Shooting 007: And Other Celluloid Adventures (42 page)

The cinematographer John Stokes, a local Brisbane cameraman, remained faithful to the cause, as did Stanley, who kept his promise in allowing me a free hand to get on with the job without interference, which was much appreciated. So now it was all down to the director working with a cast of young actors, many of whom had never worked on a film before but were still keen to work with a director who had never directed before – it was surely a prescription for a disaster in the making.

Directing would be a wonderful experience, and I enjoyed taking on the challenges which all directors must face up to. Even more pleasing for the accountants,
Bloodmoon
completed filming on schedule, after which I was given a week with the editor to complete my own rough-cut – a new experience where I could employ John Glen’s fast cutting techniques in the hope that it would help to disguise the paper-thin storyline.

Flying back to the UK, I continued the editing in my head, trying to mask the weaknesses in the story before the press carried out its death sentence on the sad director who in the end always gets the blame. I consoled myself knowing that
Bloodmoon
would never hit the headlines, nor would I be surprised by the predictable reviews. The critics would not be fooled, echoing my own thoughts, and I also recognised the hidden message of friends and colleagues who preferred to hide quietly behind a polite understanding. Even so, my conscience was clear;
Bloodmoon
had been a professional exercise, which Stanley appreciated.

Back home it was suddenly time to have second thoughts about my attitude to directors with poor scripts; should I be more sympathetic to their cause? Although these issues remain a concern for any director, there is still no reason to accept the ‘that’ll do’ attitude which has always bothered me. This issue would not concern me now I had experienced a director’s suffering, but at least it now gives me the right to have an opinion.

Settling down to assess the past weeks in Australia, I relived every moment – every scene with the extra cuts that I would have made had time permitted. I was still proud of what I had achieved on
Bloodmoon
. Most of the reviews had been pretty negative, but for me it had been a useful exercise in coming to understand what directors face up to; even if they hate the script they still get on with it, knowing that others like me would eagerly grab the opportunity should it come their way, even if it was not particularly helpful to their CV.

Try as hard as one may, there is little one can do with a poor script where at the end of the day only the accountant feels satisfied with the day’s schedule being completed, which is probably why Stanley called me again, offering another film in the series. At least I could now allow myself a moment of satisfaction, believing that I had done a reasonable job on
Bloodmoon.
However, this self-assurance would quickly pass when I read my next script,
Dead Sleep
, with its own undoubted frustrations to come.

As before, the schedule gave little time to discuss any of the actors’ concerns with the script, which I most certainly shared. Even so Stanley believed we could still come in on time, which was more important to him. I cleared my head, putting all this negative thinking behind me. Flying to Brisbane fully preoccupied in the new script – which, true to form, was little better than the last – in my head I could already hear Stanley’s standard reply to the many questions I had: ‘Do the best with what you have!’

Knowing all too well that in the end I would submit to the inevitable, when I arrived at the studio I was confronted with a disturbing change in studio policy; instead of the previous freedom given to me on
Bloodmoon
, all this had gone. Even more worrying was that the friendly atmosphere had changed, with unseen problems suddenly emerging in the preproduction battles from which Stanley had previously shielded me. However, the customary scheduling problems remained, and I felt they would not be made any easier when, with a wry grin on his face, Stanley said, ‘Alec, you will have an American actress to deal with this time!’

Linda Blair arrived from Hollywood to complicate matters, the pretty eye-catching star moving smoothly into the production office to meet Stanley and her director. I had prepared myself for the moment; my plan was to be polite and courteous to our American celebrity – to stay British! At the same time I could not help thinking about the Bette Davis scene on her arrival in Egypt on
Death on the Nile,
promising myself I would not go over the top with the welcoming fawning which usually happens with a star’s arrival; I would leave that false titbit exclusively to Stanley.

In my experience, actors enjoy the luxury of being made a fuss of, which was fine with me – there’s no biz like showbiz – but looking ahead at the tight schedule and other problems which would come my way with this script, a star would be of little help to a director. Let’s face it, I could hardly say to an actress like Linda what Stanley said to me: ‘That’s the script, now get on with it!’

My fears would soon be tested when prior to filming I spent time rehearsing scenes with the actors in the screening theatre. In part this introduces the actors to each other while at the same time it would give me the opportunity to listen to questions they might have about their lines; I was sure that there would be plenty with this script!

When Linda and the Australian actress went through a reading, for reasons known only to Linda she appeared to misunderstand the interpretation by placing a little humour into the scene, possibly assuming the other actress would echo her reading. The Australian actress was a little bemused and I quietly explained that the scene was not humorous and even if there was a hint of humour in the dialogue it should not be played that way. So now came my first challenge, which in all likelihood would need a touch of the José Quintero technique to sort out; already I was being tested and we were only just getting to know each other.

Linda was hurt and politely protested at my opinion but, while I respectfully listened to her feelings on this matter, I would not move from my opinion, believing that the scene should be played without any suggestion of humour. Sitting quietly in the background of the screening theatre Stanley decided to join in the conversation, politely confirming my own counselling: ‘Linda, the scene may have hints of humour in the dialogue but it’s not necessary to play it that way.’

I believe I passed my test there and then, giving Linda little ammunition for complaints should there be any in the future. To be fair to Linda, I found her to be cooperative and extremely professional throughout our association. For Stanley it was also useful for him to see how I handled our leading lady, and in the end the relationship worked well. Linda’s claim to fame came from
The Exorcist
, where she had played the little girl who is possessed by the Devil, but it would seem that in this case I was not to be cast as the Devil incarnate. Linda was efficient and supportive to the cause, with everything going as planned. Like Linda, one should ask questions about the poor script disease which flourished at that time but from which no one really gained.

Linda Blair probably felt the same way as I did, although my expression was more of shame with what was going on in front of camera.
Dead Sleep
(1990).

To a certain extent
Dead Sleep
was an interesting tale loosely based on a true story, of a doctor who induces sleep in patients, using drugs to keep them in that condition; while they are under the influence of an anaesthetic the patients are then given electric shocks to control their ailment, with few being cured of the problem and others getting worse, with one committing suicide. The reviews varied, with one even praising the film based on personal experiences (!) while others were less charitable, but with scripts of that calibre, what did they expect?

Before I returned to the UK Stanley invited me to dinner at the local Irish club in Brisbane where they were celebrating Saint Patrick’s day. I would guess that there were 200 Irishmen and women sitting around the room enjoying imported Guinness, which as the evening progressed helped to speed up their hatred of ‘the bloody English’! Taking note of this I decided to keep a low profile, wisely joining in the laughter.

Late into the night’s entertainment with the help of the plentiful ‘black stuff’, the local custom would require one guest from each table to stand up and tell a joke, which more often than not would be to the detriment of the ‘bloody English’, before sitting down to a great ovation. Watching the comedians taking their turns, Stanley leaned over to me.

‘So what joke are you going to tell, Alec?’

I laughed; he was kidding … surely? Unfortunately Stanley was serious and suddenly it was time to start worrying. Although I whispered my protestations, explaining that I did not know any jokes and also reminding him that I was English, Stanley insisted that it was my obligation as guest to represent our table. I was already dead …

‘Table 31!’ the MC shouted.

The office wall on
Dead Sleep
shows my detailed notes and shot lists in the forlorn hope of trying to finish on time and on budget. I’m getting greyer every day.

Unsure of the outcome, reluctantly – very reluctantly – I stood up, nervously glancing around the hall covered in green decorations with Irish tricolours as the inebriated audience waited in full expectation of my ‘funny story’ where it was again time to turn the screw on the ‘bloody English’.

‘There was an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman …’

TOO LATE – already too late! I had the joke the wrong way round: the fall guy to these silly stories is usually the last nationality mentioned. Even so, I carried on, hoping that no one would be offended with this terrible outrage – it was a fun evening after all, only a joke, surely? With a reasonable Irish accent I would probably have got away with this badly timed story but I am not big on accents and did not fancy my chances of survival.

I ploughed on, hoping my Irish friends, like Stanley, would laugh at my weird sense of humour considering that every joke so far had been dedicated to the abuse of the ‘bloody English’. With a fading voice I managed to grind out the punch line, which of course died with my audience, except for one mistaken young man who attempted to applaud before realising his mistake when reminded by friends that I was an Englishman. Sitting down to a cold atmosphere of mumbling and coughing – obvious disapproval – Stanley decided it was probably time to leave. ‘Preferably to the airport,’ I whispered.

Dead Sleep
was a valuable experience, if only to confirm the problems which directors face when dealing with high-profile film stars and how much I envied the likes of David Lean, Roman Polanski and others of that ilk who could pick and choose their subjects.

As for the film itself, I would try to rise above the critical outcome which would surely follow.