I mention tactfully to Pierre that since I’m having to do extra work, perhaps he should call my agent…he agrees. (I knew if I came to Hungary I’d finish up working.) Kathy suggests I get a typewriter from the hotel, but remembering the difficulty I had getting one in Hollywood, I suspect I’ll end up writing in longhand. But lo, when we try the concierge he produces typewriter, paper, and all the fixings; so much for capitalism’s supposed superior efficiency. I do the scene and end-pieces, and we go shopping—pictures, ash-trays, embroidered cloths which we find in the apartment of an old German woman; likewise wooden cooking spoons of a style and shape no longer to be found in the West. Kathy gets me a lovely glass and silver swan whose wings fold over a mustardpot; he is Ferenc, and will live on my desk.
Car to Sopron, where Olly sits smoking in the stocks waiting to be flogged, while Raquel Welch and David Hemmings, on horseback, rehearse with Olly cueing them. All do well, although she doesn’t look at her best; I gather her father died recently and she has had distressing problems with hospital authorities.
Lunch with Kathy, Fleischer and Jack Cardiff. Chicken, caviare, cheese, grapes, peaches, vacuum flask of coffee which comes out stone cold, and wasps everywhere. Jack and Dick laugh at the tailpieces and approve the new Abbey fight scene; Pierre objects that they can’t re-dress the warehouse as Westminster because the owners have got 70 tons of cotton and 56 tons of beetroot which must be stored. Well, that’s show business.
Back to the stocks, where Hungarian extras dressed as Tudor peasants stand sipping from Coke bottles while Nigel Wooll, ever the optimist, shouts: “Quiet, please! Okay, everyone, here we go! Start pelting!” A technician translates for the benefit of the mob, who hurl eggs, vegetables, etc. enthusiastically at the stocks-bound Olly. He bears it patiently, wincing nicely when they rehearse the flogging with a velvet whip, while Mark, protesting violently, is dragged away by constables. Small crisis when flogger hits Olly before Fleischer has given the signal, and is severely rebuked. Meanwhile Mark is being pursued by wasps, and vanishes, flapping and cursing.
To burn the witch or not? Much debate. I’m all for dropping it—if we want a U certificate and a Royal Command we’ll have to. Fleischer happy to ditch it, fair enough.
B. H. Barry, the fight arranger, suggests a Mel Brooksish touch for the Abbey fight: Olly seizing Raquel, menacing her with dagger to hold guards at bay. I shoot it down gently, and cheer him up by telling him that two-handed swords are to be used in the scene, which delights him, and he is soon lost in two-handed sword dreams.
Kathy and I take Fleischer and Cardiff to dinner, meeting Olly on the way. He is fresh after his ordeal, and when someone remarks that a scene which took me a moment’s typing gave him several long hours in the sun, trussed up, belaboured, and plastered with filth, he says happily: “Bing sings.”*
Discussion at dinner about a remarkable piece of photography achieved by Cardiff, in a scene in which Mark, as the Prince, is seen walking completely round Mark as the Pauper. I’ve never seen anything like it, and when I ask how it was done I’m informed that when Sabu was asked by what miracle of special effects he had been showing flying on a genie’s back in The Thief of Baghdad, he replied deadpan: “He just picked me up and flew me.” Fleischer’s comment: “Good for Sabu.” I agree; I’ve no time for those who explain how screen miracles are achieved, and I shouldn’t have asked. Mark walked round Mark, and I don’t mind not knowing how it was done.
Cardiff has the rights to Jeffery Farnol’s Jade of Destiny, and wants me to write it for Olly in some kind of co-production deal. I make non-committal noises. It could be fun to write, and might make a good swashbuckler, but I wonder if the market will bear another Tudor adventure so soon after Prince and Pauper. Also, production isn’t my style. I’m a hired typewriter.
Back to the I.o.M., and a call from one Harold Hecht: am I interested in writing a sequel to The Crimson Pirate for Burt Lancaster, and will I go to a screening of the original movie (which I haven’t seen) in London with Lancaster, who is coming to England shortly? I’m taken with the idea of working with Lancaster, who has the reputation of being an unusually intelligent actor, but I’m not sure about the job. Without knowing what The Crimson Pirate was like, I doubt if there’s much chancing of doing an M3 (or a P and P) with a sequel. But who knows?*
To Pinewood with Fleischer to see the rough-cut. It seems that Olly took to turning up legless during the last two weeks in Budapest; once he had roared at Fleischer, explaining how he was going to do a fight scene, stabbing the air, flinging himself on the ground, and simply failing to register when Dick said: “But, Olly, we’ve shot that fight, remember?” Olly didn’t, no doubt because he had been entirely gassed when he did it, plunging about and trying to kill everybody. Barry had had to scrap his carefully choreographed fight and ad-lib the whole thing, which looked suitably shambolic on screen.
Plainly booze is going to be the ruin of a fine but undisciplined actor. What makes it so painful is that Dick had golden opinions of Olly the actor before he saw Olly the drunk.
At lunch in the Pinewood restaurant (Table One, whee-whew! that’s what directorial giants get) I learn to my horror that most of Rex Harrison has been removed from the film. The logic is that Rex’s part was artificially built up (which I did on instruction because he is who he is) and that this unbalances the film as a whole; the built-up part is judged to be “obtrusive”. My feeling is that Rex can never be obtrusive—and, dammit, I wrote the part specially for him, he liked it and does it beautifully, and for my money it’s the best dialogue in the film. So I say, the hell with whether it’s obtrusive or not—if you’re lucky enough to have Harrison doing his thing as only he can, use him, and who cares if the picture runs ten minutes over?
Pierre arrives with his sister, a pretty, quiet girl. Alex and Ilya are at the Dorchester, cooking up big deals, but will arrive by executive transport, air-conditioned chauffeur, etc., in time for the showing at 3 p.m. We go to the viewing theatre—no Salkinds at three. Pierre phones in all directions, the chauffeur is still outside the Dorchester, but Alex and Ilya have vanished. Dick contains what must be white-hot fury under a bright-eyed calm. We continue to wait…and wait. Dick says if they don’t arrive by three thirty, forget it, because he won’t try to crowd the showing into the time available before the theatre is booked for another film.
We wait some more, Pierre’s sister brings coffee, we drink it in silence, I deliver a brief lecture on the manners of film producers, and Dick nods with gritted teeth—much more delay and he’ll burst.
At the last minute Alex and Ilya arrive, in trench coats, Alex apologising profusely and Ilya shaking his head. Coffee finished, Dick cocks an eye and asks: “Are we all…reddee?”, and we take our seats, myself at the end of the back row, well away from massed Salkinds with Dick in their midst. He must be a masochist; sitting beside Michel le Grand with a heavy cold is bad enough, but how he’s going to cope with Alex’s stertorous breathing and muttered translations of English into French via Russian, I hate to think.
Dick, using what I imagine is an age-old Hollywood formula, makes a nice little set speech from his seat, telling us the form: we’ll see the movie, and think a while, and then exchange views, right? Enthusiastic grunts from Alex, frowning malignantly from the depths of his trench coat (this is his “concentration” expression) and the film rolls.
Well, my first reaction is one of disappointment.* The overall direction is vintage Fleischer, and Jack Cardiff ’s photography is immaculate as always, but some of the acting isn’t that good, and I’m not all that struck with some of my screenplay, either—but in self-defence there are lines I’d have played differently. But the main fault, dwarfing any others, is in the casting: Mark just isn’t right for the parts. Now and then he sounds like a school-play rehearsal—and yet sometimes that crack-voiced boyish intensity hits exactly the right note. It’s not his fault; it’s simply not his role—for one thing, he’s far too tall, six feet if he’s
an inch.
Harrison’s reduction aside, I’m annoyed that the editor has dropped the long shot of Henry dying, which I liked because it was historically accurate and rather moving, with the whispered “Monks, monks, monks!” and the haunting music of “The Hunt is Up” coming in softly, and substituted a jarring close shot in which Charlton’s head drops alarmingly, and he does a great slump.†
Borgnine is excellent…I think—is he too much, with that mad glint?—Olly as good as always, Heston v. good, and the most believable Henry I’ve ever seen, Raleigh’s tyrant to the life; he manages something which I wouldn’t have thought Heston could have done, namely, make my eyes moist. Lalla Ward gives Young Bess the message, on all cylinders. George Scott looks even better the second time.
Surprisingly, the scene at the stocks between Olly and Raquel plays well, possibly helped by Korngold’s music, which Dick has used for the nonce. I rewrote the scene, on request, but the principals liked the original better. Mark’s finest hour is his “They shall have right” speech, which he does superbly, with Olly reacting perfectly—that whole sequence, beside a dreary river in half-light, is Jack Cardiff photography at its wondrous best.
Westminster Abbey has got out of control—long pauses, Mark looking serene, Raquel doing her damnedest with that bloody Great Seal—I hate the sequence, always did, gave them what they asked for against my better judgment, and it doesn’t work.
They haven’t shot the last fight, by the way, which is as well; I had doubts at the time, and we’re better without it. So Dick won his battle with the producers, the Abbey set wasn’t rebuilt, tons of cotton and beetroot found a happy home, and Eddie Fowlie and his workers were spared a maddening job.
Lovely finish to the film, with Rex speaking the end pieces and Lalla Ward sweeping off to take care of England, and looking as though she’s just the girl to do it, too.
Worst mistake—taking most of Harrison out. He could give the thing just the lift it needs. My overall judgment: it could go either way, good or bad, probably on the bad side. I’m a harsh critic, and it may be better than I think. But I doubt if we’ll have a hit. Respectable at the box office, perhaps, but no better. And yet, who knows? I had serious doubts about the M3, and how wrong I was.
Dead silence when the lights go up. Salkind murmurings, comments like “Yes…very good…Yes…” (At least no one gives the ultimate thumbs down of “Great locations”.*) I move behind Dick and say “Well done”, and he says thanks. He’s disappointed at their reaction, but he probably expected to be. Talk of restoring Harrison, which will mean cuts. I make the case for keeping Scott and Young Bess intact, and Dick agrees.
*
Some time later, in Paris, I hear that Harrison is to be restored, thank God. Ilya tells me the feeling is that Rex put bags of pathos and oomph into the thing, and that his removal would cut out all the good emotion. He then horrifies me by wanting to remove Lalla Ward’s final magnificent exit, his reasoning being who the hell knows about Queen Elizabeth I anyway, and look at the state of the pound, for Christ’s sake. They want to fake in some appalling nonsense of two hands shaking, indicating friendship and love or something equally bizarre and meaningless. I suspect Ilya of froggy prejudice against English history. I tell him he’s mad—that America at least knows about Good Queen Bess, even if the garlic-eaters don’t, and the final shot will not be lost on them. But he insists.
Fleischer says that over his dead body will they cut the Bess finale, and even Ilya agrees that it should stay for the British version. Fair enough, I don’t really mind what they show in Venezuela, although I think it’s a damned shame if it isn’t kept for the US version too.
The Bess finale was retained, and a curious medallion-like decoration was also inserted, showing two hands shaking, which did no harm if it did no good. The film took a critical pasting in Britain, one reviewer apparently taking offence at the Ruffler’s attitude to religion. I’ve heard of weird, but that’s ridiculous. However, it was better received in the United States, where it was called Crossed Swords, God alone knows why. Mark Twain’s title wasn’t deemed right for American audiences? But the change of title didn’t keep the audiences away, and the film achieved a rare distinction. Radio City Music Hall was to close, and for the final week Crossed Swords was chosen as being a good family film. Result: it ran for six weeks, and Radio City Music Hall stayed open.
The screenwriting credit on the picture was unique in my experience. The authors of the first script, none of which was used, were credited with “original screenplay”, and I with “final screenplay”.
* The talented artist who painted jackets for all the Flashman novels, using himself as a model. For Flashman at the Charge , where our hero was seen in fur hat brandishing a sabre, Arthur had got his wife to photograph him flourishing a walking-stick with a tea-cosy on his head. He and Rex Harrison were lifelong friends, both being Liverpudlians and fellow-students.
* For those who may wonder what this means, in Bing Crosby musicals the scripts simply noted “Bing sings”—two words representing several minutes of screen time.
* The meeting with Lancaster, and discussion of Crimson Pirate II , eventually took place in Hollywood, and is described in a subsequent chapter.
* Leslie Halliwell’s verdict: “Moderately well-made swashbuckler with an old-fashioned air, not really helped by stars in cameo roles or by the poor playing of the title roles.” I’d say its strength is the stars in cameo roles, but otherwise I can’t disagree.
† The original shot was restored in the finished film.
* This is the stock comment if you want to say something nice about someone’s film when there’s really nothing nice to say.
ANGRY OLD MAN 2
The Westminster Farce
TO CALL MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT the dregs of society is the kind of hasty judgment one makes at every new revelation of folly or corruption at Westminster, but the sober truth is that no group except criminals and illegal immigrants ranks lower in public esteem. Journalists, lawyers, and even chat-show hosts attract less odium. The reasons are plain: parliament has become increasingly untrustworthy and incompetent, and there is a natural instinct that anyone with the brazen cheek and monumental conceit to say: “Vote for me, for I am fit to govern you, decide your destiny, set your taxes, and make your laws” is patently unfit for election, and in an ideal world would be pelted in the street. People know this, and hold MPs in contempt, but thanks to the inevitable evil of the party system have no option but to vote for them or effectively disenfranchise themselves by abstention.
That is not to say that there are not worthy men and women in the Commons, but it would be rash to think they are a majority. The remainder you would, at best, hesitate to rely on for their ability, courage, and probity, and, at worst, be unwilling to trust with doing more than sweep your steps or, in an emergency, remove your refuse.
Conspicuous among the honourable exceptions, imbued by the old ideals of service to country and constituents, and (don’t laugh, there are such folk) putting party second and self a distant third, are those admirable Left-wingers with an independent streak born sometimes of wealth, but also of their personal reputation which puts them beyond deselection. Some may be more noteworthy for their integrity than for their intellect—indeed, some may be described as eccentric to say the least. You know who they are; be thankful for them, and for those others who know that to be a good MP it is first necessary to be a lady or a gentleman.*
But they are well outnumbered by the lobby fodder of all parties whose first loyalty is to themselves, their positions, and their purses, which means in effect loyalty to the party until the time seems right to defect or stab the leader in the back. There is little to choose between the sides, but one remembers with particular distaste the rat-like behaviour of Conservative members when Mrs Thatcher was brought down. For those who still retain any illusions about Parliament as a whole, study of the diaries of the late Alan Clark wil
l prove instructive and disgusting.
But it is not to be wondered at, when one considers the muddy path that aspiring politicians must follow to reach Westminster. To win selection as candidates they must be able convincingly to dissemble, to toady, to cozen, and, when necessary, to lie outright; given these essential defects of character, and a sufficient supply of platitudinous wind to deceive the voters, all they need is luck and grovelling loyalty to the leader, obedience to the Whips, and an ability to suppress conscience, common sense, and decency as the need arises.
It was not always so. As recently as fifty years ago, Members of Parliament at least presented a more dignified and worthy appearance. They were, to a fair extent, respected and not entirely distrusted; they were thought of as sound, largely decent, dependable people, a cut above the ordinary. Tories might be a bit pompous, Labour passionate, and Liberals rather quaint, but no one doubted, really, that they were men (and very occasionally women) of bottom and common sense. They were the subject of jokes, lampoons, and caricatures, and their worthlessness was taken for granted by comedians, but it was a fairly kindly humour; if Parliament was regarded with cynicism, it was of a tolerant kind. It might be derided, but not despised, and it was expected, by and large, to do right.
How far this tolerant-cynical view was justified it is hard to say. MPs were not under the intense spotlight they endure today; their faults were not seen in close-up, and they had the sense to limit their public utterances to political meetings, and not run off at the mouth as politicians nowadays seem to feel obliged to do, God knows why. Possibly we were less critical of them than we should have been; there were rogues among them, but not that many so far as the public could see, and their conduct was generally thought to be above the national average. They were certainly not at the bottom of the league table of the despised.