You wanna be careful, mate, your lot are dropping like fucking flies’
A deal was struck and I agreed to star as Bond, for what I thought would be the last time. Six films and ten years was a good run. Other casting news filtered through. The delightful Maud Adams was back, this time as the female lead–Octopussy herself. My old friend Louis Jourdan was also announced as the villain, followed by Steven Berkoff–whom I’d worked with on The Saint–as a power-crazed Russian general. However, when it was announced that tennis ace Vijay Amritraj was going to be in the movie, the actor’s union Equity threw up their arms and said ‘no way’. As he wasn’t a card-carrying actor, they argued, and as there were plenty of actors who could play the part, why should he be allowed to?
A compromise was reached when we said we’d split his part into two characters, meaning an Indian actor could be cast alongside him. That’s how Albert Moses got the job of playing Sadruddin.
Of course, with Bernie Lee’s death there was a gap in the family. I suggested my old mate Robert Brown might be the ideal ‘M’. Bob came in, met John Glen and Cubby, and was offered the job.
Locations included Berlin–at Checkpoint Charlie–India, Oxford and London. The pre-title sequence was supposedly set in Cuba, but was actually filmed at Northolt Airport in West London. John Wood, my stand-in, was promoted: he played Toro, whom I was impersonating in order to access a military hangar and blow it up. As in my Saint days, they wheeled in a few palm trees and made Northolt look rather exotic!
In naturally exotic India, however, we first stayed in Udaipur–at the Palace in fact, part of which had been converted into a hotel. There was only one telephone there then and when Maud arrived, more often than not she’d hog it each night to talk to her boyfriend in America. I didn’t know at the time but this boyfriend was actually Steven Zax–a doctor I’d met some years before–who went on to save my life some years later.
We had a local doctor assigned to the unit, and he took great pride in presenting his card to whomever he was administering aid. On it he’d written, ‘Personal Physician to James Bond’. He’d acquired an ECG machine from somewhere and followed me around, asking if he could use it on me. To shake him off, I agreed, and he ran his test. He then said I should seek immediate cardiology assistance when I returned to Britain. By that time, however, Steven Zax had arrived and to my relief reassured me that everything was fine–the doctor seemingly did not know how to use his new toy.
Throughout Octopussy, Cubby was often diverted by his legal team and their ongoing battle with Kevin McClory. Kevin, with whom I had played backgammon, had befriended Ian Fleming in the late 1950s and together they worked on a screenplay–with Jack Whittingham–for what Fleming hoped would be the first in a series of Bond films. When financing failed to materialize, Fleming used the script as a basis for his book Thunderball. McClory sued and was awarded the film rights. He later collaborated with Cubby and Harry Saltzman, and Thunderball, released in 1965, became Sean Connery’s fourth film in the franchise.
The upshot of all this was that Cubby had agreed with McClory that no remake of Thunderball would be permitted within ten years of the film’s release. And, sure enough, from 1975 onwards McClory kept trying to mount a remake. Eventually, he involved Sean in writing a script and then persuaded him to return as Bond for one last time. Cubby fought it all the way, and when he heard McClory had raised the finance to shoot his remake at the same time that Octopussy was due to commence production, he became concerned. The press hailed it as ‘Battle of the Bonds’.
Cubby launched several lawsuits, but eventually backed down after agreeing he would take a profit share in Connery’s Bond, now entitled Never Say Never Again, and that the film’s release would be delayed until three months after Octopussy’s release.
There was no animosity between Sean and me. We didn’t react to the press speculation that we had become competitors in the part. In fact we often had dinner together and compared notes about how much we’d each shot and how our respective producers were trying to kill us with all the action scenes they expected us to do. I never actually saw Sean’s film. I’m told it did very well, but not quite as well as Octopussy!
Unfortunately there was a terrible accident during the filming. We were shooting at the Nene Valley Railway in Peterborough, and my stunt double, Martin Grace, was standing in for me in a sequence where Bond climbs on the outside of a moving train, and pulls himself along the side to the next carriage window. Martin rehearsed the scene and checked the line was clear of obstructions. Soon after starting out though, on the pre-checked length of track, a halt was called for some technical reason. A few minutes later they resumed. However, they didn’t go back to the start of the track, which meant they overshot the piece of track that Martin had inspected. The train hurtled along and Martin hit a huge concrete post, side-on.
I can’t imagine the number of bones it shattered, but Martin continued holding on to the side of the train for dear life as, had he let go, he would have fallen under the wheels. He was in hospital for months and when I visited him I really thought he’d never work again. But such was his determination to recover that he put himself through a strict fitness regime and was back to work incredibly quickly.
I remember when we were at Pinewood, filming my close-ups for the sequence, I had to hang on the underside of a coupling and behind me was a rolling drum simulating the moving track. It wasn’t the most comfortable of mornings. King Constantine of Greece visited the set that day and watched me complete this scene. He came over afterwards.
‘I don’t know how much they pay you,’ he said. ‘But it’s not enough.’
I didn’t disagree.
The King was one of many, many visitors who used to come on set. There would generally be members of the press or other media there each day too. In between takes I’d go over to my canvas chair and have a chat with them, or perhaps a lunch in the Pinewood dining room. Often sponsors (such as Seiko, Bollinger and so on) would come down for the day and be entertained. So, from the moment I set foot on the stage until the moment I left, I was very much working. Occasionally I’d slip back to my dressing room for a snooze, or go off for a game of backgammon with any unsuspecting victim, if I knew I wouldn’t be required for a while.
Octopussy was a joy to film. The cast were wonderful, as were the crew. It was a fitting farewell to my tenure; in my mind I was preparing to bid farewell to Bond.
Blake Edwards and his wife Julie Andrews were neighbours of ours in Gstaad. For some time Blake had spoken of making a new Pink Panther film. Sadly, Peter Sellers had died in 1980, but Blake felt he had enough material in the can from previous adventures to make a movie called The Trail of the Pink Panther in which, halfway through, Clouseau disappeared (i.e. when Blake had run out of material!). Blake wanted to shoot another movie alongside it, a sort of follow-on, where the search for Clouseau was continued–and he asked me to play Clouseau.
I’d known Peter Sellers, and his wives, for many years–going back to when he appeared on a variety bill with Squires, in fact. Both Peter’s third wife, Miranda Quarry, and his widow, Lynne Frederick, had heard about Blake making another film and, not knowing that I was in discussions about the role, they each came to me, saying how upset they were and that Blake shouldn’t do it. It was quite embarrassing.
In The Curse of the Pink Panther, Clouseau is tracked down, in the final reel, to some mountain-top lair guarded by Joanna Lumley. There, having stolen the Pink Panther diamond and with his head bandaged after the plastic surgery that gave him a new identity. Z was to be revealed as the new look of post-surgery Clouseau.
Blake said they could film at Pinewood at the tail end of Octopussy. I figured it would be a five-day engagement, and as they were offering $100,000 a day, it seemed pretty attractive. However, the buggers worked me from morning till night and filmed it all in just one day. I enjoyed hamming it up and attempting the funny French accent. I don’t think the film received much of a release though, and that was that.
Incidentally, my old friend David Niven appeared in both these new Panther films but the motor neurone disease was making him very ill. Nobody knew just how short a time he had left. During his final months, Niv bumped into an old acquaintance in Gstaad.
‘How are you, David?’ he asked.
‘Afraid I have m-m-motor n-n-n-neurone,’ he stuttered.
‘Oh really, well I’ve just bought a new Mercedes,’ replied his friend.
Niv laughed so much when he told me. He never did lose his sense of humour, even in his darkest hours.
Around seven o’clock on the morning of 29 July 1983, I received a call at my home in St Paul de Vence from David Bolton, a physiotherapist in Gstaad. He said he was waiting for the doctor to come over and sign Niv’s death certificate. I asked who was there at the house. He said only Fiona, Niv’s youngest adopted daughter. He thought there was a nephew of Hjordis, Niv’s wife, around but couldn’t be sure. Hjordis was in the South of France. I said I’d go over straight away. I couldn’t bear the thought of my dear friend being alone, even in death.
Deborah and I drove from St Paul to Château d’Oex in five and a half hours, a record time. I prepared the best I could for Hjordis’s arrival, and that of Niv’s other children, who were flying in from around the world. I liaised with everyone who needed to know. By this time, the press were starting to congregate, and in order to spare her the ordeal of having to face the TV cameras I suggested that the car take Hjordis around to the back of the house, where they could drive straight into the underground garage.
As she arrived, I went down to the garage. She, meanwhile, decided to enter by the front door. The car door opened and, with her wig slipping and an empty bottle of vodka rolling around her feet, Hjordis looked up at me and slurred, ‘Here for the press, are you?’
I could hear myself saying, ‘Just get in the fucking house.’
It had been no secret that she and David didn’t get on in later life. In fact, she was a bitch to him. I say that with all the conviction it deserves, as David was a dear, dear friend of mine who did nothing but try to please her. In return, Hjordis showed him nothing but disdain. Hjordis never wanted or encouraged people to visit David at the house in the South of France when he became ill. She seemed to resent his friends and the affection they held for him.
Earlier that summer, Bryan Forbes was staying with me in St Paul. Bryan knew Niv of old and he desperately wanted to visit, but Hjordis made it clear he was not welcome.
‘We’ll just drive over, knock on the door and go in,’ I suggested.
And that’s what we did. I can’t recall if Hjordis said anything, nor would I have taken any notice. By this time Niv had a terrible speech problem as the disease had affected his vocal chords. He would speak slowly and very hesitantly. Bryan, bless his heart, like all Englishmen speaking to foreigners or people with an impediment, spoke very loudly.
‘D-d-on’t shout, I am not deaf,’ said Niv.
Bryan considered himself chastised, though as we were leaving he looked at the swimming pool and–gesturing the breaststroke with his arms–said, ‘Getting plenty of swimming in are you, David?’
Niv began to laugh. The laughter turned into tears. He enjoyed our visit. We were both feeling as emotional as he was.
I visited him two weeks before he died. The only exercise he could manage was swimming with the aid of an inflatable ring. He had a very attentive Irish nurse who would patiently help him. As he came in from the pool that day, Hjordis appeared.
His voice was weak, but Niv proudly said, ‘I swam two lengths.’
In a cutting voice she replied, ‘Aren’t we a clever boy?’
Niv then asked to go back to his home in Switzerland. I arranged for a friend, Gunther Sachs, who had a pool in Gstaad to allow him to swim there but he became too weak to do so.
In the midst of this sadness, I must tell you that David’s home in the South of France, on Cap Ferrat, was one of the most beautiful you can imagine. When he bought it he had a swimming pool built. He gave the builders his desired measurements and disappeared off to shoot a movie. However, not realizing that French builders work in metres, he had given his measurements in feet…so the planned fifteen foot deep pool was actually fifteen metres deep and hence Niv had the deepest pool in Europe!
The day of Niv’s death, Deborah and I left the house knowing we’d done all we could. Writer and journalist Alistair Cameron Forbes, who had lived in the town for many years and befriended Niv, helped Fiona with all the funeral arrangements in the absence of her siblings. I stayed clear because of my deep dislike of Hjordis.
Prince Rainier, God bless him, came up from Monaco for the funeral and ensured Hjordis made it to the church. I’m not sure she’d have got there otherwise in her drunken state. Audrey Hepburn also attended.
David’s body remains in the churchyard at Château d’Oex. I would sometimes drive past, but felt unable to stop. His death had such an effect on me that I could not watch any of his films for many, many years.
I must just add a story here that Geoffrey Keen told me. He played the minister in most of my Bond films, and said after the Octopussy premiere he was at home and called a plumber to do some work. This was around the time when a number of notable actors had died, including Ralph Richardson, David Niven and James Mason. The plumber did his job and then, looking around, spotted some theatrical mementos.
‘Are you an actor?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Geoffrey.
‘You wanna be careful, mate, your lot are dropping like fucking flies.’
Indeed.
A short time after Bryan Forbes resigned as head of production at EMI, the studio and library was purchased by Cannon Films, which was run by the Go-Go Brothers–as they were called–Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus. They approached me and said they’d like to make a movie with me.
Since first reading Sidney Sheldon’s book The Naked Face I had felt it would lend itself to a very good film. I suggested this was a project I’d like to do with them. They asked if I had any ideas about who should direct. I said Bryan Forbes, as I knew he’d do a terrific job but could also adapt the script. When you’re working with a director who is also the writer, it saves on so many arguments and discussions between these creative partners. A deal was struck.
The Go-Go Brothers loved to announce projects at the Cannes Film Festival with a big splash, and part of my deal was that I, Bryan and Sidney Sheldon should join them there for a press conference. We arrived at a room with about sixty journalists packed in, and sat on a podium. Menahem stood up.
‘We have the writer of writers, Sidney Sheldon…’ he said. ‘We have the director of directors, Bryan Forbes…and we have the actor of actors, Roger Moore…’
It was quite hysterical.
The story was, in my opinion, a very clever one. I played Dr Judd Stevens, a psychiatrist who specialized in listening to other people’s problems. One day, a woman walked into his office just to talk. Unfortunately, she was the wife of the local Mafia boss and was thought to be telling all the family’s secrets to Dr Stevens. Consequently, he had to die. The tag line was ‘What he doesn’t know can get him killed.’
Production was based in Chicago and was a total delight. We–Luisa and I–lived there for two months and grew to love the city. Other casting was soon confirmed: Anne Archer, Elliott Gould, Art Carney, Rod Steiger and my old pal David Hedison. The only fly in the ointment was the production manager, who seemed intent on cutting every corner possible. He slashed the twelve-week schedule to eight, and put a lot of pressure on Bryan to work faster, which I felt was very unfair given the sterling results we were producing.
When Rod Steiger turned up on the first day the make-up man came in to my trailer.
‘I can’t make him up!’ he said. ‘He needs a surgeon to touch him up! He has running wounds–he’s just had a face-lift.’
He had literally come straight from the clinic!
I had known Rod quite well from my gambling days, when he, Telly Savalas and I used to meet up. He was known as a bit of a ‘scenery chewer’ and hadn’t changed. Poor Bryan had quite a job trying to keep control of his performance.
One morning I received a phone call from home. My blood ran cold. It was to say that my mother had suffered a heart attack and was in Colchester hospital, which was the nearest infirmary to my parent’s retirement home in Frinton-on-Sea. Mum was stable, but they were obviously very concerned for her.
I went to see Bryan. Without hesitation he said I must get on the next plane home. I knew the producers and the production manager were breathing down his neck, but he said that’d he’d shoot around me and I shouldn’t worry. British Airways were fantastic and transferred me across airports in order to get to London in the fastest time, and then up to Colchester. I know my father feared the worst. But, fortunately, by the time I arrived, Mum was off the danger list. I stayed for a couple of days, and when my mother’s condition improved further, I felt able to return to the set. Meanwhile, the producers had not taken kindly to Bryan’s actions.
‘How can you release the lead actor? We have a film to make.’
‘But his mother is dying,’ reasoned Bryan, to deaf ears.
I looked at them in a different light from then on.
The film turned out well, but sadly gained an ‘18’ certificate and came in for a little criticism in that the hero–that’s me–got beaten up at the end. It limited the number of cinemas prepared to take it and consequently the release felt a little half-hearted.
I was asked to record the talking book which was to tie in with the release of the movie. That’s the sort of work I love–sitting in a small recording theatre, reading the lines without the aid of make-up and going home at night to cash the cheque. I was either rather good, or too cheap, as I was asked to read a couple more talking books; one being a Jack Higgins story.
Being the consummate ponce, I never read the book before I turned up at the studio. They weren’t paying me enough for that. I always remember Robert Morley saying to a producer, ‘If you want me to do the film it’s £500,000 but if you want me to read the script first it’ll be £750,000.’
Anyhow, it started off in Germany, in Hitler’s bunker, and I loved playing all the parts wiz my German accent but then noticed a character from Northern Ireland appeared. I’m not bad at the old Belfast accent, and can keep it up for a short while, so launched into it. Only then did I realize the rest of the book was set in Northern Ireland! Now I always glance through voice-over scripts.
It was about this time, during a lovely family Christmas at our home in LA, that I started to reflect on my life to date. I’d had a pretty good run in movies, but it seemed as though I was now working to maintain the lifestyle of owning three houses. I loved them all, but I couldn’t see myself maintaining this pace forever. Perhaps my mother’s illness made me sit up and take stock?
However, I didn’t have much time to think about it all too much as the phone rang. It was Cubby. He wanted me to play Bond again in A View to a Kill.
At fifty-seven, I felt a little long in the tooth, a bit like Gary Cooper in Love in the Afternoon, but I was pretty fit and still able to remember lines. A rather nice deal was agreed with my agent, and once again I slipped into the tuxedo–admittedly it had been let-out a bit since my first film–to play Jimmy Bond one last time.
John Glen was back for his third successive film as director, as were most of the familiar crew–Peter Lamont as production designer, Alan Hume as director of photography, ‘Randy’ June Randall as continuity girl, Alec Mills as camera operator and so forth. It was very much like reuniting with the family.
Christopher Walken was cast as the villain Zorin: the first Oscar-winning actor to date to play in an 007 adventure. Chris had a bit of a reputation for being ‘difficult’. I never found him so. He liked to be prepared and he liked everyone else to be prepared–so maybe he didn’t suffer fools and they branded him difficult? Tanya Roberts was cast as Stacey Sutton. Then there was singer Grace Jones, who was cast as May-Day. I’ve always said if you’ve nothing nice to say about someone, then you should say nothing. So I’ll say nothing.
One thing that drove me mad was that between every take my leading ladies would both rush over to their handbags and pull out a lipstick and mirror. Time after time they did it, and time after time we had to wait for them. So, when they weren’t looking, I reached into their bags, pulled out the lipstick and mirrors and hid them. A few minutes later they returned, reached in and pulled out a lipstick and mirror…They apparently had half a dozen of each–just in case! They worried more about appearance than performance.
Meanwhile, another old chum, Patrick Macnee, called.
‘I’ve heard there could be a part in the film that would suit me,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘and Cubby has already said he’s going to approach you.’
How great minds think alike.
During pre-production, word reached us that tragedy had struck at Pinewood. The 007 Stage had burnt down. How can a steel structure of such size burn down, you ask? Well, it actually melted in the intense heat caused by the explosion of a gas canister during a lunch break on Ridley Scott’s film, Legend. Within a couple of hours, the once-grand structure that dominated the Pinewood skyline was a moulded mound of smouldering black metal.
Shooting was weeks away and the huge mineshaft sequence was due to be housed on that stage. Cubby surveyed the site, turned to our production designer Peter Lamont and asked, ‘How long to rebuild?’
Peter said something like sixteen weeks. Without flinching, Cubby said to go ahead. Peter did some fairly quick recalculations, meanwhile, and split his planned setup into segments that could be housed on other stages, until the new 007 Stage was in operation where the finale flooding of the mine could take place.
In recognition of Cubby’s significant contribution to the British film industry, and in particular Pinewood, the new stage was named in his honour–The Albert R. Broccoli 007 Stage.
You can imagine how my stomach turned on 30 July 2006, when I heard that Cubby’s famous stage was on fire again. The second incarnation of the huge structure, like its predecessor, all but melted in the heat during a fire that started while the Casino Royale sets were being dismantled. However, within six months, a new 007 Stage, the third one, was ready for business.
There were some terrific locations in A View to a Kill, including Iceland, Royal Ascot, Paris, Chantilly and San Francisco. We had some terrific location difficulties too, especially at the Eiffel Tower. The script called for Grace Jones’s character, May-Day, to leap off the Eiffel Tower, open a parachute and land on a boat on the Seine. However, while the authorities had given permission for takeoff, we didn’t have permission to land. Apparently, the river came under the remit of another authority and only on the day of the shoot was permission forthcoming. What fun.
Grace Jones had her boyfriend with her, Dolph Lundgren. He was a very nice guy and John Glen cast him in a small role–his first film role in fact–and had lots of stills taken of Dolph for publicity. Next thing we knew, he’d been cast in Rocky IV. He never asked for me though.
Barbara Broccoli, Cubby’s daughter, joined the production team for her second film after Octopussy, as an assistant director. One of her duties was to collect Grace every morning, as our star wasn’t a fan of early starts. Barbara ensured Grace arrived on time each day, and I believe she developed much of her diplomatic charm on those early-morning car journeys.
Barbara always seemed destined to follow in her father’s footsteps. She studied film at university and joined the family firm in positions of increasing importance on each film she worked on. She now co-produces the Bonds. I love Barbara: she is a wonderfully warm character and a deeply caring one, much like her father. She is now steering the franchise into new, exciting territory with Daniel Craig. I know Cubby would be very proud of her, and her stepbrother, Michael Wilson.
I’m afraid my diplomatic charm was stretched to the limit with Grace. Every day in her dressing room–which was adjacent to mine–she played very loud music. I was not a fan of heavy metal, so didn’t quite appreciate it vibrating through the walls whenever I returned to my room. An afternoon nap was well and truly out of the question. I did ask Grace to turn it down several times, to no avail. One day I snapped. I marched into her room, pulled the plug out and then went back to my room, picked up a chair and flung it at the wall. The dent is still there.
And so to bed. Yes, my love scene with Grace. I slipped between the sheets, followed by her and her rather large black dildo. I’m glad she thought it was funny.
Barbara told me that the producers had a meeting with the Mayor of San Francisco, Diane Feinstein, to explain what they’d like to do–set City Hall on fire, drive a fire engine through the streets, car chases and so on–but got a rather cold reception to it all.
‘Who’s playing Bond?’ ask Mayor Feinstein.
‘Roger Moore,’ replied Cubby.
‘Ah, I like him!’ All permissions were immediately forthcoming. I became very good friends with Diane and her husband Dick, and they were absolutely wonderful in facilitating our every request. We literally got away with anything we wanted. I was like a boy in a toyshop when I drove a fire engine around the streets! Nowadays, Diane is Senior Senator in California–I have friends in influential places.
The day before our night shoot at City Hall, where we set a section of the roof on fire (in the film, not for real!), Diane sent a memo instructing everyone to close their windows before they left the office. Someone didn’t read the memo, and one particular office was soaked when they opened it the next morning–the smoke that came in through the windows had triggered the fire sprinkler system.
The Golden Gate Bridge shots, by the way, were filmed with doubles–Martin Grace being mine–and then part of the bridge was recreated at Pinewood for close-ups with me, Chris Walken and Tanya Roberts. I wasn’t paid enough to climb the real one. Peter Lamont did a fantastic job in his production design, despite the big setback of the fire at the 007 Stage. I so admire Peter and his colleagues–Syd Cain, Peter Murton and dear Ken Adam. They make the impossible possible and the unbelievable believable.
The film premiered in May 1985 in San Francisco, as a small token of our thanks for the city’s help and co-operation, swiftly followed by Prince Charles and Princess Diana honouring us with their presence at the film’s Royal Premiere in London.
I knew this would be my last Bond film.
Cubby and I sat down one day afterwards, reflecting on its success and mutually agreed that it was time for a younger actor to pick up the Walther PPK. There was no drama, no tears (aside from my agent) and there was certainly no big discussion where Cubby told me that it was all over and I had to accept it. That however was not the case as reported in his autobiography, completed by Donald Zec after Cubby’s death.
I felt very hurt by the claims that Cubby had to effectively tell me it was all over, and how I wouldn’t accept it at first. Then he claimed I had started making ‘neurotic demands’ and had become difficult in so much as I refused to attend charity events or make personal appearances. I always did what I was asked–after all I had a percentage of the film–but obviously there is a limit to what one can do, and occasionally it was not always possible to do everything. I’ve always prided myself on being an unspoilt, down-to-earth individual. I like the finer things in life, sure, but I’ve never forgotten my roots and how lucky I have been.