Life’s a Scream

It seemed to me that my future might well be in Spain, where apparently I could walk from role to role. To perfect my language skills I insisted that everybody spoke to me in Spanish. I listened only to Spanish radio and read Spanish newspapers, books and magazines. It put Maria’s nose out of joint a little as she wanted to practise her English, but I was the breadwinner paying her wages so I put my foot down and before long I was chirruping away like a native.

With the help of Maximo and Maria I undertook the translation of Mother Courage. I didn’t hold out much hope that Lola Gaos would be able to persuade the Teatro Nacional to put it on and was decidedly gobsmacked when I was asked to pay the resident director a visit. In Franco’s Spain the egalitarian message of the play could have spelled real trouble, so he was taking a bit of a chance. I hoped I might be given a speaking part but news of my near performance as the mute Kattrin in the Ensemble must have leaked through and they wanted me to reprise the role. Or it could have been that my Spanish wasn’t as good as I thought and a silent part suited me best. Whatever, in the end I was happy to be appearing in Spain’s National Theatre.

My work in the theatre, though furnishing a regular income, could not support the three of us, so I started moonlighting. Dr Zhivago was being filmed nearby so I breezed into the production offices and offered my services. I was given several parts, which staved off poverty for the run of the play, but nothing that was going to lead to a glittering career. On set I met some incredible actors such as Rod Steiger, who was wonderful to me, Tom Courtney, who had one of the best parts in the film, and Omar Sharif, who thought he wasn’t good enough in his role, and worried that he didn’t look like a Russian doctor. Julie Christie was not allowed make-up and made up for it by eternally putting on more mascara. The most exciting part for me was watching David Lean at work. Since I didn’t have a single demanding line, I had ample time to observe the great director and I was repeatedly impressed by the calmness with which he handled the daily dramas. He treated everything and everyone with great restraint, never got riled or lost his cool. The greatest outburst of temper I witnessed was when he raised his voice just a little and said, ‘Please, gentlemen, can we just keep it down a little?’ I understand he lost his rag completely in an incident with Judy Davis on A Passage to India, but that’s another story.

I loved working on Zhivago for every day brought something new. The most memorable of my five roles was when as a gypsy I danced around the pot-belly stove on the train. The rest were the sort of parts where you sit in the cinema and say ‘That’s me’ but before you can get it out the image has long gone. It was paying the rent, though, and for that I was grateful.

Dr Zhivago wrapped in Madrid at the same time as Mother Courage’s run came to an end. I wasn’t really worried. To cover our rent I picked up jobs from the big film companies, parts which might have been called glorified ‘extras’ by the uncharitable but I didn’t see it that way. When the lack of cash was most severe, I worked as a stunt-rider in Almeria. Even though I hadn’t learned to ride I galloped like Zorro, pulled the reins to the left as I was told and was thrown to the ground, my head an inch from a rock. A couple of times I worked with Charles Bronson before he was a star. Charlie and I would sit under a solitary tree in the middle of nowhere and eat our sandwiches. He’d mumble that he’d never get anywhere in the movies with a face like his and I would tell him that with a face like his he’d become a star.

Although there was plenty of work, I began to realise that, in a world dominated by the English and by Hollywood, Spanish films would not get me far. I resolved to pay less attention to my Spanish contacts and to focus on the American studios. With this in mind, when I heard Orson Welles was making Chimes at Midnight in Spain, I was determined to be in it. I had long been an admirer of Welles. He seemed to typify everything that was great in the film world.

He invited me to dinner at the hotel where all the cast and Orson were staying. Mr Welles appeared with his coterie of yes-men and commandeered two tables not too far away from where I sat. I nudged my companion. Now was the time for the introduction. We could get up and casually pass Mr Welles’s table on the way out and he could say, ‘Ah, Orson, I’d like you to meet . . .’ I would do the rest. But my companion insisted the timing would be better after we’d eaten. I couldn’t think of food at a time like this so I focused on Mr Welles, giving him the full treatment: flashing eyes, a glimpse of leg, cleavage and any other part of my anatomy which might interest him and get me invited to his table. Welles talked, smoked and drank non-stop, and took no notice of me squirming around like an epileptic octopus with tentacles hooked up to the national grid. At last even I realised that I wasn’t getting anywhere. It was going to have to be the full frontal assault. I stood, shook everything into place and did a Rita Hayworth across the floor.

Mortified, I quickly considered my options. If I slunk away everybody in the restaurant would know it, especially the creep who had brought me. It would also bring on a hot flush for years to come. On the other hand if I stayed and Mr Welles persisted in rejecting me even the sous-chef would know about it. I thought of Matka. She always played for the positive and said sod the humiliation.

Welles stopped talking, looked ahead for a couple of seconds, then turned slowly towards me. He looked me up and down with an expression that told me he wasn’t very impressed. ‘If you are a professional actress you should know that there are certain channels. I do not give auditions when I am having dinner. I suggest you give your résumé to the casting director.’ He nodded dismissal and turned back to his companions. Smiling brightly, I acted as if he had been charming and gracious, and went back to my table.

The next morning I went to the casting office as soon as it opened. I told the secretary that Mr Welles had told me to see the casting director. The use of the hallowed name got me through the door, where I repeated my story. The director wasn’t as easy a pushover as the secretary. He excused himself and went out of the room, where he probably phoned Mr Welles because when he came back his attitude had changed. All the main roles were cast, he told me, but there was a walk-on as a hooker. The fabled Welles sense of humour I guessed. My immediate reaction was to tell him where to stick it but I double-guessed my mouth and kept it shut. After all, it was Orson Welles and it was an American production company. Marilyn Monroe had started with nothing more than a minor role and look at her, I told myself. I said I’d take it. He looked a little startled. After all the bullshit I had been giving him about my wonderful career, he’d expected me to flounce out. And I should have.

Orson might have been my idol, but I soon faced the fact that he had feet of clay. I couldn’t do anything right for him. My part, if it can be called that, was nothing, yet he was determined to humiliate me. He swilled back at least two bottles of brandy a day, was never seen without a massive cigar in his mouth and, not surprisingly, stank. He was also unbelievably crass. When, a glutton for punishment, I told him again that I had always admired his work and dreamed of working with him, he opened his flies and invited me to put my hand inside. The end came when the second assistant told me that Mr Welles wanted to see me in his hotel room. Full of reservations, I knocked on the door and he called, ‘Enter!’ I looked around but there was nobody in the room. Then the door to the bathroom opened and Welles came out in his underpants. Without so much as a salutation he grabbed me and manoeuvred us towards the bed. I fought back but Welles only laughed. Finding some strength in the fury that flooded my veins, I heaved at him and he tripped and fell on to the bed. As I rushed to the door, he shouted out that if it weren’t for bloody women men could still play happily in their caves . . . ! I didn’t hang around for my severance cheque.

When I told Lola about my escapade she screeched with laughter at the thought of skinny little me being suffocated under the whale-like form of Welles. After she calmed down she said she was surprised that I had taken it so badly. Hadn’t anyone ever tried the bedroom ploy on me before? I had to admit it was not the first time I had had a man face me in the altogether but what had hurt was that this was a man I had admired hugely and had never expected to be so coarse. The pomposity of that statement was enough to have Lola in stitches again.