The Vengeance of Rome

With the habits of professionals, we eased ourselves into our work. To look at the glories of the scenery where we would be filming our outdoor shots, we were taken by local trains, carts, bumpy charabancs and even, over unmade roads, by sedan chairs, escorted by a variety of Croatian ‘characters’, every one of whom had a different favourite place they insisted on us viewing. Poor land supported a few goats, but other parts were dramatically beautiful, with waterfalls and deep turquoise pools formed by local geological phenomena. Sometimes our explorations required us to travel by horseback or on donkeys. Mrs Cornelius made two such journeys before announcing she would be quite happy to agree with whatever scenery we selected. Filming was going to be hard enough when it started. Only then would she be prepared to sit on a horse all day. She said she hadn’t been bounced about so much since she was with that Persian bloke. ‘Builds yer calf muscles, Ive, but it’s more like physical jerks than a bit o’ the ol’ wotsit.’ All we were waiting for now was our mysterious director Peter Saxon, supposedly on his way from the South of France. He had decided to take the Orient Express as far as Budapest and change there. He sounded like another of that languid English breed to me. I prayed he would do nothing to harm our project.

He did not arrive, in fact, for two weeks, by which time we were all word-perfect and ready for the microphone and the camera. Perhaps Mr Saxon planned his delay?

Mr Mix and I went to meet our director at the train in Zagreb. Any deception ‘Mr Saxon’ might have hoped to maintain was immediately lost. As the few passengers disembarked, one descending the steps was immediately recognised by Mr Mix. With a huge welcoming grin he sprang forward. ‘Howdy, Mister Rex!’

Rex Ingram stood there, elegant in his evidently American camel-hair coat. His wide-brimmed soft hat in one hand, a cigarette in the other, he smiled broadly and shook his head as if telling himself he had been a fool to try anything on! He remembered me when I reminded him where we had met in Beverly Hills. He spoke of Mucker Hever and his recent death in Italy. I had not heard. An aeroplane accident, apparently, with a young woman. His parachute had failed to open, and he had disappeared into the Mediterranean. I was Christian enough not to mention that the man had received his just deserts.

Before we rejoined our party at the hotel, Ingram asked us a favour. ‘If it’s no skin off your nose, boys, would you mind keeping it buttoned about this? It doesn’t suit me for anyone to know who I am. Doctor H is in on it, of course, but I made it a condition he doesn’t tell his press people.’ Ingram assured me that he had long since forsworn the decadent liberalism of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and even wondered if he had not gone too far in the tango scene. Had he, inadvertently, precipitated Valentino’s tragically early death? He remarked on my resemblance to ‘that poor little wop’.

We were only too pleased to share the great director’s secret and spent the ride back to the hotel talking about old times and agreeing what stiff, serious devils the Krauts were. He was rather relieved to hear Hugenberg had been delayed as he would have a chance to work without looking over his shoulder all the time.

Ingram was sick of himself, he said, after his last picture. Nothing had worked out. Mr Mix knew what a lousy movie it had been. The director couldn’t believe his own crassness in trying it. As a result he was seriously short of dough and needed some fast, easy work which would give him experience with sound. Otherwise he might have to go back to Los Angeles and earn his living painting movie posters. We assured him he would have our very best performances and we would make sure our fellow actors offered the same! Both of us knew the film was in safe hands with ‘Peter Saxon’. (As ‘Peter Saxon’, of course, Ingram would build another reputation as a novelist. He led a productive life and returned to Los Angeles where he died.)

A personable Irishman, Ingram immediately won our goodwill. He had taken the trouble to read the ‘Shatterhand’ series in their French translations. Indeed, his pronunciation of the names gave them their own charming sound. I found a little bit of his Franco-Irish lilt creeping into my own major soliloquies.