Lifelong bachelor Michael Winner is finally going to say 'I do'.
Michael Winner seems under the impression that he’s about to marry Michael Caine, instead of Geraldine Lynton-Edwards, who has been waiting more than 50 years for the privilege. We are sitting in the private cinema in Winner’s 40-room mansion in Holland Park, and he is telling me he can hardly wait for the pre-wedding day buffet at Michael’s house (“Michael has a wonderful taste in food”), the wedding breakfast (“we’ll go to the Wolseley or possibly the Ritz or whatever Michael wants”). And then there’s the wedding outfit. “Michael Caine said to me, 'At our age, we should only wear what’s comfortable.’ ”
You can’t blame Winner for being slightly off-kilter. You sense the Caine references are a form of Dutch courage. After all, the decision to marry Geraldine at the Chelsea Register Office on September 19 is a massive falling away of the scales for this confirmed bachelor, who turns 76 in October. Even when he became engaged to Geraldine in 2007, he quipped, “Don’t hold your breath for the wedding!”
But now, here in the screening room, sitting in front of the Michael Winner Spitting Image puppet and framed by hundreds of photographs of the stars of his movies – Diana Dors, Charles Bronson, Marlon Brando – he’s struggling to explain how his road to Damascus came about.
“There is a dawning of reason even in a mind as befuddled as mine,” he says with a sudden Basil Brush guffaw, before adding with a beam: “They say a leopard cannot change his spots, but that is not strictly true. I’m now a leopard without spots.”
I have never met Michael Winner before but, frankly, I was expecting something more spiky than this. There is none of the “Calm down, dear” of his TV insurance ads; no reference to “whinging women” such as Selina Scott banging on about age discrimination; and hardly any name-dropping. The look of love is, genuinely, in his eyes.
One of the invited wedding guests, Sixties photographer Terry O’Neill, has told him he looks “serene”, Winner says, sounding both bewildered and amused. And O’Neill is right. Love has turned Winner from a sarcastic misanthrope into a kind of Laughing Buddha. Except Winner is not fat any more thanks to the strict diet Geraldine put him on when she moved into the mansion nine years ago, before nursing him through his near-death experience in 2007, after he ate oysters in Barbados and contracted a bug that left him in a wheelchair for a while.
Winner says he owes her his life. “She’s seen me through the most horrific times.”
Now he appears in rude health, although his gait is a potter rather than a stride. He’s agreed to “defer to Geraldine” on the wedding clothes front, in spite of Caine’s advice. Today he’s wearing a blue-checked shirt he bought in Cannes in the Sixties. It hangs comfortably over his favourite trousers – actually sky-blue pyjama bottoms he had made at Turnbull & Asser.
“I said to Geraldine, 'What do you want me to wear?’ So she said, 'Dark trousers, a long-sleeve shirt – tucked in. And a jacket.’ I said, 'Do I have to wear a tie?’ She said, 'No.’ ”
His mind’s a bit cloudy as to the specifics of the proposal. “I think I said, 'We should get married’, which is rather less glamorous than 'will you marry me?’ ”
He goes quiet suddenly. “I’m not doing it for friends. I’m doing it because I think it’s a nice thing to do… the proper thing if…”
If you’re in love with someone?
(Heavy coughing and clearing of throat) “Of course.”
And then Geraldine enters the room in a whirl of husky laughter. A friend recently told her she’d got “the marriage glow”, and she has. She’s looking foxy in her Zara shirt, slacks and Tod’s shoes. (She’s thinking of Louise Kennedy for the wedding dress, but don’t tell Michael.) Her short blonde crop makes her look pixie-ish. She says she doesn’t mind saying her age, “But Michael doesn’t like it.
“I’ve never been ashamed of my age, though, because I think I look bloody good for my age.”
Winner looks at her with something like admiration in his eyes as she talks about the proposal three weeks ago. “We were laughing and joking about like a couple of kids one morning.”
“She’s always throwing things. Napkins…”
“I looked at him when he said it. He went, 'And I mean it.’ Wow wee! And I just jumped about, didn’t I?”
The Laughing Buddha comes out with another Basil Brush guffaw.
“I didn’t get married because I think I was selfish, ha!” he admits. “I think I didn’t want to give myself up completely. I had a fear of the financial loss if it went wrong.
“I always said to everyone, 'You must get a pre-nuptual agreement.’ But I didn’t get one!”
His laughter this time is a hysterical duck quack and it’s joined by Geraldine’s throaty cackle.
Their lovers’ intimacy is cute. They talk of how they first met – back in 1957 when she was 16 (which makes her 70 now) and he was 21 and auditioning actresses for his first film, The Square, in his father’s real estate offices in Kensington.
“I got one line!” says Geraldine. “ 'Want a dance, Pops?’ ”
“We went to a Chinese restaurant on Kensington High Street…”
“He was gorgeous to look at.”
“Wonderful what a bit of chop suey can do!”
After a couple of dates, they went back to his pungent flat above an Indian restaurant, which Geraldine remembers as having a “toilet painted black”.
She and Winner were “on and off” until 1963, when Geraldine, a trained classical dancer, was offered work in France. She lived and worked there for the next 30 years, performing with the likes of Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Brel and Johnny Hallyday. Then she met and fell in love with a French publisher, Edouard Weiss, and had two sons. During the marriage, which lasted 12 years, Winner used to visit, introducing his army of girlfriends (which most famously included Jenny Seagrove) to Geraldine for the once-over.
Clearly, her unavailability was attractive to him. “Oh yes, you don’t want some docile dummy, you know.” And he claims that his wandering eye is long cured (he and Geraldine got back together in 2002, only for them to split again in 2005 when she discovered he was having an affair with his then-secretary, Paola Lombard). “Oh, I’ve done that – I’ve had a surfeit of that. I’ve rolled in it in every shape, form, size, number.”
Geraldine, meanwhile, seems philosophical that it has taken her so long to get him down the aisle.
“Someone said the other day, 'Don’t you regret not having got married before?’ And I said, 'No, not at all because we wouldn’t have been the way we are now.’ I just knew we needed time. He had to have this life and get rid of whatever made him the way he was [chuckles]. And the same for me, obviously. Now it’s fantastic.”
“The ideal age to get married is… 76!” Winner pipes up. “Ha! Ha!”
Still, he refuses to wear a gold band. “I’m not used to wearing a ring and I don’t want to wear a ring.” The only piece of jewellery on him is a gold medallion from Asprey’s given to him by Marlon Brando. He’s worn it around his neck since 1983.
“We had a bet about the pronunciation of the word 'integral’,” he recalls. “I said it was 'in-TEG-ral’ and Marlon said it was 'IN-tegral’. And the loser had to sell French ticklers in Piccadilly for an hour. That’s a male condom with bumps. But when I checked the dictionary it was IN-tegral.”
The inscription reads: “The loser is also a Winner”.
“That’s a very Marlon Brando remark,” Winner says, adding that Brando, whom he directed in The Nightcomers, was a “dear friend”.
There will only be a chosen few at the wedding, including Andrew Lloyd Webber, Terry O’Neill and Chris Rea. And Michael Caine, of course, with his wife Shakira. Then they plan to “nip off” to Portofino for a few days before returning to London for the “new chapter”, as Winner is calling it.
“Although I don’t want it to be too new because I like what’s going on already.”
Winner says that one of the favourite bits of his daily routine is “watching Hitler”.
“Who’s Hitler?” I ask, thinking this is some wry Winner-esque allusion to Geraldine.
“Hitler was a German, darling!” he roars.
It turns out he’s referring to the real Hitler, about whom he watches documentaries “every night” if he can. “I’m fascinated how evil took over a country.”
And there we must leave them, throwing napkins at each other and watching Hitler videos – sweet dreams are made of this.
As he prepares to potter out of the room he says, “Darling, it was lovely to meet you.” He walks past the gold velour-lined walls and then stops, turns around, and blows me a kiss. There’s a flash of a grin and his eyes light up as if he’s suddenly seeing the 1960s again, all camera, lights and action.
But the moment passes and he glides onwards towards his study.
After all, he’s nearly a married man.
One of the invited wedding guests, Sixties photographer Terry O’Neill, has told him he looks “serene”, Winner says, sounding both bewildered and amused. And O’Neill is right. Love has turned Winner from a sarcastic misanthrope into a kind of Laughing Buddha. Except Winner is not fat any more thanks to the strict diet Geraldine put him on when she moved into the mansion nine years ago, before nursing him through his near-death experience in 2007, after he ate oysters in Barbados and contracted a bug that left him in a wheelchair for a while.
Winner says he owes her his life. “She’s seen me through the most horrific times.”
Now he appears in rude health, although his gait is a potter rather than a stride. He’s agreed to “defer to Geraldine” on the wedding clothes front, in spite of Caine’s advice. Today he’s wearing a blue-checked shirt he bought in Cannes in the Sixties. It hangs comfortably over his favourite trousers – actually sky-blue pyjama bottoms he had made at Turnbull & Asser.
“I said to Geraldine, 'What do you want me to wear?’ So she said, 'Dark trousers, a long-sleeve shirt – tucked in. And a jacket.’ I said, 'Do I have to wear a tie?’ She said, 'No.’ ”
His mind’s a bit cloudy as to the specifics of the proposal. “I think I said, 'We should get married’, which is rather less glamorous than 'will you marry me?’ ”
He goes quiet suddenly. “I’m not doing it for friends. I’m doing it because I think it’s a nice thing to do… the proper thing if…”
If you’re in love with someone?
(Heavy coughing and clearing of throat) “Of course.”
And then Geraldine enters the room in a whirl of husky laughter. A friend recently told her she’d got “the marriage glow”, and she has. She’s looking foxy in her Zara shirt, slacks and Tod’s shoes. (She’s thinking of Louise Kennedy for the wedding dress, but don’t tell Michael.) Her short blonde crop makes her look pixie-ish. She says she doesn’t mind saying her age, “But Michael doesn’t like it.
“I’ve never been ashamed of my age, though, because I think I look bloody good for my age.”
Winner looks at her with something like admiration in his eyes as she talks about the proposal three weeks ago. “We were laughing and joking about like a couple of kids one morning.”
“She’s always throwing things. Napkins…”
“I looked at him when he said it. He went, 'And I mean it.’ Wow wee! And I just jumped about, didn’t I?”
The Laughing Buddha comes out with another Basil Brush guffaw.
“I didn’t get married because I think I was selfish, ha!” he admits. “I think I didn’t want to give myself up completely. I had a fear of the financial loss if it went wrong.
“I always said to everyone, 'You must get a pre-nuptual agreement.’ But I didn’t get one!”
His laughter this time is a hysterical duck quack and it’s joined by Geraldine’s throaty cackle.
Their lovers’ intimacy is cute. They talk of how they first met – back in 1957 when she was 16 (which makes her 70 now) and he was 21 and auditioning actresses for his first film, The Square, in his father’s real estate offices in Kensington.
“I got one line!” says Geraldine. “ 'Want a dance, Pops?’ ”
“We went to a Chinese restaurant on Kensington High Street…”
“He was gorgeous to look at.”
“Wonderful what a bit of chop suey can do!”
After a couple of dates, they went back to his pungent flat above an Indian restaurant, which Geraldine remembers as having a “toilet painted black”.
She and Winner were “on and off” until 1963, when Geraldine, a trained classical dancer, was offered work in France. She lived and worked there for the next 30 years, performing with the likes of Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Brel and Johnny Hallyday. Then she met and fell in love with a French publisher, Edouard Weiss, and had two sons. During the marriage, which lasted 12 years, Winner used to visit, introducing his army of girlfriends (which most famously included Jenny Seagrove) to Geraldine for the once-over.
Clearly, her unavailability was attractive to him. “Oh yes, you don’t want some docile dummy, you know.” And he claims that his wandering eye is long cured (he and Geraldine got back together in 2002, only for them to split again in 2005 when she discovered he was having an affair with his then-secretary, Paola Lombard). “Oh, I’ve done that – I’ve had a surfeit of that. I’ve rolled in it in every shape, form, size, number.”
Geraldine, meanwhile, seems philosophical that it has taken her so long to get him down the aisle.
“Someone said the other day, 'Don’t you regret not having got married before?’ And I said, 'No, not at all because we wouldn’t have been the way we are now.’ I just knew we needed time. He had to have this life and get rid of whatever made him the way he was [chuckles]. And the same for me, obviously. Now it’s fantastic.”
“The ideal age to get married is… 76!” Winner pipes up. “Ha! Ha!”
Still, he refuses to wear a gold band. “I’m not used to wearing a ring and I don’t want to wear a ring.” The only piece of jewellery on him is a gold medallion from Asprey’s given to him by Marlon Brando. He’s worn it around his neck since 1983.
“We had a bet about the pronunciation of the word 'integral’,” he recalls. “I said it was 'in-TEG-ral’ and Marlon said it was 'IN-tegral’. And the loser had to sell French ticklers in Piccadilly for an hour. That’s a male condom with bumps. But when I checked the dictionary it was IN-tegral.”
The inscription reads: “The loser is also a Winner”.
“That’s a very Marlon Brando remark,” Winner says, adding that Brando, whom he directed in The Nightcomers, was a “dear friend”.
There will only be a chosen few at the wedding, including Andrew Lloyd Webber, Terry O’Neill and Chris Rea. And Michael Caine, of course, with his wife Shakira. Then they plan to “nip off” to Portofino for a few days before returning to London for the “new chapter”, as Winner is calling it.
“Although I don’t want it to be too new because I like what’s going on already.”
Winner says that one of the favourite bits of his daily routine is “watching Hitler”.
“Who’s Hitler?” I ask, thinking this is some wry Winner-esque allusion to Geraldine.
“Hitler was a German, darling!” he roars.
It turns out he’s referring to the real Hitler, about whom he watches documentaries “every night” if he can. “I’m fascinated how evil took over a country.”
And there we must leave them, throwing napkins at each other and watching Hitler videos – sweet dreams are made of this.
As he prepares to potter out of the room he says, “Darling, it was lovely to meet you.” He walks past the gold velour-lined walls and then stops, turns around, and blows me a kiss. There’s a flash of a grin and his eyes light up as if he’s suddenly seeing the 1960s again, all camera, lights and action.
But the moment passes and he glides onwards towards his study.
After all, he’s nearly a married man.
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