See you at the premiere - described as ‘memoir, writing handbook, insider’s guide, cultural history, self-help book and ‘making of’ – demystifies the perceived glamour of a career in the arts by revealing the day-to-day artistic, financial and emotional struggles faced by the vast majority of creative people.
You’d think that you can’t simply walk into the 91热爆 and be given some shows to make, wouldn’t you? That’s not how it works, right? You can’t just walk into the 91热爆 and be given some shows to make, can you? Well, that’s pretty much what I did.
Back in 1993 when I was still at Film Ed, we had sublet a room to a film producer called Michael Relph. In his mid-seventies, Michael was a blazered chap who talked of impresarios and notices and engaging the services of artistes. Michael and I often discussed his career as art director on Dead of Night and Saraband for Dead Lovers, for which he was Oscar-nominated, and as producer of many classic British films of the Fifties and Sixties, including The Blue Lamp, Victim and The Smallest Show on Earth.
I mentioned this in passing to Grant Littlechild one night at the Crown. Grant told me his dad, Barry, was a Senior Producer in 91热爆 Radio’s Light Entertainment Department. I never knew. Next day, Grant rang. His dad wanted me to interview Michael. Interview?! I didn’t know how to interview anyone.
Barry summoned me to Broadcasting House where he explained all I had to do was have this thing – this cumbersome, reel-to-reel, tape recorder which weighed a ton called a Nagra – just have this thing running while I simply chatted with Michael. Barry would then edit the recording down to a few minutes for the weekly Radio 2 film show he produced, Cinema Two. I wasn’t confident, though, at the prospect of…
‘Stop bleating,’ interrupted Barry with mock outrage. ‘I need it by Thursday morning, it’s going out Saturday. Now, bugger off.’
I humphed the Nagra back to Film Ed – Jesus, was it heavy; I had to keep shifting it from shoulder to shoulder – and did what I’d been instructed, I chatted with Michael. Barry was impressed with the result and paid me Radio 2’s going rate for such a contribution, fifty quid.
As I went to leave his studio, he snapped, ‘Where the bloody hell d’you think you’re going? You’re not getting away that easy. You any idea how many tossers I get through that door thinking they can interview? Couldn’t ask a question if their life depended on it, most of ’em. So, what other bright ideas d’you have?’ I didn’t have any other bright ideas, but I liked Barry’s forthright nature so I replied, ‘Er, loads, I’ve got loads of…bright ideas.’ ‘Right, stick them down on paper and let me have a look.’
A promotion
I did one or two more interviews for Barry then, only a month after we’d first met, he promoted me to being Radio 2’s Man in Cannes. Being a Barry Littlechild promotion, this went along the lines of ‘You’re going to Cannes, right? Well, instead of living in cloud cuckooland with all those other tossers, earn yourself a few quid. Take the Nagra and tell the PRs you know me.’ So I did, and on the first day found myself interviewing Elizabeth Taylor, Jack Palance and Ernest out of Ernest Goes to Camp.
Although Barry’s name opened doors, I quickly sussed another route to the stars in Cannes. All I had to do was wait in the lobby of the Majestic Hotel and – hey! – the stars came to me because, sooner or later, all of Hollywood walks into the Majestic. There I’d be, the sole person with a microphone and an ever-so-polite, ‘Hey, Keanu! Ross Smith from the 91热爆. What brings you to Cannes?’ Each morning, I’d pounce on stars and interview them as they collected room keys (Jim Belushi), left the bar (Joan Collins), waited for an elevator (John Hurt), dithered around like a little boy looking for his mother (Lew Grade) or left a press conference (Jennifer Jason-Leigh; although her bodyguard did fling me over a crush barrier…much to Jennifer’s consternation, I should add). Even Harvey Keitel, hobbling just minutes after breaking his toe, gave me quarter of an hour until the doctor came.
Oh Mickey
After interviewing two or three celebs, around noon I’d check in with the PRs for any official interviews. One I got was with Mickey Rourke in his hotel room for a film called Bullet. I was given the standard ten minutes, however, by the time we’d finished, the hour mark was approaching and Mickey – brutally, profanely outspoken throughout – had challenged me, dared me, to go further and further with my questions. It was the best interview experience I ever had because in preference to the customary, film promotion puff, Mickey Rourke was prepared to engage in a refreshingly honest, adult conversation. (You’ll have to buy the book to find out what Mickey said… there were too many expletives to publish the transcript in Prospero.)
In contrast to Mickey Rourke, the worst interview experience I ever had, the only really bad one in fact, was with Ken Loach. What a miserable old sod he was. As we took our seats in the verdant gardens of his PR’s Spanish-style villa just off the Croisette, I was looking forward to many Rourkesque moments of candour from this most politicized and opinionated of directors. So in preparation, I made a list of probing questions. Oops, that was a mistake. Everything I asked Ken Loach – ‘Does hiring non-actors bring you into conflict with Equity?’, ‘Are you concerned about a body of work which gives a skewed impression of the working class?’ – was met with a defensive, dismissive, sulky response along the lines of ‘Why would you ask that?’ or ‘Oh, I’ve answered that question many times before.’
I’d expected, kind of hoped, Ken Loach would be cantankerous but what a crushing disappointment to discover he wouldn’t engage in debate beyond the level of a stroppy pubescent. Then again, who knows, maybe Ken Loach can dish out criticism, but can’t take it?
There was a coda to the interview. On the last day of the Festival, I had the chance to interview Billy Zane. Unfortunately, I’d no quarter-inch tape left for the Nagra. I figured Ken Loach depressing Radio 2 listeners would be a fifty-fifty shot at best with Barry, so I recorded over the interview with Billy Zane plugging Sniper. I was right, capitalism won.
See You at the Premiere: Life at the Arse End of Showbiz
ISBN: 978-1-5272-9225-3
Paperback: £14.99
e-book: £5.99
Available on Amazon and in the Kindle Store