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I meet Richard Burton, and he invites me to lunch.
In the late seventies, Toronto was Hollywood North, and I forced my way in by sheer annoyance. After two years of cold-calling Jerry Simon, I became the Assistant Producer at UDO Productions. We were a mess of a company, run mostly out of the Windsor Arms Hotel bar.
Jerry was a rich kid with a serious drinking problem. Our daily routine was a race against his blood-alcohol level. Morning calls to London were fine; afternoon calls to L.A. were a disaster of slurred threats. My salary was a joke—$200 a week—but I had a secret weapon: a severance clause. Jerry loved to fire people, and I needed the three-week payout to pay my rent. It became a ritual: get fired Friday, get rehired Monday.
On this particular Friday, Jerry wouldn't budge. He was sober-adjacent and determined to drag me to another Clint Eastwood movie. We were arguing at the bar when The Voice intervened.
"Like to join me for lunch, luv?"
It was Richard Burton. I’d met him briefly the day before, and despite my usual "cool" around stars like Howard Duff, Burton was different. He was the quintessential actor-rogue, a million-dollar-a-movie presence that made the air feel thick. Jerry bellowed as I walked out, pleading for me to stay. I didn't care. I had a date with the most famous voice in the world at Meyers in Yorkville.
It all started the day before when I’d strolled in late, practically begging to be fired. I hit the "Producer’s Table" around noon; Jerry was occupied on the phone, so I pulled up a chair with Ivor Downie and Ron Berkeley. Ron was the makeup artist for Richard Burton on Circle of Two, a project Jerry and I had recently offloaded to producers Bill and Hank.
I’d barely ordered a beer when the man himself walked in. Richard had wrapped early and, while waiting for his wife Susan, decided to join us. I’m not easily starstruck—I hobnobbed with the rich and famous daily—but his presence was staggering. When he spoke, the earth seemed to tremble. It was like sharing a drink with the Angel of the Lord. He was the ultimate contradiction: thespian, rogue, charming drunkard, and million-dollar-a-movie superstar, all wrapped in that legendary voice.
The Producer’s Table was our unofficial headquarters near the bar. The routine was simple: deals were born at noon, finalized by five, and usually fell apart by nine. We had an unwritten rule that if someone had serious business to attend to, a simple nod meant everyone else cleared out.
But when Bill Marshall and Hank van der Kolk—the producers of Circle—arrived to pitch Richard their next script, Ivor and I stayed glued to our seats. They gave us the "buzz off" nod repeatedly, but there wasn't a chance we were leaving that table. Eventually, they gave up and started talking shop right in front of us, shooting us glares the entire time.
Throughout the meeting, Richard sat with a large glass of white wine. His wife, Susan Hunt, claimed he was "on the wagon," which in Richard’s mind meant he’d simply swapped the hard stuff for beer and wine. I watched his nervous ritual with the glass: he’d rotate it slowly, eyeing it carefully as he spoke, waiting for the exact moment the rest of the table ordered a round. Then, with a tiny salute, he’d open his throat and swallow the full eight ounces in one magnificent, dignified gulp.
Hank leaned in. "Did you read the Patman script?"
"Yes, I loved it," Richard replied. "It’s very funny."
"Will you do it?" Bill asked.
"Oh, no... you don’t want me for this. I tell you, Dick is who you want. He’d be perfect."
We all scrambled to translate. Richard had a habit of referring to Hollywood royalty by their nicknames as if they were childhood neighbors. "Larry" was Laurence Olivier; "Dick" was Richard Harris.
"But we’d like you to do it," Hank coaxed.
"No! It’s not my type of role. Why not try Sean or Michael? That’s it—Michael. He would be perfect. I’ll cast this picture for you yet. Would you like me to call him?"
As we puzzled over which Michael he meant, Richard downed his wine. Daytime Don, the waiter, arrived with another round. Bill and Hank were still glaring at us, making it pointedly clear that Ivor and I were responsible for our own tabs.
Bill wasn't giving up. "We really don’t want anyone else. We want you."
Richard paused, twiddling his glass. He caught my eye and winked.
"How much would you want?" Bill pushed.
"Why, I’d do it for one hundred thousand dollars."
The table gasped. Richard never asked for less than a million, even in Canadian money. Then came the kicker.
"...If I can select my own leading lady."
"Who would you want?" Hank asked cautiously.
"That English actress, of course... oh, what’s her name? You know who I mean." His eyes twinkled as everyone started shouting names. Vanessa? Julie?
"No, no... black hair..."
"Diana Rigg?" Bill ventured.
Richard’s eyes danced with delight. "No, no. That English girl. The one with the purple eyes and the... big, big tits."
Richard drained his glass, waiting for the penny to drop. I was the first to get there, snorting into my drink.
"ELIZABETH!"
He was taking the piss out of them. The odds of landing Elizabeth Taylor for this movie were somewhere between slim and none. While Ivor, Ron, and I howled with laughter, Bill and Hank managed only faint smiles. They asked for "Michael’s" number and made a quick exit.
I think Richard just appreciated a good audience, because it was right after that little performance that he invited me to lunch. He spent the afternoon telling stories about other actors, occasionally leaning in to whisper, "He’s a fag, you know," in a tone so mournful you’d think it was the greatest tragedy on earth.
When I arrived at Meyer's in Yorkville, Richard vaulted to his feet, eager to introduce me to a circle of Toronto film elite—nearly all of whom I already knew. They watched us with a flicker of suspicion, likely imagining some grand deal was in the works. In truth, the lunch was a pitch for yet another project Richard was expected to lead, a prospect he quietly laid to rest before the first course was over.
Reflecting on it now, I realize he invited me because I was simply a "bloke." Despite the weight of his celebrity, Richard remained a regular guy at heart, and he often called on me for a sense of grounded support amidst the industry artifice.
As the plates were cleared, we were treated to a performance by Richard the Raconteur. He was magnificent. He began spinning "struggling actor" stories from the British summer repertory circuit—tales that felt like an inside joke shared among the fraternity of English players. He had a way of interchanging the protagonists; sometimes the story happened to him, other times to a peer of equal note, but the delivery was always impeccable.
One such tale involved a young actor working the circuit in the Lake District—at a place like Ashton-on-Sod. For that week, he was the town’s local hero, the "celebrity" invited to spend the weekend at the local Manor.
There is an old saying: "At the palace, the butler is more regal than the King." True to form, the actor arrived on a battered motorcycle only to be met by a Butler who insisted on carrying his tattered suitcase. When the Butler offered to unpack, the actor adamantly refused, terrified the man would see his shabby belongings.
"Bath before dinner, Sir?" the Butler sniffed.
Feeling entirely intimidated, the actor reluctantly agreed. To his horror, a procession of servants arrived dragging a massive, old-fashioned metal tub, which they placed in the center of his room. They paraded in and out with buckets of steaming water while the Butler hovered, offering to wash the actor's back. Finally, he managed to usher them out, staring at the monstrous tub in despair.
He didn’t want a bath; he’d showered before leaving. Yet, he couldn't bear to insult the staff. He lathered the soap and stirred the water to make it look used, but it remained too clear. Desperate to appear as though he’d actually washed, he looked around for some grime. Finding a fireplace, he took a handful of soot and stirred it into the tub.
To his absolute horror, the water turned jet black.
Aghast at the thought of the Butler believing he was that filthy, he panicked. He couldn't drag the tub to the lavatory, so he pushed it toward the large window. With a desperate surge of strength, he managed to lift one end to pour the water out. But the heavy tub overbalanced, flipped entirely out of the window, and crashed through the glass roof of the conservatory—narrowly missing the Lord and Lady as they sat for tea.
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Recognizing the catastrophe was beyond repair, the actor grabbed his suitcase, crept down the back stairs, and fled on his motorcycle, hoping never to see them again.
As we roared with laughter, Richard wasn't finished. Adopting the persona of a high-society English twit, he delivered the epilogue: "The following weekend, the Lord remarked to his new guests, 'We had an actor chap up here last week. Strange people, these actors. Threw his bathtub right out the window!'"
With his trademark timing, Richard downed his wine as the table erupted. A bottle of white wine arrived from an admirer at a nearby table; Richard offered a silent salute with his glass, and the waiter refilled us for the next act.
Richard toys with his freshly filled goblet, a familiar glint in his eye as he begins another tale.
"I was on that same sort of circuit early in my career," he says. "Playing a summer theatre when the Lord and Lady of the local manor invited me out for the weekend. The butler met me at the door, sniffed down his nose, and showed me to my room. It was in the old wing—long, narrow, and stark white. At the far end sat a four-poster bed, a night table, and a lamp. I didn't realize then that this part of the house had no electricity. There was a fireplace, and near the door, an ornate antique desk holding a fresh bouquet of flowers in a vase.
"The butler started opening my bags, offering to help me dress, but I didn't want him seeing my threadbare belongings. I ushered him out, threw on my old theatre tux, and headed down for cocktails. I’d already developed a taste for fine liquor but lacked the funds to support it, so finding a well-stocked bar full of single malts was a godsend. I got right into it. By the time I tottered off to bed around midnight, I’d polished off two bottles myself."
Richard pauses for a sip, the table leaning in.
"I woke in the middle of the night, totally dehydrated and absolutely parched. I needed water. But it was pitch black, I had no matches for the lamp, and I had no idea where the loo was. I was dying of thirst when I remembered the flowers on the desk. Ah, water!
"I felt my way along the wall, past the fireplace, blindly patting the darkness until I found the desk. But in my stupor, I tipped the whole thing over. I felt liquid dripping everywhere. I tried to pat it into the floorboards, but eventually gave up and felt my way back—along the wall, past the mantelpiece, to the night table, and into bed. I pulled the sheets over my head and suffered until dawn.
"At first light, the horror set in. It wasn't the flower vase I’d knocked over. It was a massive writing horn full of ink. There were black handprints everywhere—smeared across the white walls, all over the mantelpiece, and tracked right across the bed linens. It was a disaster. I was too mortified to explain. I simply packed my bags, hitchhiked back to town, and caught the first bus to London."
Richard drains his glass in that unique way of his as we cheer. He tells it with such perfect timing that he could likely read a laundry list to thunderous applause. As the other locals excuse themselves, someone sends over another bottle. Richard leans in, his tone conspiratorial.
"You know," he whispers, "I have a terrible confession to make."
I wait, breathless.
"I love puns."
It wasn't what I expected, but I’m a devotee myself. "One man's Mede is another man's Persian," I offer.
He smiles, eyebrows arched in appreciation. "Mine is the cry of the sixties hippie: Give me Librium or give me Meth."
"I love a good play on words," I say, "but my wife says she can’t stand the pun-ishment."
The exchange quickens.
"Did you hear about the man who bought a ranch for his sons?" I ask. "He called it 'Focus,' because it’s where the sons raise meat."
Richard chuckles and fires back. "When James Bond slept through the earthquake, he was shaken but not stirred."
"Many think Edgar Allan Poe was just a raven madman," I counter.
"And when I bought that diamond," Richard finishes, eyes twinkling, "I told her: 'This has so many carats, it’s almost a turnip.'"
"Have you seen Where Eagles Dare?" Clint whispered to me at the premiere. "It should’ve been called Where Doubles Dare."
We were in high spirits, trading puns and stories as bottles of wine materialized at our table like clockwork. Richard Burton, delivering every punchline with professional aplomb, glanced at his glass and muttered that his wife, Susan, would "kill him." He bravely ordered another anyway.
Eventually, the tide of wine turned. After Richard politely declined a final bottle, we stepped out onto the street. We were immediately intercepted by a strikingly handsome woman in her thirties who had been waiting hours for an autograph. Richard beamed, signed her book, and gave me a playful wink. "How would you like to join us?" he asked.
It was the invitation of a lifetime, but she recoiled with sudden, cool disdain. "What for?" she snapped. "You’re just going to the Windsor Arms to get drunk, aren’t you?" Richard grabbed my arm, howling with laughter as we retreated.
We ended up at the "22" around 4:00 AM. The producer, Jerry, was there—drunk, squinting, and reportedly furious enough to fire me. Sensing an opportunity, I borrowed a massive white cowboy hat from Duke Redbird at a nearby table. Jerry, whose vision was shot without glasses, tracked the hat through the smoky room. After I returned it to Duke and sat down, Jerry staggered over and "fired" the hat five times.
"I don't even work for you!" Duke protested.
"Don't give me that shit," Jerry barked. "You're fired, and I mean it!"
We roared as he continued to fire the hat for ten more minutes. The night ended when a stern Susan arrived to collect a sheepish Richard. By the hour’s end, Jerry’s secretary delivered my severance cheque. I spent the night on the town with Ron and Tatum, my rent covered for another month. By Monday morning, the usual cycle reset: Jerry called to forgive me, provided I hit the liquor store on my way into the office.
Richard’s biggest curveball was his obsession with baseball. He could rattle off batting averages as fluently as he recited Hamlet. He was particularly fixated on Hank Greenberg, convinced the man had been robbed of a batting championship simply for being Jewish; Richard was dying to make a movie about it.
When the World Series kicked off the following week, I goaded him into a bet. I took Philly, he took Kansas City, twenty bucks a game.
By noon that Monday, Jerry was already wearing on my nerves. We were hunkered down at the bar while he bellowed into the phone at his lawyer, Milton. Timothy Rouse, the First AD on Circle, strolled in and joined me at the producer’s table. The bar was empty save for us, meaning Jerry’s voice echoed like a foghorn. He was currently roaring that he’d have to lie to his own mother to get his hands on that kind of cash.
“Your governor is a real boon to the Canadian film industry, isn’t he?” Tim remarked dryly.
He gestured toward the bar, where none other than Blake Edwards sat, bemusedly watching Jerry dismantle the reputation of Canadian film professionals in real-time. I couldn’t take it. I marched over, reached around Jerry, clicked the phone shut, and hustled him out. I gave him a proper tongue-lashing for conducting loud business in a public haunt. Even through his usual alcoholic haze, he realized he’d overstepped and took the lecture silently. We retreated to a different dive with a TV to catch Game One.
I dropped Jerry at the door and snagged a choice "No Parking" space. Jerry’s philosophy was that it was cheaper and more convenient to pay tickets at the end of the year than to hunt for legal spots. This was before the era of the "Green Hornets" and heavy towing, so he might have been right—except that whenever I was pissed at him, I’d park anywhere and rack up five or six tickets a day. Jerry gamely stuck to his theory even as I ran his tab into the hundreds of dollars just to spite him.
Philly won. Back at the "22," Jerry retreated to his corner while I reclaimed the producer’s table. Bob Harris, Richard’s valet, walked in. Usually, we were on a first-name basis, but today he was all ceremony.
“I believe this is for you, sir,” he said, handing me a crisp twenty-dollar bill that looked like it had been freshly laundered and ironed.
When Richard arrived minutes later, I told him I had a tradition: when I win, I buy the loser a drink. He loved that. He sat down with genuine glee—though he was just as happy to be there when I won the next game so he could buy us both a round.
Richard explained that he never carried cash or cards; his staff handled the mundane reality of "paying for things." This had once backfired spectacularly in Switzerland. He’d made a spur-of-the-moment run into town for cigarettes at a shop where he had an account. On the way, he hit a construction detour, smashed a wheel in a rut, and had to abandon the car. He spent hours outside a local cafe trying to borrow coins for a phone call. Nobody believed he was actually Richard Burton—especially since there was a notorious mental asylum nearby. It took the police to finally convince the locals he wasn't a runaway patient.
That evening, I met my old friend Murray McLauchlan for drinks. He was hosting some Japanese associates from his recent tour: a record exec, a promoter, and Meichiko Suzuki—the granddaughter of Admiral Suzuki and essentially the Barbara Walters of Japan.
The conversation was stilted and punishingly formal. Meichiko’s English was good, but the men were struggling. Murray, ever the gentleman, tried his best to bridge the gap, but the tone remained "polite" to the point of exhaustion. After a few rounds, the men rose to leave, performing stiff, deep bows. Murray, trying to match the energy, bowed so low it was practically a yoga pose.
Meichiko watched him, then muttered caustically: “Don’t kiss his ass, Murray-san. He isn’t going to sell your fucking records.”
The contrast between the rigid formality and her sudden profanity sent me into convulsions of laughter. As the dust settled and the execs left, Timothy Rouse heard the commotion and joined us. Eager to impress Meichiko, Tim started ordering bottles of Dom Pérignon as fast as the waiter could pull corks. I don’t remember much after that, other than stumbling home very late and very drunk.
The next day was a total write-off. Jerry and I went to lunch, which was always the hardest part of my job. Jerry didn't eat; he fed. He was a fast, messy, loud eater, and between the booze and the constant talking, I spent every meal prepared to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Afterward, we hit a sports bar for the game. Philly won again.
I returned to the 22 to collect. Bob was waiting like a man with no other purpose than to deliver my pristine twenty-dollar bill. Richard and the director, Ron, joined me soon after, looking exhausted.
“Crazy day,” Ron sighed. They’d had an early call on Toronto Island and had to hold the ferry because Tim Rouse hadn't shown up. Eventually, they left without him, and the director, Hank, was livid. Throughout the morning, Richard—who liked Tim—kept poking the bear, asking, “Where’s Tim?”
By the time the ferry docked at the island, Hank had seen enough. He announced loudly to the crew that Timothy Rouse was fired. But as the doors opened, there was Tim—rumpled, bleary-eyed, but standing right there on the dock.
“Came over a bit early to check out the location,” Tim said coolly, jumping right into his duties. A stunned Hank had to eat his words.
We found out later that Tim had reached the mainland dock just as the ferry pulled away. Thinking fast, he’d cabbed to a helicopter rental, chartered a chopper to drop him on the island, and charged the whole thing to the movie’s budget.
Tim was a true character. He had no desire to direct; he was a career First AD who used the business mainly to fuel his womanizing. He’d send flowers to starlets and parts to flings, all billed to the production.
I remember running into him once at the airport while we were shooting Double Negative. I saw him at a ticket window with a beautiful woman.
“What are you up to, Tim?” I asked.
“The lady and I are off to Montreal for the weekend,” he beamed.
“Taking coals to Newcastle, aren't you?” I laughed.
“A bit rude,” he sniffed. “Anyway, what are you doing here?”
“Shooting a scene. We’ve got three hundred extras.”
“Ha!” Tim scoffed. “When we shot here, we had a thousand.”
“Timothy,” I said, pointing at the crowd. “Nobody here is real. Look at the suitcases—they’re empty.”
Tim turned bright red, realized he was posturing for a film set, and beat a hasty retreat to his plane.
The following day, there was no ball game. I found Barry Hale and Jerry holed up up in Jerry’s apartment working on a script called Cynthia’s House. They were drinking heavy and riding a creative high, which usually meant they were producing a mountain of enthusiastic garbage. They both knew movies and plays inside out, so I left them to their genius and slipped away.
Kansas City took the next two games, and Richard was right there to collect his twenty dollars. The money didn't matter much, but the bet gave him a perfect excuse to buy me a drink—and have a few more himself.
He began reminiscing about playing Arthur in Camelot alongside Julie London. He admitted he struggled to remain professional; every man who knew her seemed to be a little in love with her. He recalled the night she caught him taking a "nip" before going on stage. "I bet her I could drink a full forty-ounce bottle and still perform," he chuckled. "I won that bet."
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The stories kept flowing, including a classic about getting "thumped" by Hume Cronyn. It happened during the Broadway run of Big Fish, Little Fish. Jason Robards—then married to "Betty" Bacall—hadn't shown up for the show. Betty called Richard to help find him. He knew exactly where to look: a nearby bar where they all used to sneak off.
He found Jason drinking and convinced him to return to the theatre. Backstage, in a room where a piano stool was the only furniture, Jason still refused to go on. Richard, perched on the stool, began lecturing him about the "devotion to the craft." Fed up, Jason suddenly hauled off and sucker-punched him, knocking Richard flying. Furious, Richard waited for his moment. When Jason finally sat on the stool, Richard leveled him.
That’s when Hume Cronyn lit into him. "I couldn't believe it," Richard said. "I’ve always handled myself well, but Hume hammered me royally." It was only later he learned Cronyn had been an Olympic boxing champion for Canada in the twenties. They used to tease Hume for being a wealthy "dilettante"; they later found out he was worth closer to 90 million, owning a massive stake in Labatt’s.
As the evening deepened, the mood shifted toward Wales. He told a story about returning home as a celebrity and visiting 'The Miners Arms.' He saw an old school friend, Tommy, walking by and called him in for a pint. Tommy, who had a stutter, refused.
"I can't, Richard," he moaned. "I'm too ch-ch-chuffed. I just lost 20,000 p-p-pounds on the pools."
Richard was shocked. "How? Which team let you down?"
"F-ff..." Tommy started.
"Falkirk?" Richard suggested. "Fulham?"
"No!" Tommy finally blurted out. "It was Swansea!"
Richard could turn any story into his own, but as the night wore on, a shadow fell over him. He had been stiff all day, nursing a pinched nerve. Suddenly, he turned morose. "I won’t reach sixty," he said flatly.
I tried to laugh it off, pointing out he was only 53, but he was serious. "We drank too heavy—Peter, Dick, and I. Two or three forty-ounce bottles a day. It’s too much for any man. It’ll catch up with me." He lit another cigarette, noting that while the smoke gave his voice its famous edge, it wasn't good for him.
The conversation turned maudlin. He spoke of his father, a man who believed that anyone who didn't drink wasn't to be tolerated. Then, he spoke of Elizabeth. "I could never love anyone as much as her. Our love was so furious we burned each other out." He sighed over his wine. "I really never loved anybody else."
He admitted his "problem passing on a pass," recalling a time in Germany when Diana Ross slipped him a room number. He hid it from Elizabeth, only to run into Tom Jones later. When Tom mentioned Diana had slipped him a note too, they compared notes—the room numbers were identical.
Before we parted, he handed me a copy of The Gamblers. "I’m a reader, you know," he said. "Corrupted by Faust, Shakespeare, and Dylan Thomas. People see me as a womanizer and a boozer, and I am those things. But mostly, I’m a reader. I hope my house in Switzerland collapses under the weight of my books one day, with me inside it—a hundred years old, reading the latest thriller." He paused, then added quietly, "But no... I guess they would be long dead too."
He had a peculiar hang-up about homosexuality. Whenever he mentioned a gay actor, he’d drop a pointed aside: “He is a fag, you know,” his voice heavy with a tone that made it sound like the saddest thing in the world.
He eventually told me about having to replace his lawyer and business manager in New York a few years back. The man, a good friend, had developed Parkinson’s and could no longer handle the workload. When the new manager took over, he performed a full audit of the accounts.
"Do you have any idea how much you’ve made?" the manager asked. Richard admitted he hadn't a clue. "You’ve grossed seventeen million."
Then came the kicker: "Do you know how much is left?" Again, Richard was clueless. "Almost seven million."
Richard turned to me, a glint in his eye. "So, in my lifetime, I’ve spent ten million dollars. Not bad for a poor little Welsh miner’s son, eh?" (Ron later whispered to me that Richard also had two million in gold stashed away somewhere—just in case the world went sideways.)
Our time in Kansas City was short-lived; back in Philly, the home team took the next two games and the series was over. Bob showed up with the twenty bucks he owed me, but I didn't catch up with Richard until the following evening around 9:00 p.m. He was sitting with Ron, looking a bit "out of it."
The gossip on set that day involved Jules Dassin, the director of Circle of Two. Apparently, Jules had secured an open-ended expense account, while Richard and Tatum O'Neal were restricted to a rigid per diem. Hank’s theory was that since Jules didn’t drink, he couldn’t possibly cost the production much. That theory evaporated quickly when Jules flew in his own private chef.
I kidded Richard lightly about our bet as I bought him a glass of wine. He downed it faster than usual and his demeanor turned strange. He claimed he’d hedged his bet, spinning a ridiculous yarn about a man meeting him in an elevator the night before the final game and betting him $10,000 on Kansas City. According to Richard, the man called him after the game, met him in person, and handed over $10,000 in cash.
I was speechless. The story was so transparently weak that even "The Voice" couldn't sell it. Fortunately, Susan arrived at the door, and Richard left to join her for dinner. I looked at Ron and asked what that was all about.
"Fucking pills," was all Ron said.
I first met Ron Berkeley while working with Richard on Circle. I was with Udo Productions; we owned the film and had sold it to Bill and Henk, and I was there tying up loose ends. Ron and I became fast friends. He was working on a script and asked for my feedback; in return, he arranged for Warner Brothers to offer me $25,000 for a rewrite. He even offered me his summer home—a small castle in Normandy—and his Maserati. He was adamant about casting Billy Connolly, long before Billy was a movie star.
I remember showing Ron and Lesley McDonnell around Toronto. One day, I mentioned I was heading to the Queen’s Plate. Usually, I was a jeans-and-t-shirt guy, while they were always snappy dressers. Expecting me to be casual, they both showed up in denim and tees—only to find me standing there in a full suit so I could get into the Clubhouse. We had a good laugh over that.
As the movie wrapped, we were preparing to fly to France when the writer's strike hit. WB cancelled all deals. It was the story of my life: so close, yet so far. Ron and I kept in touch for years through long, typewritten letters filled with great stories and hopeful deals. He had an incredible history—he started at sixteen as a makeup man like his father. His first job? Shaving Marlene Dietrich’s legs. I lost contact during a move, and while I’m sad to hear of his passing, I’m glad he lived a full life well into his eighties.
The day after the Queen's Plate, I ran into Milton Acorn on the way to the 22. Milton was a poet, and though he struggled with drink, he was incredibly productive. I liked him and his work immensely. When I invited him for a drink, he pulled out a white poker chip. He told me he’d have to break that chip before he touched alcohol again.
I pivoted the offer to coffee, and we headed to the 22. I sat him down at the "producers' table." Milton was scruffy, to put it mildly—gray, craggy face, bulbous eyes, and a general disregard for shaving or brushes. He looked more like a wino than a man of letters. The others at the table gave me sideways glances, baffled by my admiration for this character.
They sat in confused silence as we engaged in a highly literate, intelligent conversation. Finally, one of the producers couldn't take it anymore. He turned to Milton and asked, "What is it you do?"
Milton looked at him regally and replied, "I am a latent science fiction writer."
As Circle finally wound down, my toxic cycle with Jerry hit a fever pitch. He was getting under my skin so effectively that I started a one-man war against the traffic department. "No Parking"? "No Standing"? I didn’t care. I parked anywhere and everywhere, determined to drown him in a sea of parking tickets.
Richard was slated to head for warmer climes to shoot the final scene in Antigua, but the production hit a snag. The scene was scrapped, and the picture wrapped right where it stood. I said my goodbyes to Ron and Richard, though Ron and I would keep up a correspondence for years. He’d given me one of his scripts to look over; I did a quick rewrite, injected some fresh ideas, and he loved it. He even tried to fly me to France to pen the screenplay. We had a role carved out for Billy Connolly, and he’d arranged for Warner Brothers to pay me $25,000 for the first draft. The perks were surreal: a small castle in Normandy and the keys to his Maserati. Naturally, it was too good to be true. The Screenwriters' Strike hit, the world went on hold for months, and the deal evaporated into thin air.
I shared a final round of drinks with Timothy Rowse—the last time I’d ever see him. Ron later told me Tim had called Richard from a jail cell in Jamaica. Richard bailed him out of a bad cheque mess and ushered him out of the country, but Tim vanished from my life for good.
By Friday, I’d managed to avoid getting fired for another week. I was heading to the country for the weekend, but Jerry and Barry were in a panic. They’d decided to quit drinking cold turkey and were terrified of the physical fallout; they wanted me to hide a "safety bottle" in the apartment for emergencies. After a long debate, they waited outside while I stashed it. The plan was simple: if they got sick, they’d call, and I’d reveal the location.
I headed to the 22 for a quick drink at five, planning to leave by six. But the conversation was good, and by 6:30, I was still there when a desperate call came through.
"Where is it?" Jerry barked, sounding breathless and agitated. I tried to talk him out of it, but I was tired of being a pawn in their drama. "Lost Weekend," I told him.
Fifteen minutes later, he called back screaming. They couldn’t find it. I reminded him of the James Mason movie—he’d hidden his bottle in the ceiling light fixture. Five minutes later, Jerry called back, his voice smooth and relaxed. "That was pretty funny," he chuckled.
On Monday, Jerry was in a strange, generous mood at the 22. He admitted I was the one doing the real heavy lifting and offered to let me produce the next movie while he took the Executive Producer title. He grabbed a scrap of paper from "Daytime Don" and scribbled out a contract: $1,600 a week plus expenses during shooting, and $600 a week during development. He promised to have Milton, the lawyer, draw it up properly. We toasted to the deal, and Jerry immediately hammered back four fast doubles.
Bill Marshall walked in, looking around before heading our way. He asked, half-joking, if he could "borrow" my services for a bit. Jerry, who was headed to lunch with the "other Don," gave his blessing. Bill explained he was supposed to meet John Hillerman—who was directing Patman—but had a scheduling conflict. He asked if I’d mind sitting with Hillerman, buying him a few drinks, and explaining that Bill would be late. Bill took off, and I sat with Jerry for a few more minutes until Hillerman walked through the door.
I walked over to the producer's table to find Hillerman. We’d met before, but never really talked. We were trading war stories when Jerry arrived—drunk, staggering, and looming over us like a towering inferno. He teetered for a heartbeat before collapsing into a chair with a heavy thud. Hillerman looked aghast; he didn't know Jerry, and he certainly didn't know how to handle a man in that state.
Jerry slurred a bellow: "Do you know Mr. LeDrew is going to produce my next picture?"
Hillerman had seen enough. He didn't know who Jerry was, and he didn't care to find out. He exited quickly in the general direction of "anywhere else." It wasn't the day to tell Jerry he was a drunken idiot—not until the contract was signed—so when his lunch date arrived, they tottered off to the Courtyard Café.
I’d been cleaning up Jerry’s messes for a year, starting back on Double Negative. He was a former philosophy professor turned filmmaker, and frankly, I spent most of my time covering his assets. My industry connections kept us afloat while David Perlmutter, our Executive Producer, mockingly dubbed Jerome the "Boy Producer."
Lunch with Jerry was usually a stomach-turning affair due to his "feeding habits," but it had its perks. Paranoid about his reputation, Jerry would buy me $400 bottles of wine just to pump me for gossip about what the crew thought of him. I’d have a glass or two, then tip the rest to the maître d’. It made me the most popular man at the Courtyard Café.
One afternoon, a maître d’ told me he’d overheard an American producer telling investors that I—Gary LeDrew—was the reason Hollywood was shooting in Canada. Apparently, I’d convinced him years prior at my bar that the 20% exchange rate made Toronto a goldmine. I’ll take the compliment.
I pulled some slick moves for Jerry. Once, a "duck-loving" activist shut down a $30,000-a-day shoot at Grenadier Pond. While my security watched, I approached the guy. Out loud, I was an angel: "Hey fella, we love the ducks!" Under my breath, I leveled a barrage of profanity so vile he finally took a swing at me. I had him arrested for assault, finished the scene, and dropped the charges. When the cops asked what our company name, "Udo," stood for, I told them it was named after Richard Widmark’s psychopath in Kiss of Death. The cop just shook his head. "How the hell am I supposed to tell the Chief that?"
Then there was the $3 million Rosedale mansion. Two weeks in, the owner started screaming "Contract violation!" to shake us down. Jerry told me to fix it. I looked the guy in the eye and asked, "What do you actually want?" The mask slipped. He wanted a suite upgrade and room service. Done. Jerry gloated over my "triumph," though it felt more like a stick-up.
I felt invincible. Jerry had finally acknowledged my worth; a real paycheck was coming. But when I walked into the 22 an hour later, the air had changed.
"You'd better see to your Governor," Bill said grimly.
While I was out, Jerry had choked on a piece of blue liver at lunch. He was so drunk the staff thought it was a heart attack. He lingered in a coma for weeks, but the booze finally got him—just from a different angle than expected.
Suddenly, I was jobless and broke. Richard returned in the New Year to reopen Camelot, looking healthy and sober. He offered me opening night seats, but I didn't realize theater folk actually had to pay for their "free" tickets. Seventy-five bucks a pop? I couldn't afford my own life, let alone a play. I sold them to Ivor.
Months later, I ran into Jerry’s uncle. He was settling the estate and was baffled by one thing: "How does one man rack up $3,000 in parking tickets?" I didn't have the heart to tell him. I went on to bigger and better failures, but that was the closest I ever got to the sun.
