The Letter.
From Toni Barnard at the Sydney Film Festival: ‘… During his stay in Sydney, Dusan Makavejev read your book The Americans, Baby and has subsequently writ ten to us from Paris requesting further information … about which stories are available for filming.’
Tell me again, who is Makavejev?
My film friends tell me Makavejev is one of the world’s top five directors. I recall having seen W.R.: Mysteries of the Organism because of my interest in the maverick psychoanalyst from the thirties Wilhelm Reich. Makavejev also had an interest in Wilhelm Reich.
The Film Festival program.
I turn to the Film Festival program to learn more about Makavejev. ‘Dusan Makavejev was born in Belgrade in 1932. Read psychology in Belgrade and comic strips too.’ In the program there is a still from Sweet Movie (which had been shown at the Festival) which shows a man – Makavejev? – with a mouse sitting on his bald head. I study this photograph with bemusement. The program continues: ‘… After his call for revolutionary orgasms in W.R.: Mysteries of the Organism, Makavejev leaves his home in Belgrade to make Sweet Movie in Paris, Montreal, Amsterdam, and Vienna. Parallel plots as before. Miss Canada being the most perfect virgin in the world is elected to become Miss World 1984 – the prize, marriage to Mr Kapital. On their wedding night he cleans himself, then her, then reveals the source of his power. Miss World hardly content, suffers a little water torture before being taken over by Jeremiah Muscle whose hide-out is shaped like a milk bottle, and is then transhipped by suitcase to La Belle France. El Macho sings on the Eiffel Tower. Lunacy creeps into Miss World’s life … she goes to a shit fest, therapy at gut level … Miss World drowns in chocolate … It is strongly recommended to view Sweet Movie in couples. The film has deep breathing, pink cheeks, smiles and in the State Theatre it will create an erotic zone characteristic of a gymnasium. Don’t be afraid of this open and non-authoritarian structure. Try me I’m delicious.’ I read this and ponder upon it. Did this sound as if Makavejev and I would be a true meeting of like minds? The former d-grade reporter from the Wagga Wagga Advertiser and the Slavonic film director? I suppress my bemusement. It was the seventies, I had to move on. A film would bring attention to my two books.
An obsequious letter.
‘Dear Dusan Makavejev … I find the possibility of working with you on a film of The Americans, Baby an exciting proposition. I am an admirer of your work although I have not seen all your films … let me know your proposition. Perhaps then we can get together somewhere over there or here or somewhere in between … It is a great pleasure to know you like my work.’
Three months later nothing has happened and I send a telegram to Paris: ARE YOU STILL INTERESTED IN THE FILM THE AMERICANS, BABY? OTHER OFFERS PENDING. MOORHOUSE.
Makavejev’s second letter.
Paris Dec 8 (flying again to NY on Dec 11) Last four months I was mostly in US. Judging from puzzling cable received by my wife it seems that your books are among the mail that was returned by French post office. They did this to me last year also. Yes I am still interested … If you are not too proud to send me again this book to NY address. Confused I am often but not irresponsible and I communicate at least … Also please let me know your transpacific and transatlantic plans in next few months … I like your writing, amusing ambiguities, little shifts, easy flow, something like amusement park House of Horror, House of Mirror, joy of being scared, terror of being lost and surprise of being found … I like particularly ‘The Coca-Cola Kid’.
Raising the fare.
To John Morris, Head of Production, South Australian Film Corporation: ‘… Makavejev has written to me authorising me to make an exploratory contact with the Corporation about a possible collaboration between Makavejev and myself and the Corporation … I haven’t met Makavejev and letters can be unreliable but I think collaboration between him and me is possible … I plan to try to see him face to face overseas to advance the project …’ I asked for help with the fare.
Funding ‘in principle’.
From John Morris: ‘… In principle, the answer is yes to a co-production … hoping that Makavejev would be able to bring some overseas finance with him …’
But no fare.
Are you telephoning from production company office?
No, I have to tell Makavejev when I call him in Paris, we do not ‘yet’ have a ‘production office’.
‘My head is not very clear,’ he says. ‘Were you telling me that first few thousand for script development and talent scouting we cannot get before showing to somebody written commitment for US actor?… I speak of Jack because I know him rather well and talked to him already … Yes, he would like to work with me but he has to see script.’
‘Jack Nicholson?’
‘Yes, Jack Nicholson, I talk to him already about one project, he would like to work with me but Jack’s name must not be used until he has read script …’
Another call – Makavejev in Paris.
Makavejev telephones me next day and says ‘… if we want to enjoy anarchy, we have to respect conservatives – one of the reasons I liked your film Between Wars is its respect for innocence of conservatism and its understanding that reactionaries are poor driven creatures … we need sinister film … You say they expect me to bring in some money?… Do we have Yugoslavian-Australian movie? – then we could get money from Yugoslavian government and Australian government … My plans are for a week in Yugoslavia … on September 20–22 I am just passing through Paris … then New York then Washington September 27 – October 1 and then New York again … maybe you prefer to meet in New York around October 2–5 or some time in Paris in second part of October.’
He gives me the address of his lawyer and agent in New York.
I write to Makavejev at three addresses.
Writing to Makavejev at three addresses – Paris, Belgrade and some other place according to his supposed movements – becomes standard practice. I tell him that I have no ideas for a Yugoslavian-Australian movie, ‘… we could perhaps do something on the Croats in Australia … you probably know they have a reputation for being violent and fascistic … They have allegedly been involved in bombing of the Yugoslavian travel offices, a guerrilla unit trained itself in Australia and was sent to Yugoslavia, captured and executed … I am curious about the continuation of old political feelings and passions in a new country which doesn’t have any understanding of what they are about – Australia has become a museum of lost history through immigration – I defended the civil liberties of the Croats in the Bulletin … there could be a film here … secret agents, Australian and Yugoslavian, the conspiratorial Croats living politics from another time, the CIA, the story of the military training and planning, the futile incursion into Yugoslavia, their execution and so on … My personal preoccupations at present include “the willingness to die”. Byron said, “If thou regret’st thy youth, why live?” [I have no recollection of why I was interested in the willingness to die or what the quote from Byron meant to me then or how it fitted into the idea for the film] … I think that seriously, there are physical dangers – if it were to be thought we were Yugoslavian spies. Maybe then someone could make a film about how we were mistaken for spies and disappeared … this is probably the most “sinister” subject available in Australia at present – you said on the telephone that you wanted a “sinister” film. We don’t have too much sinister here.’ [A Croat did end up in the film as a strange confused waiter.]
Take a risk.
I do not have any money to travel. My advisers in Australia suggest that now things are happening in the film industry I should take a risk and go to New York and meet with Makavejev. They suggest that while there I get development money from Makavejev and his American associates to cover my expenses and that I pay for the trip initially by putting it on an American Express card.
Getting the American Express card.
First I need an American Express card. I apply but do not get it. I decide to write
a piece on how I didn’t get an American Express card for the Bulletin magazine. It went something like this:
Memo Trevor Kennedy, editor of the Bulletin: Could you use your influence to get me an American Express card? I applied but didn’t get one. I think it is because I am a wild man of letters and live in Le Ghetto de Balmain. I guess it is also because I do not have a steady job, am not on the electoral role, not in the telephone book, do not own my home, do not have a car, do not have insurance, am divorced and sexually dissolute. But I am not a gambler, tell them that. Tell them I go to lunch a lot and would flash the card about. Tell them that the way I live doesn’t mean that I’m a bad credit risk. Some of the worst credit risks in the world are married, own a house, a car, have steady job, credit references and yacht. Some of them owe me money.
After I publish this the vice-president of American Express, George J. Fesus, wrote to me, ‘… it’s not that you are an unemployed, uninsured, homeless, divorced, disenfranchised, deviant with no telephone … it was just that no one admitted to knowing you.’ Enclosed was an American Express card – the friendly face of capitalism had smiled!
I am on my way to New York.
The meeting in New York.
I cable Makavejev’s agent: INTEND ARRIVING NEW YORK OCTOBER 1 ALGONQUIN HOTEL TO MEET MAKAVEJEV PLEASE CONFIRM HIS MOVEMENTS.
My advisers and I thought the Algonquin an impressive enough address for me in New York while not being up-market. I receive no reply to my cable. My advisers say that in the film business you take risks. Go there and find him. This is your big chance, grasp it. I send telegrams to all Makavejev’s addresses saying I will be in New York to discuss the project. No replies. I go anyhow.
When I get to New York there is no message at the hotel from him. I call his agent and his lawyer but they both say that Makavejev has sacked them. I ring the Smithsonian where he said he was lecturing and learn that he has finished there. I decide that I will sit and wait. The American Express card gives me one month’s credit.
Losing the American Express card.
Being a warm-hearted and easy-going sort of person, I begin talking to a black woman in the Biltmore bar who seems to have some business being there. I am not interested in doing that sort of business with her. For one thing, I have no cash. I am there at the Biltmore for one night to stay in room 2109 where Scott and Zelda had their honeymoon. I have, though, kept my room at the Algonquin while I make this literary pilgrimage. The black woman is not busy and we chat. She tells me how in the 1930s and 1940s coloured people couldn’t kiss on stage or screen because it showed real human emotion. I say that in Australia men still can’t be shown kissing sheep on stage or screen despite the importance of sheep in the early sexual and emotional life of the colony. She said that she thought men were not allowed to kiss sheep on stage or screen even in New York. She says she takes credit cards.
When we say good night in my room after a number of martinis and so on, I find that although I still have my wallet, my American Express card is missing. I fall into a deep depression. Travellers who lose their American Express cards are like police officers who lose their weapons to gangsters. I dread facing the people at American Express and having to tell them what has happened. How can I explain this to George J. Fesus who trusted my fiscal maturity? How can I explain what I am doing in New York with no cash or how I let this woman take my card or what I was doing with my guard down or what I was doing staying at two hotels on the card on the same night? I go to the Head Office of American Express in Wall Street where they replace my card without question. I do not have to face George J. Fesus personally. No one questions my fiscal maturity. No one at American Express is interested in my explanation of why I am staying at two hotels in New York on the same night.
How I decide where to eat.
Not knowing New York restaurants, except the Pen and Pencil, I decide that I will eat my way around the block in which the Algonquin is located. I start at the first restaurant on the left of the Algonquin and work my way around – as long as they take American Express.
Makavejev arrives.
Makavejev turns up after three weeks. I have put all my meals, my laundry, a haircut and all other purchases and services on the card, although I have learned to always hold the card in my hand when enjoying services. I have spent $3,000.
Makavejev arrives at the Algonquin and, looking around the lobby, says, ‘This is where Makavejev stayed when he was a big shot.’ He is staying at a dump. He is obviously more broke than I am. I tell him about the woman and the stolen American Express card. ‘By now they have bought a house and a helicopter with it.’ I don’t ask him why a helicopter.
What if?
Makavejev and I sit in the lobby, day after day, and drink coffee and eat cakes and play the movie game of ‘What If?’ I am to learn this is a favourite game of film people. ‘What if,’ Makavejev says, ‘after surrendering to carnality, Becker [the Coca-Cola executive from my story] feels great remorse. He finds himself drinking with transvestites … then Kim [the young d-grade reporter in the story] appears, a strange commie, he discusses political economy with Becker over drinks, Becker needs someone he can talk to, who understands him, with whom he can cry. Unbelievably, this happens to be Kim the communist. Before understanding what is happening Becker is being made love to by Kim. Kim makes love to Becker for political reasons. Kim says about himself that he is not gay, that he does this for fun of teaching one capitalist how it feels to be slave. While he is making love to Becker he uses classical Marxist clichés. He says he is executing proletarian revenge. How about subtitling the film, “A New Communist Manifesto”?’
I say that it is an interesting line of development but that I would have to digest it.
In the lobby one day Makavejev introduces me to Bertolucci – maybe I am headed for the big time after all. Bertolucci assumes Makavejev is staying at the Algonquin and Makavejev doesn’t correct him.
Out and about in New York.
Up in Harlem, we visit the set of Joan Silver’s film Between the Lines – she has made the outstanding film Hester Street which I admire. I am allowed to watch her direct but she is intimidated by Makavejev and asks him not to come in during rehearsals. We also spend time watching the casting of extras – hundreds of young people performing and clowning in the one minute allowed to them to come up to the assistant director, have their Polaroid photograph taken, do their pitch and leave their cv. One man mistakes Makavejev and me as important people connected with the film, and says that he will work for less than union rates if we would give him a break. ‘We should have told the guy he had the job – punish him for breaking union,’ Makavejev says.
In the mornings I work on the script in my room and then meet with Makavejev and we walk the streets talking about The Coca-Cola Kid. We pass Scribners Bookshop and he takes me in. He asks for a book called something like The Leading Film Directors of the World – Makavejev is in the top ten. He shows me and then hands the book back to the assistant and we leave.
We eat a lot at the Brasserie, a twenty-four-hour dining place in the upper east side. Makavejev does not drink much. At the Brasserie it does not matter what time of the day it is – you can still order breakfast, lunch or a full dinner. Because of our working and sleeping habits our inner clocks are different – sometimes Makavejev is eating breakfast while I am eating dinner. It makes the ordering of the wine difficult.
Makavejev spends much of his time on the telephone to other countries trying to get film deals going. At his hotel the woman on the switchboard is crying because it is a cheap hotel with no direct dialling and she is not used to coping with overseas calls nor with leading Yugoslavian film directors. I say to Makavejev, ‘What if we made a film about a director in a foreign country trying to make a film from nothing? How the success of the film depends ultimately on the switchboard operator at the hotel investing in the film out of pity after hearing all the knock-backs which the director gets – she uses her dowry to finance
the film. The film could be called Dowry of a Switchboard Operator.’ [Makavejev’s first film was called Diary of a Switch board Operator.] Makavejev stares at me. I explain what dowry means. He laughs. ‘Very good, Moorhouse, very funny. Put that in script.’ I don’t.
Finish draft and meet me in Belgrade one week from now.
Makavejev says I should finish the draft and meet him in Belgrade in a week’s time because he has to go there on business. I say that I will let him know the next day. I have to make inquiries to American Express about whether the card can be used in Yugoslavia. It can be. My advisers back in Sydney tell me to go to Belgrade.
At the Belgrade Actors’ Club.
At the Belgrade Actors’ Club an old man comes up and hugs Makavejev, holds him by the shoulders and talks to him in Serbian. ‘Our John Ford,’ the old man says in English turning to me, ‘our only genius of the cinema.’ Makavejev hugs the man and we pass on. ‘Who’s that?’ I ask. ‘Your father?’ The old man is a projectionist at a local cinema.
The maitre d’ takes us to the head of the queue and shows us to a privileged table. Makavejev says he feels safer with me around, because he is still persona non grata in Yugoslavia.
Eats like a Serb.
I eat my first meal with Makavejev’s wife, Bojana, and their friends. I look up to find them laughing and looking at me. They say something to each other in Serbian. I look to Makavejev for translation.
‘They say you’re OK, Moorhouse,’ he says, ‘they say you eat like a Serb.’ I gather they mean that I eat and drink with enthusiasm. I explain that my gusto is because I am not accustomed to eating the Belgrade way – dinner at eleven p.m. We work on the draft, which I have completed back in cold New England coastal resort towns almost closed-down for the winter, where I searched for Maine lobsters.
Home.
Back in Australia I am $8,000 in debt on my American Express card. A consortium of advisers pay the bill, disgusted that I have been unable to get money from Makavejev.
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