Harold Pinter

Simon Callow writes: Some 25 years ago Pinter directed an Amnesty Gala in which most of the British acting profession appeared. The climax of the first half was John Gielgud’s performance of the prison scene from Richard II. At the dress rehearsal all of the rest of us gathered in the stalls to hear the master speak those incomparable words again; they poured out of him in tear-drenched torrents. We all sat there, as moved as he was. The ensuing silence was broken by Pinter: “Thanks, John. Bit sentimental, but bloody good.” It is hard to think of anyone else who could have uttered those words at that moment without being thumped, but Gielgud simply said, “I know, I know, thank you Harold, I wish more people would tell me.” It was hard to know whether Pinter was troubled by any self-irony. I arrived very late one night at a restaurant as he was leaving it, and he demanded to know why. I replied that I had been at a performance of Othello at the Young Vic which had lasted three and a half hours. “What took them so long?” he asked. “Pauses, Harold,” I said, “pauses.” “I hate that,” he said darkly and moved off into the night.

Eartha Kitt

Ken Thomson writes: When Eartha was appearing in Sondheim’s Follies in London, my partner Charles and I invited her to supper after the show. She said that first she wanted to drop in on a concert being given by the New York Gay Men’s Chorus. We picked her up from the venue and she said she’d rather walk than take a cab. (She was a great walker). Making our way down Charing Cross Road, we saw a young man sitting on the pavement outside Foyles bookshop with dark glasses on, soliciting money, displaying a sign saying Please Help, I am Blind. Eartha asked us to give him some change since she had none. As Charles dropped some coins into the tin provided, the boy suddenly jumped up and, ripping off his glasses exclaimed, in great excitement: “It’s Eartha! Oh my God, it’s Eartha Kitt!” We wondered if she had performed a miracle.