My Dinner with Albie

Author’s Note:  This post is dedicated to the cherished memory of Barry Lind.  He loved the movie Two for the Road as much as I did.  I thought about him the whole time I was writing this.  God bless you, buddy.

In 1986 the great English actor, Albert Finney, came to work at the Steppenwolf Theater here in Chicago.  His old R.A.D.A. (Royal Academy for the Dramatic Arts) training shone through, because not only did he tread the boards in Lyle Kessler’s play Orphans, (it just opened on Broadway- with Alec Baldwin in his part) but he answered phones and even took tickets at the box office.

He was a regular bloke- for a celebrated Shakespearean, a future five-time Academy Award nominee and legendary heartthrob.  (The on dit was that he broken up Audrey Hepburn’s shaky marriage when the two of them made Two for the Road together.)

He was hugely popular with the cast and crew, and when his run of the play came to an end, the Steppenwolf troupe wanted to honor him with a farewell dinner.  They enlisted the aid of a big donor/board member/Society Hostess who had a suitably-impressive dining room in which to hold the festivities.  Invitations went out to a very exclusive chi chi dinner chez her.

The RSVP’s came roaring in and now the hostess was faced with that ever-thorny task- placement.  You know.  Who sits where- and with whom.  This is always tricky.  Some big shots get mad when seated by the kitchen or near the loo at big public galas. There are always second and third marriages to consider or business deals that have gone bust.  But this hostess was an old hand at the place card game and she easily seated all and sundry.

Until she came to the slot on the guest of honor’s left.  (She had correctly snagged the seat on the right of him for herself.)  Every time she offered the hallowed seat to its would-be rightful owner- important board member or generous angel- the potential nominee would get cold feet and opt out.  They all wanted to be at her dinner of course.  Just not right next to the illustrious Mr. Finney.

Now yours truly, safe and snug in my little nest in Winnetka, knew nothing of these musical chairs goings-on. I was blithely unaware of my hostess’s predicament until I got a frantic phone call from by the now-frazzled her.

“Ellen, I’ve been told on good authority that you are the only person I should put next to Albert Finney.  Is that okay with you?”

Was that okay?  I had been waiting for a phone call like this all my life.  I tried to sound nonchalant.

“Of course,  No problem whatsoever.  Glad to be of use.”

Then we hung up- and I did that little dance that Laura Linney would later do in Love Actually.

The Big Night finally arrived.

What I wore:  White silk Scaasi cocktail dress.  With black polka dots, short cap sleeves, shoulder pads, and a little bustle-like thing that stuck me out at the hips.  I know.  I know.  But it was the eighties, remember?

What we talked about:  Horse racing. Women.  Acting.  More women.  I didn’t have the bad manners to ask him about his rumored affair with La Hepburn or the recent demise of his marriage to stunning French charmer Anouk Aimée.  But he did volunteer that he had once cast a wistful eye in another co-star’s direction once or twice.

“I rather fancied Jackie Bisset, actually,” he confided.  “Made three movies with her.”

Yeah, great ones.  Like my beloved Two for the Road, Murder on the Orient Express and Under the Volcano.

He went on record to say that his favorite actress and co-star was- wait for it- the great Dame Edith Evans.  (Me, too.  She was unforgettable in everything, but in Tom Jones she outdid even herself.)

He told me that his grown-up son had just moved back in with him.  I asked if that presented any problems. You know, grown-up kid back under father’s roof once again?

“No, I rather like looking at his girlfriends,” he confessed with a devilish grin.  Albert was a “bit of a lad,” as they say across the pond.

But I knew that already.  And wasn’t that exactly why I had fallen so hard for him in Tom Jones and Two for the Road?

I was amazed that he flew his horses back and forth across the English Channel to compete.  Easier, he said, than flying their trainers.

And he was gobsmacked when I told him that I owned the soundtracks to the two aforesaid movies.  He didn’t.  (In those long-ago digitally-challenged days, one could never even dream of owning a movie. Simply unheard of.  The closest you could get to owning a film you adored was to buy the soundtrack.  It was the only way, back then, to re-live the memory.)

The dinner flew by.  He was easy to talk to, and I’d like to think that I kept my end up.  All too soon it was over. But before we parted ways, I asked him if I could have his place card as a souvenir.  Of course he said yes and of course I’ve still got it.

Albert Finney went on to make great movies like Miller’s Crossing, Erin Brockovich, The Bourne Ultimatum, Ocean’s Twelve and most recently Skyfall.

And these days he looks like a man who has lived hard and loved hard and drunk hard- and relished every minute of it.  He has even had the brass to turn down a CBE and a knighthood.  (He thought the honors system “perpetuated snobbery.”)

What a life he has had.  And for a few moments he shared it all with me.

And now I’ve shared it all with you.  A wonderful memory.  Evergreen.

And much better than a soundtrack, eh, Tom?