Journey of a Lifetime

Ambassadors and archbishops expelled, ministers sacked, critics shot, yet television entertained and hostile questioning accepted…A strange world.

It was getting stranger, for we were running out of film. We had already shot programmes in Argentina, Paraguay and Ecuador, and our messages calling for the dispatch of further film stock were growing more urgent. Yorkshire Television had only been running a few months and was still not quite sure what owning a major television centre was all about. Our cables were ignored because it was a weekend, and Christmas was approaching.

When stock was eventually dispatched from Leeds it was not sent directly to Jamaica, our neighbouring island, but via PanAm’s notorious Cargo section in New York where, as we feared, it disappeared from sight.

Filming, however, was going brilliantly. All we needed for our documentary was a climax, and we got that when Papa Doc told me that next day he was going Christmas shopping with Mme Duvalier and Di-Di, and would I like to film the expedition? When presidents start suggesting their own sequences, even I begin to feel quietly confident. The prospect of the terrifying dictator taking our film crew shopping around his capital was like a skeleton in a paper hat: macabre, but fascinating. It had to be the televisory situation of a lifetime.

My crew sensed an award-winning programme. This reconciled us wonderfully to the gloom and anxiety, the inedible food and the unpredictable presidential moods, the constant fear that at any moment something could go fatally wrong—and no one would hear a cry for help.

At that moment we ran out of film.

This presented endless new problems. As I had discovered with General Alfredo Stroessner of Paraguay, filming a dictator who does not want to be filmed can be quite dangerous. What is even more fatal, however, is not filming a dictator who wants to be filmed. He is not used to arguments or excuses or sweet reason. Dictators can only dictate.

Back at the hotel we had a despairing conference around empty camera magazines. What to do? One way or another he was going to be displeased. This could lead to a sudden restriction of liberty—or even a spilling of blood.

We could hardly say we were not interested any more, thank you, Mr President. We could not stand him up, or we might be escorted downstairs to the dungeons. We could not leave the country without an exit visa—and anyway our movements were followed by scores of eyes.

We had been anxious to establish a relationship, but now it seemed, to my surprise, that one could get too close to a dictator.

On the morning of our Christmas present expedition I was half hoping the guards outside the palace would hold us up again, even more firmly, but of course for the first time we were swept straight in, with salutes. So I handed my cameraman Frank Pocklington the small pocket camera I used, a little half-frame Olympus Pen F, and went on to spend the morning chatting with a marvellously relaxed President in various jewellers’ shops while my cameraman took happy-snaps, in anguish. For a documentary it was a dream situation—except that our cameraman was taking despairing paparazzi pictures, incredulous at what he was missing.

Papa Doc did not notice the absence of our Arriflex, of course. He was far too busy selecting the best jewellery he could find in the guarded shops, while behind him his womenfolk went through the stock with shrewd and practised eyes. I watched Di-Di riffle through a boxful of diamonds; she was surely a chip off the Old Doc.

As our presidential cortège arrived, each jeweller’s face became a study: on one hand, it was a great honour to be “By Appointment” to Dr Duvalier. Such presidential approval had all sorts of side benefits, like the Tontons did not kill you. On the other hand there was one slight but unavoidable snag: he never paid for anything.

He would make his selections with much care and then, instead of handing over his credit card, would shake the shop-keeper’s hand and award him a wolfish smile. He got a few wolfish smiles back, as though the jeweller was going down for the third time, but there was nothing they could do. At least he only took one item from each shop, and, knowing the gift you carry gets home first, Papa Doc always carried his with him, gift-wrapped, when he left. No exchanges required.

Back in our gloomy hotel, beyond caring and defeated by a distant delivery system, we booked seats on the next flight out to Miami. We had not exposed a foot of film on that unreal and unrepeatable scene. It was lost, along with the remainder of our planned programme climax. Papa Doc had been spared my most pointed questions, which I was thoughtfully withholding for the night before we flew away.

For despair and frustration it was my worst television experience. I went back to the palace to say my farewells, tackling the succession of sentries for the last time.

Yorkshire twice transmitted our programme, Papa Doc—The Black Sheep. It was later shown several times by ITV, and submitted by our Controller, Donald Baverstock, for the Dumont Award. This international accolade for television journalism was presented by the University of California and the West Coast philanthropist Nat Dumont. Among the heavyweight judges were the United Nations Undersecretary General, Dr Ralph Bunche, Mrs Katharine Graham, owner of the Washington Post, and George Stevens Jr, Director of the American Film Institute. There were 400 entries and 40 finalists.

Papa Doc won.

The runner-up for this prestigious award was a film by Austrian Television which dealt with the US Strategic Air Force. The awards merited stern West Coast editorials complaining that foreign stations had walked away with US television’s main prizes. The Los Angeles Times said, “What is ironic is not only that foreign television is beating us at our own game—but with our own stories.”

I flew to Los Angeles for the ceremony, where the Univer-sity’s Melnitz auditorium was crammed with distinction and champagne, and received the award from the Chancellor, Charles E. Young. Afterwards there was a grand reception and banquet at Chasen’s attended by stars, network executives and advertising agencies.

Yorkshire had been desperate to break into the affluent American television market and still had not done so, yet on this grand occasion they failed to support me with even one handout. Lew Grade would have sent an army of salesmen and a ton of hard-sell literature. In a golden moment when the unknown Yorkshire Television was the target of every professional eye, I was absolutely alone. I spent most of the evening laboriously spelling my name to reporters who had never heard of me, or of Yorkshire TV.

After watching the programme everyone was most laudatory, once they knew who the hell I was. The Governor of California, Pat Brown, had just handed over to Ronald Reagan and become a lawyer. He asked if he could represent me in America. I agreed to everything, flew home—and was of course instantly forgotten.

Before I started filming again I had to face the ultimate penance of the Dumont Award; a lecture and interrogation before the UCLA Faculty of Journalism. This was the main centre of journalistic instruction in the land and, knowing how intense American students can be, how eager and ambitious, I was anxious not to let British television down before such a critical group.

I boned up on the wider implications of our programme and its background, the position of the United States within its Caribbean sphere of influence. I was apprehensive, but the massed undergraduates were an attentive and appreciative audience: alert reactions, laughter in the right places, endless notes. I completed my tour d’horizon amid unaccustomed applause, gratified by the impact.

The Dean made a few graceful remarks, and asked for questions. This was the testing moment. I braced myself for penetrating and informed demands, probably beyond my knowledge. The prize-winning film-maker at their mercy. After a long silence, a plump young women in the front row edged forward nervously. She had been absorbing my description of that Haitian life of terror with particular concentration.

“Mr Whicker,” she began, weightily, “is it true that…you married an heiress?”

The whole Papa Doc experience had been full of fear and laughter, disaster and triumph—a black and sinister tragicomedy.

In April 1971 President Duvalier died of natural causes—a rare achievement for any Haitian president. He was succeeded by his 19-year-old son, Baby Doc, who became the ninth Haitian since the 1804 Revolution to decide, like his father, to rule for life. That was his intention. He was later dismissed in a standard revolution and retired to live in some poverty in the South of France.

Papa Doc’s fourteen-year rule had been marked by autocracy, corruption and reliance upon his private army of Tontons Macoutes to maintain power. He used both political murder and expulsion to suppress opponents. It was estimated that he killed 30,000 of his countrymen.

In 1986, after Baby Doc’s exile, a mob stormed the Duvaliers’ marble-tiled family vault to look for Papa Doc’s body. The intention was to beat up his corpse to ensure that he could never rise again, even on Judgement Day. The mob was silenced and terrified to find the tomb empty.

They finally exhumed another grave, and beat up that body. Mobs are not selective. But was Papa Doc a zombie, out there working the fields?

3 TWO LHASA APSOS AND A COUPLE OF PANTECHNICONS

If ever there were a true 20th-century chameleon, it was Fanny Cradock. She invented reinvention. She had a number of names, and at various times had been an actress, journalist, romantic novelist, restaurant critic—apart from her own brilliant creation filling the Albert Hall as the original show-biz cook.

She was a television buccaneer years ahead of her time, and we met in her heyday, the time of cooking demonstrations before thousands where she would arrive on stage in white overalls and, just as the audience were sympathizing with her workaday life, strip off to reveal underneath a full-length crimson evening dress and diamonds—like Sean Connery unzipping his wetsuit. In the background Johnnie modestly revealed his white tie and tails.

There was nothing grey about Fanny. Everything was direct and startling: her opinions, her clothes, her generosity, her energy, her friendships and enmities, her impossible manners…This last trait was to be part of her undoing.

Fanny arrived in Jersey with Johnnie, two Lhasa Apsos and a couple of pantechnicons crammed with possessions. Also, strong opinions ready-made about everything and everyone.

They had left their home in Eire in fear after the murder of the British Ambassador in Dublin. She had grown afraid to turn on a kitchen light if the curtains were not drawn, and was scared of people lurking in the darkness around the house. It must have been a very serious scare for Fanny to admit to being frightened of anything. Alternatively it is just possible she had a noisy meeting, not with the IRA but with some inoffensive local shopkeeper who is still stunned by what hit him.

It is not easy to offend everyone in a small and tolerant island like Jersey, but Fanny managed it in a few short weeks. An innocent local photographer would be dismissed with a short sharp scream, a young waiter shyly proffering the Jersey Royals she was supposed to have cooked with her own skilful hands would receive a snarling, “Take those away, we think they’re disgusting”…

Her senior dog, which bit any hand that tried to feed it, sent our friend Ruby Bernstein dashing to the nearest hospital for a precautionary rabies injection, while wondering whether husband Albert—who had bravely sucked the tiny wound—should have similar treatment.

There was not much local sympathy, though I did warn that the dog might suffer an attack of Rubies.

Fanny rarely enjoyed a smooth path. Writing a dreadful review of a long-established St Helier restaurant was hurtful. Jumping queues in the splendid fish market did not go down well, nor did complaining loudly at the butchers when waiting in the queue was the wife of the Housing Chairman. What started as little ripples of irritation became waves of discontent among island politicians: “We’ve had one Norah Docker, we don’t need another.”

It became obvious that Fanny did not much care for established restaurants, she liked to earn credit for discovering some hidden gem at the end of the jetty no one knew about. Fortunately this also extended to private cooks, as in Valerie’s case entertaining was a new experience and each meal a hit-and-miss adventure. After that first dinner she was generous in her praise and managed to eat everything, only pausing as she left to offer a bain-marie. So far so good.

The Cradocks had been generous and hospitable when I was working in Fleet Street, so upon their arrival in Jersey I tried to ease their passage by arranging a lunch to introduce them to the great and good of the island. Fanny arrived dressed from head to toe in forest green, a veiled green bowler topping her orange make-up—a cross between Boadicea and Robin Hood. Her requested drink was predictably odd—Martini and sweet sparkling lemonade. This improbable mixture caused grinding of teeth and delay at the bar, and held up my distribution of conventional champagne.

After a short while she offered to help in the kitchen. To discourage such good intentions we fed her first. Suddenly out of nowhere came a deafening crash…and there lay Fanny, flat out on the parquet like a green turtle. No movement, blood everywhere.

We hauled her upstairs and propped her up on a bed—hat and veil only slightly askew. A tentative search for injuries revealed nothing. Later it transpired she had gashed herself with her enormous rings. We went to warn Johnnie, who was sitting in his wheelchair by the dining-room fire, talking to admirers. We were worried the bloody incident might disturb him.

“Oh,” said Johnnie, noticeably undisturbed, “she’s done that again, has she?” He went on smoking his pipe. It was not my planned introduction to the Housing Committee.

They considered buying a pretty granite cottage a few hundred yards from us. We shivered a little, cautiously. In a way it was a shame. “Given a choice,” I said, “I’d rather keep a few parishes between us.”

This plan, like most of Fanny’s good intentions, did not go well. A pity. There should always be room for the outrageous and the eccentric—though preferably not living next door. Eventually they settled in Guernsey, creating waves and mutterings of discontent. She was always high-handed and difficult, leaving chaos behind her and so much unpopularity that a local bookshop refused to stock her novels.

Causing a minor car crash at a crossroads, she blamed everyone else. Confronted by photographic evidence, she smiled dismissively: “Just shows the camera can lie.”

We watched from the sidelines as her star dwindled. She shot herself in the foot on an Esther Rantzen programme, sneering at some poor housewife’s attempt to cook a banquet. She was crucified by unkind editing—though what could you expect? In a few moments she was transformed from likeable monster to cruel bully, and her television career was over. She was probably the first fatal victim of a reality show.

We saw her a few months after Johnnie’s death. Forlorn and broken, she was spending Christmas in a small Jersey hotel, doubtless one of those interesting little discoveries we had managed to avoid. She came to us for lunch and Valerie gave her a bulging Christmas stocking, full of delicious and caring goodies, but it hardly registered. The fire had gone out of her life.

Johnnie, hen-pecked and dominated all those years, had been her secret strength. Without him she let life go, and withered away. “Nothing separates us, except rugby and the lavatory,” she had said, but now she was just a shell. Her old pugnacious fury had evaporated.

Our sacred monsters are different now: more beautiful, less genuine, more confident, less intelligent. They are created by PR and by management, not driven ambition. We know more about them but there are fewer layers to explore and no surprises. Everyone needs to test his courage against a Fanny Cradock, that furious pink stripe in a grey world.

4 CITY OF DREADFUL JOY

From a distance the contrast between life in California and life in Florida seems minimal—but close up these two golden states are a world apart. California, for all its self-conscious introspection, is a place to work; Florida is a place to retire, a sprawling mass of tidy housing and safe compounds, playgrounds for the like-minded old. Hard to imagine the far-out Wagners, Kurt and Kathy, a couple who had embraced every Seventies fad from Est to roller-skating, settling for life among golfers, bridge players and yoga.

Back in the Seventies Kurt would talk about an ageless society, a time when there would be no such thing as old age—as if the surgeon’s knife could be the answer to all ills. These communities for the Sprightly Old do not quite match his prophecy, but their gated estates with gyms, pools and libraries are safe, warm and welcoming. In a country where youth is all, Florida provides an all-enveloping lifestyle for a group who would be invisible in many other states. Here, grey power has real power and the financial clout to back it up. Yes, bright sunlit winters do invigorate.

Aldous Huxley called Los Angeles the City of Dreadful Joy…However, he never found it so dreadful that he was tempted to return to the damp discomfort of Britain. For Anita Loos, actress and screenwriter who wrote Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, there was just no there…there.

For many journalists on the outside looking in, there was a sense of superiority, a thin-lipped disapproval of the Californian way of life that seems too easy, too relaxed, too open. Something rotten at the core, surely?

Old films show how our perception of America—particularly California—has changed. Now we all want a slice of that eternal sunshine, those excellent wines, the right to choose illusion before reality. In Beverly Hills, if it’s not adequately beautiful, you change it. This could be a house—or a chin. That state of mind slid stealthily into our own world, so if the amount of happiness in your life is inadequate, go out and buy some more.

In LA, ageing without cosmetic surgery is now hardly an option. I suppose there may be women on those brilliant shopping avenues around Rodeo Drive who are indifferent to their wrinkles, but they have to be tourists, or foreigners.

Californian priorities used to be the pool, the second car—and after that, well, there’s always something to remove, or tighten. Now it’s unlikely that the pool and those cars would be on offer without the perfecting knife.

Before the Seventies, cosmetic surgery was a dark secret, a frivolous, guilty indulgence to be hidden from all but your closest friends. Names would be whispered and shared between those in the know, like that once-upon-a-time passing around of the numbers of surgeons willing to perform an abortion.

Many women would travel from the other side of the world for treatment by the famous Dr Pittanguy of Brazil, or an exotic Frenchman with a surgery in Tahiti. In London there was a man well known for experimental penis enlargement, an enthusiasm which for some reason never caught on…

In England where youth—that revolution discovered in the Sixties—had only just begun to take over, all this was still seen as the territory of the rich and spoiled, of actresses and their spin-offs. So when in the Sixties and Seventies I chose to look at the life and work of the Beverly Hills cosmetic surgeon Kurt Wagner, we inadvertently opened a window on a scene that was changing many lives.

I have filmed Kurt and his wife Kathy three times during these thirty-five years. They amused and irritated viewers in equal measure and drew mountains of mail from prospective patients. Outwardly content, living with the two daughters from his first marriage and an adopted son, they had all the trappings of Californian success—his Rolls, her Ferrari, their grateful patients, the perfect home in the Valley, a booming business in instant youth…what else was there?

Surgery aside, Kurt’s self-centred arrogance and Kathy’s breathy homilies on how to keep a husband happy were enough to keep a stoic British audience enthralled and appalled. With success came the usual California angst and the usual California panacea—therapy and infidelity, though not necessarily in that order.

I liked Kurt; he paraded his faults without concern—and Kathy was always instant joy. Piles of viewers’ mail stimulated the protests, and the scoffing always came down to: “Why can’t they act their age?” It was the Palm Beach syndrome, stimulating the constant jealous rejoinder: they’re too old to be having that much fun…

It wasn’t always fun, not even with a top cosmetic surgeon in the family. Over the years there was disquieting news: Kurt’s daughter had shot and killed herself on his bed with his gun. Kurt was arrested for receiving property stolen from the home of some renegade Saudi sheikh. He had been forced to sell his treasured collection of Toulouse-Lautrec posters. Their son had a drug habit. Kurt, bored with the beauty business, had invested their savings in Hollywood, of all places—and lost the lot. Chatty Kathy had taken to wearing exotic hats and wished to be known as Kathleen…yet to me she seemed, as always, uncomplicated and funny.

Filming Journey of a Lifetime, we found them living in Florida, miraculously still married after forty-one years. Kurt, in his fiftieth year as a surgeon, was back at work—this time in a sparkling glass building in Boca Raton full of the latest equipment for the war against ageing, into which he attempted to enlist me.

One particular machine was especially threatening. It could look into the future and show you what would happen to your skin should you choose not to take the expert’s treatment and advice—a brilliant marketing device. One look and, aghast, you’re calling your surgeon, any surgeon.

Kurt was heavier after another ten years, his face owing much to the latest techniques, the hair suspiciously thick and black. He had suffered two hip replacements and a brush with cancer. The old ebullient self-confidence was still there, but he was softer, kinder.

Kathy had not turned into prim Kathleen. Dressed in a leopard print turquoise top and three facelifts down the line, she was plump and giggly as ever. Furious with Kurt for losing all their money, she had forced him back to work and made it her business to be his living billboard. At clubs and parties she talked happily about her operations and encouraged friends to pay him a visit.

Leaving California had been a wrench for Kathy. She had thought of letting him go alone to start a new life in Florida but decided, upon reflection, that days spent breaking in a new man would be time-consuming, and possibly fruitless.

5 RELIEVING PATIENTS OF MANY POUNDS—ONE WAY OR THE OTHER

Anyone can be beautiful and loved: it’s just a matter of applying something, taking a course, buying a pot, denying yourself—or being operated upon, slightly. Trying to keep up in the Face Race the average woman, when last counted, spends five years fourteen weeks and six days of her lifetime in front of a mirror. It certainly feels that way when you’re waiting downstairs.

In view of all this I went to Texas at the birth of Spa Culture to observe the acolytes in The Greenhouse, the ultimate purpose-built fat farm or, if you prefer, health resort. This perfumed palace outside Arlington cost a million pounds to contrive and stands bathed in the soft glow of money, dedicated to the sale of dreams.

Women of a certain age (and some a little younger) were queuing to pay many hundreds of dollars a day for the possibility of rejuvenation. Some stayed months, refusing to give up. The ageing and wrinkled, the plump and the bored surrendered dollars and dignity in exchange for solace and repair, for the mirage of being lovelier and sexier—while outside in the harsh sunlight gardeners symbolically dyed parched Texas grass green.