Shooting 007: And Other Celluloid Adventures (45 page)

I was in this frame of mind when out of the blue Ernie Vincze called again to remind me of the teaching post offered at the NFTS, which I assumed was now long forgotten. I knew this would interest me and would be something I would enjoy, but again it seemed as though that particular scene was not yet written in the Alec Mills script. John Glen was once again on the phone to complicate matters with the offer of a film in Luxembourg. I would have hated to let John down even though the teaching activities at Beaconsfield would be less demanding, but the drug of another film would be too much to resist.

It happened that the timing of
The Point Men
would not clash with the new school term, allowing me the opportunity to team up with John for what would be the last time. The question of my fitness remained quietly in the background but it would be impossible to say, ‘No thank you, John!’ In spite of my physical health and mental tiredness
The Point Men
would be another addition to my CV, although at my time of life that now seemed less important.

So now I found myself wondering how the new intake of film students would handle the challenges which John and I had faced over the years. With quality giving way to impossible schedules, they would quickly learn the weight of responsibility and what it is like to be in the firing line, and many would not survive. However, these silly worries would quickly disappear when I had a light meter back in my hand.

With the inevitable low budget and predictable tight schedule,
The
Point Men
would set a challenge for both director and cinematographer, with no time for photographic tests with our lead actor Christopher Lambert, who was still working on another production. The evening before filming began I was ‘summoned’ to meet and have dinner with Christopher, producer Silvio Muraglia and John Glen with his wife Janine. I prepared myself for an evening of social conversation with the usual banter of getting to know each other in a pleasant setting; it would turn out to be more than that.

Aware that I had had no time for photographic tests, Christopher, like many actors, was clear in his views as to how he would like to be photographed and look on the screen. It became apparent why this dinner had been arranged when the social chatter suddenly disappeared with all concentration now focused on Christopher and me, while the others look on silently.

Listening to Christopher’s concerns it was necessary to point out that, with his other commitment, we had had no time to do any photographic tests, which was even more complicated by the fact that he was in the first scene in the morning.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that, Alec, you’ll get all the time you need,’ came Christopher’s timely reply.

I took a deep breath, sighed and sat back in the chair, turning to look directly at John, who in turn looked towards Silvio, whose lips curled in acceptance of ‘Christopher’s law’, clearly understanding the implication of the actor’s comment. If nothing else at least I could expect fewer ‘How long, Alec?’ questions from John; nor would I be so concerned with John’s maxim, ‘Will it put more bums on seats?’ My mate Chris was on the case now!

I enjoyed working with Christopher and gave him all the necessary attention without hurting John’s directing time. As a result, Christopher was happy in how he looked on screen, as was John, who also had to deal with the other ridiculous political issues that directors have to put up with. It was at times like this that one appreciated the luxury of working for Cubby Broccoli.

The Point Men
would not be an easy film for John, who suffered constant interference from the producers which stood in the way of common sense, as usual underlined with their ridiculous schedules testing the director’s ability to make it all work. Yes, I am being repetitive, for which I will not apologise. That was the state of the film industry at that time. I also know that this will be my last opportunity to make the point.

On a brighter note, I still had enough energy to cope with all of the demands the director would put on me, which as it happens worked for us both. At the same time I knew that it really was time for ‘The End’ frame to appear as I now struggle to remember other missing flashbacks in my career.

Throughout my life, from schoolboy to pensioner, even in the lost years in the navy, somehow things have always worked out for the best, one way or another, although not necessarily without pain or anxiety. Still, you instinctively know when it is time to fade out.

The phone finally stopped ringing, the silence suggesting that my services would no longer be required; the show was over with the safety curtain slowly coming down. The final scene would read ‘Coming to terms with retirement’, which of course is easier said than done.

It would be easy to use terms such as retirement and just put the blame on my physical concerns, but in reality it was time to wind down and quietly reflect on a fast-changing film industry with which I was now out of step. To help with this problem I spent many hours reading autobiographies of old friends and colleagues: Freddie Young, Christopher Challis, Oswald Morris and Jack Cardiff, talented cinematographers of my era who in their refreshing honesty never claimed their work was faultless – an example that I would choose to follow with my own small effort.

Many lessons would also be learned from working with talented directors of my generation; would I ever forget Guy Green’s kindness to me when I needed his compassion due to my negligence? We all make mistakes and that error was unforgivable, but not with Guy Green. Working with honest people such as Guy would inevitably influence my own attitude to others, whether good or bad, which probably saved my career. In all humility, I can say that the verdict on my career is one of reasonable satisfaction – possibly eight out of ten, which was pretty good considering I never attained such approval at school – helped in no small way by the contribution of cinematographers who in their day demonstrated their art as ‘painters of light’; my appreciation goes to all of these fine gentlemen. Even so, there would always be a guardian angel helping me in my long journey, but only when writing this memoir did I realise who it was.

My choice will surprise many when I name Harry Waxman BSC as my minder here on planet Earth. Perhaps this is fanciful imagination – I am a dreamer, after all, but I still ask myself why Harry and I, total opposites in so many ways, were strangely tied together. Perhaps it was the cinematographer’s patience in his teachings, his unhurried manner, knowing I would struggle to understand the technical expertise which he slowly drilled into me. Now I can recognise my earlier immature attitude from my schooldays; I could not have progressed further without the patience, the authority, of a Harry Waxman to point me in the right direction. Harry’s strict guiding influence would make my life easier so that I could simply follow the guv’s strict set of rules, at the same time promising myself not to forget my nightmare experience when filming
House of Secrets
– Harry would make sure of that. It is necessary I should record this in my writing of the cinematographer who would always be my champion. I know others might disagree and I listen to their accounts of Harry, which more often than not are about his temperament rather than his talent. There was much more to Harry Waxman, which others prefer to forget.

Jack Cardiff! What could one say about a grand master of lighting, a ‘cinematographer extraordinaire’ widely praised by many as the true painter of light. Whatever label we choose to give him, it would be necessary to work alongside such an artist to understand his individual talent, to watch him and take notes, then take more notes and sit back and admire the person behind it all. The films and conversations we shared together would be crucial in my own transition to cinematographer.

By contrast, Gilbert Taylor’s quiet personality was the total opposite of Harry Waxman’s, and I never forgot his demonstration of the Schüfftan process while we were filming Polanski’s
Macbeth
. An opportunity later came my way to demonstrate this process to the students at the NFTS in the hope that one day they would also be in a position to use the technique. No doubt there are other special effects that are now sadly lost to memory with the passing of time, which is a shame when you consider how those trail-blazing cameramen led the way with their pioneering ideas. I hope future historians will keep this in mind with their writings in this CGI age.

Michael Reed was just as important to me as Harry Waxman; both men moved my career forward at different stages and took time to understand this young fool, which I would recognise and appreciate later. Michael must also take the credit for keeping my career on course with his patience towards a characterless clapper boy desperately in need of recognition as an adult. I will forever be grateful to Michael for his understanding and management, and I would never forget that it was Mike who gave me my break as camera operator on
The Saint
, starting me on my long journey to fulfilment. Michael Reed is my Saint!

The problem I had writing about personal experiences was that it would inevitably involve others who may perhaps remember incidents differently to me – I might enjoy a film but my wife might not necessarily share the same experience. I assume this happens to all who take on the curse of writing about their own lives. Now I find myself reading and re-reading what I have written, over and over again, hoping not to offend the others involved in my story. All I can say is that what you have read is as accurate and honest an account as it could be – at least from my point of view – from my early school years where my mother was responsible for turning a dull life into an exciting occupation, to the beginning of a career which would eventually become an obsession.

It was not my intention just to write my life story or to offer a collection of anecdotes which over the years would put a smile on friendly faces – at least for those who are still around who shared those same moments. It was only under pressure from my family that I sentenced myself to years of torture trying to recall important events of my life, including the good and not-so-good times. This would not be enough to explain who I was ‘inside’, or why I would be prepared to share and discuss private emotions openly. In fact, I did not want to forget how all this happened to me so I hope you will understand why it was occasionally necessary for me to repeat myself. That is a bad habit, for which I apologise, but I offer no apology for my passion to explain everything as seen through this writer’s eyes, even if it is a little laboured at times. We all have our secrets which others would not understand, sometimes leaving us open to ridicule, but at my time of life I no longer really care what others think. I am what I am, comfortable with my years of existence here on planet Earth and happy with what came from my personal journey.

Should I be asked if I have regrets in life, the answer is yes, of course – we all do – but not with my work! Do I wish my youthful attitude to learning had been different? Yes, of course: one way or another I have paid for being academically wanting and feel uncomfortable in certain company. However, to balance this, I had the ability to play the piano reasonably well – at least, well enough to pass a junior exam at the Royal Academy of Music – which I am proud of while at the same time a little sad at not knowing what might have been achieved in the world of music if my preference had been in that direction. I was the in-between man and Lil’s aspirations for me to be a musician failed miserably; an inspection of my too-small fingers would quickly put an end to that silly idea. Yet, with all the ups and downs of youthful enthusiasm, I would gain far more from my travels around the world, the wonderful experiences shared, something which cannot be taught in any school. I have no regrets in this personal flashback, which I consider an honest appraisal of Alec Mills, the man and his journey.

In all this I forgot to mention the BSC and GBCT accolades, even serving as vice president of the British Society of Cinematographers for seven years – something I could never have considered or even thought possible with my wasted youth. I had no idea what I would do in the workplace when I finished school, nor would I care in which direction life pointed me, feeling that the problem would take care of itself. Even so, it is necessary to ask myself how I came to deserve all of this good fortune freely handed to me. I can only put it down to working in the ranks of British camera technicians, with the great cinematographers of my time who allowed me to play the fool in their personal scripts.