Olivier (47 page)

In fact Olivier’s first impression had been fairer to the book than his considered opinion.
Cry God for Larry
was almost entirely innocuous, and gave an impression of Olivier and his activities which, though from time to time mildly critical, was on the whole generous almost to a fault. As with Crawfie’s treacly reminiscences about the royal princesses who had been in her charge,
The Little Princesses
, the fault was not so much with the content as with the fact that it was written at all. Olivier and Joan Plowright saw it as an invasion of their privacy, unpardonable when coming from somebody who had once been a trusted insider. There were to be many more books on Olivier – any biographer of him
must be appalled by the acreage of print already devoted to his theme – but none caused quite such offence to its subject.

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The National Theatre had got away to a triumphant start. The success of the Company was firmly established, Chandos declared at a Board meeting in October 1966, and it was “thanks first of all, and it
is
thanks, to Sir Laurence Olivier. Quite apart from his own marvellous performances, he has been the mainspring of all our activities.” Two months later the Board offered Olivier an extension of his contract to July 1973, with a view to him still being Director when the new theatre on the South Bank was finally opened. Superficially all was tranquil, but behind the scenes the harmony – or perhaps constructive disharmony – which had bound Olivier, Gaskill, Dexter and Tynan together was wearing thin. This meant that Olivier’s daily round became still more stressful. When, in the spring of 1966, he was pressed to star in a film adapted from Somerset Maugham’s short story “Rain”, he refused to make any commitment: “The one thing one is certain of is that much less is going to be possible than one ever caters for, as much more is the load than one ever imagines. (Quite poetic that, don’t you think?)”
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His first serious confrontation was with John Dexter. The relationship had been edgy for some time, but it was exacerbated by the all-male production of “As You Like It”. Olivier – or more probably Tynan – had read Professor Jan Kott’s essay on the subject, in which he argued that the verbal impact would be different if the female roles were played by men, and put it to the Board that it would be interesting to try the idea out in practice. The Drama Committee adopted the suggestion with enthusiasm and Dexter was chosen to direct it. It soon became obvious that his ideas were different to Olivier’s. He argued that, as would have been case in the late sixteenth century, the female roles should be played by boys, or at least the nearest approach to young and androgynous actors that the National Theatre could assemble. Olivier thought that this approach would lead to the production being a dismal flop. “He didn’t understand why we didn’t wear red fingernails and pad our bosoms
out,” said Charles Kay, who played Celia. “He just didn’t dig it.” Olivier was convinced that Dexter, who was an unabashed homosexual, was “making an exhibition of himself”. Shakespearean boys, he believed, would have used every device at their disposal to look like mature women: “Ronald Pickup had no tits. They thought that was very clever and I didn’t. That’s all.” Being Olivier, he intervened energetically to assert his point of view. Pickup may not have got his tits, but Olivier burst into the dressing room, painted his mouth blood-red, pencilled his eyebrows and put mascara on his eyelashes. It was typical of his hands-on approach, thought Pickup; also, in Pickup’s view, it made him “look like the worst kind of drag queen”. There are suggestions that the row with Dexter may have had a nastier element. Olivier believed that Dexter had tried to seduce a young man who was applying for a part in “As You Like It”. “I nearly killed him,” Olivier recalled. “I said ‘I’ll fire you and I’ll give to the press why. I’ll show you no mercy at all if you dare do that again.’” Dexter for his part complained about “the covert undermining of the production, and the betrayal of trust”. Olivier had professed to worry that the production was going over budget. “Over the top, yes,” protested Dexter. “Budget, no!”
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Whatever the facts of the case, a draft letter from Olivier to Dexter written a little later makes it clear how far the relationship had deteriorated. “Right from the beginning, almost,” Olivier began, “I felt that neither friendship nor artistic partnership was going to flourish very happily.” Dexter was not cut out to be an assistant, least of all to Olivier: “My authority over you (no matter how slight) irritates you to a frenzy.” This had come to a head over “As You Like It”. Dexter’s behaviour could have only two explanations: “Either it is a dare to test the strength of your position or you can feel no consideration at all for me or my job.” Olivier said that he had put up with a lot in recognition of Dexter’s real abilities, but “I can recognise the end of the road when I see it and it is here and now”.
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But it was
not
the end of the road. Dexter resigned and went off to America, but in his calmer moments Olivier knew that he had made
an important contribution and that, with Gaskill gone, the National Theatre was the weaker for his absence. “He had a lot of very good ideas,” he said reflectively some years later. “He was much more helpful to me than I’ve ever had the decency to give him credit for.” Dexter for his part recognised that the National Theatre under Olivier was a place where he had been happy to work. He was never to return as a full-time associate, but two or three years later he wrote to say how much he was looking forward to working with Olivier again. “Believe one thing, no matter how violently I disagreed, I admire and respect you more than anyone I have ever known in the theatre, with the exception only of George [Devine], and there I’d say the billing is equal. My ambition is to make the National Theatre as you would want it.” Given the circumstances it was a generous tribute and one that Olivier must have appreciated if not wholly reciprocated.
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Gaskill lasted till 1965, when he returned to the Royal Court to take over after the death of George Devine. Possibly he would have stayed longer at the National if he had not fallen out with Tynan. They were together in Olivier’s house and Tynan reverted to his often-advanced thesis that what the National Theatre needed was more stars from outside. Exasperated, Gaskill said that, while he accepted Tynan must have a big voice in the selection of plays, he should not, in any circumstances, be involved when it came to deciding on the actors. According to Gaskill, Olivier left the room, went upstairs, and then reappeared half an hour later to say that he wished Tynan to have a voice in
all
such deliberations. Olivier denied that he needed any time to make up his mind, but agreed that he insisted Tynan’s voice should be heard in every debate. For Gaskill, who disliked as well as distrusted Tynan, this was too much. “It was at that point I knew it was no good going on.” Olivier regretted his departure. His relationship with Gaskill had not always been easy. Gaskill, for instance, preached the concept of a democratic company in which everyone must be allowed to have a voice. Olivier thought that this was nonsense and said as much. When it was a matter of academic argument this mattered little – Olivier usually managed
to do what he thought best and leave the theorising to others. Sometimes, however, Gaskill’s views led to confrontation. Once, for instance, Olivier wanted to replace an actor playing a small part in “The Master Builder” with Derek Jacobi. Gaskill consulted the other members of the cast and reported that they were opposed to the idea. Olivier was outraged and refused to budge. “Speak to the management and not the actors,” he ordered. But though his autocratic soul rejected such libertarian ideas, he knew that Gaskill and Dexter had qualities he could ill spare. “They were the two most gifted directors in Britain at that time,” he admitted.
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To Gaskill and Dexter Olivier sometimes appeared almost intolerably conservative, opposed to any kind of radical departure. To the Board, on the other hand, he seemed dangerously progressive. Kenneth Clark told Chandos that he dreaded meetings of the Drama Committee because “three-quarters of the ideas they propose seem to me fashionable nonsense”. He deplored Olivier’s “obsessive fear of being thought old-fashioned … I am deeply worried that Larry has got so far out of touch with the Board and with me.” Neither the associate directors nor Kenneth Clark were wholly wrong. Olivier’s tastes did indeed lie in the direction of the traditional and well-established, but part of him hankered after modernity and he longed to be considered, if not one of the avant-garde, then at least a champion of progress. To achieve this he was prepared from time to time to take on projects which he did not understand or which, insofar as he did understand them, he disliked. One had to be prepared to run the risk of being wrong, he said. It was this urge to countenance modernity which led him to yield to Tynan’s importunities and accept Adrian Mitchell’s “Tyger”, even though he privately considered it “the most God-awful piece of work I’ve remembered seeing in my life”.
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No play illustrated more clearly that, though Olivier’s authority within the National Theatre was absolute when he so wished it, he allowed limits to be imposed on it when he thought his reputation as an innovator was at stake. Having accepted “Tyger” against his better judgment
he became alarmed by the stream of obscenities of which it largely consisted. When Binkie Beaumont told him that it was seditious into the bargain he resolved that something must be done. John Dexter and Kenneth Tynan made common cause in thwarting him. Olivier appealed to the author, claiming that he would be in trouble with his Board and that the subsidies on which the National Theatre depended might well be cut if the play was put on unexpurgated. Tynan took it upon himself to stiffen Mitchell’s resolve: “Of course
all
the disputed lines are not necessary,” he admitted, “but ‘Reason not the need’ – they are Adrian’s, they are part of his play, and they must be included.” Olivier took particular exception to the line, “God damn the Queen”. Mitchell had strong republican sympathies, Tynan argued, he had a right to express his views. “Why doesn’t he go and live in a republic then?” asked an exasperated Olivier. He gained a few excisions, but not nearly as many as he would have liked. “How one longs to reveal,” concluded Tynan, “that if ‘Tyger’ succeeds it will be in the teeth of panic-stricken opposition from this obtuse, lick-spittle Laurence Olivier, who would rather insult a poet than cause moments of dismay to Her Majesty.”
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Sure enough, the Board were horrified by the extravagances of “Tyger”. Victor Mishcon, an eminent solicitor and Socialist county councillor, thought it “cheap and vulgar”. Binkie Beaumont darkly remarked that he had the impression that “some element had more or less insisted upon the play being mounted” – presumably a reference to what the Board felt to be the malign influence of Tynan. For the Director merely to give the titles of the plays he proposed to put on was not enough, argued Mishcon: “Where matters of policy were concerned … the entire Board must be alerted and a frank report submitted.” For the first time the Board braced itself for a confrontation with its all-powerful Director. Olivier was summoned to attend the next meeting. “If I am to be given a wigging on account of ‘Tyger’ and Lord knows what else, I shall take my beating like a man,” Olivier told Kenneth Rae – but he stipulated that he would rather the representatives of the Arts
Council, the Treasury and the G.L.C. were not present to witness his humiliation. In the event the wigging was mild – the Board was quite as nervous of offending Olivier as he was of offending them – but he found it galling to be called upon to defend a play which he himself had disliked and had done his best to sanitise.
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Fortunately the Board had no jurisdiction over Joan Littlewood’s irreverent and mocking satire on the First World War, “Oh! What a Lovely War”. They would have deplored it if they had been given the opportunity. Richard Attenborough had been asked to direct the film and tried to raise money in the United States. Who’s going to be in it? asked the putative sponsors. Oh, Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Ralph Richardson, Michael Redgrave, said Attenborough. At this point he had approached nobody. Impressed, the sponsor agreed to put up the money. Attenborough now turned to Olivier. Knowing that he was robustly patriotic and might well disapprove of a film which set out to mock the traditional heroics of First World War historiography, Attenborough was uncertain how Olivier would respond to the appeal. Fortunately he had enjoyed the musical and agreed to play Field Marshal French. Attenborough admitted that he had already promised that Gielgud and Richardson would also be in the cast. “Make sure you tell both of them, particularly Ralphie, that I’ve already agreed to appear for Equity minimum rates, and they must do the same,” said Olivier. Attenborough was convinced that, if Olivier had refused to appear, his fellow theatrical knights would have followed suit and the whole project would have foundered.
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The Board would have looked more kindly on another film which Olivier made in 1969. To play in the same year a caricature of Field Marshal French and a soberly heroic Air Marshal Dowding, head of Fighter Command during the Battle of Britain, was a remarkable exercise in flexibility. Olivier played Dowding with deliberate sobriety; a still centre of calm responsibility contrasted with the maelstrom of violence in the skies above him. He grew a moustache in the hope of looking like his hero, but he admitted that he was still wide of the mark.
“Dowding had a more definite type of face than mine,” he said. He tried to imitate Dowding’s voice, but “there was nothing very remarkable about it”. Many years later he said that he would have liked to have met Dowding if he had been alive: “I do like to meet them provided I know that they are acceptable to the idea.” His memory betrayed him. Dowding was very much alive and Olivier almost certainly met him. It is said that the Air Marshal saw “The Battle of Britain” and “wept at the beauty of the interpretation”.
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