Shooting 007: And Other Celluloid Adventures (5 page)

Carlton Hill Studios started life as a church before its transformation into a small film studio. Here our lives were dedicated to making second feature films or short musical performances used as fill-in breaks between time-scheduled televisions programmes on the BBC. Viewers would be entertained with pretty chorus girls singing and dancing to pre-recorded playback music. This young tea boy gazed at them with mouth wide open, enjoying the moment as my dreams suffered in silence. Children’s programmes would find Annette Mills playing the piano with her puppet friend Muffin the Mule dancing on top; commercial television had yet to arrive in the UK. As I write this I suddenly realise how old I am – so be it.

Carlton Hill in 1949. Another musical slot for television with a famous personality of the day playing the piano. This time Robert Ziller was cinematographer, George Bull (holding lamp) was once again the gaffer and ‘Mo’ Pierrepoint has moved up to camera operator. By this time I was now pulling focus.

On my graduation from tea boy to innocent clapper boy, like those before me I was required to do the shopping for the camera crew’s needs or to do anything else asked of me. Nothing would stand in the way of my progress and I drank in without question or hesitation the traditions to which all newcomers to the camera department are exposed. It was my turn now.

Reading Ronald Neame’s autobiography,
The
Horse’s
Mouth
, it would seem that I graduated from the same school of innocence as that director, where we would always do what we were told, unquestioningly. He wrote in his book that as a young boy he was sent to get a ‘sky hook’, only to be passed on from one person to another until the rude awakening dawned that there was no such thing. Eventually the kindly cinematographer Jack Cox explained the joke to the innocent clapper boy. In Christopher Challis’s wonderful autobiography,
Are they Really so Awful?
, he wrote of his early days as a junior assistant where he was sent shopping for the camera crew’s needs, with no questions asked, and so the tradition would continue with me.

One errand which I was sent on came from a camera operator who, you will appreciate, remains anonymous. He gave me his list of ‘requirements’ for the local chemist. Off I went, not bothering to read his list …

‘What can I get you, sonny?’ the tall lady asked, looking down at me from behind the counter.

That hurt, I’m a man now – a worker! Biting my lip, I gave her the list, which she read out.

‘Aspirin … tin of Vaseline … throat pastilles …’ she looked at me ‘… DUREX?
’

Her eyes fixed on me. ‘Are they for you, sonny?’ The discourtesy continued.

‘Err … no … that’s … a mistake,’ I said, biting my lip and pretending I did not know what they were. Quickly paying up, I made a hurried exit with the shopping list suddenly shortened.

Now a confirmed member of the ‘Mug’s Club’, I was sent to the paint shop to collect a tube of ‘anti-shadow paint’, ‘… preferably grey, sir, if you have it.’

Apparently it was difficult to get hold of; with a smile on his face, the man sent me on my way as the tradition carried on. ‘Try the art department, son, they may have some!’

From one department to another, I toured the studio before another kind soul came to my rescue, explaining the joys of humour. I was now on my way to manhood – wonderful, memorable days!

With the war now past history, film studios came alive with stories about the conflict. One of Carlton Hill’s contributions was
Eyes that Kill
, which brings to mind a scene of Martin Bormann (the secretary of the Nazi Party) planning his escape to England hoping to set up a Fourth Reich – something ridiculous like that. Outside the studio a dense London fog was fast descending over the city; soon the yellow smog would creep its way into the studio before finally arriving on our set. The cinematographer, Ray Densham, decided he couldn’t handle this any longer and suggested that we stop for the day – the usual practice on such occasions, which helped those who travelled home by bus or train. However, Ray’s suggestion would not work this time. The director, Richard M. Grey, hearing his cinematographer’s plea, decided to change the action in the script; the scene would now read, ‘A German corporal enters the bunker informing Martin Bormann of a heavy fog creeping into the bunker: “Heil Hitler!”’ To everyone’s disbelief, filming would now continue with no one getting away early that night. Naturally, this juvenile nonentity thought it was a fantastic suggestion, and how clever it was of the director who wrote the screenplay in the first place to suddenly come up with this idea.

Truth be known, I would have happily gone on all night, fog or no fog, but on this occasion I thought it best to remain silent; it was definitely not the right time to rock the boat. Sadly, the cinematographer was unable to relish this wonderful opportunity as the director and I did!

Another ‘masterpiece’ was
A Gunman Escaped
, with the same Richard M. Grey directing. This time I would have the pleasure of working with a different cameraman, Cedric Williams, a highly respected cinematographer of the time.

Even when film production was at its peak, dark clouds started to form on the distant horizon, hints that we were heading for a serious recession which would hit the film industry; again something new for this teenager to experience – another part of growing up. Inevitably it encouraged the voices of gloom to be more vocal in their opinions that there would be little or no future for a film industry in Britain, their assertion based entirely on the advent of commercial television, which was then soon to appear in the UK. A sense of doom lingered in the background as the industry remained quiet; the naysayers started to grow louder, suggesting my dream world would soon come to an end. This was confirmed with the news that Carlton Hill Studios would soon close down, leaving many out of work as the recession slowly bit.

For the past three years I had felt secure at the friendly little studio where I experienced a taste of the good life, working with interesting people. Suddenly there was the reality of an industry in doubt with everyone confused about the future. All change! With no films in the so-called pipeline I expected to find myself out of work; the few connections gained at Carlton Hill would mean little now and I would disappear without trace.

I knew I would miss this pleasant studio and the wonderful memories as seen through young eyes. I hoped that one day I would meet the right people who would help me on the long journey ahead. It happened that there was such a person in Michael Reed, a tall camera assistant at the studio with whom I felt totally at ease. A patient colleague with strong principles and qualities I could only hope to match up to, he would play a key role in the progress of my career.

The year 1950 was a difficult one, with the film industry going through a period of change as it slowly evolved. What some see as terminal, others see as modernisation. With confusion dominating the atmosphere, everyone was unsure in which direction the industry would go.

In my short working life I had experienced wonderful moments where I enjoyed the sweet taste of the good life working in an industry which had changed me beyond all recognition. Was this to be my lot? Although little had been achieved so far, one thing was certain: whatever the future held, I would remain involved with photography one way or another. Life’s script was placed before me at Carlton Hill Film Studios.

I had never experienced or even heard of a recession before, but it would seem that when times were bad the film industry would be among the first to suffer the consequences. Already I was hearing voices of doom expanding on their opinions about the state of the business, eventually reaching apocalyptic proportions. It happened that this disaster occurred when I was due for my conscription into one of the armed services, ‘National Service’, as it was called in those days. For some time after the war young men reaching the age of 18 would spend two years in the army, navy or air force – more often in the army.

I considered the past three years where much of my time had been spent in the studio darkroom, developing black and white negative tests for the cinematographer, followed by making a print on bromide paper to satisfy my cameraman that all was well with his lighting. Should the result offered not be to his satisfaction, I would be sent back to the darkroom to ‘improve’ his lighting by wiggling my hand in front of the enlarger lens, masking the areas which the cameraman thought he had over-lit; in effect I was cheating on his behalf! Finally satisfied with my efforts, the print would be offered to the director, now confident of his approval.

With all this darkroom skulduggery experience behind me, I could at least hope to serve my National Service in the navy’s photographic branch, as others had before. However, I was told I had been misinformed and this was unlikely to happen unless I volunteered for a longer period of service. I was told that if I did so, with my past experience, I would almost certainly be accepted into my ‘branch of choice’, which made my decision easy.

Passing out photograph (1950).

With the so-called demise of the film industry I could see no alternative but to sign on in the Royal Navy – to be precise, the Fleet Air Arm – where on the given day I would report to HMS
Daedalus
at Lee-on-Solent with FX886962 Naval Airman Mills in full expectation of going into the ‘branch of choice’.

They had lied!

The authorities were aware of my background in the film industry: I had made that very clear on my application form, if a little exaggeratedly. However, it seemed that this meant little now. What I had not realised was that few ratings get into the photographic branch even if they did volunteer; I certainly don’t recall anyone suggesting that my chances would be slim. Suddenly I found myself being trained as an aircraft mechanic servicing aircraft.

After a short time I was posted to the aircraft carrier HMS
Illustrious
. The idea was to give new recruits a taste of life at sea on a floating runway where we would observe the expertise of the pilots practising their take-offs and landings, assisted by their experienced aircraft handlers, with whom I would be associated in time. In the meantime, my immediate task on board was to make sure everything was shipshape for the Captain’s Rounds, where the officer of the day inspected the mess deck below, where ratings lived and slept in hammocks.

Below deck the conditions were awful: over-crowded and smoky. An old sea dog suggested that, if I wanted, I could sling my hammock up on the cable deck, which I did with great relish, preferring the sweet fresh air to the smoky atmosphere below. It was summer with the weather remaining fine as I slept comfortably in my hammock as
Illustrious
cruised through the night in home waters.

This would be my first experience of a hammock, where I learned of an unsuspecting chill which could penetrate through the heavy material before carrying on into one’s bladder. Should this happen, you would wake up the next morning to realise that you had urinated in your sleep, which of course is what happened now, making my life even more miserable than it already was. When I returned to the mess deck below, the old hand was waiting for me. He smiled at the sprog’s (new rating) innocence, which obviously gave him much to delight in as he added one more victim to his list of idiots. It was Carlton Hill Studios all over again! How on earth did I get into this dreadful situation? Already I was counting the years.