The evening audience included Julie Harris and Jim Murdock (who now calls himself by his real name, David Baker), Virgil Thomson, Paul Cadmus, Glenway Wescott, Myrna Loy, Hugh Wheeler, John Houseman, Hal Prince. We had recklessly invited between forty and fifty people. (A bill arrived today from the Phoenix Theater for half the amount of the tickets, seventy dollars; we are splitting the cost with them.)
Talking of the Phoenix reminds me of a coincidence I have only just noticed, while rereading my diary for this year: the theater at Leicester, England, which offered to put on our play was also called The Phoenix!
We heard later, through Hugh Wheeler, that Hal Prince had been tremendously impressed by our play—which is very important because he is one of the chief people in the Phoenix Company’s organization. So, undoubtedly, was John Houseman. So, I really do think, was Virgil; he remained awake throughout. (Through Hugh, I leaked an explanation of my offended feelings about Cabaret to Prince. He affected to be amazed. I don’t know if this will lead to a reconciliation. It probably won’t, unless Prince decides to put our play on for a run.)
Mike Montel, having blandly and blindly declared from the very beginning that all would be well, was sort of vindicated—which we both regretted, because our nondisaster was due to Sam and Larry and Gordon with their memories of Jim Bridges’ staging, not to Mike. I don’t begrudge him his fool’s luck but I do hate it that he has been praised in print, instead of Jim. In fairness, though, I must add that Jim’s name was on the program as the director of the original Los Angeles production.
When we went backstage to thank the cast, Gordon Hoban said rather pathetically that he hoped the next performance of our play wouldn’t be delayed very long, or he’d be too old for the part. So we joked and told him that in that case we’d change the lines; when Patrick says, “I only wish we’d met ten years ago,” Tom will answer, “You mean when I was twenty?”
The evening ended delightfully with a sort of victory party given by J.J. Mitchell’s handsome and nice friend Ron Holland, at a restaurant called Ma Bell’s, where they have telephones on all the tables which you can use for free, anywhere in the New York area. Ron told a story about a boy he picked up at a gym he goes to. He brought the boy to this restaurant and told him he could call anybody he liked. The boy was delighted. He called his mother and started telling her what a wonderful place he was in. Then his face fell. He turned to Ron and said apologetically “I’ve got to split—she says my father’s dying.”
December 28. It was quite hot yesterday, and we went down to the beach and Don went in the water. I can now run, more or less, and my ankle gives only occasional twinges.
Talked to Jim Bridges on the phone this morning. Yesterday he saw an assembly cut of his picture. He seems very pleased with it, particularly with John Houseman’s performance. But he admits that some of the photography is “pretentious and dark.” Having told me this, he added hastily that it was “just between the two of us—and Don, of course,” so I suppose he doesn’t want to concede anything to Jack in their argument about Gordon Willis.
On the 19th, we got up early and went to the T.V. studio to be interviewed by Larry Luckinbill on ABC’s [morning] program. Sam Waterston was there too. None of us had slept much, but Larry was amazing. Before our interview began, he was dressing a Christmas tree on camera, with viewers calling in to make suggestions; their voices could be heard on the show and Larry replied to them as he worked, suavely sending them up. One lady suggested that he should use fresh grass. Larry raised an eyebrow, for the benefit of sophisticated viewers, “Grass? Fresh grass? How do you get it? I wouldn’t know where to get grass in our neighborhood . . . etc. etc.” The funny thing was, Larry’s behavior and patter seemed like an extension of Patrick’s carryings-on in our play, and Sam, watching him with admiration and, at the same time, a certain horror, seemed just like our Oliver. The two of them played a bit of a scene together—when Oliver is explaining namaskars and pranams to Patrick, just before the lunch party with the swamis in act 1. Larry asked Don quite a lot of questions, about his art work, which pleased me, and him, I think.
The rest of the day was spent running around—to lunch with Anita Loos, to see the orthopedist again, to look at Maurice Grosser’s paintings of Morocco (one of which we considered buying), seeing Michael and Pat York, who had arrived in town just too late to see our play. Michael is to be in Tennessee’s Two-Character Play. He hinted strongly that he would be interested in playing Oliver in a possible film. Our day ended by seeing Pippin, a musical with John Rubinstein,29 which I thought a waste of money. Rubinstein has got so thin, and the script was even thinner. But Don liked the dancing. And then we had a boring goodbye drink with Irving Drutman and Mike de Lisio.30 And next day we flew back here.
Truman Capote never showed up for the opening of the play. Next day he called and made some unconvincing excuse; there had been a flood in the cellar of his country house, or something. This is the second time he has failed us this year; the first time was when he promised to review Kathleen and Frank and then didn’t, and didn’t even contribute a blurb.
The total cost of our New York trip, including seventy dollars we had to pay the New Phoenix Theater for tickets we’d bought for our guests, was $1,152.04.
1973
January 1. We saw the New Year in at Jack and Jim’s, eating too much cake and drinking too much wine—with the result that my weight is up to 1[5]2 and ¾.31
For the first time that I can remember, Swami called, this morning, to wish us both a happy New Year.
1972 certainly produced some satisfactory accomplishment: our play presented twice and rewritten once, the mummy screenplay finished in a rough draft, and a whole big volume of reconstructed journals filled right up (though there are a few more bits and pieces to be added to it). I’m afraid Don wouldn’t say that his year has been satisfactory, though. He did (as far as I know) very little painting and he is dissatisfied with his drawing—until a few days ago, when he did some drawings of Renate which pleased him.
What we now have ahead of us are four possible projects:
To go to England and work on the script of “Dr. Frankenstein”— if Jack Smight can persuade Hunt to agree to having us. We now take it for granted that he doesn’t really want to; he thinks we are boat rockers. But Smight does want us, I’m fairly certain. Don doesn’t much want to go anyhow. I only want to go in order to see friends.
To finish the screenplay of “Lady from the Land of the Dead.” This is a plain bore.
To get the screenplay of A Meeting by the River written. Very difficult but challenging and exciting.
To work with Lamont Johnson on a screenplay of Adventures of the Black Girl in Her Search for God, to be directed by him in Africa. This is exciting because of the chance it gives us to see Africa— and maybe also to see the total eclipse of the sun which will take place on June 30. Lamont will be in Africa then, shooting another picture, into which he wants to introduce an eclipse episode; so maybe, with a lot of luck, we could arrange to join him there for a “consultation,” just as we joined Tony Richardson in Australia.
The little lump in my thumb persists. And the sole of my left foot still has this swelling inside it. I must see Dr. Kafka, who promises to correct this with a support inside my shoe. Otherwise, I’m pretty well. My ankle gives me very little trouble.
Books read in 1972. Very few made a strong impression. But— Castaneda’s Journey to Ixtlan, with the two earlier books,32 seems to me to form a masterpiece of magic comedy or comic magic or whatever you can call it. These books seem even better if you don’t altogether believe that what Castaneda writes is literally true. If Don Juan is invented by him (as some say) then Don Juan is one of the greatest characters in the whole of modern literature. Knut Hamsun’s Mysteries, which I reread, seemed truly marvellous Mortmere writing, far better than I’d remembered it. Halfway through The Way We Live Now, I was in raptures and thought it superior even to The Eustace Diamonds; now I like the la
tter more. But Trollope really is one of the most readable of all writers, at least in his later period. Rolf Hochhuth’s Soldiers33 affected me lastingly—but as journalism, not as a melodrama; the disgustingness of Churchill is uncannily conveyed. Susan Hill (Strange Meeting and I’m the King of the Castle) is a good writer but I don’t feel she has rung the bell yet. Mishima’s Spring Snow bored me, but when I had finished it I felt I had visited a world and understood something about it; it haunts me. I shall try to read the other volumes as they appear.34
Some good films seen (including a few old ones): Deliverance, Cisco Pike, The Criminal Life of Archibaldo de la Cruz, Sunday Bloody Sunday, Pasolini’s Decameron, Taking Off, The Kremlin Letter, Get to Know Your Rabbit, Thomas the Imposter, Performance, That Certain Summer, The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, A Tear in the Ocean, Bad Company, Fat City, Fellini’s Roma.
January 5. The weather has been incredibly cold lately. Another dazzlingly clear morning today. On the opposite side of the Canyon, while the sun is still over behind us, you now see a mysterious-looking shadow—cast by that abomination, the high-rise towers at the end of our street.
David Hockney arrived here yesterday, full of the news that he has fallen in love with Celia, the wife of Ossie Clark the dress designer. So Celia is coming out here, with her children. David doesn’t know what he is going to do about this situation. They haven’t even been to bed together yet; Celia says she is afraid that might spoil everything. David not only loves her but loves Ossie and Ossie loves him. Ossie may love Celia too but he beats her and runs around with boys, so perhaps part of Celia’s reason for coming out here is to take a holiday from her marriage. Don remarks that David now is showing another side of himself; he seems surprisingly innocent and vulnerable, like a country boy. David has a commission here with Gemini, the printmaking place;35 he will be working here for several months. He says that Peter’s attitude toward him has changed since he got involved with Celia; Peter seems “insecure.”
Before we heard from David, we had arranged to meet Jon and Marcheline Voight at the projection room on the Strip and see a Russian film version of The Idiot. So we did—it was actually only part 1 of the film, but it ran just over two hours; it was literal, plodding but quite well acted and gave you a strong sense of the original mood and atmosphere. After seeing the film we all met up with David for supper. Jon and he got along fairly all right, especially after Jon had asked David how much his big paintings cost and had been impressed by the figure $22,000. Also, of course, they could agree on the subject of the Vietnam War. Later, we went back with the Voights to their apartment[. . . .] Marcheline is now several months pregnant, after one or two miscarriages.
In the afternoon, we went to Universal and briefly saw Jack Smight, who leaves for England and “Dr. Frankenstein” today. He has heard nothing from Hunt and is somewhat worried. All he knows is that Richard Chamberlain is definitely not going to be in the picture; he has another commitment. We came away feeling that maybe, even at this late stage, the whole project will be suddenly dropped.
January 13. Only eight days since I wrote the above, but there’s already an absolute logjam of news.
We are definitely going to England, it seems. On the 22nd of this month, in a Pan Am jumbo, leaving at noon, first class. The first class part of it is our great inducement; Don has never flown first class anywhere. Universal is being unexpectedly generous with our expense allowance, in addition to the first-class ticket we get $600 a week each. (Robin French found out from George Santoro, the business manager, that Hunt himself is getting $750 a week, but with that he has to pay for Dick Shasta and Dick’s mother.)
Now we are trying to find an apartment we can borrow. Bryan Forbes, who offered us his, now says it’s being taken apart because damp has been discovered in the building. Marguerite won’t be there; she has left already for India. Other prospects are Michael York’s flat or David Hockney’s.
Yesterday we heard we have won our dispute with Gert Macy about the earnings from Cabaret; this means that I shall get about $25,000. What riles me is that I have had to pay between $2,000 and $2,500 in order to win back what was, after all, always my own money. It is hateful to have to pay lawyers anything.
The lump in my left thumb has now been x-rayed. It is not a growth on the bone and therefore, apparently, not significant. So I’ll try to forget it and perhaps it will go away. Meanwhile, Dr. Kakfa is having some supports made which I can slip into my shoes and thus take the pressure off the ball of my left foot. I’m definitely flat-footed.
A virulent kind of flu, known as “London,” has arrived in this city from San Francisco. Jack Larson is down with it and has a fever of 103. It often leads to pneumonia—“the old man’s friend.” Jim Bridges has a sore throat but hasn’t succumbed yet. He is still cutting his film and also preparing for his production of Streetcar. He hopes to show us the film before we leave.
This morning, an advance copy of the paperback of Kathleen and Frank arrived from Curtis Books. It has a very old-fashioned cover, a painting of Kathleen and Frank faked from their photographs, with both faces distorted and dramatized, so that Kathleen looks “imperious” and Frank brutally stupid. I don’t altogether dislike this; it has an arresting pop-art quality. But the print is painfully small—considerably smaller, for example, than Speer’s Inside the Third Reich, which is a much thicker book of the same size.
January 21. Tomorrow morning we take off.
Omens: This evening the sunset had a green flash, very bright and distinct; we both saw it.36 Yesterday evening, we had supper at a Chinese restaurant recommended by Chris Wood, called “Lucky”; and Don’s fortune cookie had no fortune in it.
David Hockney, at a party given in his honor by Ron Davis, an abstract artist: “I dislike abstract art more and more.”
We have seen Jim Bridges’ film, The Paper Chase, and are both much worried; it doesn’t seem to add up. The photography is beautiful, though Jack was quite right when he feared it would be too dark. And John Houseman gives what is maybe the best amateur performance ever. He could play Julius Caesar, easily.
Yesterday we went to say goodbye to Swami. We talked for five minutes about the fact that he hates prune juice and that it disagrees with him and that nevertheless they had made him drink it, with the result that his stomach became bloated. He seems much better. When Don and I bowed down and he gave us his blessing, I felt that his love is the strongest of all the bonds that bind us together. We didn’t comment on this, but, when we got into the car, Don smiled at me so sweetly and took my hand.
As usual, I failed to keep a diary during our trip. So what follows is written retrospectively:
We took off at noon on January 22. The fact that we were travelling first class gave our journey a honeymoon atmosphere. We sat right up forward in the nose of the plane, and it felt as if we were all alone there. (Actually there were very few first-class passengers.) The hostesses seemed eager to unload their entire allowance of drinks on us. They kept bringing Campari, and later wine. We got drunk and giggly over the pretentious Frog menu, wondering what a “cascade of shrimp” would be like—it was just a few of them on a plate. We held hands and kissed and Don said it was fate that we had met and that he adored me for being so lucky. I felt an intense bliss of togetherness—a distillation of my combined feelings when I’m sitting beside him in a movie, eating a snug meal alone with him, lying beside him in bed—and indeed we were more or less doing all these things at once. The bliss of being where you would most like to be, at this moment and always. . . . However, when we did get sleepy, we found that the partitions can’t be removed from first-class seats. So Don lay down on the floor. So much for luxury travel!
In the morning—or rather, in the latter part of that immensely long night—we found ourselves walking miles and miles and miles along the uncannily clean deserted corridors of London Airport37—to be met by our production manager, Brian Burgess, with two envelopes full of pound notes, the first installment
of our expense money. And then a studio-provided limousine drove us into London. We were well aware that our driver was shocked by the squalor of Powis Terrace—even the residents agree that it is a bad neighborhood—and besides, what were we doing there, when that bulging envelope of notes entitled us to stay at the Connaught or the Dorchester?
(On closer acquaintance, Powis Terrace seemed to be squalid rather than “bad.” No doubt one could get mugged there—where can’t you get mugged, these days?—but the atmosphere is unalarming, peeling houses, trash cans spilling over the sidewalks, seedy shops run by thin pop-eyed Pakistanis who appeared to be far more afraid of you than you could be of them. You see racist slogans written up against them on walls: “Kill Asian shit,” for example.)
David’s flat—which opens improbably off a dingy slummy staircase—is all elegance, much larger and grander than when we last saw it in 1970. Indirect lighting controlled by rheostats, a shower with horizontal jets of water, a dining room big enough for a banquet, a library, a streamlined kitchen. We were given a snug little nest of a bedroom with a bed almost as inviting as our own basket. It was only when you opened the Moorish shutters that you discovered you were looking out into an airshaft across which washing hung on wires; slumland was all around you, with its uninhibited noises. A blaring radio woke us regularly at 7:15, except on the one morning when we had wanted to get up and had counted on it; then it was silent.
Mo McDermott and his friend Mick Sid[a]38 were looking after the flat. Mo was at art school with David and has been a close friend of his ever since, but I hadn’t met him before.39 He is small and squarely built, a blond with a very white skin, going a little bald on top, but still cute and sexy. Indeed, it is easy to imagine that someone could fall in love with him, because of his warmth and anxious intensity and a peculiarly British kind of sturdiness. He is the faithful-unto-death type of retainer; you feel that, if the flat were burgled, his corpse would be found stretched across the threshold. He speaks with quiet fury against people who take advantage of David’s generosity. He had recently had a scene with Ossie Clark, after demanding that Ossie should give up a doorkey which he had taken away with him. And we both felt that Mo resents the casualness with which Peter Schlesinger shows up and entertains us there, offering us David’s wine.