Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow: My Life Page 10

  VI

  CARY’S ROSES

  HAPPY THOUGHTS

  My first personal encounter with American cinema was in the smile of Cary Grant—his elegance, his light footstep. How many other women had wished to be in my shoes? And instead it happened to me, to me with all my insecurities, my past, my yearning to improve myself. I had to show everyone that I was up to the great opportunity of working with this international star. To me, it felt like a responsibility, like a duty that had to be honored to the very end. No more, no less. So, when the time came, I put aside my fears, rolled up my sleeves, and got down to work.

  Before I got the role to appear with Cary in The Pride and the Passion, Carlo had started to receive offers from other countries for me. He had gone to Los Angeles and sent me a telegram from there, as simple and to the point as a father might be.

  “Sophia, if you want to conquer America, then you’re going to have to learn English.”

  While he was dictating that to his secretary, he was already on the phone with the woman who was going to make this possible, the legendary language coach Sarah Spain.

  “Miss Spain, this is Ponti. What are your plans for the next few months?” practically ambushing the poor thing, without giving her a chance to answer. “Miss Loren absolutely must learn English: she has to get to the point that she can think, eat, dream in English. Live in English, as if she’d been born in Dublin, or in New York. You will be her shadow, you will be beside her every second of the day, taking advantage of every opportunity.”

  “But I . . .”

  “Please, don’t say no. Whatever it is you were supposed to do instead, get out of it. We start bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  Sarah was Irish and spoke with a gentle lilt. A plump brunette, she seemed to roll, rather than walk. After a moment’s bewilderment, she accepted the ambitious job and took up Ponti’s request to the letter. This woman wasn’t a teacher, she was a persecutor. She would arrive on the set—it was September 1955 and we were making Lucky to Be a Woman—two hours before makeup, she’d follow me around from one break to another, she’d eat with me, and in the evening she’d accompany me back home. Whenever I’d stop to chat with Marcello or with Blasetti, she’d drag me away without compassion. “Sophia, come along. Take a look at this, what do you think of that? Would you like a coffee? What about your next film?” Marcello would shrug, wink at me and grin. “If it has to be done, it has to be done. There’s nothing you can really do about it.”

  Sarah started out teaching me grammar, continued with literature by T. S. Eliot and George Bernard Shaw, and included cartoons and songs, magazines, and newspapers. We read the New York Times, Vogue, Shakespeare, Mickey Mouse comic strips, Jane Austen, and Little Women. We listened to Frank Sinatra and Louis Armstrong, we learned George Gershwin’s and Cole Porter’s lyrics by heart, we discussed clothing, hairstyles, food, and current affairs. We painstakingly went over every single technical term on the set, from the lights to “Take One” to “Action.” And we also watched every single movie I’d seen as a child so that I could become familiar with the different accents of the stars I’d loved so much. How odd to hear them speak with their real voices, after having grown up listening to the Italian dubbers. The tone of their voices could range so much, from kind to sarcastic, so different from the stiff tone of some of the Italian dubbers, who had done a superb job anyway. Although it did confuse me, I was tickled by it, too.

  Sarah never left my side and I followed her around both tamely and stubbornly. I was lucky to have a good ear for languages. I did my homework diligently, improving day by day, and yet it wasn’t enough. Because, meanwhile, something had happened that seemed like a miracle to me. And we all know that miracles don’t have the patience to wait.

  Carlo had found out that Stanley Kramer, the producer of High Noon, was in Spain where preparations were being made to shoot a costume drama on the Napoleonic Wars. Originally, Marlon Brando and Ava Gardner were supposed to star in it. But Marlon had backed out and was replaced by Sinatra. But Frank was on the outs with Ava . . . In other words, it was the usual Hollywood mess. The only sure thing was that Cary Grant would be in it, but by contract he had the right to approve his partners. And no way was he going to be content working with some unknown actress, let alone an Italian one.

  As usual, Carlo wasn’t discouraged by anything that got in the way of his plans. He called Kramer and invited him to Rome in order to show him Woman of the River. As soon as the viewing ended, the director made him an offer, taking him by surprise.

  “How does two hundred thousand dollars sound for Miss Loren? I think she’d be perfect for the part.”

  Carlo let a few seconds go by, and then answered standoffishly: “Interesting, let me think about it, I have to look at her schedule, but in principle, I’d say yes, I think it can be done.”

  “It was the easiest decision of my life,” he remarked that evening, as we waited for Stanley to join us for dinner. It was the amount of money you’d offer a star. Now it was just a question of my earning it.

  After the contract was signed in late December, the United Artists machine got moving. It was early 1956, Cortina d’Ampezzo in the Dolomitic Alps was hosting the Winter Olympics and Montecarlo was preparing for Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly’s wedding. Just a couple of months later Arthur Miller and Marilyn Monroe would marry. The Soviet Union was starting to crack with the unrest in its Eastern European satellites. In Italy the ground was being broken for the Autostrada del Sole, the major highway that would take eight years to build and eventually connect Milan with Naples via Bologna, Florence, and Rome. The world was changing quickly, and I was ready to face it.

  In February I left to reconnoiter Spain and to meet my costars in The Pride and the Passion. What a surprise when I landed at Madrid’s Barajas airport—I was greeted by five hundred fans shouting “Guapa! Guapa!” (Beautiful!) In Madrid I also met Lucia Bosè, the absolute legend of my youth when she was at the height of her fame in Italian neorealist films, and her charming husband Luis Miguel Dominguín, the great matador. To welcome me, they had organized a special visit to an arena, and what better company with whom to leap into the world of bullfighting? An outing among friends, a bit of time spent together, the chance to take some interesting pictures.

  It was a clear winter afternoon when the Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas, bathed in sunlight, loomed up before me. They had given me a torera outfit to wear, and with the recklessness of a twenty-one-year-old, I had the crazy idea of going down into the arena by myself. I felt indomitable, as if my clothes were enough to protect me. At that point, Dominguín, maybe just to be funny, let the bull out of its pen. In the space of a few seconds, as that black cloud thundered in my direction ready to gore me, I was overcome by a mixture of excitement and fear I’ll never forget. Dominguín, who may have been a joker, but who could also smell danger, jumped down into the ruedo, the arena, and dragged me away. Short of breath, covered in dust, I looked at him, laughing, totally unaware of the great risk I had run.

  For the last part of the corrida, the suerte suprema, I took shelter in the callejόn, where the bullfighters prepare for the fight, under the spectators’ stand, and left the scene to him. As I watched the spectacle, I recalled all the times that, as a child, I’d seen Blood and Sand, and forced whoever had accompanied me to the Sacchini theater that day—Mammina or maybe Zia Dora—to stay there and watch that movie as many as two or three times. I’d fallen hopelessly in love with Tyrone Power, and at night I’d fall asleep thinking about Doña Sol des Muire, played by Rita Hayworth, and her beautiful face and hair.

  My childhood always resurfaced to touch my heartstrings. Even now that I’d found my own way I remembered what I’d been like when, in between hunger and the war, without a father to guide me, all that was left for me to do was dream. Little “Sofia Stuzzicadenti” (“Toothpick”), with her problems and her daydreams, has always lived inside me, reminding me, yesterday and today, not to take anything fo
r granted. This has been my greatest fortune, because it has enabled me to be happy each and every day for all the wonderful things I’ve been able to do, to measure the great distance I’ve come. A fairy tale loses its magic without real life, and the opposite is true, too. The most beautiful thing is to be able to walk in between, without ever having to forgo either the one or the other.

  Although I had managed to survive a bull, the biggest challenge still lay ahead. In April, at the Castellana Hotel in Madrid, a huge American-style cocktail party was held to present the movie to the press and introduce me to Frank Sinatra and Cary Grant. I have to admit I’d never been so nervous in my life. I changed my dress eight times, tried out eleven different hairstyles, got in and out of heels of all different heights, finding no peace. As I put on my makeup I went over my lines with Sarah, who pretended she was Cary, then Frank, then the reporters ready to pounce on me and catch me off guard. She assailed me with questions, which I tried to answer appropriately: “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. Grant . . . I’m looking forward to working with you, Frank . . . Sure, I love singing . . . No, it’s my first time in Madrid. Yes, of course you’re right, my English is still sort of shaky but it’s getting better every day . . . I beg your pardon? Oh, yes, I definitely enjoy eating paella.” I focused on the English and thought about the two living legends I was about to meet. I would have been in awe of them even if they’d been from Naples. My legs were shaking and I desperately searched inside myself to find the right expression to wear with them. The good thing was they gave me all the time I needed to get ready. Cary showed up two hours late, Frank nearly four, by which time we thought he’d never show up at all.

  The room was teeming with reporters and photographers, and only English was spoken—with all kinds of accents. I understood about a fourth of what I was asked, making up for it with an equally wide range of smiles, alternating my sweet smile with my sexy one, my mysterious one with the one that said I was confident. Photo-romances paled in comparison!

  When I finally saw Cary’s unmistakable profile standing out against the door, I thought I’d faint. Our moment had finally come. I tried to muster the courage I needed and approached him, feigning a nonchalance that I didn’t at all have. His tuxedo with the shiny lapels, his slightly graying hair, his elegant ways took my breath away. He looked as though he’d just stepped down from the screen, a dream come true. “E io che ce faccio ccà?” (What on earth am I doing here?), I asked myself as our eyes met. “Mo me ne fuje . . .” (I need to get out of here now).

  Too late. He held out his hand, looking at me with a pinch of mischief:

  “Miss Lolloloren, I presume? Or is it Miss Lorenigida? You Italians have such strange last names I can’t seem to get them straight.”

  It was a good line, of course, but those days everyone was talking about our rivalry, and I was very annoyed by it. It embarrassed me, and made the situation seem more difficult. “Chist’ nun se po’ suppurta’” (I can’t stand this guy), I thought to myself.

  But suddenly, I was overcome by the urge to laugh, so I laughed. All dressed up for the cocktail party, I chose the simplest road: to act the way I was, and not play the part of the star. I liked looking Cary over, looking at him eye to eye, not missing out on those genteel gestures, the way he bent his head to one side while he eyed you with intelligent attention. I got to know him, to appreciate his sense of humor, I knew how to make him smile.

  Who wouldn’t have been bowled over by Cary Grant? It was the start of a great friendship, a special partnership. Later, when we were on the set for The Pride and the Passion for six very long months, we’d have time to let fall our mannerisms as stars, and show our more authentic sides.

  In the movie, which takes place in Spain during the Napoleonic Era, the Spanish forces are British allies, and they have had to abandon an enormous cannon. A British naval captain (played by Cary) wants to recover it for Britain, but the leader of the Spanish guerrillas (Frank) wants to transport it 600 miles to fight the French at Ávila. So we, too, crossed the mountainous area of Castilla y León, from Segovia to Salamanca, from Burgos to Palencia, in pursuit of the cannon, the real star of the movie. The crew numbered four hundred including technicians, stagehands, actors, and even military consultants. No box-office success was ever going to repay the production for all the money it was spending. Around the three main characters—Grant, Sinatra, and me—was a whole sea of extras to stage the great pitched battles of the drama. We and 3,685 soldiers—or so the annals say—spent the last few weeks under the strong walls of Ávila, as we waited to breach and capture it. These were hardworking conditions. It was very hot and the set was chaotic, bristling with confusion. It reminded me of the set of Quo Vadis at Cinecittà, and also brought back memories of that emotion and impotence I’d felt as a debutante at her first test. I tried not to let my mind wander, to focus as much as possible on my part, and everyone was surprised at my resilience and good mood.

  Sinatra was delightful, kindhearted, and fun-loving, even though he was still in pain over Ava Gardner, and so not exactly in the best of moods. On the outside he joked around, but inside he was suffering. He teased me in a mild-mannered way, and he pampered my sister, Maria, who’d joined me and was harboring the dream of becoming a singer. He’d try to trick me into making mistakes in English, which was still shaky, telling me that some obscene expression was instead an elegant phrase. He never sang while on the set, but in his dressing room he had a huge collection of classical music, ranging from Bach to Beethoven, from Verdi to Scarlatti. He introduced me to the music of Ella Fitzgerald, who he believed was the greatest singer of all time, and he opened wide the doors of jazz for me. He was irascible and generous, unpredictable and sincere, and he kept me company a lot of the time.

  But it was the much more reserved Cary who really won me over, with his good manners and zest for life. The first time he invited me out to dinner I thought I hadn’t understood correctly, so I asked: “You and me? Out for dinner? Are you sure?” What could he possibly have seen in me, a very young Italian woman who could hardly speak English and was less than half his age? And what were we going to talk about all evening? But he was unfazed. “Yes, darling, you and me, out for dinner.”

  He’d bought a flaming red MG—his every desire on the set became an order—and we raced it around the gently rolling Spanish countryside. It was a magical evening, a timeless one, during which we chatted the way old friends do, inebriated by the fragrance of the late spring. He told me things about himself and about filmmaking, but lightheartedly.

  “Hollywood is a simple fairy tale; if you understand that, you’ll never get hurt.” At dinner, he rattled off comments on the dishes we’d ordered.

  I was charmed by his dry wit, his wisdom, affectionate manner, his experience. I would learn a great deal just by watching the way he approached life and his work.

  We started spending more and more time together. I, just twenty-two years old, was often confused by a life that was going much too fast. He, at fifty-two, had lived a lot and suffered a lot, too, although it appeared as though he had everything. Cary told me his story, with both reserve and emotion. He was on his third marriage. He’d already had an outstanding career and would have many successes still to come. But he had had a difficult childhood. His older brother had died when he was still a child and his mother had never gotten over his death. She had slowly slipped into madness.

  “One day, I must have been about ten, I got home and she wasn’t there,” Cary said. “Father told me she’d died, but the truth is he’d had her put away in an asylum. I only found out years later . . . and from that day on I went to visit her every chance I got.”

  His painful story touched me. I tried to imagine, behind his refined, mature appearance, that small boy faced with a tragedy that he couldn’t possibly understand. When I begged him to continue, he searched for the words to go on.

  “He sent me to an excellent boarding school, but I wasn’t really interested in studyi
ng. What I wanted was a family.”

  He found one in a company of acrobats directed by a man named Bob Pender, who was both a teacher and a father to him. Grant ran away from school to travel around England with Pender, learning the art of the circus and vaudeville, finally ending up in New York City. By the time he got there he knew how to move, on stage and out in the world, with all the adroitness of a tightrope walker. After working on Broadway, and cleaning up his blue-collar Bristol accent—a lot like I had done with my Pozzuoli, Neapolitan accent—he went to Hollywood and was hired by Paramount. That’s when he changed his name from Archie Leach to Cary Grant.

  As our familiarity continued to grow, Cary showed me his vulnerable side, which so resembled my own. The George Cukor and Frank Capra comedies he’d starred in only let you get a glimpse of him behind the sophisticated wit. Maybe he’d found in me a person with whom he could express the deepest part of himself. “Tell me more,” I’d say, as he would confide in me, but he’d often avoid going deeper and go back to his joking. He was, after all, Cary Grant, and he had a reputation to uphold. Maybe he felt too vulnerable to completely trust someone. Nonetheless, both of us realized that the feeling between us was beginning to be laced with love, and, for different reasons, we were scared.

  I was very much involved with Carlo, who had become my home and my family, even though he already had a family, and it wasn’t clear when we’d be able to get married and live together in broad daylight. And Cary was married to Betsy Drake, his third wife, who came and went from the set, although their relationship had been faltering for a long time.

  When Betsy decided to return to America for the last time, she set sail from Genoa on the Andrea Doria. The ocean liner sank off the coast of Nantucket and forty-six passengers lost their lives. Betsy, luckily, lost only her jewelry, but Cary couldn’t leave the set to join her, so he lavished all his attentions on me.