Friday, July 29th
Today we dub ‘Stalag Luft 112B’ at the Centre. There are twenty-two music cues, however, so it’s not easy.
The Goodies are in the bar at lunchtime. Tim has been in Australia (Perth) for two months doing a long part in a stage play, just to see, as he put it, ‘if I could make people laugh again’.
The talk is of the two scripts for the new Goodies series which the BBC have rejected. One, Jim told me, was the first the BBC had rejected, and it was because it wasn’t funny. Bill, on the other hand, said it was about punk rock and the BBC couldn’t stomach it. Jimmy Gilbert came under attack for his pusillanimity – and apparently Tim had been the most aggressive of the lot with him. Times change. John C used to describe Tim as the only man who could get Hitler and Churchill to come to tea together.
Monday, August 22nd
Jill Foster rang to say that Python had been approached to appear in the Royal Variety Performance this year. She said that when the gnarled old showbiz pro who puts the show together rang her, he had been rendered practically speechless by the fact that she said she’d ask us and see, but there wasn’t a great chance we’d do it.1
Mother very excited when I told her. I saw Tim Brooke-T and Bill at the Holiday Inn. The Goodies haven’t been asked, Tim admitted. I told him to wait a week! Tim did it once with Marty Feldman, and he strongly advised me against it. The audience was made up of the rich and ruthless of British showbiz – the sort of men who, as Tim put it, ‘make chorus girls cry’.
Thursday, August 25th
A phone call from Tariq Ali, of all people, who wants me to write an appreciation of Groucho Marx, who died this week aged 86, for Socialist Challenge. Decline on the grounds that I don’t know enough about him, and suggest Ian Davidson. But Tariq doesn’t sound very interested – they’re really only after big names, these socialists.
Saturday, August 27th
A fine morning for Clive Hollick’s wedding party at Shepperton. We all drive over there in our Saturday best. The Old House is a perfect location. Tables have been set out on the verandah and the rich green lawn (well watered this year) stretches away, dominated by the great cedar tree. A band from Ronnie Scott’s plays, there’s sparkling wine and a buffet. Croquet and cricket on the lawn.
Don’t know many people, but Simon A is best man, resplendent in white suit and hat, dark blue shirt, blue tie and shoes. Looking like the Young Burl Ives. A best woman there as well, as it is a very egalitarian occasion. Simon tells some of Ronnie Scott’s old jokes, but they are rather borne away on the wind.
The Old House really is a remarkable relic of the days when film moguls built themselves headquarters which were as extravagantly theatrical as the films they made. As I wandered through it, marvelling at the richness of art nouveau plasterwork and fine stained glass windows, I felt a definite twinge of remorse that I was one of the four people who confirmed the decision to lease it off for 999 years to Ramport Ltd. Still, I rationalised through my glass of Veuve de Vernay, they will have much more money to look after it than we will.
Sunday, August 28th
Down to Dean Street in Soho for my postponed day on Eric’s Rutles film All You Need is Cash. They’re not ready, so I wander into Soho Square, which is a peaceful refuge and very quiet today without cars or bustle. A few tramps sitting or lying on the benches.
We end up shooting in Golden Square, near Piccadilly. I’m playing the part of Eric Manchester (Derek Taylor), who is being interviewed and giving confident denials about the ‘petty pilfering’ at Rutle Corps – whilst behind him the entire building is being emptied. George Harrison – complete with grey wig – interviews me. Later Ronnie Wood turns up to be a Hell’s Angel.
It all seems very pleasantly disorganised. The cameraman/director Gary is American. He shoots everything hand-held. It’s a totally different world from the careful, painstaking preparations of Hall and Franklin on Ripping Yams.
A lunchtime drink in a quiet, uncluttered pub in Poland Street with Neil I, Eric, Ronnie Wood and George H. But only minutes after saying how nice it is to be in Soho on a Sunday, we’re kicked out as it’s two and drinking-up time. England, oh England, you perverse and silly land.
Back home for a wash and then out to Richmond at the invitation of Ron Wood. He lives in one of the prime sites in all London. On top of Richmond Hill, with a view over the Thames as it curves round and away into the trees.
Ron is living with wife Chrissie and Jess, their son, in the cottage down the hill from the main house. It’s a pretty little cottage, not too vast, and makes a change from the usual cavernous rooms and feeling of aimless spaciousness which pop stars with lots of money usually seem to live in.
He plays a tape of their most recent concert – at a small club in Tokyo, the same club where Margaret Trudeau’s1 friendship with the Stones was first noticed by the press. They played the club unannounced – everyone had come to hear a popular local band.
Anyway, after watching the sun swell and turn from yellow through orange to crimson before sinking triumphantly below the western horizon, we walked down to the cottage and drank wine and Chrissie Wood showed me round the big house and we looked out at a truly stunning view – the Thames in its valley under a full moon. The river was silver, the trees that crowded protectively to its banks were opaque, mysterious. London in 1977, and yet that view cannot have changed for hundreds of years.
On a less romantic note, she showed me the splintered door frame which was nearly ripped from the wall when fifteen policemen burst in to search her bedroom for drugs.
Monday, August 29th
Watch repeat of Three Men in a Boat. It’s a beautifully and confidently created world. As Eric said when he rang me later, ‘Everything else seems like television.’ But I felt that it was a little too meditative, a little distanced, at times – if Frears had gone just a bit closer to the characters he might have given some substance to their strange friendship. Impressive, though.
Friday, September 2nd
A Python meeting at eleven to discuss what needs to be rewritten, if anything, on the Brian film script. Because the retyped version only became available yesterday, no-one’s had much chance to read it, so we fall to talking of dates, budgets, etc.
John and Eric have very little use, at the moment, for England. John says he’s made a resolution to stay away from England during January, February and March because the weather’s so awful. Eric, having nearly completed the Rutles, will be relaxing and recuperating for several months in the Caribbean.
Tunisia is decided upon for all the filming, so we set aside ten weeks – starting on April 10th (the nearest date after the end of this financial year). John wants to take a masseur, and thinks the whole unit could avail themselves of his services. Eric wants to have a chef specially for ourselves. John suggests only a five-day week (which I heartily agree with). Eric wants First Class travel everywhere, and so on.
Terry G is in France (just as well, for he would be unable to watch this spectacle without making a bit of noise!) and Terry J is very quiet.
I put my foot down over writing abroad in January and March as preparation for the film. My life is here in London, with my family. I love travel, but I love them more. However we agree to meet and write and read and rehearse in the West Indies in January. Even writing this shocks me with its self-indulgence. Is this really the best way to spend our money?
We part on good terms – the great thing about arguments over style is that they never really scratch the surface of our personal relations. We all know we need each other and we all agree to differ. But at least we vetoed a special chef for the actors – on the grounds that there should be good food for everybody.
So Python winds down until January 1978 in the West Indies.’See you next term,’ shouts Eric, as I disappear into the rain.
Monday, September 5th
To the BBC to look at ‘Moorstones’ and ‘Andes’, which are being previewed prior to tonight’s showing to an
audience.
Horrified to find – not one minute into ‘Andes’ – that between them Hughes and Millichope have failed to leave sufficient background for the opening titles. Some ten seconds are missing. I really can’t believe that, after nearly a year, these shows are still not complete.
Fortunately Alan Bell, a PA who is in nominal charge of this evening’s audience recording, and Jim Franklin, who fortuitously pops in to see the preview, tackle the situation very coolly and we resign ourselves to some hasty editing before this evening.
To the Television Theatre in Shepherd’s Bush to check on the night’s recording. The audience watch the show on an Eidophor screen in black and white and on monitors above their heads in colour. Terry and I do a silly warm up and we kick off with ‘Across the Andes by Frog’. Not a great deal of laughter and, when it does come, it grates horribly against the laid-back atmosphere of the piece.
At the end, when I ask the audience how many would rather see these shows with the help of recorded laughter, or without, the withouts are in a three to one majority.
Tuesday, September 6th
Much telephonic activity over the shows. Go to the BBC at lunchtime to watch a playback, which just confirms my feelings last night. ‘Andes’ is clearly wrong with an audience. As Anne Henshaw said, it’s a very personal sort of show – one doesn’t want other people’s interpretations imposed.
Wednesday, September 7th Southwold
Drinking fourth coffee of the morning, on arrival at Southwold, when the phone rings. It’s Jimmy Gilbert. He’s seen the playback of ‘Moorstones’ and thinks that the audience reaction is so good that it would be a waste not to use it. Quotes Aubrey Singer, the head of BBC2, who has told Jimmy that they have had a 100% failure rate on BBC2 on comedy shows with no laughter.
Mother seems well. She worries more as she gets older, but seems to have many more regular friends than when Dad was alive. Her chief worry is whether to move into the centre of Southwold or not and the feeling of isolation out at Reydon.
Monday, September 12th
It gave me real pleasure to visit Neal’s Yard today. The sun was shining, there was a crisp and clear September freshness in the air. The builders were at work completing the restaurant on one side of the Neal’s Yard triangle, and the wholefood store was busy sorting sacks of brown rice on the other. A bustle of activity, of which Redwood is a part.
Next door to Redwood is ALS – Associated London Scripts – a rather chic reception area leading to agents for Denis Norden and many others. And at almost the apex of the triangle, the rich mix is completed by White’s the Armourers!
André [Jacquemin] and I listened to his compilation so far of the new Python album material. It sounds rather good – tightly packed Python gems. After discussion of the contents, I leave André to finish putting it all together – he’ll drop a cassette in to me at home and we can edit further after that.
Up to sunny Belsize Park for a very hard game of squash with Terry, followed by a trip to the Flask.
Al Alvarez is in the Flask. Terry offers the literary lion the first edition of The Vole. Alvarez’ eyes don’t exactly light up. ‘Oh yes … it’s Richard Boston’s thing, isn’t it?’Terry, glad at least of some positive reaction, affirms. ‘… He’s such a tit, isn’t he?’ muses the poetry critic of The Observer as he flicks through.
Alvarez seems very cynical about the readership – ‘city countrymen’ he calls them, uncharitably. But I know what he means, in a way.
Tuesday, September 13th, San Sebastian
To San Sebastian today for the 25th SS Film Festival – in which Jabberwocky rears its beautifully-shot head in the ‘New Creators’ section. (‘New Creators’ sounds like some awful Biblical quiz game in which contestants have seven days to … etc, etc.)
Wednesday, September 14th, San Sebastian
As I soaked in my bath this morning, reading with admiration Kingsley Amis’ Ending Up, I had a flash of inspiration. For my next project I would try and write a novel. A book. On my own. Cheered with relief and excitement at this simple solution.
After a breakfast of eggs, bacon, croissant and coffee, Terry, Hilary1 and I drove to the eastern part of town, where we eventually found the Savoy Cinema, in an unremarkable street of shops and houses and garages. I really couldn’t imagine who would come out to see a film here at what is, for the Spanish, almost crack of dawn. But amazingly some forty or fifty Spaniards – definitely non-press and non film people, some of them students, some looking like lorry drivers – arrive in this improbable street at breakfast time to watch Jabberwocky.
At least they’re rewarded with a very good print, but there are no subtitles. It must be totally mystifying to them.
We went into a coffee bar next to the cinema. Met a young, curly-haired English producer, who was showing a rather remarkable film (after ours) at the Savoy at twelve. It was a documentary account of how a small village-full of Portuguese peasants coped with an almost overnight transition from being vassals of a feudal baron to free men, during the liberation period of the early 1970s.
Tremendous feeling of history in the making. What power to the people means. A fascinating document, with an almost Pythonic, but true, scene, where an old worker has to be persuaded to give his spade to the cooperative. He clearly doesn’t understand the principle. ‘If I give you my spade,’ he says grimly, tightening his grip on it, ‘you’ll want everything else – my clothes – I’ll be naked …’ The peasant organiser has to explain there and then the principles of socialism at their most basic.
Terry G and I and Peter Willetts, the director, sat and watched it for over two hours. I’d hardly noticed that I’d spent over five hours in the Savoy, San Sebastian, and it was only lunchtime.
Willetts doesn’t see much chance of the big companies buying his film and I can see why not. It’s like Al Levinson’s books – honest, straight and with plenty of detail and interest, but very little commercial angle, very little to hit an audience with and make a reader/viewer see this film as opposed to 101 others.
Friday, September 16th
I am still resolved to begin the novel. Today I ‘firmed up’ my decision by ringing Jill F and asking her to keep me up to the mark.
I reckon I will allow myself three months – up till Christmas Day – to finish the work, and by that time there should be enough to tell me whether I can do it or not. Jill reckons I should aim to complete roughly 60,000 words by the end of November – just over two months – and leave December for edits or rewrites.
Monday, September 19th
A bad week for starting novels. Typewriter isn’t working properly and meetings every day for the next three days.
Today is the Shepperton board meeting. Drive down there for one o’clock. Remember that rather sickening day half a year ago when I stood, as now, in the outer room of Graham Ford’s office, only to hear that Superman had decided to go, and there was nothing else around.
Today it was different. A picture, Dominique,1 is starting a six-week shoot at the studio today and, even as I was staring at a Jabberwocky publicity photo of my bum pinned on the board with the words ‘One of our directors at work’ written in underneath, the door to Ford’s office opened and three men appeared. We all shook hands and nodded and with great relief I noted that they were bringing a picture in rather than taking it out. They were the advance guard for the new Pink Panther movie.
A third picture, Force iofrom Navarone, is almost certainly coming in to use H Stage (as Star Wars did), which, since its condemnation and sale to the council, is suddenly in demand [largely for its hangar-like size].
The bad news is still from Superman. Some £30,000 is owed altogether, which is not so serious. What is serious is a £150,000 deferment which, if they don’t pay, could hit us rather hard. They are being chased.
We look around the newly painted and refurbished dressing rooms and the editing room block. All look satisfactory. Good colour schemes and the rooms are inexpensively smart.
But the big new heating programme (being financed by the Ramport deal) is not yet completed and today heating is off in much of the site.
But generally speaking an optimistic day and, walking down to the river at the end of the afternoon and looking out over the brackish pond where the Fishfinger family in Jabberwocky had their home, I couldn’t help feeling a deep, sentimental regard for Shepperton – not the sort of feelings one usually associates with a business – more like an old school or college!
Wednesday, September 21st
Today is Redwood/Signford day. Down to the studio for one o’clock and lunch with André, Bob Salmon2, Anne Henshaw (who Gilliam told me on Monday had split up with Michael, though I’ve heard no more) and Grace Henderson. A Kiplingesque name for a Kiplingesque lady, an oriental auditor, who effortlessly bandies international financial chit-chat with a beautiful eastern smile and an intimate knowledge of the English tax system.
We eat at Mon Plaisir in Monmouth Street, an unpretentious, small, cheerful, good quality French restaurant only yards from the studio.
Waiter in mid-service recognises me from ‘le moyen age’ – Jabberwocky. He says ‘Many people in Paris like what you do.’ I return the compliment.
See Terry G in the evening. He is very enthusiastic about the cover design (the self-forming box) for the new ‘Best Of album, which TG wants to call Monty Python’s Instant Record Collection. He wants material for the cover – blurb of any kind and lots of false titles for LPs, so the novel is put off for another day.
Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years Page 55
