Very Naughty Boys [EBK]

by Robert Sellers

  1989 was really the year that Robert Redford’s Sundance Festival took off in a big way, thanks partly to the success there of Sex, Lies and Videotape which walked away with the Audience Award. Wacks observes, ‘What was interesting about Sex, Lies, which really won the consolation prize, because the Audience Award is just like a popularity contest for people who show up, is that Miramax did an incredible job of distributing the picture, whereas Denis did absolutely nothing coming out of Sundance. We got great reviews and all this press attention and he went nowhere with it.’

  In Britain, the film fared even worse, scarcely being shown at all, again despite a clutch of excellent reviews, such as the Daily Mail’s: ‘Ironic that Britain’s HandMade should launch one of the best American films in ages.’

  Wacks even had to stage his own opening night for the film, getting as he did no support from O’Brien. Held at the Director’s Guild in Los Angeles, it was a charity event in support of a local native American museum. ‘George showed up and brought some of his friends — Joni Mitchell, Bonnie Rait and Kris Kristofersson were there. It was a great evening. George greeted everybody and congratulated the actors. Looking back, I feel very honoured that George got involved in my film and I feel very grateful that he stood by it. As for Denis O’Brien, it was absolutely clear to me that this was the work of one rather twisted individual rather than how things have to be. I’ve made other films since then and I’ve never had that experience. There are always battles and differences, but that kind of cold, calculated insistence that you work in a certain way I’ve just never encountered before or since. Denis was basically a businessman who was trying to work with creative people and didn’t really have the first clue how to do that.’

  12

  THE PARTY’S OVER

  After their less than successful foray into American drama with Powwow Highway and Five Corners, HandMade made a decision to go back to what it knew best — comedy, but with haphazard results. On paper, How to Get Ahead in Advertising looked extremely promising, reuniting as it did Withnail and I collaborators Bruce Robinson and Richard E Grant. Robinson first drafted the story in the form of a novella in 1979 and reignited the idea around the time of Withnail, believing as he did that Grant was perfect for his central character of Dennis Bagley, an ad man who has a nervous breakdown and develops a boil on his neck that grows into a head that starts talking to him.

  Grant recalls, ‘Bruce asked me to do another film with him during the second week of shooting Withnail. As I was so thrilled to be doing my first film at all, the prospect of another one seemed unlikely and, indeed, took a couple of years hence to get up and running. Although the part of Bagley was already written, Bruce claimed I was the actor who spoke with his “voice”.’

  Casting Grant, however, came with a price. Was Bagley going to be seen as the natural progression of the Withnail character — the wasted, booze-soaked Sixties drop-out becomes the late-Eighties greedy manipulator? Certainly, Grant’s performance in How to Get Ahead is just as memorable as his Withnail. Few, if any, other actors of his generation could have reached and sustained such frenzied heights. ‘Playing that part was eight weeks of high-pitched mania that was physically exhausting to maintain,’ adds Grant.

  How to Get Ahead in Advertising is typical Robinson, sometimes deliriously, sometimes disastrously over the top. But deliberately so. Robinson told one critic that he likened the film to a ‘pantomime’ and was looking to ‘kick the British in their bollocks’. Certainly, no prisoners are taken in this savage assault on the advertising business and the consumer capitalism of the late Eighties in Thatcher’s Britain. It was a rant, pure and simple, and although informing this author that, apart from George Harrison and one or two others, he found HandMade to be a ‘disreputable organisation’, Robinson was nevertheless beholden to it for coming up with £2 million for him to have a good rant. Robinson was also a much more confident director two years on from Withnail and I, though still nervous, playfully telling one reporter that he’d drawn a big ‘D’ on the back of his hand so if he ever got into trouble, he could look at it and think, Fuck, I’m the director!

  Opening in the early summer of 1989, How to Get Ahead in Advertising met with some admirers. ‘A vigorous, cheerfully outrageous British satire,’ declared Rolling Stone, and the Financial Times said, ‘The film is a showpiece for Grant, who more than ever resembles a regency dandy converted to hellfire preacher.’ But on the whole, the film divided critical attention, particularly in Britain, with many feeling it to be a tirade too far against a pretty obvious target. Today, How to Get Ahead is all but forgotten in the wake of the cult phenomenon over Withnail. Grant says, ‘I’m still fond of the experience and the people I worked with on How to Get Ahead and the friendship it afforded. It perhaps lacks a counter-viewpoint to balance its crusading ferocity.’

  David Leland, who’d written Mona Lisa and had a smash hit on his hands with Wish You Were Here, had been sent a script by Joe Eszterhas (later the writer of Basic Instinct and the infamous Showgirls) called Checking Out, a black farce about an airline company executive (played by Jeff Daniels) who is so gripped by his own mortality that he comes down with a chronic case of hypochondria. Leland liked it but thought the script needed major revision. Ultimately disappointed with the end result, Leland left the project, only to be told by HandMade that they wanted to go ahead with the film and he could rewrite it himself to his own satisfaction.

  Shot on location in Southern California, it was only when the film was test-screened that doubts began to be expressed. HandMade and Warner Brothers, who were distributing the film in America, were worried Leland had created something too dangerous to be successful, a hybrid of a film that couldn’t be conveniently categorised. They also believed Jeff Daniels’ character was too unappealing for mainstream audiences. The result was that Leland’s film was taken off him by O’Brien and re-edited in a way he found totally unacceptable, reduced to a run-of-the-mill wacky comedy instead of what he’d originally intended, a story that trod a fine line between comedy and tragedy.

  Leland knew he didn’t have final cut and that HandMade were well within their rights to do what they did, but it seemed to him a sour irony that, after they’d specifically stated he could write and direct it the way he wanted, they’d, in his view, ‘totally destroyed’ the picture. In a letter to this author, Leland expressed his feelings about how he was treated: ‘My experiences of working with Denis O’Brien were utterly unpleasant. He re-cut Checking Out. I hated what he did to it and the way he did it. My version of the film will never be seen. Nothing worse can happen to a film-maker. As Jeff Daniels said to me after the event (you must imagine this in Jeff’s drawl), “I think we made a good film, you think we made a good film, but somewhere between us makin’ it and them showin’ it, it got fucked.” Precisely.’

  It was later particularly galling for Leland that some of the criticism the film received, particularly in America when it opened there in May 1989, was the direct result of vital scenes left on the cutting-room floor. ‘I heard Checking Out just became a nightmare,’ Gilliam says. ‘The film is not, by any means, a perfect film, but it’s really interesting. In particular, there are two scenes that are I think brilliant, and those are the two scenes Denis wanted out. I began to feel after a while Denis had this incredible unerring ability to go to the very core of the thing and rip its heart out. He was like some Aztec priest.’ But others felt that no amount of tinkering could have saved what was almost from inception a poorly conceived project. Shingles believes, ‘I don’t think Checking Out would have amounted to anything anyway, no matter who directed it, if it had been re-cut, re-shot or whatever. It lacked any direction or any point. With all the best will in the world, it was poor.’

  Checking Out did indeed receive some devastatingly bad reviews. ‘In a closely fought contest between this dire, rambling tale and Erik the Viking for worst comedy of the year, I think Mr Leland gets the gong on a photo finish,’ said Today. The NME stated,
‘Disappointing for someone like Leland. This is HandMade’s plumpest turkey since Shanghai Surprise,’ and Variety called it ‘a dreadfully unfunny one-joke black comedy. Warner Brothers is advised to bury this stiff as quickly as decency allows.’

  As usual, when O’Brien started intimidating and interfering, it was Ray Cooper, in his role as creative middle-man, who bore the brunt of it. Checking Out was particularly messy. ‘Ray got himself in a terrible state with David Leland,’ Terry Gilliam says, ‘because he tried so hard to mediate and it was an unmediatable position because Denis was so extreme. David then started blaming Ray for conspiring against the film. That was really painful because Ray cares incredibly about the art of film and to be damned by David didn’t please him.’ By this time, Ray Cooper had sadly become little more than a mouthpiece for O’Brien, a gofer, and his friends were getting increasingly concerned. Richard Loncraine tried his best. ‘I said, “This is just demoralising, you’re too bright and nice a man to be walking around doing Denis’s dirty work.” You could tell what he was saying to you was not what he believed, but the boss had told him to go and say it. He was kind of the hatchet man for Denis and Ray’s too nice to be a hatchet man. I always felt that Denis did not treat Ray with the respect he deserved.’

  Cooper himself was also beginning to feel the strain. ‘I’d get phone calls from people like David Leland saying, “Ray, what are you doing?” And at the end of the day it was, “Well, that’s my job.” And then I had to look at myself in the mirror and say, “That’s no justification.” So, occasionally, I would have to make a stand against Denis. But it was working away at my soul at the same time. It was all becoming quite painful. I was having anxiety attacks and all sorts of things.’

  HandMade’s two comeback comedies lacked considerably either the charm or popularity of their golden age comedies and, in the case of Checking Out, left huge battle scars on the company that were never to heal. ‘That caused such a furore,’ Shingles remembers. ‘I think George got dragged into it. A lot of people have said afterwards you can point to David Leland and say that the demise of HandMade starts around him and that movie.’

  It was during the making of Checking Out in Los Angeles that David Leland got to know Harrison who was out there recording the first Travelling Wilburys album at the same time. ‘George and I planned to make a film of the first Wilburys album,’ Leland says. ‘This did not happen but I did direct three Travelling Wilburys music videos. Working with George was always a pleasure and I greatly value the time I spent with him.’ Almost certainly Leland confided to Harrison the problems he was experiencing with O’Brien, something along the lines of: ‘Do you realise that this man is taking over creative control from the artists?’ As Harrison always had more affinity with the artists than with the business end of things, he acted upon his friend’s concerns causing a huge rift to open up between himself and O’Brien, forcing him, perhaps for the first time, to look at what was happening to the company and to re-evaluate his position within it. The strain was beginning to tell and, although the whole tragedy was more or less played out behind closed doors, the atmosphere of ill feeling was tangible. Shingles remembers, ‘I did some work remastering George’s concert for Bangladesh for video release, and there were costs, and I was always told that you had to bill for whatever work you did. At that point, Denis wasn’t around and I asked, “Who should pay for this?” in a letter to George, and the note came right back — “Brian, you still don’t understand. I’m paying for everything!” It was then I thought, Patently, things aren’t going well.’

  * * *

  It was one of the biggest parties the British film industry had ever known, a celebration of HandMade’s first 10 years. Held inside a giant marquee at Shepperton Studios in September 1988 with over 120 people in attendance, the event was an enormous success. Those that were there still remember it with excitement and fondness. Few, though, could have realised that the company was 30 days away from catastrophe.

  The job of organising the party fell to Wendy Palmer, an immense task which consumed most of her time for the next three months. As the invites went out, one name was conspicuous by its absence — Stephen Woolley. O’Brien, it seemed, had still not forgiven the producer for their clash on Mona Lisa. ‘It was just weird,’ Woolley states. ‘HandMade sent an invitation to my partner Nick Powell, ’cos Nick was fine, he didn’t have to get into any of these bruising matches that I had to get into. But I didn’t get an invite and Nick said to HandMade, “There must be something wrong with the post because Stephen didn’t get his invite.” And they rang back and said, “There’s nothing wrong with the post.” And Nick said, “I’m going to bring him as my guest, is that OK?” And they said, “If you want to bring him as your guest, then we’re going to rescind your invite as well.” So I was written off the history books.’

  The decision to exclude Woolley was one that infuriated Wendy Palmer. ‘Denis would not have Steve Woolley at that party. I begged him to reconsider. I begged him. I said, “Then don’t invite Nick,” because to invite Nick and not Steve was worse. But he would not change his mind.’

  The party didn’t come cheap. £50,000 was the first estimate until, at the last minute, George Harrison decided he wanted to invite his hero Carl Perkins over to jam with him live on stage, a request that bumped up the overall price of the function to nearer £85,000. ‘But it was a humdinger of a party,’ says Shingles. ‘Whatever else HandMade achieved, they achieved a wonderful party. The New York office flew over for it and coaches were laid on from Cadogan Square to take us all out to Shepperton. And you thought, not that we’d made it, but ten years on and we’re still here.’

  The only real downer was the food. Palmer says, ‘Denis chose the caterers. This is how involved Denis was in things if he wanted to be. He went for someone who catered for the Queen, because that was very Denis.’ The food, however, was hardly touched. The studio’s location caterers came to the rescue by rustling up a traditional English fried breakfast in the early hours of the morning. When the assembled masses suddenly smelt the reassuring odour of bacon and egg, they made an instant beeline for it. Palmer insists, ‘It was the best food we had all night.’

  Besides the HandMade staff, producers, directors and actors from all of HandMade’s films were well represented, amongst them Paul McGann. ‘It was the first proper swanky do I’d ever been to and we all got plastered. I remember Denis standing up and giving this speech with mathematical equations in it, as accountants are want to do, giving the “we’d like to thank” sort of speeches. And he reeled off this list of names, of all the marvellous people he’d worked with in the last 10 years. Now you’ll have to picture me there... I’m sitting with my wife and George Harrison shouted, “And what about Paul McGann?” And my wife said, “Your hand gripped my wrist so tight it left an indentation in my arm, and you said something to me so stupid like, ‘A Beatle just said my name,’ and you just gushed like a baby.” I said to her, “What else did I say?” She said, “I’m in his thoughts.” Jesus. It was a funny old evening.’

  By far the best speech of the night was courtesy of Michael Palin. It was delivered so beautifully that no one there that night has probably ever forgotten it. A condensed version of the speech is presented below by kind permission of Michael Palin.

  Ladies and gentlemen, we are here to celebrate 10 years of HandMade Films. Denis rang and asked me if I could deliver a fawning tribute — no stick, no undue criticism — or else he would re-release The Missionary on a double bill with Water. Though many of you may not be aware of it, the real founder of HandMade Films is sadly not with us tonight. I refer, of course, to the late Sir Bernard Delfont. He it was who, one spring morning in 1978, decided on an impulse to read one of the scripts his company was filming. And what he read he didn’t like at all. It was called Monty Python’s Life of Brian and he thought it blasphemous. Nowadays, as any good film producer knows, blasphemy is almost as good as Tom Cruise at the box office. If for instance, The Adven
tures of Pippi Longstocking had managed to incorporate a scene where Pippi fantasises over the Messiah changing a car wheel in a pair of boxer shorts it might well have found the box-office success that so eluded it this summer.

  Anyway, Sir Bernard pulled EMI out of the deal, leaving us with 20 crosses and 60 nails of minimal secondhand value. The film’s chances of being made were about to expire when a good Samaritan in the guise of George Harrison happened upon us. And HandMade Films was born. The name was coined by George who wanted to call it British HandMade Films but wasn’t allowed to. At roughly the same time, Terry Gilliam tried to call his company the British Film Industry Ltd but was refused on the grounds that there already was one. How times have changed.

  It is exceptional to have someone like George involved, even if it does take him so long to read scripts. I once asked George how he liked the script of A Private Function. ‘I’m up to page seven,’ he said apologetically. I asked him again three months later and he said he was up to page 11 and really enjoying it. But to know that one of the driving forces behind the company is someone who knows all about the trials and tribulations of showbiz from the artist’s point of view is one of the great attractions of working for HandMade.

  It’s exceptional also to have someone like Denis, who manages time after time by some extraordinary balancing act to be able to persuade someone somewhere that people, who in many cases have only the tiniest of track records, are worth a few million. And to do this with the minimum of physical force. I once asked Denis how he did finance the operation. He was a little vague but mentioned a great many islands whose names I hadn’t heard since stamp-collecting days, and various ‘partners’ whose names sounded awfully redolent of the Vercotti Brothers’ sketches.