IT HAD BEEN eight years since I first made the leap across the Atlantic from England to Broadway. At that time, I was nineteen, totally on my own, and desperately worried about leaving my dysfunctional family behind and the huge unknown that awaited me. I didn’t know where I would be living or how to balance a checkbook, let alone function in an overwhelming metropolis like New York City.
Now, here I was, with three shows—The Boy Friend, My Fair Lady, and Camelot—and several thousand performances on Broadway and in London behind me, beginning yet another journey into a new unknown: Hollywood.
This time, thankfully, I was not alone. My husband, Tony, was with me. We were embarking on this new adventure together, along with our baby daughter, Emma. We were green as grass, had no knowledge of the film industry, and could not possibly envision what lay ahead—but we were industrious, open-minded, and we had each other. We were also blessed to have the great Walt Disney to guide us.
WHEN WE ARRIVED in Los Angeles, our flight was met by an exuberant gentleman named Tom Jones (no relation to the singer). Tom was the head of publicity for the Walt Disney Studios, and he soon became a friend.
We rode in a limousine to a cottage that had been rented for us on Sarah Street in Toluca Lake—a two-level Tudor, with plenty of space and a pool in the back with a pretty surround. The place had been charmingly furnished in English style, most of it pulled from the Studios’ furniture and prop storage. Everything had been chosen with enormous care, and every thought given to the creature comforts of “the British family” coming to stay.
Tony and I spent a few days getting over jet lag and settling in. Emma was only three months old, and we had brought her nanny, Wendy, with us to help care for her during the five days a week that we would be working. On weekends, she could take time off and we would have Emma to ourselves. I was still breast-feeding my baby, and I hoped to do so for as long as possible. I had a fair way to go to get myself back into pre-pregnancy shape, so I was grateful that there would be a period of dance rehearsals before filming began.
A few days after our arrival, I went with Tony to the Walt Disney Studios, located in Burbank. Tony and I had visited there once before, and we were again struck by the sunny ease of the place; the shady trees and beautifully manicured lawns upon which people relaxed or played table tennis during their lunch hour. Neatly arranged bungalow offices, several large soundstages, construction sheds, and a main theater were dominated by a much larger three-story structure known as the Animation Building. Walt’s suite of offices was on the top floor, and below were airy workspaces where the artists and animators created their magic.
We had lunch with Walt and his coproducer/screenwriter Bill Walsh in the commissary, long recognized as the best in Hollywood for its great food and friendly atmosphere. Walt’s persona was that of a kindly uncle—twinkly-eyed, chivalrous, and genuinely proud of all he had created. His international empire encompassed film, television, and even a theme park, yet he was modest and gracious. Our new friend Tom Jones once said to me that you didn’t last very long at the company if you were mean-spirited or bad-tempered.
I was provided with a car and driver for the first two or three weeks, but eventually the Studios loaned me a vehicle of my own when it was assumed that I knew my way around. I was nervous about driving on the freeways and received guidelines: “Stick to the right lane, and get off at Buena Vista.” “Stay in the slowest lane; you don’t need to cross lanes at all.” “Go dead straight until you come to your exit,” etc. Being English, I’d never driven on a freeway, or on the right-hand side of the road, and it definitely took some getting used to.
My first weeks at the Walt Disney Studios were consumed with meetings, and wardrobe and wig fittings. I was struck by the differences between preparing for a film role and preparing for a stage performance. For a play or musical, the first few days are spent in script readings and laying out the staging of the scenes. Measurements are taken and you see costume sketches, but fittings generally don’t happen until well into the rehearsal process. A film, however, is usually shot out of sequence, and in very small increments. Blocking for any scene isn’t addressed until the day of the shoot. It felt odd to be fitting costume elements and wigs for a role I had yet to portray, but to some degree, seeing those costumes helped me begin to formulate Mary’s character.
Walt had purchased the rights to the book, but not to Mary Shepard’s illustrations, so Tony’s costumes had to be completely original, yet still evoke the spirit of the characters that P. L. Travers had created. The time period of the film had been changed from the 1930s to 1910, as Walt felt that late Edwardian England would provide richer visual opportunities, and Tony agreed.
I was awed by my husband’s attention to detail: his choice of materials, colors, and accessories, like Mary’s loosely hand-knitted scarf, or her iconic hat with the sprightly daisy on top. While supervising my fittings, Tony pointed out hidden touches like the primrose or coral linings of Mary’s jackets, or her brightly colored petticoats.
“I fancy that Mary has a secret inner life,” he explained, “and when you kick up your heels, you’ll catch a glimpse of who she is beneath her prim exterior.”
Tony also paid close attention to the wigs, making sure the color was right, and that Mary’s hair was softer and prettier for the scenes when she was out and about with Bert. This was all hugely insightful for me as I tried to wrap my head around Mary’s character. What was her background? How did she move, walk, talk? Never having made a film before, and having no specific acting training to fall back on, I was relying on instinct.
I decided to try giving Mary a particular walk. I felt that she would never stroll leisurely, so I practiced on the soundstage, walking as fast as I could, placing one foot immediately after the other to give the impression of hardly touching the ground—the end result being that the children would find it difficult to keep up with her. I also developed a kind of turned-out stance, like a balletic first position, to punctuate the impression of Mary’s character when flying. I recalled certain members of flying ballet troupes from my vaudeville days who had simply let their feet dangle, and I always thought it detracted from the effect. In fact, most of Mary Shepard’s original illustrations show Mary flying with somewhat droopy feet, although when she was on the ground, she was trimly turned out. I suddenly remembered that when I portrayed Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady on Broadway, I unconsciously toed-in, giving the flower girl a slightly pigeon-toed lack of grace in her clumsy boots, then I straightened my feet when she acquired confidence and poise as a “lady.” It made me smile to think I was doing the exact opposite for Mary Poppins.
In addition to all the costumes, Tony designed the set for Cherry Tree Lane, which featured the exteriors of the Banks’ house, Admiral Boom’s, and several other townhouses. There were realistic cobblestones, blossoming trees, functional drains to carry away the rain on the pavement, and of course the façades of all the homes. Streetlamps and windows glowed; brass doorknobs and letter boxes shone. Tony also designed all the interiors in the film. It was hard to believe this was his first film venture, and his work proved that Walt’s instinct about his talent had been absolutely correct.
DANCE REHEARSALS SOON began on the back lot at the Studios. The film was being choreographed by the talented young husband-and-wife team of Marc Breaux and Dee Dee Wood. Marc was tall and lithe, and devastatingly good-looking. Dee Dee was strong and spirited, with a great sense of humor. Though they had worked on Broadway, this was their first film, and I learned that Dick Van Dyke had recommended them to Walt, having worked with the couple on television.
A huge tarpaulin had been rigged as a canopy for shade in the open air, and by the time I joined the rehearsals, the group of strapping young male dancers had already learned their choreography for the chimney sweep sequence, “Step in Time.”As Marc and Dee Dee put them through their paces and showed me how I would be integrated into the number, my jaw dropped.
The two of them were much influenced by the famous choreographer Michael Kidd, who was known for his vigorous, athletic style. There were somersaults, leaps, and other acrobatics using broomsticks and props. It was blazing hot under the heavy tarp, which, despite shading us, trapped the San Fernando Valley heat and smog. The male dancers stripped down to T-shirts and shorts, and none of them seemed even slightly winded. Being used to a more mild and dewy climate, and having just delivered a baby three months earlier, I thought, “Will I ever come up with the necessary strength or energy to match them?”
Eventually, I recused myself and went into a cool studio each morning to limber up—pliés at a ballet barre, stretches and so forth, which suited my scoliotic back and helped prevent injury. I finally began to get in shape again.
It was during these dance rehearsals that I first met Dick Van Dyke. He was already well established as a consummate comedian; he had starred in Bye Bye Birdie on Broadway and in the film, and had completed the first two seasons of his famous sitcom, The Dick Van Dyke Show. We hit it off from day one. He was dazzlingly inventive, always in a sunny mood, and he often made me roar with laughter at his antics. For instance, when we began work on the “Jolly Holiday” sequence, the first step we learned was the iconic walk, arm-in-arm, our legs kicking up ahead of us as we traveled. I performed Mary Poppins’s demure, ladylike version of the step—but Dick flung his long legs up so high that I burst out laughing. To this day, he can still execute that step.
Dick’s performance seemed effortless to me, although he did struggle with Bert’s Cockney accent. He asked for help with it, so J. Pat O’Malley, an Irish actor who voiced several of the animated characters in the film, tried to coach him. It was a funny paradox: an Irishman teaching an American how to speak Cockney. I did my best to help as well, occasionally demonstrating the odd Cockney rhyming slang or a lyric from an old vaudeville song, like “I’m ’enery the Eighth, I Am” or “Any Old Iron.” I don’t know if it helped, but it was Dick’s turn to laugh.
Dick also secretly played Mr. Dawes Sr., president of the bank, with the help of brilliant makeup disguising him as an old man. It was something he had actually begged Disney to let him do. Walt rather cheekily made Dick do a screen test for the part, and word flew around the Studios that he had been hilarious, totally persuasive and completely unrecognizable. Dick wanted the extra part so badly that he offered to play it for free, but Walt was nothing if not wily. He took Dick up on that offer, and also persuaded him to make a $4,000 donation to the California Institute of the Arts, which Walt had recently cofounded.
In addition to the dance rehearsals, we had to prerecord the songs before we could actually begin shooting the musical numbers. The delightful score for Poppins had been written by Robert B. and Richard M. Sherman, two brothers referred to as “the boys.” They had been working for Walt for quite some time, being the first in-house songwriters he had hired under contract to the Studios. They’d written for such films as The Absent-Minded Professor and for Disney’s television shows and his theme park, Disneyland.
Robert, the elder brother, was primarily responsible for the lyrics. He was tall, heavy-set, and walked with a cane, having been injured in World War II. Despite his gift for words and kindly manner, he often seemed quiet and somewhat removed. Richard was shorter and thinner, and was ebullience personified. He had boundless energy, always demonstrating at the piano with great enthusiasm.
My singing teacher, Madame Stiles-Allen, flew over from England to visit her son and to work with me privately on my songs. Because I had been studying with her since I was nine years old, there was now a shorthand between us. I recognized immediately what she was asking of me in reference to a particular passage, or where my thoughts should be directed. So many times, she emphasized not reaching up to a high note, but rather following it down a long road, while being sure to articulate the consonants and keep the vowels true. It was all about unifying the levels in my voice, across an even plane—much like a string of matched pearls, each note placed exactly where the previous one had been. She taught me the importance of diction and breath control. Hers was a flawless technique; one that strengthened vocal cords, protected a voice from damage, and provided skills and muscle memory that stood me in good stead in the years that followed. She also counseled me about professionalism, saying, “The amateur works until he can get it right. The professional works until he cannot go wrong.”
Irwin Kostal was the musical arranger and conductor for Mary Poppins. He and I had made two albums together when I was on Broadway. He had also conducted and arranged the Julie and Carol at Carnegie Hall television special that I’d done with Carol Burnett the prior year, so working with him was easy. He was a consummate musician, and his familiar presence was reassuring.
I discovered that prerecording for a film was a very different experience from recording a Broadway cast album. The latter is normally done after the show has opened, by which time the cast knows exactly what is happening at that moment onstage and how to sing the song accordingly. In film, however, the songs are typically recorded in advance of shooting the scene, so I seldom knew what would be happening in terms of action, and therefore what was required vocally. For instance, if I am singing in a scene with a lot of action, such as the chimney sweep dance, a certain vocal energy or breathlessness is required to match that action, as compared to a lullaby sung by a bedside. Yet when prerecording, all the specifics of the action are still relatively unknown and must be guessed at. Fortunately, Marc and Dee Dee were at these sessions, as was our screenwriter and coproducer Bill Walsh, for whom I had great respect. I could turn to them for guidance if I was unsure about a particular moment, but to a great extent I was operating on instinct.
“Feed the Birds” was a perfect example, in that I was not even on camera for the song, and had no idea how the Bird Woman would be filmed or what she would be doing during the scene. After recording the song, I kept feeling that I hadn’t quite done it justice. Tony, who had been at the recording session with me, felt the same way. “I don’t think you sang it softly enough,” he said. “I think you need to try it again.” I asked permission to re-record it, and a month later, when we were recording other songs, I gave it another shot. I was much happier with my second version.
FILMING FINALLY COMMENCED with the “Jolly Holiday” sequence. Our director, Robert Stevenson, was English, and though he was courteous and kind, initially I found him to be a little distant. I soon realized he was somewhat shy, and hugely preoccupied with the monumental task ahead of him—juggling live-action scenes, animated sequences, and a host of special effects, many of which were being attempted for the first time. Bob had worked in the industry for more than thirty years, and had directed many films for the Walt Disney Studios, including Old Yeller and The Absent-Minded Professor. He was patient with my lack of experience, guiding me gently through what I needed to learn—simple things, like the difference between a close-up and a waist-shot, the nature of an establishing shot, the need for a reverse angle, and so on.
My first filmed scene simply required that I strike a pose, hands on my umbrella, while Bert said, “You look very pretty today, Mary Poppins!” I then had to walk past him and say, “Do you really think so?” I was extremely nervous and fretted over how to say that one simple line. I had no idea what my voice would sound like or how to appear natural on film. Onstage, you have to project your voice to be heard by the last row of the audience, and your entire figure is in full view all the time. I was acutely aware of the camera’s presence, and surprised by the number of shots required to make up one small scene. Shooting a few lines was like working on a jigsaw puzzle. Not knowing which pieces of film the director would finally select in the editing process made it difficult to know when to spend my energy or save it.
Robert Stevenson didn’t have time to help me much with my acting, so I worked on my scenes by reading lines in the evenings with Tony. In the end, I simply said the words and hoped for the best. If I happen to catch the film these days, I’m struck by the seeming lack of self-consciousness on my part; a freedom and ease that came from total ignorance and flying by the seat of my pants (no pun intended!).
All of the “Jolly Holiday” scenes were filmed in front of a giant yellow screen, and the animated drawings were added later. This technique, known as sodium vapor process, was very new at the time. The high-powered lights were excruciatingly bright and hot, making our eyes squint, and lending a slightly burned quality to our faces—as if we were in direct sunlight, with intense spotlights added. The wigs and costume layers made it even hotter.
I’ve always hated wearing wigs, and the Poppins wigs drove me nuts. My hair was long at that time, and I began to cut it shorter and shorter, the better to endure the wig every day. I also wore false eyelashes; in those days, we used strips, rather than individual lashes. Although the strips could last for a few days, they had to be meticulously cleaned after each use. My makeup man, Bob Schiffer, was well known in the business for being one of the best, but once he inadvertently used a tube of glue that had become rancid, and I got a blistering eye infection. I was unable to work for a day because my eyes were so swollen, and the company was forced to shuffle the schedule and film something else instead.
Because all animation for the film was added long after the live action had been finished, we had little to guide us in terms of what to react to and how we should behave. For the tea party under the willows with the penguin waiters, a cardboard penguin was placed on the table in front of me. Once I’d established the sightline, the penguin was taken away, and when cameras rolled, I had to pretend it was still there. The problem was that my eyes automatically adjusted to the farthest point of vision, so it was very hard to maintain that close focus on a now-imaginary penguin. It added yet another layer to everything I was trying to concentrate on.
The turtle in the pond was actually an iron anvil, such as a cobbler might use for making a shoe. It just fit the size of my foot. I stepped on it and balanced, and they later drew the turtle and the water around it.
For the carousel sequence, the poles on the horses were attached to tracks in the soundstage ceiling. It took forever to shoot that section, because the horses had to disconnect from one track and then travel along another, much like a train changing rails. We waited hours for the equipment to be readied, then once we got on the horses, we shot each scene many times until the technical crew was content that they had what they needed.
The long waits enabled Dick and I to become better acquainted with the Banks children, played by Karen Dotrice and Matthew Garber. Karen, who played Jane, was only seven years old, but was calm and sweet, and had perfect manners. Her father, Roy Dotrice, was a well-known English actor, so Karen had been schooled in performance etiquette. Matthew, who played her brother, Michael, was the exact opposite. He had a mop of red hair, a ton of freckles, and a cheeky sparkle in his eyes. He was also very unruly at times. Bob Stevenson was endlessly patient with him, and though Matthew cost us a bit of time, you couldn’t help but love him. Everything about him was authentic—his grimaces, his eyes squeezing shut in the bright light, his distractibility, his boundless enthusiasm as he thundered around the set, occasionally tearing off to explore something that had nothing to do with the scene. Sadly, he died at the age of twenty-one, after having contracted hepatitis while traveling in India. It was a tragic blow to all of us who knew him.
THE DAILY SCHEDULE was unrelenting. I was up at dawn every morning, rolling out of bed for a quick stretch on the bedroom floor, followed by a snuggle with Emma before I left for the Studios, then a full day of filming, punctuated by visits from Emma and Wendy so that I could nurse my sweet daughter and spend time with her.
Every working morning, while walking from makeup and hair to the soundstage, I would practice a series of breathing and facial exercises to help me wake up and look alive. Every evening, and on the weekends, I was a full-time mum. I seldom wanted to leave the house on my days off, so Tony and I would play with Emma in the garden, read to her from picture books, and take her for strolls in her pram or dips in the swimming pool. When Emma napped, I napped. People often ask me if I sang to her, and I did—though it was never songs associated with my work. Rather, I would sing little ditties that applied to the bond between us, such as “You Are My Sunshine” and “I See the Moon, the Moon Sees Me.”
By now, Emma’s personality was emerging, and to Tony’s and my delight, so was her sense of humor. One day, I was in the kitchen preparing her lunch. She was sitting in her high chair, and I happened to sneeze rather loudly.
“Oh! God bless me!” I exclaimed, holding my chest and leaning dramatically against the counter. Emma began to giggle, so I hammed it up and did it again, at which point she laughed so hard, she listed sideways in her chair.
Every Sunday, I called my family—Mum, Dad, and sometimes even Auntie Joan. Those calls could take up a whole morning, and were hugely expensive, but it was important to me to stay in touch. We exchanged letters as well, and knowing it was difficult for them to visualize what I was doing, I focused more on whatever news they had shared rather than my own experiences. Mum and Pop were still together, and Mum’s letters were generally circumspect, obviously trying not to worry me. These communications were never very satisfying. Dad’s letters tended to be more sustaining, in that he wrote in evocative detail of the English countryside, the seasonal colors, and all the elements of home that he knew I loved.
FILMING OF THE interior scenes began with Mary Poppins’s interview of (rather than with) Mr. Banks, played by the wonderful David Tomlinson. One of several British actors in the film, he had a comically expressive face, with what I call “upside-down eyes,” in that his eyebrows slanted upward, while his eyes slanted downward. He himself thought he resembled “a disappointed spaniel.” He’d had an illustrious stage and film career, and his portrayal of Mr. Banks captured exactly the right mixture of disdain and dismay needed for the role. He conjured a kind of glassy-eyed, blank stare that suggested he didn’t fully comprehend what was going on. I often found it hard to keep a straight face when working with him.
Mrs. Banks was portrayed by Glynis Johns, another Brit. She was pretty, and despite seeming sweetly dotty at times, she was a fine and versatile character actress. Like me, she had been a child performer, and by this time in her career she was well established. In fact, the Sherman Brothers wrote “Sister Suffragette” especially for her, in the hopes that giving her a solo song would entice her to accept the role.
The opening long shot of Mary flying down from the clouds and arriving at the Banks’ front doorstep was actually done by my stand-in, Larri Thomas. She was a wonderful dancer and accomplished stuntwoman, and we did look somewhat alike. I discovered that being a stand-in requires incredible patience and skill. Whenever there is a new scene to set up and to light, a stand-in saves the actor’s energy by taking his or her place, usually wearing an equivalent costume or similar color palette that helps the director of photography do the lighting job. It’s backbreaking work, because you are mostly on your feet for great lengths of time, standing very still. Larri became a good friend, and later was my stand-in on The Sound of Music.
Every flying sequence was conjured at least six different ways so as to distract the audience from how it was achieved. I had read the Mary Poppins books and script, so I knew I would be flying in the film. What I hadn’t bargained on was how many different tricks it would take to pull it off on-screen. Sometimes I was suspended on wires; other times I sat on a seesaw or atop a ladder, depending on the camera angle. In the tea party scene with Uncle Albert—played so adorably by the legendary comedian Ed Wynn—we shot some takes with the set completely turned on its side. When the film was ultimately righted to match everything else, no wires were apparent.
Many of my costumes needed duplicates in a larger size to accommodate the harness I wore when flying. This was a thick elastic body stocking, which started at my knees and ended above my waist. The flying wires passed through holes in the costume and were attached to steel panels on either hip. I literally did a lot of “hanging around” between takes, and when I was suspended, the steel panels pressed on my hip bones, which became very bruised. Sheepskin was added, which helped, although it was barely enough, since I couldn’t look too bulky.
My most dangerous flying sequences were saved for the end of our filming schedule, presumably in case of an accident. In one of my last takes, I’d been hanging in the rafters for quite a while, waiting for the tech team to be ready. Suddenly I felt my supporting wires drop by about a foot. I became extremely nervous, and called down to the stage manager below:
“Could you let me down very gently, please? I felt the wire give a little. It doesn’t feel safe.”
I could hear the word being passed along the full length of the studio, to where the man who controlled my wires and counterweights was standing.
“Let her down easy, Joe!”
“When she comes down, take it realllly gently . . .”
At which point, I fell to the stage like a ton of bricks.
There was an awful silence, then Joe’s disembodied voice from afar called, “Is she down yet?”
I have to admit, I let fly a stream of colorful expletives. Fortunately, I wasn’t harmed because the balanced counterweights did their job and broke my fall, but I landed hard and was quite shaken.
It is amazing to me that, even now, one doesn’t see the technical difficulties in Mary Poppins that were ever-present while shooting. In those days, there were no computers to assist with the special effects. Every single scene had to be storyboarded, and these hand-drawn renderings created the visual road map for the film. Bob Stevenson worked hard to make sure that each shot faithfully followed those designs, and that no one could spot the brilliant technical work behind the Disney “magic.” So often, the film called for something that had never been achieved before in terms of special effects. It was up to Walt’s brilliant technical crew to figure out how to make it happen.
In the scene where I sang “A Spoonful of Sugar,” I worked with a mechanical robin, which was one of the Walt Disney Studios’ first Audio-Animatronics. It was attached to a ring on my hand, and the wires that manipulated the bird went up under my sleeve to my shoulder, then down the back of my dress to an operator, who was crouching on the floor beside me. The wires were painted with black shoe polish to minimize any bounce from the lights, but I also participated in the camouflage, hiding them with my thumb, or by stroking the robin’s chest with my other hand. Bob Stevenson had originally hired a professional bird whistler to voice the robin, but it didn’t sound right. I’ve been a good whistler all my life, so I ended up trying it myself and it somehow worked better. Filming this scene was all about the robin, who received a good deal more attention and direction than I did.
As for the carpetbag, and my pulling all those impossibly sized items out of it—the standing lamp, mirror, etc.—there was a hole in the table and in the bottom of the bag. All the items were actually under the table, so that I could just reach through and grab them. After the scene was shot, the rectangular space under the table was spliced out and replaced with a separate piece of film featuring Michael crouching down to see where everything was coming from.
For the tidying-of-the-nursery sequence, in which it appears that clothing is folding itself and, along with the toys, jumping into open drawers and cupboards which then shut themselves—the Disney magicians simply filmed everything in reverse. Drawers were pushed open from the back and folded clothing expelled out of them . . . and the footage was later run backwards.
One of my favorite scenes to film was “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” The song so resembled the patter songs I’d heard in my vaudeville days, and I instantly embraced it. Marc and Dee Dee came up with fancy footwork to match the tongue-twisting lyrics, incorporating elbows, knees, toe-taps, and bounces in response to the tambourine slaps of the animated Pearly band—all of it performed at breakneck speed. We were in the middle of filming the sequence when my Tony suddenly suggested that Mary might show off a bit by saying the long word backwards. I ad-libbed the dialogue, and it worked. I also had great fun voicing one of the Pearlies myself, drawing on my old Cockney skills from My Fair Lady to sing the “Um-diddle-iddle-iddle, um-diddle-ays.”
The “Step in Time” musical sequence was the most arduous to shoot. Having rehearsed it for six weeks on the back lot, we now filmed sections of it day after day for a full week, the dancers racing up and down the angled roofs, dancing on chimney tops, jumping in and out of them, suspended on wires, some of it quite dangerous. Again, the music was played at breakneck speed, and once Mary Poppins was “invited” into the dance, I galloped and spun my way around the soundstage, trying breathlessly to keep up with the dynamic energy of the chimney sweeps.
A series of trick shots had been prepared for me during the sequence, ending with my being strapped to a pole on a lazy Susan and whipped around like a spinning top. I tried to focus on one spot, as per my ballet training, but still ended up feeling extremely queasy.
One unexpected bonus of this number came from the makeup department. The chimney soot needed for the rooftop sequence was actually a kind of mineral-rich clay compound known as fuller’s earth. It was often used in Hollywood films to create effects involving dirt and dust. For years, I had been plagued by a wart on my thumb, which I had attempted to treat in a number of different ways. It had become large enough for me to want to hide it by any means possible; mostly by clasping my hands, one thumb over the other. After several days of shooting “Step in Time,” I noticed that the wart was shrinking. As the days passed it became smaller and smaller, until finally, to my delight, it vanished altogether, leaving my thumb smooth and unblemished. It has never returned. I can only attribute it to some magical ingredient in the fuller’s earth.
The great skyscapes and vistas of London surrounding the rooftops were added later, by a process called glass shots, or mattes. These were designed by the brilliant artist Peter Ellenshaw—a lovely, unassuming Englishman. He had done the matte work for Spartacus, Treasure Island, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, and many other important movies. Peter and his team of fellow artists created these matte shots by painting on glass, leaving a blank or clear space in which the live-action film could then be inserted. The glass and film were put together and re-filmed as a composite. So, for the great shots of St. Paul’s in “Feed the Birds,” for instance, the Bird Woman sat on a limited set with nothing much around her. The matte painting of St. Paul’s was added later, and was supplemented with special effects like animated pigeons and mist. Apparently, there was only one camera in existence at the time that could combine the matte shot and live film, and of course it was conceived, owned, and operated by Disney.
Another aspect of filming that I had to learn about was continuity work. I didn’t know that all films have a script supervisor whose job it is to make note of every detail in any scene, so that all the shots—wide angles, close-ups, etc.—match in terms of gestures, arrangement of costumes, objects, and so forth. We didn’t have instant replay in those days, so that continuity person was the eyes and ears of the entire film.
Our supervisor would say, “No, Julie, you picked your handkerchief up on the third beat,” or “You sipped from that glass before you spoke,” or some such reminder.
Initially I was irritated by all the interruptions, because it felt as though I were being picked on. Eventually, I came to appreciate the value of continuity work, and began to pay closer attention to those details myself.
TONY AND I had promised P. L. Travers that we would keep in touch with her during the process of filming Poppins. I was aware that there had been tensions between her and Walt Disney. She had originally tried to control everything, wanting to cut out songs and even the animation. Walt finally gave her a firm understanding of her boundaries, and she returned to England. My letters were an attempt to mollify her and improve the situation to whatever extent I could. In a way, I understood where she was coming from. After all, Mary was her creation, and she’d protected her for so many years. I tried to keep whatever I wrote positive and focused on what I thought she’d like to hear, such as how well the film was coming along and how talented the cast and crew were.
Walt visited the set from time to time, and when he did, everyone was thrilled to see him. He was always very encouraging and full of bonhomie—I never heard him critique what he saw. He was clearly very excited about this new project. I got the feeling that he would have liked to visit more often, but he wanted to be tactful and not appear concerned or be intrusive. There was always a special aura when he was on the set; that charismatic sparkle that he conjured so well.
One day, he and I did some publicity shots together. A tea table was placed on the set, dressed with good china and all the trappings of an English tea. Even though we had to pay attention to our photographer, I think Walt enjoyed sitting down and chatting as much as I did. Although I don’t recall what we discussed, I do remember thinking how pleasant it was to spend time with him.
Occasionally, Tony and I were invited for a weekend at the Golden Oak Ranch, in Santa Clarita. The ranch was owned by the Disney family, and used for location filming when needed. There was a lovely lake, an abundance of American oak trees, and the whole place was extremely rustic. Although Walt was never there when we were, it was always a welcome respite for us—despite the live peacocks that sometimes let loose piercing screams during the night, causing us to bolt upright in bed, ears ringing and brains reeling.
Tony and I tried to socialize when we could, but it was mostly accomplished by inviting friends to dinner at our house, including members of our film company, such as David Tomlinson, Irwin Kostal, and Marc and Dee Dee, and friends like Carol Burnett and Roddy McDowall. Dick Van Dyke and I were never able to socialize, alas. He had a large family, and a television show to get back to, but we remain fond of each other to this day.
In addition to his work on Mary Poppins, Tony was designing two operas—Benjamin Britten’s The Rape of Lucretia for the Edinburgh Festival, and Prokofiev’s The Love for Three Oranges for the Coliseum Theatre in London. These required that he make several trips back and forth to the UK during production for Mary Poppins, and at the end of June, roughly halfway through our shooting schedule, he returned to London full-time. His work for the film was complete, and all his sets and costumes were up and functioning. He was also preparing the transfer of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum from Broadway to London, and was serving as coproducer of that as well as designer. Needless to say, it was not easy being apart for such a long period of time, especially since Emma was growing and exhibiting new and delightful personality traits almost daily. We did our best to write letters and make long-distance phone calls whenever possible.
Principal photography for Mary Poppins finished shooting in August, yet there was still a ton of postproduction work to be done, including all my “looping” on the film. I discovered that sound defects often disturb a scene—an airplane flying overhead, wind blowing across a microphone if we were outdoors, a camera being bumped, a body mic rubbing against clothing or being brushed by a hand, and so forth. The smallest flaw necessitates re-recording that piece of dialogue in a sound booth. Sometimes, it’s actually possible to improve a performance, with better emphasis on a word here or more nuance there. Between looping and all the animation and special effects that still had to be added, it was several months before I saw any part of the film assembled, and another year of editing, color-correcting, and sound balancing before Mary Poppins was finally completed.
In retrospect, I could not have asked for a better introduction to film, in that it taught me so much in such a short period of time. The special effects and animation challenges alone were a steep learning curve, the likes of which I would never experience again. I had as yet no idea how to assess my performance, or how the film might be received, but I did know that the hard work had not precluded my enjoyment of the process. From the kindness and generosity of Walt Disney himself, to the camaraderie on set, the pleasure of performing the songs, and of course, the creative collaboration with my husband, it had all been an unforgettable experience.
One day, during my last weeks in Los Angeles, I happened to be driving across the valley toward the Hollywood Bowl. I passed the Warner Bros. Studio, where the film of My Fair Lady had just commenced shooting, with Audrey Hepburn playing the role of Eliza Doolittle opposite Rex Harrison and Stanley Holloway, both of whom had been in the stage production with me on Broadway. Though I totally understood why Audrey had been chosen for the role (I’d never made a movie, and was a relative unknown compared to her worldwide fame), I felt sad that I would never have the chance to put my version of Eliza on film. In those days, archival tapes of an original stage production were still a thing of the future.
As I was driving by the great Warner gates, an impish feeling came over me. I rolled down my window and yelled, “Thank you very much, Mr. Warner!” I was being facetious, but at the same time genuine; so aware of how extremely lucky I was that Jack Warner’s choice of casting for Eliza had rendered me available for Mary Poppins.