Dream Repairman. Jim BSL Clark
at Shepperton. A selection of Noel Coward’s music was arranged by Douglas Gamley. It always struck me as odd that Cary was there, hanging around the music sessions and Stanley wasn’t.
Stanley returned. We had to complete the sound mix early in order to preview the film in America, and I had to arrange for double sound crews to work day and night. I was in the dubbing room until five in the morning for a fortnight. I’d then drive home for a few hours sleep before returning again at eleven when Stanley would come to listen to the previous night’s work. Very often he’d rubbish it and demand retakes. It was a trying time and perhaps not the best way to work. Stanley was always very fussy about the condition of the work print and, in this case, ordered that the entire thing be reprinted for preview, a job that was handled by my assistant, Mary Kessel. Mary managed to complete the job just as I was ready to board the plane for Los Angeles with the print.
This was heady stuff for me. I had never been to Hollywood and here I was travelling on a 707, albeit in economy, while Cary Grant was up in first class. We had to land somewhere in Canada to refuel, and I remember Cary came back to find me and we walked around on the tarmac for a while. Cary was instantly recognised by everyone and besieged for autographs. At that time, the British public were more respectful. They might have pointed and giggled but would never ask for an autograph.
In Hollywood I stayed with Stanley at the Beverly Hills Hotel, which was a paradise in those days. I was picked up every morning by Bill Hornbeck, a famous and accomplished editor who was then head of post-production at Universal. He had a Ford Thunderbird and I loved those sunny mornings as we drove over Coldwater Canyon with the hood down en route to Universal City.
There was no Universal Tour at this time, so the view of the San Gabriel Mountains was undisturbed. I was astonished by the size of the studio, where Cary had a permanent bungalow as his office. His assistant allowed me to use the bungalow as my headquarters since Cary was rarely there.
I was fascinated by the studio. The lot seemed to extend for miles, and I would walk all over, under a hot sun, looking at the standing sets or observing units at work. I would eat lunch in the commissary, discovering cottage cheese with fruit and yogurt, generally wondering that I was there at all.
One evening Bill suggested that I might like to attend a studio preview since I would have to endure our own shortly and should know the ropes. This was a preview for a new Doris Day movie, Midnight Lace, which Bill assured me I would enjoy as it was a thriller set in London, directed by David Miller.
A bus collected all the studio personnel and took them to a restaurant. On this occasion it was a dark and gloomy steakhouse, where we solemnly ploughed our way through a heavy meal before returning to the bus which then took off for the preview theatre which seemed a very long way off in the valley. It was a hot night and, on arrival, I was surprised to see young girls lining up wearing what appeared to be pyjamas. That could never happen in Slough.
We saw the movie, which I thought fairly bad. Afterward the studio executives, clearly proud of their film, asked for my opinion of the London setting. How did it compare to the real thing? Had their advisor done a good job? I told them, in no uncertain terms, that London buses no longer looked that way, and I never saw a film that was so studio bound. I then realised that this was a mistake since these men, who thus far had treated me very warmly, now hardened and turned away, leaving me alone in the foyer as they collected the preview cards, to be read and collated on the bus ride home. I should have kept my opinions to myself and praised their film, but I have never been good at hiding my true feelings and continue to this day to blurt out my blunt opinions instead of the platitudes more readily received. Too late I realised that all these men would be in attendance at our preview and would now not be disposed to act helpfully, so I felt I’d been stupid.
The journey back was a subdued affair. Midnight Lace had played okay, but the figures were not too good and I realised that being a pariah from England was no way to make friends and influence people.
When our turn came a few nights later and this whole tiresome ritual of eating and bussing was repeated, I was ready for anything, but I didn’t foresee the technical trouble that would occur. The theatre was in Glendale and, travelling with us in the bus were both Cary and Stanley. At the theatre, to the fans’ delight, were Robert Mitchum and Jean Simmons.
I sat next to Bill Hornbeck and started getting nervous, as I still do on these occasions, made all the more anxious when the film is unmarried and held together by Sellotape. The lights dimmed and The Grass Is Greener began. Maurice Binder’s title sequence with the babies should have been accompanied by Noel Coward’s music, but there was no sound at all. Not a note of music could be heard and the babies played in utter silence. I was out of my seat in a second, followed by Bill and Stanley. Our first problem was locating the booth. None of us knew where it was and rushed about searching for likely doors. By now reel one was well on its way and the only audible sound was the slow hand clapping of the audience. I finally found the door and burst into the booth, where two t-shirted projectionists were quite unaware of the problem. “There’s no sound,” I shrieked. “Stop the show!” They were not overly impressed by this and turned to inspect the sound head. Nothing seemed amiss. Bill and I cast our inexperienced eyes over the machinery while Stanley hovered and insisted they shut off the machines. Just then I noticed a switch marked “Optical/Magnetic,” which had two positions. There was little doubt that we were still in the “Optical” mode. A quick flip of the switch and we had the sound, but we now had to wait for the reel to be rewound and relaced. At least we knew it would play and the audience settled down. The stars in the audience had been having a fine time with the autograph hounds. The film began again and near the end of reel one, I became aware of sounds that were not on the track. Minor explosive noises, which became more insistent as the reel reached its end. Stanley looked at me for some explanation, but I was just as puzzled as he. I went back to the booth and looked at the sound head as reel two progressed through it. Every so often a flash of light appeared to pass across the head, causing the “pop” I had been hearing and, as the core of the reel diminished, the flashes increased. I pointed this phenomenon out to the projectionists who remained steadfastly disinterested. They mumbled something about static charge and suggested I should touch the film as it went through, thus grounding it. So I spent the entire evening with my finger on the film, and every time I rested, the darned thing went pop right in my face. Fortunately only Stanley and I seemed at all concerned with this distraction, but I never went to a preview afterward without fully expecting a problem, and I am always a basket case afterward.
All these problems were lapped up by those executives to whom I’d played the arrogant British critic a few nights before. Midnight Lace had been a trouble-free preview, while ours was fraught with problems.
The card counting that took place on the bus produced quite a dismal result too and we retired, hurt, to Cary’s bungalow, where everyone sat around looking glum. I had the temerity to suggest we open the bar since a drink seemed the best idea, but nobody seemed thirsty and a funny look from Cary made me realise I’d transgressed some unwritten bit of preview folklore. Actually, I think it was simply his built-in sense of thrift that prompted the reaction. Cary was very typical of those wealthy men who would give you a cheque for a thousand pounds without blinking if you asked nicely, but ask for a drink from his bar or the loan of a postage stamp, and he’d give you short shrift. For example, small transistor radios were the latest technological toy, and I was longing to get out and buy one to take to London. Cary was never keen to let me off the leash and when I told him what I wanted to purchase he said, “You mean like this?” and tossed over exactly what I wanted. “Keep it,” he ordered. I thanked him and that was that. But when I suggested we all drink from his bar, it was a different story.
Finally Stanley and I retired to the Beverly Hills Hotel, where he confided that he never wanted to work in Hollywood again and told me how much he hated the system and the people. It was most unusual for Stanley to discuss his personal feelings with me. Up until then we’d never talked privately, only about the job in hand. It was quite a sad, melancholy end to a long evening. The picture hadn’t played that badly. But I guess after the failure of Surprise Package he had been hoping for a more successful result. His sadness was not all business though. He told me that Elizabeth Taylor had been his girlfriend until she was grabbed