When I was a very young man, Peter O’Toole was a deity, he had the status of God. There was a different kind of celebrity then, than there is now. It was less defined by behaviour, by fist bumps and twerking as you leave the room. It was an international celebrity that included the greatest of artists, writers, philosophers, actors, royalty: Laurence Olivier, Kurt Vonnegut, Jackie Kennedy, Mick Jagger, Elizabeth Taylor, Princess Grace of Monaco, Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Truman Capote. Squinting through the glare of this luminous world you could make out the dominant profile of Peter O’Toole. I was in awe of their world.
I remember asking my young bride, ‘What do you have to accomplish in life in order to know these people, to have a cup of coffee with Peter O’Toole?’ I’m telling you all this because I found out what. While we were making The Stunt Man, Peter and I became friends. We had coffee. And we talked a lot about the movies and about other things. I’m a pilot and Peter would go flying with me. I would give him the controls, and he loved to zoom down from the Santa Monica Mountains down into the city and out over Malibu. I’d occasionally meet his friends. I remember running into John Hurt in a coffee shop with Peter. It was the year Hurt won the BAFTA for Best Actor in The Elephant Man. Peter was teasing him mercilessly, guffawing loudly because John won the award for a picture where you never once saw his face. It was completely wrapped in a burlap sack. ‘You won for the soundtrack.’ John was happily sharing the joke.
On another occasion, I was having a meal with Peter and John Mills, who had won an Academy Award for his work in David Lean’s film Ryan’s Daughter. I was seeking advice from both of them as to whether the behaviour of Eli Cross as written in a certain scene in my film was too sinister. Mills gave me an example of David Lean’s behaviour. They are shooting. Mills is in a boat, in the surf. The boat capsizes. Mills is seriously drowning. He screams for help. The crew rush out to save him as David Lean screams, ‘Stop! You fucking idiots, don’t cross the fucking beach! You’ll make footprints in the sand! I’m shooting here!’ Eli Cross seemed suddenly more benevolent to me.
After the movie, Peter was visiting the States and living with us temporarily. On the morning when he and I were going to the Oscar ceremony – Peter was up for Best Actor and me for directing and writing – Peter staggered sleepily out of the guest house to poolside, rose to his full height and stature, and proclaimed at the top of his lungs, ‘Today, I am a movie star!’ Truth is, he was a movie star every day, but never at the expense of sacrificing a speck of his perfection as an artist.
Richard Rush – 2014