The Light’s On At Signpost

EPIGRAPH

What all the wise men promised has not happened, and what all the damned fools said would happen has come to pass.

LORD MELBOURNE

It is most expedient for the preservation of the state that the rights of sovereignty should never be granted out to a subject, still less to a foreigner, for to do so is to provide a stepping-stone whereby the grantee becomes himself the sovereign.

JEAN BODIN, Six Books of the Commonwealth, 1576

Any writer or journalist who wants to retain his integrity finds himself thwarted by the general drift of society rather than by active persecution.

GEORGE ORWELL

Oh, I’ll keep it to myself – until the water reaches my lower lip, and then I’m going to mention it to somebody!

Jack Lemmon as Professor Fate in

The Great Race, screenplay by Arthur Ross

SHOOTING SCRIPT 1

“One For All, and All for Fun”

MY CAR, an ageing Vauxhall Cresta, broke down within a few yards of the Sizzler Restaurant, Onchan, Isle of Man, where Richard Lester and I had been discussing my possible participation in a new film version of The Three Musketeers, which left us facing a walk of about a mile along Douglas Promenade to his hotel. No way to treat an eminent film director, and I wondered if he might be offended to the extent of getting another writer – I didn’t know him in those days, or realise that to a man who’d made two movies with the Beatles, a mile walk along a surf-lashed coast in the middle of the night in late December was a mere bagatelle.

All I could suggest was that we push the rotten vehicle to the top of a nearby slope, and then leap in, free-wheeling downhill to a point reasonably close to his destination; he sportingly agreed, we heaved and strained and sprang aboard at the psychological moment, coasting down and fetching up, with Richard sitting patiently and me crying: “Roll, you bastard!” not far from home.

That was when I asked him (eager to know if he was still talking to me): “How d’you want the Musketeers – straight, or sent up?” I knew his reputation for offbeat comedy, and was by no means sure that I could give him what he wanted. He responded with perhaps the nicest reply a screenwriter ever received: “I want it written by the man who wrote Flashman.”

I didn’t know, then, just how astonishingly lucky I was. It was the week between Christmas and New Year, 1972, I had three novels, a history, and a short-story collection to my name, but my only experience of film writing was a script which I’d done from my short stories at the request of a rather eccentric Scots-American entrepreneur; like so many projects, it had died some distance short of pre-production.

Then Lester’s offer came out of the blue. I knew him not only by reputation but because he had been engaged to direct a movie of my first novel, Flashman, but that, too, had been stillborn. I hadn’t been involved in the script, so Lester’s fastening on me, on the strength of my fiction alone, to write what promised to be a mammoth star-studded blockbuster, was a considerable leap of faith. I thought he was crazy; when I think of the chance he was taking, I still do, but I thank God he took it.

He flew across to the Isle of Man, we talked for about four hours, and while I can’t remember anything of our discussion, I know that one thing, the vital thing, became clear: we were on the same wavelength, and that, from a writer’s point of view, is something beyond price.

My first thought on meeting him was “Pied Piper”, for he was tall and slim and restless and mercurial and

his sharp eyes twinkled

like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled.

I was to discover in the ensuing weeks that he thought like lightning, always questing for the joke, jumping from idea to idea at speed, imagining, improvising, full of enthusiasm, listening eagerly; eventually it would become like a game of ping-pong in which we batted notions to and fro, many of them well over the top – but it’s a great truth of the film business that if you never go over the top you never get anywhere.

There are limits, of course. The original notion of a remake of the Musketeers had come, I believe, from Ilya Salkind, son of the great Alex, and one of the shrewdest ideas men in the business; he later came up with Superman, and frankly, if Ilya suggested a movie based on the Book of Job I’d think hard about it. Whether it was he who floated the notion of the Beatles as Dumas’s band of adventurers, I can’t say, but I imagine that was how Lester, as the Beatles’ director, had come to be involved in the project. Fortunately (at least from my point of view) the casting of John, George, Paul, and Ringo went no further, and Lester was commissioned to come up with a more orthodox version.

At all events, he left me on the Isle of Man with a remit like a pipe-dream: one of the great classic adventures to adapt into four hours of film, the assurance that it was going to be a big-budget spectacular, a free hand to write as I wanted, and one hint about the quality of cast he was looking for: he wanted Richard Chamberlain for Aramis. That told me a lot; in most Musketeer movies the trio tend to blend into each other, three jolly swordsmen all for one and one for all, but Richard had hit on a man who was ideal for Dumas’s priestly killer, cold, urbane, supercilious, and cruel. In doing the script I wrote little separate character studies for the actors, and I remember describing Aramis as quite the least likeable of the Musketeers.

The first half of the script, up to the Intermission, took me three weeks; Richard was enthusiastic, and then we went into heavy sessions in his office at Twickenham Studios, changing, editing, discarding, re-casting, and going through that long, painful and ultimately rewarding process which eventually transforms the first draft into the finished article. (But always, said Billy Wilder, keep that original draft by you, because you’re sure as hell going to go back to it.)

There were occasions when our drama became a crisis: at one stage another writer, a household name, was asked to rewrite an early scene, but to my delight Lester flung it into the bin. Again, when my suggestions seemed to be falling on stony ground, I lost patience and offered to quit, at which he sighed and said: “You’re being hysterical, George, in your own quiet way.” Looking back, I’d say he was the ideal director for a novice screenwriter to work with, always encouraging, always optimistic, convincing me that I, and only I, could do his script for him.

We gradually developed a close harmony, with a kind of shorthand in which one had to speak only a few words for the other to latch on and elaborate; some scenes we had to discuss in detail, others hardly needed more than a few words. It’s a strange process of cross-fertilisation, and I can only describe it by examples.

Dick wanted the Musketeers to be rather less stainless than they are usually portrayed; could they be seen stealing, say, in some novel way which would take the hard edge off the crime, perhaps diverting wine along a gutter by some ingenious device? I suggested a tavern fight in which their brawling would hide the fact that they were lifting all the food in sight – that was enough; we kicked around various ways of pinching comestibles, I sketched the scene out in script form, and Dick arranged and choreographed the whole thing as only he could.

The same thing happened when we were looking for a new way to stage a sword fight which would give opportunity for some knockabout action; I suggested staging it on a frozen pond, and Dick gave what I can only call a hungry grin and said: “Say no more!” And beyond writing a line or two for Porthos to bellow, and devising a piece of sadism for Aramis, I didn’t need to.

It was fascinating, in writing a scene, to see what he would do with it. I had a perfectly tranquil meeting between the Queen of France and Buckingham which, for sheer novelty’s sake, I set in the palace laundry – Lester doesn’t miss chances like that, and concluded the lovers’ meeting with the most colossal turn-up among the soap suds between the Musketeers and the palace guards. I had what I thought was another cute idea, with the King and Cardinal Richelieu eating canapés from a line of gold plates; pull back, and lo! each plate is on the head of a dwarf. A nice little visual effect, which Dick embellished by having the little buggers talking.

My technique then, and I followed it in later films, was to describe every shot in detail, the idea being to let the director and actors know exactly how I saw the thing. If they liked it, fine; if they didn’t, it could be done another way. Some directors regard this as an intrusion on their territory; the best ones, the Lesters and the Fleischers and the Hamiltons, are all for it, because as experienced professionals they are always open to suggestions – which is not to say that they will always follow them. They have forgotten more about composition and camera angles and various kinds of shot than I will ever know, but there’s no harm in giving them your ideas.

It could be very rewarding with Lester, because when the movie was shot and I saw the rough-cut, I realised a strange thing – he and I had very much the same visual sense, in that we saw things the same way. Time after time I would have envisaged a scene in my head – and there it was on the screen, “realised”, as the French say, by Lester. One instance sticks in my mind: when D’Artagnan arrives at the Hotel Treville and becomes embroiled with one Musketeer after another, the overall scene is one of tremendous bustle and activity, with people jostling and hurrying and a fine confusion reigning. Dick approved my final draft (probably my fifth or sixth) and then suddenly asked: “What does it look like?” Off the top of my head I said: “Like a Breughel painted by Rembrandt.” He smiled, nodded, said nothing – and shot it gloriously.

I can’t be sure how long it took before the four-hour script was finished, but I know that Kathy and I were on holiday in Borneo in March, and Dick was phoning via Australia about something or other – I rather think it was to do with the scene in which the Musketeers rescue Christopher Lee from a firing squad commanded by Bob Todd, but I’m not sure. By that time the casting was coming together, and I was going about in a state of euphoric disbelief that I had written a movie for Heston, Dunaway, Welch, Reed, Finlay, Chamberlain, Lee, York, and a supporting cast which included the likes of Roy Kinnear, Geraldine Chaplin, Simon Ward, and Spike Milligan. (Someone remarked to me that I had managed to get Spike into bed with Raquel Welch, to which Spike retorted: “It’s in the script, mate, not in my contract.”)

I was at home working on a novel while Dick shot the picture, mostly in Spain, and did it in some incredibly short time – I’m not sure how long, but I know that as the weeks went by and his schedule shortened he was going at high speed, for he told me afterwards that with the second half he was “shooting the script”, which I took to mean that he was not hanging about worrying about different ways of doing things.

The rough-cut of the first half was shown at Twickenham Studios on a bleak morning of early autumn, and I found myself sitting in the front row of the little viewing theatre with Michel Legrand, who was to do the music, while Dick and Ilya and Pierre Spengler, that prince of executive producers, sat behind. Michel had the devil of a cold, and made frequent forays into his attaché case, which contained, as he explained to me apologetically, “les medications”.

He was plainly feeling awful, poor soul, and from time to time would give a deep groan, which was disconcerting at first because I wasn’t sure whether it arose from his condition or what he was seeing on the screen. It didn’t worry me long; I got lost in the magic.

Seeing a film that you’ve written is a weird experience, and one of the most thrilling I know. I’d hate to have to choose between it and holding the first copy of your first novel in your hand. I think the film probably has it by a nose – there they are, up there, the biggest names in the business, speaking the lines you’ve written, enacting the scenes you’ve constructed, and doing it far, far better than you’d imagined it could be done. You sit lost in admiration of Olly Reed’s first glowering look and rasping opening line, of Faye Dunaway’s gorgeous languor, of Christopher Lee’s splendid nonchalance, and of Michael York’s bumbling heroics … and that’s only the start. Forgive me if I warm still at the thought of them, and of the superb director who made it all happen.

You can even forgive the occasional lines changed or added during shooting, or the recast scenes, or the total surprise of something you just don’t recognise, like the laundry fight, or those voice-over ad-libs which Dick so dearly loves (talking dwarves yet!) – if it’s for the good of the movie, your only regret is that you didn’t think of it yourself. From what I’ve heard, I’ve been lucky in having my stuff left pretty well alone, especially in the Musketeer movies; before that first screening Dick told me: “It’s 85–90 per cent you,” which in view of some of the horror stories about writers finding themselves entirely rewritten, was vastly reassuring.

I learned for the first time that morning that we might have not one movie with an intermission, but two separate films. My contract, when I came to look at it (I didn’t sign until the job was half-done, which happens more often than you’d imagine, or used to) specified a film “or films”. I had written the thing as one complete picture with an interval, and the entire script was there, all four hours of it, before shooting began.

I emphasise this because all kinds of garbled rumours get about in the film industry, and one of these was enshrined in Alex Salkind’s obituary in a quality newspaper in 1997. It said, without qualification, that

halfway through the filming, Salkind realised that the director Richard Lester had shot twice as much film as he needed. Without telling the actors, he asked the writer George MacDonald Fraser to string together the spare scenes, with a few new ones thrown in, and so make a sequel.

Twaddle. Likewise tripe. As I said in a letter to the editor, I never discussed the screenplay with Alex at all, and certainly never strung together “spare scenes with a few new ones thrown in, to make a sequel.” The decision to split the picture into two, The Three Musketeers and The Four Musketeers (or, as they became known to the production team, the M3 and M4) was taken long after the script had been written, and for all I know, possibly after the whole thing was shot.

That not all the actors knew about this I didn’t discover until the Paris premiere, which began with a dinner for the company at Fouquet’s and concluded in the small hours with a deafening concert in what appeared to be the cellar of some ancient Parisian structure (the Hotel de Ville, I think). Charlton Heston knew, for when we discussed it before the dinner he shrugged philosophically and remarked: “Two for the price of one.” Roy Kinnear did not, for Kathy and I shared a table with him and his wife, and Roy, a hearty trencherman, said earnestly that we had best get something inside us, as the film lasted four hours.

I assured him that only the first half was being shown, and he shook his head in admiration and said: “They don’t care, do they?”

Alex’s obituary was marginally nearer the truth when it said that a host of law suits had been brought against him by the actors, but that he had easily been able to settle out of the films’ profits. In fact, I was told that only four of the cast complained, and that a settlement was reached; if there were more than four, then I was misinformed.

What was never in doubt was that the profits would be substantial. We knew we had a hit when the Paris audience gave a great roar of delight as the end titles came up with a caption reading: “Soon – The Four Musketeers” over a montage of shots from the second half, and they realised that they were going to get a sequel, the same show all over again, only different – which is what the ideal sequel should be. Time magazine called the M3 “a truly terrific movie”, and this was confirmed when it was chosen as the Royal Command Film, with the Queen Mother attending the London premiere.

Kathy and I must have arrived early, for the only people in the reception room were Spike and Mrs Milligan, he visibly chafing at the wait ahead. “This,” he cried, “is living! Let’s go to Kettner’s.” We didn’t, and presently he cheered up and was soon autographing waiters’ jackets, to their immense delight. We stood in a great horseshoe to be presented to the Queen Mother, and the show was stolen spectacularly by Raquel Welch. I had met her for the first time at a press reception in the morning, and had been taken aback to be confronted by a small lady neatly attired in a sensible skirt and jacket and flat shoes, her hair severely dressed, who conversed soberly about the script; for the premiere she was transformed in a gown that appeared to have been sprayed on her, last in the presentation line and performing the most astonishing curtsey in the history of obeisance, sinking all the way down to floor level before the Queen Mother, and up again in one graceful movement. How that dress stood the strain, only her couturier knows.

It was a night to remember, but as usual my memories are fleeting: dancing with Kathy to the music of Joe Loss and almost colliding with Les Dawson; Milligan singing “Viva España!” Christopher Lee complacently indicating a rave review in one of the papers; Michael York smiling contentedly and pushing his hair back in a characteristic gesture; having dinner at a table with Frank Finlay, Mr and Mrs Simon Ward (whose London garden had been invaded by foxes), and Mrs Bertha Salkind, Alex’s wife. You will gather that I have an erratic memory, and am incurably star struck, and always will be. Who isn’t?

A year later the M4 did good box-office, but less than the M3, and the pundits were correspondingly less enthusiastic. It was certainly a darker film than the M3, largely because I had stuck to Dumas in Milady’s murder of D’Artagnan’s mistress, and the subsequent execution of Milady at the hands of the Musketeers. The sight of Faye Dunaway in a nun’s habit strangling Raquel Welch with a rosary was strong stuff after the knockabout cheerfulness of the first film; so was her beheading, and whereas in the M3 the fights had been mostly light-hearted affairs, the final duel of the M4, fought in a church, and ending with Michael York transfixing Christopher Lee against a Bible open on a lectern, was stark and grim beyond the norm for a swashbuckler.

For what it’s worth, I still like it better than the M3, because I do love to jolt an audience, or a reader, and the direction was Dick at his inspired best – I did not take seriously his remark after we’d watched the rough-cut on the little Moviola machine at Twickenham: “One of these days you’re going to have to tell me what this film is about.” He knew, all right, but it wasn’t a conventional costume melodrama by any means. I value it for Oliver Reed’s superb Athos, and the splendid playing of Faye Dunaway against him and Heston and Michael Gothard – the sequence in which Michael is turned from Milady’s Puritan jailer into her lover is one of the best in the two pictures; it did in a few minutes what took Dumas a few chapters, thanks to the expertise of Faye and Michael and Dick. But they were all terrific, and as I once wrote in another book, no screenwriter was ever so fortunate, or more grateful.

One interesting exercise arose from the splitting of the production into two films: I had to write a prologue to the M4, for the benefit of anyone who hadn’t seen the M3. This was done by having a Musketeer voice the prologue over clips from the end of the first film, and worked very well. What intrigued me was that I had to do two prologues, worded slightly differently, one spoken by Porthos (Frank Finlay) for British audiences, the other by Aramis (Richard Chamberlain) for the American market. Don’t ask me why this was necessary, or why it was thought advisable to have Jean-Pierre Cassel’s excellent King Louis dubbed by another actor. There is much about the movie business that I still don’t understand – and that includes such controversial things as percentages which you think are going to accrue, but don’t. I’m not complaining; I was incredibly lucky to be asked to write the M3 and the M4, and I’d have done them for nothing. Well, almost nothing.

Time magazine, like the other journals, was less rhapsodic about the M4, but still complimentary, reflecting that it would be nice to see D’Artagnan and Co. “just one more time.” I thought privately that two Musketeer movies were about as much as the market would bear at the moment, but that it would be fun to do Twenty Years After, Dumas’s sequel to the first book, one of these days – perhaps twenty years after. In fact, it was only fifteen years later that Pierre Spengler, who had been executive in charge of production on the first two films, suggested that we get together again and continue the saga with the Musketeers coming out of retirement to rescue King Charles I from Cromwell’s executioners and face the wrath of Milady’s vengeful offspring.

In the intervening years I had worked with Dick on Royal Flash, with Pierre on Superman, and with both on various other projects which (like so many productions) hadn’t got the length of photography. I was elated at the thought of reprising all the fun of the first movies, and the three of us had the kind of good script meetings that you get only with old friends.

There were two hurdles to get over at the start, the first being that this was Pierre’s production, the Salkinds weren’t involved, and we weren’t going to be able to use any footage from the M3 and M4, which would have been useful for scene-setting, though not vital. I fell back on the old stand-by beloved by scriptwriters and directors in pre-war days: an extended caption on the screen giving the historical background, which is never a happy device, plus a voice-over commentary from Michael York, which helped considerably.

The other problem was a blessing in disguise. Dumas having inconsiderately disposed of heroine and villainess in the first book, there is a decided shortage of interesting femininity in Twenty Years After. I solved this by turning Milady’s avenging son into a daughter, a blonde and beautiful seductress who would also be a dab hand with rapiers, explosives, and miniature crossbows. That done, Dumas’s main plot was straightforward, and needed only the usual cutting and embroidery.

It was fascinating to see the original cast in musketeer uniform again. Oliver Reed and Frank Finlay were showing grey, but Chamberlain was Chamberlain still, and Michael York looked so ridiculously young that a rumour arose suggesting that somewhere in an attic there was a Dorian Grey portrait of him showing the ageing process. Roy Kinnear was as portly a Planchet as ever, Christopher Lee stalked the screen as a formidable Rochefort, and Jean-Pierre Cassel ranted splendidly as Cyrano de Bergerac (with his own voice this time).

In addition to the old hands, Pierre had assembled a first-rate cast of newcomers to the musketeer canon: Bill Paterson was a fine lookalike King Charles and Alan Howard an imposing Cromwell, Kim Cattrall sneered and swaggered it up a storm as the lovely villainess, Philippe Noiret was an urbane, devious Cardinal Mazarin, and C. Thomas Howell a properly stiff-necked and explosive son of Athos. Bill Hobbs was again the fight arranger, and the production wouldn’t have been complete without Eddie Fowlie in charge of props. This was the team that set off for Spain with such high hopes.

It is an excellent rule, and one which I’ve tried to follow with only moderate success, that the farther a scriptwriter can stay away from the actual shooting, the better. For one thing, they’ll just make you work; for another, you have to restrain a mad impulse to get into the act and show them how it should be done. Fortunately, I’ve always been able to master it, and watch the proceedings deadpan – so much so that Lester was once heard to exclaim: “Look at him, standing there in his steel-rimmed spectacles – he’s hating it!” In fact, I wasn’t; it’s just my normal expression.

However, I broke my rule this time. I wanted to watch the old gang at work again, and also to see one particular scene being shot. King Charles I, like most of the Stuarts, was a golfer, and I’d decided it would be nice to see him slashing away in the rough, and wrote a scene to that effect. Dick had the inspired idea of getting Billy Connolly to play the caddy, and the result was quite my favourite sequence in the movie – so, naturally, most of it ended up on the cutting-room floor; there’s a malign destiny that causes that sort of thing to happen. But at least I saw it, and have the whole thing on tape.

I flew home again full of optimism. It was a happy shoot, they were plainly enjoying it, and everything was looking good.

Then the blow fell. Pierre phoned me at home one night, and I remember exactly what he said: “Our old friend Roy Kinnear passed away today.” I couldn’t believe it; when I’d last seen Roy he’d been in splendid form, lying contentedly under a Spanish oak making remarks as Oliver Reed and Bill Paterson rehearsed a scene; now suddenly that jolly, witty, lively man whom everyone had loved, was dead, literally in the prime of life.

It had been a ghastly accident, a fall from a horse in which he suffered internal injuries which proved fatal. It put the production into shock from which it never recovered.

My first reaction was the human one: shocked misery. My second was the professional: what happens to the picture? How much of Roy’s part is in the can? Can the remainder be fixed somehow? Pierre answered these questions: the production would continue, and I was needed immediately in Spain to doctor the script; would I fly out next morning?*

In this kind of crisis there’s only one thing to do: get on with it. Shooting had been suspended for one day, then it continued while I scrounged a typewriter and paper and a copy of the script and retired first to a corner of the production office and then to a trailer beside the outdoor set where I could get at Dick or Pierre or whoever else I might want to consult. Then I read through to see what remained to do.

It could have been worse. Roy’s final scene, fortunately, was done – the grand finale, in which virtually the whole cast rode past in parade. Most of the other scenes could be fixed by using Roy’s double, judiciously shot, and voicing over his lines. “We might get Rory Bremner,” said Dick. I don’t know if he did, but whoever voiced in the lines did a perfect impersonation.

One scene looked impossible – the meeting between Planchet and D’Artagnan near the start of the film, which was absolutely necessary, and just too long to be played with the double’s back to camera. But, think hard enough and it comes: Planchet was in flight from an angry pursuer when he encountered D’Artagnan, who was having his boots polished in the street – so let D’Artagnan hide him under a cloak and use him as a foot-rest while the polishing continues, the pursuer is foiled, and D’Artagnan and the concealed Planchet can exchange their chat in peace. It worked, I typed it up, and spent the rest of the day talking with Christopher Lee on the battlements of the castle where the daring escape of the Duc de Somewhere-which-escapes-me was taking place.

Christopher was in full seventeenth-century fig, rapier, eye-patch, and all, and in no time a crowd of tourists, and sightseers who had come to watch the shooting, were clustering around to stare at him. It struck me then (and still does) that this man was the ultimate film star; he must have made more pictures than John Wayne, even, and the whole world knows him. Beauties and matinee idols may come and go unrecognised, but Christopher Lee is familiar from Indian village to Eskimo igloo, an instant magnet to admiring fans, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer man. When a Spanish lady approached and asked timidly if she might have a picture taken with him, he consented at once, and was immediately surrounded by her family, all beaming for the camera, with Christopher towering over them.

“I never know quite what to do on occasions like this,” he said, while the lady sidled closer, preening. Tactful Fraser suggested he bite her on the neck, at which he sighed heavily and said: “Don’t you start – I gave that up long ago.” Which was true. The camera clicked, he swept the delighted senora a bow, and off they all went, fans for life.

Guy Hamilton told me a story which illustrates the kind of admiration which Christopher attracts. Guy was directing him in the Bond movie, The Man with the Golden Gun, and the set was visited by Muhammad Ali, professing himself a devoted Lee fan, and requesting an audience. They were introduced, Ali assuring Christopher that he was his favourite movie star, and then he had added: “And I’m gonna dedicate my next fight to you, too!”

This was taken as an extravagant compliment, no more – but sure enough, when Ali won his next fight (I’ve an idea it was the Rumble in the Jungle) and the ring was awash with fans, handlers, and journalists, the champion fought his way to the nearest TV camera and roared into the lens: “I won that fight for Christopher Lee!” Which, as Guy remarked, was not only a tribute to Christopher, but proved Ali a man of his word.