CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
1970

Act of the Heart

Earth, air, fire, and water, the four elements. Isabel, Paul considered his “earth film”. This time he pondered the question of fire and, once he was ready to do some writing, he told Geneviève he’d have to go away, as when he wrote Isabel. A friend offered a cottage in the Laurentians and he went north to write the script that eventually became Act of the Heart.

Geneviève was again central to this story, but this time, he brought her as an innocent Gaspésienne to Montreal to teach French to the son of a wealthy widow. He wrote scenes for their Redpath Crescent house, just as he had shot Isabel in the Old Homestead. The Gaspe girl was religious and thought of herself as “special”, but then fell in love.

They had occasionally met Robert Redford so Paul created for him a musical Augustinian monk arranging a concert. For the widow, because they knew her from Paris, he wanted Jeanne Moreau.

Half way through the writing, Geneviève rang. She didn’t like being alone with Matthew and Mme Pecetto in the big old house. “I won’t bother you, I’ll make meals, and you can write all you want.” So up she came into the Laurentians; Paul continued writing and in two or three weeks had a finished script.

Now for the first hurdle. Geneviève had not seen it. Would she accept the role of his lead character, Martha? They’d always agreed that she would only play in a film if she liked it. So with some trepidation, he handed her the script.

The next day, as was her wont, she stayed in bed reading it. Paul diverted himself with needless odds and ends, wondering if he had a star or not. That night at dinner (prepared by Mme Pecetto) she announced she loved it.

Right-oh! Now for the rest of the cast. In Paris, he got the script with Louis Malle’s help to Jeanne Moreau. She turned it down. Being madly in love (again), she didn’t want to leave Paris. So Paul cast Monique Leyrac, the singer who had never acted. As for Robert Redford, Stevie told them he admitted liking the script but had other films on his mind. Then Paul remembered a young Canadian from The Rose Tattoo: Donald Sutherland, tall, blonde, now making Bob Altman’s M*A*S*H with Elliott Gould. Donald accepted. Later during filming he told Paul that he was pleased to work on a film of this kind after doing what he then described as a piece of rubbish. That “rubbish” turned out to be a huge hit.

The film was to be built around a cantata that the monk would conduct in the Oratoire Saint-Joseph. Paul wanted it written before shooting. His friend, Harry Freedman, who had often composed for Paul’s shows, agreed and began writing long before they had the money. Paul arranged the words for The Flame Within from the Bible; it would be the only music in the film — the first (and perhaps only) time that music had been written for a motion picture before the script. Later, Elmer Iseler, director of the Festival Singers, recorded it on a vinyl LP with Universal Records.

Stevie started setting up the film. Not for a second did Paul doubt, even with his lesser cast, that Stevie would fail. After all, didn’t it concern matters of the spirit? As always, Paul kept his feet – as Mel Breen once said — firmly planted in mid-air.

He went about picking his crew. Peter Carter came to run everything; they were such great collaborators. No production designers with motion picture experience existed, but one evening Claude Fournier invited them to a party. Paul met his pretty partner, Anne Pritchard, a blonde interior designer with devilishly bewitching pale blue eyes. He hired her at once, and she ended up doing the costumes, too. They tried to get Georges Dufaux but he was shooting a documentary. So Geneviève rang Alain Resnais, who recommended Jean Boffety, cameraman on his last film, Je t’aime, je t’aime. Dave Howells, a senior sound technician, got released from the NFB. Paul now had his crew and his cast. All he needed was financing.

“How are we coming, Stevie?” Paul asked on the phone.

“Paul, we just got the script a month ago. You only gave us your new cast last week. I’m not a magician.”

“Yes you are, Stevie. I’m counting on you.”

Isabel had come to the attention of the great Hal Wallis, an old-time Hollywood producer (Casablanca) who was looking for his Anne Boleyn in Anne of a Thousand Days. Look no further, Stevie had said, but Universal has to fund Paul’s film first. After all, Charles Champlin of the Los Angeles Times had given Isabel a great review.

In the end, Universal agreed to fund both.

Looking ahead, Stevie had warned that Universal was a bureaucratic morass and took business seriously. Paul would need a lawyer, so he rang Timmie Porteous, a sweet little red-haired fellow from Bishops College School Paul had known, now a big executive assistant to Trudeau. Tim suggested Donald Johnston, who had just formed the law firm of Mccarthy, Monet and Johnston. Donald had directed a McGill Red-and-White Review and played the piano rather well, so Paul threw him into negotiations with Universal. Being married to Heather McLaren, the prettiest small-boned blonde from Nova Scotia, was no detriment. They had two baby daughters with a third on the way.

Before Christmas, Joel Katz, a former producer whose religion excluded Christmas, flew to Montreal and Donald had to spend his entire holiday negotiating. Heather was not pleased.

Michael Spencer, his new Canadian Film Development Corporation under way, badly needed a film to start the process. With his British background, he didn’t want to take a risk, preferring to work with someone “tried-and-true”. So he rang Paul. “I hear you’re making another film.”

“I am, Michael.”

“I’ve talked to my Board, and we’ve decided to invest.”

“Sorry, Michael. You can’t. Universal is doing it.”

Silence at the other end of the line.

Then Michael went on, pleading. “Now Paul, you have to let us in. For the good of Canada. We expect to invest in several films, if this goes well. We should partner with a big American distribution company. It would be good for Canada. You’ve got to be patriotic.”

Paul had to think that over. Michael Spencer had certainly touched a nerve. “Okay, Michael, I’ll let you guys put in half.”

Accordingly, Act of the Heart was the first (and only!) film the CFDC had to beg to finance.

Paul was adamant about getting the final cut, although that privilege was rare for a director. He had gotten it on Isabel and insisted on doing so again. Nothing for it, but Joel Katz had to give in, reassuring Geneviève and others that what was in the script would end up in the final film.

Right after New Year’s Day, Paul began shooting. But clear sailing?

Not exactly.

The first scene was a hockey game between teams of twelve-year-old boys on Westmount’s Murray Park. Later, in editing, two McGill students who ran commentary on McGill games and knew the lingo, hilariously parodied the great Foster Hewitt. But that day, the claws of the American eagle tried to reach across the border. Johnny Douet had adamantly refused to join the American technicians union, IATSE. He had been a wonderful grip on Isabel, and Paul was determined to include him. The union’s head office in New York rang technicians to say they must strike the set — or they’d never work again. So far in Canada, no one had dared go up against IATSE. But Paul, with an NFB director friend, invoked the Taft Hartley Act and rejected any interference in Canada’s internal affairs by a foreign country. He threatened to take the matter to Ottawa.

He sent a simple message to the crew: “Boffety, Douet, Peter and myself will be at the rink. If you want to join us, come and work on the film right to the end.”

That night his sleep was restless: would they come? Or would the union win?

The next day at the rink, lo! The entire crew turned up. The union had been beaten.

Johnny Douet proved his mettle in a skating scene on Beaver Lake. Everyone knew how to skate — but what about a dolly shot on slithery ice? The Elemac would never work. So Johnny rigged up a platform with skates underneath, and he and his skating grips pushed the camera wherever the actors led.

The monk and his soloist, Geneviève, were to give a concert in the vast Oratoire Saint-Joseph. So Paul would need not one, but three, choirs. He added Les petit chanteurs de Montréal, and a United Church women’s choir. The Oratory had been erected in 1912 to commemorate Brother André, a humble priest (later sanctified) who’d lived in a shack. The roof of this towering landmark was two hundred feet high with a dome eighty-five feet in diameter, and the largest organ in all North America. Paul was not one to think small.

With no money to pay extras, Paul advertised that Geneviève, already a star in Quebec, would be singing and Donald Sutherland conducting, and anyone could come for free to watch—if they stayed for four hours. Against all predictions, three hundred people turned up. Harry Freedman donned a wig to resemble Donald Sutherland (not a real conductor!), the great crescendo of the organ boomed out, and Geneviève sang her solo. All with no budget for extras.

After the monk succumbed to love for his chorister, Geneviève earned money by singing in a boîte à chanson. Gilles Vigneault, Quebec’s premier chansonnier, had written Mon pays, the Battle Hymn of the new Quebec, and his happy birthday was sung all over the province. Paul asked him to compose Martha’s songs, and even to act in the film, playing the old rink tender (shades of his former script, The Simpleton). Jean Duceppe, leading light of Montreal theatre, agreed to improvise a memorable scene telling off Gilles for working too much overtime cleaning the rink.

Charles Bonniwell, in a black suit, sparkling shoes, and flowered shirt, flew up from Los Angeles to watch over the production. Much to his discomfort, Paul put him to work doing accounts, as he had done with the Paramount rep, Bob Crawford, on Isabel. Charles kept asking, Where is “Gillus Vigg-nolt”? Which tickled the crew and became a catchphrase for big studio interference.

Concerned with melding the “two solitudes”, Paul devised a prophetic scene in the sunroom of Redpath Crescent with Claude Jutra, François Tassé, Jean Dalmain (Monique Leyrac’s husband) and others who improvised on the theme of Quebec’s separation from the rest of Canada.

All that was left now was the editing. And to find out what reception would be given this unashamedly Christian film dealing with sacred and profane love.

***

Anne of A Thousand Days starring Richard Burton and Geneviève was scheduled to shoot all summer in London. Thus Universal brought over Geneviève’s family, and indeed Paul’s editing crew, James Mitchell and his assistant Donna Nichol, to cut Act on Wardour Street. Jim was somewhat thrown by his director sitting next to him, deciding every cut. In the American system, the director only turned up near the end, made a suggestion or two, and left.

With little Matthew and Mme Pecetto, they set up house on Cambridge Street. Their stay was enlivened by dinners with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton who, in the great Welsh tradition of storytellers, could hold forth for hours with his enviable store of theatrical tales.

One day Paul went to Hampton Court Palace to watch Geneviève shoot: a hundred crew members lay around in the sun while only director Charles Jarrott, producer Hal Wallis and the cameramen worked, setting up shots. Charles, whom Paul had trained while at the CBC but who had never directed a motion picture, had been chosen by Hal, who wanted an amenable young director.

At the beginning of September, they returned to the editing rooms in the basement of Redpath Crescent. Madame Pecetto provided her usual splendid dinners, and Paul and Geneviève often entertained, especially during the Montreal Film Festival each September when visiting foreign filmmakers and stars, Russian, Indian, many nationalities, would enjoy dining in a private home away from their stark hotel rooms.

One evening, Paul found himself helping clear up with Madame Pecetto who was finishing another glass of wine. He asked the question he had often wondered about: how had she come to own a restaurant on the renowned Montmartre?

Well, she told him, she had run an establishment in Algeria. She had found a goodly number of pretty young Algerian girls to service the officers of the French Foreign Legion — and even, she divulged proudly, cabinet ministers when visiting. When the French withdrew from Algeria, she got compensation from the very ministers who had been her clients. The reparation? This restaurant on Montmartre.

When Paul got to bed, he passed it on to Geneviève. “Imagine, Matthew brought up by a notorious Algerian madame!”

“I’ve suspected it all along, darling,” Geneviève said. “Who cares? She looks after Matthew well, she’s a good cook, what more do we want?”

And so the matter was closed.

In early October, Universal’s executive in charge of the film, Jennings Lang and his wife Monica flew up for a fine cut screening of Act of the Heart at the National Film Board. Paul had invited others, too; after screenings, he usually held a party with lots of drink. As guests loosened up, they would talk to him or his editors and their criticisms helped.

Paul and Jennings arrived back at the house before the others; Monica had stayed in the den to read. Paul was putting on a record when out of the corner of his eye, he saw Monica gesture to her husband questioningly.

Jennings mouthed a word Paul had no trouble understanding: “Disastah!”

What did that presage?

Paul had the right of final cut. And he thought the audience had loved the show. But still... what would happen when he brought it to Los Angeles in the middle of December?

Into Universal’s screening room trooped Lew Wasserman, Universal’s chief, and his associates, “the suits”, as they were called.

As the film progressed, with its great cantata, Paul saw from the back Geneviève overcome with emotion. Happily, this had its desired effect. The men from the famous black tower at Universal City were properly impressed, even moved, so now were behind the film. Of course, Jennings had to exhibit the usual about-face of so many film executives.

The Wassermans invited them to their home, with its Henry Moore sculpture prominent in the driveway and famous paintings on the walls. Lew, tall, angular, a courtly gentleman, was most polite, not at all the image of an agent, which he had once been. Paul was surprised to learn that not only Jennings’s salary, but also his house and car, were dependent upon the whims of Universal executives. If fired, he would lose everything. No wonder executives lived in fear of their lives. Stay well away from such a system, Paul told himself.

Next stop, a Royal Command Performance in London for Anne, arranged by Hal Wallis. Geneviève gracefully met the Queen and Prince Philip while Paul flew to France to arrange French subtitles for his film and talk to Henri Michaud, head of world distribution for Universal Pictures.

Next event: the Academy Awards at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion on April 7. Anne of a Thousand Days had the most nominations, including Geneviève as Best Actress, with their main competitor, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Geneviève wore a dress designed by Anne Pritchard. They sat with Richard, Elizabeth, Hal, Lew, and other executives. But Richard and Geneviève were both passed over, as was their film. Best Picture was won by Midnight Cowboy, the first X-rated picture ever to win.

Paul felt sorry for Geneviève but they had both expected that. Afterwards at the awards dinner, they mingled with celebrities on the dance floor. Paul was especially impressed by dancing beside Raquel Welch, whose poster from One Million Years BC was unforgettable.

The matter of the Cannes Film Festival was broached. Paul had heard that Favre le Bret, the founder and long time director, had talked and laughed all through Isabel, so Paul was not keen to repeat that.

American films were dubbed after, and not before, their North American opening, and arrived in Quebec months after the English version. Paul wanted to change all that and open his film in both languages on the same day. Breaking such an entrenched routine took some doing, but in the end he won. Other studios followed, and from then on, Quebec audiences no longer suffered as second class, and watched their own versions as soon as English ones opened.

When the film premiered in Montreal, Mayor Drapeau, a fan of Geneviève, arranged his motorcycle escort, trained during Expo67 to whisk presidents, prime ministers and their delegations across the city. The English version opened at seven o’clock at the Place du Canada. Afterwards, the couple got into a limousine with the mayor and watched as their motorcycle escort raced ahead, stopped traffic at each intersection to allow the motorcade to sail through, then the rear motorcycles raced past to do the same again at the next intersection, until they reached the Rialto Cinema on Park Avenue, where Paul and Geneviève presented the premiere in French.

The couple received extraordinary reactions: the covers of Macleans, and of Weekend Magazine with a title that read: “Paul & Geneviève — our Dick and Liz?” Inside Macleans, John Hofsess wrote a glowing review: “Alford’s Act of the Heart — a Canadian film that ranks with the work of Bergman and Fellini.”

In New York, the couple was fêted once again and the film made several “ten best” lists of US critics.

Paul decided to show a pile of reviews to Geneviève.

“Paul, you know I don’t read reviews, I hate them.”

“We got forty-five from all across America, almost all good.”

Geneviève nodded. “But what did Toronto say?”

Paul chuckled. “They killed us, of course. What did you expect?” Geneviève giggled, along with him.

Next came the Canadian Film Awards, October 3rd at Toronto’s Imperial Theatre. Although Geneviève won Best Actress, Don Shebib’s actors, Paul Bradley and Doug McGrath, won Best Actors. Paul was expecting to be passed over once again, but this time he did win Best Director. Would the film go on to win Best Film? No, sir. Don Shebib’s Goin’ Down the Road, took that.