Making It in Munich

Her career, observes Actress Carrie Nye, has been "obscure enough to be considered practically invisible, generally involving Ibsen plays in converted pizza parlors, Euripides revivals in condemned bowling alleys and many happy hours at Channel 13 [New York's public television station]." So, despite her extensive stage experience on and off-Broadway, including a Tony nomination performance in Half a Sixpence, she was somewhat surprised last fall when she was asked to appear in two movies for TV with Superstars Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. The movies, a matched set of thudding disasters coyly entitled Divorce His and Divorce Hers, were shown on ABC Feb. 6 and 7 and, incredibly, are being rebroadcast this week. Now back in New York with her husband Dick Cavett, Nye offers the following memoir of her disconcerting brush with moviemaking, Burton-Taylor style:

I was, as Mrs. Onassis' cook and others who rat on their benefactors phrase it, in their employ. An unidentified party, demonstrably in his cups, had called from Zagreb, and in hushed tones and cold blood invited me to be in a movie with Them. You know, Those Two.

The voice from Zagreb tossed off a few bits of information: the two films were to be shot simultaneously. Although the action takes place in Rome, it would naturally be filmed in Bavaria. My wardrobe was to be knitted up by someone known as Madame Gisele. Unreassuringly, the director in command of all these forces was an Etonian Pakistani who was 4 ft. 11 in. tall, or at least he was when we began.

Why did I go? Why, indeed. Wild stallions couldn't have stopped me. Urged on by family, friends true and false, agents, a sense of the grotesque and a positively overwhelming curiosity, I went to Munich.

My introduction to the Stars was delayed somewhat by Madame Gisele. Somehow my 100 lbs. had been translated into roughly 1,000, and Madame Gisele had designed accordingly. The problem was eventually solved by wearing the roomy creation backwards in an attempt to conceal several miles of mournfully trailing crepe de Chine.

Eventually my presence was required to do a smidgen of acting with the Male Star. With great dread, I was taken away in a Mercedes-Benz redolent of the high command and delivered, in a manner usually associated with parcels, to Bavaria Platz Studios.

My acting chore for the day was to be introduced to Himself and launch without further ado into a long, loud and boring scene during which I was to be 1) obstreperous, 2) a general nuisance and 3) drunk as a billy goat. All went as anticipated except for one detail. The Star had beaten me to the punch. Or, if you will, the stirrup cup. And so ended the first day.

As a matter of record, so ended the second, third and fourth days. After a spell, it became apparent that Mr. Burton did not do an awful lot of work after lunch, and Mrs. Taylor-Burton, whom I had yet to clap eyes on, did not generally arrive until about a quarter of three in the afternoon. And as our little moviettes were love stories, albeit somewhat mature love stories, it was important that the lovers meet before the cameras at some point. So until all of this was ironed out, the rest of us had quite a bit of time on our hands. The problem of mutiny was solved in classic movie fashion by issuing a daily call sheet. Examples from this extraordinary document: 10:00: Mr. Burton's car arrives hotel. 10:15: Mr. Burton's car leaves hotel. 10:40-10:45: Mr. Burton gets out of car . . . etc.

Epic Cases. After a while, we began to be invited to luncheon chez Burton. I can only assume this was intended as a kindness, an admirable act of noblesse oblige. Mrs. Burton was a charming and gracious hostess, and Mr. Burton, if a bit expansive at times, did his best to make us all feel right at home, except during a rather murky incident somewhere between the hors doeuvres and the fish course, when it appeared that either my wrist or my neck was going to be snapped by the host. I am still mystified as to my transgression, but Mr. Burton's reputation as a lady killer took on for the moment a rather sinister hue.

What was actually eaten, if anything, at these cozy impromptus for twelve (most of whom are in the Burtons' permanent employ, as opposed to us temporary help) is lost to memory. What was imbibed will be permanently inscribed on my liver for the rest of my days. There was a goodly amount of joshing about who drank the most Jack Daniel's, or tequila, or Jack Daniel's with tequila, or vodka and champagne, or Sterno and Scotch, and in just which European capital, South American port or Balkan satellite these epic cases of alcohol poisoning took place. All this good fun would be punctuated by phone calls from the anguished director to inquire when, if ever, work could be resumed. Mr. Burton could generally be relied upon to knock off work early, usually with a magnificent display of temper, foot stamping, and a few exit lines delivered in the finest St. Crispin's Day style. My favorite was "I am old and gray and incredibly gifted!"

Both Bs had a genius for delivering breath-stopping statements. One day Mr. Burton said to me: "You know my wife--my wife Elizabeth [in case her identity had not come to my attention]--s the most beautiful woman in the world." I wisely decided a firm yes would cover that one nicely. He also volunteered the information that he could read an entire book every day. He didn't say he actually did, just that he could if he wanted to. Fortunately, no reply was needed, for at that moment I trod heavily on either a beer can or one of the old Dom Perignon bottles that were usually kicking around underfoot. My wounded toe was promptly dealt with in a manner that in addition to being exquisite for its agony was impressive for its style. A bottle of Napoleon brandy of priceless pedigree was poured over the toe, the floor and the ankles of several dress extras.

I am told every brush with the great and the near great supposedly has its poignant moments, proving that they are just folks after all. My experience seemed notably lacking, though there was one that might qualify. While a deux with Mrs. Taylor-Burton and a beaker of champagne, she remarked that Richard often considered returning to Oxford to become a simple don. This was said with great sincerity and a straight face. Which--since the lady was at the time wearing a stupefying wig made from the scalps of at least nine healthy Italians and a frock costing upwards of $5,000--gave me a poignant vision of donnish simplicity.

Just as I was considering building a home in Austria and putting in some annuals, our chores finally came to an end. Four weeks and umpteen transatlantic phone calls after it began, I returned home--richer, thinner, sporting a veneer of Weltschmerz and the ability to do a staggering imitation of R. Burton, which is pretty effective, if not particularly useful.

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