Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [208]
Home about 8.30. Wash away the day’s grot. Then Helen, in keeping with the drought spirit that has gripped the land, waters the flowers with my bathwater.
Long phone call home to find out the latest on Father, who yesterday fell quite severely. The doctor says it’s time for him to go into hospital permanently, but a geriatric specialist visited him today and pronounced him much fitter than he’d expected. The specialist says my ma should not do so much for him – and should let him spend all day dressing if he needs to. Mother needed calming down after this theoretically very humane, but practically rather callous verdict.
Friday, August 27th
Feel confident and eager to work on these opening scenes. Presence of Paul Curran, who’s playing my father, increases this spirit of enjoyment. We complete our early part of the scene quickly, then Warren appears and we work on the main body of the scene. It goes well and feels lively. Warren says he enjoys working with Paul and myself – I think because we adapt to his rather naturalistic way of playing. He says he throws some actors who complain that their sense of’timing’ – W makes it sound like a dirty word – goes if there is any improvisation at all.
But the irrepressible Mitchell ego, which has been bristling over the last couple of days, suddenly and quite abruptly bursts out. A BBC Film ’76 camera crew hover and start to film us rehearsing.
Warren: ‘Who are these people?’
Mumbled lack of response from everyone.
Warren, louder:’No, come on, who are these people? What are they doing?’
By now he’s got the embarrassed attention of most of the unit. He refuses to be filmed rehearsing. He, quite reasonably, if rather loudly, points out that no-one asked him if he would mind. Barry Norman1 is seen scowling in the background and after a hurried discussion they very huffily leave.
Wednesday, September 1st
An incident at Shepperton. I’m being made-up when I hear raised voices in the corridor outside. One of the extras, a short, stocky, barrel-chested man with a nose spread all over his face, is shouting loudly and angrily at Maggie Gilliam. But the shouting is of a particularly vicious, abusive and violent kind. He sounds more than just angry, he sounds dangerous. I intervened and he turns on me. I could see his eyes blazing – he shouted at me to keep out of it. Who did I think I was? Sir fucking Galahad? (Wrong film, but nearly …)
He was shaking with a barely repressed threat of physical violence, so I found Peter, the second assistant director, and told him to get the man out. He’d reduced Maggie to tears (not an easy task) and I said that I would refuse to go on the set with him. Peter went upstairs and later the extra left.
It turned out that he was no ordinary extra, but a mate of Peter’s who had been Frank Sinatra’s bodyguard and was no more or less than an East End villain. It’s terrifying the feeling of violence which one man can give off and all because he thought Maggie might clip his moustache! The incident left everyone involved rather shaky.
Work late again. I’m in the coracle at half past six. Then goodbye to Shepperton – this tatty, crumbling world which I’ve grown rather fond of. I’m pulled across the lake for the last time – across the same waters Huston used in The African Queen, and the same waters George Sanders must have got to know in Sanders of the River. (Did they have to keep stopping for planes landing at London Airport in those days?)
Tomorrow Wales.
Tuesday, September 7th, Pembroke
Bright and sunny as we film in the castle. Harry H and I have two or three