(Rose's new book, The
Stranger in My Mirror and Other Reflections is available by
special order from most book stores, or on the web at www.amazon.com
and www.barnesandnoble.com)
The year, 1940. The
place, the Embassy Theater, a movie house in Waltham, Massachusetts.
Unlike the sterile,
stark cubicles that serve as screening rooms today, the spacious
Embassy was a fantasyland. It boasted a ceiling of twinkling stars
against a midnight-blue sky, a huge screen draped in lush, red
velvet; gilded, highly-ornamented walls; uniformed (and cute!)
ushers; and a richly-carpeted, imposing lobby with a grand staircase
curving upward to the balcony seats. In short, the Embassy was
an enchanting oasis in a dreary former mill town that had morphed
into a nondescript watch manufacturing city.
I was twelve years
old, painfully shy, self-conscious, gawky, and near-sighted. In
that pre-contact lenses era, I was condemned to wearing glasses
and enduring the "Four Eyes!" taunts of mean-spirited classmates,
which did not inspire confidence.
But at the Embassy
I forgot my insecurities as I got lost in the wonderful world
of the silver screen. One day in 1940 a memorable movie mesmerized
me — Rebecca, starring Joan Fontaine and Laurence
Olivier. He was handsome, wealthy, aloof. She was awkward, timid,
withdrawn. She was me! Except she was lovely. But she didn't think
so. Hey! Could it be that maybe I, too, was pretty behind my glasses
but just didn't realize it? I have never identified so strongly
with a character in a movie. And when she implausibly won the
heart of the brooding Maxim de Winter (Olivier), I was as ecstatic
as if he were carrying me off to be his wife and the mistress
of his mansion, Manderlay — which was even more magnificent
than the Embassy Theater.
The only scenario that
was even more incredible was that the woman on that screen would
one day become my friend — we would correspond, chat on the
phone, and even visit each other's homes. No way! Man
would walk on the moon before that happened!
Well, of course, man
did eventually walk on the moon; and, equally miraculously, the
glamorous Joan Fontaine of Hollywood, California, did meet and
befriend the shrinking violet from Waltham, Massachusetts. Both
events occurred many years after that day in 1940 when Rebecca
captured my soul and took up permanent residence there as my favorite
movie of all time. Surprisingly, it is the least loved
work of its beautiful star, even though it had won her an Oscar
nomination. I learned of Joan's aversion to Rebecca when
I first met her in 1975. After years of slaving as Susie Steno
in a series of companies, I had landed my dream job as Operations
Manager of the Chateau de Ville, a chain of five theaters in New
England, where I had the privilege of working with many of the
idols of my youth — including the fabled Joan Fontaine, who
had come to star in our production of Cactus Flower. What's
more, I even got paid!
The Chateau's shows
played each of our five theaters for a month, and my responsibilities
included overseeing housing for the casts in each location —
spartan furnished apartments for supporting players and more luxurious
digs for our stars. For the first leg of Joan's Cactus Flower
tour with us, I had found a lovely apartment for her on Boston's
Beacon Hill, overlooking the Charles River.
As soon as she was
settled there, I was dispatched to pick her up and drive her to
Connecticut, Cactus Flower's next venue, so she could inspect
some housing choices I had lined up for her there. I hadn't yet
met her and was both excited and extremely nervous. When she opened
the door, I gushed, "It's such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Fontaine!
I absolutely loved Rebecca!" I expected a "Thank you!"
or at least a smile. Instead, my compliment was greeted with a
frown and disconcerting silence. Huh? What was that about? I feared
I was going to have to carry on a one-sided dialogue all the way
to Connecticut and back. Fortunately, however, as we started down
the highway, she began to relax, and conversation became very
easy. She was witty, friendly and warm. Soon I felt comfortable
enough to ask her who had been her favorite leading man.
"Charles Boyer," she
responded immediately. "He was a true gentleman. Working with
him was a joy."
"And dare I ask who
was your least favorite co-star?" I dared to ask.
Again, not a moment's
hesitation. "Laurence
Olivier," she replied emphatically.
Aha! A clue as to her
reaction to my mention of Rebecca.
"The first four-letter
words I ever heard were from the mouth of that man!" she added.
Though the curses were not directed at her, his general surliness
definitely was. Displeased because Vivien Leigh, his fiancée at
the time, had not been chosen for the co-starring role, he made
his resentment of Joan obvious and even belittled her brand new
husband, Brian Aherne, which had a devastating effect on the impressionable
22-year-old bride. How then, I asked, could her and Laurence's
onscreen tenderness have been so convincing?
"It's called acting,
Darling," she laughed.
That day trip to Connecticut
was the start of a remarkable friendship, which was cemented in
the months that followed by my admiration and respect for Joan's
strong work ethic and professionalism during the run of Cactus
Flower, and later the Chatueau de Ville's production of Forty
Carats in which she also starred. Not once did she pull rank
or indulge in any of the tantrums thrown by some of our other
stars, despite personal difficulties that were plaguing her.
Joan was then living
in a gorgeous Manhattan townhouse to which she subsequently invited
me several times. She was a charming, generous, considerate hostess
and incredibly unpretentious. She never fussed with hair, makeup,
or clothes, yet she always looked lovely. On a rainy night when
we were going to the theatre, she insisted I stay under her building's
canopy while she stepped out in the downpour, sans umbrella, to
hail a cab. "I don't want you to get wet, Dear," she said when
I protested.
One evening, during
one of my stays, Joan apologized that she had another engagement
she couldn't break, so she called a friend to escort me to the
opera. On a different occasion another of her friends took me
to dinner and a Broadway show. I sure do miss that great Dial-A-Date
service.
But it wasn't just
the nights on the town that I enjoyed. My fondest memories of
my visits include a quiet evening munching sandwiches in her cozy
library where we gossiped and laughed until after midnight.an
impromptu brunch of silver gin fizzes and eggs benedict, whipped
up by my hostess on the spur of the moment after she had urged
me to cancel my early plane home and take a later flight.an evening
when a friend dropped by and, for some reason, we all adopted
the personas and Cockney accents of the servants in Upstairs,
Downstairs, a popular British PBS show at the time. Joan was
Mrs. Bridges, the cook; her friend was Hudson, the butler; and
I didn't even have to change my name to be Rose, the upstairs
maid. It was hilarious. No, really. Well, maybe you had to be
there. I'm glad I was.
My invitations to Joan's
home included a couple of Thanksgiving weekends. A Cordon Bleu
graduate, she always personally prepared the elaborate holiday
feast for about a dozen guests. The first time I tried to help,
she frustratingly endured my bumbling efforts for five minutes
before banishing me to my room to write place cards instead. Since
that day, she has never let me live down my lack of culinary skills,
though she did bravely accept an invitation to my home one evening
when she was visiting Boston on business. What's more, she actually
ate the dinner I cooked. That's true friendship.
Not only is Joan an
exceptional chef, she's also a licensed interior decorator, a
prize fisherwoman, a hot air balloonist, and a hole-in-one golfer.
"When you've had as many husbands as I've had, Love," says she,
"you acquire a lot of their hobbies." Married and divorced four
times, she reflects, "If I knew when I was younger what I know
now, I would have had dogs instead of husbands. They're much more
faithful."
Today, she and four
loyal canines, large and small, share a lovely home overlooking
the Pacific in Carmel, California, where she's enjoying still
another hobby-horticulture. When I visited her there one September,
her sprawling garden was ablaze with a staggering array of multi-colored
roses, all planted and tended to by Joan herself. And it wasn't
unusual to see her wielding a wrench to fix a balky faucet or
disassembling an answering machine that had apparently gone on
strike. Yes, this lovely lady has a multitude of talents and admirable
attributes, not the least of which is her delightful, sometimes
wicked sense of humor which has endured through many adversities.
As she revealed in her autobiography, "No Bed of Roses," life
has often been unkind to her, but she has never let it defeat
her. A survivor, she manages to find humor in all but the direst
situations. She loves to laugh. So do I. I think this has been
one of our strongest bonds.
Every so often it strikes
me that this woman I am talking with or writing to is Joan Fontaine!
Movie Star! But most of the time, I completely forget all that,
and she is simply Joan, my treasured friend.
