whole point of the piece is that it’s set on a beach.”
“Beaches are always difficult,” he says. “Sand in the camera lens. How about The Field ?” He then talks for twenty-five minutes on the advantages of resetting your piece in a field. You find yourself (in spite of attending twelve one-hour assertiveness training sessions) agreeing to this daft notion.
“Now,” he says, “characters. I don’t believe in Tom.”
“Why?” you ask. “Tom is an English working-class man in love with a middle-class woman; they meet on the beach, sorry, field.” The producer says, “I think Tom should be an American, a tourist.”
You reel about in your chair and knock back the brandy you’d previously refused. He speaks for ten minutes about this new, American, Tom. “Obviously,” he says, “Tom can’t be a council dustman now, can he? Perhaps you could give him a more glamorous job – journalist, actor, stockbroker?”
You flick mournfully through your script, reminding yourself that half of the action takes place at the Council Cleaning Depot in Clacton-Next-The-Sea. How can you possibly transfer these scenes to other, more glamorous, locations?
The producer has the answer, “Change the location to County Cork in Ireland,” he suggests.
At this latest shock your first instinct is to cry out for more brandy, your second instinct is to flee from the restaurant taking your script with you, but you stay where you are. You hear yourself agreeing to rewrite the script. The Field , starring American Tom and set in County Cork in Ireland. What’s more you have promised to deliver the rewrites in five days, because the producer is going on holiday (he has a cottage in County Cork, coincidentally) and would like to work on the rewrites ‘away from the office’.
He then suggests that Amanda, whom you describe in your script as ‘tall and slim and patrician’, is two-dimensional. “Wouldn’t it be better if she was a short, earthy blonde?”
At this point you are joined at the table by the producer’s wife, a short, earthy blonde. She tells you that she adores your script. She is dyslexic, but her husband read it aloud to her last night. The blonde tells you she is an actress, she hasn’t worked for years because there is a conspiracy in the industry to keep her out of work. She blames this on the ‘pinko-communists, who are running the business’. Asked to name a communist she says, “Michael Grade.” After you have stopped laughing, you realize that the producer’s wife wants to play the part of your heroine. She has turned up at the restaurant for this reason. She has brought along her scrapbook. You peer with a fixed smile at photographs of the producer’s wife playing Juliet at Kettering Rep 1957, Second Policewoman on the set of Dixon of Dock Green 1962, and back end of cow, Dick Whittington , Haringey Civic Hall 1985.
When the producer lumbers off to the lavatory, the producer’s wife clutches your hand, she confides that her life with ‘him’ is a torment; if only she could earn enough money to leave him. Your feminist sympathies are stirred. You agree that she is perfect for the part. You give it to her, then instantly regret it. You leave the restaurant (after paying the bill) and look for a taxi. You do not want to ride in the taxi, only to throw yourself under the wheels, but luck is not with you, no taxi comes, so you go home, sit at your desk and like the good girl that you are, you do the rewrites.
∨ The True Confessions ∧
Russia
When I told my second son that I was going to Russia he narrowed his eyes and said, “Again?” He went off on some mysterious late-adolescent errand and on his return said, “After you’re dead, I won’t be surprised to be told that you weren’t really a writer (the cruelty of youth), you were a spy.” This made me laugh quite a lot. Spying, as a profession, seems to me about as interesting and useful as designing horse blankets for ‘My Little
“Beaches are always difficult,” he says. “Sand in the camera lens. How about The Field ?” He then talks for twenty-five minutes on the advantages of resetting your piece in a field. You find yourself (in spite of attending twelve one-hour assertiveness training sessions) agreeing to this daft notion.
“Now,” he says, “characters. I don’t believe in Tom.”
“Why?” you ask. “Tom is an English working-class man in love with a middle-class woman; they meet on the beach, sorry, field.” The producer says, “I think Tom should be an American, a tourist.”
You reel about in your chair and knock back the brandy you’d previously refused. He speaks for ten minutes about this new, American, Tom. “Obviously,” he says, “Tom can’t be a council dustman now, can he? Perhaps you could give him a more glamorous job – journalist, actor, stockbroker?”
You flick mournfully through your script, reminding yourself that half of the action takes place at the Council Cleaning Depot in Clacton-Next-The-Sea. How can you possibly transfer these scenes to other, more glamorous, locations?
The producer has the answer, “Change the location to County Cork in Ireland,” he suggests.
At this latest shock your first instinct is to cry out for more brandy, your second instinct is to flee from the restaurant taking your script with you, but you stay where you are. You hear yourself agreeing to rewrite the script. The Field , starring American Tom and set in County Cork in Ireland. What’s more you have promised to deliver the rewrites in five days, because the producer is going on holiday (he has a cottage in County Cork, coincidentally) and would like to work on the rewrites ‘away from the office’.
He then suggests that Amanda, whom you describe in your script as ‘tall and slim and patrician’, is two-dimensional. “Wouldn’t it be better if she was a short, earthy blonde?”
At this point you are joined at the table by the producer’s wife, a short, earthy blonde. She tells you that she adores your script. She is dyslexic, but her husband read it aloud to her last night. The blonde tells you she is an actress, she hasn’t worked for years because there is a conspiracy in the industry to keep her out of work. She blames this on the ‘pinko-communists, who are running the business’. Asked to name a communist she says, “Michael Grade.” After you have stopped laughing, you realize that the producer’s wife wants to play the part of your heroine. She has turned up at the restaurant for this reason. She has brought along her scrapbook. You peer with a fixed smile at photographs of the producer’s wife playing Juliet at Kettering Rep 1957, Second Policewoman on the set of Dixon of Dock Green 1962, and back end of cow, Dick Whittington , Haringey Civic Hall 1985.
When the producer lumbers off to the lavatory, the producer’s wife clutches your hand, she confides that her life with ‘him’ is a torment; if only she could earn enough money to leave him. Your feminist sympathies are stirred. You agree that she is perfect for the part. You give it to her, then instantly regret it. You leave the restaurant (after paying the bill) and look for a taxi. You do not want to ride in the taxi, only to throw yourself under the wheels, but luck is not with you, no taxi comes, so you go home, sit at your desk and like the good girl that you are, you do the rewrites.
∨ The True Confessions ∧
Russia
When I told my second son that I was going to Russia he narrowed his eyes and said, “Again?” He went off on some mysterious late-adolescent errand and on his return said, “After you’re dead, I won’t be surprised to be told that you weren’t really a writer (the cruelty of youth), you were a spy.” This made me laugh quite a lot. Spying, as a profession, seems to me about as interesting and useful as designing horse blankets for ‘My Little
Similar Books
