Digressions of a director

This article includes racist and homophobic words and attitudes.

The following article has been written by ROLLO GAMBLE and is about some of the incidents which hare brightened his days as a director.

 

I remember making a film for the Army in India called ‘Hold Your Fire’ (until you see the whites of their eyes) – this entailed among other elaborate details, a platoon of Gurkhas dressed up in Japanese uniforms (their resemblance to the Japanese is remarkable), crossing a river and being ambushed. The river I chose was only about three feet deep and 25 yards wide in the jungle near Dehra Dun. The Gurkhas were most co-operative, for when the sun started sinking below the fringe of the trees and our cameraman shouted for lights, a Gurkha would shin up and remove the obscuring branches with his kookri [more usually spelt ‘kukri’ in English, a curved knife – Ed]. Their technique filled us with admiration – they would sit on the end of the branch and hack it at a point nearer the trunk – we would shout warnings, but these were never heeded. Sometimes they were 200 feet from the ground then, with a wonderful sense of timing as the branch cracked, they would grab part of the main tree and remain aloft hanging by an arm, roaring with laughter. We siting a rope across the river and lined the bottom with small explosives to be electrically operated by the sappers. At the word ‘action’ the Gurkha ‘Japs’ emerged from the jungle and started crossing the river holding the rope and squatting to make the water seem deeper.

Then on cue orders were given for the Indian Army ambush to go into action and the explosives were detonated in the river. To avoid the explosions the actors had been told to keep strictly to the rope. However, a few decided to act the part of dying more realistically. They flung themselves away from the rope and were carried down by the stream. It was too late to stop the explosives. At the end I had half a dozen casualties, one of whom, sadly, died – a piece of metal from a detonator easing had penetrated his anus. Every reasonable precaution had been taken and the film showed exactly what had happened, so we were all exonerated at the Court of Enquiry – however, I vowed I would never have anything to do with filming again.

Of course I did.

One of the most frightening experiences was making a film on mountain climbing at Banff Springs in the Rockies. The commentary and dialogue was in French since the television film was intended for the French-Canadian population. I had two Swiss guides to assist me, Bruno Engler and Walter Lippman (not of course, the doyen of American political commentators).

The pay-off was the successful arrival on the pinnacle of the tyro, a young French Canadian called Gil La Roche. We chose one of the minor peaks and were duly roped together by the Swiss guides. The cameraman had an auricon [16mm sound-on-film motion picture camera] in a rucksack strapped to his back. In another a clueless electrician carried the battery — upside down, so that the acid ran out and ruined a suede jacket lent him by Bruno Engler. We also carried with us a large, round, empty biscuit tin.

When reaching a well-climbed summit, it is the custom among mountaineers to sign a book which is kept inside a tin ensconced in a cairn of stones, thus proving that they have been there. Though this peak was steep enough, it was not considered by genuine mountaineers to be worthy of a cairn of its own — so we provided the tin and book and were prepared to build a cairn.

I was fat and extremely out of condition in those days — so I had more or less to be dragged to the top by the guides and the rest of the crew. On the way we filmed Gil La Roche suspended over various vertiginous chasms. One was particularly terrifying. There were two pillars bending towards each other. The gap between their tops could not have been more than 3 ft. 6 in. but the drop between was at least 2,000 feet, a mere step but what a step and a step we all had to take to reach the top.

All preparations were made for the pay-off scene when Bruno had to come in on cue with the book. But Bruno, brilliantly agile mountaineer and splendid ad lib. actor, was no good at coming in on a cue. After 17 takes tempers were frayed. Exasperated beyond endurance he shouted ‘Merde’ and punted the biscuit tin high into the air. In dismay we watched it bump down the rocky slope, plunge over the precipice, to hear it no more as it dropped thousands of feet into the valley.

French-Canadians are volatile — there are plenty of Gallic elements left in their genes. This could have started a fight, which in that precarious situation could have been dangerous. Since I was the only Englishman there, and everything is blamed upon the director anyway, it could have been especially dangerous for me. If I had not exercised tact I would no doubt have been forced to follow the biscuit tin. Luckily someone saw the funny side and all ended in laughter. Our dilemma was solved by rewriting the script. To everyone’s astonishment we won a certificate from the Canadian Government – for the best television film in French Canadian made on top of a mountain by a foreign director over 45.

Talking about prizes, I remember an extremely active year, sometime ago now, when I had collaborated with Daniel Farson. We were sent letters telling us we had been short-listed for a prize at the Television Ball. In fact several people told us (on the ‘very highest authority’) that we had a very good chance and we were advised to attend. Dan and I both loathe functions of that sort. However, for my part, vanity prevailed, I got quite excited and went off to Moss Bros for the necessary clothes. Somehow, at enormous cost, we got two returned tickets at the last minute and turned up at the Ball.

We were shown to a table already occupied by rather a sinister group of middle-aged and were received, as we introduced ourselves and sat down, extremely coldly.

Opposite me sat a stout man with an ill-fitting wig, which he adjusted from time to time. Next to him a pretty, but stern woman of 45 or so smoked from a long cigarette holder. She gave me not the flicker of a smile of welcome and I quickly realised that one of her eyes, which did not move, was glass. To add to my embarrassment, I remember, something very hard kept grating me. I began to suspect that the lady sitting next to me was rubbing my shin with a metal brace attached to her leg. There were also curious squeaks coming from under the table. I was forced to drop my napkin only to discover it was the leg of the table I hail been trying to avoid and the squeaks were coming from a sort of metal fastener the lady wore on her brogues. As I rose again to my seat, she looked at me severely and said she had been ‘observing my work of late’. Whether this was intended as praise or blame it was impossible to tell. I can never forget the unfriendly stare of those eyes around that table; if there was a relenting gleam it was in only one and that was the glass eye.

Eventually the silence was broken, a few names were dropped – a very tall, very thin man, with a finely pencilled moustache winked at me evilly — the word ‘corporation’ figured from time to time – and then, sickeningly, it dawned on me that we had blundered into the case-hardened cadre of the BBC.

Alas. They have all seceded now, some to rest forever, some to retirement with the O.B.E. and others to commercial television – for the young have taken over.

Very soon the speeches began and it became apparent we had not won a prize. The lady with the brogues bent over and whispered: ‘Better luck next time – I like your shows – jolly good live.’ ‘Not live – filmed’, I hissed. With that she turned her back and I slunk away. Dan had of course made his escape long before and I joined him at the bar, horribly disappointed. So much for prizes.

If I suffer from folie de grandeur it is only in my dreams.

I am John Huston and I am getting a long shot composed of Canyons, Kraals and 40,000 cattle. My assistants are my PA, the clapper boy (a part often doubled by me) and two or three Africans who don’t speak a word of English. We are all shouting and beating reflectors to get the cattle to stampede in the right direction. The Indians on horseback (my dream is very mixed up) who are supposed to do this only create chaos. Eventually it happens, the cattle stampede – straight at the camera and we are all immolated under pounding hooves. I then wake up with a pounding heart to meagre reality – sweating and disgruntled.

One sometimes has moments of vicarious grandeur – when one visits the houses of the great to obtain interviews. Usually, of course, one is admitted by appointment through the tradesman’s entrance. The butler who lets one in, invariably expects a large tip – and who should blame him, for the disruption of the household regime will be appalling.

There is the preliminary discussion with the VIP involved. He or she will always ask: ‘How much time does it take, how much machinery will you bring and will it make a mess, etc.’

If one has any sense, one always asks for twice as much time, describes the machinery as gigantic and dangerous and the mess disgusting. Luckily for TV most people are so vain they will put up with anything, for a chance to appear – and if one can get out fairly cleanly, it is gratifying to hear one’s victim say: ‘That wasn’t so bad after all’.

An exception to this was our visit to Barbara Cartland’s country mansion. I had been received graciously in her boudoir where she was putting the final touches to her make-up. When she asked the usual questions I exaggerated everything according to plan and told her it was unlikely we could be finished before lunch time. ‘Then we’ll all have a jolly lunch together afterwards’, she added with her immense charm.

I did not reckon with the wiring of Camfield Place. During a shot there was an appalling flash, all the lights went out and we were told the cooking stove had fused. Miss Cartland, though she must have cursed us, seemed unruffled – imperiously she summoned a man from the electricity board. We lunched off cold cuts and vitamin pills and got home shattered, exhausted and filled with admiration long past midnight. That was an ill-fated story – the programme was transmitted out of sync on its first showing and it has taken me about three years to explain to Barbara Cartland what happened.

Another occasion nearly ended in a far more sinister tragedy.

With enormous difficulty we had got permission to film an actual wedding. It wasn’t so much the church service we were interested in as the wedding breakfast, which was to take place, at lunchtime, in the Dog and Fox in Wimbledon. We had two crews, one to handle the orange blossom, confetti and all that in the morning, and the other to set up in the D. & F. for the breakfast.

The breakfast, I may say, consisted of champagne, soup, turkey, gaufrettes trifle and wedding cake. I suppose there must have been places laid for 250. At any rate it was a vast area to light and we had to hire a special generator. The crew spent the whole morning trying to start the infernal thing without success. We had our camera set, the toastmaster in his special and stentorian voice was already announcing the guests – the bride, groom, mothers and fathers were all lined up to receive – but there were no illuminations and it was useless to ‘Roll’. We were all in despair, the electrician was going mad. In a paroxysm of temper he seized a hammer and clouted the generator, intending to smash it.

It started.

The lights went up and we filmed, surf-riding on a wave of elation. But sudden transitions from despair to relief in circumstances of that sort can be dangerous. The electrician was so pleased with himself that he drained all available glasses (there were hundreds) and was seen staggering about among the lights. The baby of the bride’s sister was crawling on the carpet and was just saved from instant death as someone caught a falling 2-K inches from its head. This had the effect of sobering everybody up.

But I digress – I was talking about celebrities. I once asked the Duke of Marlborough if I could film at Blenheim. He told me of a BBC crew which had been there (with Dimbleby I think) when the sound assistant pushed his fish-pole through the face of a Holbein portrait. The Duke had the canvas sewn up by a picture restorer and apparently there is nothing to be seen of the damage – accidents happen in the best regulated societies.

With this by way of warning he gave us permission to film – I’ve always regretted that we never did. The project was cancelled.

I am reminded of a great house in Smith Square, its reception rooms walled with impressionist paintings – part of the valuable Courtauld collection – and the home of the then Home Secretary.

Mr [Rab] Butler received us with his famous sophisticated charm. We had admired the pictures and punctually were all set to go. ‘Cut, I’m sorry’, called the sound engineer. There was a strange buzzing in his cans, some electronic fault we supposed. The delay was appalling, for Mr Butler is one of those politicians who is genuinely very busy. I left the engineer, his screwdriver poking about in the entrails of the tape recorder, to make my apologies. A half-hour had gone by attempting small talk, when I noticed clustered over the microphone a swarm of flies. It was obviously the fly mating season and this was the cause of the noise. We shook the mike and fanned it, but it must have been very sticky because the flies returned every time – the only answer was to get a flit gun [a hand-pumped insecticide sprayer]. After searching the house, Mr Butler produced a very rusty flit gun from his basement. I was photographed applying the flit and this photograph made the national dailies with the caption, ‘The Home Secretary gets a flitting’. I expected to be clapped into gaol, as was the Good Soldier Schweik, who remarked in a pub in Prague as he observed a portrait of his Excellency, that flies had settled on the Archduke Ferdinand.

Now from the homes of the famous to the homeless.

Without warning I was flying towards Latin America, my mission to film the 150th anniversary of the Argentine’s liberation from Spain. Large sums of money were concealed about my person – I had to find and finance cameras, crews, film and the rest. Our contact was an American beachcomber, called Rossiter. He met me in Buenos Aires, sweating with moral disintegration – no cameras were available, only a Kodak, designed for amateurs with an automatic light meter – automatic in that it was unnecessary to set the stop. The cameraman, Pepe le Moko, only had to point, focus and squirt. We were doing this at a vast, ominous, military parade, when the news of the Chilean earthquake broke. Two hundred miles of coast had dropped three metres, a great fissure in the Pacific sea-bed had collapsed causing a tidal wave and destruction never before experienced.

Michael Ingrams and I were again in the air, our Lufthansa plane soaring over the Andes and circling endlessly the aerodrome at Santiago de Chile.

The American hotel block stands in a square opposite a Ruritanian Palace – the manoeuvres of the President’s guard causing us macabre amusement as we watched from our 17th storey suite. In the foyer of the hotel highly organised American aid airmen and WACS [US Women’s Army Corps] swarmed, with a scrum of international journalists at the bar.

Our aim, therefore, was to get to the scene of destruction as early as possible. We found a camera somewhere and a cameraman, Orlando Furioso. At 4 a.m. the next morning we were on an aerodrome in the office of the American commandant asking him to let us fly 1,000 miles south in a Globemaster. The Americans with their wonderful sense of international charity had sent a fleet of these transport planes with cargoes of medical supplies, blankets, etc. There is a wide shelf behind the pilot’s cabin. Here we lay, given cocoa and cigarettes by gum-chewing airmen resembling Hollywood extras. Michael and I were in lounge suits (his Savile Row) and had urban and effeminate footwear. We had left our bowler hats and umbrellas in the Santiago hotel.

The Chileans complain they cannot have an interesting sex life because the country is so long and narrow, they all have to stand in queues. However, it’s a marvellous country to fly down. At dawn the snow-capped peaks of the Andes are rose and the range is dotted with volcanoes in semi-eruption. The lumbering plane throbbed along. Asking Orlando Furioso for pictures of passing mountains, we discovered to our horror he had no idea how to operate the camera, let alone speak English. Having read a few ‘do-it-yourself’ pamphlets on both photography and Spanish, I was able to give him rudimentary instructions. Calculating the exposure, since this camera had no built-in meter, sent the three of us into committee every few minutes.

The plane settled, a fat turkey, at a place called Puerto Mont, or Puerto Meurt – (Port of death?) if it had been called Puerto Merde it would have been more fitting.

Shivering with cold, we trudged across the aerodrome in six inches of mud, our suits and pansy shoes suffering. In the drizzle, Michael, suave and diplomatic, persuaded the Chilean Army to lend us a jeep.

It was as if the fields and woods of Kent had been shattered and rent. Huge slices had been carved out of the road. The railway line had been whipped like a child’s skipping rope and broken up in hummocks. Hillsides had slipped into the valleys, a rich man losing in three minutes his 40,000 acre ranch as it slid cowboys, crops and stock into Lake Rinnehue [sic – Riñihue].

We reached the pathetic, broken town. Resigned figures were picking in the ruins. The boulevard, a dual carriageway along the embankment had sunk into the river, the lamp-posts and trees sticking regularly through the water. Orlando filmed soup kitchens organised by nuns, relief camps, bodies collected from ruined homes, and funerals slowly processing away.

In the hotel, cracked, still standing, but disembowelled, there was a room for us. There was no electric light, no lavatory working, no water, only wine, which somehow had survived in large quantities.

In the back an electric fan, not revolving, swayed from the ceiling. Seeing it, I remarked that it must be very draughty to move such a heavy object – not at all, I was told it was the building which was swaying, for tremors are felt for weeks after a severe earthquake.

To light us to bed we were allowed one candle. Every half-hour or so the building shook and we could hear deep in the earth, a steady thrumming. We wanted to film Michael during an earth tremor in the hotel bedroom, on the site writing his report.

So we used the candle for a key light (about six inches from his nose) and Orlando persuaded the landlady, who reluctantly let us have another candle for a filler. We ran the camera at its lowest speed, wide open. Michael did the action in the slowest of slow motion and lo-and-behold the shot came out and was used in our story on ‘This Week’. The next day I was invited into a crippled house. The old couple, their faces browned like worn ivory, lined with suffering and stoicism, insisted on giving me a glass of their local liqueur. We could not talk. I filmed them in their hopeless and dimly lit kitchen and parted in tears. A rusty old taxi took us to the aerodrome. There the ever kindly Americans squeezed us into a Globemaster, already overloaded with heart-rending refugees, and flew us back to Santiago.

After this the rest of the story filmed in Santiago was as stale as margarine is to butter. The anti-climax was intense and led us to all kinds of extremes of relaxation. However, that is a story for St Peter at the Gates of Heaven.