Halfway To Hollywood: Diaries 1980-1988 (Volume Two) (63 page)

Arrive at White City about five minutes late for a meeting with Innes Lloyd and Tristram P re
East of Ipswich
. Innes Lloyd [Alan Bennett’s favourite producer] has the reassuring look of a much-loved schoolmaster
and the bearing of a naval commander. Tall, upright, of good colour and gentlemanly amiability, I find it hard to immediately connect him with Alan’s caustic Northern observations, but easy to like and trust him.

He says he loved the script and we talk for less than half an hour before deciding that it should be approached primarily as a TV film – and who better to do it than the Beeb? Innes L will put it to [Peter] Goodchild, who’s head of drama. Leave the BBC feeling very hopeful. Like Ma’s house, this project seems to be fitting together suspiciously easily.

About to rush to squash with Richard when George H calls from Australia. He’s in a Sydney hotel room (it’s 2.30) and for some reason announces himself as Jane Asher. He sounds at first rather sleepy and, as the call goes on, rather drunk. I’m reminded of GC’s inexplicable midnight calls, except there is no invective here, just a rather sad GH reflecting on the joys of chewing ‘Nicorette’ gum, and anxious to tell me that he’s given up smoking, and drugs, and his only vice is Carlton Lager, three of which he’s just consumed. He wants to know if I will come to China with him and his acupuncturist next year.

At six I am at Tom Maschler’s office at Jonathan Cape. A huge, at present characterless room, dominated by a carefully restored Adam ceiling (all Robert Adam’s specifications, including choice of colour, were found in the British Museum).

Tom, lean and brown and smoking roll-ups, presides over a cautious little group, including Mike Foreman and a man whose name I never really catch. He is the hologram expert, a big man with the look of an early 1970’s rock drummer.

The book, as Maschler assured me, could make us all
very
rich, and the early 1970’s rock drummer [Richard Seymour] emphasises that it must be of the finest quality, using holograms integrated into the text and into M Foreman’s illustrations. It sounds exciting and, as they all turn and look at me hopefully, I say yes and promise to write a new, two-to three-thousand word children’s ghost story by the time we leave for the Seychelles (about five weeks away).

Back home I hear from Tristram Powell that Peter Goodchild likes
East
of Ipswich
very much and wants to go ahead with it – probably next April.

Helen drives me down to Liverpool Street. They have begun work on the demolition of Broad Street, which is a sad sight – its façade is one of the finest and most unusual of all London’s main terminals.

At Ipswich Station, I’m buying a cup of coffee when a ‘youth’ on roller skates rockets into the station, grabs hold of me to steady himself and shouts ‘Get the police’. He’s followed by a very thin, weedy, unhealthy-looking man who proceeds to attack the roller-skater and heap curses at him. Then a very angry lady arrives and screams abuse – ‘You fucking pervert’, that sort of thing. A burly American keeps them apart and does a fine job, but the ferocity of the woman’s anger – ‘You insulted my father-in-law last night … you faggot!’ – takes quite a while to subside.

To the desk for an hour, lunch and flop out again, periodically watching the Live Aid concert and the Test Match. First quite upstages the second. Wembley packed and from the air looking like an open sardine can, but no menace in the presence of this huge crowd (well, I suppose they’ve all paid £25 minimum). It looks like a day out for the white and well-off. But the music is good, the spontaneity of a live event exciting and, because it is a Giant Global Good Deed, everyone feels united in a most unusual way. If I were a rock promoter I’d feel vaguely uneasy about the happiness which is engendered when people know that no-one is making a profit.

At two o’clock I’m at BUPA for a screening (medical, that is). Two years since I was last here and feel that I should keep up regular inspections. Everything seems to be fine. On the computer questionnaire I print in that my libido has decreased – mainly because I’m bored with my own lack of any interesting medical history but the doctor doesn’t seem interested. My favourite this time is ‘Have your stools changed colour recently?’

With my body well serviced, I return home, make some calls, then go
to put on my DJ for a black-tie invitation to
The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp
at the Screen on the Hill, in celebration of 50 years of the National Film Archive. No DJ. Remember Ed B borrowed it for Glyndebourne. Race round to Albert Street with half an hour to spare and collect it. Then find that I can’t remember how to tie my bow properly. Eventually it comes back to me after a fashion.

Arrive at the cinema with 15 minutes to spare. Have my photo taken with Romaine and then TG and Maggie arrive. Both TG and myself have made an attempt at black-tie. Jonathan Miller and Jack Gold and Gavin Millar have neither tie nor black.

Michael Powell and Pressburger come onto the stage at the beginning. Powell, arms stiffly at his sides, looking like a well-disciplined doorman in his plum-coloured tuxedo, beams wickedly. Emeric Pressburger is close by his side, but is old and can’t move much and looks a bit like Powell’s dummy.

Powell starts by telling us what a very British film this is – ‘Shot by a Frenchman, produced by a Hungarian, designed by a Prussian, scored by a Czech …’ He reflects a moment, then continues, ‘In fact about fifty percent of the crew were enemy aliens at the time.’ He gently but firmly debunks the notion of film-makers making a grand decision to work for a particular country – films were made ‘where they fell’.

Pressburger comments rather acidly on the need for an intermission because the projection at the Screen isn’t able to show 160 minutes non-stop. ‘I was quite pleased when I heard that there was an intermission, as it showed that 1940’s film-making was ahead of 1980’s technology.’

Then they trot off and the epic begins. As a piece of comedy it has its ups and downs – some gross over-playing in minor roles (of the Germans, of course), and some long, laboured comedy scenes – but always surprises – the beauty of the sets, the superb colour, the lovely performances, especially of Anton Walbrook. In the end a feeling of having seen a warts and all tribute to Britishness – its heroism, naivety, bumbling incompetence, luck and charm.

Lunch with Puttnam.

The Mission
is responsible for him losing a stone in weight. The food in Colombia was dreadful. They’re now on their way (by overland convoy) to Argentina to finish shooting. He’s confident it will work, but is tight-lipped
about ‘Revolution’, which he says has been very badly organised and is four million over on below the line costs.

He says straightway that he’s happy for me to take
East of Ipswich
to the BBC. But ‘get in there quick’, he confides and advises that I keep foreign rights and access to negative (to blow it up from 16 to 35 if necessary) and outtakes. Try a 50/50 split with the Beeb on all foreign proceeds.

Now he’s lost some fleshiness around his face, his big eyes look out through his trim beard, at which he tugs when he’s not running his fingers along the inside of his collar.

As usual I am drawn by his liveliness, good sense and charm to overlook the relentlessness of the hustle, the continual selling and the breathless pace of the man’s life. But as a gossip, he’s second to none. The Royal Family detest Thatcher, but Prince Charles has a lot of time for Ken Livingstone – as does his mother!

At midday begin the ghost story [for the hologram book]. I don’t feel in a very good frame of mind about it. I feel that I’ve accepted an unnecessary pressure – to come up with a story merely so that Maschler can sell it at Frankfurt. Would it not be better to take time to find the
best
story, then sell it?

Perhaps sensing a mixed enthusiasm, my system rebels and I find myself with the worst sort of literary lassitude.

Despite the hostile weather outside – fierce gusting winds bringing dark clouds over low and fast from the west – I decide running is the only way to break out of this slumberland. Hard to stand at the top of Parliament Hill, so strong is the westerly gale, but after that it improves and at one point I’m running in sunshine and looking out over a thin, black-clouded belt of rain drifting right across Central London.

Once back I find myself much fresher and sharper and, carrying on through the evening until 10.45, I complete a ghost story. Not, I feel,
the
ghost story, but at least something to show I’ve tried.

Only with meticulous plans and copious lists will I be able to survive today. So many projects have to be attended to, cosseted, completed
and confronted, as tomorrow I intend to put up the shutters until September.

Various calls to bring the Croft Cottage/Sunset House situation up to date. Brian D [Duncan, builder] promises me that September 30th will be a sensible date to aim to have moved in by. Ring Ma. She worries, despite all my assurances. ‘I’ve never done anything quite like this in my life,’ she tells me. There’s a first time for everything, even at 81, and I try and set her mind at rest and give a generally reassuring morale boost. She’s trying so hard not to be a burden, but has to reiterate how she finds it such a lot of money and almost implying she’s not worth it. She has the good, solid Christian virtues that money and wealth mean not a thing – but spends all her life worrying about them.

To a meeting re ‘A Consuming Passion’ at Goldcrest.

The sumptuous luxury of their new Wardour Street HQ is something of an irony in view of their recent, well-publicised financial troubles and boardroom struggles. But at the moment they’re still in business and, in amongst the carpets, the mirrors, the high-tech decor and internal gardens, we set to discussing our low-budget comedy!

Goldwyn is there, Amanda [Schiff] and Sandy [Lieberson], who joins us later. Goldwyn is the most concerned. He doesn’t like Watney killing Rose, Kingsley and Irons. He feels that this will be a shock for the audience. Terry J accepts this, but thinks that the audience need to be shocked. Well, we’re not prepared, says Sam, for a character we’ve grown very fond of to kill another character we’ve grown very fond of. Both TJ and myself are unable to press home our disagreement with total conviction, as neither of us have read the script for two weeks.

Sandy L breezes in. He’s been trout-fishing with Puttnam in Wiltshire. He takes a back seat to Sam when discussing the script. Various suggestions for adopting, adapting and improving come up and TJ and myself agree to rewrite in mid-September. Sam G is trying to push the film in November, which is clearly going to be a rush, but reveals that he doesn’t consider his criticisms basic enough to hold up the making of the picture.

Talk turns to directors. TJ won’t say he can’t do it, so that door is still left ajar. Loncraine’s name comes up. Sam G roots for Malcolm M.

We break up about six, with rough agreement on rewrites, no decision
on director or shooting date and no further meetings planned until September.

TG appears.

The
Brazil
battle is hotting up. Arnon [Milchan], who TG says now has the bit between his teeth, is showing the uncut print to as many influential people as he can in New York. Alan Hirschfield [at Twentieth Century Fox] rang Sid Sheinberg and offered to buy the film. Universal declined and are threatening legal action to stop Arnon showing the original version to critics, etc.

TG leaves after doing a very funny mime of chimpanzees mating, which he saw on some TV nature film.

[On a train across Norway, on way to British Film event.] The driver is called John, he’s younger than me and wears a constant half-smile.

As we pass placid, glassy-calm lakes I mutter the usual appreciations. Not for a moment relaxing his quiet smile, he reminds me that there is ‘no life’ in these picturesque lakes, thanks to pollution from Britain and, to a lesser extent, Germany and Poland. The Norwegians are not at all happy about the British attitude (which is to do bugger all and stop others from doing anything) and I cannot defend it and am quite embarrassed. He’s proud, though not crowingly so, that Norway has the second highest standard of living in Europe and the second lowest unemployment rate (in both cases after Switzerland). But there are only four million of them.

No restaurant car at all on this six and a half hour journey and on the trolley only rolls and no alcohol, except for a special low-strength beer, which has all the adverse effects of making you flatulent with none of the benefits of either taste or mild euphoria.

The Norwegians control alcohol sales very carefully. Only government monopoly shops can sell liquor at all and then only at certain times of day. Consequently, JJ [John Jacobsen, my host] confirms, there is a lot of drunkenness and moonshining.

We climb to a summit of 4,300 feet above the tree line and above the cloud into a brightly-lit no-man’s-land of grey rocks and dirty snow.

We reach Bergen at 2.05 and walk rather aimlessly from the station
towards the quayside – the Brygge – where are the tall, thin houses of the Hanseatic merchants, before queuing for the hydrofoil in rapidly-deteriorating weather.

A three-hour journey. Both of us sleep for a time and I read some of A Powell, which feels very incongruous. We stop four or five times at various islands and reach Haugesund about five minutes late.

JJ is quite anxious by now, evidently hotel bookings have been confused and we are expected by the Mayor at dinner within ten minutes. Both of us change in my room.