Swimming with Tom and Willy at Holiday Inn. Willy to a party. Another girl, another Valentino entrance. William starts being silly/funny before he arrives. He does it, he says, to cheer them all up.
Helen and I and Rachel cap a very Londony weekend by walking up and around the roads of Parliament Hill neighbourhood, with half an eye for houses.
Decide when we get home that we’re very lucky to be in a house with such character. The late-Victorianness of North Mansfield Road, Parliament Hill, even when restored and cleaned, leaves a depressingly claustrophobic feeling. I was very glad to be back in our mid-Victorian shoe box.
To dinner with Peter Luff and Carolyn.1 Peter had been with Tom Stoppard to visit Amnesty cases in Russia. He gave me a lovely box full of about twenty boxes of matches, all with rather nice Pushkin drawings on them. Each box had been thoroughly searched by the Russians before they left the country.
Parts of Moscow and most of Leningrad are very beautiful, he said, but Russian official behaviour sounds pretty wretched. Notebooks confiscated. Tom Stoppard had apparently yelled at them as they took his notebook away ‘If you publish that, I’ll sue!’ It was returned, copied presumably.
Peter doesn’t think the Soviet Union will ever work – there are too many forces of nationalism, etc, within it. At present he says there is a repressive regime, reacting to the liberalisation under Khrushchev with surprising force.
An interesting evening.
Monday, March 7th
Down to 2 Park Square West. We’re all there, TG included, for chats about ‘Life of Christ’. John a little embarrassed when Terry J comes in asking’Who were the two, then?’ – referring to John’s rather bald statement in the Sunday Times article that towards the end of Python there were ‘two people’ he couldn’t get on with. But he skated over all that successfully and avoided having to say.
A good ideas session. We talked until four. Cleaned up the ending a good deal. The Centurion who can’t pwonounce his ‘r’s has become quite a leading figure now – in fact he’s probably Pontius Pilate.
At lunch we all split for an hour. Anne had made sandwiches. I felt bad at ignoring them, so Eric and I packed a bag of sandwiches and Perrier water and walked into Regent’s Park, sat and ate our lunch in the rose garden. Rather sweet.
Eric tells me he’s becoming vegetarian. Presumably under the influence of George H.
Tuesday, March 8th
To Buchanan House, Holborn, to meet the Shepperton Studios Board. First of all we had lunch – pâté, beef, cheese and no wine – and I met fellow director Charles Gregson, ebullient, talking in that enthusiastic upper-class rush. His hair was longer and he was much younger than I expected. Rather school-boyish in fact. He’s the Managing Director. Burrows is the Financial Director, older, quieter, rather neat and shy. Fawcett, the Company Secretary, is the only man from Mars. He talks in a delicious, rich, aristocratic rumble, which he uses tantalisingly rarely. He wears a perfectly tailored pin-striped suit and an elegant pastel shirt with white collar. Have a feeling he is either less or more intelligent than he appears. Probably less.
Clive [Hollick] displays the sort of sharpness, easy intelligence and businesslike charm which must have put him where he is. He handles the Chairman’s job as if he’d been used to running things all his life – but at the same time creates a good, participatory working atmosphere.
The board meeting begins with financial reports. Then our debtors are discussed – Lisztomania, Ken Russell’s last great folly, a monumental flop, is top of the list.
Brando is expected on March 21st. Discussion as to what we should lay on for him. Charles Gregson suggests, rather pathetically, putting flowers in his room. I suggest a couple of bottles of champagne might be more realistic.
The only real excitement of the meeting is discussion of the highly confidential Ramport negotiations. Ramport are the production company of The Who, who already have an almost permanent base in one of the Shepperton studios. They want a 999-year lease on an area of property within the Shepperton complex, including the old house, the lawn in front, some office buildings and J and K Studios (both small).
The asking price is nearly half a million pounds, which would, at a stroke, clear Shepperton’s debt, pay for major improvements to the heating system and generally set the place up on a very sound financial basis. Against it are the usual arguments over losing any part of a film studio. Allegations of asset-stripping will be revived.
Thursday, March 10th
March has been delightful so far. Helen drops me in Regent’s Park and I walk across this beautiful expanse, flanked on one side by Nash terraces and the other by the copper dome of the new mosque.
Eric very positive and clearly the one who’s done the most work on our two ‘separate’ days since Monday. He has worked out a putative running order which is a good basis for discussion. By twelve we are all there, including Gilliam, who has been at the final dub for Jabberwocky.
High point of the day is writing an extremely sick piece for use at charity shows (which we are all rather tired of being involved in). A speech about the ‘so-called handicapped’ who get so much attention anyway, and why should not the carrot of financial reward be dangled before those who are, by no fault of their own, normal, etc, etc. I don’t know who’ll be brave/foolhardy enough to do it. At the Albert Hall.
We decide to send a very lushly packed gift box of sexual aids for Ina’s wedding present and a golden foot for Robert Osterberg1 is to be inscribed ‘To Our Dear Friend Roy Ostrichberger, From Monty Python – In Lieu of Fee’. I’m against ‘In Lieu of Fee’, but was out-voted.
Friday, March 11th
Decide not to send a gift pack of sexual aids to Ina for her wedding present. Still, it was funny at the time.
Down to Gerry Donovan, my first London National Health dentist. Half of the bridge Gerry put in has just come adrift.
Home by public transport. It takes me an hour, including a 20-minute wait at a bus stop for buses advertised as every six to eight minutes. As I wait I become aware of how important time has become to me now. To stand at a bus stop for 20 minutes staring into space seems a crime.
It does rather throw my working day, but I manage to write some more of the ‘Twibune’. Helen suggests he should have a friend, so I write in Biggus Dickus, who thpeakth with a lithp.
Wednesday, March 16th
In the post, an invitation to the preview/premiere of Jabberwocky. I notice they’ve spelt my name wrong on the film credits —’Michel (sic) Palin’.
Slowly begin to overcome some indefinable resistance to writing any new material for the ‘Bible’ story, and by mid-afternoon I’m beginning to gather momentum. Complete a new ‘Headmaster’ piece for the opening, then literally race along with an ending montage, pre-crucifixion. The ideas suddenly seem to be released.
I work, with no interruption, until nearly six. Outside it’s pouring. Feel very pleased with the day’s work. I suppose I needed a day on my own at my own pace.
Completed my will. Put the envelope in the post, but cannot kill myself yet, as it was only a draft will.
Thursday, March 17th
Across sunny London to the Columbia Theatre, where the Jabberwocky magazine-writers’ preview is just finishing.
I am warned that there are men from the Sunday Mirror here, who have not bothered to see the film. They stand, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, grinning ingratiatingly and nosing out any sensation there is to be had like pigs searching for truffles. I find myself talking to one of them, in the event of Columbia-Warner bringing no-one else for me to talk to, about Python and then about the new Python film. The notebook suddenly slides out and I realise that he is onto a ‘story’ – a ‘Python to send up Bible story’ story. So I remember why I’m here and move away from that one.
Peter Noble waddles by, fondling my arm like an overfed but harmless Roman patrician and lining me up for a snap of him talking to me, for his newspaper, Screen International. Then he waddle
s off.
Max W is there. Seemingly unchanged by his bad reviews for Malvolio at Greenwich and as endearingly chatty and jokey as ever. The world could be ending outside, but Max would keep up his gentle monologue. He has never, as long as I’ve ever been with him, showed any trace of alarm, or sudden reaction of any kind. He paces himself beautifully and I found talking to him was like finding the eye in the centre of the hurricane.
I found amongst the gathering a qualified enthusiasm. Words like ‘smash hit’ and ‘success’ were not on everybody’s lips.
Friday, March 18th
Difficult, but finally constructive Python meeting at 2 Park Square West. We assembled at 10.15, but Eric looked unwell, and John did not arrive until ten to eleven.
So neither of those two seemed in the best of moods, and Terry’s suggestion that the ‘Healed Loony’ sketch should open the main bulk of the film (after the ‘Nativity’) was very sulkily received by John and Eric. The rest of us, including Graham, all remembered liking it and still liked it, but John claims he didn’t and Eric doesn’t think it’s funny enough to start a film with.1 Terry looks terribly hurt and deflated and says things like it was putting this sketch first that suddenly restored his enthusiasm for the film. But Terry’s enthusiasm can work two ways, and it was clearly only hardening John and Eric’s attitude today.
Well, fortunately for the meeting, the script and all concerned, we soon got out of this area and began to make some rapid progress with the end, which is now to culminate in a huge crucifixion musical number.
It’s interesting to know how people would react. We have de-Jesused the crucifixion, by keeping him out of it (although there were lovely fantasies of him saying to others in the crucifixion procession, ‘Oh, do come on, take it seriously’). Instead we have about 150 assorted crooks being led out for crucifixion – which was, after all, a common enough event at that time. But the crucifixion has become such a symbol that it must be one of the areas most sensitive to the taint of historical truth.
Monday, March 21st
Phone call from John Goldstone – the IBA [Independent Broadcasting Authority], or powers that be, have heard our Jabberwocky radio commercials and will not let us say ‘warm, brown heaps’, mention the Queen, name roads (e.g. M40, A4), say ‘here is a flash’, dub on screams or sirens, and we can’t say the word ‘motions’ in an ad in which a little boy is saying that he was on his way to school ‘when a huge, fire-breathing monster ate the entire school buildings, including the toilet. The headmaster says the buildings may reappear in his motions, but until then we’ve got the day off.’To think that someone is drawing a salary for preventing people hearing the word ‘motions’.
Wednesday, March 23rd
Do not wake until eight, despite reasonably early night. The hour before breakfast doesn’t seem to be falling naturally into my schedule. Both body and mind, but in that order, seem to be rebelling. But I just don’t feel I can do all the work that I’ve let myself in for at the moment without that extra hour.
The Python meeting is very constructive. Eric, who hadn’t written much apart from a song, which wasn’t that special, was nevertheless on good analytical form, putting his finger time and time again on what was right and wrong with the more sizeable contributions from John C and Graham, and Terry and myself. But we had supplied some good ideas, especially for the end, and the morale of the meeting was high.
We decided that John Goldstone should produce it, and the shooting dates would be January/February/March 1978, abroad. Cleese is anxious to take a tax year out of England and does not want to work here after April 6th 1978. He’ll be doing this plus a series of seven Fawlty Towers before then. We have given ourselves a three-week writing session in July and a final session in October. We didn’t discuss director – I feel that Terry J will do it, unless anyone feels strongly enough against.
Terry J suggests a press ban on discussion of the film. We agree to keep it a secret. John and Eric particularly vociferous about press on set. They just get in the way and do no good. Eric very positive on no deals with censors or producers over language or taste. We and we alone must decide what the final form of the film is to be.
With a great show of solidarity, we adjourned to Odin’s restaurant for lunch. The only other diner anywhere near our noisy table was Harold Pinter, dining alone and darkly debonair in a corner, shaking me for an instant with immediate recall of him sitting in a restaurant in The Servant. Rather comforting to sit beside Harold Pinter after a long writing session.
Back home. Unsatisfactory attempt to take Tom, Willy, Jake and Rachel swimming. Pool closed. Marine Ices (our second choice) closed. Ended up at 32 Flavours in Hampstead though even there sixteen flavours were off!
Heard from John Goldstone that after Sandy Lieberson had personally canvassed the Managing Director of Capital Radio, he had withdrawn a number of objections to our commercials, but we were still not allowed to call a commercial a commercial, we can’t mention ‘motions’, and ‘large, warm, brown heaps’ can only be ‘large heaps’.
Sunday, March 27th
We drove up to Abbotsley yesterday morning.
Today it rained incessantly, though never very heavily. But icy-cold north winds kept us indoors for most of the time.
In the early evening the steady rain gave way to showers – some of hail and snow – and dramatic skies – huge, black clouds against white, sun-filled patches. Took William out up the road and he learnt to ride his bike. A snowstorm swirled around us as we came back – Willy’s cycling career heralded with a virtuoso display of weather.
Back to London by nine.
By this time next week I will at least have Jabberwocky opening behind me, and we’ll have finished the first real draft of the Life of Brian, as Eric suggested calling it on Friday.
Monday, March 28th
At 7.30 took seats in the Columbia [for the Jabberwocky premiere] (in a row with Terry J and Al and Terry G and Maggie). The theatre was full – caught sight of Ian Ogilvy, Ned Sherrin and other premiere luminaries. Unfortunately there seemed to be no representatives of yer average viewing public, and their absence was all too apparent as the film got under way.
It was hard work, sitting there watching yourself on screen messing around in the Middle Ages, and experiencing the almost tangible sensation of mild audience enthusiasm. Laughs – real laughs – seemed to come reluctantly, but when they did I breathed easily before going back into a sort of dry-mouthed muscular strait-jacket which tightens whenever I’m watching myself.
Eventually the quest and the undeniably effective monster fight won them over – and the applause at the end was not just sycophantic – but it was a tough viewing. I could hardly believe it was the same film I’d seen with the children two weeks before. Then there was a real sense of excitement and enjoyment and involvement. Tonight I felt that no-one quite knew how to react.
One or two handshakes. We were all promptly cleared out of the foyers by a zealous theatre attendant and Helen and I gave Neil Innes and Yvonne – our good friends of these occasions – a lift down to the London Dungeon where the Jabberwocky is now permanently on display.
Wine and much chatter in the cold and semi-darkness. There seemed to be equivocal feelings about the movie itself. Some unreservedly loving it, others, like Eric Idle, now hardening into strong opposition to it. (Graham Chapman left half-way through! John C rang at the last minute to say he couldn’t make it!)
One strange looming man shook my hand warmly and advised me that I was ‘about to make the quantum leap. Men in America will see this and within two years you’ll be an international star.’
Tuesday, March 29th
Woke early – about sevenish – heart thumping like a tugboat engine, head aching. The sort of feeling which resolves me never to touch alcohol again.
To Park Square West for a Python writing meeting. A very good session. Our rather hastily-written and assembled ending up to the crucifixion reduces people to crawling the floor w
ith laughter. Simple expedients like funny voices finally triumphing over careful intellectual comment.
So all immensely cheered. The film now has an ending – which is something the Grail never had – and we seem to have successfully tackled the difficult area of the crucifixion – by treating it all with historical unemotionalism.
In the evening revel in the beauty of Loach’s Price of Coal. Script, camerawork, direction, acting – everything combines to warm and comfort with its Tightness and honesty. No artifice evident – a straightforward, highly competent piece of filmmaking. The best view of Yorkshire since Kes. It made me feel homesick – and said in fewer, funnier words than any polemical film, that working class life isn’t just noble or fine or any of those overblown words used by the non-working class – it’s a good life. Very funny, and it had all the production qualities I would like to achieve in Ripping Yarns.
Wednesday, March 30th
Morning writing session on Python. Though we work far fewer hours together now, the sessions are becoming more efficient.
Problems once so complex are being solved with a natural ease and unanimity which seemed impossible a year ago. Terry J will almost certainly direct. Gilliam may be in control of design. There is no room as yet for animation.
Thursday, March 31st
My bottom thrusts itself at me from The Guardian accompanied by a review from Derek Malcolm which begins ‘I like Jabberwocky’. He goes on at some length and it is a very complimentary, but not uncritical review. An enormous encouragement.
Time Out dismisses the film as a straining attempt to make people laugh, which doesn’t ultimately succeed. It seems to me there are two sorts of critics – one lot would prefer to like the things they review, the others prefer to dislike the things they review.
Friday, April 1st
Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years Page 51
