£4,000 seemed an enormous sum to me and I was so keen to see that everyone I cared for and who had supported me – friends and family – shared in my good fortune that I went through it very quickly. Dennis Selinger helped me to get an accountant and persuaded me to open a bank account, but the net result was that I ended up with an overdraft of £1,000.
Meanwhile, the final touches were being put to Zulu. I knew that there was no chance I would get another film until it came out, but I had been given a seven-year contract by Joe Levine, the President of Embassy Pictures and I was confident that he would hold to his side of the bargain. The problem with my contract was that it was entirely one-sided: they could renege on it whenever they wanted; I was stuck with it. Nonetheless when I was summoned to Joe’s office I bowled along, pretty certain that everything would be fine. Joe Levine was straight out of central casting, everybody’s idea of a movie producer: short, fat and with a big cigar. ‘Siddown, Michael,’ he said when I came in. ‘You know I love you, doncha?’ I nodded, stomach plummeting. I could tell where this might be going. ‘I said to you, Michael, I said: “Michael, you’ll be dripping with diamonds.” Didn’t I?’ I nodded again. He had said that – and I had seen Mrs Levine so I knew he knew all about diamonds. ‘Well, I still believe that’s gonna happen –’ he paused and I held my breath – ‘just not with Embassy Pictures.’ I breathed out. I had gone very dizzy. Time for another performance. I was getting very good at nonchalance. ‘Didn’t you like me in Zulu?’ I asked. ‘Loved you, Michael,’ Joe said warmly. ‘But there’s one thing I gotta tell you.’ He seemed to be bracing himself. ‘I know you’re not, but you gotta face the fact that you look like a queer on screen.’ I sat there dumbfounded. Me? Queer? ‘I know you’re not,’ Joe said again hastily, ‘but there’s a lot of queer stars out there who look butch, and that’s fine – but you’re the other way round and it’s the wrong way round. You’ll never be a romantic lead.’ I got up. ‘Thanks, Joe,’ I said, and left. I found out later that he’d given my contract to James Booth.
To my surprise, Dennis was not fazed by this. As ever, he used the opportunity to get me some work that would enhance my reputation and extend my range. In my one and only classical role I played Horatio to Christopher Plummer’s Hamlet in a film for television. I’d had no dramatic training and had always felt Shakespeare was not for me, but I soon found myself bound up with the story and I decided that if my on-screen appearance was going to be an issue, then I would use it to bring out all Horatio’s ambiguous sexuality. It was a great experience and an opportunity to play alongside my old friend Robert Shaw – and to meet a new one, Donald Sutherland, who was playing Fortinbras. I’m too naturalistic an actor for iambic pentameter but I felt safe in playing Horatio, because although it’s a good part, it’s not the lead.
Of course now, the world of movies and theatre is much more fluid and people go back and forth. In my day the theatre was training for the movies; now big movie stars will do theatre, because they haven’t done it before. And it can be strikingly successfuclass="underline" I was astonished by Jude Law’s Hamlet, which I think is one of the best I’ve ever seen in my life, but he’s certainly not doing it for financial reasons. As for me, I learnt what I could in the theatre and I wouldn’t want to do it any more. I may not want to do it myself, but I go to the theatre a lot and I love what’s going on these days, not just the standard of acting, which is fabulous, but the quality of the productions in plays and musicals alike. I saw Chorus Line years ago and loved it, but the new production I saw in New York recently is amazing, and the new Andrew Lloyd Webber show – Love Never Dies – which was not a hit with the critics, is one of the best visual spectacles I’ve seen. The way I see it is that the theatre was a woman I loved who treated me like shit and the movies turned out to be a mistress I could do anything with – as I was just about to find out…
Back from location in Denmark, things were building up for the premiere of Zulu. Jack Hawkins, who played the missionary Otto Witt in the film, had been interviewed for the advance publicity. ‘Watch out for a new actor called Michael Caine,’ he advised, which was good of him. I got another star rating the next day from the writer Edna O’Brien who was doing an article on the five most attractive men in London – one a day. I was Mr Friday. I felt like cutting it out and sending it to Joe Levine.
As the premiere neared I had to decide which girl to take. There were plenty of candidates but no one special, and then it dawned on me that I should take Mum. I rushed over to Brixton and was very taken aback when she refused point blank. ‘Why not?’ I demanded. I was hurt. After all, it was she who had kept me going all these years and I wanted her to see me in my moment of triumph. But there was no persuading her, so eventually I gave up and promised to come back the next day to tell her all about it.
I turned my attention to what to wear. The director Bryan Forbes had introduced me to Doug Hayward, a brilliant tailor, one of the key figures in the Sixties fashion world and someone who would become a lifelong friend. I knew I’d need an evening suit for the premiere, but I also knew that I couldn’t afford one, so I went to Doug and did a deal. He and I were the same size, so I bought one of his superb suits for half price with the agreement that we would share it. Since we only had the one suit between us, Doug couldn’t come to the Zulu premiere – and in fact until my next film when I could finally afford my own suit, we were never seen together at posh events.
Most of the evening went by in a complete blur but what I do remember is that when I emerged from the Rolls Royce I’d hired, girl on my arm, the crowds cheered and the flash bulbs went off and as the smoke cleared and I made my way up the red carpet I saw a familiar face in the crowd. There was my mum, in her old hat, being held back by a burly copper, trying to catch a glimpse of her own son. I’ve never forgotten that moment, and I never will.
The moment Zulu was released, things started to happen. I was sitting with Terry Stamp having dinner one night in the Pickwick Club, one of the new trendy restaurants that popped up all over the place in the sixties. I liked it – for a start you didn’t have to wear a tie, which was one of the rules English restaurants used to enforce at that time to keep the likes of me out. This particular evening, Harry Salzman who, with Cubby Broccoli, was responsible for the James Bond movies, came in with his family. Just as Terry and I were finishing dinner, he sent a note asking me to have a quick coffee with him. I went over and sat down. They had just come from seeing Zulu. ‘We all think,’ said Harry, ‘that you’re going to be a big star.’ I thanked them. Joe Levine’s opinion was beginning to feel like a minority one. Then Harry changed tack abruptly. ‘Have you read Len Deighton’s Ipcress File?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. And it was true – I really was in the middle of it right then. ‘Good,’ said Harry. ‘Would you like to star in the movie I’m going to make of it?’ ‘Yes,’ I said again. ‘Would you like a seven-year contract?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Would you like to have lunch with me at Les Ambassadeurs tomorrow?’ Unsurprisingly, the answer was again – and unoriginally – ‘Yes!’
I staggered back to my table in a daze. ‘What was that all about?’ asked Terry. ‘I’ve got a starring role in a movie and a seven-year contract,’ I said, still not believing what I was saying. ‘But you’ve only been gone two minutes!’ said Terry. I looked down at the remains of my supper, now congealing on my plate. Had I really heard right? Just then, the waiter came over with a bottle of champagne. He opened it and poured Terry and me a glass and as I looked over at Harry to thank him, he and the rest of his party toasted me. ‘Congratulations!’ ‘Thank you,’ I said, just to prove that my vocabulary was more extensive than ‘yes’. When the time came to pay the bill, I decided to treat Terry, who had always been so generous to me. But Harry Salzman had already paid. ‘Thank you,’ I said again to him as we passed his table on the way out of the restaurant. Harry smiled. ‘And tomorrow,’ he said, ‘wear a tie.’