The Richard Burton Diaries (47 page)

Yesterday E worked but I didn't. She did the mad whipping scene with Natasha Pyne. I sat around all day in my dressing room having first gone to the mini-max (a supermarket) to buy sweets for everybody, particularly me. E was worn out at the end of the day and in the car on the way home she suddenly asked if we could possibly stop at a Trattoria (a sort of roadside cafe restaurant) for a bottle of wine. Gaston, who was driving, stopped at the next one. It was a perfect choice, the kind of place where chickens brood under the table, though there were none here. There was the usual arbour of vines. Two men there intrigued E. One was a distinguished oldish man, well dressed, who sat alone at a terraced table and neither ate nor drank nor moved. The other looked like a mendicant monk of some obscure order. He read from a parchment and ate bread. He didn't look up at all. He had a large beard. At seven-thirty just at dusk a Mass began at the church on the hill the other side of the road. The Church of the Madonna of the Divine Love. The voices of the choir drifted on the air like an invisible mist, like unseen tumbleweed, like a dream. We stopped eating our fave (raw kidney beans) and rough cheese and we stopped drinking the vin de pays to listen. It was one of those moments which are nostalgic before they're over. The two men had gone, the tramp monk maybe to the Mass and the other who knows where. We drove home feeling holy and clean while the moon bright as I've ever seen her and with a whisp of chiffon cloud around her throat (E's image not mine) shone on us from the cloudless night.

On Tuesday I worked in the morning – a couple of extra close-ups – in one costume and then changed to another for our entrance into Baptista's house for the finale.

On Monday we did interminable scenes of entry after pipers etc. Very boring.

Later today I went in to have lunch with E and horror of horrors Kurt Frings was also there.
⁹¹
I dislike him a lot [...] but E says she's amused by him. Anyway he hung around till we finished [...]. I arranged for him to see the rushes and a few bits stuck together.[...]

I turned into one of my mad moods last night and went into the spare room to sleep alone. Woke at 4.00 shivering and cold and went back to our bed. [...]

Sunday 8th
It's 11.00 o'clock in the morning of Sunday. There is a storm going on. We've had thunder and lightning and now there is a high wind and it's raining heavily. We've decided to stay in for the day.

Last night we went to see
The Bible
.
⁹²
I expected to be thoroughly bored but I wasn't. It is a good honest film though it failed to move me at all except at the very opening at the creation of order out of chaos. I hope it's successful. The kids should see it if only for the Noah section with all those animals. Sweetly done.

After it was over we left very quickly. Before it started we met Gore Vidal, a tall dark and handsome fellow.
⁹³
Too handsome, I would have thought, to be a good writer which he is. Also that spoiled Princess Ira von Furstenberg with that feller Patrick O'Neill.
⁹⁴
I must write a letter to De Laurentiis. His pride in his film is far more touching than anything in the film itself.

We dined at the Fontanella in Rome, E had a turkey slice in batter.
⁹⁵
I had tripe. Very good too. We drank Frascati and Zambucca with coffee. On the way home we stopped at L'Escargot for another drink. [...]

On Friday we began my entrance into Baptista's house. We didn't get very far with it. Saw E in the rushes. She is very good and I'm very proud of her. [...]

Tuesday 10th
I drank steadily all day long yesterday. Today I shall not drink at all while working. I don't know why I drink so much. I'm not unhappy and I really don't like it very much – I mean the booze itself.

We shot until about 7.00. I allowed it to go so far because I suppose I felt guilty about drinking – not that it affected my performance. And anyway Petruchio in this version is supposed to be semi-sloshed all the time.

We received the
third
letter from Chris and still not a word from Michael. I must write to them both today. Also to Kate.

We spent Sunday afternoon down at the beach. It was patchy kind of weather but high summer compared with Wales. The kids and Karen came with us. We ran into Stephen Grimes.
⁹⁶
He seems prematurely old and hunched.

[...] E. thought she had lost her dragon pin when we arrived home. She had forgotten that she'd given it to R. Hanley. I shouted quite a lot and insisted that the fried chicken and mashed pots tasted like soap. We made up later.

Wednesday 11th
Sometimes it is good to write late at night [...]. Out of the idiocy of despair and from lack of discrimination, as I was drunkenly informed by that model of decorum C. Cusack earlier today, one can be ashamed and red-faced, but nevertheless there may be a catchable idea that can in sobriety be expanded into a virtue.

I worked until 10.30 and didn't work again all day [...]. There was a splendidly idiotic memo from that tedious Franco Zeffirelli about his authority to show rushes and/or any part of the film to anybody as he thought within his discretion. It was a puzzling missive. ‘Snapshot’ guessed immediately that McWhorter had stopped Zeffirelli from showing the ‘rushes’ and the portions of ‘rough cut’ to Italian members of the Press. She was absolutely right. [...] It tends, as I used to observe when I was ten, to take one's breath away. What can one do? So at the end of the day we laboured to a Trattoria. We eat some food and we fed the dogs and we drank some wine and we talked about the film. I'm starting to feel afeard about it. We chose, possibly, a bad one. Snapshot is fine, and I think I'm alright, but I worry about the other performers almost all of whom are brilliant but ill-served by the director.

After much thought and many misgivings it seems that there is not one single idea that he has about
any
one thing that is not mime. After all, as one might say, for Christ's sake, the most important thing about this exercise is that the words are Shakespeare's. And, so far, the only language I'm sure about are my wife's speaking and my own. Everybody else is so busy not being real that the voices die.

Now a great deal of it we can fix or re-arrange but, Arglwydd Mawr, what do we do if only donkey and myself are legitimate.
⁹⁷

I worry about the sound. I worry about actors that I think are good and who, if we're not there, descend into inarticulation. And who are also bored. Which is, of course, the greatest sin of all.

Never again, if ever I have the chance, will I permit anybody to direct something that I know I am better qualified to do.

And anyway it's time to blow my ego. And I have been accused, quite justly, of being bored by films and indeed about and by acting generally but this film is oddly important. I shouldn't care, and of course I don't, but I do.

I watch with exasperation Ossie's and Elaine's continual advice to Zeffirelli that such and such a shot is not necessary because ‘Franco you have it already’ and ‘in any case you must be outside at this point.‘
⁹⁸
But to no, as they say, avail. Might as well fill up the page. We were asked today by M. Cacoyannis to speak poetry at the Acropolis in, guess? Athens.
⁹⁹
I don't think we can but we will do it, if possible, as a splendid joke. ‘I have, of course, played the Acropolis’, says milady.

Sunday 15th
The gaps in this daily dribble are increasing. On Friday we worked from 9 till 4 without a break for lunch. Zeffirelli worked exclusively on me without Snapshot's being there as she had [...] a monumental period. I was eager to work but a combination of a head cold [...] and the tedium of close-up after close-up into as ‘twere a vacuum bored me to the screaming point. Hovering over us both too was the thought that we must, out of deference to Franco, go into Rome that night by 9.30 to see Anna Magnani in
La Lupa
.
¹⁰⁰
She was good we thought but the part was too undonog for her.
¹⁰¹
She turned out, when we met her afterwards to be a charming woman but forthright and not easy. We had not intended to go to the restaurant afterwards but we did and after the initial awkwardness which all such events cause we enjoyed ourselves reasonably well.

On Thursday I did the ‘Say that she rail’ speech.
¹⁰²
It was alright I suppose.

Yesterday, Saturday, we lolled about the house all day and had lunch with the children and Karen. Dinner too with them all. I am in one of my lazy moods and do crosswords all the time [...]. Tonight we dine with the crew and cast in a sort of celebration for Ossie (Cameraman) Morris’ wedding. He is to be married today.

Had a letter and script from Emlyn Williams which took nearly 3 weeks to arrive. Script was
Camelot
. Letter from J. Logan re
Camelot
, also two weeks late. What a postal service.

Tuesday 23rd
¹⁰³
I must force my intense laziness into a better order. I said the gaps in this journal were getting longer but this is the longest yet. At random [...] I'll fiddle about with some things that we, or I, have done in the past ten days or so.

Last weekend [...] we borrowed Ron Berkeley's tiny apartment at Corsetti's.
¹⁰⁴
It was minuscule and nicely tatty – two small rooms and a sunless balcony. It had some things nevertheless that intrigued Quicktake and myself: The idea of a bed – and a room to go with it – that had been ill-used and used for the most sensual of reasons; one poverty stricken hot-plate on top of a reasonably inefficient refrigerator; no hot water and the idea of sand everywhere. In one's hair, in one's bed, outside the door, hovering on one's eyelashes, under one's nails, caught in the coarse hair that threatens out of one's nostrils. And, of course, the inevitable tar on the soles of the feet.

As Saturday drew towards its burning end (by this time I was bright with red sun) and with the knowledge that we were to listen to Cassius Clay fight Henry Cooper for the heavyweight championship of the world in London on the short-wave radio I became very nervous.
¹⁰⁵
I began to think of their fear and, knowing better and not being wise after the event and being chauvinistic frankly and always in favour of the man who couldn't win I predicted a win for the American in 7 rounds. Robert Wilson, who shall be and is nameless said 6. And so he was right. Will they ever believe in one hundred years from now that frightened intelligent cultured people would support such an anachronism as one man beating another man with his fists for MONEY.

On Sunday the babies – Liza and Maria – came down to spend the day. It was unsatisfactory because whereas on Saturday there was reasonable calm on the beach, on Sunday it was somewhat more hectic. More people and a pair of paparazzi.

We left early – about 3.0 – because of their (the paparazzi) presence – and with the haste [...] we discovered that we had left ‘Oh Fie’ behind.

We went home to mourn helplessly his eternal loss and to wish hopefully for his recovery. He was home in half an hour having hidden under the bed of Ron's apartment. E kissed and fussed him a great deal while I, as is my nature, insulted him out of fear for his loveliness and lostness and spoke sharply to all and sundry. Not too nice.

The previous days, like this pen, have nothing to record that can be remembered. The usual awakening at 7.00. The usual arrival at the Studio at 8.00. Franco. Ossie Morris, Carlo, McWhorter with his pretence of camaraderie and
fear going hand in hand, as ruthless, unless I am about, as a baked Alaska, boredom, and crossword puzzles.
¹⁰⁶

We had a lunch, as I remember, alone, but invaded by Spinetti who insisted on telling us how abnormal he was. He is fairly worthless. He told us of his being de-virginized by his brother. That is buggered. I don't believe a word he says. ‘Four-letter’ draws him out as they say. I wish she'd keep him in. I don't know where to look. Unless I'm drunk.

The film is losing ground financially all the time though I don't think it's of immense importance. I don't mean the film, I mean the losing of ground. It has to be understood that this film will be financially a dead loss for us. There is no way out and we, I, may have done immense damage to F. Z. No man could tolerate my insults, when I'm really roused, and survive them without some loss of ego. And not only me but Elisabeth. On our own heads be it.

We have agreed to read Poetry at the Acropolis for 1
¹
/
₂
hrs on July 27th. A very eccentric idea of entertainment – two foreigners reading in their own language (therefore foreign) to 5000 Greeks. [...]

We had a typical film day today. Two shots of me climbing stairs chasing E before 10am. Next shot of me at 1.30pm. E called for midday, called on set with me for scene in the barn – wool everywhere – at 5.15. Didn't get shot so sent home via our Trattoria and heard the Mass. Wrote some of the above and slept like the dead until 20 minutes ago.

We are being interviewed by a man called Russell Braddon.
¹⁰⁷
He appears nice. I wonder if he is. He is an Australian, and he writes books. He is to send me one.

Sunday 29th
The end of another working week [...] and a rough one. We waded through wool, ran through bats, swung on trapezes, threw each other around. It was a week of visitors too. On Wednesday we had the British Ambassador Sir John Ward and his wife, [...] some American who's head of the Film Industry something or other and his wife, McWhorter and wife for lunch.
¹⁰⁸
It was noisy and faintly drunken. Lady Ward is a real hard faced toper and quite clearly loathes her husband. I fancy the feeling is mutual. The
NY Times
critic Bosley Crowther and his wife also there.
¹⁰⁹
He spent the entire time staring at Booby and saying how beautiful she was.
¹¹⁰
Earlier when we
climbed out of the sheep's wool we were lying on, E said that it was full of lice. Crowther said ‘You mustn't say you were lousy in
T. of Shrew
.’ She said ‘No, I'll leave that to you.’ Touché.