My Life with Cleopatra (17 page)

Burton said he was so concerned over the rumors that he drove to Naples with his older brother, who is his best friend and confidant, to talk things over. “While I was in Naples,” he told
me, “I ran into an old friend of mine in the oil business who was going to Africa. He asked me to go along. I nearly threw the whole thing over and went with him. I was going to send you a wire from Africa.”

As I talked with Burton that afternoon for an hour and a half, I was once again aware of the man’s tremendous charm and sincerity—the qualities which make him a star.

Unlike many matinee idols today, Burton is a combination of the best qualities of the physical man and the thinking man. At 36 he is a very solid citizen and independently wealthy, thanks to wise investments, including a quarter ownership of a Swiss bank. He takes his career and family responsibilities seriously.

He is wonderfully educated, very worldly and is well informed and well read. Some experts consider him one of the leading Shakespearean scholars. He can recite poetry from Keats to Dylan Thomas by the hour.

In addition, he is a complete male. Unlike some actors today who appeal to the mother instinct in women, Burton typifies the ideal lover with the same kind of appeal that made Clark Gable a big masculine star. He has the rugged physique of an ex-miner (coincidentally, Gable worked in the oil fields as a boy) and his physical appeal is enormous.

He does not hesitate to put women in their place. On the other hand, he can be an avalanche of charm. I’ve met many women Burton has known. He opened up a whole new world for them with his poetry, candor, and romantic approach, one of them told me.

He has no illusions about his own characteristics. “We Welsh are a strange people,” he told me once, adding, “That’s how the word welshing came into being.”

I found it easy to see what there was about Burton that appealed to Liz. There are not many men like Burton around. Liz met him in a moment of loneliness when she was tired and
confused after her near brush with death in London and boredom in California. She was, I think, at a crossroads of her own life. The excitement Liz requires of life could be supplied by Burton because of his strength, experience, and the dreams he opened up. Eddie, who is a great deal younger, seems more like a brother.

My interview with Burton ended on a serious note. We both decided that his quitting the picture would not solve anything. What would solve the problem was putting an end to any basis for the rumors. We left the office together with Burton saying he was going to see Liz at her villa.

F
EBRUARY
7, 1962

Jack Brodsky, our American publicity chief, told me he can’t go into any cafe along the Via Veneto without Crushenko, chief of the paparazzi, sidling up to him and saying, “Mr. Brodsky, just give me one negative of Burton and Taylor and I’ll give you a hundred thousand lire [$160.00]. It doesn’t have to be salacious as long as I can say it’s a shot that was stolen from the picture.”

F
EBRUARY
8, 1962

I suggested Liz and Burton come to my office for a conference because they are being plagued by the papparazzi and there is no place they can go for a talk. They can’t use Elizabeth’s dressing room because there are always people there, and if they are seen together in a huddle, it will only add fuel to the gossip.

F
EBRUARY
10, 1962

Arrived on set at 9:45 and found Liz in tears because she wasn’t awakened for a call this morning.

JLM was very sympathetic and gentle. Everything was serene on set, which means she and Burton must have come to an understanding.

F
EBRUARY
12, 1962

Liz did the big scene in front of Alexander’s tomb, in which Cleopatra tells Caesar she is going to have his baby. It is one of the finest and most moving scenes between Caesar and Cleopatra; beautifully written, directed, and acted.

Eddie told me proudly that he and Liz studied the part together all day yesterday. Everything seems fine between them.

F
EBRUARY
13, 1962

Eddie said he is going to Switzerland to see the house he and Liz bought at Gstaad.

F
EBRUARY
14, 1962

This morning Liz was on set, charming and co-operative as usual. But this afternoon she seemed upset.

I asked JLM if he knew what was troubling her. He said he had heard Eddie had called Sybil Burton before taking off for Switzerland.

Later in the afternoon JLM had two telephone calls from Eddie, who is in Florence. Then he talked with Sybil Burton, who has suddenly announced she is going to the U. S.

F
EBRUARY
16, 1962

Everyone is concerned about the gossip, which is the talk of Rome and its newspapers. All sorts of fantastic stories have been appearing, most of them libelous, even under Roman law, which is not very stringent.

I went to see Richard in his dressing room to ask him what we can do about the stories. “I’ll put an end to the gossip,” he promised.

8
P
.
M
. Dick Hanley, Elizabeth’s secretary, called me after dinner to say she will be unable to work tomorrow.

F
EBRUARY
17, 1962

A perfect example of how the press can blow a minor episode up into a front-page story!

This morning’s papers said Liz tried to break through a glass door last night and had to be restrained. When I talked to JLM he said he didn’t believe it any more than I did, but perhaps we should go out to the villa and see Elizabeth.

We arrived at the house together at 11:30 and found Liz was in her bedroom being treated by Dr. Coen. Hanley said she was fine but tired and suggested we all have lunch in the dining room. It was a ghastly meal of beer, bully beef, and picalilli.

While we were having coffee, Liz came downstairs looking pale but lovely in a long, gray-blue Dior nightgown with short sleeves. She went into the living room for a short talk with JLM, who soon came out and said he was going back to the hotel to write. Instead of leaving with him I said I wanted to stay and talk with Liz.

For the next few hours I sat in the living room and listened to Liz, who was perfectly reasonable but upset about her life and future. She could not have been calmer. She told me, “I feel dreadful. Sybil is such a wonderful woman.”

I said something corny about the tides of life, and how hard it is to swim against them.

“Funny you should say that,” said Elizabeth. “Richard calls me ‘Ocean’.”

Elizabeth said she hated all the confusion and trouble and couldn’t feel worse about it.… Mike Todd was the great love of her life.… She really loves Eddie, but now she is confused.

I had no time to evaluate what Liz said. I realized only that this personal situation could have disastrous repercussions on the progress of our picture. My main concern was to try and find a way to straighten things out, if only temporarily and superficially.

I tried to comfort Liz by saying how much we all love her—there
isn’t anything we wouldn’t do for her. “You’ll get everything you want,” I promised her.

Chances are I was boring her with my own feelings and square lectures when all she really wanted was to be left alone. About 5
P
.
M
. she said she was tired and needed some rest. She went upstairs to her bedroom, and I went into the salon to talk with the group there—Hanley and John Lee; Roddy and John Valva; Liz’s hairdresser, Zavits, and Bill Jones, an ex-actor who looked after Eddie’s wardrobe.

After a few minutes someone suggested I go upstairs to see how Liz was feeling. She was in bed looking sleepy, said she badly needed a rest and had taken some sleeping pills.

I suggested Liz have something to eat before going to sleep and went downstairs to get some food. Zavits brought some sandwiches and milk upstairs with me. She looked at Liz, who had fallen asleep, and said, “She’s taken pills!”

Someone foolishly sent for an ambulance, which must have tipped off one of the news spies on the household staff, because the paparazzi were waiting in full force when the ambulance screamed to a stop at the Salvatore Mundi Hospital.

It was such a minor incident, however, that I went back to my hotel to await a call from the doctor, who soon telephoned to say that Liz was fine.

Meanwhile, the story went out that Liz had attempted suicide. My telephone rang all night, with press people calling me from all over the world. I told them the story was ridiculous; that I was ill also. The bully beef we had for lunch had upset me, I said, and it must have upset Liz too.

F
EBRUARY
18, 1962

Eddie, who had stopped in Milan with car trouble, telephoned the villa and found Liz was in the hospital. He called me, said he was returning to Rome instantly by plane, which unfortunately gave the press more ammunition.

I telephoned Liz, who was delighted that he was coming to the hospital, though she insisted there was nothing wrong with her and she was feeling fine.

10:15. Picked up Eddie at the airport. He was with Bob Abrams, his close friend, ex-army buddy and business associate, and Milton Blackstone, his agent. We drove to Abrams’ apartment. Eddie called the hospital. He was told Liz was fine but Dr. Pennington had left orders no one was allowed to see her.

Burton telephoned from Paris to say he was returning to Rome. I told him to stay away from the hospital, as I did not want to give the press any further opportunity to build up a story.

F
EBRUARY
19, 1962

Eddie Fisher called Liz, who wants him to take her from the hospital.

Meanwhile, Burton flew in from Paris and was met at the airport by his press agent, Chris Hoffa, who told him he had been plagued by the Roman press for a statement.

Our own publicity people had consistently refused to give out a statement or denial because that would enable the world press to write a story, “Richard Burton (or Liz Taylor or Eddie Fisher) today denied that …” and then go on to recount the gossip. If the press just ran the rumors they could be sued for libel, which is why there has been no big story to date.

Without consulting us, however, Burton and Hoffa worked out a statement:

We tried to get Burton to deny that he had made this vague, even damaging statement. He did so but it was too late. It was the first real news-peg the press had to print the rumors, and they took full advantage of it.

Then Burton’s press agent said that his client had, despite the denial, issued the statement, which added more fuel to the fire and another day’s headlines.

F
EBRUARY
20, 1962

With the news finally in print I hoped we would be able to get back to work, but I had not counted on the press. The romance is a front-page story all over the world, and reporters and photographers are flocking like vultures to Rome from all over the Continent.

Burton on set—very gay, with a glass of beer in hand. We talked for a few moments, and I realized a strange thing has happened to this canny Welshman. When he came to this picture some months ago, he was a well-known star but not famous; his salary was good but not huge.

Suddenly his name has become a household word. When he went to Paris last weekend he was greeted by a horde of journalists. He was followed constantly. Everyone wanted to interview
him. On his return here he was greeted by the press again. His salary for his next movie has skyrocketed.

The romance has become the biggest thing in his professional life. But I don’t think he realizes yet that this is not going to be just one of those casual, passing things.

F
EBRUARY
21, 1962

Liz sent word to me that she will not work until she meets with Burton at one o’clock today. She wants to try to reach an understanding before they meet on set.

Pat, that blonde I met with Burton in New York, showed up suddenly today. Another complication, but possibly a useful one.

After lunch Liz came on set saying she was not feeling well. “My heart feels as though it is hemorrhaging,” she told me—a medically inaccurate but descriptive phrase.

F
EBRUARY
22, 1962

When I returned home from the studio today, I found that Eddie had been calling me frantically. “Liz has palpitations of the heart,” he said. Just nerves, I’m sure—as in London.

F
EBRUARY
23, 1962

Our offices in New York and Hollywood are hysterical over the publicity the “romance” has been getting.

They refer to it as a “cancer” and say it will destroy us all. The press in America has been having a field day.

I have more to worry about than just the “romance,” however. Our company on location was like an invading army. We disturbed the Roman economy by hiring so many artisans and extras. We monopolized the Roman press because of the excitement generated by our picture. We were lionized by sophisticated and blasé Roman society because we had the glamour of Hollywood and big money.

The
pièce de résistance
of a VIP visit to Rome was no longer an audience with the Pope—it was an invitation to visit our set. An interesting comment indeed.