No rushes tonight as the projector has broken down, so avoid the rather cloying atmosphere of the unit-filled bar at the Sidi and go out to the Coq with the two Terrys and Anne and Rachel Henshaw.
The quiet shattered by the arrival of Spike Milligan! Spike is staying at the Skanes Palace for a two-week holiday, revisiting Second World War battlefields.
Relaxed a little by the wine, he starts to treat the assembled throng – Chris Langham,1 Carol Cleveland, Andrew McLachlan, Anne H, Rachel and myself – to Milligan’s potted précis of’Tomkinson’s Schooldays’ (he’s another fan of the school leopard line – which must be one of the most enduring last-minute ad-libs I ever came up with!), and the Yorkshire tale, and then ‘Parrot Sketch’ (the Norwegian Blue becomes the Arctic Grey, as Spike tells it).
Wednesday, October 4th, Monastir
A long and arduous morning in Matthias’ house. John Stanier is strapped into his Steadicam harness, which makes him look like a walking dentist’s console.
John C takes Reg at a frenetic pitch, which loses all the nuances that had us rolling about in rehearsal. John becomes hot, tired and rather touchy as he tries to relax into the performance.
We slog on for three hours solid. There are no tea breaks as such out here, but Cristina and other unit ladies regularly do the rounds of crew and actors with water, Coca-Colas, coffees, etc, rather like the WVS or Meals on Wheels. By lunchtime it’s finished and John stays on to do the Centurion and Matthias in the afternoon.
Helen rang later, but the line can be so indistinct I really can’t wait to see her and talk without crackles.
Thursday, October 5th
A rather touching reminder from Kim H Johnson2 in my pigeonhole at the hotel this morning – a card showing the Ribat and reminding us it’s nine years to the day when the first Python show was transmitted.
Out to the location in Sousse. Clouds hamper progress today. On the slopes outside the impressive city walls, a huge, nude statue of me as Pilate is hauled towards the city on an oxen-drawn cart.
Almost every hour, on the hour, one of the donkeys has sexual intercourse – which entertains the unit, extras and citizens of Sousse marvellously.
At one point I find myself standing beside the lady donkey with Eric.
‘How many times do you think she’s been banged today?’ I asked …
‘Including the crew?’ says El. The wag.
The BBC crew are still at work. They do seem to favour John, and John, who’s been strangely ill at ease performing, laps it up and is constantly to be found giving interviews behind caravans.
Spike Milligan turns up to do a part. He over-plays thoroughly and becomes very testy when asked to wait for the clouds to pass for a retake. Mind you, I rather feel for anyone who arrives to help out and is asked to do a role which involves saying ‘Let us pray1 before being trampled by 300 Tunisian extras.
Sunday, October 8th, Monastir
Take a long walk up the beach and, feeling well fatigued, get back to my room and enjoy the incomparable sensation of being quite mentally adjusted to doing nothing more than putting my feet up and steeping myself in Paul Scott’s The Raj Quartet.
The phone rings. It’s JC.’Have you got a couple of minutes, Mikey … ?’
So I find myself spending the next hour or so rewriting the legendary, oft-written Scene 62 again.1 Actually it turns out rather well, and we make each other laugh – and it is a lot better than what was there before.
John and I eat together at the Skanes Palace (international wine list and waiter syndrome) with John’s secretary, Joan Pakenham-Walsh. Joan’s cheery, extrovert company together with two bottles of very good red wine make for a happy evening.
Spike Milligan, white suit matching his fine, close-cropped white beard, wanders rather morosely into the dining room to ask us if Eric is usually more than five minutes late picking people up. He’s evidently eating out with them.
John is rather short-tempered about Spike. His self-righteousness is what irks JC. The self-righteousness of a man who one day is protesting against the killing of eels in biological experiments, and the next moment is shooting air gun pellets at kids who climb into his garden.
Monday, October 9th, Monastir
Start of week four. The nineteenth day of filming. We’d have shot almost two Ripping Yarns by now.
At the make-up house by 7.30. Tunisians, eager for work, cluster round the wrought iron gates of the two-storey villa lent to us as a wardrobe and makeup base. I have to shoulder my way through. They stare at me, unblinking stares.
Emerge three-quarters of an hour later as Pontius Pilate, in short grey wig and long white under-toga and, thus attired, pile into my Renault, under the half-smiling gaze of a beautiful dark-haired, dark-eyed little boy working with his father, who is building a wall from a dusty pile of rubble.
A delay for lighting, then a very gruelling day shooting the first Pilate scene. The need to keep the vital giggling ingredient fresh and spontaneous made it a little bit harder to play than an ordinary scene with set words and reactions. The success of this scene will depend on the genuineness of the guard’s reaction to Pilate. It can’t all be acted, it must be felt.
So I have to do a great deal of ad-libbing at the end of the scene – and by the end of the day I must have thought up over twenty new names for Biggus Dickus’ wife – ranging from the appallingly facetious Incontinentia Buttox to the occasional piece of inspiration which resulted in breakdown from the guards. Bernard McKenna in particular did the nose trick spectacularly – once right down my toga.
Tuesday, October 10th, Monastir
My two busiest days of filming are complete now – and so is Pilate, my hardest part. So I feel pleased. I think I managed to keep on top of it in quite trying circumstances – endless retakes for noises off, lighting, curtains flapping, Graham’s hat, etc. Last thing I remember: JC on Jonathan Benson, the assistant director, after one of his barked instructions for silence, or ‘skirt’ in Arabic: ‘That’s what a sergeant major would sound like if he’d been to Eton.’
Wednesday, October 11th, Monastir
The rushes include a liberal amount of copulating donkeys and some good stuff at the gates of Sousse. But I find myself becoming very angry now whenever I see John wearing his tiny beard and moustache make-up – which was designed for him when he complained about the discomfort of full beards. So the rest of the crowd look wonderful – absolutely convincing Biblical figures – and there, looming large on left of frame, is John looking like a sort of fourth-rate Turkish illusionist advertising on the back of Stage.
Dine with Eric, Elaine [Carew], Tania and Spike Milligan and his lady Shelagh. They hold hands lovingly. Eric is nodding off towards the end of the meal. A huge and tasty fish couscous is specially prepared and served up for us in a big china bowl – they do take trouble.
Spike relaxes quite quickly and becomes genial, slightly nostalgic and almost expansive. Notice that his eyes have a great expressive sadness in them. He could be a very moving tragic actor.
Some nice silly ideas come up – such as a trick bow tie which stays still whilst the entire body revolves – and Spike is genuinely touched when I remember sketches and ideas from Q5 and his other shows. He too is generous in his appreciation – in particular he compliments me on my pet-shop owner. Spike says he tends to identify with the fall guy or feed man in a sketch.
Thursday, October 12th, Monastir
Down in the lobby when a travel-stained bus pulls into the almost deserted car park and disgorges three Palin children, one wife, Chris Miller [Eric’s PA], Eric’s son Carey (almost indistinguishable from William).
Their arrival virtually doubles the occupancy rate of the entire Meridien and for a couple of hours the lobby and lifts are full of restlessly energetic English nippers bringing more life to the place than I’ve detected in five weeks.
Friday, October 13th, Monastir
A grey, overcast ride in at a quarter to seven for a one and a half
hour makeup session in preparation for Ben’s cell.
About 7.15 on this cold and unfriendly morning the heavens open and Elaine’s whitening of my body seems awfully symbolic. The rain is relentless; there’s no break in the clouds. Spirits sink. After three-quarters of an hour of make-up the decision is taken to abandon Ben for the day and to go into Matthias’ House for our weather cover scene.
Feeling suitably Friday thirteenth-ish, I trudge through the rain to the Sidi M, and wash all the grease off in Elaine’s bath. A good part of my gloom is disappointment at the thought of the family all waking to streaming rain and grey skies on their first morning in Tunisia.
Change into Francis and drive myself up to the Ribat. It’s a quarter to nine, the rain is heavier than ever, and the place is almost deserted. Rush into the nearest caravan, which happens to be Eric’s. Eric and I watch the rain soaking the scaffolding and threadbare plaster walls of what remains of Zeffirelli’s temple.
‘This is filming,’ Eric says, with a certain air of satisfaction.
At rushes this evening, I watch my endless takes of the first Pilate scene. Have never seen myself working so hard. Take after take – with instructions thrown out from behind the camera during the scene, making me seem like the dog at a sheep dog trial.
Monday, October 16th, Monastir
Up early (after three sessions on the loo during an eight-hour night). This time the weather looks more settled and the Ben cell scene goes ahead. Aided by a bicycle saddle and two wooden pegs for my feet, I’m able to hang from real iron handcuffs, ten feet up a wall.
The first take sounds tight and unfunny and this, allied to the discomfort of doing it, makes me feel rather depressed. But the problem is that my movements are so restricted if my arms are directly above my head, that I’m mainly concerned with surviving rather than performing.
Anyway, the camera breaks down at this point, so we have pause for consideration. Decide to lower the manacles. This makes a tremendous difference and, though it’s never very easy, I manage several takes full of the sarcastic vehemence that makes Ben funny.
The children and Helen come to the location for lunch. Rachel is quite frightened by my appearance and will not come near me.
Tuesday, October 17th, Monastir
I’m off by 3.15 in the afternoon and back to the Meridien for a swim, a run up the beach, a brief lie in the sun, a look at the Sunday Express for news of the Sheffields (both uninspiring draws) and a chance to see Rachel leaping into the pool – this time with no arm-bands – and swimming along under the water. So she becomes the youngest of all the Palins to learn to swim. She’s on marvellous form here now.
Sunday, October 22nd, Monastir
Hotel Meridien, twenty to five in the afternoon. It’s a sombre Sunday – heavy grey clouds have built up since this morning, locking in most of the sky.
Elgar plays on the tape recorder. Enigma Variations. The suite is painfully quiet now Helen and the children have gone. It’s back to being my comfortable cell.
The presence of Helen and the children had set a very different pace to this last week. The children swam as much as possible, Helen took Connie Booth to Sousse and was very proud of her achievement in getting her to haggle. Helen definitely was cut out for the cut and thrust of Tunisian market techniques. One man wanted to come back to the hotel with her, until he discovered she had three children – then he said he wouldn’t come after all.
On Saturday, after they’d all come in for a taste of Signor Memmo’s lunches, Tom decided he would like to appear in the afternoon’s filming, so he was supplied with a long robe and turban and looked very handsome. He was the only one of the Python children to have a go, but was very proud of himself. The room was packed and it was definitely one of the less comfortable scenes, but graced by the presence of the visiting George Harrison, who took the part of Mr Papadopolous, the impresario in charge of the Mount.
At least Tom could say he’d been in a scene with Beatles and Pythons.
Couldn’t really face the empty rooms of the suite – with traces of breakfast and freshly-crumpled beds – so I walked along the beach, then played my tennis match with John C. Playing solidly rather than cleverly I rattled him enough to take the first set 6–2. Great elation. But I relaxed and the wind began to strengthen (favouring the technically proficient player who could control his shots), John recovered his confidence and began to play me solidly, if not spectacularly, off the court.
Then Terry J dropped by – we drank a beer each then went into Sousse for Sunday lunch at the Lido. As cheerful and restorative to the spirits as ever. Body and soul brought together with grilled prawns and sole and perch and goat’s cheese, washed down with Tunisia’s best white wine – Domaine de Karim. We sat next to two Tunisian couples who work on the film, who insisted on sharing various of their dishes with us, giving us a taste of harrissa (the hot sauce), pomegranate, and showing us how to eat dates with butter.
After a leisurely lunch, we walked out onto the quay where two or three Russian cargo boats were unloading (Sunday being a half working day here), feeling all was very well with the world. Walked up through the narrow streets of the souk – the smell of leather mingling with the sweet aroma of the many confectionery stalls. Watched a cow’s head being skinned and cut up in a butcher’s – you’d never see that in England – past kids playing football (very well) and men hammering patterns onto brass plates for the tourists. Took mint tea in a café, then back to the docks. Decide that I feel safer in cities with the sea on one side …
I’ve just placed a call to London to see if they’ve arrived. Six thirty-five, they have … It’s raining in London. Feel a bond with them as I listen to the angry windswept sea in the darkness outside.
Monday, October 23rd, Monastir
Walking on the beach after breakfast I frame an idea for a Ripping Yarn – ‘Golden Gordon’, a soccer tale. It feels good, as the surge to write returns after all these weeks. I sit at a table in the sunshine and scribble away for a couple of hours. Then, having reached an impasse, lie in the sun by the pool and read through ‘Whinfrey’ to get a timing on it.
Eric and Tania – buoyant – join me and we have lunch together. Eric reads in the Daily Express that Nelson’s last words were in fact ‘Don’t throw me overboard, Hardy.’
In the afternoon I run along the beach, then write a couple of letters to Al L and my ma – and by a quarter to six it’s dark.
Eric, Tania, Charles McK, Terry J, Andrew M, Bernard and the Hamptons fill a table at the Café de la Plage et Coq. There is much singing of old English music hall numbers and First World War songs – at full voice, utterly drowning anyone else in the restaurant. A fine display of selfish and high-spirited behaviour. A release of a lot of tensions. The Coq treat us to a very tasty eau de vie-like liqueur and we toast the World’s Greatest, Most Long-Suffering and Least Flappable Waiter – Ali – with a rising chorus of’Ali, Ah, pride of our Sally’.
Tuesday, October 24th, Monastir
Farewell to Monastir.
I’m going to miss the place. I’ve shared a lot of experiences with the Hotel Meridien. The intense feelings of preparation for the movie and the five weeks of performing – with all the various degrees of tension, stress and strain which the peace of the Meridien has helped to smooth and minimise. In all its grand emptiness, it’s like leaving an old family home. The staff probably account for these feelings of sadness at departure. They have been universally friendly and good-natured. Yes, I shall miss them.
Gabes a nice, muddled town, at first glance, and the Hotel L’Oasis is down by the beach. The decoration is Russian twentieth century luxurious, but the two rooms I have (and two bathrooms) are pleasantly proportioned and have vaulted, white-painted ceilings.
Ate at the Ex-Franco Arabe Café de L’Oasis, to give it its full title, with John C and friend Charlotte. It turned out that most of the crew were in there, as well as dozens of locals, so we took an age to get served – despite JC breaking
a plate on the floor to attract the waiter’s attention.
Sunday, October 29th, Hotel L’Oasis, Gabes
Toy with the idea of treating Gabès as a series of abstract impressions – ‘Sea, smell of seaweed, spreading sands … hotel continuously alive with jarring sound of chairs on marble floors, tiredness, tat, two toilets, infinitely slow emptying baths, locals quick to laugh and equally quick to take offence – ’.
Long to return to England and really concentrate on writing. Urge to work carefully and thoroughly on a second novel grows daily. Together with a curiosity about Jill’s reaction to my first one – and a growing frustration with the tedium of film-acting.
Friday’s filming of the Sermon on the Mount was difficult – mainly because we had a crowd of 600 local extras. Prouder, more independent, less malleable folk than up in Monastir.
Ken Colley performed marvellously as Jesus – using a modern translation of the Beatitudes, which we’d decided on in preference to the St James version, because it felt less like a set up for a joke, and more of an attempt to portray Jesus as honestly as possible.
After the early takes, stunning in their recreation of the image of the Bible story, the extras started getting restless. It turned out that many of them had left their homes at 2.30 in the morning and had had neither food nor water since then.
At one point the crowd thought they were finished, and streamed from the Mount down towards the coaches, whilst Hammeda, one of our Tunisian assistants, pursued them screaming and shouting. The womenfolk had to be taken back early, because if they arrived back after sunset there would be hell to pay from the male villagers. All very different from the jolly, co-operative crowd who rolled on their backs at Monastir.
So to this Sunday. I sit listening to my latest favourite tape – Kate and Annie McGarrigle’s ‘Dancers with Bruised Knees’ – sipping a Glenlivet from the litre bottle which Helen brought two and a half weeks ago and which is half gone, and looking out onto the darkening sky and sea.
Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years Page 68
