Though on this tranquil summer’s evening his theory of quality as reality may induce fine thoughts and comfort, it’s going to be difficult when the radios start playing on the building sites and the ads blare out of my car radio and the phone starts ringing.
Wednesday, June 23rd
Drive into London to watch a two-hour showing of the Amnesty documentary shot by Roger Graef at the end of April. Jonathan Miller and I are about the only participants there.
It’s a fascinating start – all the little glimpses of rehearsals in progress. The Goodies stand out like a sore thumb when rehearsing ‘Funky Gibbon’, but come out as nice, human chaps when they sit around talking, and Alan Bennett’s asides and revelations on his Fringe colleagues are sweetly, disarm-ingly, catty. Talking to TJ about Python, he ends up rather sadly, ‘Well, if you ever want another member for the group …’
Am struck by how relaxed and worldly-wise the Beyond the Fringe team are. Beside them, not that the film makes comparisons, the Pythons seem jolly but sort of more businesslike, less rambling and discursive. Maybe in ten years’ time we’ll have aged and mellowed in the same rather comforting way.
Thursday, June 24th
I enjoy a rare day with no need to go out – not even a game of squash. And I find myself with time on my hands. I read Sylvia Plath’s Letters at lunch and outside in the evening. Rather brittle, full of sudden ups and sudden downs. Plathitudes. Life/Man/Work is one day marvellous, brilliantly handsome, ecstatic, unbearably wonderful, and the next depressing, frightful – a great monster of awfulness. She expresses herself so articulately, but her underlying wide-eyed attitudes are the same as any awkward teenager’s.
A hot evening – doors and windows open all over Gospel Oak.
Thursday, July 1st
So far an excellent week for writing. On Tuesday I worked an almost unbroken seven-and-a-half-hour-stint typing, correcting, revising, sharpening and generally putting together the northern tale (‘The Testing of Eric Olthwaite’).
Talk to Gilliam at Neal’s Yard late Tuesday, where I’m having a fitting for the Dennis costume. He’s slightly worried, and so am I, that various actors are very keen to get in ideas of their own – which don’t exactly fit in with the spirit of the movie. Harry H Corbett wants his codpiece to be gradually enlarged throughout the film. Max Wall suggests putting small rubber balls in the end of the fingers of his gloves, so when he takes them off they bounce.
Down to Terry’s, revelling in the Mini sunroof, where we work on with ‘Curse of the Claw’.
The writing seems to come easily and the plot and story falls into place so well that by 4.00 we have completed a sixth Ripping Yarnl The third since we began writing again after New York – so that’s three half-hours in five weeks.
So I left TJ at 4.30; we don’t in fact need to write any more scripts until next year – and July will see us, for the first time, largely going our separate ways. And yet during this last spell of writing I’ve felt closer to TJ than at any time since before the Grail. I feel happy that the demarcation problems following on from Tomkinson have not, in any way, appeared to lessen our writing strength, or weaken our writing relationship. We’ve adjusted (or is it just me?) to our new work relationship and actually improved our personal relationship (or is it just me?).
From TJ’s to Anne’s. Whilst I’m there a phone call to say that the appeal judges in the US have just laid down a twenty-page judgement on the Python v ABC case, which is unequivocally favourable to Python. This sounds better news than we ever hoped for.
Saturday, July 3rd
Woke this morning determined to drink only moderately today. Failed hopelessly. No sooner had last night’s mixture of lager and cider seeped through my system than it was being quietly worked on by some very more-ish sangria at the Denselows.1 Helen and I and Rachel were round there for a lunch party, which turned into a very late barbecue.
An interesting split of guests between a large group of peaceful, rather bucolic folk, who turned out to live in a commune in Haverstock Hill. They sat indoors most of the time, whilst out in the blazing heat – near the drinks-were Robin’s media friends from Panorama, Bush House, The Guardian, etc.
The communites were amicable, but tended to talk about ‘cosmic awareness’ and ‘waves of communication responses’. I find unless you know a little of their terms of reference, it’s hard to climb aboard their thoughts. But a man called Ian, who was a sort of translator-figure for them, was very chatty and asked us along any time. He said he was in charge of security.
Tuesday, July 6th
Off to some bookshops and then over to Professor Dr Powell for what turns out to be quite a tough piece of surgery on my back left lower teeth, which have been giving me trouble over the last two months. Powell digs deep and furiously. It’s the first surgery since 1972 and he certainly is thorough over it. It’s stitched and I experience with a stirring of nostalgia the taste of the dressing over my gums.
I drive from Powell’s over to Shepherd’s Bush. Join about fifty others in the tiny Bush Theatre to see Blood Sports by David Edgar.
I only stay for the first hour – but saw an actor, Simon Callow, who I think would be excellent for RSM in ‘Across the Andes’ – because I know the injections are about to wear off and the tooth (or what’s left of it) will start hurting.’Bone just melts away in your mouth,’ was one of the encouraging things Powell had said as he levered and drilled and scraped away at my jaw.
Well, it did begin to hurt. Hardly slept at all. I listened to two sides of a Lenny Bruce LP. I sat outside in the garden with a glass of Laphroaig at 3.00. I read the local paper cover to cover at 4 a.m. I was up at my desk at 6.00 – and finally fell into a deep sleep at around 6.30 in the morning.
Friday, July 9th
Anne brings me a copy of the Federal Court of Appeals Judgement in the Python v ABC case. The Judgement was dated June 30th 1976 and is very strongly favourable to Python – they recommend that the injunction should be upheld. So Terry’s and my trip, in that cold and bleak December (which seems light years away now) was worthwhile after all.
The Judgement indicates that, in the judges’ opinion, Python would have a substantial chance of a favourable verdict in the courts and damages and all else that could follow.
I personally am against a big damages award – it may be the way lawyers play it, but I think that the popular image of Python winning $1 million would erase in people’s minds some of the reasons why we won it. But I think we should have a strong bargaining counter in any attempt to recover our costs. We shall see.
Monday, July 12th
Hard look at Jabberwocky script this morning. It’s all held together by a manic intensity of vision and atmosphere, and if this intensity can be sustained in the characterisations as well, the film will be, well, certainly not dull. The writing in certain individual scenes is sometimes flat, sometimes conventional and occasionally gives the impression of being rushed – but I think a careful look at the script before each day’s shooting will tighten up dialogue, which, by comparison to some of the Holy Grail scenes – the death cart, the philosophical peasants – is sparse in comic impact.
But the shape of the film is good, and it’s just up to Terry G to try and achieve the Herculean task of recapturing his animation style in a live action movie – and for £400,000.
Wednesday, July 14th
Posted off the Esquire article about Python’s New York adventures to Lee Eisenberg, plus long missive to Eric in France.
At ten down to Fitzroy Square for a read-through with some of the Jabberwocky principals. Max Wall and John Le Mesurier speak softly together in one corner. Old Acting Hands, both of whom have been through long spells of rejection and have come out wise, kindly, but above all unhurried. Then there are the Actors – Derek Francis, the Bishop, Peter Cellier as the Leading Merchant – working actors, not stars, not personalities, their personalities are their parts and they click into theatrical speech and gesture from the
first read-through.
My friend for the morning is John Bird, amiable and sharp as ever. He’s playing the Herald, and is not particularly happy with it. ‘I do hate shouting,’ he mutters sadly.
He and I are joined after half an hour by John Gorman, so there are now three of us in the Brash Young Men of Revue corner. Gorman’s down from his Old Bakery in Suffolk. Slightly subdued – which means quite over the top by anyone else’s standards. Covered in strange badges – including one for ‘The Womble Bashers’, which I like.
John Le Mes is marvellous, his pained double-takes are a joy to watch. Max has difficulty finding his lines, but as they mainly consist of ‘Er … Oh …’ it doesn’t really matter. The Actors Act and John G and Bird make people laugh.
At lunchtime costume fitting session. I like my gear. At least its going to be a deal more comfortable than the armour of Holy Grail.
A drink with Terry G, Max W and Bird. Max tells long, rambling, discursive tales – very funny if you’ve got an afternoon to spare. He drinks pints of Guinness in the pub at Seven Dials – but he drinks them slowly. He’s also deaf in one ear and most of what Bird says in his low murmur (which is almost incomprehensible anyway) is totally lost on Max. But always those kind, wise, soft eyes and slow smile.
Back home via Dodo in Westbourne Grove, where I buy Graham and David a huge basket of plastic fruit for their tenth anniversary party tonight.
Off to the theatre at eight to see Funny Peculiar by Mike Stott. Only ten years ago you couldn’t carry a plank across the stage without the Lord Chamberlain’s permission – and now here’s a comfortable, rather staid, London theatre audience, watching two women quite explicitly sucking off a man as he lies in his hospital bed. Funny and liberating, but deeply shocking to a man used to writing for television!
Off up to G Chapman’s party. Sangria, champagne and good nosh. The house was cleaner and tidier than I’d ever seen it. The gathering was smallish and quite organised – the garden floodlit by Strand Electrics. Graham, on very good behaviour, wandered through in white suit looking like a benevolent tropical planter at a festivity for his employees. Peter Cook was soberish too.
Alison (still great with child) and Terry, Neil and Yvonne, Barry Cryer, Jo Kendall,1 David Yallop are all there. But we’re all getting older and staider, I thought, until Graham, Bernard McK and Dave Yallop gave their rendition of ‘Without You’ to a bemused audience. They stand in Gumby-like rigidity and yell the chorus to this lovely song at a hideous, horrendously loud pitch – and with trousers down for the second chorus.
Back home around 1.15.
Friday, July 16th
After lunch walked round balmy, humid London – to the studio, to the Jabberwocky office. To Great Titchfield Street to meet Warren Mitchell and read through my part with him. A tough little guy – close cropped hair, a tight, intense way of talking … but busy and extrovert in his command of a conversation.
Talk for a while about how bad actors are at dealing with praise. Warren said he approached Paul Scofield once and told him how marvellous he’d been in something, and, as Warren described it, ‘the poor guy didn’t know where to put himself’.
A bit of a read through. Warren tries his funny teeth he’s brought along. Eventually fall to chortling over Till Death, Warren says he was third choice for Alf Garnett. First choice was Leo McKern! Problems of success of Till Death – who created Alf Garnett? Was it [writer] Johnny Speight or Warren? Clearly they both think they own more of Alf than the other thinks they deserve. God, if Python split over who created what, it could be the court case of the century!
‘Silly old moo’ – the famous phrase, Warren says, wasn’t scripted. It came out during a rehearsal when he forgot the line ‘Silly old mare’.
Monday, July 19th
To Southwold for last visit before Jabberwocky/Ripping Yarns filming begins. Notice today how frail Ma is becoming, at the same time as Dad’s muscular mobility is worsening.
There are no solutions to the problem which can give anyone any pleasure. The wretched twin attacks of Parkinson’s and hardening of the arteries are destroying Father physically and the permanent hospitalisation which looms, now I would think, within the year, will destroy him mentally.
It rains hard as the train pulls into Liverpool Street at nine. Clatter home on the Broad Street Line. Comforting melancholy.
Wednesday, July 21st
Rehearsals with Harry H Corbett (a good actor, but oddly unsure of himself – he wears a suit and he mumbles rather self-deprecatingly that he feels its important to look smart on the first day of a job! And I think he meant it.). But we get on well, and the scenes together will be funny. The same with Paul Curran, who plays my father. A Scot, friend of Jimmy Gilbert and Ian MacNaughton, from the seemingly inexhaustible supply of actors spewed out by Glasgow Citizens’Theatre.
Take Tom swimming after game of squash with Richard. In the evening Simon A rings and asks me to go and see Hester Street (written and directed by Joan Micklin Silver) with him. A delightful film – unpretentious and wholly successful. 10/10.
Back from this sensitive, sensible look at early Jewish immigrants struggling to settle in New York in 1896 to a phone call from Michael Henshaw to tell me that a meeting of lawyers and accountants representing all the Pythons have decided (not even recommended) that the next Python film should be written abroad. Oh … and that they had projected its profit at £1 million.
Talk into Thursday with Simon A over the question of lifestyles and the way money isolates you from people. Simon quotes the case of a house in Mill Hill which he went to at the weekend, where there is opulence on a scale which stunned even Simon. It’s the home of a man who just does deals. He benefits no-one but himself, is surrounded by non-friends and basks unhappily in wealth that could rehouse half Camden’s waiting list in a week.
Contrast with Clive Hollick, Simon’s City friend1 – head of Vavasseur and Shepperton Studios, etc, and a committed socialist who feels the City is hopelessly corrupt, but is trying to change it from within. He won’t take any more than his £15,000 salary and refuses all expense account perks. A man to watch.
Monday, July 26th
Letter from Esquire (Lee Eisenberg) to say they like the article,2 will print it almost uncut and have offered me $1,500 payment! Which, given the present dilapidated state of sterling, is nearly £800.
Jill rings, hardly able to contain her excitement. They want me for two days, to advertise Mattessons’ sausages, and will pay £10,000 and may go higher! Jill is obviously keen for me to accept (it will mean £1,000 to her, after all), but I can’t – and in a sense the enormity of the money offered (almost double my entire writing fee for thirteen Ripping Yarns!) makes my refusal easier. Jill clearly thinks I’m bonkers, but we decide to elbow any further commercial offers – and there have been a spate of them in the last few months – until March next year.
Filming on Jabberwocky began this morning at Shepperton, but I’m not required until Wednesday and have no words until Friday.
Wednesday, July 28th
A leisurely start to Jabberwocky. I’m not called until 10.30. No cars available on this picture, so I drive over to Shepperton myself to see how long it takes. Miss the turning off the M3 and career on for a further twelve miles before I can turn and roar back again. At the gates of Shepperton a uniformed gateman has no idea where Jabberwocky is being shot and directs me to a back lot where there is nobody to be seen. So my carefully nurtured calm is ruffled a little.
Eventually sniff out the studio where they’re filming the crumbling court of King Bruno. The entire set is thick with dust and debris. The normally searingly bright studio lights are veiled with black drapes, giving the set a dim, sepulchral, twilight appearance. Pigeons cluck at the top of the throne, rubble is dropped during the takes, whenever John Bird as the Herald bangs his staff.
In the middle of this murk, little figures, dwarfed by the height of the set, move around. Two cameras are in use. TG looks thin
, but excited. He directs softly, padding around the camera, letting the First Assistant do all the shouting. They’re a half-day behind already and the producers are looking around with fixed grins. Terry agrees it’s like the first week of the Grail – an immediate artistic/economic gap.
Max looks wonderful as a little, wizened king. He’s taken his teeth out and hasn’t shaved. He is the personification of death warmed up. John Le Mes in his severe black skull cap looks more sinister than I’ve ever seen him. It’s a magnificent fusion of imaginative costumes (Hazel and Charles), imaginative sets (Roy Smith), and imaginative make-up (Maggie).
Terry says that Milly Burns and Bill Harman have done a jackdaw job all over Shepperton, pinching bits of other sets. They’ve just finished a German co-production of Mozart’s Figaro, from which quite a few props/sets will recur in Jabberwockyl
I wait until 3.30 to play a short and rough scene with Bernard Bresslaw and Bryan Pringle. TG says it looked terrifying. We do an impromptu fight – none of us knowing quite what’s going on – but there’s a rush to get Bernard B off to Bournemouth, where he’s doing a summer show on the pier.
Friday, July 30th
Up at seven. The first taste of the real joys of filming. As Eric puts it in his letter from France which arrived today … ‘Up early to be carried around by talkative drivers to wrong locations in time to get into the wrong costume and be ready to wait for five or six hours for a couple of seconds’ appearance on celluloid.’
It’s not as much fun as that yet.
On set by 8.30, rehearsing a long scene in the Queen’s Haemorrhoids with Bernard Bresslaw and Harry H Corbett, both of whom get to fling my (only eleven stone two by our scales this morning) body around. Bernard is kind, friendly, soft and cheerful as ever and I learn to my amazement that he’s breaking at ten to go to his brother’s funeral.
Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years Page 45
