Before He Passed, Richard Burton Revealed The 5 Souls He Never Forgot D
And he was a Welshman, he couldn’t sing a note, but he wrote those musicals that went on forever and ever, you know. I was I’ve forgotten what they were called now, but The Dancing Years and and I think he wrote Keep the Home Fires Burning and stuff like that, but he couldn’t sing a note.
And I remember him telling me once that he did a tour of hospitals during the war. The other evening I was sitting by myself with a glass of whiskey. That happens a little more often these days. You get older, you don’t feel the need to be surrounded by people every night. Sometimes the silence is good company. A fellow who’d stop by looked at me and asked, “Richard, after everyone you’ve met, who are the five people you could never forget?” I laughed.
I told him that was a much easier question than asking me who the greatest actor was. You ask who’s the greatest, you’ll start an argument that’ll last until closing time. You ask who I never forgot. Well, that’s different. Nobody can tell you who stayed in your heart. I’ve known all sorts over the years.
Brilliant people, difficult people, charming people, a few impossible people. That’s what this business gives you. One film ends, another begins, and suddenly you’re sharing dressing rooms, hotel bars, long flights, and late dinners with people you barely knew a week before. Most of them drift away.
That’s just life. You shake hands, you promise to keep in touch, then another job comes along, and before you know it, 10 years have passed. But every now and then somebody stays with you. Not because they won more awards. Not because newspapers wrote about them. Just because every time you think back on those years, somehow they’re still standing there.
Funny thing is, I don’t remember every premiere anymore. I couldn’t tell you what tie I wore or who was sitting at my table, but I can still remember someone making me laugh so hard I nearly spilled my drink. I can remember a conversation after midnight that lasted until the sun came up. I can remember somebody putting a hand on my shoulder when I needed it without saying very much at all.
Those are the things that stick. People always wanted to talk to me about films. Truth is, I’d rather talk about people. So, if you don’t mind listening to an old Welshman for a little while, these are the five souls I never forgot. The first one probably won’t surprise you. Elizabeth Taylor. Well, I suppose everybody expected me to start with Elizabeth.
I probably disappoint a lot of people if I didn’t. The funny thing is most people remember Elizabeth Taylor for the things the newspapers couldn’t stop talking about, the beauty, the jewels, the marriages, the headlines. It seemed like everywhere we went somebody had another story to tell about her.
I remember something much simpler. I remember her laugh. You could hear it from the other side of the room. It wasn’t quiet, it wasn’t polite. When Elizabeth found something funny, everybody knew it. Before long, the rest of us were laughing, too, even if we hadn’t heard the joke. That’s the Elizabeth I carry around with me.
People always ask what it was like being married to her. Truth is, it was never boring. We could argue over the smallest things. Sometimes, I can’t even remember what started it. One of us would say something stubborn, the other would answer with something even more stubborn, and before long neither of us was willing to give an inch.
Then just as quickly, she’d look over at me and smile. That smile had a way of ending arguments before either of us admitted we’d lost. I never met anyone quite like her. One evening, we were having dinner after a long day of filming. I was trying to convince her to order something sensible. She looked at my plate instead.
Without asking, she reached over, stole a potato, took a bite, and smiled like she’d done absolutely nothing wrong. I said, “Elizabeth, you do realize that’s my dinner.” She shrugged and said, “Um it looked better than mine.” That was the end of the conversation. She kept the potato. I ordered another one.
Looking back, that’s the sort of thing I miss. Not the glamorous evenings people always imagine. Just little moments like that. She had a way of making ordinary days feel less ordinary. She also knew me better than I like to admit. There were times I’d pretend everything was fine.
I’d tell people I was tired when I was really worried. I’d say I wanted to be alone when the truth was I didn’t. Elizabeth saw through all of it. She’d look at me for a few seconds and say, “What’s really bothering you?” I hated that question. Mostly because she was usually right. You can spend a lifetime trying to convince the world you’re stronger than you are.
Then one person comes along who sees right through the performance. Elizabeth did that. Everybody remembers the actress. Everybody remembers the movie star. Uh that’s not the first person who comes into my mind. I remember the woman who could fill a room with laughter. The woman who never let me take myself too seriously.
The woman who knew exactly when I needed someone to tell me the truth. I’ve met a lot of remarkable people in my life. But I’ve never met anyone who made life feel quite as alive as Elizabeth Taylor. That’s why after all these years she’s still the very first soul I think about. The next person I have to talk about is Peter O’Toole.
Now, if you ever spent an evening with Peter, you’d know exactly why he’s on this list. He had this wonderful gift of making life feel lighter. Didn’t matter if we’d had a dreadful day on set. Didn’t matter if the critics had been sharpening their knives. Didn’t matter if we’d been traveling for hours.
Peter could walk into the room, say one ridiculous thing, and suddenly everybody was smiling again. I don’t know how he did it. Maybe he didn’t know either. The first time we really sat down together, I remember thinking this man’s mind never stops. One minute we were talking about Shakespeare. The next minute we were arguing about football.
Then somehow we’d end up laughing about something that happened 20 years earlier. The conversation never seemed to have a destination. It just wondered wherever Peter wanted it to go. And somehow you never wanted it to end. People always talk about what a magnificent actor he was. Well, of course he was.
You don’t give a performance like Lawrence of Arabia by accident. Everybody knows that. But that’s not why I never forgot him. I forgot scenes over the years. I forgot reviews. I even forgot a few opening nights. I never forgot how Peter made people feel. There’s a difference. We shared more than a few drinks together.
Probably more than either of our doctors would have recommended. There were nights we’d sit in some hotel bar long after everyone else had gone to bed. No reporters. No cameras. Just two Welsh and Irish fools trying to solve the world’s problems over another glass. We never solved very many of them.
But we certainly enjoyed trying. I remember one night I was worrying about a picture I was making. I’d convinced myself it wasn’t good enough. Peter listened for a while. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t give me one of those speeches actors sometimes give each other. He simply smiled and said, “Richard, you spend far too much time worrying about tomorrow.
Finish your drink first.” That was Peter. He had a way of reminding you that life wasn’t supposed to be carried like a sack of stones. Sometimes you were allowed to laugh even when things weren’t perfect. Uh especially when they weren’t perfect. The older I become, the more I’ve understood what he meant. When you’re young, you think there’s always another chance to sit down with an old friend, another dinner, another bottle, another story.
Then one day there isn’t. Funny how quickly that happens. Every now and then I’ll hear someone tell a joke that doesn’t quite land, and I’ll catch myself thinking, “Peter would have told that better.” He always did. Everybody remembers Peter O’Toole because he was unforgettable on the screen. Uh I remember him because he made ordinary evenings feel like they’d be worth remembering for the rest of my life.
And uh believe me, that’s a much rarer gift. The third person I always find myself thinking about is John Gielgud. I have to admit I was nervous the first time I worked with him, more nervous than I’d ever tell him. When you’re a young actor and you find yourself standing next to someone you’ve admired for years, you spend half your time thinking about your lines and the other half wondering if you’re making a fool of yourself.
John never made that any harder. In fact, he did the opposite. He had this quiet way about him. He wasn’t the loudest man in the room. He didn’t have to be. When John spoke, people listened. Not because he demanded it, because you knew he had something worth hearing. I remember one rehearsal where I was trying much too hard.
I was pushing every line, trying to make every speech sound important. When we finished, John walked over to me. I I thought he was about to give me a long lecture. He didn’t. He simply smiled and said, “Richard, slow down.” That was it. Just those two words. Uh at the time I wasn’t even sure what he meant.
I thought slower meant quieter. Or maybe less dramatic. It took me years to understand what he was really saying. He was telling me to trust the words. Trust the audience. You don’t have to chase people. If you’re telling the truth, they’ll come with you. Uh I’ve carried that lesson with me ever since.
Funny thing is, John never acted like he was teaching anyone. Some people enjoy reminding you how much they know. John wasn’t like that. He’d answer a question if you asked. Otherwise, he’d simply lead by example. I learned more watching him than I ever did listening to speeches about acting. After performances, there’d always be people waiting to congratulate him.
He’d thank them politely. Uh then before long, he’d wander backstage to see the crew. He knew everybody’s name. The stagehands, the wardrobe girls, the fellows moving the scenery. He treated them exactly the same way he treated famous actors. I noticed that. I don’t think he ever realized I noticed it.
Success has a funny way of changing people. John never seemed interested in changing. He remained exactly who he was. Kind, passionate, curious. There was no performance once the curtain came down. The man you saw on stage and the man sharing a cup of tea afterward were the same person. I’ve always admired that.
People remember John Gielgud because of the voice. And um what a voice it was. You could have listened to him read a shopping list and thought it was Shakespeare. But when I think about him, that’s the first thing that comes to mind. I think about those two simple words, “Slow down.” I’ve repeated them to myself more times than I can count.
Even now, sometimes before walking onto a stage, sometimes before walking into life itself. It’s funny, a man can give you advice that takes 5 seconds to say, and you spend the next 40 years trying to live up to it. Um the fourth person I’d like to talk about is Laurence Olivier. Now, there’s a man who could make you nervous without saying a single word.
Long before I ever knew him, I admired him. Everybody did. If you cared about acting, you cared about Laurence Olivier. That was just the way it was. I remember the first time we worked together. I tried not to let it show, but I was watching everything he did. How he walked onto the set, how he spoke to people, how he prepared before a scene.
When you’re younger, you think people like Olivier were simply born different. You imagine they wake up every morning full of confidence. You assume they never doubt themselves. I certainly did. Then one afternoon, something happened that surprised me. We were waiting for a scene. Nobody was rushing.
Just sitting around with a bit of time to spare. I asked him if he ever still got nervous before a performance. I expected him to laugh. Instead, he looked at me as though I’d asked the most ordinary question in the world. He said uh “Every single time.” That caught me off guard. I remember saying, “You surely not.
” He smiled. “Oh, yes. If the nerves disappear, I start worrying.” I’ve never forgotten that. It changed the way I looked at him. Actually, it changed the way I looked at myself. I realized being nervous didn’t mean I wasn’t ready. It meant I still cared. And that’s a good thing. People often mistake confidence for fearlessness.
They’re not the same. The finest actors I’ve ever known cared deeply. That’s why they worried. Laurence cared. You could see it. Not in some dramatic way. In the little things. He’d quietly think through a scene. He’d ask questions. He was still searching. Even after everything he’d accomplished. I respected that.
I also admired the discipline he brought to every day’s work. He never acted as though the audience owed him admiration. He believed you earned it. Again and again. Every rehearsal. Every performance. Every night. That sort of attitude rubs off on the people around you. It certainly rubbed off on me.
Of course people remember the legendary performances. They remember the the uh awards. They remember the reputation. I understand why. But when I think about Laurence Olivier, that’s not where my mind goes. I think about one quiet afternoon. Two actors sitting around waiting to be called. One of them admitting he still got nervous.
He probably had no idea how much that helped me. Sometimes the biggest lessons don’t come during the performance. They come while you’re waiting for the curtain to rise. And after all these years, whenever I feel those old butterflies, I still hear Laurence saying, every single time. It always makes me smile.
Uh the last person I want to talk about probably won’t surprise anyone who knows where I came from. Dylan Thomas. Now, before anybody says it, I know Dylan wasn’t an actor. He never stood beside me on a film set. We never shared a dressing room. But some people shape your life without ever really knowing you.
Dylan was one of those people. I grew up in Wales. And if you grow up there, words matter. People think of Wales and um they think about um the valleys, the coal mines, the rugby. I think about voices. The way people tell stories. The way they can make an ordinary conversation sound like music. The first time I really heard Dylan’s poetry, I remember thinking that’s home.
It’s hard to explain if you’ve never felt it. You can spend years living somewhere else. You can cross oceans. You can live in expensive hotels. You can make films all over the world. But then you hear something from home. And suddenly you’re that young boy again. I carried Wales with me everywhere I went.
Sometimes I didn’t realize I was carrying it until I heard Dylan’s words. People often complimented my voice. They’d ask where it came from. I’d smile uh because the answer was easy. It came from home. From chapel sermons. From schoolmasters. From evenings listening to people tell stories. And somewhere in all of that there was Dylan Thomas.
I read his work more times than I could count. Not because I was studying it. Because it reminded me who I was. This business has a funny way of pulling you in different directions. People tell you how to speak. How to dress. How to behave. Uh before long you can forget the fellow you used to be. Every now and then I’d pick up Dylan again.
Just a few pages. That was enough. It brought me back. Not to Hollywood. Not to London. Back to Wales. Back to where all of this started. I think everybody needs something like that. Something that that reminds them where they belong. For me, it was his words. People remember Dylan Thomas as one of the greatest poets of his generation.
I understand that. But that’s not why I’ll always remember him. I’ll remember him because he never let me forget where I came from. And when you’ve spent a lifetime traveling, that’s one of the greatest gifts anyone can give you. Looking back now, it’s funny what stays with you. People think you’ll remember the standing ovations, the awards, the the reviews.
Some of that stays. Most of it doesn’t. What stays are the people. Elizabeth with that laugh that could brighten the darkest day. Peter, who could make you forget your worries for an evening. John, who taught me more with two words than some people could teach in a lifetime. Lawrence, who reminded me that even the greatest among us still felt nervous.
And Dylan, who made sure I never wandered so far that I couldn’t find my way home again. If you ask me what I’m most grateful for, it isn’t the films. It isn’t the applause. It’s that our paths crossed at all. Because life’s a funny thing. You spend years chasing success. Then one day you realize the best part of the journey was the people walking beside you.
If I could have one more evening, just one, I wouldn’t ask for another premiere. I wouldn’t ask to stand on another stage. I’d find a quiet table, pour a few glasses, and wait. I’d know Elizabeth would be the first one talking. Peter would interrupt with a story that got longer every time he told it.
John would sit back with that gentle smile. Lawrence would probably correct one of us about Shakespeare. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I’d simply listen. That would have been enough. More than enough. The older I get, the more I believe this. You don’t spend your life missing the places you’ve been.
You spend it missing the people who made those places worth remembering. And those five souls, I’ll never forget them.
