and I don’t think we ever quite reached it, but the picture was a fascinating exercise in suspense and unspoken threats, all of which the editing assisted. At the time, we had no idea we were working on a classic, which is what The Innocents has become.
I was also able to indulge in some rather cunning dissolves, somewhat influenced by George Stevens’ A Place in the Sun. These would not be simple mixes of equal length. A 4-foot mix is the norm, but these would last 15 or 20 feet, the images gradually merging. I referred to them as lopsided mixes since the overlaps were nonstandard and often there would be a third image in there too, so these mixes were like mini montages. I didn’t always get them right the first time, and the optical house had its problems, but the results were very pleasing to Jackand myself.
We were also much helped by the music which Georges Auric wrote for the picture and a splendidly atmospheric effects track that sound editor Peter Musgrave created. He was one of the first to use electronic effects. We all thought these were inspired at the time, adding the necessary accompaniment to Miss Gidden’s night prowl, but when heard now they sound oddly anachronistic, putting the film firmly into the late sixties, away from the Edwardian period that had been so carefully created.
I also recall that Twentieth Century Fox, who paid for the picture, seemed quite disinterested in it, much to Jack’s annoyance. I don’t think they ever previewed it. Maybe Jack’s contract disallowed that. There was a lot of anguish over the end of the picture, when the boy Miles dies in Miss Gidden’s arms. Jack was quite prone to agonising over scenes if he was uncertain of them, and we would run them over and over again, hardly changing a frame, until he felt reconciled to the sequence.
There were difficult days when I had become exhausted by the material, finally getting bored with trying to please Jack, and he was perhaps thinking that I didn’t care enough. His mood became extremely dark, and he was hard to live with. One incident, haunted me for years: When the film was completed and was to be shown to the magazine critics at the Fox preview theatre in Soho Square, Jack was much too nervous to attend and sent me and Jeanie along to report back to him about the critics’ reactions. The screening was held up for half an hour due to problems that a physically handicapped lady critic, Freda Bruce Lockhart, was having with her wheelchair. Since she was a much-respected figure, we delayed the screening until she arrived, thus making us late with our phone call to Jack, who was waiting at the studio. After the show, which was clearly successful, we went to the nearest pub with John and Penelope Mortimer, and Jeanie went to the phone to call Jack with the good news. She returned looking pale. Jack had been very unpleasant because she should have made the call at least thirty minutes earlier. He was going crazy, feeling like a prisoner in a condemned cell and gave her a terrible ticking off. We all commiserated with her and went our ways. The following day, Jack did not turn up at the studio as planned. Jeanie called me to his office, where a large-scale model of Bly house made of white plaster had sat for many months. It now lay in a mass of shattered pieces all over the office. Jack had smashed it to smithereens in his anger the previous night. When he did turn up, he refused to talk to either of us. The rift was healed gradually, but in some ways our relationship was never quite the same. I thought it was all frightfully unjust and became wary of him. I think I rather despised him for refusing to attend the screening, though he might have been right about that. Critics don’t normally like the director to be around when they view his work. Perhaps it should have taught me a lesson. I had become too close to Jack and had, perhaps, transcended the boundary that should exist between director and editor. This is in some ways a master and slave relationship, and although I had never tried to impose my own will on his material, perhaps he felt he had, in some way, lost his own picture. His only way to protect himself was by lashing out, not at me, but at some object close at hand. In spite of this, he asked me to work on his next picture, The Pumpkin Eater, which was only two years down the pike. A surprisingly short gap for Jack.
Charade
It was during the final stages of The Innocents that Stanley Donen went into production on his next picture, a romantic comedy thriller, Charade. It had been written for London, but at the eleventh hour there were some tax problems concerning the principal actors and the whole thing was moved to the Studio de Boulogne in Paris.
Charade had Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn in the lead roles and an excellent list of supporting actors. The screenplay was good and the actors well cast. Walter Matthau, James Coburn, and George Kennedy all went on to become leading Hollywood stars.
It was a film with a slender story but masses of style and Peter Stone, one of the two writers, was on set all the time to alter dialogue if Cary required it. Peter had previously written for television but had no film production experience and he wanted to learn how movies were made. He also helped keep the atmosphere light. There was great camaraderie on the set between Stanley, Peter, Cary, and Audrey. She had no faults at all. In fact, it was a very smooth production, largely due to Jimmy Ware’s outstanding ability as an organiser in both languages.
Stanley had a very light touch as a director. He allowed the actors to do their thing and only interfered if it was vital. We never socialised with the actors unless they requested it. In France it was a ritual to throw a drinks party on the set every Friday after shooting, hosted by one of the actors. We celebrated Cary Grant’s sixtieth birthday on the set. At the end of shooting, Cary and Audrey gave each crew member a small gift.
The editing would be done in Paris during shooting and then move on to London for completion, so it was necessary for me to leave Bourne End and my children and stay in a hotel on the Left Bank in Paris for the duration of the shoot.
Due to French crewing requirements, it was necessary to have a French editor on board, who wouldn’t edit, but would act as my assistant. I was not against this, but I stipulated that a man who spoke tolerable English would be preferable to a woman, having recently had problems with Mary Kessel on The Innocents. Mary, who was a good few years older than I, was always attempting to mother me, which was extremely trying. It seemed as if I could do nothing unless she approved. She also hero worshipped both Stanley and Jack, which upset me, and one day I said something to her which was, perhaps, a bit rough. The next I knew, she was out the door, saying she’d arranged for a replacement. Shortly afterward Jack Clayton called and asked where she was so I told him the story. He then contacted her and persuaded her back, though it was hardly his business. She returned and Jack sent bouquets of flowers to the cutting room. I was mortified and our relationship, which had lasted for years, was now completely over. I decided a change would be necessary on the next film.
After a few attempts, the French production office failed to secure a male editor, but finally came up with a female, who they said spoke good English and would on no account try to mother me or take over the editing. So, without meeting her, I reluctantly told the office to offer her the job, figuring it would only be for the three-month shooting period.
I settled into the hotel over a weekend. It had been arranged that the French lady editor would pick me up and drive me out to the Studio de Boulogne, since I had no car and was unfamiliar with public transportation in Paris. I also spoke very little French. So on the Monday morning the editor was there waiting for me. I recognised her at once as the same girl who had stood me up some years before on Once More with Feeling. It was Laurence Méry. Of course she claimed not to remember the incident, but I was certain it was her. In fact Laurence says that when she first saw me descending the staircase of the Lennox she said to herself, “Thank heaven he’s young!”
I started on the first day of photography, along with my crew. I had a Moviola shipped over from England since I did not want to edit on the French machine, the Mauritone, though it did have a great screen and we often used it for viewing rushes and cut scenes.
There was a sense of fun pervading the enterprise that made us all feel good. The hours were long for the editing staff because the picture was being shot according to French union rules. Shooting began at noon and continued without a break until eight in the evening, when the
