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1 1 sowing theWind I used to be young. It didn’t last. In fact, without noticing, I seem to have drifted into what Rupert Brooke called “that unhoped for serene,/That men call age.”9 I’m not complaining. A product of August 2, 1899, I’ve learned that age has its compensations—like being able to put one’s feet up without worrying about the gas bill or where the next vodka tonic will come from. I’ve been lucky. I like my home in Beverly Hills, and although I’ve eaten by writing for nearly seventy years, I still like putting words together, perhaps as some enjoy figuring out crossword puzzles. Also, I like the film industry. But it might be better described as an opportunist’s paradise, a nesting place from which the guy on the right spot at the right time has a chance to spread his wings and soar—usually over severed heads—into a world of multitudinous millions. Quite a few times in my life I’ve been the right guy on the right spot at the right time. The opportunities have been there, but I’ve never known when to grab the stairway to the stars. No matter. I’ve enjoyed a very great deal of my long life in filmdom, and thanks to the variance of it, I can’t remember ever being bored. As Jacques says in Shakespeare’s As You Like It, “Each man in his time plays many parts.” I can say that when it comes to the creative rather than the physical side of the industry, I’ve played all except cinematographer. This has included work as a film editor (but only of footage that I directed), andasanassociateproducerofEddieSmall’sTVseriesTheNewAdventures of Charlie Chan (1957). I have been a director of both feature films and TV shows, an occupation that has taken me nearly halfway around the world. And my name has appeared as writer on more than sixty produced feature movies, ten propaganda newsreels, and at least sixty, perhaps well over one hundred, teleplays. But here’s the stickler. Although I’ve spent considerably more than half HitcHcock’s Partner in susPense 2 my life in filmdom, I’ll admit that theater remains my true love—maybe because I was born into it. During my toothless years, my mother, Lilian Langrishe Bennett (1863–1930), wildly stage-struck, was fast being separated from her inheritance by a theatrical con man, Arthur Skelton. For fifteen months, after March 1900, they toured four plays as the Miss Lilian Bennett Repertoire Company. Two of these were revivals—F. C. Philip’s comedy, The Dean’s Daughter, which probed the tortured soul of the wife ofanunfaithfulsocialite,andAnUnequalMatchbyTomTaylor,aVictorian dramatist. Also offered was Sydney Grundy’s controversial play Sowing the Wind, which tells the story of an illegitimate girl, Rosa, who is neck-deep in shame. Brabazon: I did not say there was a fault, Miss Athelstane . . . but you must see that it makes marriage with Ned Annesley impossible. Rosa: I see, I see! (Rises.) It’s not the leper’s fault that he’s a leper, but he must be shunned. Oh yes! Oh yes! . . . What will become of me? . . . What am I to do? . . . I am in everybody’s way and in my own. If I were wicked I should be of service. The world would want me then? But I can’t be! . . . I can’t be! (Flings herself upon the sofa striking it.) (Sowing the Wind, act 3) Between August 1900 and June 1901, Skelton toured another dreadful four-act melodrama, The Children of the Night, which played theaters in Ventnor, Stalybridge, Stratford, and small towns in the North. By the end of the tour, I was one year old; Eric, my older brother, was five; Vere would be born eight months later. In return for her financial backing, Skelton— piling up new shirts while my mother was coming near to losing her last chemise—permitted his sucker to play a character named “Baby Bellamy,” a part that I’m afraid hardly matched up to Lady Macbeth or Portia. Mother was happy. She was appearing on the boards, speaking drivel before an actual audience, thus achieving her proud ambition to become what in those ancient days was known as a pro. In act 4 of Sowing the Wind, Brabazon admits to Rosa that he is her father, so things work out well enough for her. But not so for Mother...

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