Cleopatra was a BIG ASS movie. It had lavish sets. Elaborate costumes. Thousands of extras. It was the most expensive film ever made. It ran more than four hours long. It won four Oscars, earned more money at the box office than any other movie in 1963 and still managed to lose tens of millions of dollars. But nothing about it was as big as its stars. Elizabeth Taylor, hailed as one of world's most beautiful women (um, see left), became the highest paid actress in Hollywood when she signed on to play the title role. And starring alongside her as Marc Antony was one of the most respected thespians of his time: Richard Burton.
To the joy of paparazzi everywhere, the two fell in love. They were gorgeous, tempestuous, alcoholic, entertaining. Their director said working with them was "like being locked in a cage with two tigers." Every twist and turn in their relationship became international news.
The whole thing was a little less fun for their spouses. Burton had been married for more than a decade; Taylor, 28, was already on her fourth husband. Neither marriage would last much longer. When Burton's wife saw the way he acted with his co-star on the set of Cleopatra, she fled—not just the set, but the entire country. They were divorced by the end of 1963.
But this was back in the days when divorces were super-hard to get, so they'd had to go to Mexico for it. And Taylor's was taking even longer. That was a problem. Burton, you see, was returning to the stage in a John Gielgud-directed production of Hamlet. It was debuting in Toronto at the O'Keefe Centre. Which meant that since the two lovers didn't want to be away from each other, they would be living here. Together. For eight weeks. In sin.
They arrived in January of 1964 and took over a five-room suite on the eighth floor of the King Edward Hotel. (Good luck finding a newspaper article that doesn't refer to it as a love nest.) And oh man, did some people freak out. There was no shortage of religious nutjobs back in the early 1960s. The Vatican had already denounced Taylor's "erotic vagrancy". Judgmental teenagers showed up at the hotel with signs saying creepy things like "Drink not the wine of adultery" and "She walks among your children". A congressman in the States even suggested that Burton's U.S. visa should be revoked.
But the prudes were fighting a losing battle. There were more fans than picketers. The Star even ran an editorial defending the couple. And then one day, when Taylor came down from their suite to meet Burton for lunch, there he was, sitting at their usual table in the Sovereign Ballroom. It was strangely deserted; he'd reserved the entire room so that he could propose.
Nine days after Taylor's own Mexican divorce was finalized, the couple were married—in Montreal, since Ontario wouldn't recognize their quickie, foreign divorces. A couple of days later, they were back in Toronto showing off their wedding rings. The minister who performed the ceremony would be getting angry phone calls for weeks.
A few days after they got back, Taylor and Burton were off to the States; Hamlet opened on Broadway. Over the course of the '60s, they'd make seven movies together and drink and fight and write passionate love letters declaring their undying love. He called her "a poem", "unquestionably gorgeous", "extraordinarily beautiful" and also "famine, fire, destruction and plague". They divorced in 1974. Remarried in 1975. Then divorced again in 1976. That would be for the last time; a few years later he was dead.
When she came home from the memorial service, there was one last love letter waiting for her in the mail. He'd written it three days before he died, asking her to give him one more chance. In one of her last interviews, she said it was still there, where she kept it, in the drawer beside her bed.
But this was back in the days when divorces were super-hard to get, so they'd had to go to Mexico for it. And Taylor's was taking even longer. That was a problem. Burton, you see, was returning to the stage in a John Gielgud-directed production of Hamlet. It was debuting in Toronto at the O'Keefe Centre. Which meant that since the two lovers didn't want to be away from each other, they would be living here. Together. For eight weeks. In sin.
They arrived in January of 1964 and took over a five-room suite on the eighth floor of the King Edward Hotel. (Good luck finding a newspaper article that doesn't refer to it as a love nest.) And oh man, did some people freak out. There was no shortage of religious nutjobs back in the early 1960s. The Vatican had already denounced Taylor's "erotic vagrancy". Judgmental teenagers showed up at the hotel with signs saying creepy things like "Drink not the wine of adultery" and "She walks among your children". A congressman in the States even suggested that Burton's U.S. visa should be revoked.
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| Taylor and Burton at the King Edward Hotel |
Nine days after Taylor's own Mexican divorce was finalized, the couple were married—in Montreal, since Ontario wouldn't recognize their quickie, foreign divorces. A couple of days later, they were back in Toronto showing off their wedding rings. The minister who performed the ceremony would be getting angry phone calls for weeks.
A few days after they got back, Taylor and Burton were off to the States; Hamlet opened on Broadway. Over the course of the '60s, they'd make seven movies together and drink and fight and write passionate love letters declaring their undying love. He called her "a poem", "unquestionably gorgeous", "extraordinarily beautiful" and also "famine, fire, destruction and plague". They divorced in 1974. Remarried in 1975. Then divorced again in 1976. That would be for the last time; a few years later he was dead.
When she came home from the memorial service, there was one last love letter waiting for her in the mail. He'd written it three days before he died, asking her to give him one more chance. In one of her last interviews, she said it was still there, where she kept it, in the drawer beside her bed.
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Photo: Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra
Adam Bunch is the Editor-in-Chief of the Little Red Umbrella and the creator of the Toronto Dreams Project. You can read his posts here, follow him on Twitter here, or email him at adam@littleredumbrella.com.
This post originally appeared on the Toronto Dreams Project Historical Ephemera Blog, which tells stories about the history of Toronto, including tales of bank robbers, duels and 100 year-old fish. You can read more highlights from it here, or visit it yourself here.
1 comments:
What an amazing story. I smell a bio-pic.
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