a warning?
In March this year, he and his wife were on holiday in the Trossachs in Scotland when their car had a bad puncture. ‘Couldn’t get the wheel off,’ he recalls in his diary. ‘After nearly an hour’s effort said a little prayer to St Anthony and the nuts came loose the very next time I tried – and with only a small effort.’
Six months later he arrives in Hollywood, exhausted after a sixteen-hour flight from Copenhagen, in order to begin filming The Swan with Grace Kelly and Louis Jourdan.
The screenwriter of Father Brown, Thelma Moss, has invited him out to dinner, but they are having difficulty finding a table because Thelma is wearing slacks. They finally settle for a small Italian restaurant, the Villa Capri, which has a more casual dress-code, but when they get there they are told by the genial maître d’ that it is full, and so they begin to walk away.
‘I don’t care where we eat or what. Just something, somewhere,’ grumbles Guinness irritably, adding, ‘I don’t mind just a hamburger.’
At that moment, he becomes aware of the sound of feet running down the street behind him. He turns to see a young man in sneakers, a sweatshirt and blue jeans. ‘You want a table?’ he asks. ‘Join me. My name’s James Dean.’
‘Yes, very kind of you,’ replies Guinness with relief, and eagerly follows him back to the Villa Capri.
Before they go into the restaurant, James Dean says, ‘I’d like to show you something,’ and takes them into the courtyard of the restaurant. There, he proudly shows them his new racing car, one of only ninety Porsche 550 Spyders ever produced. He has had it customised: it now has tartan seating and two red stripes at the rear of its wheelwell, all designed by George Barris, the man who will go on to design the Batmobile. ‘It’s just been delivered,’ Dean says, proudly. On the lower rear of the engine cover are the words ‘Little Bastard’. The car is so brand new that it is still wrapped in cellophane, with a bunch of roses tied to its bonnet.
Alec Guinness is seized by one of his premonitions.
‘How fast can you go in that?’
‘I can do 150 in it.’
‘Have you driven it?’
‘I’ve never been in it at all.’
And then – ‘exhausted, hungry, feeling a little ill-tempered in spite of Dean’s kindness’ – Guinness hears himself saying, in a voice he can hardly recognise as his own, ‘Look, I won’t join your table unless you want me to, but I must say something. Please do not get into that car.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I said, “It’s now 10 o’clock, Friday the 23rd of September 1955. If you get in that car you will be found dead in it by this time next week.”’
Despite this grim prognosis, Dean laughs. ‘Oh, shucks!’ he says. ‘Don’t be so mean!’
Guinness apologises, blaming his outburst on a lack of sleep and food. The three of them then have dinner together – ‘a charming dinner’ – before going their separate ways. Guinness makes no further reference to the car, ‘but in my heart I was uneasy’.
Though Dean himself has an interest in morbid premonitions – passages about death and degradation are heavily underlined in his copy of Ernest Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon – he ignores Guinness’s warning. A week later, on September 30th, he is driving his new Spyder across the junction of Route 46 and Route 41 near Cholame, California, when he collides head-on with a Ford Custom Tudor coupé driven by a student with the inappropriately comical name of Donald Turnupseed.
James Dean is taken by ambulance to Paso Robles War Memorial Hospital, where he is pronounced dead on arrival at 5.59 p.m. His last words, uttered just before impact, are, ‘The guy’s gotta stop … he’ll see us.’
Fifty years after his death, this section of the road is renamed the James Dean Memorial Junction.
‘It was a very odd, spooky experience,’ recalls Alec Guinness of their strange meeting. ‘I liked him very much. I would have liked to have known him more.’
ALEC GUINNESS
CRAWLS WITH
EVELYN WAUGH
The Church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm Street, London W1
August 4th 1955
On Tuesday, July 19th 1955, the postman delivers a parcel and a letter to Evelyn Waugh. The parcel contains his weekly box of cigars. He is put out when the postman tries to charge him almost £8 duty on it. The letter is from his sixty-seven-year-old goddaughter, Edith Sitwell. She says she is to be received into the Roman Catholic Church in just over a fortnight. The news makes Waugh uneasy. He is aware of her tendency to show off. ‘She might be making an occasion of it,’ he confides to his diary, adding that he has written to her confessor, Father Caraman, ‘urging the example of St Helena’. This particular saint is noted for her piety.
August 4th is a bright, sunny day. Waugh wakes up in the Grand Hotel, Folkestone. The staff are civil and obliging, the food dull and lukewarm. ‘If only the cook and the patrons were better it would be admirable,’ he thinks. He keeps sending notes to the chef (‘Don’t put cornflour in the sauce’), who reacts badly. ‘He comes up and glowers at me in his white hat from behind a screen in the dining room.’
Waugh catches the 9 a.m. train to Charing Cross. One of his fellow passengers is ‘a ginger-whiskered giant who looked like a farmer and read the Financial Times’. Waugh’s journey is enlivened by a cinder blowing in from the engine, landing on the giant’s tweed coat and burning a hole in it.
From Charing Cross, Waugh walks to White’s Club, stopping to buy a carnation on the way. At White’s, he refreshes himself with a mug filled with stout, gin and ginger beer, before arriving at Farm Street at 11.45 a.m. He is wearing a loud black-and-white houndstooth tweed suit, a red tie and a boater from which stream red and blue ribbons. Waugh enters the Ignatius Chapel, which he finds empty save for ‘a bald shy man’ who introduces himself as Alec Guinness.
Getting dressed this morning, Alec Guinness found it hard to know what to wear. Eventually, he picked a navy-blue hopsack suit as ‘suitably formal’. He felt a black or grey tie would be ‘too severe’, preferring a bright blue tie as ‘more in keeping for what I assumed was a joyous event’. He has not yet become a Catholic himself.*
They are joined, in Waugh’s words, by ‘an old deaf woman with dyed red hair whose name I never learned’. Guinness, too, fails to catch her name, ‘even when she barked at us’. She walks unsteadily with the aid of two sticks, and her bare arms are encased in metal bangles which give him the impression that she is some ancient warrior.†
Guinness watches as she attempts to sit down on a complicated seat she has brought with her – ‘half prie-dieu and half collapsible deckchair’. Somehow, she manages to entangle herself in the mechanism, with disastrous results: ‘The sticks slid from under her, the chair heaped itself on the floor and all the bangles rolled down her arms and sticks and propelled themselves in every direction around the room.’
‘My jewels!’ she cries. ‘Please to bring back my jewels!’
Waugh and Guinness dutifully get down on all fours and wriggle their way under the pews and around the candle sconces, trying to retrieve ‘everything round and glittering’.
‘How many jewels were you wearing?’ Waugh asks the old deaf woman.
‘Seventy,’ she replies.
Under the pews, Waugh whispers to Guinness, ‘What nationality?’
‘Russian, at a guess,’ says Guinness, sliding on his stomach beneath a pew and dirtying his smart suit.
‘Or Rumanian,’ says Waugh. ‘She crossed herself backwards. She may be a Maronite Christian, in which case beware.’