Merry Christmas! Preparations have been well under way in the Retro Movie Buff household for several days. In between movie marathons and mince pies, I’ve been dipping into David Niven’s autobiography, The Moon’s a Balloon—a book practically brimming with good cheer.
The star of Around the World in 80 Days, A Matter of Life and Death, The Guns of Navarone and one of my favourite Christmas films, The Bishop’s Wife, Niven was a Commando during the Second World War, a raconteur, wit, one of the quickest improvisers in Oscars history and quite possibly the most English man ever to make it in Hollywood.
After a stint in the army and various odd jobs, Niven decided to try his hand at acting. Stardom didn’t immediately beckon and he found work as an extra. Despite a bad screen test, director Edmund Goulding (of Grand Hotel fame) thought he showed promise and convinced producer Samuel Goldwyn to give Niven a contract.
At last he was offered his first substantial part, in A Feather in Her Hat, directed by Al Santell at Columbia. I’ll let Niven tell the rest:
“I was employed to play a long and difficult scene in a big party sequence. Leo, the poet, was my character.
The party had been in full swing for some time with much build up towards the arrival of Leo, the poet.
‘I wish Leo would come, he’ll liven it up,’ etc., etc.
Finally, all gaiety and light, I had to burst in through a door and for at least three minutes, I was supposed, single-handed, to raise the whole tempo of the party, with a wise-crack here and a kiss there. The scene was in a continuous shot with the camera on a rail moving with me from group to group.
The ‘extras’ on the set, some hundred or so, were Dress Extras [extras professional and well-heeled enough to own their own costumes]. Stuart Hall [an extra and friend of Niven’s] was there full of encouragement but most of the others were of the highly critical ‘would-be star’ category. It was an appallingly difficult scene and I hadn’t slept all night for anxiety…
I waited around in an agony of apprehension till finally, I was sent for to do the scene. Santell was kindness and patience itself and walked me gently through many rehearsals but still I couldn’t relax.
This was my big chance but I was rigid with terror.
‘Okay, Dave, let’s take a crack at it – do it just like that last rehearsal – that was just fine.’
Miserable and sweating, I stood outside the door and listened to the happy sounds of the party inside. After an eternity, a red light glowed – my signal to burst in.
I did. My toe caught in the track and I nearly fell over. I bumped into a dowager in a chair; I spilled somebody else’s drink and said all the wrong lines to the wrong people but somehow, I staggered to the end.
Everyone on the set applauded.
I couldn’t believe my ears. Santell rushed up.
‘Hey, that’s great, Dave! Just what I wanted .. perfect! Now we have that one in the can we’ll just take another for safety … Oh! this time don’t hit the track, and watch out for the old dame’s chair … one or two little changes … just clean it up a little … but it’s great and we have it already – this one’s a luxury.’
I stood outside the door looking at that red light … I couldn’t wait for it to go on. ‘This is easy,’ I thought, ‘this is fun!’
I sailed though the second take, loving every minute of it, completely relaxed.
At the end of the day, Stuart Hall and I were celebrating in a bar: he told me the secret. Santell had addressed the whole ‘set’ while I had been shivering and shaking in my dressing room.
‘The boy who’s playing Leo – this is his first big scene in a picture and we’ve all got to help him loosen up. After the first take, however bad he is, I want you all to applaud then I’ll put some film in the camera.’
Santell is in my private Hall of Fame.”
May your holidays be filled with as much generosity and warmth.
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