“Champagne offers a minimum of alcohol and a maximum of companionship.”
Best known for light, wry roles—The Pink Panther (1963), Murder By Death (1976)—and a courtly, sophisticated persona. Born into a family of British soldiers, David Niven served with the Highland Light Infantry in Malta and Dover before resigning out of boredom. He came to Hollywood in the early 1930s, spent the decade playing bit parts, and subsequently returned to the British army in 1939 and served for the duration of World War II. For a short period, he and pal Errol Flynn shared a house in Malibu dubbed Cirrhosis-by-the-Sea. His American career took off with the lead in Around the World in 80 Days (1956), which he followed in 1958 with an Oscar-winning performance in Separate Tables. Niven would also go on to host the Academy Awards on three occasions. He appeared in more than thirty films over the next twenty-five years, in addition to completing two best-selling memoirs and two novels.
EVER THE SOLDIER, DAVID NIVEN was simply following orders. In 1938, when John Ford took him aside on his twenty-eighth birthday and told him he should celebrate by getting drunk, Niven felt he had no choice. After all, Ford was a director known to be intimidating, if not at times downright mean.
They were in the middle of shooting Four Men and a Prayer, a mystery in which Niven had a small part playing the son of a colonel in the British Indian Army, and he wasn’t scheduled for much the next day. Nothing a hangover would interfere with, at least. So Niven went out with Errol Flynn, his former housemate, on a pub crawl of epic proportions.
But when morning rolled around, as mornings tend to do, there seemed to be a problem—a big one. Ford didn’t have any memory of the conversation whatsoever. And how dare this limey—that’s the term Ford used—show up for work still drunk from the night before! In fact, so furious was Ford that he sent for producer Darryl Zanuck—let the boss deal with this. It seemed clear to Niven that if he didn’t sober up quick, he might be out of a job.
In truth, a similar situation had occurred on an earlier Ford production, The Informer. Its star, Victor McLaglen, had been particularly anxious about a climactic scene in which he had to defend himself to his best friend’s IRA pals. The night before the scene was scheduled, Ford had taken McLaglen aside and told him it was postponed. Why not go out that night and relax? It would do him some good. In fact, there was a party some of Ford’s friends were planning to attend and McLaglen should tag along.
Much like Niven, McLaglen had taken Ford at his word. The next morning—early—McLaglen received a call at his hotel telling him that the scene was back on the schedule and he needed to report to set immediately. McLaglen was in no shape for it, but he somehow fought his way through. He won an Academy Award for the performance the following year. In that case, Ford—who knew all along the scene was still scheduled—was trying to bring out the best in an actor overwhelmed with anxiety.
In Niven’s case, however, Ford was just bored. He was under contract to Twentieth Century–Fox and not especially enthusiastic about Four Men and a Prayer. It was one of those experiences he referred to as a “job of work.” He had to get his kicks when he could. There wasn’t any anxiety he wanted to help Niven work through—he just felt like a cheap laugh at the kid’s expense.
The scene Niven had to film that morning was simple: all he had to do was bandage the arm of costar George Sanders, whose character had just been shot. But when Zanuck arrived and demanded to see a take, well, that made it a challenge. What’s more, Ford was upping the ante: he suddenly wanted Niven in a white coat, with a first-aid kit added as a prop. On cue, Niven was now supposed to reach into his coat pocket for a stethoscope while also opening the first-aid kit. He was either to do this—or else.
At “action,” Niven grabbed the stethoscope by its tubing and pulled it out of his pocket. Only it wasn’t tubing he grabbed—it was the body of a snake. Niven immediately dropped it, trying his best to remain focused. But then he opened the first-aid kit, which was filled with tiny green turtles. It was too much. Niven shrieked, flinging the kit into the air. Behind the camera, Ford yelled, “Print it!” The Niven gag reel was a staple of Ford parties for years to come.
EVEN IN A CITY with no shortage of celebrity-friendly hotels (Beverly Hills Hotel, Chateau Marmont), the ultra-exclusive Hotel Bel-Air exists in a category all its own. A secluded hideaway in the hills just north of UCLA, this twelve-acre, 103-room resort has been the choice lodging of the world’s most famous figures for more than sixty years. Not just movie stars: cultural icons as well. Howard Hughes stayed there; so has Oprah Winfrey. Grace Kelly stayed the night she won the Oscar for Country Girl and was such a regular, they named a suite after her. So discreet is the staff, that at one point, the three surviving Beatles (McCartney, Harrison, and Starr) all stayed at the hotel unaware that their former bandmates were there, too. Cary Grant, Lauren Bacall, Jimmy Stewart, and Marilyn Monroe have all been among the hotel’s honored guests.
Founded by Texas entrepreneur Joseph Drown in 1946, the Bel-Air was built on the far end of the personal estate of oil magnate Alphonzo Bell, who in 1921 purchased more than 1,700 acres of land in west Los Angeles, 600 of which he intended to develop as a new neighborhood catering to the film-industry elite. (Not that he’d sell to just anyone: When William Randolph Hearst went house-shopping for his mistress, Marion Davies, Bell—a devoutly religious man and also a business rival of Hearst—refused to accommodate the man.)
Construction began with the conversion of what had been Bell’s sales office. A stable the family owned, once used to store horses that appeared in cowboy movies, became one of the more popular guest suites. What had been a riding ring was turned into a pool. When Bell’s son Alphonzo, Jr., met Marlene Dietrich at a Palm Springs party years later, he had to fight back the urge to let her know her favorite room had once been a manure depository. (That’s Hollywood for you—turning horseshit into gold.)
One particular story, involving Elizabeth Taylor and Michael Jackson, pretty effectively sums up the Hotel Bel-Air experience. It seems one night in 1990, Taylor and Jackson were scheduled to meet for dinner at the hotel’s restaurant. Taylor arrived on time, but Jackson kept her waiting for an hour. She waited patiently for a while, eating caviar and drinking champagne, but by the time Jackson finally arrived, she was livid. Her anger only intensified when she found out the reason for his tardiness: He’d been sitting in the parking lot the whole time, on the phone in his Rolls Royce, talking to Jackie Onassis. “I will not play second fiddle to any woman,” she barked, “not even that woman.” Jackson, as a peace offering, reached into his coat and took out a pair of turquoise earrings—they were loose in his pocket—embedded with diamonds. Taylor snagged the earrings, gathered her belongings, and stormed out without saying another word.
Presently owned by Hassanal Bolkiah, the Sultan of Brunei, after a two-year renovation (at an unconfirmed cost of $100 million), the hotel reopened in 2011 to much acclaim. Actor Robert Wagner perhaps put it best, “They just take care of people—the very best way they can be taken care of.”
