any moment, the young writer thinks ‘what the hell!’ and does it there and then on the carpet. However, by the time Roach returns, they are sitting up at the table, chatting quite normally. The writer can’t wait to make his excuses and get away, as he is feeling pretty terrible by this stage, and petrified of being fired…or worse.
The following day, the writer is back in Roach’s office, and the secretary buzzes through: ‘Call for the writer on the line.’
‘Hello,’ the caller says. ‘This is Mary.’
‘Oh, um, hi, Aunt Winnie. How, um, how are you?’
‘I want you to come over now, and give me some more of what you gave me last night.’
‘Aunt Winnie,’ he says, ‘I’m in the middle of a script conference.’
‘You get your ass over here now or I’ll tell Hal about you,’ Mary threatens.
The writer asks Hal Roach if he could be forgiven, but his Aunt is new in town and she has a few problems.
This torrid affair goes on for two weeks. As well as feeling absolutely terrible about what he is doing, the writer is becoming increasingly weaker and more tired as each day passes. Another script conference, and Roach says, ‘You know where we’re going with this story…I want to establish a relationship between these two fellas in the script. The sort a man can’t have with a woman. You get my drift? Nothing homosexual, just something men have that binds them together. They trust one another, just as I can trust you.’
By this time the writer is going pale and wishing the ground would swallow him up.
‘Trust,’ Roach continues. ‘You know? Just like I know I could trust you with my wife.’ By now the writer is choking. ‘Yes, with my wife. Not the hooker I’m paying $50 a day to pose as my wife!’
The writer leaps across the desk and tries to kill Roach! OK, he was the butt of a terrible practical joke, but the way I look at it is that he had terrific sex for two weeks and was getting paid.
Another wicked practical joke was one Roach played on Gordie himself. Apparently, when Gordie was quite new in town, Roach invited him over for dinner, telling him to arrive at 8 p.m. Meanwhile, Roach had also invited a dozen guests for 7 p.m., and he explained to them that the chap who was coming later had just been released from jail. But, he told them, they can’t talk about that: he had actually murdered someone, but is a terribly nice person; it was really the drink’s fault. He mustn’t drink.
Gordie duly arrived and was introduced to everyone. They’re all standing with drinks in their hands, and Gordie says, ‘Oh, do you think I could have a drink?’ A few people move away. By the time he asked for a second drink, the room had cleared!
Gold of the Seven Saints was a very happy film to shoot. I sang, I danced, and I played an Irish drunk. Fun to play, fun to do a dialect. I had a character to hide behind so I could act–though I’ve never been very guilty of doing that.
I hoped that it might lead to more collaborations with Gordie at Warner’s. But, once again, my hopes were dashed when I was told my next job would be on The Roaring Twenties, a TV series that recounted the adventures of a newspaper journalist in ‘cops and gangsters’ 1920s Chicago. At this time, Warner’s were making the bulk of the programmes for American television. They had 77 Sunset Strip, Hawaii Five-O, The Alaskans, Maverick, Bronco, Bourbon Street Beat… it was an extraordinary line-up, with fifty contract players who all looked alike–the boys and girls–and so we were all interchangeable. So fixated were they on finding me another television vehicle, that they came up with what they thought was hugely original–another damn Western series, only this time with an Englishman-turned-cowboy–at which point I said, ‘I’m leaving’.
I think the feeling was mutual, actually. It saddened me that after just a couple of years, and some happy working experiences on movies, Warner’s felt my future lay in TV. I wouldn’t have minded if they’d come up with something original. As it was, and as much as I had come to love Hollywood, I was not prepared to sit out the remaining five years of my contract by accepting whatever was offered, good or indifferent. It was 1961, Hollywood was changing, and not for the better. Maybe it was time to try pastures new?
Squires, meanwhile, was enjoying huge success back in the UK, and in Australia and Europe. It was difficult to spend much time together–we were both dedicated to furthering our careers. I had a business manager at this point, Irving Leonard, who was also Jim Garner’s manager. In fact, he handled most of the people who had been under contract to Warner’s, and also Clint Eastwood. In fact it was he who persuaded Clint to go to Italy to do a picture for $15,000, which was a lot less than he was used to being paid in Hollywood. That was The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, the first of the Sergio Leone spaghetti westerns, which led to Clint becoming one of the biggest motion picture stars.
I had a certain profile in Italy by this point, and so when I was offered the lead in an Italian picture, Irving encouraged me to take it; even though the money wasn’t brilliant. So I left Hollywood behind me, again, and departed for Rome to make The Rape of the Sabine Women or Il Ratto delle Sabine, as the natives say.
I received the script for Sabines, one of the scripts I should say, as many different language versions existed to accommodate the real Heinz 57 nationality mix of all the actors involved: English, French, German, Yugoslav, Italian and the rest. The film was about the founding of Rome, the story of Romulus and Remus. I was to play Romulus. Casting a blond, blue-eyed Anglo-Saxon as the twin of Remus, raised by a wolf and becoming the founder of Rome, seemed somewhat ambitious to me. However they were paying, so I said nothing.
I flew from LA to London, and then on to Paris to meet the producers, Enrico Bomba being the Italian one, and Alexander Salkind the French partner (Alex, and his son Ilya, went on to produce Superman among other films). After lunching with Alex, we walked along the Champs-Elysées–Alex lived just off the famously expensive thoroughfare, very near to the lavish George V Hotel–and as we passed a tailor’s Alex said, ‘Just a minute.’
He took me in with him and addressed the tailor in French; I gathered he said something about making a major movie, me being his star and that he wanted me fitted out. The tailor, obviously registering that this could be a very lucrative opportunity, wrote down all my measurements. Alex thanked him for his kind attention, picked up the measurements, and we walked out of the shop. He then called Rome and gave them my measurements to make my costumes–which were really just togas in any event. Maybe Alex’s methods should have warned me how cheap this production was going to be!
I next flew to Rome for fittings and met some of the cast and crew. Richard Pottier was our director; he was Hungarian-born but had spent much of his working life in France. Mylène Demongeot was our French leading lady, Rea. Scilla Gabel was the Italian leading lady, Dusia. Then there was a very beautiful young lady named Luisa Mattioli, who was under contract to Enrico Bomba. Luisa was to play Silvia.
While we were in Rome, a press conference was set up for Italian television and Luisa, who had previously been a TV presenter in Italy, was asked to interview me. As I spoke no Italian and she spoke no English, it was an interesting interview, as you might imagine. I still don’t really know how we got through it, but we did. We seemed instantly able to communicate–language was no barrier between us.
I was fitted for my costumes and then we were shipped off to Zagreb in Yugoslavia. It wasn’t a film studio, but a sort of converted warehouse, all very makeshift; and I felt rather lonely, as one of the few English-speaking people around the place. The first day’s shooting was upon us. The Romans, under the leadership of yours truly, rode into the Sabinians’ town with plentiful supplies of wine to get the menfolk drunk. Once they were incapacitated, the Romans carried the Sabine women off for the inevitable rape. The big problem was that my French was not very good; my Italian was non-existent and as for my German and Serbian, well, you can guess. Everyone was speaking in their own native language and it was chaos.
Our first assistant director was a lady called Beka. Never content with instructing the crowd and extras before calling ‘Action’, she would continually shout instructions, in her local dialect, at them during the scene and all over my and the other principals’ dialogue. I found it very off-putting, but when I challenged her as to why she did this she replied, ‘Because they are stoopid.’
‘I may be stupid too,’ I replied, ‘but I find it very hard to concentrate.’
Anyhow, my first scene was with Mylène Demongeot, who spoke her lines in French. As soon as her lips stopped moving, I chipped in with, ‘You mustn’t be afraid, we mean no harm.’ She then replied in French about all men being liars and, again as soon as her lips stopped moving, I knew it was my turn. We managed to get through some of this, with Beka continually shouting her Serbian directions in the background, when a man in the crowd wearing a white toga emerged and punched me squarely in the jaw; knocking me flat on my back.
‘Cut! Cut!’ called the director. ‘Roger, where are you?’
‘Here on the floor.’
‘Why are you on the floor?’
‘Because that man just punched me,’ I replied.
‘Beka! Why did that man punch Roger?’ the director asked.
‘Because he is drunk,’ was her reply.
‘Hang on,’ I chimed in. ‘He should be fired if he’s drunk.’
‘No,’ said Beka. ‘He’s acting drunk.’
‘Look, we normally discuss and rehearse things like this,’ I said, ‘so I’m prepared for someone to hit me!’
We broke off for lunch…with a lot of red wine. Then Pottier said, ‘In this next scene you gallop in, your horse stumbles, you fall off your horse and you then get up and pull your sword–’
‘Hang on!’ I cried. ‘I come riding in and then we cut to a double falling off the horse.’
‘Ce qui? Un double? Je ne comprends pas.’ All of a sudden, Pottier didn’t speak English any more.
At first I didn’t quite understand why my agent had specifically listed in the contract that I should have a dressing room, make-up and costumes supplied, as that was the norm I had come to expect. He’d also specified that a double should be available for stunt work. My agent was obviously wise to how Italians made movies. I reminded Pottier of this. He called Beka over, and they mumbled something between them. She then pulled a chap out of the crowd and said to me, ‘Take your clothes off.’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Take your clothes off. If he is to double you, he needs your clothes.’
‘Oh no. Oh no! If he is to double me, then you will make clothes for him,’ I replied. It was an ordeal. And that was only the first day.
Folco Lulli was playing King Titus, and was always complaining about the cheap production. I remember we were in the back of a car together going to location one morning, and he was chattering away in Italian–and even though I spoke very little, I got the drift of what he was saying and it was none too complimentary. Just then he hacked phlegm from the back of his throat and spat it out of the window. Which would have been fine had the window been open. I was in hysterics.
As our shoot progressed on location, the beautiful Luisa Mattioli and I became more than just members of the cast. We were both away from our native lands and, as I said, language was no barrier. In fact we enjoyed many long conversations during which it didn’t seem to matter whether the words made any sense whatsoever. I found out that a nod is, indeed, as good as a wink.
We somehow managed to complete the film and I have to say that the finished thing was really quite horrendous. Had my payment been forthcoming on time, it might have eased my disappointment and frustration. Eventually I did get paid but only, I suspect, because Bomba wanted to offer me a second picture, No Man’s Land. Of course he dangled the fact that Luisa would again be co-starring, and as I wanted to stay on in Rome with her, it suited me. Our romance was developing and our feelings for each other growing stronger; soon we became quite inseparable.
In another wonderful bit of casting, I was to play an Italian soldier, a deserter. Max Schell’s brother, Carl, played a Nazi villain and our leading lady was Pascal Petit. It was all haphazardly stitched together by director Fabrizio Taglioni. One wonderful actor who had a small role in the film was Memmo Carotenuto. He had a nose that didn’t quite know which direction it should be pointing in. By this point I had picked up a little more Italian and was able to converse, so I asked how his nose had become broken in such a fashion. He said he had been playing Jesus in a production, and for the crucifixion he was tied to a cross, which was erected on top of a hill. All of the extras fell to their knees to worship Christ in his dying moments. The vibrations caused the cross to sway, but as he didn’t want to draw too much attention and spoil the shot, he quietly called, ‘Help me, help me!’ The extras must have thought it was part of the script, so did nothing. At which point the cross fell forwards, and with him being tied he had nothing between himself and the rapidly approaching ground except his nose–which duly took the brunt of the impact.
Lack of communication and a bad script led to friction on the set. It wasn’t a happy production. I wasn’t in a position to turn the work down however, and so had to make the best of it. Mercifully I didn’t have to think about a third Italian epic, as I received word from Britain about a new TV series that they wanted me to star in.