Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [105]
Monday, April 29th, Ballachulish, Scotland
Sitting down to write this overlooking the broad sweep of Loch Leven. Below me cars are queuing for the Ballachulish ferry, across the water the sun shines through a break in the cloud, pinpointing a small white-washed group of cottages and emphasising the green of the fields running down to the water’s edge. Beyond them the mountains rise into the mist. A tranquil sort of morning. We have been in Scotland a little over twenty-four hours. On Saturday night I said goodbye to Helen and the boys in the usual unsatisfactory way – a rushed meal together – a ‘Quick, can you sew on this?’ and ‘Have you seen my that?’ sort of leavetaking. I won’t see them again until May 25th. Still, Scotland has been very welcoming, and I feel relaxed and comfortable and invigorated here, after the busy two weeks since we left Southwold.
During that time we rehearsed the film [Monty Python and the Holy Grail], inevitably rewrote some of the scenes as we did so. But it came to life during rehearsal – we began to laugh at each other’s performances again, and from being rather an albatross of worry round our necks (finance, script, etc, etc) the film became enjoyable and fun.
I’m trying to think how I can begin to chronicle all that happens on this film. Will try a kind of shorthand and see if it works.
Tuesday, April 30th, Ballachulish
First day of filming. Woken at 6.45. Sunshine streaming through the curtains. Into chainmail and red-cross tabard. A difficult day today – the Bridge of Death scene where Eric and I die and Lancelot is arrested by the police. Dangerous too – from what I hear. Difficult decision over Galahad’s blond wig. Instead of noble and youthful, I look like I should be serving in a supermarket. End of Galahad as a blond.
Such is the economy on this film that not only do the actors have a minibus rather than cars to go to the location, but they also have to drive it.
John (Lancelot) and I (Galahad) driving up through Glencoe in a Budget Rent-a-Van in full chainmail.
Scrambled up to the Gorge of Eternal Peril – this took about 15 minutes of hard climbing.
Camera broke midway through first shot.
The day is hastily re-arranged and, from having been busy, but organised, it was now busy and disorganised. The sun disappeared. John Horton’s smoke bombs and flames worked superbly. Graham as King Arthur got vertigo and couldn’t go across the bridge. He spent the day rather unhappily cold and shaking. Eric and I and John sat around listening to stories from the Mountain Rescue boys about how many people perish on these spectacular mountains each year. Five or six deaths usually.
Terry J comes up to me in the afternoon and says he’s ‘a bit worried about Terry G’s priorities in choice of shots’1 – we run two and a quarter hours overtime, until nearly 8.00. Everyone in the young unit seems happy enough.
Enjoyed the sight of Hamish Maclnnes, head of Mountain Rescue in Glencoe, flinging rubber corpses of knights into the gorge. More terrifying ledges to climb round on tomorrow. I hope Gra’s OK.
Back at hotel at 8.30 for large Bell’s and a bath. Couldn’t really face the four-course hotel meal, so sat in the bar with Eric, drinking scotch and watching card tricks.
But Sunday night was the most eventful, when I giggled a great deal over the menu after some very high-quality grass of Eric’s, and Graham ended up being seduced by an Aberdeen gentleman on a fishing holiday. Graham resisted evidently, but was well pissed and woke me about 1.00 banging on my door saying he was Ethel de Keyser2.
On Monday night he woke me again just after I’d dropped off, when I heard him in his room saying’Betty Marsden!’ rather loudly in a variety of silly ways.
Tuesday night, however, he was kind enough to be content with putting a note under my door with ‘Best wishes, Betty Marsden’3 written on it.
Wednesday, May 1st, Ballachulish
At lunchtime still no word that we were needed. Eric and I