Picturegoer Film Annual – 1957
A Day in the Life of that Doctor
by Dirk Bogarde
The alarm rings shrilly. Reach out hand and grope to stop it. It’s dark. Hans (my manservant) brings my tea. “It’s raining and very cold,” he says.
Wash and shave, half asleep, sip tea while climbing into jeans and old blue sweater. Crawl downstairs to be greeted by the dogs who always think we’re going for a walk. Drag on overcoat and into the car, which is purring in the half-light.
It’s seven o’clock and the postman wobbles up on his cycle. Take the mail; a bundle of fan mail (always tell these from the real mail – small envelopes, thin, always incorrectly addressed), five bills, a letter from the tax people, odd circulars, invitations to cocktails. Yawn and light first cigarette.
Gerrards Cross Station and men in black hats and macs hurrying for the seven-twenty. The fields are sodden and cold. Then the gates of Pinewood and a torrent of people pouring off the bus. Wave to familiar faces – grab mail and script and crawl out of car and sign in .
Take key and wander down to dressing room. Someone singing very loudly and apparently happily. Marilyn Monroe. Her room is next to mine. Laurence Olivier hurries into his room opposite. We say good-morning and I am in my room. Warm and comfortable lights on – start to change.
Monroe leaves her room with her bodyguard of seven. “Miss Monroe, they’re waiting in make-up” – an anxious assistant’s voice. Doors bang people run. I am in my dark suit. Knock on the door. “Waiting in make-up, Mr. Bogarde.”
Take some letters from the pile and go to the make-up rooms. Donald Sinden slides out of the chair. He’s called earlier than I. “Had a marvellous evening, dear boy,” he says. “Judged the Master Baker of the year. Lovely girl. Blonde. See you.” He roars out to grab some breakfast.
Billy Partleton, my make-up man, squints at me. “Getting a bit pale – losing the tan you got on Moonlight – think I’d better just give you a touch of pancake.”
Sit reading. Billy grumbles: “How the heck can I do your face if you bury it in letters? Give me a chance…” The third assistant calls out to me “All ready for a line-up Miss Pavlow is on the floor. Do you know where Mr. Sinden is?” Tell him I’m ready and to look for Mr Sinden in the canteen – as usual!
Down the corndor to B. Stage. Good-mornings everywhere – smell of paint and stale beer. The set is “The King’s Arms.” Small crowd this morning. Students, nurses, elderly man, one dog.
Ralph Thomas, dressed as always immaculately, call’s me over. Muriel and I exchange a good-morning kiss. Ralph says: “It’s scene 195 – where you and Muriel are cheering Donald up because he’s failed again – and Bingham and Nan announce their engagement. You know it, don’t you?”
I say Yes, but that I’ve done a bit of rewriting (as usual!) and can I read it to him’? Ralph agrees with a sigh. It is now eight-twenty. I read.
Muriel likes the “new bit” – Ralph has a reservation – we mull it over, scribble, cross-out, re-read, agree.
Eight-thirty, John, my stand-in, arrives with my breakfast tray. Coffee, toast and hot milk.
Donald arrives, breathless, cramming the last of an egg-sandwich into his mouth. We explain the changes. He agrees has a swig of my coffee. The bell goes for rehearsal.
Lights come up – talk dies away. The Crowd waits for instructions. Muriel, Donald and I take up our positions.
Dingle, the head props man, gives us our beer glasses. Ralph changes a position. The Crowd is given its positions by Joan, the continuity girl. to match those they held yesterday. Two at the dartboard a woman and a man and the dog at the table, three at the bar, a couple of nurses to pass the door. The warning bell goes up. The scene starts. Nine o’clock.
Nine forty-five. The scene has been rehearsed. The lighting starts, our stand-ins move on to our marks and we retire to “do the words” together – sitting near the set in a small corner of peace.
I explain a bit of business I think I might do with my glass. Show Muriel because it is during a speech of hers. She agrees. Ten o’clock. We’re ready. But they aren’t ready for us just yet.
Betty Box arrives, looking as always terribly smart and unlike a producer. Greetings all round and we explain the changes we have made. She approves and says yesterday’s rushes are excellent and the colour perfect.
Muriel asks: “Does that green sweater I wore look all right? Not too dark?” Betty reassures her… Donald finishes the last of my toast and we hear the call “Principals please!” We move on to our marks, our stand-ins move away to get their tea and breakfast.
It’s very hot, the lights blaze down. The man and the woman at the table are sitting waiting. The red light goes on – the two nurses giggle over a private joke and take their positions, ready to pass the door. We wait. Ralph comes to the camera. “Ready?” he asks. We nod. “Right.”
I take up my glass Muriel leans against the bar. Donald is sitting sadly on a stool. “Action” says Ralph Donald sighs. “There you are, pipped at the post,” he says.
The scene has started. The morning has begun. Another day’s shooting on Doctor At Large is under way and it’s just ten-thirty – four hours exactly since the alarm went. And my favourite job in the world has started again.
• • • •
Says Sarah Stoddart: Dirk Bogarde is full of surprises. Nice ones. Before I had time to say Hello to him on the set of Doctor At Large, he shouted: “Sarah! You’ve changed your hair style.” That shook me. I hadn’t seen him for six months.
But that’s typical of Bogarde. I call him the star who never forgets. He’ll never forget a face, a name, an article you”ve written about him. But he will forget to bear a grudge against people who annoy him. And plenty do.
For he hates pompous journalists, enquiries about his personal life and squealing fans. He also hates humbug, going to premieres and living in towns.
Does that make him moody and mixed-up? Not in my book. No fuss, no tantrums, when he breaks off between takes in a scene to give an interview.
Yes, I like Dirk Bogarde, because he is so amiable, witty and not afraid to say what he thinks. That’t what it takes to be a star.
