On-set Tales
I’VE BEEN FORTUNATE TO WORK WITH SOME WONDERFUL actors – and I’ve also heard some wonderful stories about some actors I’ve not worked with!
Although I had a smattering of colloquial Italian, I never really understood the call sheets on my 1962 epic The Rape of the Sabines. The film was also known as Romulus and the Sabines, and I had the pleasure of playing the role of our hero, Romulus. Though based at studios in Rome, we went off on various random locations too, and I got into the routine of just turning up at the studio and being ready to go wherever we were needed. One day we headed north, at least I think it was north because you could never really hear anything the driver was saying because of incessant chatter coming from the crew on board the bus.
At the first location stop I had a scene with the lovely Italian actress Scilla Gabel, before we then moved up high into a mountain range, where I remember there was a beautiful limpid blue pool, fed by a little stream, which in turn flowed down from the top of the mountain. It was very picturesque, and easy to see why the location manager had suggested it.
All the extras – women who had been kidnapped by the Romans, under my character’s command – began bathing quite merrily and swimming around the pool. One in particular, a former Miss Austria, created quite a bit of interest among the crew in her wet top – they gazed at her with what can best be described as primitive lust and longing. A couple of minutes later the assistant director shouted, ‘OK! Now we’ll shoot the South American version.’
The Rape of the Sabines was memorable, but perhaps for all the wrong reasons … Romulus is seen here with screen parents Rosanna Schiaffino as Venus and Jean Marais as Mars.
I didn’t remember ever reading anything about filming other versions of scenes in my contract, so asked what was happening.
‘Don’t worry,’ I was told. ‘You’re not in it. Just go and take a seat.’
So, that’s what I did.
Suddenly all the ladies started taking off their tops – thus creating even greater interest among the crew, so much so that some of them actually stopped chatting. But what we didn’t know was that, high up in the mountain, there was some sort of reservoir, from which, when a switch was thrown, a mini, ice-cold, Niagara rushed down into our limpid pool, making it a raging torrent. The women started screaming and the gallant crew gathered by the pool side, to help pull them out – with the exception of Miss Austria, whose bust was acting as a rather splendid buoyancy aid, carrying her fast across to the far side of the pool.
With them all being good Catholics, I can’t quite imagine which South American country would have ordered the slightly more risqué version of our film but I do know that it wasn’t only this production that had ‘alternative’ scenes filmed. My (later) producing partner Bob Baker made a number of movies in the UK long before he brought The Saint to TV screens. One of them, Jack the Ripper, was shot at Shepperton Studios on a ‘closed set’ – and with good reason. The scene involved a theatre’s backstage dressing room, and all the young actresses were in there busy putting on their make-up, dressed only in petticoats and bras, while preparing for curtain up. That was considered lurid enough for the UK censors of the 1950s, but when the scene was in the bag the assistant director, matter-of-factly, called, ‘OK, cut! Clothes off for the continental version now!’
Angie Dickinson was wonderful to work with on The Sins of Rachel Cade. The film was set in the sweat and heat of the Belgian Congo … but filmed entirely on the sweaty Warner back lot, with footage from The Nun’s Story for the location scenes.
Their petticoats and bras were swiftly dispensed with and the same scene was shot again – only with more in it, if you follow me.
One of these such scenes was filmed on a Friday afternoon very near to the 4 p.m. wrap time, but all the electricians and stage hands willingly offered to stay on to help oversee the ‘continental’ version being filmed – and no overtime was requested!
One of the more pleasurable bonuses of being an actor is to not only meet but to work with other actors whom you have admired in the past, and Ray Milland was one of those. Ray was born Reginald Alfred John Truscott-Jones, but took his stage name from a riverside street called Milland Road in Neath, South Wales, where he once lived.
I worked with Ray on Gold in 1974 and he, rather like Niven, was a great teller of amusing tales, one being of when he was working on a film on location in Africa and a male member of the cast turned up two weeks ahead of schedule. The director asked said actor why he had come so early and he told a story of being at a dinner party in Beverly Hills a couple of nights earlier, and seated next to a rather attractive young lady from the East Coast who was complaining of jetlag, having arrived from New York the day before. The actor suggested that he had some sleeping suppositories that worked wonders for him, and that he would be happy to let her have a couple. As she was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel he said he’d happily give her a lift back, and stop off at his place on the way to pick up the pills.
Upon arriving home, he thought it would be only polite to ask her in for a drink, and as the night was still young she obviously thought it was a good idea as well and a few minutes later they were drinking Jack Daniels in his living room. He popped into his bedroom for the suppositories.
‘They will take about half an hour to take effect,’ he explained.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Maybe you would put one of them in for me now, and then be so kind as to drop me at the hotel?’
The lights in his living room were rather low, so he asked her to bend over close to a lamp, enabling him to see what he was doing. She raised her skirt and bent down and as she lowered her underwear he took up a position behind. Just as he was about to put the suppository in the required position, the door opened and in walked his wife. She was supposed to be in Palm Springs. With there being no believable explanation about him performing an act of kindness to a jetlagged lady, he decided to leave for the location early. Very early.
‘Who was the actor?’ I asked Ray.
‘Can’t you guess?’ he smiled.
With Ray Milland in Gold in 1974. This one was filmed in South Africa, but only after a technician’s dispute was averted. We almost had to film it in Wales!
I performed an act of kindness for Ray myself – though not with a suppository, I hasten to add. Ray was suffering with a prostate problem during our filming together and found it very difficult to urinate. He suffered particularly great pain during a late-night shoot and I sympathized greatly because over the years I had suffered terribly with renal colic which, for the uninitiated, is way up at the top of the hit parade for being the most painful experience a man can undergo – they do say that having a child can ‘maybe’ be as painful. As a precaution against having an attack while away filming, my urologist had prescribed powerful painkillers for me to carry and I duly offered one to Ray. I’m sure that medics would recoil in horror at the thought of one hypochondriac actor giving prescription drugs to another, but needs must at times, and he found almost immediate relief and was able to finish the night’s filming.
Towards the end of his career Ray took on a number of, well, less-than-brilliant roles. When asked in an interview why he had appeared in so many bad films, he smiled and said, ‘For the money, old chap, for the money!’
In 1976 I made another foray into Italian cinema, signing up for a film called The Street People ... no, The Executioners ... no, Opium Road ... ah yes, The Sicilian Cross. It kept changing title but on paper it sounded quite promising, with a script by, among others, Ernest Tidyman, who’d written The French Connection. At that time I had a holiday home in Italy, and an Italian wife, so the idea of working there (and in San Francisco too) was rather appealing.
It was essentially the tale of how a Mafia boss is wrongly suspected of smuggling a heroin shipment into San Francisco from Sicily, inside a cross donated to a church there, and so dispatches his nephew, a hotshot lawyer (that’s me, being typecast again!), to identify the real culprit. Along the way, I enlist the aid of my best friend, grand prix driver Stacy Keach, who has a penchant for destroying anything in his way. Well, that’s the essence of the story, but the rest of it – and the finished film – I don’t really understand … and neither did cinema audiences to be honest.
In an attempt to explain away my casting, lines such as: ‘The smartest thing I ever did was to get you out of Sicily and into that English law school,’ and ‘Being half-English, half-Sicilian was a good deal for both of us’, were written in.
Stacy was a delight to work with, and huge fun, but apart from he and me, all the cast and crew were from Italy and they all spoke in very loud Italian, leading to great confusion about our cues. It was all dubbed (badly) afterwards into English and I do wonder if it might have made more sense to American audiences if it had been left in Italian, or perhaps Double Dutch?
Our first day of shooting in San Francisco, down by the docks, was memorable in so much as we had terrible trouble closing off roads, and in fact any traffic control at all proved impossible. The director, Maurizio Lucidi, who was very, very Italian, made a call to the San Francisco Police Chief, who just so happened to be of Italian descent. The next morning we had police outriders escorting us to the location, with roads closed off all around and traffic officers all calling out, ‘Ciao! Buon giorno, Roger!’ as we drove by. We enjoyed a very smooth shoot in the city after that.
Stacy Keach and I were a little bewildered by the fast-talking Italians involved in the making of The Sicilian Cross. I don’t think either of us (or indeed the audience) really understood the plot!
While shooting in Rome I met up with Liza Minnelli, who was in town making a film with Ingrid Bergman called A Matter of Time, which her father, Vincente Minnelli, was directing. Liza had recently been in Mexico filming Lucky Lady with Gene Hackman and Burt Reynolds, and it appeared a few retakes had now been called for. Rather than wait for Liza to return to the US after completing her current project, the studio flew Gene, Burt and the director over to Rome for a few days. We all met for dinner one evening in a restaurant on the Via Veneto, and I’ll never forget seeing the lone figure of Burt Lancaster sitting at the far end of the long dinner table that we’d been shown to. He didn’t speak to, nor acknowledge, anyone.
Towards the end of dinner, the ‘curse of Rome’ (otherwise known as the paparazzi) bundled their way through the door and started snapping. I’m not sure why, but all the actors immediately – almost instinctively – moved away from each other; not that there was anything going on, it just seemed to be a natural reflex to not be photographed with anyone else, thereby denying them a story.
At this point, Burt Lancaster now stirred into life. He placed his knuckles on the table and slowly raised himself to his full height. He slapped his left hand across his right forearm while pushing his clenched fist forward and upwards – the gesture is quite unmistakable in Italy. The paps did not need a second warning – they left, quickly, and we gazed with great envy at Burt.
Talking of Burt Lancaster, he did have a formidable reputation around the studios – apart from being a fine actor, he had one of the worst tempers in Hollywood. He had a well-known hatred of the press, and was invariably brusque and rude to them, once even resorting to physically throwing a hapless pap out of his hotel suite. But then he was well known for being ‘physical’ on set, too.
In front of the cameras Burt was a force to be reckoned with and, though prized as an actor, he was often to be found in the middle of a major row or the cause of some disruption. When filming one of his most famous films, The Birdman of Alcatraz, he and director John Frankenheimer were almost constantly at loggerheads. Burt was always known as an actor who immersed himself in his roles and he reputedly became obsessed with the character of Robert Stroud, the real Birdman, researching his life and reading everything that was available on him. Apart from having the starring role, Burt was also co-producer on the film through his production company Hecht-Hill-Lancaster.
When shooting began, John Frankenheimer found Burt almost impossible to deal with – being the star and the money-man made the director’s job even trickier – and they argued about camera set-ups, dialogue, the lot. At one point, in an argument over where the camera should be placed for one particular scene, Burt physically picked Frankenheimer up and carried him across the set, depositing him where he thought the camera should go. Despite that treatment, Frankenheimer always admired the actor and they worked together again.
Michael Winner told me a great story about when he worked with the tempestuous Burt on a Western called Lawman. This was the early 1970s, at a time when Burt was at the height of his fame. In fact, such was his fame that Michael referred to his star as ‘Mr Lancaster’ throughout the whole shoot. But fame had not ‘tempered’ Burt’s temper: one time they were filming a scene where Burt had to shoot his horse, drawing his Colt .45 to do the deed. In a later shot for the same sequence Burt used a rifle.
‘Cut!’ came the shout from the director’s chair. ‘Sorry, Mr Lancaster, but earlier you shot the horse with a Colt .45.’
Well, according to Michael, Burt went crazy, storming over to the director and shouting, ‘What the hell do you know? I shot it with a Winchester! Why the hell would I use a Colt?!’ With which he picked dear Michael up, carried him over to a nearby cliff and hung him over the edge, saying, ‘So, now what did I shoot the fucking horse with?’
And Michael had to agree, ‘You shot the horse with a Winchester, Mr Lancaster. Of course you did.’
Back on the set of The Sicilian Cross, another memorable day (for all the wrong reasons) came when we moved to the south of Naples to shoot a sequence in a fish market. As I walked through the market, one of the fish vendors called out in Italian ‘I have a fish for you’, which was all part of the characters’ secret codes. We first shot from behind the fish seller, over his shoulder on to me, with the crowd moving by behind. The cameraman, who seemed to be getting very agitated, kept cutting and asking us to go again, until, on the fourth take, he leapt up, scrambled over the ice and lunged at an old man behind me, hitting out at him and seemingly trying to beat him up.
‘Whoah, whoah!’ I cried. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Every time we turn the camera over, that old man comes into frame and starts jumping up and down, pulling faces behind you!’ shouted the cameraman, as they started scuffling again. I couldn’t stand it any more and asked that we move on to another shot. It was chaos, sheer chaos.
In The Wild Geese I played Lieutenant Shawn Fynn and, along with my fellow officers, portrayed by Richard Burton, Richard Harris and Hardy Kruger, I had my own platoon to command and consequently the schedule offered me a few days off here and there, while the others were filming with their respective platoons. In my group was an actor called Percy Herbert who’d worked on a couple of episodes of The Saint and so I’d got to know him fairly well. One day, on our mutual day off, he came over and gave me some pages to read, saying it was his life story. It was absolutely fascinating.
During the Second World War, after just a few weeks’ training, Percy was put on a ship and was told he was going to North Africa. However, midway, the orders were changed and the ship made its way to Singapore instead. No sooner had they arrived in the harbour than the Japanese air force struck from the air and their ship was sunk.
Meanwhile, the Japanese army advanced in over land, and as British guns were pointed out to sea, the rear action meant the Japanese very quickly won and occupied Singapore. Though wounded, Percy reached the shore with his pal and they were put into a British hospital where, after a few days, they heard gunfire, followed by screaming. Suddenly the doors to their twelve-bed ward were kicked open and two Japanese privates, machine guns at the ready, entered. Before they could open fire, a Japanese officer entered and with his cane knocked the soldiers’ arms – and guns – down.
All the hospital patients were taken prisoner and Percy eventually ended up in Changi Prison as a prisoner of war. He, along with many other men from the jail, was then taken to work on the railroad that became the basis for the film The Bridge on the River Kwai.
In prison, Percy and his friend found that they were able to infiltrate the food stores in their camp and in their desperate need for sugar they took some, some of which they buried. When the theft was noticed, both Percy and his friend found themselves prisoners of the British who, for disciplinary purposes, ran a prison within the Japanese prison. For most of the time Percy found himself in British solitary confinement. There they were screamed at, shouted at and everything was ‘on the double’, so poor Percy’s feet never touched the ground. He had a terrible time and, ironically, all at the hands of the British.
It was back to South Africa, and the (then) Rhodesian border, for The Wild Geese – along with Richard Harris, Richard Burton and Hardy Kruger. And were we wild? No, of course not.
Throughout his internment Percy never received any mail from home and when the Australians finally liberated the camp he was handed a bundle of Red Cross envelopes. They were all from his fiancée, so before opening any he carefully put them in order of posted date. The first started, ‘My Darling Percy’, the second, ‘My Dear Percy’, but the third simply said, ‘Dear Percy’ and went on to say she had found a new love ...
On the troop ship home to the UK, Percy and his mate were so terrified of waking up in the night believing they were still prisoners of war and jumping over the side, that they struck a deal whereby each night one would tie the other into his bunk. Such was the horrific toll of their imprisonment.
However, eventually they arrived at Liverpool docks and were given a pass to travel to London. Percy went straight to his mother’s house and, after all these terrible years as a prisoner of war, walked down the basement steps, knocked on the door. His mother peered out.
‘Blige me, Perce!’ she said, adding, with typical British restraint, ‘I’ll put the kettle on!’
After a few days readjusting at home, Percy wanted to visit his old girlfriend’s brothers, with whom he’d been great friends, and between them they arranged a meeting at Wood Green Underground Station. As Percy stood at the top of the escalator waiting, into his frame of vision came a female sergeant in the Auxilliary Territorial Service (ATS, the women’s branch of the British Army in the Second World War) – his ex-fiancée. She told him that she had realized she’d made a huge mistake and that she had asked her brothers to set up this meeting between her and Percy. Happily, it wasn’t long after that that they married. They went on to take up amateur dramatics together as a hobby and Percy later turned professional, which is how he came into my life.
When director David Lean was casting for his film The Bridge on the River Kwai, Percy was taken up to meet him at Film House in Wardour Street. Lean looked him up and down, and grunted, ‘not the type’ before waving him out.
Percy, who had, not surprisingly, developed a nasty tic that came out when he was anxious or upset, a hangover from his mistreatment during the war, dived straight across the desk at Lean, face twitching like mad, ‘Not the fucking type? What do you mean “not the fucking type”? I was fucking there!’
‘OK! OK! You’re in the film!’ said Lean.
When they arrived on location, David Lean got to hear Percy’s whole story and asked him how the prisoners might have shown contempt to their captors. ‘How would you do it so as you knew but the Japanese didn’t?’ asked Lean.
Percy said they’d whistle, and demonstrated with the tune ‘Colonel Bogey’, and that’s how it came to be used in the film.
Just as Percy was an advisor on that film, we had our own advisor on Wild Geese. Colonel Mike Hoare – a well-known mercenary, also known as Mad Mike – used to give us pep talks, similar to those he gave to his men before a mission. He’d led mercenary groups in the Congo and was a formidable man to whom, it was said, Richard Burton’s character of Faulkner paid more than an accidental resemblance. He and some of the ex-mercenary actors in the cast used to terrify me: one in particular would be talking to you and then, all of a sudden, you’d feel his bayonet at your throat and he’d say, ‘That’s how it’s done, my son.’
In the film, Jack Watson played RSM Sandy Young. Jack was the son of music hall comedian Nosmo King, who took his name from sitting in a railway carriage – a ‘no smoking’ carriage. Over the years I made a few films with Jack, and he was a fine physical specimen of a man but took himself rather seriously, despite appearing in variety shows with his father and working on many comedy films in his early career.
Jack was always extremely nice, but could be very pompous at times. After tennis one Sunday, my make-up artist Paul Engelen, my hairdresser Mike Jones and I were sitting around the swimming pool relaxing and Jack stood on tiptoes at the edge of the pool, stretched his arms out and said, ‘There’s nothing like having your own pool, is there, Roger?’ which rather annoyed the boys in the crew, to say the least.
He then did a perfect pike into the pool but his body stopped three feet into the water as he’d dived into the shallow end! His legs remained rigid, sticking out like the Eiffel Tower and not one person went over to see if he was OK, we just sat there laughing.
I’m ashamed to say that Jack’s serious take on life was like a red rag to a bull with me. One morning on The Sea Wolves I had a word with our make-up artist Paul Engelen and when Jack slipped into the chair Paul proceeded to paint his face black.
‘What’s this for?’ asked Jack.
‘Oh, the director wants everyone made up for the night shooting and wants to run a camera test to see how everyone looks,’ replied Paul.
Jack nodded knowingly, and sat bolt upright awaiting his transformation. An hour later, he reported on set, every bit the image of Al Jolson but minus the white lips. Andy McLaglen (our director) walked across with a look of total bemusement on his face.
‘What the fuck are you looking like that for, Jack?’ he asked.
I made good my exit, telling myself I really ought not to instigate these practical jokes.
Back on set with The Wild Geese, Richard Burton had some shoulder problems at the time and the script called for a long shot of his platoon in the bush, with Burton’s character carrying President Limbani (played by Winston Ntshona). Derek Cracknell, our wonderful First Assistant Director, said to Burton that they could use his double for this particular shot. Jack Watson, who was also in the sequence, overheard and, realizing his principal was being doubled, wanted to know where his stand-in was.
Derek, sensing that there could be trouble brewing with Jack’s somewhat misplaced feeling of self-importance, said, ‘Jack, look at you and then look at all these herberts here. You’re the perfect physical specimen, aren’t you?’
Jack was forced to nod in agreement.
‘Well, then. Which one of these herberts could possibly double you?’
Jack did the scene himself.
Being a cowardly actor, having to play heroes means I’m in no small way indebted to the stunt boys. Nosher Powell was the senior member of the Powell dynasty of stuntmen and in between film stunt work, he used to look after security at the Jack of Clubs, a club underneath the famous Isow’s Restaurant on Brewer Street in Soho, which was run by Jack Isow’s son.
One night Nosher said to him, ‘This group that just came in, I think they’re going to be trouble and we should get them out.’
‘No, they’ll be fine,’ he assured Nosh.
Three or four hours later, a £500 bar tab had been run up and the group started to get up to leave. Remember, this was a few years ago and £500 was worth a lot more then. Nosher stood at the top of the stairs, ‘Look, boys, you owe a heck of a lot of money and you’re not leaving until you pay.’
‘Oh yeah?’ they said. ‘Who’s going to stop us, you and whose fucking army?’
‘Just me and my dog.’
With that, Nosh pulled round his huge German shepherd dog, which was snarling and salivating at the end of a leash.
‘Oh, and what’s your dog gonna do, Nosh?’
‘Well, when I say “attack”, he attacks,’ replied Nosher.
‘Well, let’s see then,’ they goaded.
‘Attack!’ Nosher commanded. With that, there was a terrible sound of snarling and the crunch of bones, and blood squirted everywhere as dog tore trousers, ripping into the flesh beneath ... and poor old Nosh was flat on his back trying to push the damn thing off!
The gang, in hysterics, threw the £500 on top of Nosher, thanking him for the best laugh they’d had in years.
Speaking of stuntmen, one rather famous one whom I won’t name ... let’s call him Roy ... was late reporting on set at Elstree Studios one day for a sequence in an episode of The Saint. It turned out that he was on an adjacent stage, upstairs in a dressing room. In fact he was in the wardrobe peeping out as one of his fellow stuntmen gave the horizontal performance of his life with a young aspiring starlet. All the time this was going on, our Assistant Director was calling out, ‘Roy! You’re wanted on set! Roy!’
After reaching the inevitable conclusion, our intrepid hero waited a few moments before he made good his exit from the wardrobe and dashed down the stairs, five at a time, towards the stage where the call of ‘Roy! Roy! We’re waiting!’ was becoming more and more audible around the entire studio. However, he missed his footing on the last stair, sprained his ankle and was unable to work for days. Voyeurism is not without its penalties!
I used to love spending time with the stunt boys, over dinner or a game of cards between set-ups. I always enjoyed hearing all their stories. One in particular that tickled me was of a card game organized when filming El Cid. Apparently one of the local boys had a terrible habit of slamming his hand of cards down with great force whenever he had a win. It rather annoyed the other boys, so the next day they decided to rig the table with charges and, when a winning hand was slammed down, the whole table went up in smoke.
There was another occasion I witnessed when I was on set with one of the elder statesmen of stuntmen. During breaks, he used to enjoy sitting in a chair and puffing on his old pipe and on this particular day he nodded off mid-puff. His kind and caring colleagues gently removed the pipe from his mouth, filled it with gunpowder and carefully placed it back. When he awoke from his slumber, he relit his pipe and there was the most almighty bang. Our friend’s only reaction was to blow the cloud of smoke away, revealing his blackened face, and say, ‘That tobacco’s a bit fucking strong!’
My wonderful long-time stunt double and co-ordinator Martin Grace was quite probably the bravest man I ever knew. We’d worked together on about a dozen films and his easy-going Irish charm made him a firm favourite with everyone on the crew, though curiously nobody really ever got to know much about Martin himself. That’s the way he liked it, I guess.
In October 2008 we met up at Pinewood for a reunion dinner centred around The Spy Who Loved Me and picked up the conversation just as though the intervening fifteen years hadn’t occurred. There in the magnificent Pinewood Ballroom we met up with so many other Bond alumni, including director John Glen, writer Christopher Wood, stars Richard Kiel, Caroline Munro, Valerie Leon, Shane Rimmer and a host of wonderful friends from behind the camera. As I bade goodnight to Martin, I never for one moment thought it would be the last time I saw my super-fit friend.
Two years later, at his home in Spain, Martin was involved in a cycling accident that, on the face of it, seemed rather trivial compared to some of the great stunts he’d dared in my name, and indeed breaking almost every bone in his body on a train stunt in Octopussy, but there were (unknown) complicating factors and aged just sixty-seven Martin died in hospital.
My fearless stunt double and dear friend Martin Grace stood in for me in many of my outings as Jimmy Bond.
I subsequently discovered – as did many of Martin’s mates – that he had a daughter from a short-lived marriage. I know she was incredibly proud of her father too. In death Martin was, as in life, an enigma but one to whom I owe such a great debt – as he made this coward look like a hero.
When tragic fatalities have happened while filming movies, canny producers have sometimes turned a disadvantage into quite the opposite in terms of publicity. For example, when Oliver Reed was filming Gladiator in Malta and, true to character, enjoying a few drinks in a local pub on his day off, he reportedly consumed liberal amounts of beer, suffered a massive heart attack and died. With most of his scenes in the can, the producers used a CGI mask on a double to complete the outstanding sequences and billed it as Reed’s last film – and it was actually one of his best performances. A similar thing happened on The Misfits when Clark Gable died before shooting had ended, and though CGI wasn’t around then, a body double was used.
Other actors who died mid-shoot and were doubled include John Candy, Bruce Lee, Heath Ledger and Donald Pleasence. A sense of morbid curiosity may have helped to fill seats, but ultimately I don’t think any of their final films fared tremendously well – you just can’t fake a star’s power (or even double it) and that was certainly the case when, aged just forty-four, Tyrone Power dropped dead on the set of Solomon and Sheba in Madrid.
Tyrone’s wife, Deborah, had asked the director King Vidor to ease the schedule but after a prolonged sword-fight scene with George Sanders, wearing heavy robes and working with real Roman swords that weighed fifteen pounds, on an elevated staircase landing, Sanders wasn’t pleased with some of the shots and asked that the scene be shot over. Finally, after the eighth take, Tyrone said he could stand no more and threw down his sword.
‘If you can’t find anything there you can use, just use the close-ups of me,’ he said angrily. ‘I’ve had it!’
A short time later, after complaining of being tired and feeling pain in his arm, Tyrone was rushed to hospital, where he died within the hour. Tyrone Power had filmed seventy-five per cent of his scenes and, in order that the film could be completed, was replaced by Yul Brynner – who had to wear a wig.
Perhaps the most exploitative of all stories, and one which did curiously benefit the project, was when director Ed Wood filmed just a couple of minutes of silent footage of Bela Lugosi wearing a cape for a planned vampire project that never came to fruition. After Lugosi died, Wood decided to use the footage in Plan 9 From Outer Space and edited it into his movie multiple times. A body double, Tom Mason – who looked absolutely nothing like Lugosi – was brought in to finish the film. Totally nonsensical, the film is regarded as one of the worst films ever made, though ironically it’s now a cult classic.
Good guy or rascal? You decide. Robert ‘Bobbie’ Newton in one of his most famous roles as Long John Silver in Treasure Island.
