vanished. Dick contains what must be white-hot fury under a bright-eyed calm. We continue to wait … and wait. Dick says if they don’t arrive by three thirty, forget it, because he won’t try to crowd the showing into the time available before the theatre is booked for another film.
We wait some more, Pierre’s sister brings coffee, we drink it in silence, I deliver a brief lecture on the manners of film producers, and Dick nods with gritted teeth – much more delay and he’ll burst.
At the last minute Alex and Ilya arrive, in trench coats, Alex apologising profusely and Ilya shaking his head. Coffee finished, Dick cocks an eye and asks: “Are we all … reddee?”, and we take our seats, myself at the end of the back row, well away from massed Salkinds with Dick in their midst. He must be a masochist; sitting beside Michel le Grand with a heavy cold is bad enough, but how he’s going to cope with Alex’s stertorous breathing and muttered translations of English into French via Russian, I hate to think.
Dick, using what I imagine is an age-old Hollywood formula, makes a nice little set speech from his seat, telling us the form: we’ll see the movie, and think a while, and then exchange views, right? Enthusiastic grunts from Alex, frowning malignantly from the depths of his trench coat (this is his “concentration” expression) and the film rolls.
Well, my first reaction is one of disappointment.* The overall direction is vintage Fleischer, and Jack Cardiff’s photography is immaculate as always, but some of the acting isn’t that good, and I’m not all that struck with some of my screenplay, either – but in self-defence there are lines I’d have played differently. But the main fault, dwarfing any others, is in the casting: Mark just isn’t right for the parts. Now and then he sounds like a school-play rehearsal – and yet sometimes that crack-voiced boyish intensity hits exactly the right note. It’s not his fault; it’s simply not his role – for one thing, he’s far too tall, six feet if he’s an inch.
Harrison’s reduction aside, I’m annoyed that the editor has dropped the long shot of Henry dying, which I liked because it was historically accurate and rather moving, with the whispered “Monks, monks, monks!” and the haunting music of “The Hunt is Up” coming in softly, and substituted a jarring close shot in which Charlton’s head drops alarmingly, and he does a great slump.†
Borgnine is excellent … I think – is he too much, with that mad glint? – Olly as good as always, Heston v. good, and the most believable Henry I’ve ever seen, Raleigh’s tyrant to the life; he manages something which I wouldn’t have thought Heston could have done, namely, make my eyes moist. Lalla Ward gives Young Bess the message, on all cylinders. George Scott looks even better the second time.
Surprisingly, the scene at the stocks between Olly and Raquel plays well, possibly helped by Korngold’s music, which Dick has used for the nonce. I rewrote the scene, on request, but the principals liked the original better. Mark’s finest hour is his “They shall have right” speech, which he does superbly, with Olly reacting perfectly – that whole sequence, beside a dreary river in half-light, is Jack Cardiff photography at its wondrous best.
Westminster Abbey has got out of control – long pauses, Mark looking serene, Raquel doing her damnedest with that bloody Great Seal – I hate the sequence, always did, gave them what they asked for against my better judgment, and it doesn’t work.
They haven’t shot the last fight, by the way, which is as well; I had doubts at the time, and we’re better without it. So Dick won his battle with the producers, the Abbey set wasn’t rebuilt, tons of cotton and beetroot found a happy home, and Eddie Fowlie and his workers were spared a maddening job.
Lovely finish to the film, with Rex speaking the end pieces and Lalla Ward sweeping off to take care of England, and looking as though she’s just the girl to do it, too.
Worst mistake – taking most of Harrison out. He could give the thing just the lift it needs. My overall judgment: it could go either way, good or bad, probably on the bad side. I’m a harsh critic, and it may be better than I think. But I doubt if we’ll have a hit. Respectable at the box office, perhaps, but no better. And yet, who knows? I had serious doubts about the M3, and how wrong I was.
Dead silence when the lights go up. Salkind murmurings, comments like “Yes … very good … Yes …” (At least no one gives the ultimate thumbs down of “Great locations”.*) I move behind Dick and say “Well done”, and he says thanks. He’s disappointed at their reaction, but he probably expected to be. Talk of restoring Harrison, which will mean cuts. I make the case for keeping Scott and Young Bess intact, and Dick agrees.
Some time later, in Paris, I hear that Harrison is to be restored, thank God. Ilya tells me the feeling is that Rex put bags of pathos and oomph into the thing, and that his removal would cut out all the good emotion. He then horrifies me by wanting to remove Lalla Ward’s final magnificent exit, his reasoning being who the hell knows about Queen Elizabeth I anyway, and look at the state of the pound, for Christ’s sake. They want to fake in some appalling nonsense of two hands shaking, indicating friendship and love or something equally bizarre and meaningless. I suspect Ilya of froggy prejudice against English history. I tell him he’s mad – that America at least knows about Good Queen Bess, even if the garlic-eaters don’t, and the final shot will not be lost on them. But he insists.
Fleischer says that over his dead body will they cut the Bess finale, and even Ilya agrees that it should stay for the British version. Fair enough, I don’t really mind what they show in Venezuela, although I think it’s a damned shame if it isn’t kept for the US version too.
The Bess finale was retained, and a curious medallion-like decoration was also inserted, showing two hands shaking, which did no harm if it did no good. The film took a critical pasting in Britain, one reviewer apparently taking offence at the Ruffler’s attitude to religion. I’ve heard of weird, but that’s ridiculous. However, it was better received in the United States, where it was called Crossed Swords, God alone knows why. Mark Twain’s title wasn’t deemed right for American audiences? But the change of title didn’t keep the audiences away, and the film achieved a rare distinction. Radio City Music Hall was to close, and for the final week Crossed Swords was chosen as being a good family film. Result: it ran for six weeks, and Radio City Music Hall stayed open.
The screenwriting credit on the picture was unique in my experience. The authors of the first script, none of which was used, were credited with “original screenplay”, and I with “final screenplay”.
* The talented artist who painted jackets for all the Flashman novels, using himself as a model. For Flashman at the Charge , where our hero was seen in fur hat brandishing a sabre, Arthur had got his wife to photograph him flourishing a walking-stick with a tea-cosy on his head. He and Rex Harrison were lifelong friends, both being Liverpudlians and fellow-students.
* For those who may wonder what this means, in Bing Crosby musicals the scripts simply noted “Bing sings” – two words representing several minutes of screen time.
* The meeting with Lancaster, and discussion of Crimson Pirate II, eventually took place in Hollywood, and is described in a subsequent chapter.
* Leslie Halliwell’s verdict: “Moderately well-made swashbuckler with an old-fashioned air, not really helped
