The Elephant to Hollywood - Michael Caine [71]
Once that immediate problem had been dealt with I was able to focus my worries on the thing that really mattered: the work. The first rehearsal was taking place at Pinewood and we were going to use the actual sets. As I sat in the car on the way to the studio I made a pact with myself: Larry Olivier may have been one of the greatest actors of all time, but I was not going to let myself be intimidated by him or his reputation. When I arrived I made my usual preparations. I didn’t want to over-familiarise myself with the set because in my first scene my character would be entering it as a stranger; on the other hand I didn’t want to go blundering about either. I took myself off quietly and just walked it through. Joe Mankiewicz, who was directing, watched me go through the motions and when I had finished he came over. ‘Don’t worry, Michael,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of you.’ They were words I needed to hear just then.
At precisely ten o’clock, the great man arrived. Smaller – it’s true, they almost always are – than I expected, he made straight for me, hand outstretched. ‘Michael,’ he said. ‘We meet at last.’ He could not have been friendlier, but I felt far from at ease. After all, my co-star was not only a great stage actor: he was a great movie actor and had been a screen idol in the thirties and forties. I looked over at Joe and wondered how he was feeling. Larry was not only a great stage director: he was a great movie director, too . . . I wasn’t the only one who would need nerves of steel over the next few weeks.
The first thing I noticed about Larry was that he treated the first rehearsal – and every subsequent one – as if it were a performance. He was incredibly intense that first day and it was all I could do to stand up to the onslaught. But there was something bothering him and he left in a rush at the end, clearly frustrated. Joe and I were just packing up and chatting when Larry burst back in. ‘I’ve worked it out!’ he announced. We waited for more, but he knew the value of suspense all right. ‘You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow,’ he said airily and left.
Next morning he turned up and, with a triumphant and extravagant theatrical flourish, produced what looked like a small, hairy, black caterpillar from behind his back. He held it to his upper lip. Joe and I looked at each other. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what do you think?’ ‘If you really think that’s necessary . . .’ began Joe warily. ‘I do!’ Larry insisted. ‘I really do!’ He leant forward as if to take us into his confidence. ‘I’ve discovered something.’ He paused for dramatic effect and took a deep breath. ‘I can’t act with my own face,’ he suddenly yelled. ‘I have to be disguised!’
It seemed to work. From then on rehearsals ran smoothly except for something very strange: Larry couldn’t remember his lines. It didn’t matter how short the scene was, or how few lines he had, he simply couldn’t do it. And this was a man whose last job had been on stage for three and a half hours every night in a Eugene O’Neill play. All became clear a few days later. Larry, the builder, the founder and the main driving force behind the establishment of the National Theatre, had been forced out of the project, just before the official opening. The side effects from the pills he had been taking to combat stress included memory loss.
Once Larry was off the tranquilisers, he was back to his old self – and it was a formidable self, a real force to be reckoned with. He was used to being the star of every show he was in and had no hesitation in placing himself centre-stage in every scene, which meant that I had to find a way to act around him. And whenever I had a line that cut across a move he wanted to do, he rather grandly ordered Joe to cut it. After this had gone on for a while I went to Joe to complain. ‘Don’t worry, Michael,’ he said. ‘I promised you I would look after you. This is a film, not the theatre and we have skilled camera operators and an editing suite. Trust me.’
I did – and got my confidence