I. The Girl in the Mirror
Growing up, my mother’s bedroom had a shrine-like built-in wardrobe with mirrors, a bureau of perfume bottles, and a collage of mementos. The mirrors reflected me infinitely, providing solace in my lonely childhood in rural County Galway, Ireland. My brother Tony and I were not close, but we were bonded by our isolation. I spent hours in front of the bathroom mirror, fascinated by my reflection and absorbed in books like The Death of Manolete and Charles Addams’ cartoons. I would pretend to be Morticia Addams or admire Sophia Loren’s beauty, experimenting with my own appearance. The mirror was not about narcissism but about discovering who I was and what I could be.
II. “For God’s Sake, John…”
I was born on July 8, 1951, in Los Angeles. My father, John Huston, received the news while filming The African Queen in the Congo. When the telegram arrived, he announced, “It’s a girl. Her name is Anjelica.” Dad was tall, charismatic, and known for his adventurous spirit. He dressed like an English gentleman and had a dramatic presence.
Despite being labeled a Lothario and gambler, Dad was complex, educated, and admired by both men and women. He longed to be a painter but found his calling in directing. Born in Nevada, Missouri, he was the only child of Rhea Gore and actor Walter Huston. My mother, Ricki Soma, was a former ballet dancer with a serene beauty, the daughter of restaurateur Tony Soma and opera singer Angelica Fantoni. Ricki’s early life was strict under her stepmother, but she captivated Dad with her determination to become a ballerina.
Their love story began when Dad promised to take her to the ballet, only to be called away to war. Four years later, they reconnected at a dinner party. Ricki had become a successful dancer and was under contract to David Selznick, with her photograph gracing the cover of Life magazine. Their reunion marked the start of a new chapter, blending their adventurous spirits and artistic talents.
III. Breakfast at the Big House
My earliest memories are of Ireland, where Dad moved the family in 1953. He fell in love with the country’s scenic beauty during a visit to Luggala and a hunt ball in Dublin. I recall lying in bed at Courtown House, where Mum wrapped me in a blanket and carried me outside to watch a meteor shower with Dad and my brother Tony.
Renowned photographer Robert Capa visited us, capturing early images of Tony and me. We moved from Courtown House to St. Clerans, a 110-acre estate in County Galway. While the Big House was under restoration, we lived in the Little House nearby. Mum and Dad were dedicated to restoring the estate, although Dad’s visits were infrequent.
When Dad was home, Tony and I joined him for breakfast in his room. The maids brought wicker trays with newspapers, and Dad read the Tribune while sketching. After breakfast, Dad would slowly get out of bed, casting off his pajamas and standing naked before us, a sight both fascinating and routine. He’d then head to his bathroom and emerge showered and dressed with the help of Creagh, the butler.
My mother struggled to adapt to the rough West Country, trying to do everything elegantly. She organized a winter hunt ball at St. Clerans, complete with a marquee, Guinness, champagne, and oysters. Dressed in a white taffeta evening gown, she looked stunning but stood alone as the guests departed early due to the cold. She was as beautiful and remote as a ballerina in a photograph, embodying grace and resilience in her new surroundings.
Mum and Nora Fitzgerald, a close family friend and Dublin’s premier wine merchant, often ventured into the countryside at night to saw down billboards they deemed unsightly. They also shared a private joke about “the Merkin Society,” finding amusement in sheep’s wool caught on barbed wire. Unaware that a merkin was a pubic wig, I joined their fun by putting up animal stickers with slogans like “Start the day the merkin way” on the Little House doors, which they found hilarious.
Dad was a master storyteller, starting with a reflective pause, visualizing the memory, and then weaving his tale. He recounted his war experiences, like the Battle of San Pietro where a saluting major, despite losing a hand, made a lasting impression on him.
His stories, akin to his movies, often featured triumph and disaster in exotic locales. We loved hearing about The African Queen: the marching red ants halted by gasoline-filled trenches, a missing villager’s pinkie finger found in the stew, and the black mamba snake around the latrine that cured the crew’s dysentery-induced delays. Dad’s laughter and vivid recounting made these tales unforgettable.
IV. “It’s the Monkey or Me!”
In 1961, Tony and I were abruptly sent to school in England without much explanation. Mum, Nurse, Tony, and I moved to a rented house in Kensington, near the French Lycée. The transition was difficult, and for eight years, we shuttled between London and St. Clerans during holidays.
Christmas at St. Clerans remained lavish. One year, John Steinbeck played Santa, a role he performed with humor despite complaining about the cotton wool he “inhaled.” He gifted me a gold medal of the Virgin of Guadalupe, a cherished keepsake.
Dad’s ex-girlfriends and ex-wives often visited. I realized Dad was romantically involved with many women I knew, which became clearer as I grew older. His third wife, Evelyn Keyes, once gave him an ultimatum over a monkey that wrecked her belongings; Dad chose the monkey.
There were many colorful characters: Lady Davina with her posh accent, the American singer who sent love song recordings, and Min Hogg, who let me practice modeling in her high heels. I discovered Dad’s romantic liaisons through photos and stories, including his affair with an actress during the making of Freud.
Dad’s girlfriends varied: Afdera Fonda, Henry Fonda’s wife; Valeria Alberti, an Italian countess; and many others who tried to impress him by riding horses, often leading to amusing mishaps.
V. The Painter
Dad challenged us every morning, asking about our accomplishments. He despised dilettantes, defining them as amateurs who lacked commitment. This idea weighed heavily on me.
There was always an air of intrigue among the adults at St. Clerans. Magouche Phillips, once married to painter Arshile Gorky, was caught kissing Dad’s co-producer. Rin Kaga, a samurai Dad met while making The Barbarian and the Geisha, visited and shed rare, joyous tears at breakfast.
Tony and I explored Dad’s art book collection, while Dad sketched us by the fire. He spoke wistfully about painting, a path he might have excelled in but chose not to pursue due to its isolating nature.
In 1963, Lizzie Spender, daughter of poet Stephen Spender, began visiting St. Clerans during school holidays. Lizzie and I bonded over our love for horses and dogs. One memorable night at Michael Astor’s estate, while trimming my poodle Mindy’s fur, Lizzie joked about unfinished mustaches, a moment that marked the beginning of Mum’s relationship with historian John Julius Norwich.
Often during lunch at the Big House, Dad would enthusiastically praise Lizzie Spender, making her blush with his compliments. One holiday, he asked Lizzie if she would pose for a portrait, but I urged her to refuse. The following day, I showed Lizzie Dad’s paintings, including portraits of his girlfriends, and she agreed not to pose.
One summer afternoon, as Dad was drawing in the study, he asked Margaret, the maid, to delay turning on the lamps. He wanted to capture the soft light of the setting sun, holding time still for a moment.
In 1963, while filming The Bible, Dad stopped in London and sought our advice for his meeting with Maria Callas. Tony’s advice was not to get drunk, while I suggested not to sing. Dad relayed our advice to Callas, who then asked him if he sang. His response was, “Only when I’m drunk.”
Dad’s work on The Bible was extensive, taking nearly three years. He wrote to me, illustrating his letter with sketches of himself as Noah, and described his experiences with the animals. He expressed a touch of regret as the animals would soon leave, returning to their zoos and circuses.
His letter ended with affectionate words about my school report and drawings, and a request to send love to Joan and Lizzie, keeping a larger share for myself.
During a school holiday, I visited Dad in Rome. He took me to Dinocittà Studios, where the Garden of Eden set featured fake fruits and a PVC-lined stream. Dad introduced me to Ulla Bergryd, the actress playing Eve, who wore a red wig that I later received for Christmas but didn’t suit me.
In 1964, I found Mum crying at St. Clerans. She was pregnant and had been writing down her dreams as advised by her therapist. Despite both parents having affairs, their separation was hard to accept. Mum’s lover, John Julius Norwich, didn’t leave his wife for her, and when Allegra was born, I fell in love with my baby sister.
At school in London, my best friend was Emily Young. We often skipped school to attend concerts and visit music clubs, enjoying bands like the Rolling Stones and Pink Floyd. We also watched iconic films of the era, like Blow-Up and La Belle et la Bête.
The 60s in London were vibrant, filled with beautiful women in unique fashion, and the scents of Vetiver and sandalwood. I posed for the great photographer Richard Avedon, a family friend known for his glamorous portraits. His studio was a blend of art and luxury, reflecting his understanding of beauty.
