Shooting 007: And Other Celluloid Adventures (7 page)

It was an odd question, coming from an officer. I was not really sure where he was heading with this remark – ‘pigs’ were not to be trusted. Even so, the medic’s enquiry had aroused the interest of the other patients in the ward, who eagerly awaited my reply as I struggled with my breathing to answer him. The stethoscope moved slowly across my chest and back; two fingers tapped my upper body. The wheezing was still there and certainly was not helpful as he waited patiently for my reply to his question. What could be behind this? I wanted to answer, but with the shortness of breath I found it difficult to speak. Every question demanded an answer, every answer used energy. I played it safe, nervous of the hidden repercussions. One last check would prove that the wheezing was still there, impossible to disguise. He paused … a beaten man.

‘Mills, I’m afraid you will not be in the navy much longer; we will be discharging you.’

At no time during my illness had I imagined that my services to the navy would no longer be required – not that I could find any fault with the doctor’s assessment. On the medic’s departure a confused mumbling came from the other patients in the ward. They eagerly gathered around my bed, and now for the first time I realised that they were trying to ‘work their tickets’, claiming to be unfit for service.

With little chance of any sleep, I lay in bed, planning the rebirth of my career in a film industry which had now recovered from its recession. It was a cycle which apparently happened from time to time – something new to learn from for the future.

Everything now moved fast. The navy could not get rid of me quickly enough. I was handed a demob suit and a train ticket, both parties were happy with our divorce. It was October 1952 when Naval Airman Mills became a civilian. It was a fresh beginning and I had new contacts to meet, hoping that this would be the resumption of a film career which would soon take off.

As I write, Wagner’s
Tannhäuser
overture comes to mind, though I am not sure why. Perhaps the drama in the music echoes the moment for me.

It was necessary to pause and take stock with all that had happened over the past two years. My life had been put on hold until this miracle came to my rescue. Thinking about this later I would ask myself if this experience was a necessary part of my ‘personal journey’, but again only a higher authority would know the answer to that question.

My active chattering mind worked overtime as the reality of my absence from the filming community dawned. The few connections I had gained at Carlton Hill would mean little now. In all this excitement I was reminded that I was still a member of a trade union, which would help me find employment. With Carlton Hill no longer an option, I needed a fresh start where I would hope to meet new friends and make fresh contacts.

The opportunity to resurrect my career came more quickly than I could reasonably have expected. Suddenly I found myself working on a film already in production at Riverside Studios. While I cannot remember the name of the film, I would always keep in mind the name of the director – John Gilling. Perhaps my dreams were somewhat clouded in the mist of my return to the film world, where I still held an image of gentle filmmakers working with civilised people, a wonderful atmosphere with kind understanding people in support, as helpful as those gentle souls at Carlton Hill had been. Not so with Mr Gilling, a director who seemed to regard the clapper boy as the lowest form of life in the extreme, which quickly dispelled the joys of returning to ‘my’ film world. Be that as it may, I knew my place and paid due respect to the gentleman, even though I despised his manner to a humble camera assistant. However, all became clear when a colleague mentioned that our director was a retired naval officer, confirming a rating’s impression of officers: ‘Once a pig always a pig!’ I was grateful that this man had no idea I had just been invalided out the service; or perhaps he did. Perhaps it would help if I saluted him in future. Although all this nonsense would be no more than a tiny drop in the ocean, a sad backdrop to human nature, it came as a timely reminder that the long journey ahead would not come easily for me – if the face doesn’t fit … In the end I put the attitude down to my own insecurity.

In contrast to all this, the cinematographer Harry Waxman was a kind and helpful gentleman who welcomed me as part of his team as I settled into my new surroundings. My good fortune would continue with Harry’s offer to work with him on his next film, a genuine act of kindness which was much needed at that difficult time. Little did we know at the time that this would lead to a professional relationship which would continue long into the future. Now all my hopes and expectations would be placed in Harry’s hands. With my career back on course, life was looking healthy once more – Harry would make sure of that!

For the next nine years my career would be under Harry’s Waxman’s controlling influence. He was a no-nonsense cameraman who insisted on his authority with everything I did, but his was also a name I would learn to respect: what Harry didn’t know about cinematography would hardly be worth knowing anyway.

With my happy return to the world of films I would hold on to my untarnished image of the beautiful industry with its wonderful atmosphere, though, if past experience had taught me anything, it was important – indeed necessary – to make friends with those who might show an interest in the development of my career – contacts! Harry Waxman would be the leader in this and pointed the way forward, if with a few hiccups on the way. To me everything about the film industry was exciting, both good and bad. I would even put up with the egotism of a self-opinionated ex-serviceman preferring to retain his rank in civilian life, knowing well that others could be waiting in the shadows if my face did not fit. This was not a question of bitterness, but a fact for us all.

So now it was time to meet the director of
The Sleeping Tiger,
Joseph Losey, who arrived from the United States as one of the many victims of Senator Joe McCarthy, the American politician who in the 1950s purged many in the entertainment world as communist sympathisers. Actors and directors alike were forced to take their talents to foreign shores.

My impression of our director was of a quiet, pleasant gentleman who appeared to go about his work with little fuss. He retained a personal dignity residing here in the UK, this England – this tranquil isle. I doubt that Joe Losey had met Harry Waxman before.

The Sleeping Tiger
enjoyed the early signs of having a wonderful atmosphere, with Dirk Bogarde and the American actress Alexis Smith giving an impression reminiscent of my early Carlton Hill days; I would feel very much at home here. However, this would prove to be a false image when suddenly the joys of filming shattered my private world of dreams. It all stemmed from a misunderstanding between the director and cinematographer.

It started with Harry going to the toilet after a rehearsal and line-up; the set was now handed over to the cinematographer for lighting – a normal procedure on a film set. On Harry’s return to the set, however, everything had changed, including the set-up, without any consideration of all the problems involved – for example, lamps had been moved in his absence.
Sleeping Tiger
would be an appropriate title. Without warning, Harry launched a verbal attack on Joe which seemed unending, his sudden outrage going seriously over the top for all to witness. With nowhere to hide, onlookers watched an embarrassing scene played out to its end, leaving both director and cinematographer just ‘existing’ with each other in an ice-cold atmosphere until the end of filming, with the director wisely deciding not to respond in the same manner.

Unfortunately, Harry was not in a forgiving mood that day and allowed the atmosphere to remain tense as everyone quietly melted into the background. The resulting silence hung in the air – a truly awkward scene for us all. In the aftermath of all this personal temperament, a cold atmosphere would now take over our filming, where one wrong word would leave a feeling of treading on glass for fear of suddenly reigniting the situation. It could never have happened at Carlton Hill; my beautiful dream world finally died.

I doubt that
The Sleeping
Tiger
attained any critical acclaim for Joe Losey, even with Bogarde’s and Smith’s contributions – just another one of the many
film noir
psychological thrillers which came from the 1950s, but again, who was I to judge? I was just a silly clapper boy! Joe Losey went on to make other films in the UK, including
The Servant, The
Go-Between
and
The
Gypsy
and
the
Gentleman
, which I worked on later, but, as you might expect, this time with a different cinematographer: Jack Hildyard BSC.

In the excitement of establishing myself as Harry’s junior assistant I would soon learn why the cinematographer was highly respected. Harry was a knowledgeable cameraman who would willingly share his expertise with anyone who cared to ask; to this day I still remember listening to Harry on the phone, discussing a problem from an enquiring cameraman seeking his help. That tells the real story of the man I knew.

This was the 1950s. Cinematographers to some degree were still pioneering technicians, experimenting at times, motivated to accomplish something different within the camera itself, as with Gilbert Taylor’s demonstration of the old Schüfftan process even as late as the seventies on
Macbeth
– which I describe later
.
Perhaps the same can be said of today’s cinematographers experimenting with the current digital technology. This was Harry’s gift; he was a teacher, a cinematographer who generously allowed me to take written notes while under his wing.

‘Alec, if you don’t ask why I do this or that you will learn nothing from me; look, listen and observe!’

Harry’s comment would stay with me throughout my working life as his assistant, but I would also remember those nameless ones who were unwilling to share their expertise with me or anyone who cared to ask.

As Harry’s keen student, it was necessary that I remain ‘uncomfortable’ with the ‘guv’. He was the master of the foot-candle system, his preferred way of measuring light, which he considered more accurate than F or T stops. Digital light meters were not around in those days – now, of course, both systems are available at the flick of a switch. As a result of Harry’s teachings and discipline I was happy to follow in the master’s footsteps, carefully taking notes of his daily tutorials on the set.

Now confirmed as the cinematographer’s loyal apprentice, I would soon be recognised as a regular member of Harry’s crew. The cameraman’s generosity in his teaching would be repaid by my undying loyalty when, over the following years, Harry’s skills rubbed off on me; he would make sure of that. Should I become a cinematographer in time, I would gladly apply Harry’s preferences, doing it his way. Never would I regret this – except on one occasion that comes up later, when I really let Harry down.

The other side of Harry’s personality was his wonderful sense of humour, which he enjoyed sharing with his crew: Jimmy Bawden (camera operator), Paul Wilson (camera assistant) and yours truly now established as Harry’s clapper boy – who still fetched the tea! In time Paul moved on to work with other cinematographers, giving me the opportunity to move up the ladder and become Harry’s camera assistant – slowly, slowly moving forward …