This play is Part 1 of The Tinsel Town Trilogy. Part 2 is 'Hollywoodland'. Part 3 is 'One Night with Marilyn'.
All three plays are connected and are based on actual events and written by PT Rose
'3 Knights, 2 Welshmen & A Dame' features Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor, Dylan Thomas, Sir John Gielgud, Sir Ralph Richardson and Lord Olivier. The script centres around the friendship between the legendary Welsh pair Burton and Thomas, their fame, legacy and dependencies...
Burton had at one time been lauded as the heir apparent to Olivier but in the eyes of many he squandered his rare talent in pursuit of fame, celebrity, privilege, wild living, …women….and drink.
Thomas had similarly been a bright early talent who gathered around him ardent fans and admirers, but in the eyes of many he squandered his rare talent in pursuit of fame, celebrity, privilege, wild living, …women….and drink.
The whole play occurs in an Austrian Hotel suite in 1982 when Richard is part way through filming 'Wagner' the extraordinary 8 hour epic directed by Tony Palmer. While caught in a drunken stupor he is 'visited' by Dylan, Gielgud, Richardson and Olivier.
On November 10th 2019 the script and premier memorabilia were inducted into the official Richard Burton Archive held at Swansea University upon the recommendation of Burton biographer Professor Angela John.
Cast
Richard Burton : Stage and screen legend 50+
Dylan Thomas : Poet and writing legend 35+
Sir John Gielgud : Stage and screen legend 50+
Sir Ralph Richardson: Stage and screen legend 50+
Lord Olivier : Stage and screen legend 50+
Elizabeth Taylor: Screen legend 50+
Gianni Novelli: Miss Taylor's personal hairdresser
Bob Wilson: Mr Burton's personal assistant
Paparazi Any gender Any age
Sally: Burton’s final companion. Slim mid 30s
Below is a specially commissioned painting by one of Wales' leading contemporary artists Jeff Phillips.
RICHARD BURTON MEMOIR
By Tony Palmer
In 1982 I had the privilege of directing Olivier, Gielgud and Ralph Richardson in a feature film I made about Wagner, starring Richard Burton. It was first time ever that the three great knights of English classical theatre and Richard Burton had appeared together on the screen. We had expected some tensions whether from professional rivalry or simple jealousy of Richard Burton and his extra-ordinary fame. In fact, as I soon discovered, each of the four was quietly thrilled to be working together again, and pleased to be together on celluloid at last. Indeed, when Richardson died, Olivier in his peroration in Westminster Abbey made especial mention of their time together during the Wagner film, the climax, said Olivier, of their long careers together yet separate.
As their filming drew to a close, each decided to give a dinner party for the others, with Vittorio Storaro, the Oscar-winning cameraman, and myself as guests, the final dinner of which is now the basis of this remarkable play by PT Rose. The four dinners, on succeeding nights were touching, sad, comic and ultimately disastrous. Richardson began, but, try as he might, the service at his hotel was painfully slow and all the food arrived late... and cold. But who cared, with such company? The answer was that Richardson cared, and almost broke down in tears as one thing after another went wrong.
Gielgud’s party was next, and this time Burton was jumping up and down and leaving the restaurant throughout the dinner, to the growing concern of the other guests. Every time he returned to the table, Burton looked increasingly downcast. Finally we learned that, with Gielgud, he had organised presents for the other guests, but that somehow these had failed to arrive. They did, of course, eventually, but not before the calm of the evening had been disturbed by the bouncing Burton.
Olivier was determined that no such disaster should befall his evening. He had a special room at his hotel (each were staying in different hotels); he had special menu cards printed commemorating the occasion; and he had personally ordered the food. Alas, it was one of those days when, through nobody’s fault, the filming overran its schedule, and some of us were a little late arriving, including Gielgud. Olivier was distraught, again close to tears. His evening had been ruined, he said, the food had been ruined, or at least gone cold. “Well, well,” said Gielgud. “I’m starving.” More moaning, but finally the ‘gone cold’ food arrived. It was, of course, Beluga caviar, which would of course not have ‘gone cold’ had we been late by another two hours.
After all this, things could only improve for Richard Burton’s evening, or at least so we all thought. Burton was an alcoholic, and like all alcoholics his good behaviour depended on keeping the level of alcohol in his blood at a more-or-less constant level. Contrary to popular belief, Burton was not a hell-raiser, and much preferred bangers-and-mash (or even kippers) and a glass of beer. But he knew about good food, and he certainly knew about good wine. Often, he would make sure that you, as his guest, had the very best the menu could provide, while he would toy with something more simple. Thus, for instance, he would quietly sip from a glass of water (he was right-handed) while you quaffed the most expensive wine in the house. But, bearing in mind his alcoholism, he would usually pour a glass of red wine and place it by his left hand. He explained to me that this helped him not to drink; the mere sight of this glass by his wrong hand enable him to resist the temptation more firmly.
And so it was the last night Olivier, Gielgud, Richardson and Burton dined together to say their farewells. I cannot remember an evening so full of good cheer, of good jokes, of reminiscences stretching back through half a century of British stage and film history. The trials and tribulations of the previous evenings together were well and truly forgotten, with Burton, the glass of water by his right hand, the glass of wine by his left, at his most charming and beguiling. And then, in the midst of an excruciatingly funny story about the making of the epic film Cleopatra, Burton’s hand slipped towards the glass of wine and, without thinking, he swallowed it. Less than ten minutes later, he was transformed, Jekyll into Hyde. From being delightful, self-effacing and brilliantly entertaining, Burton became abusive, slobbering and evil. The alcohol had poisoned his brain as surely as it had long since pickled his body.
The reaction of the three knights was equally fascinating. Gielgud, Burton’s mentor, just said “Oh no”, his voice full of sadness, full of regret. Richardson said he had to talk to his motorbike and got up to leave. But Olivier, against whom most of Burton’s vitriol seemed to be directed – Burton at one point called Olivier a cunt; he Burton was a far better actor than Olivier would ever be - Olivier sat quietly watching, his eyes narrowing, his imagination noting Burton’s behaviour, storing the information for future use in whatever monster Olivier was next called upon to play.
Burton, exhausted by his tirade, finally looked at me, tears in his eyes, and said, “time to go, eh?” As I took him out to his taxi, he grasped my arm and blurted out: “I blew it, didn’t I?” Somewhere in the mists of his befuddled mind, he knew the disaster he had just caused. He could not focus on it, nor explain his part in it; but he knew. The three knights forgave him, of course. Like the naughty little boy he sometimes was, Richard always seemed about to conjure up forgiveness from those he had most offended.
By the time the film was completed, Richardson was dead and Olivier sick. But Gielgud came to a special screening, and was generously (and characteristically) complimentary about Burton’s titanic performance, “his greatness as an actor plain to see and hear”, said Gielgud. But, with that droll humour for which he was famous, Gielgud added; “Pity you could hear him breathing.”
Click to link to Tony Palmer's Official Website
By Tony Palmer
In 1982 I had the privilege of directing Olivier, Gielgud and Ralph Richardson in a feature film I made about Wagner, starring Richard Burton. It was first time ever that the three great knights of English classical theatre and Richard Burton had appeared together on the screen. We had expected some tensions whether from professional rivalry or simple jealousy of Richard Burton and his extra-ordinary fame. In fact, as I soon discovered, each of the four was quietly thrilled to be working together again, and pleased to be together on celluloid at last. Indeed, when Richardson died, Olivier in his peroration in Westminster Abbey made especial mention of their time together during the Wagner film, the climax, said Olivier, of their long careers together yet separate.
As their filming drew to a close, each decided to give a dinner party for the others, with Vittorio Storaro, the Oscar-winning cameraman, and myself as guests, the final dinner of which is now the basis of this remarkable play by PT Rose. The four dinners, on succeeding nights were touching, sad, comic and ultimately disastrous. Richardson began, but, try as he might, the service at his hotel was painfully slow and all the food arrived late... and cold. But who cared, with such company? The answer was that Richardson cared, and almost broke down in tears as one thing after another went wrong.
Gielgud’s party was next, and this time Burton was jumping up and down and leaving the restaurant throughout the dinner, to the growing concern of the other guests. Every time he returned to the table, Burton looked increasingly downcast. Finally we learned that, with Gielgud, he had organised presents for the other guests, but that somehow these had failed to arrive. They did, of course, eventually, but not before the calm of the evening had been disturbed by the bouncing Burton.
Olivier was determined that no such disaster should befall his evening. He had a special room at his hotel (each were staying in different hotels); he had special menu cards printed commemorating the occasion; and he had personally ordered the food. Alas, it was one of those days when, through nobody’s fault, the filming overran its schedule, and some of us were a little late arriving, including Gielgud. Olivier was distraught, again close to tears. His evening had been ruined, he said, the food had been ruined, or at least gone cold. “Well, well,” said Gielgud. “I’m starving.” More moaning, but finally the ‘gone cold’ food arrived. It was, of course, Beluga caviar, which would of course not have ‘gone cold’ had we been late by another two hours.
After all this, things could only improve for Richard Burton’s evening, or at least so we all thought. Burton was an alcoholic, and like all alcoholics his good behaviour depended on keeping the level of alcohol in his blood at a more-or-less constant level. Contrary to popular belief, Burton was not a hell-raiser, and much preferred bangers-and-mash (or even kippers) and a glass of beer. But he knew about good food, and he certainly knew about good wine. Often, he would make sure that you, as his guest, had the very best the menu could provide, while he would toy with something more simple. Thus, for instance, he would quietly sip from a glass of water (he was right-handed) while you quaffed the most expensive wine in the house. But, bearing in mind his alcoholism, he would usually pour a glass of red wine and place it by his left hand. He explained to me that this helped him not to drink; the mere sight of this glass by his wrong hand enable him to resist the temptation more firmly.
And so it was the last night Olivier, Gielgud, Richardson and Burton dined together to say their farewells. I cannot remember an evening so full of good cheer, of good jokes, of reminiscences stretching back through half a century of British stage and film history. The trials and tribulations of the previous evenings together were well and truly forgotten, with Burton, the glass of water by his right hand, the glass of wine by his left, at his most charming and beguiling. And then, in the midst of an excruciatingly funny story about the making of the epic film Cleopatra, Burton’s hand slipped towards the glass of wine and, without thinking, he swallowed it. Less than ten minutes later, he was transformed, Jekyll into Hyde. From being delightful, self-effacing and brilliantly entertaining, Burton became abusive, slobbering and evil. The alcohol had poisoned his brain as surely as it had long since pickled his body.
The reaction of the three knights was equally fascinating. Gielgud, Burton’s mentor, just said “Oh no”, his voice full of sadness, full of regret. Richardson said he had to talk to his motorbike and got up to leave. But Olivier, against whom most of Burton’s vitriol seemed to be directed – Burton at one point called Olivier a cunt; he Burton was a far better actor than Olivier would ever be - Olivier sat quietly watching, his eyes narrowing, his imagination noting Burton’s behaviour, storing the information for future use in whatever monster Olivier was next called upon to play.
Burton, exhausted by his tirade, finally looked at me, tears in his eyes, and said, “time to go, eh?” As I took him out to his taxi, he grasped my arm and blurted out: “I blew it, didn’t I?” Somewhere in the mists of his befuddled mind, he knew the disaster he had just caused. He could not focus on it, nor explain his part in it; but he knew. The three knights forgave him, of course. Like the naughty little boy he sometimes was, Richard always seemed about to conjure up forgiveness from those he had most offended.
By the time the film was completed, Richardson was dead and Olivier sick. But Gielgud came to a special screening, and was generously (and characteristically) complimentary about Burton’s titanic performance, “his greatness as an actor plain to see and hear”, said Gielgud. But, with that droll humour for which he was famous, Gielgud added; “Pity you could hear him breathing.”
Click to link to Tony Palmer's Official Website