CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WINTER 1960

Cancelled Shows

Stephanie had been learning some ballet under Betty Oliphant, and now, as autumn approached, she asked to leave St Mildred’s and attend Betty’s newly formed National Ballet School. She could live on Isabella Street with Paul, just a few blocks away, while Angela was on tour, adding the title role in Barbara Allen, and also dancing in Grant’s new ballet.

Stephanie loved the school and, although its youngest student, made friends with Vanessa Harwood, Veronica Tennant, later prima ballerina of the National Ballet, and also Karen Kain, who succeeded Veronica in that position.

Festival (previously Folio) was CBC’s flagship: a remarkable collection of classical plays, music, ballet, and opera. Franz Kramer, a former student of Alban Berg, was producing music, Norman Campbell directed ballet, Mario Prizak the more esoteric dramas, and Eric Till had just joined. But as a group, not the cohesive ménage of the Drama Department.

For his ’61-’62 season, Robert Allen suggested Paul do a Shakespeare play. As the schools were studying Julius Caesar, Paul set about creating that for television. The Stratford Festival Theatre having closed for the season, Paul was able to cast some of those regulars, and for the women, Frances Hyland and the glorious Kate Reid. But for Marc Antony, he wanted Bill Shatner.

Next he tackled the settings. Rudi Dorn mournfully wandered into Paul’s office. “Ach Gott, Paul, not another show in bed sheets?”

“Rudi, they’re togas.”

“So... now I build the Colosseum in studio?” he asked. “Big disaster.” He chuckled.

Paul repressed a grin.

“All television,” Rudi went on, “it’s a disaster, why be different?”

“Okay okay, Rudi, so what do we do?”

Rudi shrugged.

“Okay listen, Shakespeare wrote his plays for a bare stage at the Globe Theatre. Props, okay, but no sets.”

Rudi looked at him and then, without a word, fled.

What on earth would he do? Paul wondered.

What he did was another remarkable set.

In the foreground, two vast twelve-foot-across Roman columns reached up as though to an almighty height. Against the cyc at the back, Rudi put up four very large Roman columns, also stretching out of sight — the whole giving an impression of great scale in the small studio.

Rome without folderols. The man’s a genius, thought Paul, and started rehearsing. And that’s when the trouble began.

The Stratford coterie looked down on television, so did not take kindly to an upstart director who’d never done any theatre, or so they thought. Paul didn’t bother to correct that. Having spent months together, they had formed liaisons, or rather, cliques. Cutting remarks, muttered and whispered — not always out of earshot — could be heard, many directed at Bill, and even their director.

Bill and Paul, being friends and good at television, tried to ignore all that and get on with the play. But for the first time, Paul did not enjoy his rehearsals. Acknowledged as a master of the medium, he was at least accustomed to respect.

The real clincher came when Mark Antony harangued the Roman crowd. “Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.” One of the better-known phrases in Shakespeare — usually declaimed from a rostrum in heroic tones with broad gestures. But Bill and Paul decided on a whole other interpretation — the vernacular. Bill would bend over and murmur, “Friends...” speaking directly and quietly as in a small room — where indeed the telecast would be seen. “Romans,” he would beckon, “countrymen...” A few of the supposedly huge crowd in the Roman Forum began to pay attention. “Lend me your ears,” he pleaded gently.

Some got interested and nudged their companions. Slowly, throughout the famous oration, more and more bystanders became involved. Paul shot them from high on a crane camera, looking down as if from Bill’s point of view. He bunched the citizens tight, all excellent actors, handpicked by Paul.

“...He hath brought many captives home to Rome

Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:

Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?”

On Bill went on...

“My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.”

He turned, tears in his eyes... The crowd believed him overcome with emotion, but the camera saw his secret hidden delight. Finally, they erupted in shouts. Marc Antony had won the day.

When the Stratford bunch saw how Bill was playing the famous speech, scorn curled their lips. Conflict for sure. But oddly enough, just what Paul needed: this “us versus them” augmented the antagonistic feelings between Mark Antony and the conspirators who murdered Caesar.

Once they went into studio, however, Rudi’s sets appeared stunning. Even the recalcitrant theatre bunch caught their breath. And Bill turned out to be a stunning Mark Antony.

The huge production went on, all two hours, so that by the end, everyone was worn out, most of all Paul.

But he threw his usual cast party back at the flat, where a few selected actors and all three super cameramen, led by Tommy Farquharson, drank and made merry. The phones had indeed rung; audience and newspaper critics deemed it a success.

Nonetheless, Paul was against doing another Shakespeare.

***

Before Christmas, Paul was offered an Australian piece, Shadow of a Pale Horse, which featured a hanging. It had been bought by the Americans and the BBC, but the CBC put it into production first.

Paul celebrated the holidays with Angela and her gorgeous ballet friends: Myrna Aaron, back in the company after a stint in Italy and Tamburlaine at Stratford, Ontario; Colleen Kenney, now a soloist; and the blonde Jacqueline Ivings, Jocey Tyrell, and Sally Brayley, who would not leave for another year. And their good friends Grant and Earl. But then she was off on another tour: thirty-eight cities till April, after a stay in Toronto in February.

In his January production, Paul cast as the poor fellow to be hanged, Larry Zahab, who after the RCMP had come to Toronto to begin an acting career. In addition, Paul assembled his regular performers: Robert Christie, Hugh Webster, Barney Dylan, Powys Thomas, and so on.

The hanging scene would prove a challenge. Paul wanted it as realistic as possible — Larry would drop on camera, oh yes! And he’d managed permission for a horse and cart in studio — another first.

Larry would stand on the cart, with a noose around his neck. The clergyman, Ivor Barry, would say a few words, then they would whip the horse, the cart would leap forward, and Larry would drop. During rehearsals at Sumach Street, Paul had gotten someone from the Design Department, who happened to be only in training, to come up and rig the harness on Larry.

In the control booth as they started the live show, Paul grinned at Robey Ivy, who had replaced Pat Young. She was older than Paul, a no-nonsense type with red hair piled in a beehive, upright in bearing, which Paul suspected might be due to a corset. The other script assistants were mostly in their innocent and succulent twenties. “Well, let’s just trust in God and see how it all goes, eh Robey?” Everyone had their fingers crossed.

“I’ll trust more in you than God to pull this off,” smiled Robey.

The drama began to unfold, some villagers being for, others against, the hanging. Based on a real incident, there had been a trial of sorts, but hardly a satisfying one.

The horse and cart were brought forward and a loop placed around Larry’s neck. Grizzled faces, some praying, some in wide-eyed anticipation, watched. Paul called in the mic to Johnson Ashley, the Studio Director: “Cue the horse.”

The actor-driver slapped his reins, the horse bolted, and Larry dropped.

He twisted and thrashed in death throes while a series of quick cuts registered the horror on the faces. But something looked horribly wrong.

“Ready 112 on [camera] one — Paul!” Robey cried out.

“Take one,” Paul snapped. “Look, Lynn’s crying! Great. Hold the shot.”

“Ready 113 on three — Paul! Paul!” Robey cried.

“Dolly in on Lynn. More in! Now take three.”

Robey: “Ready 114 on one.”

Paul: “Take one. My God, my God, Robey — what acting!”

Robey: “Ready 115 on three. No, he’s choking, Paul, he’s choking.”

Paul: “Take Three. He can’t be! He’s in a harness.”

The commands came out abrupt, staccato, fast.

Robey: “Ready 116 on two. Look, he’s twisting. He’s trying to... Oh my God.”

On screen, Larry was thrashing and struggling.

Paul: “No no, surely he’s acting, but —” He could hear the cameramen’s gasps in his earphones. “Take two.”

Robey: “Ready 117 on three. Do something!”

Paul: “Take three. Just look at that acting! Or is he?”

Robey: “Ready 118 on one. He’s not, Paul. He’s choking!”

Paul stared. “Take one.” The control room began a turmoil.

Robey: “Ready 119 on three. Paul, we’d better stop!”

Paul: “Take three — we can’t. We’re on air. Don’t worry so much, he’s acting.”

Robey: “Ready 120 on two.”

Paul: “Take two. He’s slowing down...”

Robey: “Ready 121 on three”

Paul: “Take three. I’m off him — Johnson, get ready to cut him down.”

Robey: “Ready 122 on one. Yes yes, cut him down.”

Paul: “Take one. We’re still off him. But I’ve gotta go back to him. I’ve got to. Pray God he’s acting.”

Robey: “Ready 123 on two. He’s not, Paul.”

Paul: “Take two. I can’t help it. Oh God, Johnson!”

Robey: “Ready 124 on one.”

Paul: “Take one. I’m off him. Get in fast, Johnson! Three, flip to a close up.”

Robey: “Ready 125 on three. Only two more shots.”

Paul: “Wait, Johnnie – only two more. Can you get in safely? Take three.”

Robey: “Ready 126 on one. Paul!”

Paul: “Take one.”

Robey: “Ready 127 on three. Look, he’s not moving!”

Paul: “No, I’m flying. Hold on one. Hold it. Okay, now I’m back on...”

Robey: “...126.”

Paul: “Take three. Good! Last shot coming.”

Robey: “Ready 127 on one again.”

Paul: “Take one. Pull back. More. Johnnie, soon as I fade out, get in there, get in to Larry...”

John Ashley and a stagehand stood ready to run in.

At last, Paul waved his arm widely. “And... fade out.”

Larry’s form lay on the studio floor, inert.

The booth was now in chaos. “Get a doctor, someone!”

“Done,” Cec Johns replied. “I phoned.”

Johnson Ashley and others rushed to the inert form.

Suddenly... Larry sat up — a big grin on his face. “Fooled you, eh?”

In the booth, everyone stared, then broke up in relief.

“What a great show!” Trevor Williams, the designer of this show and not at all like Rudi, had watched every shot. “Tremendous, Paul.”

So Larry was fine!

But as Paul soon found out, all was not fine...

The CBC had recently set up huge two-inch tape machines that filled all of one room. Shows were now video-taped for later viewing across the nation, so that in the West they could show better quality programs than on kinescopes, as previously. No producer was allowed into the tape room, and no cuts of any kind were permitted, no matter what. So the show was just as “live” as before. But the upshot was that productions could be shown in advance to GM’s executives.

The head of sales demanded they take General Motors name off the show. “Too realistic.”

No sponsorship?

Well, that provided copy for newspapers all across Canada. But the CBC, undeterred, put out the drama anyway. No agency executives could dictate to a public broadcasting system! Newspaper critics flocked. The consensus ended up that, as usual, the executives had overreacted.

Paul was naturally tickled. But little did he know that his next production would create an even greater furor.

***

One memorable play Paul had seen in London was Point of Departure, a retelling of the Orpheus legend by his favourite French playwright, Jean Anouilh. So he asked Robert Allen if he could produce it on Folio. Robert read it and gave his approval. Orpheus, played by William Shatner, and Eurydice got to know each other in a sordid bedroom in a station boarding house. But the scene itself was inordinately tame, just two lovers on a bed, getting to know each other. No heavy breathing, no locked embraces — the white bed being a sort of island out of time and space. A tender scene, a dramatic scene, in fact, a really splendid scene. All on a bed.

The show went smoothly, and after the last shot, Paul tore off his earphones and ran down to congratulate each cameraman and hug dear Bill.

But this time, even the CBC’s own executives proved timid. After some discussions, they cancelled the telecast.

The papers were full of it: the Toronto Star headlined: "CBC Cancels Sexy French Play.”

The CBC did telecast it a few weeks later, but late in the evening. Paul didn’t mind; it just added to the show’s acclaim, which was considerable.

In another surprise The Globe and Mail elected to publish a photo spread on the Isabella Street apartment that Angela had decorated. As it happened, Bill had come to tea and so was photographed as well. But Paul didn’t wait to read the articles spawned by the cancellation. He rushed off to New York for his next production.

Play of the Week’s producer, Lewis Freedman, had asked theatre guru Harold Clurman to direct Christopher Fry’s translation of Jean Giraudoux’s Tiger at the Gates. Mr. Clurman, a highly influential theatre critic, had been one of the founders of New York’s famous Group Theatre, and had often directed on stage. He was working on his seminal book, The Fervent Years, to come out the following year. But he had no idea of cameras, or this new medium. So to work the camera shots, Lewis had decided to bring in an accomplished television director who had also directed classical plays — Paul, who had heard of Clurman and was anxious to meet him.

But what a come-down! On arriving, Paul found that the great man had spent a couple of days in rehearsal just going over lines. Shaped rather like Hitchcock, with a round face and thinning hair, Mr. Clurman in his perennial dark suit was didactic, though articulate as behooved a university professor. But he only worked on the words; he interrupted actors time and time again to give line readings — a complete no-no in Paul’s book. Actors should find their own rhythms, with which the cast also agreed.

Harold would sit in his chair, giving line readings, as Paul moved around, framing shots, glancing back at Harold, who would nod. An unnerving experience.

After the show, which had been well received, Paul returned to Toronto with a good-sized cheque and a newly minted reputation. He had seen more Broadway plays, all expenses paid.

***

After repeating The Hill in Canada, his third run at it, with Kate Reid instead of Kate Blake, who had gone to London, Paul directed The Beckoning Hill, by Arthur Murphy, the Halifax surgeon whose previous play, You’ll be Calling Me Michael, he’d done earlier.

Paul cast Michael Craig, a J. Arthur Rank star, as he now had the stirrings of a desire to make motion pictures. Finally on a freelance contract, he could do as he pleased. So he flew to Halifax and drove with Arthur around Cape Breton Island looking for locations, hoping that with Craig attached, the script might end up as a film in cinemas. The scenic spectacular island stayed with Paul long afterwards. But nothing came the project.

Now, to find an actress with enough star quality to play opposite Michael. After checking around, Paul was finally rewarded by finding a delicious young lady, Martha Buhs. Comely, slim, graceful, she had a lovely voice, great big brown eyes set in stunning features surrounded by brown curls. A new face to boot!

Even as a beginner, on screen she projected such warmth, charisma, and sympathy that she lifted the show, clicked with Michael, and it all went well.

Afterwards, Paul set off with Angela to direct the Giraudoux play again in England for Granada. She had completed her winter tour encompassing thirty-eight cities, plus thirty performances in Toronto in February, and needed a break. Because Betty Firmin, Angela’s mother, wanted to retire to England, they helped her find a new apartment in Sidmouth, on Devon’s South coast.

As Agamemnon, Paul cast Keith Michell, a movie and television star, and decided on his wife, Jeanette Sterke as Andromache. Jeanette had been rather close to Paul and had travelled with his Oxford and Cambridge Players. Watching her during rehearsals, Paul wondered why he had never asked her to marry him. She was beauty itself, her round face, her kind eyes, such a gentle disposition that would never hurt a fly; she must surely look after her husband with all the innate breeding of her Czech background. Enough reminiscing, thought Paul, just concentrate on directing.

So far as casting went, Paul made his first major mistake — probably his biggest to date. Going out for lunch one day, he’d seen a pretty, slightly pudgy, blonde actress getting off a motorcycle and running in to deposit photos for him to see as Helen. It turned to be Susannah York.

But Paul, the idiot, decided that because Helen of Troy had been the pinup of the day, he wanted the casting director to find him the present-day pinup of British troops. Pictures of Carole Lesley, dressed or undressed, adorned the noticeboards and walls next to the beds of soldiers. She did look pretty, followed directions, and ended up acquitting herself reasonably well. But in the end, a dreadful idea. The critics turned out to be kind on the whole, because the rest of the cast was stellar. And the Irish-Canadian designer Paul had chosen to design his sets, Seamus Flannery, won a splendid long-term contract from Sidney Bernstein.

But Paul went back to Toronto — no long term in England for him.