Laurence Olivier talks about life, acting and Vivien Leigh
The appointment is for 3 o'clock. Exactly two minutes after the hour a white Bentley wheels around the corner of an elegant block of town houses in London's Chelsea district. The two men inside wave encouragement at the reporter vainly ringing the bell at the first house in the row. While his chauffeur is unlocking the door, the passenger, who is also the owner of the house, murmurs apologies. "My dear fellow, I'm so sorry. Were you waiting long? I was having lunch with my agent, and I had a drink, which I'm not supposed to do." An elderly gentleman in gray-green country tweeds and brown suede shoes, he rolls his eyes, as if he is sharing a dark and wicked secret, and wraps his visitor in a furry mantle of charm. Even on a first encounter, Laurence Olivier has, as one of his friends observes, a gift of intimacy.
Leading the way up a flight of stairs lined with old theatrical prints, he enters his study, a warm and comfortable room, and slowly settles onto a couch, elevating his legs to minimize the effects of phlebitis. A portrait of a pretty dark-haired woman hangs on one wall; that is Joan Plowright, his third wife and companion of 21 years, painted when she was playing Masha in Chekhov's The Three Sisters, which Olivier directed. Next to one of the windows is a huge picture of a young man dressed in Romeo's tights. He is impossibly handsome, with a long-lashed, almost feminine beauty. More striking still is the look in his eye: assured, confident and fiercely determined to ascend to the heights.
And that is the peak on which Lord Olivier finds himself now, nearly 50 years after he posed for the artist. The first actor to be elevated to the peerage in the 600-year history of the House of Lords, he has so many honors that even he sometimes seems to choke on the incense. At 75 he has decided it is time to blow away some of the smoke and tell his own story. His autobiography, which he aptly titles Confessions of an Actor, Laurence Olivier, came out in Britain in October and will be published in the U.S. next month (Simon & Schuster; $16.95). Sometimes embarrassingly frank, other times disappointingly discreet, it is, from beginning to end, always Olivier. He turned down would-be collaborators, like the late Critic Kenneth Tynan, and began work with a ghost. But after talking into a tape recorder for 30 or 40 hours, he took charge, as he usually does, and wrote everything himself. Now, on this chilly fall day, he has come in from the country to talk about his life and what he calls "my damned book."
Neither one is a subject he much enjoys discussing, it might be added. Although unfailingly polite, he makes it clear that there are some subjects he does not like to talk about. He does not, for example, have many grand theories about acting, and he thinks that those who do, like the late Lee Strasberg, director of the Actors Studio, are phonies. "I heard him lecture twice," he says, "and his students sat, mouths agape, drinking in every word as if it was a veritable theory founded on long experience. It was no such thing."