March 5, 1908—The suave actor who played to perfection Henry Higgins and a host of other comic roles on stage and film, Rex Harrison, was born in Lancashire, England.
Not for nothing was one of Harrison’s films called The Rake’s Progress, for his ego and libido were extraordinary even by Hollywood’s expansive yardstick. Six wives put him in the same league with Henry VIII, and one of his many lovers, Carole Landis, killed herself when he refused to divorce his wife at the time, Lilli Palmer.
“Sexy Rexy,” they called him, when other four-letter words, not printable here, didn’t spring immediately to mind.
In pre-opening rehearsals for My Fair Lady, rather than try to bolster Julie Andrews’ confidence, Harrison seemed ready to consume the 20-year-old newcomer alive until director Moss Hart took her aside for intensive tough-love coaching sessions, according to Stephen Bach’s biography of Hart, Dazzler. (The accompanying photo shows the two stars in a —presumably—more comfortable moment onstage, after the dust settled.)
Not for nothing was one of Harrison’s films called The Rake’s Progress, for his ego and libido were extraordinary even by Hollywood’s expansive yardstick. Six wives put him in the same league with Henry VIII, and one of his many lovers, Carole Landis, killed herself when he refused to divorce his wife at the time, Lilli Palmer.
“Sexy Rexy,” they called him, when other four-letter words, not printable here, didn’t spring immediately to mind.
In pre-opening rehearsals for My Fair Lady, rather than try to bolster Julie Andrews’ confidence, Harrison seemed ready to consume the 20-year-old newcomer alive until director Moss Hart took her aside for intensive tough-love coaching sessions, according to Stephen Bach’s biography of Hart, Dazzler. (The accompanying photo shows the two stars in a —presumably—more comfortable moment onstage, after the dust settled.)
Mark Harris’ new account of a pivotal year in Oscar history, Pictures at a Revolution: Five Movies and the Birth of the New Hollywood, reveals an even uglier aspect of this character trait, as a deep-in-his-cups Harrison repeatedly rained anti-Semitic taunts at his younger co-star, Anthony Newley, during production of Dr. Dolittle.
What made all this bearable—barely—were the actor’s easy facility with the most verbally challenging texts, along with a natural wit and charm that made him what Noel Coward called “the greatest interpreter of high comedy in the world.”
What made all this bearable—barely—were the actor’s easy facility with the most verbally challenging texts, along with a natural wit and charm that made him what Noel Coward called “the greatest interpreter of high comedy in the world.”
Over his long career, he not only took on Coward, Christopher Fry, W. Somerset Maugham, and Frederick Lonsdale, but also, preeminently, George Bernard Shaw. Besides Lerner and Loewe’s My Fair Lady, a musical adaptation of Pygmalion, Harrison appeared in Major Barbara on film, Caesar and Cleopatra on Broadway, and Heartbreak House on TV. (The cast in this latter version—including Harrison, Amy Irving, and Rosemary Harris—compared very favorably with the recent Roundabout Theatre production starring Swoosie Kurtz and Philip Bosco.) In fact, Harrison was almost as closely associated with Shaw as Jason Robards would come to be with Eugene O’Neill.
I’ve seen four different actors playing Professor Higgins: James Villiers, in a 1973 BBC production, in which he barely held his own against Lynn Redgrave’s Eliza Doolittle; Leslie Howard, upending his usual milquetoast image with his relentlessly focused Higgins in the 1938 adaptation of Pygmalion; Jefferson Mays, in last fall’s Roundabout production with Claire Danes, playing the language expert as the bullying conniver that Shaw had originally written; and Harrison himself.
I’ve seen four different actors playing Professor Higgins: James Villiers, in a 1973 BBC production, in which he barely held his own against Lynn Redgrave’s Eliza Doolittle; Leslie Howard, upending his usual milquetoast image with his relentlessly focused Higgins in the 1938 adaptation of Pygmalion; Jefferson Mays, in last fall’s Roundabout production with Claire Danes, playing the language expert as the bullying conniver that Shaw had originally written; and Harrison himself.
As fine as the other three actors were, only in Harrison’s case was the choice of a particular performer absolutely indispensable to the role.
To create a Professor Higgins who could—unlike Shaw’s play—actually fall in love with and keep Eliza, Lerner and Loewe needed someone who could not only intimidate a young girl, but take her heart away despite herself (or, in the delicious irony here, himself as well).
To create a Professor Higgins who could—unlike Shaw’s play—actually fall in love with and keep Eliza, Lerner and Loewe needed someone who could not only intimidate a young girl, but take her heart away despite herself (or, in the delicious irony here, himself as well).
Harrison’s sophistication made him the only real choice for the role on Broadway, despite his lack of any real singing skill. (Lerner and Loewe had to simply accommodate their songs to the actor’s unique say-song style.)
Perhaps the only Hollywood actor who could have brought anything close to these qualities was Cary Grant, who amazingly, even after Harrison’s Broadway triumph, was offered the role on the big screen. To his credit, Grant not only said he wouldn’t accept it, but that he wouldn’t even watch the film if anyone other than Harrison were in that role.
It’s become a bit of a fashion among certain film musical theater aficionados to downgrade the 1964 musical. In my opinion, that view is deeply misplaced: the movie and the contribution of both director George Cukor and Harrison are at the highest level of craftsmanship.
Take a look at the 40th-anniversary DVD set. Focus on Harrison’s astonishingly cheerful discovery of Eliza, watching how he draws out the last syllable: “You’re so deliciously low.”
Better yet, examine the critical sequence involving Eliza’s agonized learning of vowels. The filmmakers wisely added this, not from normal text but from a suggested interpolation in Shaw’s published version.
Perhaps the only Hollywood actor who could have brought anything close to these qualities was Cary Grant, who amazingly, even after Harrison’s Broadway triumph, was offered the role on the big screen. To his credit, Grant not only said he wouldn’t accept it, but that he wouldn’t even watch the film if anyone other than Harrison were in that role.
It’s become a bit of a fashion among certain film musical theater aficionados to downgrade the 1964 musical. In my opinion, that view is deeply misplaced: the movie and the contribution of both director George Cukor and Harrison are at the highest level of craftsmanship.
Take a look at the 40th-anniversary DVD set. Focus on Harrison’s astonishingly cheerful discovery of Eliza, watching how he draws out the last syllable: “You’re so deliciously low.”
Better yet, examine the critical sequence involving Eliza’s agonized learning of vowels. The filmmakers wisely added this, not from normal text but from a suggested interpolation in Shaw’s published version.
Repeatedly, Higgins goads and bullies Eliza until he stops and says something to the effect of, “When you learn it—and I know you will…” It’s the type of statement that an athletic coach will make, the kind of morale booster that plants the seed of confidence, and it binds athlete and coach together come what may—as it does here, in Harrison’s suddenly calm look of assurance. It gives credibility to Harrison as romantic leading man.
So, because we’re interested in every variety of the human species, let’s by all means recall the monstrous egomaniac who terrorized co-stars and the cad who pursued and heartlessly dumped more women than he could count. Thank God none of us had to live or work with him.
So, because we’re interested in every variety of the human species, let’s by all means recall the monstrous egomaniac who terrorized co-stars and the cad who pursued and heartlessly dumped more women than he could count. Thank God none of us had to live or work with him.
(There’s a story that, after an outraged fan pummeled the actor with her rolled-up program for telling her to “Sod off” when she requested an autograph, his amused My Fair Lady co-star Stanley Holloway told him it was the first time in history that "the fan has hit the sh*t.")
But, as we watch his films, let’s also recall what Humphrey Bogart once said about actors and their private lives: “The only thing you owe the public is a good performance." Then, tip your hat (better yet, the My Fair Lady kind that Harrison adopted as his favorite headgear for the rest of his life after the show) to the actor who personified intelligence, sophistication and urbanity so effortlessly onscreen and onstage for more than six decades.
But, as we watch his films, let’s also recall what Humphrey Bogart once said about actors and their private lives: “The only thing you owe the public is a good performance." Then, tip your hat (better yet, the My Fair Lady kind that Harrison adopted as his favorite headgear for the rest of his life after the show) to the actor who personified intelligence, sophistication and urbanity so effortlessly onscreen and onstage for more than six decades.
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