Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [329]
Leave at ten to collect John Cleese from the 10.20 train at Skipton. Arrive at my car to find fans clustering around. ‘Oh, sign this.’ ‘I can’t, I have to meet a train.’Visions of Cleese standing on a cheerless station whilst I sign autographs causes me to be uncharacteristically abrupt with the fans. ‘Well, give us a kiss then,’ they say, as I slam the car door and search frantically for keys. Then I hear one say ‘John Cleese is in there, you know’ and point to the hotel I’ve just come out of.
Out of the car, across to the Black Horse – the downstairs bar, full of young and younger folk, is buzzing with excitement. I push through people looking for the normally unmissable Cleese. Everyone grins – they think it’s a Python sketch. I’m directed upstairs, where more excited fans are clustered. It’s like a scene out of the Life of Brian.
Finally track him down in Ron, the manager’s, sitting room. He had reached Leeds by train, then been given a lift to Ilkley, and had taxied on from there to Skipton. Ron, the manager, a rather overweight, round-shouldered fellow with a thick head of red hair that I’m told is not his own, became conspiratorial and told me which button to press on the telephone in order to summon him, and at a moment’s notice he would smuggle us out via a special back route.
So a few minutes later buttons were pressed, back stairways descended, back doors opened and John and I walked out into Skipton High Street, feeling like newly-released prisoners.
Drove JC over to Kildwick Hall, where the Davises1 greeted us and Hassan, the Moroccan waiter, hovered, mouth half-open, waiting to be introduced – a perfect echo of Manuel. After a few minutes the temporary excitement subsided and John and I talked for an hour or so.
At one in the morning, I drive back into Skipton, only to find the door of the Black Horse firmly bolted. Knocking won’t raise anyone, no windows are open and they don’t answer the phone.
Drive back to Kildwick and put up for the night there in conditions of extreme comfort – yet I have to sleep in my shirt and they don’t supply toothbrushes.
Wednesday, March 28th, Skipton
Wake early as usual. So many thoughts streaming through my head. Filming a Yarn requires not just enthusiasm but stamina. Feel like a coachman controlling fiercely energetic horses, straining to go forward – a crew of fifty or sixty, extras, actors like Bill F, John C, David Leland and Gwen – lots of egos to be harnessed then turned in the right direction. And the weight of it all ultimately devolves on me – I’m the one holding all the pieces together. Only three or four more days to hang on.
It’s very jolly working with John at Brontë Street. He looks fine in 1930s gear and wide felt hat. A good-humoured, happy atmosphere. Smash up Brontë Street and by six we are finished there.
Sunday, April 1st
Back home for a while now. Work out that I’ve been away four of the last nine months.
Today we meet with Denis O’Brien. Eric brings the mock-up of the book, which looks wonderful and allays most of my fears. Everybody approves. Denis O’Brien then fills us in on distribution information. Paramount, MGM, Twentieth Century Fox and Universal have all turned the film down. Paramount after being incredibly keen, until one powerful man on the board said no. Paramount and Universal both took offence at the unsympathetic Jews in the film (e.g. Otto, etc).
Warner Brothers – or rather John Calley, one of their top men – are keen and Denis and George are happy to go with Calley although he is not offering them an enormous advance, or indeed any advance at all. But they like him. In passing Denis tells us that in fact there is more of his personal money at stake in this movie than George’s – but then he smiles when we become solicitous and says ‘Well, if it bombs, it’s just a couple of houses.’ I must say he’s the nicest rich man I know.
We talk about the stage show. Eric is like the Top Scholar of the Year at the Dale Carnegie School of