The Elephant to Hollywood - Michael Caine [133]
When we came back on deck I looked over at the famous Harbour Bridge and noticed that there was a group of tourists all tied together climbing over the top of it. ‘I’d love to do that,’ I said, ‘but it looks a bit scary.’ ‘Not at all!’ said the captain. ‘People do it all the time and it’s perfectly safe.’ Not many people can say they were talked into climbing the Sydney Harbour Bridge by the captain of the QE2, so I accepted the challenge and the next day Shakira and I lined up with everyone else. We were given special harnesses to wear that were clipped into a wire that ran all the way up to the top. ‘That will stop us falling off,’ I said to the guide rather nervously. ‘It’s not there for that,’ he said, ‘it’s to stop you jumping off. People lose their nerve sometimes and seem to want to leap!’ Not me, I thought, not in a million years, but we took a deep breath and started the climb. It was fantastic – Shakira and I loved every moment and there’s a picture of the two of us on the very top, with the block of apartments we were staying in over one shoulder and the Sydney Opera House over the other to prove it.
All these wonderful experiences were to a certain extent displacement activities. We were coming to the end of the filming and I knew I was then facing surgery for my skin cancer. I had already been reassured to some extent by my first visit to the surgeon. ‘If I were going to have skin cancer,’ he said, ‘then this is the one I would choose.’ I nearly kissed him. He did tell me the name of it, which I found unpronounceable, but being a keen gardener and cook there was one syllable I did recognise: ‘basil’ – pronounced in the American way (actually it turns out to have been a ‘basal cell carcinoma’). So if you are ever unlucky enough to get skin cancer and you hear the word ‘basil’, you are probably OK. In the end, the whole thing was remarkably painless. A lump of skin one inch wide and fourteen stitches long was cut from my neck and I got on the plane to England an hour later and flew all the way home without any discomfort at all. The guy was a genius – there’s no sign of any scar at all and in the unlikely event of my ever wanting to have a facelift, I’ll be straight back on that plane!
The Quiet American was first scheduled to be released in September 2001, but because of the tragic events of 9/11, it was postponed for over a year. When it was eventually released – and I had to beg Harvey Weinstein to release it in time to qualify for the Oscars – it got a great critical reception and I was nominated for an Academy Award as Best Actor. I knew in my heart of hearts that there was no way that a film which implied even the slightest criticism of American foreign policy was going to have a good chance, so I went back to England and got on with the important things in life: my family and my home. After all, there were roses to be pruned, potatoes to plant and rhubarb to be cut. I was reminded of something a Hollywood producer – and great friend – I had worked for once said when he had to break some bad news to me about an award. He gave me a hug and whispered, ‘It’s not your turn, Michael.’ I smiled and pretended not to mind too much and as he walked away, he gave me a very Hollywood line. ‘I am an honest man, Michael: I would only ever stab you in the chest.’ That’s show business.
A lot of show business is about timing and in this instance the timing was against The Quiet American big time. The Americans invaded Iraq on 20 March 2003; the Academy Awards were just four days later on 24 March. The night before the ceremony I had dinner at Jack Nicholson’s with three of the other four nominees for Best Actor: Jack, for About Schmidt, Nicolas Cage for Adaptation, Adrian Brody for The Pianist (who was a worthy winner). Daniel Day-Lewis, who had been nominated for Gangs of New York, was still on a plane and couldn’t join us.