Leslie Caron and her companion, Jack, greet me at the front of their apartment. They make a well-matched couple – slight, chic, immaculately coiffured. Caron, the legendary dancer and actor, is 90 in two weeks’ time. Jack, her beloved shih tzu, is about nine.
Caron heads off to make the tea, with Sidney Bechet’s summery jazz playing in the background. I am left alone with Jack to explore the living room. It feels as if I am tunnelling through the history of 20th-century culture. Here is a photo of a pensive François Truffaut; below is a smirking Warren Beatty. The centrepiece on the wall is a huge watercolour of Caron’s great friend Christopher Isherwood, painted by his partner, Don Bachardy. To the left is Louis Armstrong, to the right Rudolf Nureyev, with whom she starred in 1977’s Valentino, and further along is Jean Renoir, who she says was like a father to her. And we have barely started.
Caron leads me into her magnificent garden, long and thin as a cricket wicket. “What do you think?” she says, with undisguised pride at her handiwork. She points out the petunias, geraniums, forget-me-nots and a solitary rose trailing on the wall. The pots, some of them almost as big as she is, line up like a military tattoo. “The rose came out in the night. Fabulous.” She licks her lips. » | Simon Hattenstone | Monday, June 21, 2021
