David Niven
Authors: Michael Munn
The Man Behind the Balloon
by Michael Munn
This book is for Coralie who watched her father and David Niven play cricket.
10: The Best of Times, The Worst of Times With Flynn
The Films and Television Work of David Niven
A
ll, like me, who enjoyed
The Moon's a Balloon
and
Bring on the Empty Horses
can still enjoy them as the most entertaining memoirs any actor â any
celebrity
â ever wrote. I think more than his films, those books are the main legacy David Niven left us. They are treasures and through them, so is he.
This is a very personal biography and so reveals more about myself than I would normally do â but only as much as you need to know or might care about. I can't be an objective author writing from a distance with this biography because I am a part of it. I couldn't write it any other way. It may not seem apparent from the outset, but David Niven would approve. It was, after all, his request that I write it.
â
D
avid Niven's appearance was diminished. He was 72 and looked 10 years older. But then, he was a dying man. Motor Neurone Disease was slowly wasting and taking him.
It was July 1982 and he'd come to London from his home on the Côte d'Azur to stay with Leslie and Eve Bricusse to watch Wimbledon on TV. I'd spoken to him earlier that day by telephone â his voice had sounded very slurred over the phone from the disease that was killing him â and he had said, âI need to see you, Mike. And bring a tape recorder.'
So, of course, I went straight to London, found his Mayfair flat and was greeted by him more warmly than ever before. I had difficulty understanding some of what he said, but he was patient with me, showing that I had to be patient with him, and he took his time saying what he felt needed to be said. He told me he wouldn't speak a great deal because it frustrated him that he couldn't enunciate properly any more, but typical of him, he went on to talk as much as he ever did.
He said he had to refrain from laughing because he had lost control over his facial muscles and laughing simply made him hysterical with tears running down his face. âMy face becomes so contorted that I look like someone dying of laughter and crying in agony, so please, promise you won't make me laugh,' he said. Of course I promised him, and he proceeded to tell me about the bizarre treatments carried out by quacks on him that were so hilarious that we were soon both laughing. I saw what he meant by his face being contorted and how the tears flowed.
When he gained control of himself, he said, âI'm sorry but I still have
the need to laugh and make people laugh. I have had little talent as an actor, not much more as a writer, but I can tell a funny story, and I don't want to lose that single talent.'
He finally got around to the reason he had wanted to see me. He said, âYou're exactly what I need â a friend, an author and a priest.'
I was glad he thought of me as a friend. I was honoured that he thought of me, with just one book published, as an author. I was surprised that he should suddenly think of me as a priest. I was, at that time, an Elder in the Mormon Church. I had been for two years. I no longer believe what I did back then â and that's all that needs to be said about that. But my faith was important to him.
I asked him what I could do for him, and he said, âI don't know how long I have to live. Maybe only months. I don't feel I want to meet my maker without having got a few things off my chest.'
I told him that I couldn't grant him absolution if that was what he was looking for, and that if he felt he needed forgiveness from God, then that was between him and his maker. He said in response, âIt's not finding absolution for my many sins I need from you.' He said that he hoped his autobiography
The Moon's a Balloon
would be the official record of his life but he had seen what they did to Errol Flynn with a biography that claimed he was a Nazi and a homosexual. He said, âI don't want the same thing happening to me after I'm gone. I'm not a Nazi, I'm not a homosexual, I don't take drugs, but I'm sure they'll make something up about me. “Niven was born a woman. He took part in devil worship. David Niven killed JFK.” I need to set the record straight, and I feel that if
you
know, then you'll be able to do two things for me.'
I asked him what those two things were.
He said, âIf anyone is going to write about me after I'm gone, I want it to be you. The other thing I'm going to need are your prayers.'
My immediate thoughts were that I felt hugely inadequate to meet the task of writing his biography, and I felt very humbled and privileged that he would ask me to pray for him. It was, in essence, his last confession.
I'd first set eyes upon David Niven, in the flesh, in 1970. And I mean, literally
in the flesh
. He'd opened the door to his suite at the Connaught Hotel in London wearing just a small towel around his waist, revealing surprisingly muscular legs and arms. I had somehow always thought of him as skinny. But he was, even at the age of 60, very well built.
âDo excuse me, gentlemen, I had to have a quick shower or I'd give off an awful pong. Been exercising, you see.' And with that he did a little weight lifting movement, too delicate and comical to be convincing. âPumping, you know,' he said with a grin.
The âgentlemen' were me, just turned 18 years, and my boss, Ron Lee, managing director of Cinerama International Releasing Organisation which was distributing Niven's latest film,
The Statue
. Although it wasn't due for release until early 1971, Ron Lee thought that since Niven was in town for a few days, I should sit with him with my trusty reel to reel tape recorder and get a potted biography of him for publicity purposes. I was little more than a messenger boy and trainee junior publicist but Ron Lee was adamant that I should interview David Niven to produce a biography which, I realised long after, was never intended to be used but was one of Ron's numerous ploys to get me introduced to film stars and directors to satisfy my movie mania. David was in on the ploy too, agreeing to be interviewed by me but knowing it was never going to be used.
I became aware of movement within the suite and saw a half naked young lady tiptoeing around as she collected her clothing.
âShe's the cleaner,' said Niven, deadpan. âOnly she makes more mess than she clears. Anyway, do come in, gentlemen.'
We stepped inside the suite and David disappeared into another room to get dressed. The girl was hurriedly getting into her clothes, completely unconcerned by our presence, and by the time David reappeared, buttoning his shirt, she was dressed and fully made-up and ready to go.
âI do hope you won't be late, darling,' he said to her.
âNo, my audition won't be for another hour,' she said, and left. I have no idea if she passed her audition, but a few years later she became quite a well known actress. No, I won't name her.
I knew that Niven was married but having been in the film business for a year I was well aware that normal morals didn't apply.
Ron Lee presented Niven with a little present we had prepared. It was a framed sketch of him that I'd done in my spare time at my desk. I could draw, and did a number of sketches which Ron Lee used for publicity purposes, and when possible, he presented the originals to the subjects concerned. Niven appraised the sketch as though it were the best present he'd had in years. âThat's splendid. Really wonderful,' he said, his teeth flashing from his broad smile. âIt's a fine work. You know, I like to draw a bit. Yes, this is really very good.' It
was
good, actually.
âCoffee, I think,' he said, and he picked up the phone and ordered room service.
Ron Lee said he couldn't stay but assured David he was leaving him in my capable hands. My capable hands were shaking with nerves. I was anxious
and
I'd just seen a scantily dressed girl.
After Ron Lee left, and while we were waiting for coffee to arrive, David said, âWell, young man, tell me about yourself.' I was supposed to be
interviewing
him
, but for a few minutes at least, he wanted to know about me. I gave him an extremely brief biography of myself and what my job was at Cinerama, and what my hopes and dreams were. He told me, âNever let anybody tell you that your dreams can't be realised. If I'd listened to people, I would never have become an actor.'
Back then, as now, my pleasure in meeting actors was because of my great admiration for their body of work or simply because of one or two of their films I particularly liked. I wasn't actually what you would call a fan of Niven's, and I found it difficult to name more than a handful of his films off the cuff, although, of course, I was very aware that he was a famous star. At the time I could only recall seeing him in
The Guns of Navarone
and
55 Days at Peking
. I had seen
The Charge of the Light Brigade
on television but couldn't remember him in it. But I had done my research and knew enough about him to be able to ask at least several reasonably intelligent questions.
I was to discover that I didn't need to ask too many questions. David loved to talk. And talk.
Within a matter of minutes I had formed my first impressions of David Niven. He was a randy fellow and didn't hide the fact. He had tremendous charm and a sense of humour. I hadn't realised he would be so funny. I knew I liked him, and he seemed to like me â perhaps because I had sketched a decent portrait of him. I was also about to discover what a first-rate story-teller he was. My first impressions never changed.
Between 1970 and 1982 I interviewed Niven seven times, and with each interview I learned more about him and, by pressing him further and harder, discovered the man behind his own myth. I also met with him often when he came to London on a social basis. Sometimes we had lunch, always on him, and I will always remember two memorable evenings out to dine with him and Ava Gardner. You learn a lot about people over dinner and lunch.
I also watched him at work just for the pleasure of it, seeing him filming in London and on studio sound stages. I love seeing actors at work. He made it look very easy.
I had learned from Ron Lee almost from my first day at Cinerama â my first day in the film business â to write down everything anyone said to me that I thought was of interest. I had remarkable recall when young and wrote down, at the earliest opportunity, just about everything any film star, director or writer ever said to me. For formal interviews I always used a tape recorder.
Those interviews and conversations make up the main body of this book. The interviews are of specific importance. The first, in 1970, was
almost an abridged âspoken word' recording of
The Moon's a Balloon
. When I met him in 1970 and got his life story over what turned out to be a period of three days, I didn't know that he was in the final stages of writing his famous autobiography, and the many funny stories he had told in that book were ones he repeated for my benefit as easily as if he were reciting the lyrics of a well known song, sung so many times that the words flowed without even the hint of a stumble.