As the limousine’s windows were darkened, I can’t tell you exactly where we went, but I think we went to Queens. Anyway, when I got out of the car, I found myself in a space so big it was like an airplane hangar. I thought to myself, “We could film the charge of the light brigade in here.”

  Standing on a piece of paper about six feet long and two feet wide were six very thin people, so I went and stood with them. While I stood there engaging in conversation, a man, naked to the waist, crawled on the floor between our feet. I turned and said to Mr. Klein, “What does it all mean?” Mr. Klein’s eyes flashed and he smiled and said, “Say that again.” And by mistake, I had written the copy. That’s all the advertisement said. “ck one. What does it all mean?” The experience was a little frightening, but it was fun and I did enjoy doing it. I later found out that one of the very thin people was a young lady called Kate Moss.132

  The next commercial I did was for Levi Strauss jeans.133 In it I appear at the table of a kind of speakeasy club, talking with other elderly men and women. At one point I was asked about nothing in particular and I responded with the line, “An intriguing mix.” I think I’m the only person in the advert who is not wearing Levis, but this you can’t tell because I am seated at a table when the camera zooms in on me.

  For my third commercial, I was flown to Miami, Florida. It was for another perfume, this time for Faberge’s Impulse134 body spray. The title of the commercial was ‘Encounter’ and the advert featured two men stopping to help a girl who has dropped her bag of groceries. As one of the men helps collect her fruit and vegetables from the floor, he smells her and almost falls in love with her. His friend snaps him out of his trance and the two of them walk off. Confused, the girl looks around her and sees a number of gay stereotypes and situations, one of them being a quizzical me standing on a nearby street corner, whereupon she realizes that the only reason she didn’t snag her man is because he’s gay. We are thus left to assume that the man’s friend was, in fact, his boyfriend.

  I thought it was a very brave commercial given the overtly gay theme, but of course, it was an advertisement principally aimed at young women. When I arrived on location, because we shot the commercial on a real life street, one of the production crew immediately brought a wig for me to wear. Obviously, they weren’t happy with the state of my own hair. They also provided me with a straw hat, which was much more in keeping with the local weather and which I also wore.

  The only other commercial I’ve ever done was for West cigarettes. That was a print commercial though, not one for television. I was flown to Hollywood and put up in the Mondrian Hotel which was very grand. I was taken out into the street and offered a wooden cigarette by a wooden actor. Now I’ve never smoked and I said to the people taking the photographs, “This is absurd. I don’t smoke and I’ve never smoked.”

  One of the men replied, “The absurdity is the point. Before we photographed you, we photographed a mermaid blessing one of the cigarettes.”

  It makes about as much sense to me now as it did then.

  Now, when I first came to New York, they didn’t have the recorded voices you now hear in taxis telling you to wear a seatbelt. Then one day they all of a sudden appeared. Anyway, one day I was whizzing down Second Avenue in a cab when I heard the voice of Eartha Kitt say, “A cat has nine lives, but you have only one...”

  And I thought this was so wonderful I decided that I would like to speak in a taxi myself. I decided I would say, “Life, to be sure, is not that much to lose, but if you think it is, buckle your seatbelt.”

  I eventually recorded my voiceover, but I don’t know if they ever used it. I haven’t yet gotten into a taxi and heard my own voice speaking to me. I suppose the message would be more poignant if they used it when I’m no longer around. Assuming anyone remembers who I am. Otherwise they’ll just sit there wondering whose voice they just heard.

  * * *

  103 Andy Warhol, American pop artist, director and producer, 1928-1987

  104 1985, directed by Franc Roddam, English film director, b. 1946

  105 Or just simply Sting – see footnote #31

  106 Directed by Franc Roddam, 1979

  107 Directed by Fred Schepisi, 1985

  108 Meryl Streep, award-winning American actress, b. 1949

  109 In 1989, in Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill’s Threepenny Opera

  110 Directed by Neil Needleman, released on video in 1994

  111 Neil Ira Needleman, video artist and video-maker, b. 1957

  112 Directed by Neil Needleman, also released on video in 1994

  113 Georgina Spelvin, born Michelle Graham, b. 1936

  114 Directed by Alan Baxter, 1998

  115 Little Red Riding Hood and Other Stories. Directed by David Kaplan, 1997, also starring Christina Ricci.

  116 Directed by Sally Potter, 1992, starring Tilda Swanton and Billy Zane.

  117 Sally Potter, English film director and screenwriter, b. 1949

  118 A palace in England, built in 1497, childhood home of Queen Elizabeth I.

  119 Cate Blanchett, Australian actress and director, b. 1969

  120 Directed by Shekhar Kapur, 1998

  121 For Best Supporting Actress in 1998’s Shakespeare in Love.

  122 Released 1998

  123 Sara Moore, actress and director.

  124 Stephen Sorrentino, actor and impersonator b. 1960

  125 Anthology Film Archives, home of experimental cinema in New York City.

  126 Kate Lehman, executive producer

  127 Sir John Vincent Hurt, English actor, 1940-2017

  128 Directed by Jack Gold, 1975

  129 Robert Mitchum, American film actor and director, 1917-1997

  130 Calvin Klein, American fashion designer, b. 1942

  131 The campaign aired in 1995

  132 Kate Moss, English model, b. 1974

  133 The campaign aired from 1997-1998, containing six separate commercials and was titled ‘They Go On’.

  134 For a campaign that aired in 1998

  CHAPTER 12

  My One-man Show

  I was put on the stage by my English agent135 who was Hungarian. And you never understand why Hungarians do or say the things they do. He had taken a theatre about the size of a living room behind a public house in Islington136 where he was putting on a show directed by a woman in whom he was interested. There were opening hours in those days which meant the theatre had two practical slots. A lunchtime slot and an evening slot. He already knew what he was doing with the evening hours.

  So he said to me in his dreamy Hungarian voice, “I don’t want to waste the lunchtime hours. I thought you could go on then.”

  And I said, “With what object?”

  And he said, “You could talk to people.” When I asked about what, he said, “It doesn’t matter. You needn’t say the same thing each day, if you don’t want to.”

  So I went on the stage and I spoke. Then I spoke some more. Frequently we were down to three people and when that was the case I would get down from the stage and sit with them and chat. It was more intimate that way.

  Once the television show137 of my life had been aired it all changed. The theatre was suddenly filled with people. In fact, we literally went from an audience of three to a full house of around a hundred, overnight. The Hungarian was pleased.

  A witness to my modest success was a tall man by the name of Mr. Jackson138 who took up my cause and put me on at The Mayfair Theatre. It was still a tiny little theatre but its audience capacity was twice that of the King’s Head.

  Mr. Jackson seemed to live in an ivory tower in Knightsbridge from which he could survey the whole of London’s West End theatre district. Whenever he saw the lights go out in a theatre, he would run all the way there and say, “I can find you someone who will appear at any moment with no rehearsals and no lighting.”

  He was referring, of course, to me. On one such occasion, and at great surprise to me, someone actually took him up on his offer.

  A Mr. Rix139 was the manager of the Duke of York’s Theatre at the time when his theatre was hosting a play that I think was called The Spy Chiller. Anyway, it did so badly that, night after night, there were more people on the stage than in the audience. So it was taken off. Mr. Rix needed a stopgap before he could get another big production in, otherwise he would lose more than 2,500 pounds a week.

  At the suggestion of Mr. Jackson, I went to see Mr. Rix and he agreed to let me take up a temporary residence at his theatre. Then, when I was already on the stage, Equity140 came marching down St. Martin’s Lane with its ragged banners and a furious Ms. Redgrave141 at the head of a mob. She challenged Mr. Rix, asking him, “Why is Mr. Crisp acting in a West End theatre without an Equity card?”

  To which Mr. Rix who was never at a loss for words, replied, “Mr. Crisp is not acting. He’s very sincere.”

  This, however, was thought to be a specious argument and I was made to have an Equity card.142

  When I look back though, it’s quite remarkable. I was in a West End theatre without any experience at all of being on the stage. I never understood it. At one point, during the question and answer part of my show, I was asked, “Did Doctor Livingston have style?”

  To which I answered, “He did.”

  Then the follow-up asked, “Was going to Africa part of his style?”

  And I said, “It was his whole style.”

  And the audience roared with laughter. I never knew why. If you say what you think, everybody laughs. If you try to make jokes, nobody laughs.

  Once my four weeks were up at The Duke of York’s Theatre, I found myself appearing at The Ambassador’s Theatre which had been the theatre where The Mousetrap143 was first shown. When I left on the final night the stage doorman said to me, “You’re going? I thought you could have been a one-man Mousetrap.”

  I smiled at his kind remark. The only time I’ve ever been on the stage in the West End was on those two occasions.

  The audience for my one-man show now is different from when I first did it in 1978. It’s better now. More people come and more mention is made of it in the paper, but I am no better at it. I always think people will eventually rise up and say, “We’ve had it. Don’t let him do it again.” But thankfully they have yet to do so.

  When I tour, I typically go to the same places. Mr. Lago arranges performances for me in places like Los Angeles and San Diego. I always expect the audience to say, “We’ve heard it all. He’s done all this before. We know all the jokes.” But it seems there are always enough people in the world to keep the audience going. This I find surprising, but very nice. Strangers are, after all, my bread and butter.

  I was recently asked if I have ever been asked a question to which I was startled. The only question of this vein that sticks out in my mind was when a man once asked me if I’d ever milked a cow. He was pleased with that. You see, people want the questions to be part of the entertainment. You can’t prevent them doing that because that’s what you get when you invite the audience to participate in the show. They want to be part of the entertainment. That’s why they make the questions funny.

  I like it, but of course, it’s not really why they are invited to ask questions. They’re asked so that I can say the words they wish to hear. Some, of course, do. And I never tire of having the same questions asked because I like knowing the answers and being able to rattle them off while thinking of something else.

  I’ve memorized the lines of my one-man show through sheer repetition. I constantly forgot them in the beginning. I didn’t dry up, or die on stage as I think it’s called. Instead I would turn to the audience and say, “What shall we talk about now?”

  But after about five or six weeks of saying it every night, I got used to it. So, I’ve learnt it from perpetual reiteration. Until recently my show didn’t even have a script, any direction or any rehearsals. My theory was that every show’s rehearsal was the show that came before it.

  Now there is a script because we have typed out what I have to say. I have read through it and I now know it by heart. Having an actual script is a great help. If I’ve not done the show for eighteen months, I can read through the script as though it were a very posh magazine and remind myself how it goes.

  I don’t dread my stage show in any way. I just go and do it. I don’t really question it. I don’t say, “Why am I doing all this? Why don’t I just sit at home?” I did feel that about being a model. I used to think, “I’ve got to get up and go to Guilford, which means going to Waterloo and catching a train. Then, when I arrive in Guilford I have to walk from the station to the art school, all in order to earn a pound and come back home again.” But when I work in the theatre, it’s more or less effortless.

  And after performing my show, I always go home and go to bed. A lot of actors - I am not an actor so I should instead say a lot of performers - say they have to wind down after a show. I assume this means they really work themselves up to appear on stage, hence the need to calm down again afterwards. Sometimes I think I should work myself up to appear on stage, but I never do. Being on the stage is exactly the same for me as being anywhere else.

  While I was at the Duke of York’s a Mr. Elkins144 came to see me and asked if I would consent to take my show to America. To which I said, “I want what you want,” which is what I said to everything.

  “In that case,” he replied back, “we shall never quarrel.”

  And we never did.

  I went to New York where I stayed at the Algonquin Hotel. It was not the first time I’d been to America. I first came to America in 1977 when I came and stayed at the Drake Hotel at the invitation of Mr. Bennett145 who wanted to make The Naked Civil Servant into a musical. This I would have loved, but my agent eventually said it was not to be. I never knew why.

  My adventure with Mr. Elkins began the year after in December 1978. I performed my show in a theatre on MacDougal Street called The Player’s Theatre. The Player’s is a very nice and small theatre and everyone that worked there was very kind to me. My run lasted for three months.

  Once we had closed in New York, Mr. Elkins had arranged for me to perform for three months in Los Angeles. My run there started most auspiciously with an opening night at the Ahmanson Theatre to please a man called Mr. Ward. I don’t know why he wanted me to be in the Ahmanson, but when I saw it, tears began to fall from my eyes because it was the size of a cathedral.

  They said, “You’ll be wired for sound.”

  So I had to tell them, “I cannot stand at a microphone. I have to pace up and down.”

  And they said, “That’ll be all right.”

  This confused me so I clarified, “I also cannot hold a microphone in my hand as I have to use my hands.”

  They reassured me, “You’ll be able to.”

  Then they filled my pockets with little vulcanite boxes and when I spoke, my voice boomed all over the building. It was magical.

  There was a Los Angeles critic at the time called Sylvia Drake and I remember she gave me a wonderful notice which began, “Where were you on Sunday evening?” Anyway, I believe it was her praise that led to my receiving a Drama Critic’s Circle Award for my one-man show. So, after travelling up to San Francisco to debut my show at the Lillian Memorial Theatre for a few weeks, I returned to Los Angeles to pick up my award.

  Picking up my award wasn’t the only reason I was excited to be back in L.A. I had learned that Ms. Harris146 would be present at the awards ceremony and I longed to meet her. When we got into the hall where the ceremony was taking place, I asked Mr. Elkins, “Is she here?” And he looked around the huge hall and in the distance he saw a little woman in a black dress sitting by herself at her table.

  He threaded his way through the tables until he came to Ms. Harris, then asked if might he bring me to meet her. Instead of that, she rose and came across the whole floor to meet me. It was the essence of noblesse oblige. It was I who should have walked over and bowed to her. She had style and it was vintage Hollywood down to the core.

  Ms. Harris was in a stage production of On Golden Pond147 in which she acted with a wonderful actor called Mr. Durning148 who had himself been marvelous playing opposite Ms. Stapleton149 in the film Queen of the Stardust Ballroom150.

  I got to know her niece, also called Julie, who later151 took me to see a one-woman show Ms. Harris performed in New York called Lucifer’s Child.152 Afterwards, we all went to the Russian Tea Room to have dinner. As we arrived, I held back the door so that Ms. Harris could make a grand entrance. This she did not do. She crept into the restaurant as though she were an ordinary mortal, which both disappointed and pleasantly surprised me at the same time.

  From there I went back to England, and then I thought, “I can’t live without it. I must go back to America.” So, I packed up my belongings in a little red handkerchief and tied them to the end of a stick and put them up there on my shoulder and came to America. Now New York is my home. I hope never to be deported. If I am, I shall live in Canada and tiptoe across the undefended parallel.

  When I first appeared on stage, I remember standing in the wings with my hands above my head, so that my hands would be pale and the veins would have disappeared when I got onto the stage. That’s what I’d read all chorus girls do. I also shut my eyes so that when I opened them they were dark and wet. Afterwards I would breathe deeply through my nose so as to take up the slack in your stomach, and then bring it out. That was to get my engine going. My makeup is always by me. I think nearly all artists do their own makeup. Particularly Ms. Collins153 who knows just how to look like Joan Collins. I mean, she’s looked the same way for fifty years.

  My voice is very flat and I wish it were richer and rounder and more beautiful, but of course, I didn’t know I was going to be put into the public speaking racket when I began, or I else would have had something done about it. I can usually reach an audience. I never had a microphone in England even when I was at the Duke of York’s. Though when they opened the gallery on Saturdays, I was saddened to hear I couldn’t always be heard by the patrons sitting up there.