As for the precise cause of the marriage itself-Peter and Lynne had been living together for months before tying the knot-it seems to have been a form of coercion on Peter's part. It was he who demanded that she marry him; she'd been offered a five-month television job in Moscow, and he didn't want her to go and leave him alone. been a form of coercion on Peter's part. It was he who demanded that she marry him; she'd been offered a five-month television job in Moscow, and he didn't want her to go and leave him alone.

As Spike Milligan once told Michael Sellers, Peter "was always searching for a bloody heart attack as if it were a letter he knew had been posted and hadn't arrived." The mail was delivered on March 20, 1977, on board an Air France Boeing 727 from Nice to Heathrow. The plane was about twenty-five minutes away from London when Peter's chest seized; a flight attendant described him as looking "dreadful." There was a doctor on board, and he made Peter comfortable and reassured him while air traffic controllers gave the plane top priority for landing. After a brief examination by a physician at Heathrow's medical unit, he was rushed to Charing Cross Hospital.

"It is not a heart attack and there is nothing to worry about," Lynne told the press. It was all the result of bad oysters in Saint-Tropez, she said. The senior cardiologist at Charing Cross took a different opinion.

Strangely, Peter had been quite friendly with the world's best-known heart surgeon, the jet-setting Dr. Christiaan Barnard, since the early seventies. And yet Peter never allowed Dr. Barnard to operate on him, nor anyone else for that matter. He's said to have considered open-heart surgery at Charing Cross, but he decided simply to go with a new electronic pacemaker instead. It was installed, after which he and Lynne flew back to Saint-Tropez.

In May, they flew to Gstaad.

In June, Peter fired Bert Mortimer.

Sue Evans, Peter's secretary, remembers the moment well: "I got a call really late one night. It was Peter, and he said, 'I'm going to dictate a letter, and I don't want you to say anything. Just take it down, and don't say anything don't say anything.' He started dictating the letter, and it was dismissing Bert. His loyal chauffeur, personal assistant, and friend was gone."

"I just could not understand why he would want to break that relationship," says Bert. "Even today I can't tell you."

TWENTY-TWO.

Kenneth Griffith recalls Lynne Frederick terribly well. He paid the couple a visit. "She was very friendly, pleasant, and nice, but I wasn't convinced that he wasn't in trouble. Serious Serious trouble. Which proved to be correct. Because of my sense about her, I said, 'Pete, you remember when you were living in the Dorchester?'" trouble. Which proved to be correct. Because of my sense about her, I said, 'Pete, you remember when you were living in the Dorchester?'"

Peter recalled precisely the occasion to which Griffith referred: Griffith was appearing in a West End play at the time and not making very much money at it. Griffith continues: "I'm sitting there eating wonderful food and feeling a lot better when he suddenly says, 'Here, Kenny-something worrying you?' 'No, no, Pete,' I said, 'I'm feeling great. Lovely to see you and be here.' Four minutes later: 'Kenny, something is is worrying you and I want to know what it is.' I said, 'I've had a bad time you know, I shouldn't be doing this fucking play, it's hard work, I do two performances six nights a week.... And I bought a house, it was a struggle to get the money to buy it on top of everything else, and I've been doing such rubbish as an actor in films. And,' I said, 'it nearly beat me.' He said, 'How do you mean "nearly beat you"?' I said, 'Well, I think there's about two thousand quid left. It's done.' worrying you and I want to know what it is.' I said, 'I've had a bad time you know, I shouldn't be doing this fucking play, it's hard work, I do two performances six nights a week.... And I bought a house, it was a struggle to get the money to buy it on top of everything else, and I've been doing such rubbish as an actor in films. And,' I said, 'it nearly beat me.' He said, 'How do you mean "nearly beat you"?' I said, 'Well, I think there's about two thousand quid left. It's done.'

"He gave me a check for $2,500. I said, 'No, Peter-out of the question.' 'Aw Kenny,' he said, 'Don't, don't, don't don't tear it up, don't, because it would give me great pleasure, and I'll speak to Bill [Wills] in the morning. All I'll do is tell Bill to lose it-who will know? tear it up, don't, because it would give me great pleasure, and I'll speak to Bill [Wills] in the morning. All I'll do is tell Bill to lose it-who will know? No one No one will know, but it will give me great pleasure.' I did tear it up. will know, but it will give me great pleasure.' I did tear it up.

"Now-with his new wife there, I said, 'You know how memory can play tricks with you, Pete?' 'Yeah, yeah,' he said. But I wasn't really speaking to him; I was speaking to her her. And I said, 'Was that true? You put a check for $2,500 in my pocket?' 'Yes,' he said. 'You probably tore it up, didn't you?' That's all. But it was information that I felt she ought to know about her husband. I don't think she cared at all." In short, Griffith saw Sellers's generosity; according to him, Lynne saw his bank accounts. you?' That's all. But it was information that I felt she ought to know about her husband. I don't think she cared at all." In short, Griffith saw Sellers's generosity; according to him, Lynne saw his bank accounts.

Sarah Sellers recalls Lynne very well, too: "We were told that she would like to take me and Michael out for a meal and get to know us. She seemed quite nice to begin with. She came across as very bubbly and friendly and warm. Once they got married things definitely changed."

"Lynne was like the nurse," Victoria Sellers maintains. "He needed help doing things-he had pill-taking times, and we couldn't do this, or that, because we couldn't get Dad all excited." Sue Evans agrees: "She took over the running of his life. He had alienated so many people by this point that he saw Lynne as the one person who was there."

Except for Bert, whom Peter fired. That he did so within months of marrying Lynne explains it.

Army Archerd mentioned Peter's newest film project, Curse of the Pink Panther Curse of the Pink Panther, in August. Lynne Frederick would appear with him in it, Peter told another Hollywood columnist a few weeks later, fresh from a trip with Lynne to Disneyland. "In fact," he said, "I think her role should be enlarged." Then they left for London.

Curse of the Pink Panther, soon retitled Revenge of the Pink Panther Revenge of the Pink Panther (1978), began shooting in Paris in November. Lynne played no role onscreen. (1978), began shooting in Paris in November. Lynne played no role onscreen.

Clouseau goes in pursuit of the drug lord Douvier (Robert Webber), whose turf (the world) is threatened by rivals; Douvier's secretary-lover, Simone (Dyan Cannon) helps him until she turns on him and aids Clouseau. They all end up in Hong Kong.

Clouseau shows up at the costume shop of Professor Balls (Graham Stark) to try on his new disguise-a leg-shortened Toulouse-Lautrec number complete with blue smock, beard, and straw hat. At first, he stumbles and totters, unused to the absence of tibia, but then he gets it. It's the end of Dr. Strangelove Dr. Strangelove: BALLS: That's it, Chief Inspector! You can That's it, Chief Inspector! You can walk! walk!

CLOUSEAU: I ken...! I ken...! I ken'a weuk! I ken'a weuk!

At which point he tips his hat and launches into "Zank 'eaven for Leettle Girls."

A henchman at the front door hands him the requisite bomb. Clouseau accepts it, reaches into his pocket for a tip, and announces his dismay: "I'm sorry. I'm a little short."

Then: "A beum? Wear yeu expicting weune? A beaum! A beaum!" He tosses it, as is his habit, away from himself and toward the nearest person-Balls.

December found the cast and crew in a Shepperton soundstage, where, just before Christmas there was a friendly reunion when Princes Charles, Andrew, and Edward paid a visit. (They watched Peter film the scene in which Clouseau and Cato attempt to gain entrance to a drug speakeasy-disco, Le Club Foot.) By the first week of February, the production had moved to Hong Kong for extended location shooting, and the film wrapped in April on the French Riviera.

Peter and Lynne seem to have been getting along well at the time. "It's a whole new second-stage rocket," Peter said of his marriage around that time. "Mind-boggling and marvelous...! I knew that we had met before in a previous incarnation, and I know we shall meet again after this."

With each passing Panther Panther, Burt Kwouk couldn't help but notice the escalation in comic extremism, not to mention the soaring costs and metastasizing scope: "Peter's accent got worse and worse, we all started to look older, and the pictures, for some reason, became larger in scale as they went on. A Shot in the Dark A Shot in the Dark was pretty small scale; the last one was a huge epic." But, Kwouk quickly adds, "I'll tell you the honest truth-I can no longer tell one movie from the other. It just seems like one enormous twelve-hour movie that took twenty years to shoot." was pretty small scale; the last one was a huge epic." But, Kwouk quickly adds, "I'll tell you the honest truth-I can no longer tell one movie from the other. It just seems like one enormous twelve-hour movie that took twenty years to shoot."

Given the huge financial successes of The Return of the Pink Panther The Return of the Pink Panther and and The Pink Panther Strikes Again The Pink Panther Strikes Again, the whiff of another enormous blast of cash was in the air in the offices of United Artists, so the company arranged another lavish press junket, just to make sure. At a cost of $300,000-nearly triple the price of the Return Return affair-UA invited three hundred guests including seventy-five reporters, their spouses, Steve Martin, Bernadette Peters, and Don Ho, to Kahuku, Oahu, to celebrate the Fourth of July. Only a week before the extravaganza, with studio executives giddily preparing to buy favorable worldwide press, Blake Edwards was seized with affair-UA invited three hundred guests including seventy-five reporters, their spouses, Steve Martin, Bernadette Peters, and Don Ho, to Kahuku, Oahu, to celebrate the Fourth of July. Only a week before the extravaganza, with studio executives giddily preparing to buy favorable worldwide press, Blake Edwards was seized with misgivings about a portion of the fireworks scene, so he summoned Peter and Dyan Cannon to an MGM studio set on June 24 and 25 and hastily reshot the sequence. misgivings about a portion of the fireworks scene, so he summoned Peter and Dyan Cannon to an MGM studio set on June 24 and 25 and hastily reshot the sequence.

Despite the strain of orchestrating what one disgruntled publicist called "this goddam junket"-"Blake and Tony [Adams] are scum and I really don't give a shit anymore how it turns out," the publicist privately opined-it was a big success. Media coverage of the film was most extensive.

At the press conference with Edwards, Dyan Cannon, Burt Kwouk, and Herbert Lom, Peter was asked about his heart attacks. "I'm trying to give them up," he replied. "I'm down to two a day now. It's about time for one now now! It all began when I met Sue Mengers." (Sue Mengers was the powerful, notoriously abrasive Hollywood agent later parodied by Blake Edwards in the form of Shelley Winters's character in S.O.B. S.O.B., 1981.) Blake quickly diverted the conversation in another direction: "The only thing I I worry about is mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. It might excite him too much." Peter and Lynne flew to London for the British premiere the following week. worry about is mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. It might excite him too much." Peter and Lynne flew to London for the British premiere the following week.

Revenge of the Pink Panther was highly successful at the box office. Like was highly successful at the box office. Like The Pink Panther Strikes Again The Pink Panther Strikes Again, it took in an estimated $100 million in revenues.

Since both Sellers and Edwards had repeatedly said that each would never work with the other again, the occasion of the fifth Pink Panther Pink Panther (and, with (and, with The Party The Party, their sixth collaboration) necessitated some sort of explanation for the radical change of heart. Edwards took his pragmatic, workhorse stance: "I guess it's the old Hollywood thing-'I'll never work with the guy again-until I need him.'" Edwards also provided an astute evaluation of Peter's physical comedy style: "Peter is not really a physical comedian in the sense that Chaplin or Keaton were. He is not that kind of an acrobat, and he is not trained that way. But he has a mind that thinks thinks that way." that way."

With his combined share of all the Pink Panther Pink Panther revenues reported to have been $4 million, Peter was rich again. And he'd reached his limit: "I've honestly had enough of Clouseau myself. I've got nothing more to give." revenues reported to have been $4 million, Peter was rich again. And he'd reached his limit: "I've honestly had enough of Clouseau myself. I've got nothing more to give."

On the small screen, Peter stands in a straggly brown wig topped by a horned Wagnerian helmet and performs a brief imitation of Queen Victoria to a fascinated Kermit the Frog. to a fascinated Kermit the Frog. The Muppet Show The Muppet Show, with Peter as the week's guest star, aired during the last week of February 1978.

Kermit tells Peter that while he really loves all of Peter's funny characters, it's perfectly okay for him to just relax and be himself: PETER: (in the stentorian voice of a very old, very grand British thespian) But that, you see, my dear Kermit, would be altogether impossible. I could never be myself. (in the stentorian voice of a very old, very grand British thespian) But that, you see, my dear Kermit, would be altogether impossible. I could never be myself.

KERMIT: Uh, never yourself? Uh, never yourself?

PETER: No. You see, there is no me. I do not exist. No. You see, there is no me. I do not exist.

KERMIT: (uncomfortable) Er, I beg your pardon? (uncomfortable) Er, I beg your pardon?

PETER: (leaning in close and looking nervously around for eavesdroppers) There used to be a me, but I had it surgically removed. (leaning in close and looking nervously around for eavesdroppers) There used to be a me, but I had it surgically removed.

KERMIT: (looking nauseated) Uh, er, can... can we change the subject? (looking nauseated) Uh, er, can... can we change the subject?

In a minute, Kermit. Peter Sellers was terribly self-conscious about his lack of a self, and it must have been taxing to sustain such a robust contradiction. What does it mean to have no self if you yourself think you have none? Sellers had selves selves, just as everyone does; his were just more extravagant, and most of them were played out under high-key lights in movies, television, and publicity photos. They were provisional, performative selves, and they popped up whenever the need for a particular one arose. His favorites were fictional, snapped on spontaneously and crafted over time. These selves made him a fortune and a lot of clever and successful friends who enjoyed his company. His least pleasant selves, the remorse-producing ones, were, in a word, selfish-hungry, impulse-driven selves bent on gratification at any cost. Expensive car, beautiful wife, willing girlfriend, latest camera, compliant child-he had to have it, and he had to have it right away right away, and, completing the performance, he had to let everyone know let everyone know. Once he got it, of course, the selfish self faded away, satisfied but empty. Surgically removing that set of selves must have seemed less painful than living with them.

Peter and Lynne returned from Hong Kong to a domestic disruption in London. They were living in an elegant apartment in Roebuck House. The apartment, done in Indian-techno-Goon, featured saffron-colored walls, a lot of burning candles, a small carved Buddha, a prominent picture of Spike, acres of electronics and photographic equipment, and a huge blow-up photo of Lynne that had been taken by Peter. acres of electronics and photographic equipment, and a huge blow-up photo of Lynne that had been taken by Peter.

Peter had been living there from the time before Titi; Tessa had briefly moved in. Now they found themselves faced with a 300 percent rent increase. Peter's upstairs neighbors were outraged, too-Lord Olivier and his wife, Joan Plowright, who according to Peter had a habit of dropping marbles on the hardwood floor. "We tried living in France last year," Lynne told the press, "but it wasn't a success. I don't know where we would go now. I hope it won't be America." They abandoned Roebuck House with no London residence to take its place.

Lynne described Peter as "incredibly volatile. He'll say, 'We're going to Egypt tomorrow night.' He needs someone to gently pull him down to earth a bit.... You need incredible patience. But I think I have it. I think I'm perhaps the first calm woman he's found. He thinks he's difficult to get along with. Past wives and girlfriends have put forward this moody, broody image. But I don't see him like that."

"What went wrong with my marriages?" Peter asked rhetorically some time later. He never condemned Anne, toward whom he remained friendly and needy. Miranda was too sophisticated and aristocratic for him, but he never ripped into her in public. He was now saving it all for Britt, to whom he generally referred tersely as "Ekland." "She's a professional girlfriend, so there's no more to be said," he declared on one occasion. On another he added this: "Every move she makes, she ruins a life. It's her hard, driving, ruthless ambition." Peter also made a point of letting Victoria know the depth of his feelings about her mother.

Physically, Peter's heart was kept going by a pacemaker, but emotionally it was fracturing to the point that in the early summer of 1978 he flew with Lynne to the Philippines for several sessions of shamanistic surgery. As Michael Sellers describes it, the shamans "conducted their 'surgery' by invisibly passing their hands into a patient's body and plucking out the diseased tissues." Michael tried to talk him out of it. Lynne thought there was no harm in trying, so off they went.

Peter endured twenty grueling "surgeries," which apparently involved the psychic doctors yanking pig spleens out from their concealment under the operating table.

He pronounced himself cured. Lynne herself went under the psychic knife to heal a persistent back problem and made a show of being equally impressed with the doctors. "They really are incredible," she declared. "Aren't they, darling?" knife to heal a persistent back problem and made a show of being equally impressed with the doctors. "They really are incredible," she declared. "Aren't they, darling?"

In late April 1979, when Peter viewed his next film, The Prisoner of Zenda The Prisoner of Zenda (1979), in a screening room at Universal Studios in Burbank, he had a strong, sour reaction. The lights came up, he told Walter Mirisch, "You'll be hearing from me," and then he departed. (1979), in a screening room at Universal Studios in Burbank, he had a strong, sour reaction. The lights came up, he told Walter Mirisch, "You'll be hearing from me," and then he departed.

The next morning, he sent Mirisch a thirteen-point memo that described in excruciating detail how much he detested The Prisoner of Zenda The Prisoner of Zenda. Halfway through the screening he began sweating and swearing; by the end he was in a blind rage. "I don't know how I held myself in check that evening," he told the durable British journalist Roderick Mann. "The version I saw was so bad! Mirisch has tried to turn it into a sort of poor man's Pink Panther Pink Panther and shot extra scenes using doubles which I knew absolutely nothing about. I'm so upset and disappointed. I even thought of renting a billboard to voice my protests, or hiring the Goodyear blimp and putting a message on it. Don't see it. It's a disaster. and shot extra scenes using doubles which I knew absolutely nothing about. I'm so upset and disappointed. I even thought of renting a billboard to voice my protests, or hiring the Goodyear blimp and putting a message on it. Don't see it. It's a disaster.

"I'm just not going to sit back and be clobbered. After all, I do know something about comedy."

Stan Dragoti had originally been slated to direct The Prisoner of Zenda The Prisoner of Zenda, but he was replaced by Richard Quine, the director of such slick and commercially successful pictures as My Sister Eileen My Sister Eileen (1955), (1955), The Solid Gold Cadillac The Solid Gold Cadillac (1956), and (1956), and The World of Suzie Wong The World of Suzie Wong (1960). The film features Peter in three roles; his costars are Lionel Jeffries (with whom Peter had appeared in (1960). The film features Peter in three roles; his costars are Lionel Jeffries (with whom Peter had appeared in Two-Way Stretch, Up the Creek Two-Way Stretch, Up the Creek, and The Wrong Arm of the Law The Wrong Arm of the Law), Elke Sommer, and Lynne Frederick.

The story: King Rudolph IV of Ruritania (Peter as a sort of Bavarian Methuselah), floating high above his domain in a balloon filled with hot air, opens one too many bottles of champagne, pops a hole in the balloon, and stands in befuddled terror at his sudden descent. He lands in a tree in a faraway village and promptly falls into a well.

Meanwhile, in Ruritania, plots are afoot as General Saft (Jeffries) moves to subvert the monarchical process; meanwhile, in London, the king's debauched son (Peter doing a particularly jaded Terry-Thomas) is amusing himself in a gambling hall when he's told of his father's demise. "The king is dead. Long live me," Rudolph V pronounces.

Ruritanian ministers then hire a look-alike carriage driver named Syd (Peter doing a fairly standard Cockney) to impersonate the new king; he eventually falls in love with Princess Flavia (Lynne) and, in the end, assumes the throne himself. The Prisoner of Zenda The Prisoner of Zenda is an expensive, flabby dud. is an expensive, flabby dud.

Peter's Terry-Thomas voice is a bit florid, especially since he combines it with a speech impediment- w ws serve as r rs-which renders many of Rudolph's lines unintelligible. Some are quite funny-"The cwown is mine!"-but all in all it's still not one of Peter's better efforts.

With Peter flush with cash and fame again-Revenge of the Pink Panther was the tenth-top-grossing film of 1978-he was firmly back in the groove as far as on-set antics were concerned. In some cases, he was probably right; the script was terrible, Quine's direction indecisive, Walter Mirisch's meddling unproductive. The film may legitimately have seemed to him to be headed for failure. But in other cases, Peter was just being Peter at his worst. Lionel Jeffries told (the real) Terry-Thomas privately that Peter's behavior had been truly dreadful on the set one day, and that Peter had telephoned Jeffries about it later that night. "Was I really awful today?" Peter asked. "Well, yes," Jeffries said, at which Peter laughed and hung up. was the tenth-top-grossing film of 1978-he was firmly back in the groove as far as on-set antics were concerned. In some cases, he was probably right; the script was terrible, Quine's direction indecisive, Walter Mirisch's meddling unproductive. The film may legitimately have seemed to him to be headed for failure. But in other cases, Peter was just being Peter at his worst. Lionel Jeffries told (the real) Terry-Thomas privately that Peter's behavior had been truly dreadful on the set one day, and that Peter had telephoned Jeffries about it later that night. "Was I really awful today?" Peter asked. "Well, yes," Jeffries said, at which Peter laughed and hung up.

The cut of The Prisoner of Zenda The Prisoner of Zenda Peter had seen with Walter Mirisch was not the final one; the picture still required some dubbing on Peter's part. He refused to do it. Peter had seen with Walter Mirisch was not the final one; the picture still required some dubbing on Peter's part. He refused to do it.

A few days later, under threat of legal action, he did it.

Then he flew to Barbados for a month. Lynne stayed in Los Angeles. He rented the theater designer Oliver Messel's old place by himself. From Barbados he flew to Switzerland to oversee the move into his new house in Gstaad.

He changed his mind about The Prisoner of Zenda The Prisoner of Zenda, at least in public, by the time the film was released. "I think it's a wonderfully entertaining movie," he penned in a letter to Roderick Mann. The print he'd seen, he explained, didn't have a musical score and was even missing several scenes. Lynne, separately, put her two cents in, too: "Part of the trouble was we saw the film by ourselves, not with an audience. So there was no laughter. And Peter got upset."

By that point, Lynne had moved into her own house. As Roderick Mann put it, the move occurred "with Sellers's blessing."

He hadn't found lasting, unconditional love, and he hadn't found spiritual contentment either. Michael Sellers takes a harsh tone when describing his father's religious life: "If someone offered a cut-price, special-offer, gift-wrapped religion that guaranteed miracles and a personal audience with the Maker, then Dad would apply for instant enrollment." Peter was scarcely alone in trying to fashion a spiritual quilt out of appealing and available scraps without worrying too much about how the seams would fit. But few people other than the half-Jewish, Catholic-educated, Buddhist- Hindu- yogic- Castanedaesque Peter Sellers would go so far as to fly a wondrous Catholic priest from Mexico to Gstaad, install him briefly in a hotel, and get him to offer him Holy Communion. Michael dutifully knelt alongside. spiritual contentment either. Michael Sellers takes a harsh tone when describing his father's religious life: "If someone offered a cut-price, special-offer, gift-wrapped religion that guaranteed miracles and a personal audience with the Maker, then Dad would apply for instant enrollment." Peter was scarcely alone in trying to fashion a spiritual quilt out of appealing and available scraps without worrying too much about how the seams would fit. But few people other than the half-Jewish, Catholic-educated, Buddhist- Hindu- yogic- Castanedaesque Peter Sellers would go so far as to fly a wondrous Catholic priest from Mexico to Gstaad, install him briefly in a hotel, and get him to offer him Holy Communion. Michael dutifully knelt alongside.

Peter had also paid a visit to a Beverly Hills numerologist, he told a friend. "She said that in one incarnation I had been a priest in Roman days. You know-it's the old deja vu thing, but every time I've been to Rome I've felt it-especially one night in the Circus Maximus. It's now a car park. About three in the morning I was sitting right in the center thinking about all the Christians who had been sacrificed to the lions and feeling that I must have been there."

For most of the 1970s, Peter Sellers was obsessed with playing a nobody who became a somebody nobody could really know. As his secretary Sue Evans once said, "You have to understand that Being There Being There was a daily conversation" from the time Peter hired her in 1973 until 1979, when the film was shot and released. Jerzy Kosinski concurred: "For seven and a half years, Peter Sellers became Chauncey Gardiner. He printed calling cards as Chauncey Gardiner. He signed letters Chauncey Gardiner." Peter often made a point of acting like Chauncey Gardiner, too. At a mid-seventies meeting with Kosinski in a Beverly Hills hotel room, Peter ordered champagne to be sent up. When the waiter arrived, Peter was staring at the television set. Only it wasn't on. "Would you mind not stepping in the way?" he kindly asked the mystified waiter, who stepped gingerly all around the room in a strained effort not to block Peter's view of an empty screen. was a daily conversation" from the time Peter hired her in 1973 until 1979, when the film was shot and released. Jerzy Kosinski concurred: "For seven and a half years, Peter Sellers became Chauncey Gardiner. He printed calling cards as Chauncey Gardiner. He signed letters Chauncey Gardiner." Peter often made a point of acting like Chauncey Gardiner, too. At a mid-seventies meeting with Kosinski in a Beverly Hills hotel room, Peter ordered champagne to be sent up. When the waiter arrived, Peter was staring at the television set. Only it wasn't on. "Would you mind not stepping in the way?" he kindly asked the mystified waiter, who stepped gingerly all around the room in a strained effort not to block Peter's view of an empty screen.

At one point a year or two later, Peter was in Malibu renting Larry Hagman's beach house. "Jerzy Kosinski came over all the time," Victoria Sellers remembers. "He and my dad hit it off really well." Conveniently for Peter, the thin, white-haired, white-bearded director Hal Ashby lived in Malibu, too. Ashby was still interested in making the picture, and by that point, Ashby himself was becoming most bankable; his 1978 film Ashby himself was becoming most bankable; his 1978 film Coming Home Coming Home ended up winning three Oscars-for Jon Voight, Jane Fonda, and the screenwriters Waldo Salt and Robert C. Jones-and was nominated for six more. ended up winning three Oscars-for Jon Voight, Jane Fonda, and the screenwriters Waldo Salt and Robert C. Jones-and was nominated for six more.

In late 1978, Peter was renting an expansive blue and white house on Summitridge Place in Beverly Hills, where he flew the Union Jack above the driveway, just to make a point: He wasn't one of them them. After years of frustration and disappointment, and after a preparatory face-lift, he reached a joint agreement with Ashby, the producer Andrew Braunsberg, and the film and television production company Lorimar to make his most cherished project as a big-scale feature film. In 1973, the entire proposed budget for Being There Being There had been $1,946,300. By the time production began on January 15, 1979, Peter alone was getting $750,000 for sixteen weeks' work, plus a percentage of the gross, plus living expenses of $2,500 per week during the shoot, plus first star billing above the title, with nobody else getting credit in larger type. Through his agent Marty Baum at Creative Artists, Peter also tried to make it impossible for any other star to share billing space above the title. had been $1,946,300. By the time production began on January 15, 1979, Peter alone was getting $750,000 for sixteen weeks' work, plus a percentage of the gross, plus living expenses of $2,500 per week during the shoot, plus first star billing above the title, with nobody else getting credit in larger type. Through his agent Marty Baum at Creative Artists, Peter also tried to make it impossible for any other star to share billing space above the title.

"I did it just to see a genius at work," said Shirley MacLaine, explaining why she agreed to take what she called a supporting role at that stage of her spectacular career (The Trouble With Harry, 1955; The Apartment The Apartment, 1960; Irma La Douce Irma La Douce, 1963; Sweet Charity Sweet Charity, 1969; The Turning Point The Turning Point, 1977). Still, MacLaine's agent successfully played the bad cop in negotiations with Braunsberg, Ashby, and Lorimar and made sure that his client got her name above the title immediately below Peter's. Jack Warden and Melvyn Douglas's agents followed suit, so by the time everything was said, signed, printed, and screened, a total of four movie stars' names preceded the words Being There Being There in the opening credits. in the opening credits.

Finally, in mid-January 1979, Peter Sellers began to make the film of his life. Literally, he thought.

Being There is the story of a man named Chance, a mindless, nearly emotionless middle-aged fool forced by the death of his ancient benefactor to leave the mansion and small garden in which he has spent his life and, alone, to take to the streets, where, quickly, and luckily, he is hit by a limousine owned by the wife of one the richest men in the world, who doctors him, houses him, feeds him, and sets him up for superstardom. is the story of a man named Chance, a mindless, nearly emotionless middle-aged fool forced by the death of his ancient benefactor to leave the mansion and small garden in which he has spent his life and, alone, to take to the streets, where, quickly, and luckily, he is hit by a limousine owned by the wife of one the richest men in the world, who doctors him, houses him, feeds him, and sets him up for superstardom.

MacLaine plays the wife, Eve Rand. Hal Ashby originally considered Laurence Olivier for the role of Eve's dying husband, Benjamin Rand, but Lord Olivier turned it down. As Shirley MacLaine explained during the production, "I called Larry about it the other day. He didn't like the idea of being in a film with me masturbating." After briefly considering Burt Lancaster, Ashby ended up with Melvyn Douglas. Laurence Olivier for the role of Eve's dying husband, Benjamin Rand, but Lord Olivier turned it down. As Shirley MacLaine explained during the production, "I called Larry about it the other day. He didn't like the idea of being in a film with me masturbating." After briefly considering Burt Lancaster, Ashby ended up with Melvyn Douglas.

As for the role of Chance, Peter once explained facetiously that "Jerzy Kosinski wanted the part himself. That's why he wrote it for a young man of Olympian, god-like beauty." (In fact, Kosinski was a slight and rather rat-faced man-not ugly, but not Olympian either.) "I saw Chauncey Gardiner as a plump figure, pallid, unexercised from sitting around watching television. [Am I] too old? A lot of people said that. I just told them, 'You're wrong, I'm right.'"

Given the fact that Peter had spent most of the last decade trying to embody Chauncey Gardiner, it hurt to be told that he was now too old to play him. The face-lift helped. It eliminated the haggard quality that had begun to creep in with The Pink Panther Strikes Again The Pink Panther Strikes Again. Owing to his heart condition and the lack of a sustainable treatment, Peter was fundamentally unhealthy, though he didn't look it onscreen.

To create Chance's voice, Peter said that he had, as usual, "messed around a long time with sounds. I have a whole sound set-up, and I spoke into a tape recorder and then listened. I compared one sound with another until I found the one I was happy with." The result was a voice with "very clear enunciation, slightly American, with perhaps a little Stan Laurel mixed in." David Lodge maintains that in Chance's voice there's a touch of Peter's old, taciturn gardener from Chipperfield as well.

Peter had been a problematic figure in the world of big-budget motion pictures for quite some time by the time Being There Being There was filmed, and he required no small degree of personal handling, let alone public explanation. Andrew Braunsberg felt the need to make excuses for some of Peter's recent (and not-so-recent) work, but Braunsberg handled the awkward issue deftly and accurately by saying simply that "he knows he's done some junk, but everyone who makes a lot of films has." (As if there was any doubt about Braunsberg's theory, it is proven by Laurence Olivier's was filmed, and he required no small degree of personal handling, let alone public explanation. Andrew Braunsberg felt the need to make excuses for some of Peter's recent (and not-so-recent) work, but Braunsberg handled the awkward issue deftly and accurately by saying simply that "he knows he's done some junk, but everyone who makes a lot of films has." (As if there was any doubt about Braunsberg's theory, it is proven by Laurence Olivier's Inchon Inchon, 1981, and Katharine Hepburn's Olly Olly Oxen Free Olly Olly Oxen Free, 1978, to name only two of the hundreds of crummy films made by fine performers.) And his weirdness was by that point an old cliche that tinkered on the edge of grand myth. Inevitably, for example, Peter announced to the cast and crew of Inevitably, for example, Peter announced to the cast and crew of Being There Being There that he refused to work with anyone who wore purple, leaving the explanation to Hal Ashby, who dutifully obliged. that he refused to work with anyone who wore purple, leaving the explanation to Hal Ashby, who dutifully obliged.

Peter kept to himself most of the time during the production. At Peter's insistence, reporters were turned away left and right, although two-Mitchell Glazer of Rolling Stone Rolling Stone and Todd McCarthy of and Todd McCarthy of Film Comment Film Comment-were allowed to visit the set with the promise of interviews at a later time. Shirley MacLaine later wrote that she repeatedly invited Peter to lunch or dinner, but that he kept refusing, despite their shared interest in what Shirley herself itemized as "metaphysics, numerology, past lives, and astrology." Peter himself said that "Shirley used to have a go at me for always going off into a corner. But I had to. I didn't want to break my gardener for the day."

On the other hand, Melvyn Douglas told of a more genial and social Peter. "Jack Warden and Peter Sellers are theatre raconteurs as well as wonderful actors," Douglas later wrote in his autobiography. "The two of them hardly ever left the set. Shooting on their scenes would end and they would retire to another part of the room and go on telling stories, gesturing and laughing until tears ran down their faces."

In early February, Peter was filming on location in Washington, D.C.-Chance wandering the streets of the ghetto; Chance walking down the median strip of a crowded artery, seemingly headed for the brilliantly lit Capitol. By mid-February, the cast and crew had moved to another location-Biltmore, a 10,000-acre estate owned by George W. Vanderbilt in Asheville, North Carolina. The producers made a point of setting aside one of the mansion's vast rooms to serve as Peter's dressing room, but Peter took one look at it and hurried back to his own trailer.

On Valentine's Day, Peter sent Shirley five dozen red roses-anonymously, but she knew. Shirley thanked Peter for them, but he refused to acknowledge the gift.

"You're always going to be a little boy, ain't you?" says Louise, the black maid, as her parting words after the old man dies and leaves the helpless Chance to fend for himself. And so, to the tune of Eumir Deodato's souped-up, synthesizer-ridden "Also Sprach Zarathustra," the overgrown infant opens the front door for the first time in his life, closes it behind him, negotiates the few steps down to the sidewalk, and enters the world. Later that morning, when a young black gang leader pulls a knife on him, Chance responds by yanking his television remote control device out of his pocket, pointing it at the street tough, and trying to change channels to someone more pleasant. that morning, when a young black gang leader pulls a knife on him, Chance responds by yanking his television remote control device out of his pocket, pointing it at the street tough, and trying to change channels to someone more pleasant.

In front of an electronics store, Chance stands dumbfounded before a big-screen TV that plays images of the sidewalk in front of it. He backs up in horrified confusion at finding himself to be a video image and is immediately hit by Eve Rand's immense Cadillac. In the limousine's backseat, Eve gives him a drink. Assuming that the liquid is water or some form of juice, Chance drinks alcohol for the first time and promptly chokes just as Eve asks him his name: "Chance-achhkk-achkg-actgk'he gardner."

"Chauncey Gardiner?"

Chance has a new name. "Are you related to Basil and Perdita Gardiner?" the luxurious Eve asks in a hopeful tone. "No," Chance replies in the flat near-monotone that expresses the full extent of his emotional life. "I am not related to Basil and Perdita."

It's not that Chance has no no affect. Sellers periodically knits the muscles of his forehead to create an expression of mild and regular bewilderment. Chance appears at those moments to think, but it is thinking without thoughts, a kind of vestigial reasoning that leads nowhere. He is a mental earlobe trying to be a fin. It's not surprising that American audiences accepted the plot of affect. Sellers periodically knits the muscles of his forehead to create an expression of mild and regular bewilderment. Chance appears at those moments to think, but it is thinking without thoughts, a kind of vestigial reasoning that leads nowhere. He is a mental earlobe trying to be a fin. It's not surprising that American audiences accepted the plot of Being There Being There, in which an idiot becomes a national hero, for after all, they elected Ronald Reagan to the presidency the following year.

Ben Rand suffers from aplastic anemia; steroids, transfusions, a fully equipped personal intensive care unit, and a live-in physician (Richard Dysart) struggle to keep him alive in his American palace on the outskirts of Washington. While Ben gets his daily dose of fresh blood, an orderly wheels Chance into the mansion's clinic so that Ben's doctor can examine the leg that Eve's car came close to crushing. Chance spies an African-American medical attendant, whose skin calls the gang leader to what passes for Chance's mind. Chance asks the man if he knows Rafael, the shadowy figure to whom the gangster had urged Chance, at knifepoint, to relay a message. Chance proceeds to repeat the message in his vacant, colorless tone, the antithesis of the vivid communique itself: "'Now get this, honky. You go tell Rafael that I ain't taking no jive from no Western Union messenger. You tell that asshole that if he got something to tell me, to get his ass down here himself.' Then he said that I was to get my white ass out of there quick or he'd cut it."

The problem was, Peter couldn't get the speech out without breaking into uncontrollable laughter; as Hoffman Hoffman's Alvin Rakoff and others have noted, Peter could be a giggler. Ashby ordered take after take as Peter attempted vainly to compose himself. The cast and crew couldn't help laughing, too, and so the scene never worked as written, and the entire speech had to be cut. In the finished film, Chance simply lies back down on the hospital gurney and keeps his mouth shut.

This painful episode brought into stark relief the challenge Peter faced in reciting any any of his lines, of which "now get this, honky," and so on, was only the most overtly ludicrous. Throughout of his lines, of which "now get this, honky," and so on, was only the most overtly ludicrous. Throughout Being There Being There, Peter achieves the pinpoint-sharp exactitude of nothingness. It is a performance of extraordinary dexterity. As the critic Frank Rich wrote in Time Time when when Being There Being There was released, "The audience must believe that Chance is so completely blank that he could indeed seem to be all things to all the people he meets. Peter Sellers' meticulously controlled performance brings off this seemingly impossible task; as he proved in was released, "The audience must believe that Chance is so completely blank that he could indeed seem to be all things to all the people he meets. Peter Sellers' meticulously controlled performance brings off this seemingly impossible task; as he proved in Lolita Lolita, he is a master at adapting the surreal characters of modern fiction to the naturalistic demands of movies. His Chance is sexless, affectless, and guileless to a fault. His face shows no emotion except the beatific, innocent smile of a moron.... Sellers' gestures are so specific and consistent that Chance never becomes clownish or arch. He is convincing enough to make the film's fantastic premise credible; yet he manages to get every laugh."

As Rich astutely observes, Chance is a modern, absurdist human vacuum, but a genial and naturalistic one-a schismatic personality that Peter had to convey with strenuous vocal and gestural technique. To break Chance's strict, meditation-like state would be to destroy Chance's being. A lesser actor would have made the character's mental dysfunction flamboyant and drastic. A Hollywood ham, all but winking directly at the camera, would find a way to reiterate soundlessly what a magnificent performance the audience was lucky enough to witness-how fantastically smart the actor had to be to play a dullard. Think of Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man Rain Man (1988). Peter Sellers's intelligence was always deeper, his onscreen confidence greater, his technique much more finely honed. (1988). Peter Sellers's intelligence was always deeper, his onscreen confidence greater, his technique much more finely honed.

The President of the United States (Warden) shows up at the mansion to marshal Ben Rand's political and financial support. There he meets Chance. As the three titans discuss national affairs, the conversation turns to the best way to stimulate economic growth. Chance pauses for a moment, moves his eyes slightly, pauses again-all meaningless gestures that register as cogitation-and says, "As long as the roots are not severed, all is well-and all will will be well-in the garden." be well-in the garden."

The president is taken aback, forced to regard Chance's remark as a metaphor in order for the statement to make any sense at all. Chance follows through: "In a garden, growth has its seasons. First comes spring and summer. But then we have fall and winter. And then we get spring and summer again."

THE P PRESIDENT: ( (confused) Spring and summer?

CHANCE: ( (flatly) Yes.

THE P PRESIDENT: ( (as if speaking to a cretin) And fall and winter?

CHANCE: ( (delighted to be understood) Yes!

Rand, the cadaverous multibillionaire, is truly overjoyed with Chance's pointless words. "I think what our young friend is saying is that we welcome the inevitable seasons of nature, but we're upset by the seasons of our economy!" "Yes!" Chance cries. "There will be growth in the spring!" The president is duly convinced. "Well, Mr. Gardiner, I must admit that is one of the most refreshing and optimistic statements I've heard in a very very long time." Rand applauds. "I admire your good, solid sense," the president continues, obviously pleased to be receiving a cretin's wisdom. "That's precisely what we like on Capitol Hill."

Later, a book publisher responds to Chance with a similar sense of spiritual kindredness by greeting him warmly and offering him a book contract with a six-figure advance. "I can't write," says Chance. "Well, of course not!" the publisher replies with a hearty laugh. "Who can nowadays?"