Post-production on The Great Escape was completed in Hollywood in the first half of 1963, with, among other things, composer Elmer Bernstein recording the film’s memorable musical theme, a tongue-in-cheek play on military marches. On 20 June, Sturges’ movie opened in London. Two weeks later, on 4 July – not coincidentally, US Independence Day – and backed by a massive marketing campaign from United Artists, the movie launched across the United States. Quickly achieving box-office success, it was praised and panned by critics in equal measure. The Australian premiere was scheduled for the end of the year.
Brickhill had little time to enjoy the moment. Margot had discovered from Tim and Tempe that when they holidayed with their father they now stayed in his McMahons Point flat, not at their grandparents’ home. Investigating the premises and determining that the flat had just a single bedroom and Brickhill lived alone, Margot’s lawyers demanded that another person be present whenever he had custody of the children. Brickhill fought this, with the result that he was summoned to be questioned before a judge in the Supreme Court on 9 August.
Alec Shand acted for Margot. A tall young barrister and future Queen’s Counsel, he possessed a bulldog reputation. By coincidence, Shand was an officer in the RAAF Reserve, and had seen his own parents divorce when he was twelve. Once Brickhill took the stand, Shand quizzed him on his income, especially in the light of the success of The Great Escape at the American box office. In court filings, Brickhill said he had largely been living on his investments since 1957. He had also said, truthfully, that his income from The Great Escape movie could currently be expected to range between the option fee of £1000 and an execution fee of £15,000. The final amount he received, he said, would depend on how well the movie did at the box office. Taking into account the small percentage of net profit the contract gave him, this was true.
But Shand, unfamiliar with the movie business, was unaware that film-rights contracts invariably specified that execution fees be paid at the commencement of principal photography. Principal photography for The Great Escape had begun the previous June. In the past, Brickhill had arranged for publishers to delay major royalty payments to defer and reduce his tax liabilities. Almost certainly, he’d asked Mirisch to delay paying the execution fee until after divorce proceedings had been terminated one way or another, to prevent Margot’s lawyers from including that in any potential financial settlement.
‘My assets have diminished considerably,’ Brickhill stated in court. ‘I do not have the funds anymore.’ When Shand asked him why he was not producing income, Brickhill responded, pointedly, ‘I am mostly engaged in litigation.’ Divorce litigation, that was.
In his resonant voice, Shand asked Brickhill to describe the layout of his flat, and the sleeping arrangements when the children stayed over. Brickhill replied that the children slept in his bed and he slept separately from them. In describing the layout of the flat, he said it had a lounge room and a dining room, but when required by Shand to draw a diagram he revealed that there was a single living room made up of lounge and dining areas. Having caught Brickhill out on this, Shand asked him to detail a conversation in which Brickhill had instructed Tim not to tell his mother that they had been talking about her and divorce.
Realising that Tim must have told his mother about this conversation on the day of the 5.30 am return to Turramurra, Brickhill answered, ‘I’m reticent to talk about it.’
Shand demanded to know why.
‘Tim and his mother don’t always get along very well,’ Brickhill returned. He explained that Margot had complained to him that Tim was very difficult to handle after returning from visits with him. ‘I worry that there will be reprisals on Tim.’
‘Reprisals?’
‘I am afraid she is prone to shouting,’ said the author. ‘She shouts a lot at Tim. I don’t think he receives very much in the way of affection.’ For the benefit of the judge, he added, ‘My wife is not very emotionally stable.’
The judge required him to write down the conversation in question for the court, which he did, with reluctance.
Shand then moved to Brickhill’s illness of the previous spring. ‘A virus? What kind of virus was it?’
‘Just a virus,’ Brickhill replied.
When Brickhill wouldn’t elaborate, Shand demanded, ‘Was it not a nervous breakdown you suffered?’
Brickhill, terrified that he would lose access to Tim and Tempe if he told the truth, denied he’d suffered from mental illness. Shand then wondered why Dr Kerridge, a psychiatrist, had been his admitting physician, to which Brickhill replied that Kerridge was a friend as well as a doctor. At this point the judge intervened on Brickhill’s behalf, telling Shand not to pursue this line of questioning.
Shand asked Brickhill to specify the drugs he was currently prescribed. Brickhill gave his current drug regime as Percodan for pain in arms and legs, antihistamines and sleeping tablets, plus Phenobarbital and a chloral-hydrate sleeping mixture. Shand pounced on this, saying that, surely, all this sleeping medication must knock Brickhill out at night. What would happen in the event of a medical emergency or a fire when the children were staying, and they were unable to wake him?
Brickhill countered that he was a light sleeper, even with medication, and could be expected to wake, or be easily awakened, in an emergency. ‘My wife used to punch into me as I slept,’ he went on. ‘On several occasions I was awakened with a punch.’
Shand proceeded to call several of Brickhill’s tenants to testify about the state of his flat, his drinking and the lifestyle he led. If Shand was hoping for damning revelations, he was disappointed. Brickhill’s only female visitors were secretary-stenographers he employed, and tenants stated that, as far as they could see, Brickhill was a caring father when his children visited. Brickhill’s lawyers would subsequently nip this attack in the bud by producing affidavits from several neighbours who were trained nurses, who stated they were available to help Mr Brickhill and his children at any time if the need arose.310
The court subsequently allowed Brickhill continued access to his children, and without the need for another person to be present. One battle had been won. But this war still had a long way to run.
25.
War of Nerves
THE IMMEDIATE RESPONSE to the publication of War of Nerves in the United States in 1963 was an approach to Brickhill by a Hollywood producer interested in acquiring the screen rights. Dick Berg was a young television screenwriter and producer who came to Hollywood in 1957 and made a name for himself writing the 1959–60 Universal Studios TV detective series Johnny Staccato, starring John Cassavetes. With a long-term contract with Universal, Berg had interested CBS in a weekly drama anthology TV series which became the Bob Hope Chrysler Theater, with Berg as an executive producer. Each episode, which would be introduced by Hollywood entertainment superstar Bob Hope, would be a single story, unrelated to those which preceded or followed it.
With the release of John Sturges’ production of The Great Escape imminent, Brickhill’s new book caught Berg’s attention. In acquiring the screen rights to War of Nerves, Berg would have the option of later making a feature film, but at this point his interest was in a one-off, one-hour TV drama for the new CBS series. This would be like Fred Coe’s 1951 TV production of The Great Escape, but shot on film.
Brickhill’s timely story, gripping ending, limited number of characters and mostly interior settings made War of Nerves ideal for TV. The few Parisian exterior scenes could be shot on Universal’s back lot, in its permanent European street set. Berg wasn’t offering Brickhill the sort of money that Sturges was paying for The Great Escape, but money wasn’t everything. Besides, there was the possibility of a second payday if Berg did later make a movie version.
For Brickhill, the appeal of having the legendary Bob Hope introduce his thriller to America’s television audience was enormous. His agent and US publisher would have also pointed out that this could boost the book’s sales. Besides, Berg was able to reel off the names
of some of the biggest film and TV stars of the era who would be appearing in the first series of Bob Hope’s Chrysler Theater: Rod Steiger, Angie Dickinson, Claude Rains, Piper Laurie, Jason Robards, Susan Strasberg, Bing Crosby, Shelley Winters, Mel Ferrer, Diane Ladd, Roddy McDowall, Vera Miles, Cliff Robertson, Eva Marie Saint and Robert Stack among them.
The seduction was complete when Berg named the two male leads he had in mind for War of Nerves. Playing Brickhill’s hero, Robert Mackay, would be handsome, muscular matinee idol Stephen Boyd. Northern Ireland-born Boyd was famed for his Golden Globe-winning performance in 1959’s blockbuster Ben-Hur, playing the role of Ben-Hur’s friend-turned-enemy Messala, who perished in the famous chariot race. Boyd had co-starred in three movies in 1961–62, and in 1963 was conveniently between roles. War of Nerves’ villain would be played by Hollywood-based French box-office star Louis Jourdan, who had made his name in the 1954 hit Three Coins in the Fountain, followed by another box-office smash, Gigi, in 1958. Most recently he’d co-starred in 1960’s Can-Can with Frank Sinatra and Shirley MacLaine.
The behind-the-scenes talent that Berg would bring to War of Nerves was less well known to Brickhill. Berg would personally produce the drama, and he would use a young director he was championing. Sydney Pollack had a short directorial CV, but Berg was convinced he was destined for big things. Pollack would in fact become one of Hollywood’s most celebrated movie directors, with hits including They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, The Way We Were, Three Days of the Condor, Out of Africa, Tootsie and The Firm.
Berg’s director of photography would be established cinematographer William Margulies. The musical score would be written by another young man being fostered by Berg. John Williams had written memorable scores for TV series Peter Gunn and Bachelor Father, and in the coming decades would create some of the most recognisable film scores of all time: Jaws, Star Wars, Superman, Jurassic Park, Schindler’s List, Indiana Jones, Home Alone, Saving Private Ryan and Lincoln among them.
The screenwriting department was not as strong. Berg, a writer at heart, himself penned scripts on yellow legal pads, and had input into the scripts for every episode in the series. Of necessity, he also used a number of screenwriters. To write the teleplay for War of Nerves, Berg employed his writing protégé Mark Rodgers, an ex-cop whom Berg was convinced would, like Sydney Pollack and John Williams, go on to bigger things. He didn’t, instead bashing out scripts for episodes of TV cop shows over the years, among them Kojak, Ironside and Hawaii Five-O.
To fit the story into the series’ short-form format, Rodgers abridged Brickhill’s novel. And to ensure it appealed to American audiences, he overlooked the fact that hero Mackay was Australian. Unhappy that Brickhill’s villain was an Arab, Rodgers made him a Frenchman. Berg succeeded in convincing Brickhill that this would not impact on his overall storyline, which remained unchanged.
With the court having confirmed access to his children, Brickhill felt able to now briefly leave the country. To Los Angeles he went in the American autumn of 1963 to see his first fictional baby realised before the cameras. War of Nerves was shot relatively quickly at Universal Studios. In the process, Brickhill met members of the coterie with whom Dick Berg surrounded himself. Berg didn’t have much time for actors, but he loved writers. One of his best friends was screenwriter Rod Serling, who gained fame and a cult following with The Twilight Zone. Berg and Serling played paddle tennis and gin rummy together every Saturday morning.
Brickhill returned to Sydney in time for the December premiere of The Great Escape at Hoyts’ Paris Cinema on the corner of Wentworth Avenue and Liverpool Street. The Australian Women’s Weekly’s young social columnist Ita Buttrose was there, talking to excited local celebrities. She noted the presence of author Paul Brickhill, unaccompanied. But Brickhill didn’t hang around to talk to Buttrose or other reporters. He had pressing personal matters to attend to.
By early 1964, the latest bombardment of paperwork from Margot’s lawyers contained explosive accusations which so alarmed Brickhill’s Pitt Street solicitor Dick McIntyre that he wrote ‘See us’ in the margin of Brickhill’s copy of Margot’s new filing. Margot claimed she’d returned to ‘Little Barr’ one evening with another couple to find Brickhill lying on a bed with their Norwegian maid. Margot’s lawyers also stated they would be calling the couple to testify to this, in Britain, and to testify, along with a female English friend of Margot’s, that they had seen Brickhill strike Margot on several occasions at ‘Little Barr’.
Brickhill vehemently denied any impropriety with the maid. And he challenged the other side to produce any witnesses to testify he’d struck Margot in their presence. He was adamant that he’d never touched Margot in front of others, and that he’d never raised his hand to her again following his sworn commitment seven years earlier not to do so whatever the provocation. Brickhill had to wonder what had sponsored these latest allegations.
Only now did it dawn on him that Margot fully intended divorcing him. For she had recently been seen in the company of mutual friend Devon Minchin. Three years younger than Brickhill, a former 145 Squadron pilot in North Africa, Minchin had even penned a novel in 1944. Now the colourful and wealthy owner of MSS, Australia’s first and largest security firm, which had the contract to provide security for the Beatles’ upcoming 1964 Australian tour, Minchin would later write The Money Movers, a novel filmed by Bruce Beresford.
Friends had recently told Brickhill that, back in the second half of 1961, when Margot’s letters had cooled and she subsequently flatly refused to join Brickhill in England, Minchin had left his second wife, Betty, whom he had since divorced. Margot was proposing to send Tim to Knox Grammar; Minchin was a former Knox boy. Putting two and two together, Brickhill demanded that Margot keep Minchin away from his children. She denied any impropriety with Minchin, but Brickhill, realising she’d found a replacement for him, now went on the attack. Counter-suing Margot on the grounds of desertion, he detailed a litany of alleged sins, starting with Margot’s adultery with Douglas Gordon at St-Paul-de-Vence in 1952 and including bouts of uncontrolled hysteria, chronic lack of punctuality and wild champagne parties with her sister and friends at ‘Little Barr’ when he’d been absent.
Weeks passed, and then came a response from the other side – a white flag. Clearly advised that the value of a final divorce settlement would be diminished by any lack of honesty, Margot now acknowledged that she’d had sexual intercourse with Douglas Gordon, but declared she hadn’t conducted adulterous relationships with anyone else. She also acknowledged she’d become hysterical at times during the marriage, that she had not always been punctual and that Brickhill had been generous with money. She also confirmed that she had indeed deliberately held back Mark Bonham Carter’s Reach for the Sky editor’s report in 1953; because, she said, her husband had failed to give her promised funds. Now, too, Margot’s lawyers advised that they would not be tendering the previously flagged evidence of English witnesses.311
A settlement was reached. As Margot dropped ‘cruelty’ from her suit, Brickhill withdrew his suit altogether and agreed to pay her £20,750 plus weekly maintenance for each child. He also agreed to cover Tim and Tempe’s education expenses until they were nineteen, and to pay Margot’s £2500 divorce lawyers’ bill. Margot also received the contents of ‘Craig Rossie’ – both ‘Craig Rossie’ and ‘Little Barr’ were sold. The Sydney doctor who bought ‘Craig Rossie’ in 1964 still uses it today, as his weekender. Brickhill sold the Alfa Romeo for £600, and shipped the Jaguar to Australia.
On 20 July 1964, the Brickhills’ divorce became official. Within months, Margot married Devon Minchin. As Margot Minchin, she receded from the spotlight. She and the children moved in with Devon and a son from his first marriage, Nick Minchin, a future senior Liberal Party senator and member of the Howard Government. Margot and her new husband would have two children together.
Two months after his divorce, Brickhill lost his father. George passed away at the age of eighty-five. Almost
exactly a year later, eighty-year-old Dot would follow George. The house at 41 George Street, so important to them for so long, and to Paul, was sold.
26.
The Artful Dodger
IT WAS 1965 before Brickhill returned to his typewriter. After the huge worldwide success of The Great Escape, the movie that would, along with The Magnificent Seven, symbolise John Sturges’ career, Brickhill decided he would write movies from now on. A forty-page treatment was nowhere near as exacting as a 350-page book. For his first subject, he chose the wartime adventures of his American Stalag Luft 3 friend Johnny Dodge, who’d passed away in 1960. Brickhill sent his completed treatment, The Artful Dodger, to John Sturges in 1966. Seeing it as a sequel to The Great Escape, Sturges promptly optioned it.
Via his new production company, Kappa Corporation, Sturges teamed with Mirisch to announce they would co-produce The Artful Dodger, with Steve McQueen and Warren Beatty being considered for the lead. Sturges wanted Stirling Silliphant to write the screenplay, based on Brickhill’s treatment. Brickhill approved of Silliphant, who’d written several episodes of Bob Hope Presents the Chrysler Theater for Dick Berg before co-writing the script for Sydney Pollack’s 1965 film directorial debut, The Slender Thread, starring Sidney Poitier and Anne Bancroft. Silliphant would later soar to prominence as writer-producer of the Shaft movies, and of The Poseidon Adventure and The Towering Inferno.
But the choice of Silliphant meant a long delay. Right through 1966, Silliphant was hard at work for Mirisch writing and rewriting the script for the Sidney Poitier/Rod Steiger feature In the Heat of the Night. That screenplay would win Silliphant a 1968 Academy Award. It would only be in March 1968 that Silliphant would be officially announced as screenwriter for Brickhill’s project.312 Even without a script, Warren Beatty soon came on board to play Johnny Dodge, giving Brickhill confidence the film would be made.
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