‘Simple scissors’ would produce script.
Early in 1977 Makavejev telephones a financial adviser on the project, Murray Sime, saying that maybe he has talked me into doing more work than is necessary and that ‘simple scissors’ with a copy of the book would produce a working draft. This approach to script writing worries me.
Das Kapital.
A few months later I finish the first draft. It has a Croat in it to ‘attract’ funding from Yugoslavia. I say to Makavejev that there are three sections to the story:
a) Terri [an anarchistic temporary office worker in the Coca-Cola office] who pursues and then destroys Becker as a businessman
b) The history of small businessmen put out of business by multinationals and technology, drawn from my book The Electrical Experience
c) Becker’s encounter with the wilder side of Australian life.
For no good reason, maybe to please Makavejev, I say, ‘… the film is going to be cinema’s Das Kapital. It is a complete history of twentieth-century commerce and the forces of economic change … There are suicides and lavatories throughout – remember, Lenin said that when socialism was finally established and the money and gold fetish no longer exist, the public lavatories would be made from gold.’
Makavejev telephones and says, ‘Bravo! The script has made me very happy! Put lavatories of gold in script.’
I don’t.
Worried about money.
Makavejev is worried about money and I write to him that ‘… we are looking for a person to put the money together for the film, to take over the “package” from Murray’. It is my first recorded use of the term ‘package’. I approach Philippe Mora, a Melbourne producer, currently living in California. I write to him in ‘Lime Orchard Road, Beverly Hills’. I am pleased to know someone in Hollywood. Philippe writes back that he read the draft with pleasure and found it very, very funny and sometimes hilarious. Philippe is too busy to be the producer but writes an Expression of Belief: ‘I believe I could help on the financial side in Australia.’ He suggests that he and I talk about me working on a film about Errol Flynn’s early life before he became a movie star, drug addict and drunk. ‘The film will not be the story of how to get by with a two-foot-long dick,’ Philippe says, signing off the letter ‘the Vin Marinani Kid’. That was evidently the Malibu drink that summer. I notice that in my letter to Philippe I use the expression ‘get the deal rolling’ and talk about the ‘South Australians being in’. I immediately tell Makavejev of the good reaction from Philippe. I think that this is called Confirming the Director in his Choice of Script Writer. I decline the Flynn project.
A request.
Gillian Burnett, a former lover and friend who is completing her course at the Film Radio and Television school has requested the rights to ‘The Coca-Cola Kid’ for her graduation exercise. She reminds me that one night in bed years earlier, I promised her that she could use the story. Hysterically, I explain that it could jeopardise the most important film deal I’ve had. I am in a quandary of obligation but fear that it will cut across the Makavejev project. I give her the right to the story as long as it does not use the title and is not released commercially at this time. She agrees. She makes a nice film based on the young reporter talking to the Coca-Cola executive in a country town. In a draft of the script I incorporate the graduation film as something that the character Terri has made. Makavejev rejects this idea.
A letter from Cannes.
Makavejev writes, saying that it is sad at the Cannes Film Festival ‘… to see how people, many people, do not watch Australian films because for them this cinema does not exist. They go and watch French or American garbage but if Australian you have to be so much, much better …’
The director is down.
Around Christmas of 1977 Makavejev has a film deal fall through in Germany and writes to me, ‘… days in hotel in Munchen waiting without contract, constant promises, “don’t worry, tomorrow – two days – don’t worry,” tiredness and apathy creeps in … shall I keep Mr Marlatt from Atlanta on small fire? No good films around. No plays, no books. But Frank, not only holidays, I wish you every day happy …’
Makavejev talks of ‘fata-morgana projects, nonexistent films floating around the world like ghosts’.
Plugging away.
In response to an impatient letter from Makavejev and disagreement which has surfaced, I tell Makavejev that Murray and I have been plugging away at the film trying to find a producer, ‘We have talked with five potential producers but they want a project which doesn’t have a foreign director, which won’t offend everybody when it’s finished, which is not “arty”, which belongs to an identifiable genre, and which doesn’t have complications involving a powerful multinational brand name’.
On the script: ‘I can’t make Kim and Becker work in a homosexual relationship … nor do I want to over-emphasise what you call Becker’s “liberation” – I see it as more an unintended consequence, the sweep of social forces, the grazing of events – I see the film as being “about” how the colony changes the coloniser – I want to celebrate Becker’s prowess as a merchant – another thing, I don’t believe that having good sex changes people, changing yourself might bring about good sex, but I don’t believe Becker has to be liberated from capitalism to have good sex, and I do not believe that the middle class have bad sex and that the peasants [Makavejev’s word] have good sex … Just want to get that clear.’
Businessman-artist.
Makavejev, in despair about finding a producer, asks me to find a ‘businessman-artist’ who could produce the film. I do find someone who vaguely resembles this description and he is to be the first of four producers we work with on the project. Makavejev comes out to Australia to meet him but they do not get along together and Makavejev sacks him, saying, ‘He is shoe two sizes too small.’
Feeling rather hysterical.
Because Makavejev is in another country much of the business of the film is falling onto me. I write to him: ‘Dusan, I am feeling rather hysterical because I have lawyers talking endlessly to me about you and what you want and where you are and what money you will bring. No one seems to realise that it is a massive piece of work adapting two books into a film. It is not just “using scissors”. Everyone seems to think I should be handling the contractual and financial arrangements. I don’t know whether you are in Paris or New York or Belgrade … And I don’t see the film ending with “jolly singing”, no.’
You cannot push the river.
Three more years pass with letters, telephone calls, visits to Paris, New York and with Makavejev coming to Sydney three times. Producers come and go. When I grow defeated, Makavejev says, ‘There is an old Serbian saying, Moorhouse, “You cannot push the river”.’
Little fire.
When we seem unable to advance the project Makavejev, instead of saying, ‘Let’s put it on the back burner,’ as all the other film people would, says, ‘Let’s put it on little fire for now.’
Aussie Pix.
Makavejev sends me a clipping from Variety which reads, ‘20th Lieberson sez Aussie Pix will soon crack world market’.
Makavejev also sends me a wrapper from a French chewing gum called ‘Hollywood’.
People are afraid of us.
The film is stalled and Makavejev writes to me that people are afraid of us: ‘… I want to make a film which is a peace pipe to world. Film which says we do not want to swallow you and draw you in shit, blood, and sperm.’
I never understood that was what we intended to do anyway.
Comrade Frank.
Another card comes addressed to me as Comrade Frank and it has glued to it a clipping from an American newspaper: ‘Is there a woman or does anyone know a woman who has sufficient courage or “free will” – free will is nothing other than the ability to decide with full knowledge of the facts (F. Engels) – to engage in O.P.G.E. with me? For further information read William [sic] Reich The Murder of Christ …’
I have never got around to reading The Murder of Christ and still do not know what O.P.G.E. is.
The American producer’s son.
Arthur, the son of an American producer who is vaguely interested in the project, flies to Australia to talk about it. He is learning the business. Arthur is excited because on the first day of his visit he finds someone reading The Americans, Baby by the pool at the hotel where he is staying. He is pleased that people clap him when he does his exercises beside the pool. ‘Is that very Australian, to clap?’ he asks me. He complains that the telephones in Australia do not ring loud enough. He tells me the latest joke from California: The three greatest lies. Black is beautiful, the cheque is in the mail, and I promise not to come in your mouth. It is not to be the last time I hear this joke. He asks me to tell him how I ‘see him as an American’. I suggest that his generation might be able to make the US great again. I have my fingers crossed as I say it. He says no, he wants to be that generation which makes the US ‘good again’. He talks of the things he loves. He loves beer, the colour of beer cans, and the shapes of beer glasses. He rings me before leaving for California: ‘I understand Becker now. I am Becker.’ We never hear from him or his father again.
Makavejev back.
It looks as if we might have found a producer and the money to make the film. Makavejev comes to Australia. Murray is able to arrange for the Citibank VIP limo to meet him at the airport. But Makavejev rings the next day from the house where he is staying to say that there is an insect infestation in the house brought by some Indians who are also staying there. I suggest that it is a Sydney flea plague. He says he is tormented and his nerves are breaking. He suspects the woman who owns the house is listening to his telephone calls and reporting them to the producer (number three) of the film.
We move him to a hotel. He says he needs a therapist, ‘Reichian therapist’. I ring the College of Psychiatrists and some friends and find to my surprise that there are a few Reichian psychiatrists in New South Wales. The only one who can give Makavejev an appointment lives in Paterson, 200 kilometres north of Sydney.
Reasonably pleased, I tell Makavejev that I have found a Reichian therapist. ‘But does she know my films? There are cults, sub-cults, some are my enemies since W.R. Has she seen film?’ I ring the therapist back and ask her whether she has seen the film and does she know Makavejev. She says she hasn’t and doesn’t. I tell Makavejev and this doesn’t altogether please him either. ‘Who trained her?’ I tell him she was trained in Edinburgh.
I drive him to Paterson. The psychiatrist lives in a pyramid structure and is in Paterson because she believes energy comes from the granite there. Makavejev goes in for a session while I read a book on Reichian therapy and drink bourbon from a hip flask, thinking intermittently about the nature of the film-making process.
On the drive back Makavejev says he wanted to have sex with the therapist but she didn’t want to do that.
I want Big Mac.
We stop for petrol. Makavejev sees a promotion for a free Big Mac with every tank of petrol. ‘Get the free Big Mac,’ he says urgently. I go to the attendant and ask for the free Mac voucher. ‘Take the book – the offer expires at midnight,’ the attendant says. I give Makavejev the book of vouchers: ‘Your luck’s improving, Dusan.’
He insists we drive to the nearest McDonald’s outlet. He goes to the counter and gets six Big Macs. He gives me one. He throws away all but one bun and packs the beef and garnish into a giant Big Mac.
‘My God – you’re eating like someone out of Sweet Movie,’ I say.
‘Yes! I eat shit!’ he laughs.
He is very relaxed. On the drive home we talk of good sex we’ve had in our lives. I later say to Sandra Levy that he relived his first two films – the visit to the therapist was W.R. and the Big Mac incident was Sweet Movie. She says that maybe he was also eating a Big Mak-avejev.
The film is funded.
In 1985 after eleven drafts, four producers, and nine years from the first letter from Makavejev, the $3.3 million has been raised by the new producer David Roe. Jack Nicholson is now too old for the part. Makavejev again returns to Australia.
A hitch.
The investors want a clearance from the Coca-Cola Corporation for use of the name despite copyright advice to the contrary. Roe and Makavejev fly to Atlanta and speak with the Coca-Cola lawyers. After a brief meeting the lawyers go away and come back with a request for a statement to appear at the beginning of the film. The statement says, ‘The fictional characters depicted in this film do not resemble people living or dead.’
Moorhouse, Caviar King Arrested.
Shortly after Makavejev arrives to begin production on the film he calls me from his Sydney apartment and wants me to meet him in a bar. He cannot talk on the telephone. I meet him. He has five kilos of illegally imported caviar, Beluga Prime – for which he wants me to find buyers and we will split the profit. It is selling for $15 an ounce. I try to get my restaurant friends to buy some but they point out that the demand for caviar isn’t that great. I buy it from Makavejev as a gesture of good will and when I repay my. friends the $8,000 they had put up in the early years for the New York trip I give them each a half-kilo canister of caviar. I fantasise that I will be arrested as the Mr Big of Caviar in Australia.
Makavejev on motivation.
‘Why is Terri attracted to Becker? … it is not clear yet … how about Becker as somebody or something that is the only thing that she does not understand in the world … he is American archeology … an example of professional idiocy … he is stiff and polished … does he play tennis?… she is looking for a crack … crack is going to be in sex … she is provoking herself … at first she pretends interest then her own game turns her on … wets her on … she does not care about meanings because she herself is meaningful …’
Makavejev casting.
A young actress is being cast. Makavejev asks her what her favourite animal is. She says a tigress. You be tigress then, he says. She acts being a tigress. Makavejev says, now show me tigress making love. She looks thoughtful and says, in that case, I’d rather be a horse. During the next few months Makavejev tells this story again and again, seeking its meaning.
Makavejev at a script conference.
Makavejev feels that there is a loss of magic in the latest draft of the script. ‘Are we making American movie or European movie or Australian movie?’ Makavejev wants a Macedonian wedding scene. He wants folklore. He wants The People. But I say he had a Macedonian wedding in his first movie. He wants the fellatio scene improved by dropping dialogue so that Sam, who is eaves dropping on Terri doing fellatio on Becker in a lavatory cubicle, will think that someone in the cubicle is in fact shitting. I say this is a problem for sound effects, not for the script writer. We examine the possibility of using the Australian soft drink Passiona instead of Coca-Cola because Makavejev likes the play on ‘passion’ and he also loves fruit and wants ‘more fruit in the film’ but we decide that only Coca-Cola works in the script.
Makavejev wants bats in the movie. Who are Becker’s parents? What are the predominant colours in the film? How many exteriors, how many interiors, we need balance.
‘We are all part of Tito,’ Makavejev says.
‘For Christsakes, what do you mean, “we are all part of Tito”?!’ I shout. I get no answer. I suffer stomach cramps and feel suicidal. I want a Blue Angel ending – with Becker destroyed and humiliated by his passion. Makavejev wants to finish with jolly singing. Some days we do have bursts of creative thinking and my confidence in Makavejev and the usefulness of script conference revives.
One day Makavejev does not turn up for the script conference and the producer says he has gone on strike over expenses.
The fallacy of the fresh eye.
There is much talk of how Makavejev has a ‘fresh eye’ and will see Australia differently. We are driving through Kings Cross and we see a man being arrested and put into a police van. He is eating an ice cream. I say to Makaveje
v that he is being arrested for eating an ice cream in the street in Kings Cross which is forbidden because of the high pollution in the atmosphere. Makavejev is appalled at this regulation. ‘You must protest – it is not free country where you cannot eat ice cream in street.’ I explain I am joking. I say that with the fresh eye there are dangers. Someone loose in another culture is at risk. ‘That’s precisely Becker’s story,’ I say.
Sawing the wood.
In my garden I have logs which I saw. One day Makavejev arrives while I am sawing. He too saws the log. ‘You are backwoodsman,’ he laughs. He wants a photograph taken of himself sawing a log ‘like American president’.
Things are not happy.
I note in my diary that the producer wants to sack Makavejev and Makavejev wants me to plot the sacking of the producer. What do they want to do with me?
Shooting begins.
The script writer’s role finishes when the film goes into production, unless there is need for new writing. The script writer is not usually wanted around the set except as an invited guest.
The American actor Eric Roberts plays Becker. One day I visit the set and he asks me to listen to a song he has written for Becker to sing. I listen and I say I like it. Eric calls Makavejev over and says that I like the song. Makavejev takes me aside and says, ‘You have been manipulated in power play, Moorhouse – actors always do this – they manoeuvre writer into alliance against director. Song is not in movie.’
Ear Sex.
After one scene where Greta Scacchi, playing Terri, removes a personal stereo headset and inclines her ear so as to hear what Becker is saying to her, Makavejev says, ‘Great, great, you offer ear for sex, you offer Becker ear sex – great, great.’ Greta is offended by this interpretation. At some point during the shooting Greta contacts me and asks me to intervene between the director and producer to help the atmosphere on the film. I point out to her how politically weak a writer is in this situation, especially when the film is in production.
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