Having once tried to secure the rights to the character from Leslie Charteris, I was rather receptive to the offer of the lead in Lew Grade’s new TV series of The Saint. The offer came through to me in Venice, via my agent Dennis van Thal, along with the script of episode one. My Italian films had certainly not catapulted me to international superstar status, as Clint Eastwood’s did him, and, Luisa aside, I wasn’t sure how much longer I wanted to spend in Italy pursuing a career in, shall we say, somewhat unremarkable films. Dennis flew out to discuss the deal. I said I felt the script was rather long for what was, like Ivanhoe, a half-hour show. ‘Oh no, it’s definitely half an hour,’ he assured me, ‘they’ll cut it down.’
I wasn’t convinced: it read very long to me. Dennis sent a telex to one of his assistants in London asking them to confirm the running time. The reply was ‘half an hour’. Of course, this had a bearing on the contract and the offer. Satisfied that I was signing up for twenty-six half-hour shows, I met with the producers, Bob Baker and Monty Berman. They didn’t ask me to screen test, the part was mine. I was very excited and looking forward to starting.
Not long after accepting the part, Lew Grade asked me to attend a press conference–Lew loved making press announcements, being the showman. I sat alongside him and the producers as he welcomed everyone and said that they were very excited about ‘these twenty-six one-hour shows’.
‘Half-hour,’ I said from the side of my mouth.
Lew continued.
‘Half-hours,’ I said again.
‘No, they’re one-hour shows,’ said Bob and Monty, firmly.
I had agreed my contract based on thirty-minute shows. ‘We’ll have to go back to the drawing board on this,’ I said.
‘What do you mean? You have a contract. You’ve signed it!’ Fortunately there were a few revisions made, and Dennis van Thal’s assistant was swiftly shown the door.
I thought the show would run for one series, possibly a second. I never dreamed it would run for seven years and 118 episodes. They were very, very happy days of playing a character to whom I easily adapted my limited ability.
Although the TV series was based on the stories and characters created by Leslie Charteris, rather cleverly in his agreement with Charteris, producer Bob Baker never actually gave Charteris script approval, only the right to ‘comment’ on the scripts. However, Leslie Charteris never held back in his criticism and was sometimes quite vitriolic–and often quite funny too–in his long memos, which were always delivered in a pre-used envelope. Of one episode, written by our story editor Harry Junkin, Charteris sent back the script with ‘this is fit for junkin’ written across it.
Charteris’s stories were, in the main, all short stories. However we had a one-hour show to fill, and we found that while his stories offered material enough for a first and third act, there was no middle act. Which is what the show’s writers were charged with creating. Obviously, in writing a new second part they’d often have to change details in the stories, the characters, and so on, and this is what Charteris objected to. He was extremely protective and possessive when it came to The Saint. In fact, he thought of himself as Simon Templar. He hated the production’s invention and meddling with his stories, and never hesitated to tell us so. I’m not sure whether his criticisms eased or increased after the first series, as we created our own original stories. Bob handled everything with great diplomatic charm. Mind you, I think Charteris rather liked being able to protest.
There had been a number of films based on the Charteris stories in the 1930s, 1940s and even into the 1950s and while I was familiar with them, we were keen to try something different in terms of the style of our production. It was decided that, in the opening sequence, Simon Templar would talk to the camera and address the viewing masses. It set the scene, made the audience feel a part of the story and then moved to the now infamous raising of the eyebrow, and the skyward glance above my head to see the halo, while someone said, ‘You’re the famous Simon Templar!’ or some such line, to introduce me. The episode would then launch into the opening titles and famous music by Edwin Astley. For many youngsters it was a Sunday night pre-bedtime treat. Even now, I’m often approached by people who say, ‘I was allowed to stay up and watch you!’(Or rather, nowadays, they say their grandmothers were once allowed to stay up. It doesn’t half make an old actor feel…old!)
As I said earlier, Luisa and I had been becoming closer, and when we were apart I realized just how much I missed her. I’m not particularly proud of the fact that I ended my marriage with Dorothy Squires to be with Luisa. Dot and I had been through a lot together and my actions around this time caused a lot of heartache and bad feeling. I didn’t then realize it, but the long separations in the pursuit of our individual careers had obviously had an impact on me, on us both, perhaps. We had, quite simply, drifted apart without realizing it was happening.
But I felt I had to follow my heart, which now lay well and truly with Luisa. I have always been an incurable romantic.
I never stopped caring about Dot. I don’t think you can ever stop caring about someone who was such a large part of your life, no matter how your relationship may have ended. I don’t think she ever stopped caring about me either; which is undoubtedly why she refused me a divorce for so long.
Towards the end of her life, in 1998, when Dot fell ill and on hard times, she and I spoke on the telephone. We agreed that we’d shared some great and happy times and wouldn’t have missed them for the world. I did what I could to make her remaining time more comfortable and while not asking her to ever understand what I did all those years earlier, she did say that she was pleased I had now found happiness with Kristina, my fourth wife.
‘She’s the one, Rog, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, Dot,’ I replied, ‘she really is.’
However, back in 1961, the breakdown of a marriage was not sufficient grounds for divorce, which could only be granted with Dot’s consent–and that was not forthcoming.
After much agonizing on both our parts–Luisa because of her devout Catholic faith and me because I couldn’t stand to see her so torn between that faith and her love for me–Luisa agreed to leave Rome and come back to Britain with me. We decided to set up home together and rented a three-bedroomed house with a rather nice garden in Mill Hill, about twenty minutes’ drive away from Elstree Studios, where The Saint was based.
Our first day’s shooting on episode one was on location in Cookham, Buckinghamshire, where Derek Farr–in drag as Mrs Jafferty–had to cross the road as Simon Templar drove by in his Volvo P1800. A simple enough shot. I parked around the corner waiting (as is the norm with British productions), for the sun to reappear from behind a cloud, which was to be signified by the drop of a hand on the opposite corner. Just then, a policeman pulled up on his bicycle. He looked at me and looked at the car, then got off his bike and walked over.
‘That’s a very interesting-looking car, sir,’ he said. ‘Interesting-looking number plate too.’ Of course, it was the ‘ST1’ plate.
‘Yes,’ I said, not thinking. ‘It’s fake.’
The policeman reached into his pocket to pull out his notebook and pencil. At that very moment I saw the signal to go, so I sped off around the corner, did the circuit and returned to my starting point, where the policeman was still standing, scratching his head. Nobody had told him a film crew was in town.
Our schedules were invariably eight days per episode, and we rarely shot weekends. It allowed me a regular routine. Each day I’d get up at 6.00 a.m. to do my exercises–callisthenics, sit-ups and all sorts of other regimes as I hated gymnasiums and much preferred to keep fit at home–followed by tea and toast and the drive to the studio for 7.30.
I drove a Volvo P1800 in ‘real-life’, too. That all came about during pre-production, when we discussed what sort of car Simon Templar should drive. The general consensus was that it should be a Jaguar. I said that whatever car we had, I’d buy one as well–hoping for a favourable deal, naturally–so we’d have two; meaning that when we were shooting with the main unit, should the second unit require a car for establishing or pick-up shots they could use the production car and I’d use mine with the main unit.
Johnny Goodman, our production manager, placed a call to Jaguar in Coventry and explained that we were setting up a new TV series and required two cars.
‘When do you need them, Mr Goodman?’
‘Next week,’ Johnny replied.
‘Oh! We couldn’t possibly do that.’ came the reply. ‘There’s a six-month waiting list!’
‘Yes, but this is for a television series,’ added Johnny, ‘that will be sold around the world. Think of the wonderful publicity it will generate for your company.’
‘Publicity?’ said Jaguar. ‘What do we need publicity for? We have £250-million-worth of orders that we can’t possibly fill as it is.’
That was the end of the conversation. Johnny then flicked through some car magazines and showed me a photo of the Volvo P1800. I thought it looked terrific. Johnny called them and within two days we had two cars at the studio, as well as the materials to mock up the interior of another car that we could use for close-ups in the studio. Every year Volvo changed the cars for us too. So there are a number of ‘genuine Volvo P1800s as driven by The Saint’ out there. It always amuses me when people write and say ‘I own the original Volvo’. What they own is actually one of about twelve that we used over the years.
The lovely thing about The Saint was that our stories were often set in wonderful and glamorous countries. Television productions in those days, however, didn’t have the vast budgets necessary, nor the schedules available, to actually film in these places. So we’d make British locations ‘double’ for more exotic foreign ones, which were not always entirely convincing. By wheeling out the odd plastic palm tree, affixing false car number plates and slapping up a caption across the bottom of the screen, the Elstree back-lot and surrounds would become France, Spain, Italy, Switzerland or even the Bahamas.
Invariably, in the middle of winter, I’d be in ‘the Bahamas’ or ‘South of France’ in a short-sleeved shirt with lights blazing down on me, a plastic palm in front of me, fronds blowing in the bitterly cold north wind. Ah, you say, don’t they drive on the opposite side of the road in those countries? Yes, they do. That wasn’t a problem for us either, as we simply flipped the film in the camera. Borehamwood High Street could have been anywhere.
I used to hate the thought of shooting on the back-lot and longed for days when I might be on location for real: those days came with The Persuaders and oh, how I missed being able to drive home at night. Actors are never content, you’ll find.
The other nice thing about the show was that we had a terrific crew. Many, such as Alec Mills and Jimmy Devis our camera operators, June Randall our wonderful continuity girl, Johnny Goodman and Peter Manley our production managers, and Malcolm Christopher our invaluable location manager, have remained friends to this day. It was a huge family that gathered for ten hours of fun every day.
Time between series was actually limited. I think I might have had two months off before the next series started and often I’d be required to go off to do a promotional tour somewhere, so Luisa and I would tie that in with a holiday. We used to like going to Magaluf in Majorca, long before it became spoilt by the masses of holidaymakers who descend upon the over-developed coastline these days.
We also spent some time in Rome with my ‘in-laws’ when time allowed. I remember on one occasion we were driving back from Rome to England and went via Switzerland. I’d never been to Geneva before, although the Saint had–thanks to a caption whacked across the bottom of the screen in one episode–and thought it would make a good place to stop off for a couple of days. We checked in to the Beau Rivage Hotel. The manager asked if I would pose for a photograph with her daughter, which I gladly did. When it came time to check out, I asked for the bill. They said there was no charge; it had been their pleasure to welcome Simon Templar. I experienced more kindness from a taxi driver in the city. Having reached our destination, he refused to accept a fare.
I quite enjoyed being famous!
I must add here that, in later years, London taxi drivers–who are undoubtedly the best in the world–have so often refused to charge me saying, ‘Give it to UNICEF, guv. We can’t take your money.’ It is hugely touching to receive such generosity. The worst cab drivers I’ve come across are definitely in New York. These days you have to put up with drivers who talk on mobile phones all the time and don’t know where they’re going, yet it’s the easiest city in which to navigate–but then I could still be smarting over the mistaken $100 dollar bill I paid out in 1953…
One of our early guest stars in The Saint was Warren Mitchell, in fact he popped up in a number of episodes, usually playing an Italian taxi driver–though he didn’t speak any Italian aside from the swear words I taught him, courtesy of Luisa. I wonder if the audience ever picked up on what he was saying? Another guest star was Jane Asher, who was about sixteen when she guested. I remember we had a rack of black painted tracking boards that were stacked against the wall, rather like canvases in an artist’s studio. I’d occasionally take a piece of chalk and do sketches on these boards, and I did one of Jane with her then boyfriend, a young musician named Paul McCartney. I put it in a heart with a bit of holly around it and was so pleased with it that I announced it was to be my Christmas card for that year.
‘Oh no,’ said Jane. ‘Please don’t do that. If it gets out that we’re seeing one another it will ruin his career.’
‘What career?’ I asked, in all ignorance. Little did I know!
Other wonderful leading ladies included the young Julie Christie, Jackie Collins, Erica Rogers, Annette Andre, Lois Maxwell, Nicola Pagett, Eunice Gayson, Jennie Linden, Sue Lloyd, Justine Lord, Suzanne Lloyd, Mary Peach, Jean Marsh, Imogen Hassall, Veronica Carlson, Samantha Eggar, Shirley Eaton, Kate O’Mara, Alexandra Stewart and so very many more. The subject of my leading ladies arose in a TV interview I did with HTV.
‘You’ve played Ivanhoe, Maverick and now The Saint,’ said the interviewer, ‘you must have got through a lot of leading ladies in your time.’
‘You can’t say that!’ I cried.
He didn’t seem to realize what he was saying. I cringe whenever I see the clip. (It’s on YouTube, by the way.)
A young actor named Oliver Reed was cast as a baddie in an episode called The King of the Beggars. Usually, in the penultimate scene of an episode, ‘who did it’ is all explained. In the beginning of this revealing sequence, the baddie was shot and the camera moved past him, on to me, for my summing-up. Oliver, knowing this would be his last chance to get his face on camera, took the gunshot and spun around, leapt up in the air and let his face linger in frame as he passed the camera on the way down to the floor.
We did about four takes, and each time he lingered a little longer. Running out of time–and patience–the director let it be and continued. I started summing up the plot, but all I could hear was a rasping sound coming from the floor. I thought Oliver was trying to break me up. I continued, but the noise got louder, and I looked down to see Oliver lying spark-out, with his purple tongue hanging from the side of his mouth. I dropped down to the floor to assist him.
‘What have you stopped for?’ cried the director.
‘Oliver’s concussed!’ I shouted. ‘He’s going blue!’
‘Oh yes. Fair enough. Call the unit nurse,’ the director said calmly.
Luckily, Oliver survived that small trauma and his next appearance was in an episode I directed called Sophia. By now, Oliver had graduated to playing the main villain. What a terrific actor he was. I definitely thought that he was among the best ‘villains’ around at that time, and told him so.
Many years later, I was in Hollywood preparing to play Sherlock Holmes in a TV movie and our producer said, ‘Oliver Reed’s in town next week. He’d make a great Moriarty. You know him, don’t you?’
I said yes on both counts.
‘Give him a call at the Beverly Wilshire, would you?’
I called Oliver and explained what was afoot.
‘Do you remember something you once said to me?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘We were at a BAFTA evening at the London Hilton and you said to me, “Stick to playing villains, because you can’t do comedy”.’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I replied.
‘Well, I’ve just done a comedy, and I was brilliant. So I don’t think I want to play your Moriarty.’
Oops!
Another young actor I met during The Saint, though alas never worked with on it, later became one of my closest friends. It was around mid-1964, I was walking across Piccadilly and, coming towards me, were two actors: one was Terence Stamp and the other was a bespectacled, tall, good-looking blond chap whom I’d seen the night before in a TV play written by Johnny Speight.
‘You’re going to be a big star,’ I dared to say to the blond actor.
‘Fuck me! Roger Moore!’ he replied. His name was Michael Caine. He was indeed to become a big star.
Conversely…I was asked to support a number of charity events, and one of my favourite charities was the Variety Club of Great Britain. During my Saint tenure I agreed to attend the races at York with a few ABPC actresses: Sylvia Syms, Rita Tushingham, Liz Fraser and a young starlet who made such an impression that I cannot remember her name. Anyhow, we all sat in the same compartment on the train and started playing poker–all but the starlet, that is. She sat admiring herself in two mirrors; one for the left profile and one for the right. It became rather obvious she had delusions of grandeur.
‘Does my nose look big?’ she asked, while manoeuvring her mirrors for the best angle.
Sylvia looked at her and said, rather loudly, ‘I’ve never travelled with a fucking film star before.’
Ah, I wonder what ever happened to that starlet?
Harry Junkin, our story editor on The Saint, was a six-foot-six, garrulous Canadian and his idea of sophistication was reflected in the tag-line to almost all of his scripts. At the end of an episode, I’d be in the Volvo with my leading lady and she would ask, ‘What shall we do now, Simon?’
My reply was, ‘I’m going to take you to the best restaurant in town and then go dancing until dawn.’ Maybe it was a chat-up line that worked for Harry?
When we filmed the car scenes, incidentally, we would shoot either with ‘blue backing’, which meant you couldn’t wear anything blue as you’d become transparent, or with a revolving drum for shorter sequences. The drum had bits of silver paper on it to represent the city lights flashing past or, if we were in the country, we’d attach a few twigs to it. These were always shot MOS–mit out sound. One day, we were sitting in the screening room watching the previous day’s rushes, and I appeared sitting in the driving seat of the Volvo. Without a cut, the camera operator was then sitting in the driving seat and I appeared to be running alongside the car. I held up a piece of paper that had ‘Stop!’ written on it.
He produced a piece of paper saying ‘Why?’
‘Because my dick’s caught in the door!’ said my next piece of paper. The boys in the room fell about. They thought it hilarious, as did the laboratory that processed the footage: it became the highlight of their Christmas blooper reel. The only person who didn’t see the funny side was co-producer Monty Berman. He ordered the production manager to charge me for the film stock, saying I was wasting their money. That was really the beginning of the end between Monty and me, as far as I was concerned. We’d filmed two series and were completing the third. I really had no desire to go on to another.
When we were working on the second series, I said to Bob Baker one day that I’d rather like to direct.
‘Oh yes,’ said Bob, smiling. ‘That’d be nice.’ He obviously felt he should amuse his actor and not upset him. ‘But alas there’s a problem,’ he added. ‘The union. The ACTT. If you’re not a member they won’t let you step to the other side of the camera.’
‘But I am a member,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘I’m a member. From 1943 when I worked at PPP in d’Arblay Street.’
Bob could feel his argument failing. In all fairness, he knew I was professional enough not to screw things up, and we had such a professional crew around us that they would carry me, if needed. So, he agreed.
I enjoyed directing and went on to do a number of Saint and Persuaders episodes. I always figured I’d tell the story from Simon Templar’s point of view, and from a master shot I’d have the camera over my shoulder, so then I was on screen for everything. I’d leave my close-ups until the end of the day, so I could let everyone else go home, and I’d do them with the script girl feeding me the lines.
I was fortunate in that I had learned a lot about directing from the many wonderful directors with whom I’d worked, both in Hollywood and the UK. I knew about lenses, cameras, a little about lighting and I think I had a certain sympathy for actors, being one myself. Anything I wasn’t sure about I’d ask the crew. I found they were all very keen to help and offer advice.
I much preferred directing TV to film, if I’m honest. With a film you have six or eight weeks of pre-production, maybe ten weeks’ shooting and then another ten weeks or more of post-production. When you’re the director, you’re required every step of the way. Typically, a film might take six or seven months of your life. Perhaps more. An ongoing TV series would take two or three. Maybe I’m lazy, or maybe I feel I’d just get bored with a long process. I declined quite a few offers to direct movies in later years.
The aspect I didn’t relish about directing was the casting of the shows, believe it or not. I felt I knew a lot of actors and as I had a copy of Spotlight–the casting directory–I didn’t feel the need to meet anyone, I’d just pick people I thought looked right. Alas no, it didn’t work that way.
In the days when I was struggling, I’d have to give up a packet of cigarettes to be able to buy a train ticket out to Pinewood or Shepperton Studios, only to be told on arrival that I was either too thin, too fat, too short or too tall. It was a cruel and expensive process. I resolved that I would only ever hold interviews for anything I directed in London, and if I couldn’t get a break in shooting for a few hours to see someone, then I’d do it on a Saturday.
Soon came the day when Bob presented me with the script of an episode called The Miracle Tea Party, which I was to helm. And so it was, that one Saturday morning, having already cast Bob Brown, Charlie Houston, Patrick Westwood, and Nanette Newman, I arrived at an office in Golden Square for further auditions. I asked the casting director who he had lined up for the part of Aunt Hattie. He said, ‘X, Y, Z and Fabia Drake.’
‘I can’t interview Fabia Drake!’ I spluttered. ‘She was my teacher at RADA.’
‘Well, she’s here, you’ll have to.’
I couldn’t believe it. I felt so awkward and real fear set in. I called her in. ‘Miss Drake…’ I greeted her.
‘No. I’m Fabia. You are Mr Moore,’ she replied.
‘I’m sorry, but I find this very embarrassing.’
‘You shouldn’t.’
‘Have you read the script?’ I asked.
‘Yes, that’s why I’m here.’
‘Fine. There’s no more to say. I’ll see you on Monday,’ I concluded.
All over the weekend I worried about how I was going to give Fabia Drake direction. My system of working was to draw sketches of the beginning and the end of each scene. I’d show the actors how I intended to start and end the scene, and then let them decide how they wanted to move around in between.
On the Monday, Fabia arrived and asked where I wanted her to go. I showed her the sketches.
‘OK, darling, but do tell me if I’m doing anything wrong.’ She made me feel so much at ease. It was lovely. From then on, I had no problems directing anyone else. Thank you, Fabia.
In this episode we had a location shoot at Waterloo Station. There was a whole day’s filming scheduled, so I visited on the Sunday prior to prepare the various shots I knew I wanted and plan how to achieve them. Everything had to be timed with the trains arriving, and I wanted to shoot across the clock on the main concourse–as the story evolved, we would always see the time moving forward.
I found I had many sequences that I wasn’t appearing in, so I didn’t have to get made-up, and could wear old clothes and a hat to move around the station without being recognized. Unbeknown to me, my mother had come down that day to watch from the crowd. She heard a couple of people saying, ‘Oh, that’s Roger Moore. Don’t half look scruffy, don’t he? He don’t look like he do on telly.’ So much for disguise!
We had one difficult moment when I was standing on top of the station steps, shooting across one of the wonderful stone lions that grace the entrance to the station, when an Irish drunk came over. He really was rip-roaring drunk, and the railway police were not interested.
‘I know who you are,’ he said to me.
‘Yes, thank you. Move along,’ I said.
‘I want to shake you by the hand.’ He just wouldn’t go until I shook hands and had a chat, which rather spoilt the shot.
That rather reminds me of another encounter I had with a drunk, this time a few years later when I was directing an episode of The Persuaders with Ian Hendry as our guest star. Our location was the Tower of London. I lined up a shot where Ian would pull up in a Mini, resplendent in a Gannex raincoat and trilby hat, and get out. Then Anna Palk would walk into frame and, through the car window we would see her walk towards the camera and Ian Hendry. We rehearsed; all was fine. In take one, however, it wasn’t Anna Palk who walked into shot, but a seedy old tramp eating a bag of fish and chips.
The assistant director sprang over to move him on. The tramp proceeded to shout, ‘I know my effing rights. I can stand where I want on a public effing thoroughfare…’
Just then, as quick as a flash, Ian Hendry, looking every inch the archetypal Scotland Yard inspector, walked over and said, ‘I haven’t seen you on my manor before, have I?’
‘Sorry, inspector,’ said the tramp, sheepishly, and shuffled off very quickly.
I rather enjoyed directing on location. There was a limited amount of time to film however many minutes of an episode, and you had to be very creative and versatile. As a director, you had to think on your feet and remain one step ahead at all times. We certainly didn’t have the luxury of waiting for the weather, for example. I remember on one location, in Nice, it was raining and the crew thought we’d have to wait for it to stop, as we would do on a feature film. Bob Baker said, ‘So, it never rains in Nice?’ He was right. We carried on shooting and incorporated it into the story. That’s what I mean about being versatile.
We were fortunate that Lord Grade of Elstree–or Lew, as he liked to be called by everyone from the tea-boy to top stars–insisted on shooting on 35 mm film. All his shows were shot on film, which gave them a longevity that so many other TV programmes, shot on video, failed to enjoy. Film added a great quality to a production, and I think that was one of the reasons we were able to secure such an impressive roster of directors, many of whom had enviable feature film credentials: Roy Ward Baker, Jeremy Summers, James Hill, Michael Truman, John Gilling, Leslie Norman, Peter Yates, John Moxey, Robert Asher, Freddie Francis and our own Bob Baker. Our shows were, in fact, seen and treated as mini-films.
Roy Ward Baker had learned much from working as Alfred Hitchcock’s assistant in the 1930s, and taught me a very valuable trick in directing. He explained that you should never linger on a static shot for longer than needed, and you should always ‘change the size’ of the frame you’re working with. For instance, if you go in for a close-up of one actor, then cut to a close-up of another, slightly change the size of the close-up framing on the second. That way people’s eyes have to continually adjust, which in turn stops them becoming bored and falling asleep. Similarly, the sound volume should fluctuate, to prevent flatness. It keeps the viewers alert. All good advice for budding film-makers.
Escape Route was another fun episode I directed. Our guest star was a then relatively unknown actor called Donald Sutherland. The plot revolved around Simon being sent into a prison undercover and sharing a cell with a criminal–to pick his brains and organize an escape with him. We were shooting at a quarry in Rickmansworth (doubling for Dartmoor). Knowing little about prisons, having never been caught, I asked the assembled extras if any of them knew what happened on a work party. About four stepped forward and said, ‘Yes, guv, we know.’ They were invaluable!
Cue the escape. A helicopter comes down into the quarry and Donald Sutherland and I, who are part of the work party, make a run to it. Les Crawford, our stunt arranger came over.
‘Roger, I’ve got a great idea,’ he said. ‘I’ll be dressed as a warder and when the helicopter comes in, I’ll come running after you. The helicopter will lift off and I’ll grab a runner on the side, and try to pull myself up, and then we cut.’
Donald, I discovered, likes to throw himself well and truly into a character. So when we did the sequence and Les was hanging from the runners, Donald started kicking Les’s fingers, trying to loosen his grip on the helicopter. Les was holding on for dear life and Donald started kicking harder as the helicopter rose higher. I was shouting, ‘Cut! Cut! Donald, cut!’
We did get into bother later, when the episode was screened, as the Air Ministry contacted us to ask what safety precautions had been taken. We hadn’t used any safety lines. We certainly wouldn’t get away with such things nowadays.
A few weeks after filming, Donald contacted me and asked if it would be possible to show the episode to some producers. I said yes, sure. It was in a rough-cut state and not quite finished, but if they could come to the studio we would run it.
‘No,’ Donald interrupted. ‘The film has to go to LA.’
I didn’t quite know what to say.
‘It’s for a big part in a big film,’ he told me.
‘OK then,’ I said, ‘we’ll send it.’
The film was The Dirty Dozen and I’d like to think, in some small way, that Les Crawford and I had been there at the birth of Donald’s career. Mind you, had he knocked Les off that helicopter he wouldn’t have done The Dirty Dozen, but a dirty dozen years!
In 1963, Luisa and I moved from Mill Hill to a bungalow in Totteridge. We didn’t rent this one: with the financial security afforded to me by the show, I thought it was about time we bought. It was shortly after we moved that our daughter Deborah was born. I was filming when the news came through that Luisa was in labour. I rushed to her, and next thing I knew I was holding the most beautiful baby girl. I was thirty-six, and to have my first child was quite a moment. I had a perpetual smile on my face–an idiotic grin–that I wasn’t really aware of until I pulled up at traffic lights one day on my way home and became conscious that someone was looking at me. They were obviously wondering why I had such a big grin on my face. She was a lovely baby.
I was working regular hours more or less every day, and so was able to spend my evenings and weekends with Luisa and Deborah, a luxury not afforded to many working actors. When, two years after Deborah made her debut, news of a further addition to the family came with the arrival of our first son, Geoffrey, we thought it time to move again. This time we chose a bigger house in Gordon Avenue, Stanmore–very close to where Bob Baker and his wife Alma lived.
Geoffrey was an equal delight. My wide grin returned.
I sometimes wondered if Deborah and Geoffrey understood what it was I did for a living, as they would often visit the set and see me prancing about in character, and then see me on the TV at home. One day, I overheard Deborah telling Geoffrey that they were lucky in having two daddies–daddy at home, and daddy Simon Templar on the TV.
Both Luisa and I were becoming more and more frustrated by Dot’s refusal to grant me a divorce. I had money, I had fame, I had a beautiful ‘partner’ and two lovely children–it was domestic bliss. But there was always something ‘unsaid’ hanging over us. Again, it was worse for Luisa than it was for me. Back then it really wasn’t the done thing to live together, and while most of our friends and colleagues were thrilled that we were so happy and thought of us as ‘man and wife’, there were a few snipes from newspapers and magazines–mainly on the continent–that never failed to hit their target. My attitude was always to keep a dignified silence on the matter. But there were times when I knew that Luisa was very hurt by what was said.
We attended a number of industry events, award shows and dinners throughout my time in the show–and ever after. It’s all very nice, but sometimes you really do feel you’d rather just have a quiet night at home with the family.
One evening, I arrived back from the studio and Luisa said, ‘Come on! We’ll be late.’
‘Late? What for?’ I asked, hoping she was wrong.
‘The British Film Producers’ Association dinner!’ she said.
I whipped into my black tie, and we dashed into town to The Dorchester, but we couldn’t see our host, C. J. Latter, or anyone else I knew. We moved to the bar and grabbed a glass of champagne. Suddenly a lady appeared and asked if we’d like to sit at the top table. I explained that we were guests of C. J., and were waiting for him. A good few minutes passed. Glances were exchanged around the room, and then another lady approached us. ‘I think you might have come on the wrong night,’ she said.
‘Isn’t this the Film Producers’ Association…?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘This is the Ladies Underwear Manufacturers…but you’re more than welcome to stay.’
We made a hasty retreat and rushed round to Curzon Street and the gambling tables, where I proceeded to lose. Oh, those bad old days of gambling. I did love the tables…but then I loved the horses and the dogs, too. I think it was domesticity that finally nailed my gambling bug, and now the odd game of poker among friends is the extent of my weakness.
While The Saint was hugely popular in the UK, it struggled to find a network to pick it up in America. Lew Grade had a partner out there who simply didn’t share the faith that we had had in the series, and completely undersold it. Consequently, we went into syndication, and Lew had to sell the series to individual broadcasters all over the US, city by city, state by state. It was an enormously time-consuming way of doing business, and not a very satisfactory way of introducing a show to America, and a method that resulted in smaller financial returns, too.
However, that was all set to change. Lew had a very good friend named David Tebbet. David was vice-president in charge of talent at NBC and later became a great friend of mine, and godfather to my youngest son, Christian. David recognized that in New York on the NBC station, out of prime time, The Saint was clearing the board in the ratings. He recommended that the series should go on to the NBC National Network, as a summer replacement for a show that was faring only moderately. And that’s when it really took off. I think we were the first and only show ever to go from syndication to primetime networking. It usually worked the other way round.
Around the time we were coming to the end of the third series, Lew invited me for dinner. He asked how it was all going. I said fine. I told him that I loved the show and loved working with Bob Baker.
‘What about Monty?’ Lew asked intuitively.
‘I don’t have a good relationship with Monty,’ I told him.
‘What if we do another series, but in colour?’ said Lew.
‘I’d happily work with Bob, but not Monty,’ I replied.
Lew was very keen to go to a new series and approached Bob with the problem I’d presented him with. He suggested that Bob should buy out Monty’s share of the production company and offer Monty another series, which turned out to be The Baron.
I actually felt awful about it afterwards, as Bob and Monty had been partners since the war and had made a great many films together: here was I splitting them up. However, I couldn’t see myself working with Monty again as there’d been too many instances where he’d really upset me. The final straw came when one day the schedule consisted of almost all blue backing shots. I was in a few scenes in the morning and then just a couple in the afternoon and I suggested to the director that if my afternoon scenes could be brought forward, it meant I’d have a half-day and could go home early. He said, ‘Absolutely no problem, of course we’ll change it.’ All was OK with the production manager and the first assistant. Just then Monty came on set. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked. They told him.
‘Put it back the way it was,’ was his order.
I was furious. I went over to the phone, called Bob and said, ‘Get him off my back or there’s likely to be a punch-up.’
I liked a fun atmosphere on set. I could never work if there was tension. Consequently, I’d sometimes keep the crew in a happy mood by screwing up the odd scene. It was great for morale but tended to aggravate Monty.
When the partnership was eventually dissolved, I had dinner with Bob and his wife Alma, who had both become great friends of mine. I didn’t quite know what to say until Alma said, ‘Thank you, Roger. Bob has wanted to get away from Monty for a long time but just didn’t know how to do it.’ I felt such elation.
Monty went off to make The Baron and left Bob to continue with The Saint. It was a fairly amicable split, though Monty did take Johnny Goodman, our production manager, with him, who in turn took some of the crew. That was a worry until Bob remembered a production manager he’d made a couple of movies with, Peter Manley. He recruited Peter for the first colour series and, as he had just finished working on some Disney films in London, Peter was able to bring most of his regular crew with him. They loved the security of a six-month engagement.
I don’t think Johnny particularly wanted to leave our fold, and I know he had been uneasy about working with Monty, but work was work, and he had a start date with Monty long before we would be ready to start the next series of The Saint. He returned to work with us from the second colour series onwards and in fact became a junior partner in the new company Bob and I bought, TRI.
TRI Ltd or, to give it its full title, Television Reporters International Ltd, was a company formed by a group of distinguished television journalists, including Ludovic Kennedy, in an attempt to launch an ITV version of the successful BBC current affairs programme Panorama. However, at the eleventh hour, before the series made it to the screen, ITV backed down, leaving the partners high and dry. They had run up considerable expenditure, which was now never going to be recouped. In buying the company and producing future episodes of The Saint through it, we were able legitimately to offset any profits against accumulated losses within TRI. Later on Bob and I formed other companies such as BaMore (to produce the film Crossplot) and Copyright Exploitations Ltd. All the companies were Bahamas-based so that we could minimize our tax obligations. It was all perfectly above board.
In fact, it was while we were out in the Bahamas that Bob and I sat on the beach one afternoon, quite pleased with our financial arrangements, when Bob looked over to me and said, ‘You know, Roger, sitting here on this idyllic beach is like being in an episode of The Saint–only if we were, a beautiful young girl would come up and ask “Aren’t you the famous Simon Templar?”.’
Realizing he had left his pipe in his hotel room, Bob popped back for it. When he returned he saw me sitting with a very pretty Swedish girl.
‘Bob, you won’t believe this,’ I said, ‘but after you left, this young lady came up to me and said “Aren’t you Simon Templar?”. I told her to sit down and wait for you as you wouldn’t believe me otherwise!’
It wasn’t the first time someone had mistaken the fictional character for one that actually existed. A call came through to the studio one morning from a man with a strong Italian accent. He demanded to speak to Simon Templar, not Roger Moore but Mr Templar. I declined to accept the call, and so Johnny was delegated to deal with it. Putting on a ludicrous phoney American accent, Johnny asked the guy what he could do for him. It turned out that this man suspected his wife was having a lesbian affair. He wanted the Saint to use his talent to set up a hidden camera to capture the evidence he required to file for divorce. Johnny turned on a mixture of charm and bullshit and eventually he rang off. Naturally, nothing more came of it, but it does make you wonder.
Lew Grade visited the set once during the whole seven-year run of The Saint; he was far more interested in making deals and doing business than getting bogged down in the production process. Stories of Lew and his brother Leslie were legendary, and long before Lew ventured into TV, he and Leslie were the two biggest artistes’ agents in variety. I had known, and been very fond of, both of them since the early 1950s when they were Squires’ agents. Sadly, Leslie died at an early age, just sixty-three. He’d had a bad heart for some years. Lew, meanwhile, had a good heart–in every sense–and was working right up until his death in 1998, aged ninety-two.
One weekend I joined Lew at a sales dinner in the South of France, where he was charming foreign TV buyers. As we drove back to the airport, I asked him if he’d heard any of the Lew and Leslie Grade stories.
‘What stories?’ he asked.
That then prompted me to tell him some of the stories I’d heard, several of which I cannot reproduce here I’m afraid, as they’re far too rude. But here are a few that I can print.
Lew and Leslie were walking down Regent Street to lunch one day. Leslie stopped and said, ‘Oh, my God! I’ve left the office safe open.’
‘So?’ said Lew. ‘We’re both here.’
Dennis Sellinger, an agent who worked for the Grades but later moved on to look after people such as Peter Sellers, Michael Caine and me, took a call from Lew one afternoon. ‘What are you up to tonight, Dennis?’
‘I’m going to the Finsbury Park Empire to see who’s on the bill.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Lew. He was particularly impressed with one of the acts, and went backstage. ‘Tell me, how much do you earn?’
‘Twenty quid a night, Mr Grade,’
‘That’s terrible!’ Lew countered. ‘I can get you £40. Who’s your agent?’
‘You are, Mr Grade,’ was the reply.
Leslie Grade calls Lew in the office.
‘Where are you speaking from?’ asks Lew.
‘From my car phone.’ Now this was at a time when car phones were unheard of. A few days later, not to be outdone, Lew calls Leslie’s car from his car phone.
‘Hello, Leslie, I’m calling you from my car on my new car phone.’
‘That’s nice, Lew,’ said Leslie. ‘Hang on a minute, would you? I’m on the other line.’
Lew was a wonderful human being–ably supported in life by his darling wife Kathy. One critic asked him which of the shows he had made did he like best. Without hesitation, Lew said, ‘All my shows are great. Some of them are bad, but they’re all great.’ His flagship programme was undoubtedly Sunday Night at the London Palladium. I was asked to be the guest presenter on two occasions and happily accepted. On it, I had the privilege of working with Rowan and Martin, and with great difficulty we learned a lyric that all three of us sang. It went, ‘It looks like rain in Cherry Blossom Lane, in Cherry Blossom Lane it looks like rain, it looks like rain in Cherry Blossom Lane, in Cherry Blossom Lane it looks like rain…’ You try it. It’s not the easiest of lines, but we did it.
The great Tommy Cooper was on the bill. We’d known each other for years, and before the show I sat with him and we began telling stories. I have a great capacity for, in the main, dirty stories, every one of which had Tommy in stitches. Afterwards, Tommy told me his agent, Miff Ferry, had overheard me telling him all these funny stories and said, ‘Don’t let him upset you, Tom,’ as if Tommy Cooper might have felt he was less funny than me!
Also on the bill was a young comic named Jimmy Tarbuck. Live on stage, Tarbuck asked me if, as I played a secret agent and Sean Connery, Patrick McGoohan and Patrick Macnee all played agents too, we ever went out on the town together?
I said sure, occasionally.
‘Pussy Galore?’ he asked.
‘Well, we don’t go looking for it,’ I replied. Amazingly, I got away with it on live TV without any complaints.
You know, when you’re on a film set, it’s very tempting to overeat all the bad things. Bacon rolls for breakfast, steak and kidney pie for lunch, bread pudding, tea and buns, and so forth. As you know, I’ve always loved food, and I realized at one point that I needed to lose a little weight, so I asked a doctor for something to help. He prescribed appetite suppressants: dospan tenuate. What I didn’t know was that these were also fairly strong stimulants. They gave me enormous energy and I didn’t need to sleep–I was drugged up to the eyeballs.
We were filming one episode in which the set was a bar filled with big, heavy barstools, and Simon Templar gets into a fight with the Irish doorman. I was throwing furniture around as if it was made of plywood. I’d already punched out the Irish doorman (in character), who was to fall back on to a mattress. He fell forwards as a matter of fact and injured his wrist–and swore a bit. Off he went to first aid and came back with the wrist bandaged up.
The second time around, he fell backwards all right, but one of the stools I then threw hit him head-on.
‘Oh fuck! Oh shit!’ he cried.
‘Hey! Watch your language!’ I said. I had a rather nice elderly lady on set doing an interview for a magazine aimed at the over-fifties.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, dear,’ he said apologetically to the lady, ‘for my fucking language!’
Those tenuates were not to be recommended. At a dinner a few years later, Patrick Macnee was one of my fellow guests. He was always fighting his weight on The Avengers and I said to him that I thought he was taking drugs. He was most offended, and said he certainly was not.
‘Do you find you have masses of energy and don’t sleep well at night?’ I asked him.
‘As I matter of fact I do,’ replied Patrick.
‘You don’t have any iris in your eyes, Patrick,’ I explained, ‘they’re all pupil. Are you taking slimming pills?’
‘Yes, I am,’ he said.
‘Tenuate?’
‘Yes! How did you know?’ I told him my story and got him off these highly addictive so-called slimming pills.
As I’ve mentioned, Harry Junkin was our story editor on The Saint. He was a very friendly man. You couldn’t be in a restaurant with him for more than five minutes before he’d get up and go to another table; he loved talking to people. Harry and his wife lived at Albert Mansions, just behind the Royal Albert Hall in central London. The rooms were very high, with great views across the park. Every day, Harry would take a walk in the park and one afternoon he got chatting to a policeman. Christmas was approaching, and Harry asked him what he would be doing. The policeman explained that as he was unmarried, he lived in the Section House and would be spending Christmas there with the other policemen.
‘How many of you will there be?’ enquired Harry.
‘Oh, about twenty,’ the policeman replied.
‘Well, you won’t be in the Section House, you’ll be at my place for a slap-up Christmas lunch.’ Harry invited the whole Section House and such was his hospitality that they, C-Division, appointed him their head of special events. So whenever there was an occasion that involved a dinner or a speaker, Harry would coordinate it.
Accordingly, my call came. ‘Roger, you’re going to be the guest of honour at a police dinner,’ Harry informed me.
‘I am?’
‘Yes, you are,’ said Harry. ‘And furthermore you’re going to make a nice speech.’
‘But, Harry,’ I protested. ‘I’ve never made a speech before.’
‘Well it’s time you did then.’
‘OK,’ I said, ‘I’ll tell you what. You write it and I’ll do it.’ It was agreed.
As the date drew nearer, I asked Harry for the speech. He kept putting me off, until finally, to put me out of my misery, he invited me round to his flat that night to write the speech. I arrived, had a Canadian Club…followed by another…The bottle was emptying rather quickly.
‘Harry, where’s my speech?’ I begged while still preserving some modicum of sobriety.
Harry sat at his old Royal typewriter. With a flick of his wrist he started the first line, then another and then whipped out the paper and presented it to me. ‘There you are!’
I looked at it. It said ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, and then you’re humble.’
‘What sort of speech is this Harry–“and then you’re humble”?’
‘You know how to be humble, don’t you?’ Harry asked.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said in desperation. ‘I’ll use this as my introduction and tell them you said I have to be humble. Then I’ll just wing it.’
I did, and I still use that story to this day in starting speeches. ‘I’m not very good at starting speeches, so I’ll tell you a story about Harry Junkin and humility…’
Humility is an interesting subject. I know humility as an actor, as I believe any talent I have, any gift I possess, is merely loaned to me by a greater being. Every night before he goes to bed, the actor prays, ‘Thank you, Lord, for giving me this gift…and thank you for making me better than anyone else.’ That’s humility! Or, as Michael Caine says, ‘Enough of me talking about myself. What do you think of me?’
As I said earlier, I became rather well known for my love of practical jokes. Both as an actor and director I wanted to enjoy my work and create a good working atmosphere for all the cast and crew. Don’t get me wrong, I was always professional, but a bit of levity in the right places was always appreciated…well, mostly…
Our production associate, Johnny Goodman, announced he was to marry his fiancée, the lovely Andrea. Her father was a commander in the London Flying Squad. Johnny was marrying into respectability. Their honeymoon was going to be spent in Majorca, but their wedding night was spent in Johnny’s flat in Maida Vale. Around midnight on their all-consuming–or consummating–night, the phone rang. Andrea answered.
‘Hello, is Bill Green there?’ said the voice.
‘You have the wrong number,’ she said.
Five minutes later, it rang again. ‘Hello, can I speak to Bill Green, please?’
‘There is no Bill Green here,’ Andrea said emphatically.
A few minutes later, the phone rang yet again. ‘Is Bill in?’
‘No he is not!’ She slammed the phone down.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. This time Johnny took it. ‘There is no bloody Bill Green here!’ he barked.
‘Oh no,’ said the voice on the other end. ‘This is Bill Green. Are there any messages for me?’
Johnny was furious. I do feel rotten for interrupting his wedding night, but hey, he did see the funny side of it later.
Camera operators spend most of their life looking through a lens, and therefore they have little idea about what is going on behind them. I used to love taking gaffer tape and tying them down to their chairs, or putting boot polish around the camera eyepiece. I really was quite awful.
Worse still, I would often give my stunt double, Les Crawford, some money to go across the road to the local newsagents and buy chocolate bars for the crew. On one show we had an actor called Tony Wager, who famously played Pip in David Lean’s Great Expectations. We were filming at Watford Playhouse Theatre, and I dispatched Les across the road and told him to bring back some chocolates and some Exlax–chocolate laxative. I distributed the chocolates to the crew, but deliberately left out Tony Wager.
‘Is there any for me?’ Tony asked as he came over.
I handed him an unwrapped piece of chocolate–the Exlax. I then asked Les to nip out and buy some Diocalm, some toilet paper and a chamber pot. At the end of the day, I presented Tony with these items.
‘What are these for?’ he asked.
‘You’ll find out!’ I said.
The next day he arrived on set and was furious with me. Apparently his wife had invited some friends over for dinner the previous night, and the Exlax struck halfway through! He got his own back though. A little while later I went to see Shirley Bassey at Caesar’s Palace in Luton. Tony Wager was the MC, and he introduced me in the audience and proceeded to tell everyone the rather shitty story. I did not win friends that night.
Towards the end of the series’ seven-year run, we decided to take advantage of the overseas popularity of The Saint by filming two two-part episodes, The Fiction Makers and Vendetta for the Saint. The plan was to screen them over two weeks in the UK, and edit them together for the international market to form a feature film for release in cinemas. They proved very popular.
In Vendetta, which had the subtitle ‘Simon Templar Meets the Mafia’–that gives the story away!–we filmed in Malta, which doubled for Palermo. The interiors were shot at ABPC at Elstree. For the head of the Mafia, the Don Corleone, Finlay Currie was cast. He was, shall we say, rather advanced in years at this point–ninety years old, I believe. The assistant director came over to me on the morning of Finlay’s first scenes.
‘Roger, Mr Currie is here,’ he said. ‘He looks rather frail. I’ve taken the liberty of removing his canvas chair and replaced it with a comfortable armchair and a footstool so he can rest between takes.’
Finlay came on to the set and sat in his chair. His hair was very long at this point, and quite yellow; I guess through the nicotine stains of his cigarettes. I went over to greet him.
‘Mr Currie, I’m Roger Moore.’
‘What?’ he croaked. ‘Eh?’
‘I’m Roger Moore and I play the Saint,’ I said.
‘Aye, aye, aye,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry about the hair,’
‘Sorry? What do you mean?’
‘It’s long,’ he added.
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘You look like a Beatle.’
‘What?’ he barked.
Realizing I might have said the wrong thing, I repeated, ‘You look like a Beatle, sir.’
‘WHAT?’ he shouted.
‘I said you look like a Beatle, sir.’
‘Oh, aye. Aye. Yes, St Peter. I played him,’ he replied.
I was biting my lip and trying not to burst out laughing. Rolling on a couple of hours, we reached Finlay’s big death scene. He, as the Mafia boss, was lying in a big four-poster bed and was fading fast. Next to the bed was the family doctor and assembled other Mafioso types. If we’d been a big film we’d have had actors, but in our case we dressed the stunt boys up. It’s always fatal to give stunt boys parts as they always get the giggles. This was no exception.
I arrived in the scene and Finlay Currie looked up at me, ‘Simon Templar,’ he said in his wonderful Scottish brogue. ‘What are you daeing here in Palermo?’ A Scottish Mafia boss! Please.
I said to the director, Jim O’Connolly, that we’d have to re-voice him.
‘Re-voice Finlay Currie?’ he protested. ‘You can’t re-voice Finlay Currie! He won the Oscar for playing St Peter with a Scottish accent! You’ll go down in history as the man who had the temerity to dub this great actor.’
Finlay called me over. ‘They think I’m ill,’ he said.
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.
‘Well, they’ve got this doctor standing next to my bed,’ he said, nodding at the actor playing the doctor.
My lip was sore from biting.
Finally, we reached the moment when Finlay had to expire. The doctor pulled the sheet up over his lifeless body and announced he had passed on. It was all very serious stuff. Finlay, meanwhile, started making more noise breathing when he was playing dead than when he was alive, and the sheet rose and fell in tandem with his breathing. The stunt boys started laughing and it all fell apart!
In another episode in the final series, we thought we might try teaming Simon Templar with an American partner. Bob Baker had the idea of a possible spin-off series, where a mismatching Brit and a Yank team up. A sort of ‘buddy’ series if you like. The episode was The Ex King of Diamonds. Stuart Damon played Rod Huston, a Texan. It worked very well and turned out to be the forerunner of The Persuaders.
I think it was a mutual feeling between Bob, me and everyone else as we approached the end of 1968 that we’d really done all we could with The Saint. One hundred and eighteen episodes is a lot. And so, the series and my tenure as Simon Templar came to an end. A decade later, Bob produced Return of the Saint with Ian Ogilvy, and I maintained my interest in the company. I didn’t interfere though. That’s the last thing they’d have wanted.
Then, throughout the late 1980s and into the early 1990s there was much talk of a Saint feature film. As Bob and I owned certain rights, the American studios involved us in discussions. Initially, scripts were written that included my involvement as an ageing Simon Templar who finds an illegitimate son and hands over the reins. A sort of Son of the Saint. It was a troubled production.
Paramount Pictures secured Robert Evans as producer, Steven Zaillian as writer and Sydney Pollack as the director. Ralph Fiennes, a wonderful actor who is also a UNICEF ambassador now, was courted to play the young Templar, but ultimately declined.
Robert Evans left the project, and David Brown replaced him. A new writer, Jonathan Hensleigh, was hired, and Philip Noyce boarded the project as director when Sydney Pollack left. Other leads reportedly linked with the film included Hugh Grant, Mel Gibson, Kevin Costner and Johnny Depp. Then Val Kilmer signed on. Another rewrite was called for by Wesley Strick, to tailor the script for Val.
In all of the rewrites and changes of management, any ideas relating to The Son of the Saint were abandoned. However, as I’d agreed my involvement with the studio some time earlier, they still had to compensate me. I think it was the first time I was paid not to act in a film; though I’m sure others have since said they’d have paid me not to. (I lie! I did appear in the film, briefly. Or rather my voice did. I pop up as a radio newsreader at the end.)
It was, in short, a bit of a mess and didn’t perform well–critically or at the box office. A while later, I met with Val at a Cannes Film Festival.
‘We really screwed that up, didn’t we?’ he said.
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked.
‘I read all the books after we finished filming. They were damn good stories,’ said Val.
I didn’t argue.
Back to 1969, and I was not sorry to leave Simon Templar behind me to be honest; yes I’d had great fun over the seven years of making the series, enjoyed working with so many lovely people and now had financial security. But I felt it was time to move on to pastures new and stretch myself in new roles.
Things were about to change in my home life, too. It all began at a BAFTA awards dinner in 1968. My pal Kenneth More was the commentator for the event, which was being televised by ITV. In the course of his commentary, Kenny made an innocent–and, knowing him, very sweetly intended–remark about me and the fact that ‘my wife’ (referring to Luisa) was rather more attractive than me.
The next day all hell broke loose, and the papers all reported that Squires was going to sue both Kenny and ITV for libel. Of course, ITV broadcast an immediate apology, but the case did go to court. However, I think it was this furore that made Dot take stock and see just how ridiculous the situation was, some eight years after we had separated.
Word came through from mutual friends that Dot had decided to grant me a divorce.
When I left The Saint I wasn’t walking into the wilderness without any prospect of work, you’ll be reassured to read. Before we finished the last series, Bob Baker and I had been approached by United Artists with the offer of a three-film deal. They were keen to capitalize on the success of The Saint, as were Bob and I. And I was keen to get back into movies.
The first of these three films was Crossplot, written by Leigh Vance and John Kruse, two Saint regulars. The plot involved an advertising executive (me) hiring a model for a photo shoot. Unbeknown to the executive, the model has overheard an assassination plot and is being targeted by killers. Pretty much the same crew from The Saint joined us and I think we started production a month or so after finishing the TV series. It was probably slightly too soon as there were a few creaks in the script, and the production in general, that ought to have been fixed before we started shooting, but you live and learn.
Alvin Rakoff, who directed the buddy episode of The Saint, helmed the film and we assembled an impressive cast: Martha Hyer, Alexis Kanner, Claudie Lange, Bernard Lee, Francis Matthews and so on. Bernie Lee was a delight. I’d known him since my understudying days when I was in The Little Hut at the Lyric Theatre and he was next door in Seagulls over Sorrento. Those were the days when I used to frequent pubs, and we’d quite often meet up in the pub opposite the theatres. Alas, Bernie had a problem with the dreaded alcohol.
Rolling forward to Crossplot, one Sunday we had a sequence to shoot with the delightful Martha Hyer. Bernie was on first thing, clear-eyed and word-perfect. He then had a few hours to kill until his shots after lunch with Martha. He disappeared, and we couldn’t find him anywhere. Runners were dispatched to local pubs but to no avail. We eventually found him in the first-aid room. I think he’d been sniffing the surgical alcohol, as he was pretty incoherent.
His one scene that afternoon involved him climbing into the back of a Rolls-Royce with Martha. Take one. Bernie sloped into the car looked at Martha and said, ‘What a stupid fucking hat you’re wearing, madam.’ He laughed riotously.
Take two. ‘OK, Bernie.’
He did exactly the same again. It tickled his funny bone you see, but after a few takes everyone else’s patience was wearing a little thin.
Production wise, there are a few dodgy shots involving back projection in Crossplot, and a few dodgy hairstyles–from yours truly in particular in my efforts to get away from the famous Simon Templar bouffant.
I remember we were filming a sequence with the Royal Horse Artillery in Hyde Park. The piece centred around an assassination attempt on a foreign leader during celebrations for the Queen’s birthday. My daughter Deborah was about six at the time, and she came with us on location for the day. The Hussars fired their twenty-one-gun salute and when the first gun went off, Deborah started to scream. I had to quickly take the poor hysterical child across Park Lane and realized that film sets are not always a place for children.
Despite our best efforts, the film wasn’t very successful. I think people may have expected a Saint movie. It was certainly sold in some countries as ‘Roger Moore aka Simon Templar’ and had the famous stickman image on posters. United Artists were understandably not keen to progress on the other two projects under our deal.
Towards the end of 1968 my divorce from Dot finally came through, and at last Luisa and I were free to marry. It was an odd feeling: having waited so long and longed so much for this day, we had been expecting to be over the moon, cock-a-hoop, delighted, excited–but no, we actually felt rather deflated, as I remember. We did have a quiet celebration, though, with Kenny and Angela More, who both knew exactly what we’d been through as they, too, had waited some time before they could tie the knot.
On the night before the wedding I showed my bride-to-be just how romantic her hero could be…and took her to the movies to see Richard Attenborough’s Oh! What a Lovely War. It was the film premiere, I should add, not the early evening show at Streatham Odeon. When we left the premiere, Luisa went home and stayed with her sister, while I did the traditional thing and went out ‘with the boys’. Being forty-one by this time–it’s no age, I now realize, but it felt older then–it wasn’t a raucous stag do, but, do you know, all these years later, I have absolutely no recollection as to who was there, aside from Kenny More, where we went or what we drank…it must have been a very good night!
We were married at Caxton Hall in London on 11 April 1968, and literally hundreds of people came to watch. Kenneth More was my best man and the ceremony and the wedding luncheon after it were full of warmth and emotion. We had decided against having the children at the wedding–it just didn’t feel right, somehow–so that night, back at home with the kids, we watched the television coverage. Suddenly, Deborah burst into tears.
‘What’s wrong, darling?’ I asked her, giving her a hug.
‘Oh, Daddy! You always said you’d marry me!’
I was lost for words.
In 1970, Luisa and I thought it was time for another move. A house with a few more rooms and a bigger garden for the children would be the ideal. Of course it had to be within an easy drive of London. We viewed numerous properties before finding the one–Sherwood House in Denham. It was perfect for a growing family. The upstairs had four main bedrooms, and at the end of a corridor there was a maid’s room and nursery. There was also a room-size walk-in wardrobe. I had my own room off the bedroom and gained access, via a wrought-iron spiral staircase, to my study downstairs.
The front door led into a large wood-block floored hall (always beautifully polished). The main oak-beamed living-room area was straight ahead through double oak doors, it was split into two by back-to-back open fireplaces and both areas had French windows leading on to a patio. The dining room led off into the children’s playroom and a country-style kitchen with an Aga, a wooden dresser and a scrubbed table. Most of our family meals were taken there. From the kitchen a door led to the main hall, and there wide oak polished stairs led to the bedrooms.
The patio outside looked on to a pond and trimmed lawns with clipped hedges. To the left was a tennis court and at the bottom of the gardens, a swimming pool. There was a wooded area where bluebells flowered in the spring.
I employed a driver at this time, John Bevan, as it wasn’t always easy maintaining a social life after work while being one hundred per cent sober. The gravel drive curved to the left up to the house. The four-car garage at the end of the curved drive had the kitchen garden with greenhouse behind.
Sherwood House was to be our home until 1978 when, regrettably, we had to leave due to the punitive tax regime of the then government. We had a few famous neighbours: Cilla Black’s land backed on to our land; Jess Conrad had a house just up the road–his children were of a similar age to Deborah and Geoffrey, so he’d often swing by to give the children a lift to school in the mornings. And just across the village were John Mills and Mary Hayley Bell.
The Millses had lived in Denham before moving away for a while, but they ended up returning and bought a lovely house on the edge of the village. I called them up soon after their return, and invited them out to dinner–a couple of new restaurants had come to the village since they had last lived there and I thought they might enjoy visiting one.
‘Ah! Good evening, Mr and Mrs Moore…Mr and Mrs Mills,’ said the restaurant manager. ‘Lovely to have you with us again in Denham, Mr Mills and Mrs Mills. Are you ready to order, Mr Mills?…Mrs Mills?…Thank you, Mr Mills…’
This went on for a couple of minutes, before Mary, who was becoming increasingly agitated, said, ‘It is Sir John and Lady Mills.’
John hung his head, in semi-embarrassment, adding, ‘I’ve waited long enough for it!’ Ah, they were such a charming couple. I miss them both.
Meanwhile, I received a very exciting offer. The Man Who Haunted Himself was to be a film based on a short story by Anthony Armstrong, called ‘The Case of Mr Pelham’.
‘Have you read it?’ asked Bryan Forbes, who had recently been appointed Head of Production at EMI Studios. Bryan, with the support of his backers, namely Lord Delfont, was embarking upon an ambitious programme of films, all to be produced on reasonable budgets, with the stars engaged taking lower salaries in order to get the studio back into sustainable film production. The Railway Children, The Tales of Beatrix Potter, The Go-Between and The Raging Moon were just a few of the successes Bryan achieved.
Basil Dearden and Michael Relph were to direct and produce respectively. They were two of Britain’s most successful film-makers. I’d worked with Michael’s father, stage actor George Relph, on I Capture the Castle some years earlier. That helped cement our new friendship.
It was one of the best scripts I’d ever read, and it was certainly a very intriguing story. Following a car accident, Harold Pelham momentarily ‘dies’ on the operating table, and his doppelgänger is released into the world. He begins assuming Pelham’s identity among his friends, colleagues, and even his family. The real Pelham is plunged towards insanity, and thoughts of suicide. It was a role that called for emotion, drama and great intensity. In short–it was a role that needed an actor. I had that written in my passport, so felt somewhat qualified.
When asked about the movie nowadays, I always reflect that it was one of the few times I was allowed to act. It’s a terrible admission from someone who has made a living from walking in front of cameras. Though, in my defence, I’d previously been cast in roles that were relatively straightforward in what was required of me, thank goodness–either as a romantic lead, heroic lead or just holding a spear, as I did in my first movie. I’d never been ‘dramatically stretched’ as they say. I committed to the film for £20,000 and a deferment.
A wonderful cast was assembled. Freddie Jones was a particular favourite of mine; he played the Kubrickesque psychiatrist, Dr Harris. Hildegarde Neil, a Royal Shakespeare Company actor, played my screen wife, Eve. Anton Rodgers, Thorley Walters and Charles Lloyd Pack (father of Roger, who stars in two of my favourite comedy series, Only Fools and Horses and The Vicar of Dibley) played my work compatriots and friends. We filmed extensively on location in the City of London, quite possibly where the Mayor’s office now stands near Tower Bridge on the banks of the Thames. Our lighting cameraman Tony Spratling was very keen to use real daylight and real locations. It was all very inventive and clever, and gave the film an added quality and feeling of grandeur.
The sequences where I faced my alter ego were fun. I simply shot the scene as one character one way, and then the next week shot the other the other way, each time talking to thin air. The shots were then matched together. It’s called a ‘split screen’ technique. It all works terribly well.
Basil Dearden was a wonderful director; both technically and dramatically. He gave me and the other actors a tremendous confidence. The great tragedy is that a short time after the film was released, when he was driving home on the very same stretch of the M4 where we’d filmed Pelham’s accident in the opening sequence of the film, his car careered out of control. He was decapitated at the wheel. The film industry was robbed of a great talent that day.
I think there was a certain resentment in the hierarchy of EMI towards Bryan Forbes at that time. As well as being an accomplished director, producer, writer and actor, he was also Managing Director. There were noticeable undercurrents all around, not least in EMI’s distribution arm. It was petty jealousy, I guess. Consequently, though, over all the films, the publicity machinery was cranked up in a rather amateurish way, sending out the message ‘We’ve made a film for £200,000: aren’t we clever?’
It was akin to EMI saying ‘we’re making cheap films’, and when one hears the word ‘cheap’ one immediately thinks ‘poor quality’. Audiences aren’t foolish; they won’t part with their money at the box office if they feel they’re being sold a cheap film. What the marketing people should have said is that they made terrific films, and such was the principals’ belief in them that they had taken reduced fees. The films were excellent but the publicity let them down, and as a result The Man Who Haunted Himself was not the commercial success it deserved to be. It saddened me greatly–not least because I owned a share of the profits!
Not long afterwards, Bryan Forbes resigned from his role. With promised funding not materializing and a lack of support from the company’s distribution arm and a stoic board of directors, he was left with little choice.
As I’ve previously mentioned, during the final series of The Saint, Bob Baker and I tried out the ‘buddy formula’ in The Ex King of Diamonds episode. Nothing more came of the idea, until Bob started talking to Lew Grade in 1970 about a TV show format featuring an English toff and an American boy come-good. It was to be called The Friendly Persuaders. We’d moved on a couple of years by this time and, quite frankly, I’d cooled on the idea and, indeed, on the idea of doing more TV, having just made two movies.
Lew called me from New York. ‘I want to see you at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘I can’t be in New York by tomorrow morning, Lew.’
‘No, I’ll be back in London,’ he said.
‘OK, but can we make it eight? Remember, I have to drive in from Denham.’ I was only half joking.
Lew always arrived in his office at the crack of dawn. He liked to do all of his business early, before the phones started ringing. It also meant he could catch people in LA before they went to bed.
I arrived at eight o’clock. Lew sat me down and said, ‘Roger, I’ve sold The Persuaders–with you in the lead.’