The Inheritor, page 14
all night, the wife-faced sheep as they leap up the hill
smiling and knitting and bleating just like Mrs Utah Watkins.”
“Two beds. And two windows? This is gonna knock their eyes out!”
Paul had to laugh and then, ignoring the sarcasm, went on.
“The Reverend Eli Jenkins, in Bethesda House, gropes out of bed
into his preacher’s black, pads barefoot downstairs,
opens the front door...”
“A doorway.”
“Yeah, and we just need one; I’ll use it for other bits. Oh heavens, here, let me read you this:
“The owls are hunting. Look, over Bethesda gravestones one
hoots and swoops and catches a mouse by Hannah Rees, Beloved Wife.”
“One cemetery...”
“No no, Rudi, I can play that on the Narrator — oh, I never told you, Douglas Rain is the spitting image of Dylan, if we curl his hair. I met Dylan, you know.”
“Big deal — you met the writer. Congratulations!” In spite of himself, Rudi laughed again.
“Rudi, Rudi, it’s like you meeting Goethe — ”
“If I need to meet him, I put on little wings,” Rudi made flapping motions with two hands, “and I fly to heaven.”
And so the two of them, laughing, sketching, having fun, went through the whole play figuring out what elements they needed. And then, the chunky Austrian tugged on his hat, dove into his coat, and went out into the frosty Toronto morning, to make what would turn out to be one of the most breathtaking designs ever seen on CBC television.
Paul assembled a splendid cast of Welsh actors, headed by Powys Thomas, Diana Maddox and Sarah Davies, who threaded the play with their delightful lilting accents.
The show got some thirty-five laudatory letters. The distinguished critic Chester Duncan’s review said, “It seems to me at this moment that I have never seen a program that excited and satisfied me as much as Under Milk Wood.” Ron Poulton, in the Toronto Telegram, wrote: “No drama Department of any US network did anything better last season.” This was echoed by the well-known TV critic, Dennis Braithwaite, who wrote, “I thought the CBC Folio version of Under Milk Wood this week was as fine a television production as I have ever seen.” The show went on to win the prestigious Ohio State Award that year, which stated: “... exceptional utilization of the TV media. Brilliantly conceived and executed, beautifully staged and performed… A brilliant illustration of CBC creativity, integrity and respect for art.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1959
The Hill in England
Seated in the Comet, an all first-class BOAC turbojet flying to London, Paul could hardly believe his luck. He had admired the BBC for years, a Mecca he’d never dreamed of reaching. But he’d received a letter from them inviting him to London to do his own play, The Hill, live across the British Isles this Good Friday.
During his splendid dinner with lots of free wine, he kept wondering: what would the cast be like? And an unknown crew? He felt nervous, even though Michael Barry, head of all television drama, had been welcoming. But would Paul feel out of his depth? He’d managed Los Angeles, but now, the renowned BBC?
His old Balliol friend, Tom Espie with his new wife, Ailsa, had invited him to stay until he rented a flat, which he soon found at 25 Cadogan Place near Sloane Square. And of course, dinners with Stanley and Fiz also allayed his apprehension.
Renate Esslin, his script assistant, warned him that the play itself was so different from anything that had gone before, he ought to accept his casting director’s suggestion of well-known names, although in Toronto, Paul often preferred new faces. But he would enjoy rehearsing with this experienced cast.
What enlivened his stay was a friendship with a striking and intelligent redhead, Maureen Heneghan, his costume designer. Over candlelit dinners, she filled him in on BBC gossip, and made him feel at home. He found himself inordinately busy, putting this production together so quickly in an unfamiliar environment, and things went smoothly — until he got in the studio.
In the venerable (since 1950) Studio D at Lime Grove in London, the technical producer George Summers announced time for the cameramen to put on earphones and ready their cameras for the first walk-through. The crew had attended a run-through at St. Helen’s Church Hall in North Kensington, no rehearsal rooms being available at the Television Centre.
In studio, Rosalie Crutchley as Mary Magdalene, Gwen Ffrancon-Davies as the Virgin, and a number of other stellar British actors, were walking through their well-rehearsed moves on camera for the technical crew. Everything went more or less as planned until Paul told a cameraman, “Go left! Left! Can’t you see the shot?”
The voice crackled back: “I’m on my marks.”
“Marks? What marks? On the floor? Oh my gawd! Like film?” Paul had noticed some cameramen with chalk in their hands along with their shot lists, but he hadn’t paid attention. “Don’t tell me you’ve marked your positions on the floor?”
Another cameramen spoke into his mic. “We always do. That’s the way it’s done here.” Oh yes, a good British understatement: The way it’s done here...
“Done! What’s this ‘done’ business?” Paul leapt up, first turning to Renate. “Got a handkerchief? Kleenex? Anything?”
She quickly produced a large white hankie and he grabbed it, tore out of the control booth and onto the studio floor. “Where the hell are those damn marks?” he shouted. Hardly British, of course.
He found some, dropped to his knees and rubbed them out; then went on crawling around, rubbing furiously.
The cameramen stood back, aghast.
He stood. “Look you guys, I told you to take your positions by where the actors are. What the hell is this anyway? We’re not a bloody film studio. This is television. Live television. With the most fluid camera mounts known to man. You guys are good, so why not start trusting yourselves, for heaven’s sake? Frame your shots by where the actors are, and hey, by how they’re feeling — not by stupid marks on a floor like a bunch of automatons.”
He didn’t wait for the mutiny that he knew was about to take place, but tore back to the booth.
The technical producer told his men on mic, “Don’t worry, just keep going, I’ve rung up.”
Soon Michael Barry, head of all drama, came into the control room, an unusual event, apparently. Renate spotted him and nudged Paul.
Paul turned to George. “Give everyone a break, I’ll talk to Michael.” They went into the corridor, Paul incensed but keeping himself in check. He trusted Michael, an older and kindly supervisor, who had himself selected the play. “Michael,” Paul began, “have your guys worked in film? Or were they trained by film technicians?”
Michael nodded. “They come from a long tradition. But what is all this about marks on the floor?”
“Michael, these cameras are the most mobile, flowing, beautiful creatures. Once you lock them down, immobilize them with marks and predetermined heights, you’re wasting your most precious resource! I never knew you guys at the BBC were so behind!”
Michael was taken aback. No director had ever spoken this way. “But Paul, you can’t break years of tradition.”
“Just watch me, Michael, just watch this show when it goes out. It cannot go out with that old-fashioned film technique!” Paul took a breath. “You see those followers of Jesus? They’re walking around the studio; they may hit their marks, but you know actors — they move to their own rhythms. The cameramen just have to follow them. Dammit, you’ve said these are the best crew you have. Well, all they have to do is keep the actors in frame. It’s no big problem. I’ve been on sets in New York, and Hollywood. And listen to the words as the play starts out: “Through their eyes tonight, we shall see His passion.”
Michael was silent. He nodded slightly. “Makes a bit of sense. But do you think they’re capable? I mean, some of them have been working this way for years.”
“They’ll bless me later, Michael, I swear. Look, please, go, have a little chat with them. Blame me. I don’t care what you say. Pretend I’m nuts, if you like. Maybe I over-reacted but I can’t see them wedged into such darned strait-jackets.”
Michael was softening. Paul went on, “The drama department could be facing a disaster. I mean, we have a big crowd of extras, a Chorus in the announce booth, Christ in another, it’s a mammoth undertaking. It’s costly. We’ve got to do it my way, or the show won’t get on air.”
“All right, Paul, let me go down and talk to them.”
In the end, this crew and indeed all the BBC did come around, albeit slowly: other drama directors began to adapt to this way of work as it spread through the drama department. But of this Paul was unaware — he was back in Toronto working on his next show. And waiting for Angela, who had been on tour from March to May in thirty-eight cities, with forty-five performances. Would she be “tired” again? How would he deal with that?
***
On his new freelance contract, Paul could take the summer off. To get the marriage back on track — mainly those horrible monastic nights — he decided they all should head off across the United States to Los Angeles in his little blue Riley. The beach, the bathing suits, the hot sun, might loosen Angela up and who knows, Hugh French might find work to pay for the summer. Though he secretly hoped not.
Pat Macnee found for them a beachfront flat decorated with tribal statues and huge plants at 19002 Pacific Coast Highway owned by a UCLA professor of anthropology, Councill Taylor. Halfway down the beach steps, Dick Hobson, a writer who had been in therapy for years, stayed in his tiny room under the main floor. During the summer, however, they managed to roust him out for an occasional barbecue.
Paul went for coffee with Pat who lived in one of Topanga’s raggle-taggle beach cottages: the ramshackle veranda had been roofed over, and they sat in the shade, gossiping. Pat was never without work, because British actors were in demand and he, like Paul, was represented by Hugh and Robin French — who had invited Patrick and Paul’s family for lunch.
After they had run through the Hollywood gossip, Pat asked “In the mood for exercise? We could walk to Hugh’s, though it’s fairly far. But the tide is low.”
Paul agreed and they set off. “Those Hitchcock crews are so darned efficient,” Paul began. “If you take the slightest time to rehearse, they get nervous.”
“Like you, I much prefer live television,” Pat agreed. “But at least Hitch has a different story every week. Most half-hour shows have the same characters all through.”
They passed a number of beaches named after the canyons across Pacific Coast Highway: Las Tunas Beach, Big Rock, and Las Flores Beach. After breathing in the Pacific salt air, seeing Western and California gulls wheeling overhead, and beyond the surf a school of sleek dolphins, they reached Malibu Pier. “The Colony’s just beyond that,” Pat said.
“What Colony?”
“It was first known as the ‘movie star colony’. In the 30s, stars used to rent houses here — you couldn’t own them — and they’d come with their mistresses for weekends. After a while, they had to put up a gate with security guards to stop onlookers. Hugh has a house right in the middle, number 72. It’s a prestige area.”
They passed under the pilings of Malibu Pier and past surfers in black wetsuits at Surfrider Beach. A creek running down from the Santa Monica Mountains fed the lagoon behind them. Just beyond, they walked past the row of densely nestled cottages, some broken down as in Topanga, some grandly restored: the famous Malibu Colony. An eight-mile walk.
Hugh French greeted them cheerily. He was nothing if not dapper: a slight grey moustache, short and wavy grey hair, and a distinguished demeanour. No wonder British actors and directors liked having him as their agent. Robin, his twenty-three-year-old son, had recently attended Caltech after leaving Downside, a British boarding school. Despite his fresh youthful face, he had become an effective agent. An unbeatable team, with an office on Brighton Way.
Angela soon turned up in the Riley with Stephanie. Bloody Mary’s were the order of the day, with a fine salad lunch in the patio. They gossiped about the Colony neighbours: Rita Hayworth, Lana Turner, Janet Leigh, all of whom Hugh knew and mingled with. No comparison with Isabella Street in Toronto, Paul thought.
Hugh had also invited the distinguished novelist Nigel Balchin, whose daughter Prudence had been a close friend of Paul’s in Oxford. Also Jack Clayton, director of Room at the Top. Robin prompted Paul to show his press cuttings from The Hill, a horde of reviews, thirty five, in all. “They sure take notice of television drama in England.” Paul, embarrassed but pleased, spread them out on the patio table before they ate.
As Hugh leafed through, he said, “Look at these headlines! On the one hand ‘Realism is the Death of Art’ and then this: ‘Passion Story told Most Vividly’.”
Robin added: “Look, ‘The Hill was Just a Horror’ from the South Evening Echo but then — ‘Adversity and a Strong Faith! One of the most moving and touching Passion plays I have ever seen’.”
Hugh held up the Daily Sketch with its big black headline stretched across the page: Agony on TV Jolts Country! “Great notices, Paul. Good for you!”
“Looks as if you caused a stir, Paul,” Robin echoed.
Paul grinned. “Just what I hoped for.”
“Paul, tell Hugh what you won last year,” Robin prompted.
Paul hesitated. “The Liberty Award as Best Drama Producer in Canada.”
“Liberty? What’s that?”
“A magazine. Every year they choose prizewinners — the only awards we have up there. It just happened to be me this year.”
“As it should be, old boy,” Hugh said. “I’m delighted.”
During a quiet moment after lunch, Hugh told Paul that they would now begin poking about for work for him, but Paul confessed that he felt sufficiently fulfilled in Canada. Budge Crawley had just asked him to direct an episode in the first filmed television series ever done in Canada, simply called RCMP. The great pioneer of Canadian film, Budge had founded Crawley Films in Ottawa and owned a studio in Gatineau. Gilles Pelletier, a French Canadian, played one lead and Don Francks the other. Paul accepted.
With a beautiful beach, rolling surf, hot sun, Angela found a little freedom, so that on the odd, very odd, night she satisfied their mutual desires. Nothing like the sound of waves to foster marital bliss.
***
In Ottawa, Paul was taken under the wing of dynamic Peter Carter, a Cockney born within the sound of Bow Bells whose father, a film executive, had gotten Peter at sixteen a job in the industry sweeping floors. Peter had made his way up through the ranks, and was now so experienced that Budge brought him over as the RCMP’s First Assistant Director, soon the kingpin of the series.
Peter took to Paul and the two hit it off as never before, including Peter’s stunning French Canadian wife, Denise. Peter’s initial task as First AD was to bring each show in on time and on budget. Paul was a willing pupil.
First they needed to cast a Native Canadian who, having been mistreated, gave vent to a pent-up rage by smashing his own house (apparently a common occurrence). The climax was a shootout, which Peter and Paul decided to set in an abandoned rock quarry.
But how to find a native capable of carrying an entire show? Well, as usual Peter had the answer: their Lebanese stand-in, Lawrence Zahab, who had never acted. He took this standout part, and Paul cast Denise, another non-actor, as Larry’s live-in.
Well, no doubt about it, Larry was up to the task, as was Denise. When it came to the room-smashing scene, the cameraman lit for a general wide shot and then, on “Action”, Larry smashed up the place in one tremendous take.
“Let’s go again,” shouted Paul. Everyone laughed because they knew there’d be no second chance.
Paul found directing this film more enjoyable, as he’d had time to get it right: Budge had budgeted five days shooting per episode. What a difference! In fact, what a pleasure.
***
Back in Toronto, Angela continued her nightly rant about Celia Franca, founder of the National Ballet, who was “not giving her enough to do,” although in Paul’s eyes, his wife was dancing up a storm: lots of juicy acting and dancing roles.
Paul was thinking about the autumn month ahead with Angela away. And after Christmas, her long winter tour. He didn’t know what felt worse: lying in bed beside her all night so out of reach, or when she was away, even more distant.
When Paul began rehearsals for a Somerset Maugham play, Land of Promise, due out October 4th, a phone call came from Peter Carter. “Paul, we have a great script on the RCMP series. It all takes place in a paper mill.”
“Not the Eddie’s one in Ottawa? You’ll never get permission.”
“Budge has it already. But we need to shoot it in five days, and you’re the fastest director he’s got.”
“Yeah, but I’m doing Land Of Promise with Robert Goulet.”
“Not that singer? He’s never acted before.”
“No. But he looks like a farmer. Sort of.” Paul grinned.
“A handsome one. Who’s playing opposite?”
“Bob Allen’s letting me bring up Rosemary Harris.”
“Again? I bet you’re pleased. Maybe after that? I’ll tell Budge to wait and slot in a couple of other scripts beforehand.”
And so it was arranged.
One evening while preparing the film, Peter took Paul to Gatineau to watch ladies undress at a strippers’ bar — none of which interested him. So they discussed casting. “For the girl in the story, Paul, why don’t you get some actress you’re really keen on? Budge will pay expenses from Toronto. It’ll be fun.”
Paul thought a bit. “The Gatineau, especially in autumn, is just so romantic: there’s a stream outside the hotel where I stay, birds singing in the morning, woods around, tremendous.”
“Well…” Peter said, looking at him.
“That Jill Foster, I’ve always been attracted to her, I don’t know why. She’s not that pretty, but she’s the kind of woman I’d... But she’s very attached to Bernie.”
smiling and knitting and bleating just like Mrs Utah Watkins.”
“Two beds. And two windows? This is gonna knock their eyes out!”
Paul had to laugh and then, ignoring the sarcasm, went on.
“The Reverend Eli Jenkins, in Bethesda House, gropes out of bed
into his preacher’s black, pads barefoot downstairs,
opens the front door...”
“A doorway.”
“Yeah, and we just need one; I’ll use it for other bits. Oh heavens, here, let me read you this:
“The owls are hunting. Look, over Bethesda gravestones one
hoots and swoops and catches a mouse by Hannah Rees, Beloved Wife.”
“One cemetery...”
“No no, Rudi, I can play that on the Narrator — oh, I never told you, Douglas Rain is the spitting image of Dylan, if we curl his hair. I met Dylan, you know.”
“Big deal — you met the writer. Congratulations!” In spite of himself, Rudi laughed again.
“Rudi, Rudi, it’s like you meeting Goethe — ”
“If I need to meet him, I put on little wings,” Rudi made flapping motions with two hands, “and I fly to heaven.”
And so the two of them, laughing, sketching, having fun, went through the whole play figuring out what elements they needed. And then, the chunky Austrian tugged on his hat, dove into his coat, and went out into the frosty Toronto morning, to make what would turn out to be one of the most breathtaking designs ever seen on CBC television.
Paul assembled a splendid cast of Welsh actors, headed by Powys Thomas, Diana Maddox and Sarah Davies, who threaded the play with their delightful lilting accents.
The show got some thirty-five laudatory letters. The distinguished critic Chester Duncan’s review said, “It seems to me at this moment that I have never seen a program that excited and satisfied me as much as Under Milk Wood.” Ron Poulton, in the Toronto Telegram, wrote: “No drama Department of any US network did anything better last season.” This was echoed by the well-known TV critic, Dennis Braithwaite, who wrote, “I thought the CBC Folio version of Under Milk Wood this week was as fine a television production as I have ever seen.” The show went on to win the prestigious Ohio State Award that year, which stated: “... exceptional utilization of the TV media. Brilliantly conceived and executed, beautifully staged and performed… A brilliant illustration of CBC creativity, integrity and respect for art.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1959
The Hill in England
Seated in the Comet, an all first-class BOAC turbojet flying to London, Paul could hardly believe his luck. He had admired the BBC for years, a Mecca he’d never dreamed of reaching. But he’d received a letter from them inviting him to London to do his own play, The Hill, live across the British Isles this Good Friday.
During his splendid dinner with lots of free wine, he kept wondering: what would the cast be like? And an unknown crew? He felt nervous, even though Michael Barry, head of all television drama, had been welcoming. But would Paul feel out of his depth? He’d managed Los Angeles, but now, the renowned BBC?
His old Balliol friend, Tom Espie with his new wife, Ailsa, had invited him to stay until he rented a flat, which he soon found at 25 Cadogan Place near Sloane Square. And of course, dinners with Stanley and Fiz also allayed his apprehension.
Renate Esslin, his script assistant, warned him that the play itself was so different from anything that had gone before, he ought to accept his casting director’s suggestion of well-known names, although in Toronto, Paul often preferred new faces. But he would enjoy rehearsing with this experienced cast.
What enlivened his stay was a friendship with a striking and intelligent redhead, Maureen Heneghan, his costume designer. Over candlelit dinners, she filled him in on BBC gossip, and made him feel at home. He found himself inordinately busy, putting this production together so quickly in an unfamiliar environment, and things went smoothly — until he got in the studio.
In the venerable (since 1950) Studio D at Lime Grove in London, the technical producer George Summers announced time for the cameramen to put on earphones and ready their cameras for the first walk-through. The crew had attended a run-through at St. Helen’s Church Hall in North Kensington, no rehearsal rooms being available at the Television Centre.
In studio, Rosalie Crutchley as Mary Magdalene, Gwen Ffrancon-Davies as the Virgin, and a number of other stellar British actors, were walking through their well-rehearsed moves on camera for the technical crew. Everything went more or less as planned until Paul told a cameraman, “Go left! Left! Can’t you see the shot?”
The voice crackled back: “I’m on my marks.”
“Marks? What marks? On the floor? Oh my gawd! Like film?” Paul had noticed some cameramen with chalk in their hands along with their shot lists, but he hadn’t paid attention. “Don’t tell me you’ve marked your positions on the floor?”
Another cameramen spoke into his mic. “We always do. That’s the way it’s done here.” Oh yes, a good British understatement: The way it’s done here...
“Done! What’s this ‘done’ business?” Paul leapt up, first turning to Renate. “Got a handkerchief? Kleenex? Anything?”
She quickly produced a large white hankie and he grabbed it, tore out of the control booth and onto the studio floor. “Where the hell are those damn marks?” he shouted. Hardly British, of course.
He found some, dropped to his knees and rubbed them out; then went on crawling around, rubbing furiously.
The cameramen stood back, aghast.
He stood. “Look you guys, I told you to take your positions by where the actors are. What the hell is this anyway? We’re not a bloody film studio. This is television. Live television. With the most fluid camera mounts known to man. You guys are good, so why not start trusting yourselves, for heaven’s sake? Frame your shots by where the actors are, and hey, by how they’re feeling — not by stupid marks on a floor like a bunch of automatons.”
He didn’t wait for the mutiny that he knew was about to take place, but tore back to the booth.
The technical producer told his men on mic, “Don’t worry, just keep going, I’ve rung up.”
Soon Michael Barry, head of all drama, came into the control room, an unusual event, apparently. Renate spotted him and nudged Paul.
Paul turned to George. “Give everyone a break, I’ll talk to Michael.” They went into the corridor, Paul incensed but keeping himself in check. He trusted Michael, an older and kindly supervisor, who had himself selected the play. “Michael,” Paul began, “have your guys worked in film? Or were they trained by film technicians?”
Michael nodded. “They come from a long tradition. But what is all this about marks on the floor?”
“Michael, these cameras are the most mobile, flowing, beautiful creatures. Once you lock them down, immobilize them with marks and predetermined heights, you’re wasting your most precious resource! I never knew you guys at the BBC were so behind!”
Michael was taken aback. No director had ever spoken this way. “But Paul, you can’t break years of tradition.”
“Just watch me, Michael, just watch this show when it goes out. It cannot go out with that old-fashioned film technique!” Paul took a breath. “You see those followers of Jesus? They’re walking around the studio; they may hit their marks, but you know actors — they move to their own rhythms. The cameramen just have to follow them. Dammit, you’ve said these are the best crew you have. Well, all they have to do is keep the actors in frame. It’s no big problem. I’ve been on sets in New York, and Hollywood. And listen to the words as the play starts out: “Through their eyes tonight, we shall see His passion.”
Michael was silent. He nodded slightly. “Makes a bit of sense. But do you think they’re capable? I mean, some of them have been working this way for years.”
“They’ll bless me later, Michael, I swear. Look, please, go, have a little chat with them. Blame me. I don’t care what you say. Pretend I’m nuts, if you like. Maybe I over-reacted but I can’t see them wedged into such darned strait-jackets.”
Michael was softening. Paul went on, “The drama department could be facing a disaster. I mean, we have a big crowd of extras, a Chorus in the announce booth, Christ in another, it’s a mammoth undertaking. It’s costly. We’ve got to do it my way, or the show won’t get on air.”
“All right, Paul, let me go down and talk to them.”
In the end, this crew and indeed all the BBC did come around, albeit slowly: other drama directors began to adapt to this way of work as it spread through the drama department. But of this Paul was unaware — he was back in Toronto working on his next show. And waiting for Angela, who had been on tour from March to May in thirty-eight cities, with forty-five performances. Would she be “tired” again? How would he deal with that?
***
On his new freelance contract, Paul could take the summer off. To get the marriage back on track — mainly those horrible monastic nights — he decided they all should head off across the United States to Los Angeles in his little blue Riley. The beach, the bathing suits, the hot sun, might loosen Angela up and who knows, Hugh French might find work to pay for the summer. Though he secretly hoped not.
Pat Macnee found for them a beachfront flat decorated with tribal statues and huge plants at 19002 Pacific Coast Highway owned by a UCLA professor of anthropology, Councill Taylor. Halfway down the beach steps, Dick Hobson, a writer who had been in therapy for years, stayed in his tiny room under the main floor. During the summer, however, they managed to roust him out for an occasional barbecue.
Paul went for coffee with Pat who lived in one of Topanga’s raggle-taggle beach cottages: the ramshackle veranda had been roofed over, and they sat in the shade, gossiping. Pat was never without work, because British actors were in demand and he, like Paul, was represented by Hugh and Robin French — who had invited Patrick and Paul’s family for lunch.
After they had run through the Hollywood gossip, Pat asked “In the mood for exercise? We could walk to Hugh’s, though it’s fairly far. But the tide is low.”
Paul agreed and they set off. “Those Hitchcock crews are so darned efficient,” Paul began. “If you take the slightest time to rehearse, they get nervous.”
“Like you, I much prefer live television,” Pat agreed. “But at least Hitch has a different story every week. Most half-hour shows have the same characters all through.”
They passed a number of beaches named after the canyons across Pacific Coast Highway: Las Tunas Beach, Big Rock, and Las Flores Beach. After breathing in the Pacific salt air, seeing Western and California gulls wheeling overhead, and beyond the surf a school of sleek dolphins, they reached Malibu Pier. “The Colony’s just beyond that,” Pat said.
“What Colony?”
“It was first known as the ‘movie star colony’. In the 30s, stars used to rent houses here — you couldn’t own them — and they’d come with their mistresses for weekends. After a while, they had to put up a gate with security guards to stop onlookers. Hugh has a house right in the middle, number 72. It’s a prestige area.”
They passed under the pilings of Malibu Pier and past surfers in black wetsuits at Surfrider Beach. A creek running down from the Santa Monica Mountains fed the lagoon behind them. Just beyond, they walked past the row of densely nestled cottages, some broken down as in Topanga, some grandly restored: the famous Malibu Colony. An eight-mile walk.
Hugh French greeted them cheerily. He was nothing if not dapper: a slight grey moustache, short and wavy grey hair, and a distinguished demeanour. No wonder British actors and directors liked having him as their agent. Robin, his twenty-three-year-old son, had recently attended Caltech after leaving Downside, a British boarding school. Despite his fresh youthful face, he had become an effective agent. An unbeatable team, with an office on Brighton Way.
Angela soon turned up in the Riley with Stephanie. Bloody Mary’s were the order of the day, with a fine salad lunch in the patio. They gossiped about the Colony neighbours: Rita Hayworth, Lana Turner, Janet Leigh, all of whom Hugh knew and mingled with. No comparison with Isabella Street in Toronto, Paul thought.
Hugh had also invited the distinguished novelist Nigel Balchin, whose daughter Prudence had been a close friend of Paul’s in Oxford. Also Jack Clayton, director of Room at the Top. Robin prompted Paul to show his press cuttings from The Hill, a horde of reviews, thirty five, in all. “They sure take notice of television drama in England.” Paul, embarrassed but pleased, spread them out on the patio table before they ate.
As Hugh leafed through, he said, “Look at these headlines! On the one hand ‘Realism is the Death of Art’ and then this: ‘Passion Story told Most Vividly’.”
Robin added: “Look, ‘The Hill was Just a Horror’ from the South Evening Echo but then — ‘Adversity and a Strong Faith! One of the most moving and touching Passion plays I have ever seen’.”
Hugh held up the Daily Sketch with its big black headline stretched across the page: Agony on TV Jolts Country! “Great notices, Paul. Good for you!”
“Looks as if you caused a stir, Paul,” Robin echoed.
Paul grinned. “Just what I hoped for.”
“Paul, tell Hugh what you won last year,” Robin prompted.
Paul hesitated. “The Liberty Award as Best Drama Producer in Canada.”
“Liberty? What’s that?”
“A magazine. Every year they choose prizewinners — the only awards we have up there. It just happened to be me this year.”
“As it should be, old boy,” Hugh said. “I’m delighted.”
During a quiet moment after lunch, Hugh told Paul that they would now begin poking about for work for him, but Paul confessed that he felt sufficiently fulfilled in Canada. Budge Crawley had just asked him to direct an episode in the first filmed television series ever done in Canada, simply called RCMP. The great pioneer of Canadian film, Budge had founded Crawley Films in Ottawa and owned a studio in Gatineau. Gilles Pelletier, a French Canadian, played one lead and Don Francks the other. Paul accepted.
With a beautiful beach, rolling surf, hot sun, Angela found a little freedom, so that on the odd, very odd, night she satisfied their mutual desires. Nothing like the sound of waves to foster marital bliss.
***
In Ottawa, Paul was taken under the wing of dynamic Peter Carter, a Cockney born within the sound of Bow Bells whose father, a film executive, had gotten Peter at sixteen a job in the industry sweeping floors. Peter had made his way up through the ranks, and was now so experienced that Budge brought him over as the RCMP’s First Assistant Director, soon the kingpin of the series.
Peter took to Paul and the two hit it off as never before, including Peter’s stunning French Canadian wife, Denise. Peter’s initial task as First AD was to bring each show in on time and on budget. Paul was a willing pupil.
First they needed to cast a Native Canadian who, having been mistreated, gave vent to a pent-up rage by smashing his own house (apparently a common occurrence). The climax was a shootout, which Peter and Paul decided to set in an abandoned rock quarry.
But how to find a native capable of carrying an entire show? Well, as usual Peter had the answer: their Lebanese stand-in, Lawrence Zahab, who had never acted. He took this standout part, and Paul cast Denise, another non-actor, as Larry’s live-in.
Well, no doubt about it, Larry was up to the task, as was Denise. When it came to the room-smashing scene, the cameraman lit for a general wide shot and then, on “Action”, Larry smashed up the place in one tremendous take.
“Let’s go again,” shouted Paul. Everyone laughed because they knew there’d be no second chance.
Paul found directing this film more enjoyable, as he’d had time to get it right: Budge had budgeted five days shooting per episode. What a difference! In fact, what a pleasure.
***
Back in Toronto, Angela continued her nightly rant about Celia Franca, founder of the National Ballet, who was “not giving her enough to do,” although in Paul’s eyes, his wife was dancing up a storm: lots of juicy acting and dancing roles.
Paul was thinking about the autumn month ahead with Angela away. And after Christmas, her long winter tour. He didn’t know what felt worse: lying in bed beside her all night so out of reach, or when she was away, even more distant.
When Paul began rehearsals for a Somerset Maugham play, Land of Promise, due out October 4th, a phone call came from Peter Carter. “Paul, we have a great script on the RCMP series. It all takes place in a paper mill.”
“Not the Eddie’s one in Ottawa? You’ll never get permission.”
“Budge has it already. But we need to shoot it in five days, and you’re the fastest director he’s got.”
“Yeah, but I’m doing Land Of Promise with Robert Goulet.”
“Not that singer? He’s never acted before.”
“No. But he looks like a farmer. Sort of.” Paul grinned.
“A handsome one. Who’s playing opposite?”
“Bob Allen’s letting me bring up Rosemary Harris.”
“Again? I bet you’re pleased. Maybe after that? I’ll tell Budge to wait and slot in a couple of other scripts beforehand.”
And so it was arranged.
One evening while preparing the film, Peter took Paul to Gatineau to watch ladies undress at a strippers’ bar — none of which interested him. So they discussed casting. “For the girl in the story, Paul, why don’t you get some actress you’re really keen on? Budge will pay expenses from Toronto. It’ll be fun.”
Paul thought a bit. “The Gatineau, especially in autumn, is just so romantic: there’s a stream outside the hotel where I stay, birds singing in the morning, woods around, tremendous.”
“Well…” Peter said, looking at him.
“That Jill Foster, I’ve always been attracted to her, I don’t know why. She’s not that pretty, but she’s the kind of woman I’d... But she’s very attached to Bernie.”
