Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years

by Palin, Michael

  After a good talk, Denis suggests that he and I go over to see John Calley, who lives mid-way down the island.

  John Calley, friend to the talented (viz Kubrick, Lome Michaels), genial face full of neatly-cropped beard and big, black-rimmed spectacles, is wearing a colourful, light wool topcoat over a Superman T-shirt and green striped slacks with shoes and no socks.

  He takes us through endless sitting rooms and libraries until we settle on a room to sit in – the size of the coach house where eight of us are living at Sag Harbor! It turns out that he is only on Fisher’s Island for a month of the year. Denis confirms that the summer population may be 3,000, but in winter it shrinks to 300 all-year residents.

  Denis goes to phone the airline, leaving me with Calley. Decide to go in at the deep end and ask him if he will look at the three new Ripping Yarn films I’ve brought over and advise on whether they may be combined as a theatrical movie in the US.

  As soon as we start talking ‘business’, I find myself talking easily and constructively to him, rather as I can with Lome. Calley does not react in any stereotyped Hollywood way – he muses, reflects and suggests, gently and amusingly, not playing the mogul. I felt contact being made on a sensible and sensitive level and I will be very interested to hear his reaction to the Yarns, which he promises to view next week.

  From Calley’s we drive in the Black Bronco down the road (mostly unmade, with occasional strips of tarmac) back to White Caps. The weather is holding firm, but overcast – the flights are going. The Palins are lifted off Fisher’s Island in two planes – Helen, Willy and Rachel first, then myself and Tom a few minutes later.

  A useful visit, but I’m glad to be back in the cosy, crowded warmth of Sag Harbor and the coach house. I still feel uncomfortable and a little uneasy in enormous houses. For me they are still like living in museums. It sets me to thinking about our little home and ‘living in the community’ – as Al puts it.

  Enough philosophising. This short trip and the talks of August 10th/11th with Denis and Calley could alter all our circumstances within a year. We may just have to spend, throw away or give away an awful lot of money – being accepted on Fisher’s Island seems to mean that.

  Sunday, August 12th, Sag Harbor

  It sounds to be raining every time I wake in the night and there’s a strong wind too. All rather cosy inside our house.

  Al comes in at ten – I’m just looking at the first Python poster of the Brian campaign, which appears this morning in the New York Times. Al looks worried and says a ‘North-Easter’ has set in and high wind and rain could persist all day. Temperatures must have dropped almost 30 degrees over the weekend and I roll on my sweater for the first time.

  It’s the day, suddenly, amazingly, for a log fire. And where else but America would you buy a log at the local delicatessen. Smoked salmon and a log, please. It comes ready-wrapped with instructions on how to unwrap and light it. Extremely – dare I say – sensible and a Godsend on a rip-roaring wet day when you have no other dry wood to burn. So, what with our instant log fire, our resident screaming wind and lashing rain, we settle into our (now) traditional lox, bagels and champagne Sunday lunch, which the last two weeks have been eaten sweatily, in shorts, trying to avoid the heavy, omnipresent heat.

  Monday, August 13th

  Try to make farewells as quick and impermanent as possible, for I know Al will miss all the life at the coach house.

  This has been a great children’s holiday, and they have been generally easy company too. Though perhaps my list of books read – one Anthony Powell, ninety pages of a Steinbeck, fifty pages of a Levinson work in progress – testifies to the way they dominated the holiday. I feel good, though, and I am looking forward to home and writing.

  The New York-London flight passes unmemorably. It’s efficient and notable only for the sight of very high seas and white caps and breaking waves on the approach to Cornwall. I’ve never seen the sea in such turmoil.

  Tuesday, August 14th

  Within a quarter hour of arrival at Gospel Oak, the phone contacts begin. A series of quite important calls. Bryon Parkin from BBC Enterprises calls to say that ‘his colleagues’ at TV Centre have assured me that there would be insurmountable problems from unions in the way of a theatrical release for the Ripping Yarns.

  What a complete Beeb man is Parkin. He seems to have about as much drive as Rachel’s tricycle and has consistently failed to come up with the goods on anything I’ve asked him.

  Alan Bell calls to confirm dates for the three new Yarns – beginning Monday, September 24th at 9.25. He tells me that John H-D has viewed the three shows and recommended laugh tracks on them all. Alan Bell softens this other bit of BBC recalcitrance by saying that he, too, watching them on TV, felt the audience helped. Back to square one there. But, again, I don’t feel angry or even disappointed. The holiday helped.

  Terry Gilliam tells me that Eric was so unhappy with the Python sound-track album André and I had produced, that he is working on a replacement. The objection was, I’m told, basically to the live album, audience idea. I feel not bitter, but just frustrated. I was never wholly keen on the live album, Eric was away and quite inaccessible for quick decisions and Warner’s wanted the album quick. So my work was wasted. I’m quite glad it at least stirred other Pythons into some sort of action, and I shall send back £1,000 of the £1,500 fee I took for my work on it. An episode in my creative career that I shall happily forget.

  Thursday, August 16th

  The jet-lagged Palin household (still living in US time) finally rose around ten. I see from the paper that the white-capped waves which I noticed on the approaches to Cornwall on Tuesday morning have so far claimed seventeen lives. As we sat rather comfortably in our First Class lounge, dabbing Cooper’s Oxford on dull croissants, the yachtsmen in the Fastnet Race were direcdy below us, fighting huge storms, forty-foot waves and the worst conditions the race has ever run into.

  My cold is still heavy, but after a morning’s work on letters and phone calls I drive down in sunshine and scudding cloud to Neal’s Yard.

  Eric arrives heavily bearded. His land in the Var has been razed to the ground by a forest fire, poor bugger. Graham is here too, and Terry G. We listen to the ‘new’ album – which is the stereo soundtrack without laughs, which evidently all the Pythons prefer. I must say the selection sounds lifeless, but Eric and Graham’s ad-libbed links are funny.

  At the end, all present OK the new album, but without enthusiasm. André does not look happy at the prospect of working for two more days – and probably nights – to complete this one. Eric and Graham will have to supervise the work. I refuse.

  Friday, August 17th

  Opening day for Brian in New York and Los Angeles. It seems difficult to grasp that we will actually be starting to get our money back, as from this evening.

  Terry J rang from New York to say that there was a queue of one at the Cinema One at first light this morning – and he had a copy of the Ripping Yarns book.

  But Canby’s review in the New York Times was a rave and that the ‘Post’ and ‘News’ too were good. So far a clean sweep of reviews.

  Saturday, August 18th

  At lunchtime I cycle up to the Freemasons for a drink with GC, John Tomiczek and Bernard McKenna.

  They all came down to inspect No. 2. Graham quietly pottering and muttering about all the bills he still has to face from Odd Job. Still, he’s driving a hired Mercedes, which Euro Atlantic found for him, and seems well, though a little quiet since he gave up the booze. Bernard as big and warm as ever. A lovely man. Rachel takes to him immediately.

  I take the boys to St Martin’s Lane Odeon to see The Spaceman and King Arthur – jolly tiring Disney wholesomeness sticks in the gut of a true cynic, but by the end its sort of charm won even me over. John Le Mesurier playing an exact replica of his Jabberwocky role – standing just behind the king and getting wonderful laughs from beautifully thrown asides.

  Sunday, August 19th

>   A call from Denis on Fisher’s Island to tell me that the audiences are rolling into Brian. Warner’s hoped for an $8,000 take at Cinema One on opening day and took $13,000. In Los Angeles all the movie houses showing Brian are good. In the Python stronghold of Orange County, one movie theatre took as much on opening day as it did in a week of Grail.

  Wednesday, August 22nd

  I have endeavoured, to help Anne and everyone else, to try and bring the five Pythons present in the UK together for a chat. After many time-consuming phone calls, a meal is arranged for tonight.

  At L’Etoile by 8.30. When I arrive Cleese is waiting.

  JC and I talked of future plans. Once again, as so often in the last few months, I caught the feeling that Python had come full circle. After ten years, climaxed by what sounds to be a successful opening of Brian in the US, John is telling me how he would like to work together on something. A real April ’69 conversation between us. It’s nice to feel, as John says, that we do work well off each other. No conclusions were reached when Graham, then Eric and TG finally arrived.

  JC made the point that in the next Python film we should perhaps stick less to our rigid writing combinations and write with more fluidity. He thought this would help Eric, who always wrote by himself. ‘I like writing by myself,’ Eric countered, rather defensively.

  I said I would rather not work on a new Python script for a full year, JC having proposed that we should all ‘go somewhere very nice and just talk for two or three weeks about the subject.’ I was called selfish by Eric. JC accused him of bullying. TG came in, as he said, to ‘bale me out’, by stating that he was not interested in working on another Python movie until he had completed something of his own. Graham said nothing.

  But there is remarkable agreement thus far on the main points – that we should do another movie, that it should be completed within three to three and a half years from now, and that World War II is a good area to start thinking in.

  Thursday, August 23rd

  Drive out to Shepperton for a board meeting.

  An efficient meeting, followed by a walk around the site. There have been radical improvements in almost every area which so depressed me six weeks ago. The canteen is cleaner and better equipped, the toilets cleaned, the on-site mess has been drastically reduced and, with the smart new gatehouse and opening of ‘Studios Road’ as a symbol of this regeneration, the place is suddenly well on the way to looking an attractive and exciting place to work.

  Great news that we will probably be able to rent ‘H’ Stage back, for a very reasonable fee of £92,000 for five years, from the council – impoverished by Thatcher’s local spending cuts. At present a Flash Gordon forest set, full of swirling tendrils and rubber lianas, fills the place, at a cost of over $1 million in construction fees.

  Friday, August 24th

  T Gilliam arrives. He’s been writing Brazil with Alverson1 all week. He looks a bit unwell. I think he feels their writing combination is not working as well as it should. He’s also in the middle of a debilitating hassle with Warner’s over the poster. They are determined to use their own wacky in-house ads that they first showed us in LA in June, and which we all immediately and instinctively disliked. But TG and Basil have been unable to produce our own strong alternative. Basil has now given up and Denis O’B, who really doesn’t know quite why we’re making a fuss over the Warner’s poster, is trying to heal the gap.

  Saturday, August 25th

  Get up a little earlier than I should to buy Variety. Brian is ‘Big 65G’ in New York. There is a full-page ad extolling our opening grosses and an editorial piece headed ‘Is Holy Screed Fair Game For Hokum?’ – which is a fine example of the mid-twentieth century Variety style, and to which the answer is – all together now – if it makes money, yes!

  I think that Python has actually stolen a march on the critics with this one. As one admitted, he really didn’t know how to begin a critical assessment of the movie. Similarly, trade press, though obviously liking the movie, are still a little wary – like children in a playground who’ve just found a huge, unopened box of chocolate and aren’t quite sure how much to enjoy it.

  Monday, August 27th

  Just musing with Helen over our supper that we have not had one phone call all day, when the instrument of terror tinkles. It’s Anne to say that some Jewish groups in the US are offended by Brian and are counselling their followers not to see the movie.

  There are worse things going on in the world. Today the Provisional IRA took ‘credit’ for blowing up Lord Mountbatten’s yacht, killing Mountbatten, his fourteen-year-old grandson and another young boy, and wounding four others. Two hours later they killed fourteen soldiers in an ambush.

  The Mountbatten thing makes me feel almost physically sick.

  Saturday, September 1st

  The hot, dry weather continues.

  Helen tidies the house like a maniac as soon as she hears Uncle David1is coming, and it gleams and sparkles by the time the Vice-Chancellor of Loughborough arrives.

  A lunch for ten, then we sit around for a while. I do not bring out the copy of Variety I bought this morning, which has one entire page devoted to the condemnations of various religious groups.’Catholic Org Rap Orion For Brian’, ‘Rabbinical Alliance Pours On Condemnation of Life of Brian, ‘Lutheran Broadcast Slam at Life of Brian – Crude, Rude’. It looks as though we may become a major force for ecumenical harmony.

  The next page shows that there are as many of open mind as there are of closed – we are the 21st top-grossing movie, despite playing at only three sites.

  Uncle David has a habit of pointing to various domestic improvements we’ve had done at great expense and enquiring heartily ‘You’ve made this, have you, Michael?’ I plead incompetence and feel very much the flaccid aesthete in his company.

  Monday, September 3rd

  Up at seven and out and running down Oak Village by ten past1. A quiet, windless morning with much cloud. Straight up to the crest of Parliament Hill, then through beech and oak woods to Kenwood. A half dozen other runners and as many people again walking their dogs.

  I do feel much better prepared for the day. This should be the start of the ‘new work’ season.

  Wednesday, September 5th

  Attack Parliament Hill in the gleaming early morning sunlight, a haze of warmth to come, through which trees and spires can be glimpsed from across broad fields. The very best morning so far – the freshness of the air and the shafts of sunlight piercing the dark ceiling of oaks and beeches are quite dazzling.

  Mind you, I can only move with difficulty for the rest of the day.

  George Harrison calls. He has just come back from appearing in court in his continuous saga of the fight for Allen Klein’s Beatle money. He said he was very nervous before taking the stand (he went to the lavatory three times before he even left for the courthouse). He went to see Brian – found a one-third black audience and a row of orthodox Jews – all enjoying it.

  But he does tell me of an exquisite piece of justice. Whom should George find himself in the first class lounge at Kennedy with, but Bernard Delfont – the man who turned down Life of Brian. George was not backward in going forward and in an informal way enquired whether or not Bernie was acquainted with the fact that Python had taken $i million already. George thanked him profusely. A heartfelt thanks – echoed by us all.

  With Brian storming the US box office, Denis was increasingly keen to fly the Pythons to America to discuss our future together.

  Thursday, September 6th

  Up to 80 today as the hot weather continues. A poem from Norman Rosten – ‘Good news, about spokesmen for Catholics and Jews’ – inspired by the ecumenical outcry.

  Denis O’Brien calls. He is assiduous in his efforts to make us all want to come over next week and anxious to assure me, whom I think he sees as chief opposition, that it will be worthwhile.

  This evening all the Pythons meet at Anne’s to discuss it. As we sit around, it’s John who a
sks ‘Isn’t there someone missing?’We all agree that we have this sensation whenever the Python group assembles nowadays. The unknown Python. The present ‘seventh’ Python (taking over from Neil Innes) arrives a moment or two later in the person of George Harrison.

  To Odin’s for a nice meal and too much wine. Eric, over a glass of champagne, checks round the table, revealing that three Pythons are broke – himself, GC and TJ – and three aren’t. George tells tales of the Beatles – of the hugely dominant Yoko who has reduced J Lennon to a housewife, of George’s liking for Paul and his ‘ego’, and Ringo who’s … ‘You know, very simple’. Other little glimpses into the lives of the rich and famous – like the fact that George admits (with a smile acknowledging the absurdity) that he doesn’t buy clothes any more. Clothes come to him.

  And, having once again outlasted all other diners, we meander back to Park Square West. It’s a full moon and the entire kerb is taken up with Python cars – George’s little black Porsche, John’s dirty Rolls, my Mini, Terry J’s yellow Volkswagen Polo, Gilliam’s mighty yellow Volkswagen tank and G Chapman’s rented Mercedes.

  Loud farewells, door slams, car tyres reversing on the road and the Python fleet heads off in the moonlight to find a way out of Regent’s Park.

  Wednesday, September 12th, Plaza Hotel, New York

  Fixx would have been proud of me.1 Knowing from previous experience that I would not sleep much after six this morning and spurred on by the gradually expanding pink-gold rim around Central Park, promising another clear, hot day, I did my ten minutes’ warm-up and forsook the thickpile carpets and the marble halls of the Plaza for the worn and scruffy herbiage of Central Park.

  It was worth the effort, for I ran well and easily and enjoyed passing the Guggenheim and the Frick and the Met before most New Yorkers were up. But as the time neared seven joggers poured in from all the entries and exits. Very different to the solitude of the Heath.