Shooting 007: And Other Celluloid Adventures (10 page)

We were filming in the departure lounge of Le Bourget Airport; the same lens had remained on the camera throughout the entire day of filming. Behind the lens the 85 gelatine filter was sitting comfortably inside the camera; the filter was safe and well protected so there would be no reason to touch it again throughout the day.

My excuse: at the time, gelatine filters were regarded as expensive items, with camera assistants at Pinewood encouraged to be economical with them, which is exactly what this diligent assistant was doing by cutting the filter to cover the gate’s aperture before sealing it down with Sellotape to prevent the filter from moving.

The day’s filming went smoothly, with Harry grateful for a sensible schedule to meet, as was Guy – who successfully completed his call sheet that day with everything appearing to be well. However, in the process of breaking down the camera, I removed the lens to discover – to my horror– that the gelatine filter had moved and now covered only half of the camera gate aperture! One could not imagine a worse disaster for a camera assistant – truly shock-horror time. I froze in total disbelief at what faced me as we had been filming like this all day. Presumably the filter had become dislodged when first inserted into the camera, so one thing was certain: I had not checked the filter through the lens port when it had been inserted. It was a simple, basic elementary requirement and clearly an inexcusable mistake for Harry’s so-called diligent camera assistant to make, but also one I could not hide from!

So came the moment of truth. A feeling of being alone, out in the cold, total anxiety, happy to die there and then, preferably while listening to Mozart’s Requiem to help me on my way. With no music, I needed to face up to the consequences. With no defence to offer, I straight away explained to Harry what had happened, admitting my mistake in forgetting the obvious routine check, knowing well that he would remind me of that responsibility. Now I expected the worst to happen, with Harry’s loud opinion of me echoing around the airport as I fully anticipated being fired.

The Gypsy and the Gentleman
(1958). From left to right: Patrick McGoohan and Melina Mercouri on the horse, with Keith Michell in the white shirt holding her hand. I was focus assistant, with Jimmy Bawden operating the camera; cinematographer Jack Hildyard stands behind the camera with director Joe Losey.

The unit poses on a stage at Pinewood Studios in front of a painting of the German pocket battleship
Admiral Graf Spee
for the end-of-picture unit still on
Battle of the River Plate
(1956), where the lowest form of life sits in the front row clinging on to his trusty clapperboard. Cinematographer Chris Challis stands in front of the ship with director Michael Powell seated behind me. I think the woman on my right is the continuity lady Bette Harley.

However, my expectations were not met by the reality. To my surprise, Harry was calm, in total self-control. Quietly he spoke to me, making sure he understood how this had occurred, though still doubting that I could make such a silly mistake as this. It was as if Harry was looking for a way to divert the blame. Was the guv trying to protect me? If so, I was not helping by admitting it was my mistake.

After accepting the situation, Harry walked over to Guy, who was now some distance away enjoying the day’s successful shoot, chatting with artistes while I waited nervously by my camera, where soon I would learn of my expected fate. Watching the expressions on their faces from a distance, I could only imagine what the two were talking about, with the obvious repercussions which would surely follow from this terrible disaster. Although I could not hear their words, their faces clearly suggested that my career was about to end. A lifetime seemed to pass before Guy walked over to me with Harry a few steps behind. He looked directly at me and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

‘Alec … Don’t worry about this; sometimes these things happen.’ He smiled. ‘We will try to catch up tomorrow!’

To this day, even as I write of this episode many years later, tears comes to my eyes as I think back to Guy’s compassion towards a junior assistant, his understanding of my pain when he probably had other ideas as to what he would really like to do to me. I would understand that, but that was not Guy Green’s way. Perhaps it was Harry and Guy’s understanding of a tricky situation and their sympathy for a junior assistant who had made an elementary mistake that did not allow him to end up as the sacrificial lamb.

It is necessary that I include this item in my career history – a narrow escape not forgotten. Even so, it could not end there; at the appropriate time, out of earshot, Harry would let me know what he really thought of my lack of diligence and of course I would have expected no less from the guv! Although this tragedy would haunt me through the years I would surely learn from that experience; mistakes would never happen again through my lack of concentration. Yet with all that happened, whether it was fate or good fortune, luck or Divine intervention, whatever excuse I may offer, a trump card came to my rescue.

On location in Canada in 1957, while filming
High Tide at Noon
, directed by Philip Leacock with Eric Cross as the cinematographer.

The next morning we were scheduled to film exteriors alongside the aircraft on the tarmac. It was raining hard with the forecast expecting the conditions to persist all day, making exteriors no longer possible. Guy quickly decided to move back into the departure lounge and retake the previous day’s work, which allowed me to believe that it was only the price of film stock wasted – a poor excuse, I know, but at the time I needed to believe this. However, the mental charge I placed on myself would be far greater. As you see, it still haunts me to this day. I’m truly sorry Guy … Harry … I let you both down!

House of Secrets
was a story of counterfeiting with spying set in Paris. A cruel press called the film a ‘box-officer sleeper’, with the director described as ‘one of David Lean’s cinematographers’. Michael Craig played the role of the hero, with support coming from Anton Diffring, Gerrard Oury, Geoffrey Keen, Brenda De Banzie and David Kossoff, all well-known names from a past era. However, my heroes were Harry and Guy, who I truly believe saved my career.

It was necessary to pause and think twice before writing this next chapter of my life, particularly after my admission of guilt, which inevitably brings the challenge to be more open with my ‘private journey’. I am what I am, a human being who made a mistake, but we all make mistakes from which we learn, accept the experience and move on. I have promised to be honest and clear in my writing and so it now becomes necessary for me to revisit the past and tell of a personal experience that some will surely scoff at, while others who have experienced similar events would prefer to remain silent.

Flashback: our lives are a series of events. One thing that came from the hostilities of war and the bombing of London was a sense of togetherness, a bonding of neighbours and friends sharing their concerns with each other during those dark days. Should a neighbour pass you in the street, you would get a smile or a nod of recognition, a friendly gesture before night fell, when the German bombers would return to do their worst.

With this in mind, let me tell of a polite old gentleman, easily recognisable, bent over his walking stick as he shuffled along the pavement. Although we never knew his name, this kindly man always turned his head and smiled in acknowledgement as he went on his way. Ten years had passed since the war had come to an end; life had returned to normal and the old man was still living nearby, close to a skeleton church which had been destroyed by incendiary bombs during the Blitz.

Although visits to the cinema were principally for entertainment, for me they were also a source of learning; to some extent they were my private film school. Sharing in this dream world my girlfriend Lesley would join me on visits to the cinema, or we might go dancing or to other leisure pursuits with friends. Slowly we were becoming creatures of habit – wonderful days of youth. With the entertainment over, we would end the evening at our favourite spot to continue our courting, parking the car outside the same burnt-out church; the ruined building was close to both our homes. As you would imagine, in the early hours there would be no one around in these quiet peaceful surroundings – the perfect setting for romance while others slept in their warm beds.

One night we came out of the dance hall to find it was snowing hard. With conditions deteriorating fast, we drove slowly back to ‘our’ church. Even with no let-up from the snowstorm, I was still determined that nothing would deter me from the wicked intentions I had planned that night. Later Lesley reminded me this was wishful thinking on my part, which was probably true – I am a dreamer, after all! The falling snow and soft music coming from the car radio helped to create the perfect romantic scene, and I occasionally cleared the windscreen with the wipers to enjoy the beautiful picture painted before us. With the heat on full and aided by the passion within, the windows quickly steamed up, the extreme conditions making sure of that. It was in this relaxed state that we cuddled up to each other; now time to make my move.

We were in a close embrace, with Lesley looking over my shoulder, when she gasped and quickly pulled back – I hadn’t touched her yet – claiming she had seen a face peering through the steamed-up window behind me. I quickly turned to see the peeping Tom, and we both immediately recognised the face of the kindly old man with the stoop before it quickly withdrew from the window. My first reaction was to get out of the car and confront him, but Lesley was unhappy about me leaving her alone. Putting the headlights on would not help the situation as the face had disappeared without trace, leaving a silent, empty street, with only the pulsing sound of the beating wipers clearing the snow from the windscreen, much slower than our racing heartbeats. A total mystery …

Could all this be in our imagination? Absolutely not! Both Lesley and I agreed that the face we saw that night was of our stooped neighbour, the same old man who used to totter up the street, who had died a few weeks earlier. It is true that we did not immediately think of the poor soul’s passing as he gazed through the window, but with both of us recognising the face it put paid to the plans I had had that night. Needless to say, there would be no more ‘threesomes’ outside that church. Leaving the scene as quickly as possible, we left the spirit to do his haunting by himself.