When I Met Elizabeth Taylor
For me, two things about Elizabeth Taylor stand out:
One, it was something of a coup to get an exclusive interview with her when she and Richard Burton came to Toronto in 1964 for his starring role in Camelot at the O’Keefe Centre.
Two, it was probably the worst interview I ever did -- and the hardest story to write.
Back then, the Burton-Taylor love affair was, arguably, the biggest on-going news story in the civilized world. People relished the scandal of two movie stars defying propriety by living together, then eventually marrying (and later divorcing and marrying each other again).
I was a reporter for the Toronto Telegram which morphed seven years later into the Toronto Sun, and was assigned to cover the visit. When the pair flew into Malton at night, I was one of the horde of press dogging their every step – even when they stopped en route to the King Eddy hotel for a drink.
I was appalled at the circus-like treatment, with people like me watching their every move, taking notes of every comment, every nuance, bugging the bejeezus out of them – all because of their illicit romance.
My story the next day expressed dismay at their treatment, their lack of privacy. No matter what they’d done to offend polite society, I felt they didn’t deserve this kind of hounding and harassment. Or so I wrote.
The next day we journalists were all clustered at the elevator in the King Edward hotel lobby, waiting to catch a glimpse of Burton as he left for rehearsals at the O’Keefe Centre -- take a photo, ask a question, grab a quote.
The pair had rented a whole top floor of the King Eddy. No interviews, no press conference. A modicum of privacy was their goal.
The late June Callwood was one of the pestering journalists. Chatting with her, she remarked that my article in the Tely was so sympathetic that perhaps if I sent a copy up to Elizabeth Taylor, she’d grant an interview.
“Great!” I said, and sent a copy up to their room with a note saying that I was assigned to write about them, that I didn’t specialize in showbiz, but they could tell from my article how I felt about their situation.
A reply came back asking if I’d care to have lunch with Miss Taylor.
One of the hotel’s dining rooms was cleared of customers, and only Burton, Taylor, a PR person and myself were seated at a table. I fretted about what to ask. I didn’t want to probe into their private lives, wouldn’t ask platitudinal questions, didn’t want to emulate a gossip columnist.
Sitting there I glanced at the glass wall of the dining room, and there, with noses pressed against the glass, were dozens of print and radio journalists peering in like kids at a candy store.
I could feel the envy, resentment, dismay, puzzlement of colleagues as to why the glamorous pair would be dining with me. I began to fake laughter and babble, to give media viewers the impression that I was learning all sorts of intimate secrets, gazing deep into Elizabeth Taylor’s haunting eyes.
Burton left for rehearsal and I was left alone with the star.
The year before I’d witnessed Jack Ruby gun down President Jack Kennedy’s assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, and usually I was covering wars and international crises. I was out of my depth with a movie star.
Luncheon ended and Elizabeth Taylor retreated to the seclusion of her hotel suite, while I hustled off to the Tely and tried to give the impression to other media that I had some inside scoop. I could feel their teeth gnashing.
As it turned out, I had precious little to write. All I could remember were Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes, which I felt were not the same color as movie magazines described them. But for the exclusiveness of the meeting, what I wrote was fluff. Mine was a terrible interview that fell flat
If it happened today I’d ask her opinion on things like Libya, Japan’s earthquake, terrorism – not acting, movie roles, showbiz.
As it was, a resentful Time magazine reporter based in Toronto ran an article in the magazine, noting that it was wars and revolutions that I usually covered, adding that “Worthington got his comeuppance” by being reduced to covering Elizabeth Taylor in Toronto.
As an aside, at nights Richard Burton liked (needed?) a drink, and would drift into a bar across from the King Eddy, followed by reporters. Unknown to Burton it was a well-known gay bar, and his presence caused considerable excitement, and perhaps hopefulness, among the clients. Alas for them, Burton wasn’t susceptible.
It was all a long time ago, but some memories remain fresh.
Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton have faded in memory, but to this day, the recollection of all those journalistic faces, noses pressed against the dining room glass, remains a continuing joy. Such moments don’t happen that often.
Now if Meryl Streep were to visit Toronto . . . sigh!
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