Peter O'Toole Read online

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Opening Credits by Richard Rush

  Prologue

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Bibliography

  Notes

  Peter O’Toole’s work in film, television and theatre

  Index

  List of Illustrations

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank the many friends and colleagues of Peter O’Toole who agreed to share their memories.

  Sheila Allen, David Andrews, Mark Linn-Baker, Keith Baxter, Frawley Becker (also excerpts from his book: And the Stars Spoke Back), Martin Bell, Philip Bond, Barbara Taylor Bradford, Ivar Brogger, Martyn Burke, Sally Burton, Michael Byrne, John Cairney, Barbara Carrera, Peter Cellier, Joe Chappelle, Petula Clark, Ray Cooney, Delia Corrie, Mary Coughlan, Michael Craig, Barry Cryer, Paul D’Alton, Michael Deeley, Pauline Devaney, Clive Donner, Donald Douglas, Patrick Dromgoole, Mark Eden, Susan Engel, Derek Fowlds, Billy Foyle, Christopher Fulford, William Gaskill, Jack Gold, Nonnie Griffin, Michael Gruskoff, Steve Guttenberg, Bryan Hands, Edward Hardwicke, Lisa Harrow, Elizabeth Harris, Rosemary Harris, Anthony Harvey, Arthur Hiller, Keith Hunt, Gemma Jones, Nicole Keniheart, Sara Kestelman, Terence Knapp, Nate Kohn, Phyllida Law, Brad Lewis, Kevin Loader, Peter Medak, Jane Merrow, Roger Michell, Royce Mills, Zia Mohyeddin, Bruce Montague, Michael Neilson, Lee Nelson, Richard Oliver, Tony Palmer, Basil Pao, Johnnie Planco, Amanda Plummer, Erik Preminger, Kevin Quarmby, Steve Railsback, Gary Raymond, Michael Redwood, Tony Rimmington, Malcolm Rogers, Richard Rush, Oliver Senton, Carolyn Seymour, Andrew Sinclair, Brian Trenchard-Smith, Bernardo Stella, Peter Strauss, Jeremy Thomas, Stephen Thorne, David Tringham, Joseph Wambaugh, Roger Young.

  ‘All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.’

  T. E. LAWRENCE (Seven Pillars of Wisdom)

  ‘He was like Peter Pan, Captain Hook and Tinker Bell all in one.’

  DIRECTOR ANTHONY HARVEY ON PETER O’TOOLE.

  OPENING CREDITS

  When I was a very young man, Peter O’Toole was a deity, he had the status of God. There was a different kind of celebrity then, than there is now. It was less defined by behaviour, by fist bumps and twerking as you leave the room. It was an international celebrity that included the greatest of artists, writers, philosophers, actors, royalty: Laurence Olivier, Kurt Vonnegut, Jackie Kennedy, Mick Jagger, Elizabeth Taylor, Princess Grace of Monaco, Jean-Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Truman Capote. Squinting through the glare of this luminous world you could make out the dominant profile of Peter O’Toole. I was in awe of their world.

  I remember asking my young bride, ‘What do you have to accomplish in life in order to know these people, to have a cup of coffee with Peter O’Toole?’ I’m telling you all this because I found out what. While we were making The Stunt Man, Peter and I became friends. We had coffee. And we talked a lot about the movies and about other things. I’m a pilot and Peter would go flying with me. I would give him the controls, and he loved to zoom down from the Santa Monica Mountains down into the city and out over Malibu. I’d occasionally meet his friends. I remember running into John Hurt in a coffee shop with Peter. It was the year Hurt won the BAFTA for Best Actor in The Elephant Man. Peter was teasing him mercilessly, guffawing loudly because John won the award for a picture where you never once saw his face. It was completely wrapped in a burlap sack. ‘You won for the soundtrack.’ John was happily sharing the joke.

  On another occasion, I was having a meal with Peter and John Mills, who had won an Academy Award for his work in David Lean’s film Ryan’s Daughter. I was seeking advice from both of them as to whether the behaviour of Eli Cross as written in a certain scene in my film was too sinister. Mills gave me an example of David Lean’s behaviour. They are shooting. Mills is in a boat, in the surf. The boat capsizes. Mills is seriously drowning. He screams for help. The crew rush out to save him as David Lean screams, ‘Stop! You fucking idiots, don’t cross the fucking beach! You’ll make footprints in the sand! I’m shooting here!’ Eli Cross seemed suddenly more benevolent to me.

  After the movie, Peter was visiting the States and living with us temporarily. On the morning when he and I were going to the Oscar ceremony – Peter was up for Best Actor and me for directing and writing – Peter staggered sleepily out of the guest house to poolside, rose to his full height and stature, and proclaimed at the top of his lungs, ‘Today, I am a movie star!’ Truth is, he was a movie star every day, but never at the expense of sacrificing a speck of his perfection as an artist.

  Richard Rush – 2014

  PROLOGUE

  In January 2003 the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences announced their decision to bestow upon Peter O’Toole their Lifetime Achievement Oscar. Far from chuffed about it, he told them to get lost. Here was an actor who over the course of his career had received seven nominations for Best Actor without a single win, a record he shared with Richard Burton. ‘Can you believe it,’ says his Stunt Man co-star Steve Railsback. ‘He had all those nominations and not a single win! And some of the most brilliant performances we can ever see.’

  They do say it’s an honour just to be nominated. Well, for O’Toole it wasn’t, not any more. ‘It’s a bore. I’m fed up. Second prize is no prize, thank you very much indeed.’ And that’s how he felt about this ‘honorary Oscar’ farrago. It sounded too much like a consolation prize and they could stick it. He didn’t exactly put it like that, instead declaring in a note to the Academy that he was ‘Still in the game and might win the lovely bugger outright.’ And so he asked, ‘Would the Academy please defer the honour until I am eighty?’

  Somewhat affronted, the Academy’s board of directors replied, ‘We unanimously and enthusiastically voted you the honorary award because you’ve earned and deserved it.’ The show’s producer went further, branding O’Toole ‘silly’ for not attending the ceremony. Not half as silly as the Academy failing seven times to give the man a proper Oscar.

  Some of those closest to O’Toole shared the Academy’s disbelief – how could he turn it down, no one had refused an honorary Oscar before. Others got it completely, it was behaviour perfectly in keeping with his rebellious spirit. The Academy weren’t giving up, though, and over the course of the next few weeks sent letters and made enquiries, until finally, perhaps fed up, delivered an ultimatum, that on such and such a date the offer would be withdrawn. ‘So in the end he changed his mind, somewhat at the last minute,’ says Johnnie Planco, who represented O’Toole in America. ‘He had talked to a lot of people, those whose opinions he respected, and they’d said, are you crazy not to do this! So he agreed to attend the ceremony and flew his son Lorcan and his daughter Kate out there. It was a special night.’

  Of course, having left it so late all the best hotels in Los Angeles were booked solid and he ended up staying at the Le Montrose, a popular hangout for musicians just off the Sunset Strip, but not the sort of establishment normally reserved for a star of O’Toole’s
standing.

  The ceremony on 23 March was taking place under controversial circumstances. Just days earlier America had invaded Iraq and several actors had resigned from their roles as presenters citing safety concerns and respect for military families. Broadcaster ABC had even tried to postpone proceedings, but the show went on with thousands of anti-war protesters gathered outside the Kodak Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. None of this seemed to affect O’Toole, who was taking everything in his stride. ‘He had the whole of the Oscar people both at rehearsal and on the night in the palm of his hand,’ confirms Planco. ‘Because he was always so calm. He wasn’t excited about, oh it’s the Oscars! He remained composed and calm the whole evening.’

  There was one tricky moment when he was led into the hospitality room and sauntered over to the bar to ask for a drink. ‘We have lemon juice, apple juice, orange juice, or still or sparkling mineral water.’ O’Toole looked at the barman as if he was speaking a foreign language. ‘No, I want a drink.’ The barman shook his head. The Oscars enforced a strict no-alcohol policy. O’Toole’s face went ashen. ‘All right, I’m fucking off.’ Oscar officials managed to placate the star and a bottle of vodka was smuggled into the building.

  To present the award the Academy had chosen Meryl Streep. The two actors hardly knew each other but their respect for one another’s talent was obvious to see. O’Toole later let slip that as they stood backstage waiting to go on Meryl was desperate for a cigarette. ‘I wanted a joint. In the end I just got the vodka going because she’s a game girl. Likes a drop. The trick at those Oscar awards is to stay sober, because the evening goes on for-ev-er.’

  After an amusing and celebratory speech by Meryl, followed by a montage of film clips, O’Toole walked onto the stage to a standing ovation from the cream of Hollywood. For now all the refusals and denials and recriminations were forgotten. Holding the Oscar in his hand he accepted the honour with grace and class. ‘Always a bridesmaid, never a bride . . . my foot,’ he started. ‘I have my very own Oscar now to be with me till death us do part.’ Mind you, he still had every intention of winning ‘the lovely bugger outright’.

  ONE

  This book starts with a mystery. Just who was Peter O’Toole? Maybe even he didn’t know, or wasn’t telling. Previous biographies and the bulk of written material on the actor name his birth date as 2 August 1932, the place, Connemara, County Galway, in the Republic of Ireland. And that’s the conundrum. I gave up counting the number of people I interviewed for this book who rolled their eyes when I brought up his nationality – ‘He’s not Irish,’ they muttered, ‘I always thought he was born in Leeds.’

  In O’Toole’s own memoir of his early days, Loitering with Intent, published in 1992, the matter of his birth is a rather fuzzy affair, as it names two separate dates and places, one in Ireland in June 1932, and another that August ‘at an accident hospital in England’. His baptism was in England in November of the same year, he writes. How can one person be born twice? you might think. Or did his parents simply forget when the event took place, or merely mislaid his birth certificate, leading to all this confusion? So what is the truth? All it took was one phone call to Leeds City Council births, deaths and marriages to uncover O’Toole’s birth certificate. The man who went through life proudly purporting to be an Irishman was in fact a Yorkshireman, born at the famous St James’s University Hospital, or Jimmy’s, in Leeds, 2 August 1932.

  Does it really matter, though? Certainly to O’Toole it did not, he loved the idea of being Irish (he owned an Irish passport), and once he’d made that identification he wanted it to be very much central to his life. A little phoney perhaps. ‘He used his Irishness, like the good actor he was, to get attention,’ claims his close friend Billy Foyle, but it was also deeply romantic. The truth is it doesn’t really matter where you’re born, O’Toole’s father was Irish, which entitled him to full Irish citizenship. So fabricating some story that you’re born in Ireland, that’s a romance, just like wearing green socks, of varying shades, which he did every day of his life. So too a friend’s memory that on occasions O’Toole would lay on the Irish accent with a trowel, he’d talk about ‘filums’.

  That O’Toole saw himself as more of an Irishman than an Englishman is irrefutable, it accounted for his passion, he liked to say, his intolerance of authority, his artistic inclinations, and of course his love of drinking. ‘He insisted on being Irish,’ says actor Michael Craig. ‘I think it gave him licence to behave the way he did.’ It was to an isolated cottage in Connemara that O’Toole would always retreat. It was his sanctuary. ‘I go to Ireland for a refit, just like a car.’

  Much of this love for Ireland is tied up with his father, unquestionably the single most influential person in O’Toole’s life. Patrick was a real character and his son idolized him, swearing years later that he got his sense of style, showmanship, and sophistication from the man everyone called Captain. One can almost trace O’Toole’s love of performing and theatricality from those days watching his bookmaker dad, dressed all dandy on a stool shouting the odds; the stool was his stage, the racetrack his theatre, the punters his audience. ‘I thought as a boy, this is life lived in public! Life on display! It had an enormous effect on me.’

  When he had money in his pocket Patrick drank and wasn’t averse to picking a scrap with a policeman when sauced. He was also feckless, a real rascal. One day Patrick sat his son up on the mantelpiece. ‘Jump, boy,’ he urged. ‘I’ll catch you. Trust me.’ When Peter jumped his father withdrew his arms leaving his son splattered on the hard stone floor. The lesson: ‘Never trust any bastard.’ One Christmas Eve, Patrick came home rather the worse for wear, with a tatty tree under his arm and assorted packages. An excited Peter, in his pyjamas, came running into the hallway asking if Father Christmas was on his way. Patrick chortled to himself, picked up a brown-paper bag and left the room. There was an almighty bang, a pause, then the reappearance of Patrick with the solemn message that Father Christmas had just shot himself.

  Hailing from Irish stock, Patrick had served an apprenticeship as a metal plater and became a shipyard worker in Sunderland, where his mother ran a pair of second-hand furniture stores. On Saturday afternoons he was often to be found in the stands at Roker Park cheering on Sunderland AFC, a team he came to love and follow all his life. According to former broadcaster and friend Martin Bell, O’Toole once revealed that his father’s ashes were buried under the goal posts at Roker Park, ‘which is probably now a housing estate,’ says Bell, ‘because the team moved to the Stadium of Light.’ Was O’Toole having Bell on, or is there some truth to this claim? Never much of a football fan, his sports were cricket and rugby. When pressed, O’Toole did reveal his love for Sunderland, but gave up supporting the team after the move to the new stadium in the late nineties. ‘Everything they meant to me was when they were at Roker Park.’

  Although the Captain was the apple of his mother’s eye, his refusal to go into the family business caused ripples of bitterness but his independent and adventurous nature could not countenance so mundane a livelihood. It’s why he jacked in his shipbuilding job too, going off instead to play football for a minor professional team. After that he became an itinerant bookie around the racecourses of Ireland and the north of England, an occupation that was illegal at the time. There are stories of him living for a while in Sunderland, on the fringes of the law, and being asked to leave the city by the police. ‘I’m not from the working class,’ O’Toole liked to say. ‘I’m from the criminal class.’

  It was on a racecourse that Patrick met Constance Ferguson, a young nurse. She was enjoying a picnic with friends when Patrick just happened to walk by, got chatting and offered to put a bet on for them. The horse in question came in third and he returned holding their winnings. Constance was seen by many as quite a catch, with wavy black hair that framed attractive and delicate features. Putting on the charm, Patrick left a collection of phone numbers scrawled on bits of paper where she might at certain times reach him and ov
er the next few months they met up, fell in love and married. O’Toole always considered his parents mismatched, but as different as they were they got along and remained steadfastly attached to each other for almost fifty years. Even when their circumstances drastically reduced and money was tight, they never lost their pride and decency or good humour.

  Born in Scotland, Constance was raised by a succession of relatives after the deaths of her parents. Despite this tragedy, O’Toole always remembered his mother as a truly ‘joyful’ person who did more than anyone else to foster a love for literature by reading poetry and stories out loud to him, Dickens, Buchan, Galsworthy and Burns, awakening the imagination that is so vital in any child. ‘My mother was my literary conscience. Her knowledge of literature and language was tremendous. At five I was reciting Border ballads at the drop of a hat. She was my ear. Daddy was the persona.’

  With work prospects bleak in his native Ireland, and now with a young child to support, a daughter called Patricia, Patrick moved permanently to England where, until his death in 1975, he lived a strange kind of self-imposed exile, never setting foot on Irish soil again. And yet he would never hear a bad word said against the place. The family settled into a small rented terraced house in the working-class area of Hunslet, Leeds, a slum of narrow back to back properties, ‘rabbit hutches’, O’Toole called them, with outside loos, cold-water taps and alleyways, all smelly and filthy black from factories, mills and chemical works spewing out their waste. It was said of the place that the crows flew backwards to keep the shit out of their eyes.

  Hunslet had a large population of Irish expatriates, who jostled for space with other immigrants, resulting in the usual human intolerance. ‘The sheenies [a disparaging term for Jews] hated the micks, the micks hated the wops, the wops hated the sheenies,’ O’Toole related. ‘When you’re pressure-cooked into a Catholic slum upbringing, you don’t forget it very easily.’ And while it didn’t mentally scar him, it did turn him into a socialist (though he ended up sending his son to Harrow). The slum clearances of the late 1940s began too late for O’Toole. When he paid the place a visit in the early seventies it had all gone, been completely erased; not a brick from his childhood lay standing.