Close-Up

‘“A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”’

It was very good, and Stone was smart enough to follow it with a moment’s silence while he searched his pockets for a cigarette.

‘You’ve talked with Edgar?’ Stone offered me a cigarette.

‘Yesterday.’

‘He was with me when I did Last Vaquero.’

‘So he said.’

‘He had that business with the girl… did he tell you?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was rotten luck. And Edgar is a sweet man.’

‘He said it spoiled his chance in Last Vaquero.’

‘He played the thief.’

‘Was he in the running for the lead?’

Stone gave a good-natured chuckle. ‘Did he say that?’

‘He told me he had a chance at the lead, except that Bookbinder was frightened of the scandal when the girl committed suicide.’

‘He’s wonderful, that Edgar,’ Stone shook his head. ‘By the way, the girl didn’t die. I mean, she did die some years later in a traffic accident, but she didn’t die because of the abortion.’

‘Who was she?’

Stone lit his cigarette. ‘Some actress or other – starlet, I should say – she’d never had a part in a film or anything.’

‘Did Edgar meet her in Hollywood?’

Stone inhaled and blew smoke before replying. When he did, his voice was icy and almost menacing. For the first time I saw the dangerous quality that all actors must have if they are to be really good. This coilspring of repressed violence had seen many a bad film through reels of dull dialogue. ‘Don’t let’s pry into Edgar’s life,’ he said.

I turned the page of my notebook and decided to press on with the nuts and bolts. I said, ‘In a TV interview some years ago you said that a star should stop acting altogether rather than do character roles as he gets older. Do you still think that?’

‘A star has the vehicle built round him. He faces very different problems if he becomes part of building a film around another actor. Is that terribly vain?’ He gripped my arm tight enough to hurt. There was nothing homosexual about such Hollywood caresses; they were intended to get undivided attention, and Stone used them expertly.

‘No,’ I said.

‘If I was no longer playing leads – and luckily I’m having as many offers today as I ever had – but if I wasn’t getting leads, yes, I would stop acting.’

‘What would you do?’

‘Sail. I’d sail around the world, like Chichester or Knox-Johnson. A man only discovers himself when he’s alone with the elements.’

‘I didn’t know you were a sailor.’ I knew he had a motor-cruiser – that was mandatory equipment for all superstars; I’d seen it at Cannes during the festivals – but his enthusiasm for sailing was a new aspect of Marshall Stone.

‘I sailed alone across the Atlantic,’ he said indignantly. ‘I’m prouder of that than of any film I’ve made.’

‘Which route did you take?’

‘Shannon to Port of Spain, except that I got lost and had to swim ashore to ask where I was.’

‘And where were you?’

‘St Kitts.’

‘Not bad.’

‘Seven degrees error.’

‘When was this?’

‘Nineteen forty-six. A couple of years later I went to the States. It was forty-eight that Kagan Bookbinder gave me the part in Last Vaquero.’

‘I’ve never seen the voyage used in your publicity.’

‘It means too much to me, to have it used like that. You know what sort of biogs these publicity chaps dream up.’

‘They sent me yours this morning.’

He laughed. ‘Well, there you are.’

‘You won’t mind if I use the sailing story?’

‘I don’t know, Peter, it’s a very personal thing.’

‘So is a biography, Marshall.’

‘You’re right! OK, but use it soberly. I mean, don’t make it sound as though I’ve scaled Everest alone or something.’

Stone told Sam Parnell that looping would end for the day and one of Stone’s men helped him into his jacket, adjusted his handkerchief and held a comb and mirror for him. Stone nodded to tell me to go.

The biography could begin with the yacht. Far from the shipping routes a young actor, fresh from minor roles on the London stage, reviews his life so far.

The mountaineer, explorer and the lone sailor show a dogged indifference to hardship and privation. They also persevere in the face of a high probability of failure. These qualities they share with the actor. There were other things I liked about the lone yachtsman beginning: the sea and the stars, the nautical analogies and the man navigating through the dangerous shoals (of Hollywood?). Well, that might be too corny even for an actor’s biography.

I put away my notebook and thanked Marshall. His eyes were his most powerful asset, he could momentarily hypnotize a person he faced. He must have known this, for I suspect now that he held my hands in that vice-like grip of his only in order that I should not escape his gaze. For, at the moment when Stone took your hand, there was nothing in the world for him except you. A million volts of superstar surged through you and even the most hardened cynic could become a fluttering fan.

Most of the people working in the industry are fans. Not only directors, producers and actors, but the wardrobe workers, grips and sparks are all under the spell of the golden screen. Perhaps films would be better if more of the crew were the hard-nosed cynics that the audience have become, but they are not. At any première you will see the crews, dolled up in their best suits and sequined dresses, gawking at the celebrities as pop-eyed as school kids.

That was the way it was at the European première of Tigertrap. They all knew that it hadn’t impressed the Americans. The New York Press gave it a terrible roasting. Yet in Leicester Square the policemen were holding back the crowds as the Rolls-Royce cars arrived.