Monsieur Pamplemousse On Location

by Michael Bond

  Some of the men – who were mostly older and in the minority – wore loincloths, often supporting a bedon which was far from petit; many were bearded, and almost all wore thonged leather sandals. The more adventurous sported priestly robes of blue-edged purple over linen breeches and undershirt. The tinkling of bells as they walked could be clearly heard across the valley.

  They converged as if by common consent on an area just outside the perimeter of the location site. Tents were erected. Smoke began to rise from camp fires. It was like a remake of the trek to the Promised Land.

  Using a borrowed lighting stand as a support, Monsieur Pamplemousse set up his Leica and began shooting off a reel of FP4. With the mountains in the background and the smoke and the Brueghel-like wandering figures it cried out for black and white. It would make a good illustration for an article in Le Guide’s staff magazine. Calvet, the editor of L’Escargot, might welcome it as a change from Guilot’s endless articles on hiking or one of Bernard’s treatises on the cultivation of the rose.

  ‘Setting up in opposition?’ Beaseley materialised beside him, smelling of pastis and after-shave.

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘It’s quite a sight. Rather awe-inspiring in a way.’

  ‘It would be interesting to know what motivates them.’ Monsieur Pamplemousse moved his makeshift tripod a little to the left and changed the lens to a narrow angle.

  ‘Word gets around,’ said Beaseley. ‘It’s something to focus their energies on. All the same, some of them must have travelled thousands of miles to be here. I can’t see myself doing it. It makes me feel old.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse wrily. ‘Policemen are starting to look younger.’

  ‘Chief constables are starting to look younger,’ said Beaseley gloomily.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced at him. ‘With respect, you are no longer seventeen.’

  ‘Neither are a good many of that lot,’ said Beaseley. ‘Take away the teeny-boppers and the average age is higher than you’d think.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse simply, ‘Brother Angelo is blessed with that mysterious ingredient known as “star” quality. It is a God-given attribute. You either have it or you don’t.’

  ‘I suppose that’s why he got the part.’ After his exposition of the night before Beaseley sounded less sure of himself, as though he were having second thoughts. ‘You’re right, though. Whatever it is, our Ron’s got more than his fair share. I happen to know from the person who looks after his fan mail that all over the world – from Winnipeg to Wellington, from Florence to Folkestone – there are women awaiting his call. They have a bag packed and stashed away under the bed ready to leave home at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘That is true?’

  ‘It’s not only true, but I have a feeling my informant wouldn’t mind dropping everything herself if the chance arose.’

  ‘Some people need to live out their fantasies with a person who, deep down, they know will never be theirs,’ said Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘It avoids the moment of truth.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,’ said Beaseley. ‘By all accounts Ron has done his bit towards making other people’s fantasies come true. Whenever he gives a concert he hands his manager a list of the ones in the front row he’d like to stay behind. Most of them are only too happy to oblige. Who knows what exposure to hot Provençal nights will do to some of those out there. There have already been several attempts at breaking into the site just to be near him and it isn’t even dark yet. I fear the worst.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse listened with only half an ear. He was concentrating instead on trying to take a picture with the minimum number of vehicles in shot. It wasn’t easy. More were arriving every minute. Even as he checked the focus on what he thought would be his final shot, a car rather larger and more opulent-looking than the rest entered the frame. It disappeared momentarily behind an outcrop of rocks, then came to an abrupt halt as it emerged on the other side and came up against a veritable wall of human bodies, completely ruining his composition.

  It was a Citroën DX25. A black Citroën DX25.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s heart sank as he watched the driver climb out of the car and, after engaging some of the crowd in conversation, turn and begin heading in the direction of the location, signing autographs as he went. The mannerisms, the walk, the air of authority were all too familiar.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ asked Beaseley.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse pressed the shutter for luck. ‘Not really. It is just someone I would rather not see.’

  ‘Ah, the world is full of those,’ said Beaseley sympathetically. ‘Talking of which reminds me of Von Strudel. We have just been locked in mortal combat. The good news is I may never be asked to work on a film script again.’

  ‘It is that serious?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse reloaded his camera and then started packing up the equipment, slotting the various items into their allotted places in the tray which was part of Le Guide’s issue case. He couldn’t help but feel rather more concerned about his own affairs than Beaseley’s. It was bad news if the Director had taken it into his head to pay him a visit. Any hopes of a quiet few days would be gone. He should have realised what was afoot from his telephone conversation with Véronique.

  He forced himself to return to his companion. ‘Did you get the menu for the Last Supper? I asked the gofer to make sure it reached you before work started.’

  ‘I did, thank you very much,’ said Beaseley. ‘Apart from the lamb – I feel it is a moot point as to whether it would have been roasted or boiled – I couldn’t fault it. However, I’m afraid that’s where the trouble started. It seems that Mangetout is a Vegan.’

  ‘Mangetout?’ Monsieur Pamplemousse came down to earth with a bump. ‘But surely the Virgin Mary wasn’t present at the Last Supper?’

  ‘My words exactly,’ said Beaseley. ‘That was when I ran foul of her agent – an American gentleman from one of the less salubrious areas of New York. He has never learned the meaning of the word “No”; although, in fairness, I suppose that’s what makes him a good agent.

  ‘You know what he said? “That’s her boy up there. You think she’s going to let him be all alone on his last night?”

  ‘Picture the scene,’ continued Beaseley. ‘A patch of hilly ground in the Camargue. A crowd of people are gathered round a room which, for practical reasons, has only three sides made out of canvas and plywood to resemble a house in Jerusalem circa AD30. The fourth side is peopled by some of the highest paid technicians in the world, all set to go. They have the benefit of the greatest lighting engineer in the business overhead, but filming being a belt and braces operation, arc lights are standing by at the ready lest He should take umbrage, as well He might when He hears what’s going on down below. The Heavens could grow dark.

  ‘Seeing that something was expected of me, I made what I still think is a valid point.

  ‘“How,” I asked, “does she know it’s his last night?” Do you know what the answer was?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse shook his head.

  ‘“It ain’t negotiable. It’s in her contract. Where he goes – she goes.” It seems Mangetout is insisting on having her part built up. Short of having her say things like “watch out – the plates are hot,” or “Anyone for mint sauce?” I’m afraid my mind went a total blank on the subject. “If that’s the way it is,” I said to her agent, “why don’t you play the one who isn’t wearing XS? You can be Judas and all the other agents can be the rest of the disciples – then everyone will be happy.” As a suggestion it went down like a lead balloon.’

  ‘But the whole thing is monstrous. Incroyable. It is little short of sacrilège.’

  ‘I take heart,’ said Beaseley, ‘with something the editor whispered to me as I made my exit. “There’s always the cutting-room floor.” The whole episode, from the opening establishing shot until the villain of the piece, Judas Iscariot, is revealed, lasts less than a minu
te. The cameraman’s no happier than I am – he’s having to shoot Mangetout through gauze.’

  ‘What did Brother Angelo have to say about it all?’

  ‘“****ing ****!” I quote. Then he buried his head in his hands. Which sums up my feelings too. I have an idea that particular clause in Mangetout’s contract wasn’t of his making, nor that of his own agent.

  ‘Come,’ Beaseley beckoned to Monsieur Pamplemousse. ‘I suggest we take a little stroll in the general direction of Jerusalem and you can see for yourself. Unless, of course, you want to stay and see your friend.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse’s moment of hesitation was but a token gesture. ‘I shall be happy to join you. If I stay I may end up saying something I regret.’

  ‘Heaven forbid!’ said Beaseley. ‘Follow me. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse and Beaseley arrived on the set during a break in filming. Jesus and his disciples were seated round a long table in what purported to be the upper room of a house. The beginnings of a mock staircase to what would normally have been the stables in the room below led nowhere. At the head of the table, Brother Angelo was hardly recognisable with his moustache and beard. Mangetout stood a little behind him, but just out of shot, holding a dish of lamb. She looked decidedly unhappy.

  It was all much as Beaseley had described it: Rome might not have been built in a day, but a very passable replica of a street in old Jerusalem had been constructed overnight. Façades of houses were supported from behind by scenery props kept in place by weights and sandbags. Scaffolding held up the Palace of the High Priest, Caiaphas, which towered above everything else. Giant white screens reflected the sunlight on to the set, filling in the shadows. Cables snaked in every direction.

  As with all film sets, technicians and hangers-on seemed to outnumber the actors by something like ten to one. Each had their part to play; all were ready to do their bit at a moment’s notice.

  The make-up girl Monsieur Pamplemousse had seen during the screening of the rushes – Anne-Marie – darted in with a palette-shaped board and some brushes. She dabbed Brother Angelo’s brow dry of sweat, repaired the damage with a dusting of powder, automatically removed a strand of hair from his shoulder, then darted off again. A male dresser wielding a clothes brush looked put out. A demarcation line had been crossed.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse couldn’t help but notice that Mangetout looked more than put out. Perhaps other demarcation lines had been crossed as well?

  Beaseley noticed it too. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in Ron’s shoes,’ he murmured. ‘I bet he doesn’t get “Happiness Is …” sung to him over breakfast. She’s jealous as hell of anything in skirts that moves.’

  Someone called for quiet.

  Monsieur Pamplemousse glanced around for Pommes Frites and spotted him with his wrangler in a mock-up stable area near to where Mangetout was standing. Half hidden by a lamp, he was probably waiting for a cue. One thing was certain – if he hadn’t yet had lunch he must be feeling hungry.

  The cameraman climbed aboard his dolly and the sound engineer racked out the microphone, swinging it up and down, testing for shadows.

  ‘I thought the Last Supper took place after dark,’ whispered Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘It will by the time they’ve finished with it,’ said Beaseley. ‘Day for night filming. Filters.’ He put a finger to his lips.

  Von Strudel was sitting nearby, a green eye-shield pulled down over his brow, his wooden leg resting on another chair. It was hard to tell if he was awake or not. He raised his right hand.

  ‘Roll camera.’ His fixer translated the signal into words.

  After a few seconds the camera operator called ‘Speed.’

  ‘Mark it.’

  The clapper boy ran in front of the lens and held up his board.

  ‘Scene twenty-three. Take seven.’

  ‘Action.’

  As the camera started to dolly in there was the distant drone of an approaching aeroplane.

  ‘Scnitt!’ Von Strudel raised his left hand.

  ‘Cut!’ The fixer echoed his command.

  Von Strudel glared up at the sky. He placed the megaphone to his lips. ‘Dummkopf!’

  Everyone waited patiently for the plane to pass. When all was quiet the whole procedure began again.

  ‘Roll camera.’

  ‘Speed.’

  ‘Mark it.’

  The clapper boy ran on. ‘Scene twenty-three. Take eight.’

  ‘Action.’

  The camera began to dolly in once again for the opening establishing shot and then stopped. The sun had moved and there was a shadow which hadn’t been there before. In trying to avoid it the camera operator was shooting off. There was also a troublesome reflection.

  After a brief discussion with the director of photography, the set designer had a word with the unit manager. A carpenter appeared and added a strip of plywood to one side of the third wall. A scenic artist carrying a giant pot and a huge brush followed in his wake, splashing paint around with an air of abandon. In a moment the wood was transformed into stone. It looked as though the rocks had been there for ever.

  Jean-Paul called for someone to ‘Chinese’ a barn door. The lighting gaffer called across to the best boy, who reached up with a pole and knocked the metal covering of a lamp through ninety degrees so that a vertical strip of light became horizontal. It was another world, and like all other worlds it had its own language. It would have been hard to justify the arrangement to a time and motion study person, but then time and motion people didn’t make films.

  Someone else ambled on to the set and sprayed a dish with dulling liquid.

  The camera operator announced there was a hair in the gate. He climbed off the dolly and began removing a large soundproofing blimp covering the camera. The focus puller seized the opportunity to reload the film.

  ‘All right, everyone. Take five.’

  A buzz of conversation went up all around as those who weren’t involved relaxed. Mangetout put her plate down on a stool near Brother Angelo and passed a comment. He gave a shrug and she retired into the shadows. It was easy to see why. Daylight didn’t lend enchantment.

  The wrangler said something to Pommes Frites, then left him to his own devices. Pommes Frites hesitated for a moment before settling down to await his next instructions. He was wearing his enigmatic expression and it was impossible to tell what, if anything, he was thinking. Monsieur Pamplemousse would have given a lot to know, but Pommes Frites seemed to be studiously avoiding his gaze – whether out of pique or guilt it was impossible to say, and before he had a chance to make the first move Beaseley took hold of his arm.

  ‘Feel like a stroll?’

  ‘Une bonne idée.’

  They walked in silence for a while, picking their way in and out of the cables and equipment and groups of extras taking time off for a quick smoke.

  ‘What gave them the idea?’ asked Monsieur Pamplemousse idly as they finally reached open ground.

  ‘You mean the Last Supper?’

  ‘Not only that – the whole thing – using scenes from the Bible to sell perfume.’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I came in halfway through. I suppose it hasn’t been done before. It’s the ultimate. It has everything. Someone once said there are only six plots in the world and they are all in the Old Testament. Follow that, as they say.’

  ‘But someone must have suggested it in the first place,’ persisted Monsieur Pamplemousse.

  ‘Who knows where ideas spring from?’ said Beaseley. ‘Normally it would start with the agency. A company entrusts itself to one of the big boys and relies on them to come up with ideas. Why do you ask?’

  Monsieur Pamplemousse didn’t really know. It was simply a little nagging question in the back of his mind. A tiny voice.

  ‘It seems to have upset a lot of people.’

  ‘You mean all the sniping that’s been going on?’

  Sniping was one way of putting it. Monsieur Pamplem
ousse felt he would have used a stronger word. Someone was trying to make a point and the method of doing it ranged from schoolboy practical jokes to verging on the deadly serious. So far no one had been injured, but there was always a first time. As far as he could make out there was a list as long as his arm of people who had it in for Von Strudel. Or, if not for Von Strudel himself, for those he represented. It was strange that so far no one had claimed responsibility.

  ‘There must be simpler ways of making a commercial. Less likely to offend. Less costly.’

  ‘We are talking films,’ said Beaseley. ‘Films, perfume and advertising – a lethal combination. Cost doesn’t enter into it. I’ll give you an example. Chanel never give out figures, but when they launched Egoïste Jean-Paul Goude was commissioned to make a thirty-second commercial featuring the Carlton Hotel in Cannes. He had a mock-up of it built in Brazil, flew everyone out there and took ten days over the shooting. The cost must have been horrendous. You might ask, why Brazil? Answer: because the Director decided the light was better.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Would anyone have noticed the difference?’

  ‘I doubt it. But the publicity which followed was worth its weight in gold. And that was nothing compared to this. The column inches already written about XS would stretch from here to Grasse and back. Come up and see me some time and I’ll show you my press cuttings.’

  Beaseley caught the sidelong glance Monsieur Pamplemousse gave him.

  ‘I was only joking,’ he said hastily. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that advertising is the stuff that dreams are made of – to misquote William Shakespeare. The life it pretends to portray doesn’t, couldn’t and probably should never exist. In my view it is responsible for a great many of the ills of this world, for it makes people restless for the so-called “better life”. In that respect it offers up much the same thing as Brother Angelo, and there is about the same chance of achieving it.’