Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [269]
Wednesday, February 13th
Spent half the morning on a play idea. It’s very neat – a day in the life of a BBC film unit, but also a day in the life of the beautiful mediaeval church where they are filming. Lots of possibilities for characters – from the Greek chorus of sparks through to the murky romantic involvements of PAs and make-up artists, to the power struggles of the director and cameraman, and with the infinite possibilities of the arrival of the Orson Welles figure who is to present the programme. He stirs up and re-arranges all the internal relationships and is the deus ex machina who tips the whole thing into a climax of literally Gothic horror, as he orders parts of the church removed and sawn down – better to accommodate the cameras. Anyway, I made a start this morning.
TJ arrived midday for a session on the Yarns. Needless to say it was Python film business which dominated.
We spent a couple of hours on a rewrite for the second Pilate and Brian scene, which benefited, I think, but I’m always wary of duty rewrites – alterations resulting from irritation with other alterations. I tend to think that a lot of final details are best sorted out when we rehearse together.
Sunday, February 19th, Brighton
Have to be in Brighton this evening for a banquet at the Old Ship Hotel laid on by BBC Enterprises in order to launch a week’s selling of their progs – Ripping Yarns being one they are specially anxious to push (presumably because they cost so much).
Read in an old copy of The Times, on which I was cleaning my shoes, that there are 450 bookshops in the whole of the United Kingdom – whilst, in Europe, Berlin alone has 263 bookshops and Munich 244.
Train down from Victoria. A dirty Sunday train – quite an embarrassment as I hear guttural continental voices in the compartment next door.
A tiny, mean, British measure of scotch in the ‘Regency Room’, which confirms my suspicions that this hotel may once have seen stylish days, but has now fallen on plastic times. Meet a cheerful Finn and a very anglicised Dane, who wants me to go to Copenhagen in October and talk about Ripping Yarns (he seems decided to buy them, which is nice).
Then we’re all ushered into a long room, overlooked by a balcony on which Paganini was supposed to have played in 1831. An average meal, but a jolly table with a well-preserved Swedish lady with a Mai Zetterling mixture of brains, looks and years, and my kind Danish friend. Frightfully uninspired speeches. Alan Bates, Billie Whitelaw and myself and others have to stand and be acknowledged.
After the meal, Terry Nation (creator of Daleks and presently writer of Blake’s 7) seeks me out and lavishes praise on the Yarns – but especially on ‘Olthwaite’, which he can hardly stop talking about. He brushes aside my return of the compliment and raves on. Fall in with two very jokey Irishmen from RTE, one of whom has a twitch which causes his right hand to shoot out towards the bar after every third sentence.
Monday, February 20th
All is calm and quiet here. The two Terrys, Goldstone and others are in Tunisia on a week’s recce. The boys, and Rachel, have gone back to school after half-term. It’s very cold outside. I have no games of squash planned and no meetings. An ideal set of conditions for writing. And yet, once again, it does not come.
I realise that I am severely short of motivation. Apart from the odd manic enthusiasts – like Terry Nation and Mel Caiman1 – most of the rest of my friends have found the Yarns flawed in some way or other. Whatever the reason, the Yarns have, I feel, been un-rated rather than underrated. I know the BAFTA nominations are now complete,