"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.
Right, Joan Fontaine and Gary Cooper in 1942 with their Academy of Award Oscars. Los Angeles Times photographic archive, UCLA Library; Wikipedia
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 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 was Joan an exceptional chef, she was 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," said she, "you acquire a lot of their hobbies." Married and divorced four times, she reflected, "If I knew when I was younger what I know now, I would have had dogs instead of husbands. They're much more faithful."
For the past several years she and four loyal canines, large and small, shared a lovely home overlooking the Pacific in Carmel, California, where she enjoyed 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 had a multitude of talents and admirable attributes, not the least of which was her delightful, sometimes wicked sense of humor that endured through many adversities. As she revealed in her autobiography, No Bed of Roses, life was often unkind to her, but she never let it defeat her. A survivor, she managed to find humor in all but the direst situations. She loved to laugh. So do I. I think that was one of our strongest bonds.
Every so often it struck me that the woman I was talking with or writing to was Joan Fontaine! Movie Star! But most of the time, I completely forget all that, and she was simply Joan, my treasured friend. I will miss her.
©2013 Rose Madeline Mula for SeniorWomen.com
Rose Mula's most recent book, Grandmother Goose: Rhymes for a Second Childhood is now available as an e-book on Amazon.com for the Kindle and at BarnesandNoble.com for the Nook at $2.99; the paperback edition is still available for $9.95. The Beautiful People and Other Aggravations, is also available at bookstores through Amazon.com and other online bookstores. It can also be ordered Pelican Publishing (800-843-1724), as is her previous book, If These Are Laugh Lines, I'm Having Way Too Much Fun.
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