The World of Cinema — My Mother... Vivien Leigh

The World of Cinema

This story... can be told by only one daughter: Vivien Leigh's daughter, Suzanne Holman... It draws a truthful portrait of her famous mother's personality!...

"You must meet Suzanne Holman" — this phrase pursues me until at many moments I grow weary of it; and the speaker usually adds: "She is Vivien Leigh's only daughter." I will not mention the looks of wonder that follow me wherever I turn my face — not admiration for my own person, but for my being Vivien Leigh's daughter, and for my not resembling her in anything.

I cannot bring together the memories that passed through my childhood with the woman I loved and took as the ideal figure I wished one day to become. I always felt that my mother was out of the ordinary, and I remember how my nurse would carry me in her arms, in my white organdy dress, and pass with me through the hall where journalists and other people gathered — all of them strangers to me, yet they would look at me as though I were someone dear and close to them, and some of them would take various pictures of me...

I did not understand what the word "theater" meant until after I turned five... One afternoon my grandmother came to take me on a surprise outing... When I asked her where she was taking me, she answered calmly: You will see in a few minutes... and I kept silent until I should see... And I saw the "Vic" theater on Waterloo Road — indeed I entered it at my grandmother's side, and she seated me next to her on a cushion she had bought especially for me so that I could see the play my mother was giving that night, which the Queen and her sister Margaret attended... It was A Midsummer Night's Dream, and Robert Helpmann played Oberon; when Queen Titania entered, I leapt from my seat and cried out with excitement: That's Mama!...

I remember that I passed through the most affecting experience of my life, and after that night I decided to become an actress... Years later, after I had left secondary school in Switzerland, I applied to the Old "Vic" theater school and was accepted as an auditor. By that time my mother had married Sir Laurence Olivier, whom I count the greatest uncle in the world — he is wise and intelligent, understands the subtlest matters, and handles them in wonderful ways.

I did not follow my lessons diligently; I was very lazy, and did not even trouble to memorize the piece I had been given to prepare. My mother came asking me the name of this piece, and I told her it was a passage from the play "Romeo and Juliet"; she asked me to recite the piece to her, and my limbs trembled; after repeating two passages I went blank, and was struck by something like a stupor... So she performed the piece in my place. I knew that about her: she is precise to a degree the mind cannot imagine, and I alone know how many hours she spends perfecting a small role, so that she leaves no reference unconsulted, in order to gather the greatest possible store of information; and she goes to the singing institute to train her voice and give it more depth.

My mother encouraged me to go on in the acting life, but I feared the stage. She was once asked to give the name of a young actress to take a secondary role in a play, and it was natural that she should suggest my name. I memorized the words; but I could not control my nerves — especially when I saw my pictures occupying the front pages of the newspapers. "Larry" — that is, Laurence — warned me to keep calm, and I promised him well, until I stood before the television lens and the engineer gave the signal to begin; I pictured myself before ten thousand souls, and my resolve gave way, and whatever courage remained to me melted away...

I learned after this trial that living on a farm in Australia would suit me better; but instead I went to work with my grandmother in the beauty salon... Yet that did not gain me experience. I remember how I once entered my mother's room wearing a dark lipstick... I remember exactly how she started, and said: Never do that again — that color adds years to your age. Yes!... Even she does not use many cosmetics, and touches her cheeks with a quiet, light color. As for her hair, she has it dressed once a week, because curling it annoys her.

My mother lives a quiet domestic life, in a splendid dwelling surrounded by green gardens, which she tends with Larry. They have lately broken into another field, far removed from acting: they bought a herd of pigs, which live in luxurious quarters, and several cows, on which she bestowed the names of the heroines of famous novels — among them you find the names "Cordelia," "Berbizwa," and "Blanche"!... My mother loves cooking very much, and I can count her in the rank of the most skillful cooks; she is always searching out new dishes from every corner of the world.

I shall never forget the day my mother traveled to America to act in the film Streetcar Named Desire... She sent inviting me to travel with "Larry," and added that I might perhaps be able to appear on the screen in the crowd scenes... I shall not forget the photographers' lights that greeted us on the airport ground, and the flood of questions the journalists poured upon "Larry"... And my mother was there, in her full elegance and charm, among those who came to meet us! I was astonished when I visited Hollywood: I had expected to see a row of studios, instead of a thriving, splendid city. Unlike other stars, my mother and Larry do their own "makeup" before beginning work, without anyone helping them; I would stand and watch my mother in fascination as she dusted on the powders she needed before the camera! I stood watching the filming with astonishment and admiration, and Elia Kazan, who was directing, turned to me and invited me to join the crowds, and I heeded his word. But I was obliged to leave Hollywood before the film came to its end.

When my mother and Larry returned to London, she brought with her the "Oscar" award my mother had won for her film "Gone with the Wind"... During its making she had worked fifteen hours a day for six months.

"Larry" and my mother suffered a blow in 1940, when the film "Romeo and Juliet" failed on "Broadway"; they had exhausted her whole fortune on producing it — but they made up for it with the film "Lady Hamilton."

It happened that my mother traveled to London in Larry's company when the airplane caught fire with her aboard; so they returned to America, and she passed through this ordeal a second time — and that was enough to plant in her soul a loathing for flying and travel.