Halfway To Hollywood: Diaries 1980-1988 (Volume Two) (45 page)

Am met at Nice Côte d’Azur Airport by Duncan Clark, CIC’s head of publicity. I feel in good shape and the Mediterranean sunshine only improves things. As we drive through the neat and tidy streets of the outskirts of Nice and on to the road to Cannes and Monaco, I begin to feel a distinct whiff of the Scott Fitzgeralds. Terry J arrived yesterday and has already taken all his clothes off and run into the sea for a TV crew.

Our car draws up outside the Carlton, where I’m staying. One or two confused photographers put their cameras up, but it’s hardly a star arrival and I notice one of them still has the lens cap on.

Meet up with the others on the terrace at the Carlton at half past eight after a bath. Graham and John T, John G and the two Terrys and wives. With them is Henry Jaglom (whose
Sitting Ducks
I enjoyed so much), so we have time for a short exchange of compliments over a beer. His new film is being shown out of competition on Wednesday evening – the same time as
The Missionary
.

This is Python day at Cannes. We are officially announced – each one introduced – and our answers instantly translated into French. Neither the questions nor the instant translation process make for an easy exchange of information and certainly they don’t help our jokes. One woman claims to have been physically ill during ‘Creosote’.

I am asked about Sheffield and I end up telling the world’s press that Sheffield girls have bigger breasts because they walk up a lot of hills.

Then we are taken up on to the roof and given a photo-grilling of Charles and Di-like proportions, with cameramen fighting each other to get dull pictures of us. I’ve never, ever been the subject of such
concentrated Nikon-ic attention. It’s all very silly and years ago we would all have been persuaded to be much more outrageous.

Then, suddenly, we’re free. The Terrys, Graham and Eric go back to the hotel to prepare for the splendours of the Gala Presentation of ‘
MOL
’ tonight, and me to return to England en route for Dublin. But as long as we are here we’re good publicity fodder and, as GC and I walk along the Croisette, some keen young photographer asks earnestly that we come to be photographed with Jerry Hall – ‘She’s on the beach, just there …’ he pleads.

 

 

Awake at eight. On the radio the news is all of pre-election sparring. Margaret Thatcher’s transformation into Winston Churchill becomes increasingly evident as she singles out defence (i.e. wars and the Falklands) as the main issue of the election.

Down to the wondrous Riverside Inn breakfast. I’m offered a duck’s egg. Very large and tasty and rather nice as I can see the duck that laid it from my window as I write. It’s white. Called Persil, they tell me.

Short walk, then up to my room, with its disconcertingly sloping floor, to wrestle with the problems of a nymphomaniac drug addict accused of the ritual murder of a well-known Scottish footballer. The rain comes down gently and steadily, with sudden enormous surges – unlike my writing. I cannot reconcile myself to the ‘Explorers’ tale completely. There isn’t enough that is new, original, different and exciting about the characters and I feel that the Polar icecap will look great for five minutes, then lose its grip on your average audience hungry for laughs.

TG comes round. He came back from Cannes last night. He now has his money for
Brazil
– a Universal deal for US, and Fox worldwide. Very pleased. Asks me if I’m available to play Jack Lint. I say no, of course not, but he knows I am.

Tackle backlog of desk-work from last week. Talk to Mike Ewin who tells me that we are actually
up
by £120 in our eleventh week at the Classic H. He’s also pleased with good, but not sensational, provincial figures thus far. ‘The trade is pleasantly surprised,’ as he puts it. And we have a second week at Weston-super-Mare, which he considers a considerable triumph!

Less good news from David Knopf, whom I phone in LA. The re-release of the ‘
Mish
’ ran only three weeks in LA and has just opened at the Sutton in New York to little enthusiasm, leading him to rate the chances of a complete national re-issue unlikely.

And Python’s ‘
MOL
’ is fading. It did well in each area for about three weeks and that was that. It now looks as if it will take less in the US than
Brian
(nine million as against eleven).

Feel rather dejected this morning. Even the news that Buckingham Palace has requested a 35 mill print of
The Missionary
to be taken aboard the Royal Yacht can’t lift me from a very black gloom. Anger at everyone around, myself most of all. Feel frustrated by lack of time to write and not even sure if I want to write what I’m writing.

Watch Chas McKeown’s prog on TV,
⁸⁶
his first series for BBC TV. Some good jokes, nice lines, spoilt by heavy LE mugging. There ought to be something that you could put in the tea at the Beeb canteen to stop quite reasonable actors going at comedy like a bull at a gate.

John Goldstone phones at 8 a.m. to tell me that
Meaning of Life
has won second prize at Cannes – the Special Jury Prize.

Write up and type out my
Comic Roots
basic script. My writing time for the ‘Explorers’ first draft is now narrowed to six weeks, but I try hard not to think about this.

I collect the boys from the William Ellis swimming gala at Swiss Cottage. Tom has come second in two of his races and both he and
William have been members of successful relay teams, so they’re both in very good spirits.

Read all the papers in the hope of some blinding revelation as to who to support at the election. Cannot stomach Thatcher and feel that her faceless, obedient Tebbits and Parkinsons are about to inherit the party. Labour is the only likely alternative, but they are hamstrung with doctrinaire stuff about quitting the EEC and abolishing the House of Lords and far too vulnerable to the boring constituency committee people and the intolerant, grumpy unions. I suppose I shall vote Labour in the hope of giving Thatcher as big a shock as possible.

I take a taxi down to Piccadilly – to the Royal Academy Dinner at Burlington House. The great mystery of the evening – which is why I was unable to turn down the invite – is why I am there. Who is my friend amongst the luminaries of the Royal Academy? After all, I haven’t set foot in there for over a year.

Inside my coat is checked and I ascend the staircase between lofty marble pillars towards a circular chamber from which come the pleasant, rich strains of a small orchestra.

I am announced by a man in a scarlet jacket and received by Sir Hugh Casson, a diminutive, rather cheeky-looking man resembling a perky cockatoo. He is very charming, considering he doesn’t know me from Adam, and he in turn introduces me to a pair of be-medalled, beaming buffers.

Then I am in amongst the central rooms of the Academy, offered what I think is champagne, but which turns out to be rather ordinary Spanish sparkling. I look at all the pictures – all ready for the Summer Exhibition – and I look at all the worthy academicians who are gathering and I suddenly think – suppose I meet no-one all evening who knows me.

I am sat next to a lady called Meg Buckenham. She has a direct, unaffected good nature which makes me glad of my luck. She made up even for the presence of Kasmin, the gallery owner, on my other side. Small, tanned and noisy. He regales everyone who will listen with stories
of himself and seems very sure that he is the most desirable sexual object in the room.

Across from me is Ruskin Spear – a man who looks exactly like Father Christmas. He speaks in a deep, richly-textured, gravelly voice and seems to be gently mocking everything around him. He calls me ‘Palin’ in an amused schoolmasterly tone. ‘I’m bored, Palin … ’ he will suddenly say.

We have speeches from Princess Alexandra. Beautifully poised, regal and smiling winningly, but it doesn’t make up for a terrible line in royally-delivered cliché. Sir Hugh Casson, sprite-like, is up and down between each speaker, jollying everyone along. It’s his 73rd birthday and he’s presented with a huge cake in the shape of the leaves of an opened book.

Lord Gowrie speaks for the government. He’s in the Northern Ireland office. He has a thick head of hair and looks fashionably attractive in the Yves St Laurent mould, but again his looks belie his speech-making capabilities and he turns in a smooth, but vapid performance.

Sir Hugh is up again eagerly and he hands over to Lord Goodman, who replies to Sir Hugh’s toast on behalf of the guests. I’ve never seen the notorious Lord Goodman in the flesh – only in
Private Eye
caricatures, where he is portrayed always as some vast lump topped with an elephant-like head. Although Goodman isn’t quite as gargantuan as they make out, he is an extraordinary-looking creature and the prominent ears, with their dark, hairy inner recesses, are riveting. But he has the gift of the gab and scuttles through a quite unprepared speech very mellifluously. I warm to him. He is not malicious, nor cheap. He speaks intelligently and quite wittily.

Sir Hugh makes the final speech – one last attempt to butter us all up. Apparently I am present at ‘one of the great banquets of the year’.

After all these toasts and some belligerent shouts of ‘Rot! Absolute rot!’ from Kasmin beside me, we are free to leave and mingle and take brandy from the trays carried through.

By this time several of the RA’s are becoming tired and emotional and the limping figure of Ian Dury and the academician Peter Blake have joined our little group, and I’m being asked by Peter Blake to accompany him over to the Caprice for a ‘nightcap’. Say farewell to Sir Hugh on the stairs. He gives Meg B a long hug. I feel like the errant young suitor in the presence of a father-in-law.

Across to the Caprice, walking slowly so Dury can keep up. He’s very jokey and good value and keeps calling me Eric. At the Caprice a rather drunk young blond cruises round the tables and ends up in deep
discussion with him. This is Jasper Conran. As usual on these occasions nobody really knows why anyone else is there, and it’s very bad form to ask.

Helen packs in preparation for Newcastle trip with the children. Play snooker and try my hand at capitals of the world on the new BBC computer. I really can’t wait for everyone to be gone, so I can set to work on ‘Explorers’ (I have a tantalisingly clear week ahead).

Another hour of halting progress brought to a rude conclusion by the appearance of TG. He’s just back from working with Charles McKeown – the two of them are rewriting Tom Stoppard’s script for
Brazil
. He’s already setting up
Baron Munchausen
as his next film, in case
Brazil
really doesn’t work! American majors have forked out 12 million dollars for rights to distribute – only thing they don’t like about
Brazil
is the title.

Home to bed, in silent, empty house, by midnight.

I make a clear start on opening scenes. But still the whole project seems arbitrary. My heart is just not in it. Staying here whilst the family is away to avoid distractions, I find myself waiting quite eagerly for distractions.

Michael White’s office ring – the Turf Club is still pursuing my membership and wants details of birthdate, place of education, interests. Think of lying and putting down ‘horse-racing’ (Alison D suggests ‘horse-spotting’, which I like), but settle for the dignified restraint of ‘writing and travel’.

With not very worthy feelings of guilt, reluctance and resentment, I acknowledge the fact that I could and probably should have spent more time on the ‘
MOL
’ radio commercials which we’re recording this morning.

Drive into town at 9.15, new Phil Everly tape blaring, roof open. André’s
just back from two weeks in California looking more successful every time I see him. JC arrives, GC doesn’t.

John looks very hairy with beard and long black hair. He is in quite a skittish mood and wants to do lots of silly voices. He does an excellent Kirkegaard. He’s just finished work on a book with his psychiatrist – ‘Seven or eight weeks solid … I just haven’t had a moment.’ Fall to talking about autobiographies. John wants to call his ‘24 Hours From Normal’. And for a Python biog we both like the title ‘Where’s Graham?’

After breakfast accompany Ma into Southwold. ‘This is my son Michael – you’ve probably seen him on the television.’ And if that doesn’t work, it’s followed by the blatant – ‘He’s in Monty Python, you know … !’

Up at eight. Preoccupied with the NBC piece [for a new show called
The News Is The News
], and the problems of learning three and a half minutes of straight-to-camera material by half past ten. A very lordly Daimler arrives to collect me at ten. The driver wears thin and expensive-looking leather gloves.

By the time we reach Whitehall I have almost learnt the piece, though haven’t been able to go right through without a fluff. The Queen is Trooping the Colour in the Mall and there are crowds everywhere. With the boldness of the blissfully ignorant, my Daimler turns into Downing Street at half past ten – third or fourth in a line of similar limousines, except that they all carry ambassadors or diplomats on their way to fawn to the recently re-elected Leaderene.

Of course I’m turned back, having been given no clearance by NBC, and my driver dumps me unceremoniously in busy Whitehall.