Halfway To Hollywood: Diaries 1980-1988 (Volume Two) (71 page)

Feeling in one of my late-afternoon lethargies, I walk for a while around Covent Garden, looking for a present suitable for tomorrow’s 20th wedding anniversary. Eventually settle on a book called
Fatigue and How to Beat It
– mainly because I’m too tired to keep looking.

Simon and Phillida round. We go out to
After Aida
at the Old Vic. A rather heavy piece to start with, but the second half is especially effective – with light and energetic playing from Ian Charleson and big Arnold Bennett-
Clayhanger
-like prickly authority from Richard Griffiths.

The restoration of the Old Vic is magnificent. One of the finest theatre interiors in town since ‘Honest’ Ed Mirvish spent two million quid on it. Pity it is only half-full. Later go backstage. Actors in their underpants – always a bit of magic destroyed.

RG berates us for being the worst audience they’ve had.

The day after Reagan bombed Tripoli, and after the shock the gradual realisation that not only has Reagan set in train the dreadful prospect of more and more warlike actions, of further reprisals by Libyan fanatics in Europe, and of a generally much less safe world, but that 90% of Americans are behind him! My feelings of revulsion against this dark side of America – the clumsy, ugly face of power without intelligence, the world bully – have quite put me off going over there next week.

Happily 70% of Brits polled oppose Thatcher’s decision to let our bases be used, but that’s about the only good news.

Write a nice piece called ‘Biggles and the Groupies’ which gives me more pleasure than I’ve had at the typewriter in a long while.

Gather myself together for my third transport meeting in two days – this one up in Sheffield.

At Midland Station I meet Jo Guiver, the Buswatch co-ordinator, who turns out to be a bright, likeable, jolly sort with a huge backpack, as if she’s walking the country. Hint of difficulties ahead when I’m introduced to Layna, who is of Polish stock, with a punky haircut and a Vegan.

I rise to speak, a little despondently, to about 30 faces. Susan follows me, then a smooth, but quite plausible man from the South Yorkshire Passenger Transport Executive.

Then Layna’s two friends, one called Jesus and the other Mark, speak inaudibly, though quite sensibly, from the back, but it is clear that they are not at all grateful for having had three years of the lowest fares in the country and instead want to have a go about travelcards, etc.

We close about 9.35 with my rather waffly summing-up. Must learn to do this better. A hotel has been booked for Jo, Susan and myself, but we have to be in by 10.30. Susan hasn’t eaten since three, so this is out of the question and we ring the hotel to ask for dispensation. No-one answers.

Thanks to a friendly member of the audience we are driven to the hotel. The door is locked and no-one answers the bell. Our driver sees people in one of the rooms apparently watching TV. After much banging on the window, one of them is persuaded to open the door for us. A card beside a bell reads ‘Reception and Emergencies’. We ring the bell but no-one appears. The guest shrugs, ‘They live in the basement.’

We leave after ringing the bell yet again and I end up buying all three of us rooms at the much more pricey Rutland Hotel nearby.

Mum meets me at the door, anxious, no doubt, that I wasn’t here earlier. Quite sharply aware of her frailty. She’s thinner than ever – especially her arms and legs – and moves with greater difficulty than usual. Quite a change and for a while it worries me.

I’ve brought lunch and afterwards I’m just happy to sit and talk. Her alertness and humour and liveliness are unimpaired, I’m glad to say. Julie next door has had a man in all night. ‘It
could
be her brother. Of course, it’s no business of mine,’ and she rounds it off with a laugh at herself.

After supper we watch
Heimat
.
¹²⁹
My first view of it and I’m very impressed. Late night walk and contemplate writing a Palin-style British
Heimat
– extended version of the memoir-style of
East of Ipswich
.

The plane arrives in London three hours late after a further fault is found as we taxi out for take-off. So tempers are already frayed when we arrive at Terminal 4 (recently opened and subject of a big ad campaign and much media attention).

One man checking all UK and EEC passports. A very angry and vocal little Scotsman, who turns out to be an MP (wearing his House of Commons tie!) finally approaches one of the officials and indignantly puts the case for more than 400 travellers who are in the middle of the nightmare. The official, without a word, gets up and walks away.

The MP turns to us and, arm upraised in the manner of Lenin or Robespierre, shouts ‘Come on, everybody through! Everybody through!’ Some reluctance, then a few start to move. The officials turn in horror and make to apprehend one of the passengers but they’re simply brushed aside. The frightened look that so quickly replaced the smug look of power will remain imprinted on my mind. Not to put too fine a point on it, I saw through power for a moment.

In the evening go to the William Ellis summer concert. The headmaster is waiting anxiously on the steps bemoaning the lack of parental interest – ‘Where
are
they all?’

Inside there is some excellent music and the attendance does swell quite quickly. Tom plays both saxophone and clarinet. He still does his Cheshire Cat grin a lot and looks bashful, but plays well.

Talk to Rachel’s headmaster – Nicholas Harris – afterwards. Teachers starting industrial action again and Rachel likely to lose her school journey for the second year running. The effects of the government’s attitude to public-sector schools continue to worsen.

The hope that I had for state education has dwindled to the point where I’m beginning to seriously question whether we made the right decision for our children. The answer certainly is that we did, at the time, but should we not take another decision now – to remove them from state education before the whole thing collapses? I feel that we must keep the faith. The ideal of equal opportunity in education cannot be seen to fail. Maybe I should be more vocal. Maybe I should organise a school journey together with other parents.

But, being the lazy non-activist I am, I end up at home watching the
Heimat
episodes I missed whilst away.

A balmy warm smell rises up to my room as I sit with a solicitor and answer his various questions on the origins of the ‘Lumberjack Song’, what it means and why it’s sufficiently important to us to want to proceed against United Biscuits and their agents for using it as the basis for a commercial.

Silly situation, really. ‘Lumberjack Song’ is just a bit of nonsense, but in order to establish the principle that we’ve been wronged, we have to pretend it’s of great significance – a piece of modern culture. But I do resent the way it’s been used without permission, especially as I would have given an emphatic ‘no’ if we had been asked.

I read David Leland’s
Heartbreakers
script. The character of Eric tantalises me. He’s a marked difference from the characters I usually play. I talk a lot about my freedom to do ‘what I want’, and yet my acting roles in recent years have been very similar and, with the exception of
Brazil
and
The Dress
, nice and safe. Eric is neither nice nor safe and the part is better than
Brazil
or
The Dress
. So I’m tempted, despite the fact it looks like cutting into my writing time.

To the office and an interview with
Labour Herald
about T2000.

Of course they’re all very elated by last night’s local government and by-election results in which the Tories were roundly trounced. In Camden, depicted by Thatcher and the government as wasteful, over-spending and dangerously left-wing, there are now even more Labour councillors.

Go on from the office to see the Jamie Lee Curtis film
Love Letters
. A low-budget, serious and quite strong US picture. Jamie is good. It’s interesting to see her playing a woman not a glamour girl. The small Cannon Theatre is cramped and full of smoke. Not a great environment to see a movie.

Read a deposition on the ‘Lumberjack Song’ from a solicitor, based on our talk last week. Very rough, ungrammatical and badly-phrased – and rather depressing. Trying to assert ‘rightness’ seems to involve entering a world where patience, stamina and self-belief have first to be tested by irritation and frustration. And it rains outside. A filthy May thus far.

To Chalk Farm Station, thence to Euston – litter, pervading shabbiness – and to the Great Nepalese Restaurant in Eversholt Street – inviting, comfortable, spacious, friendly. There to meet and talk with Susan and Jo Guiver prior to the board meeting.

‘The Future of Transport 2000’ comes up about four and clearly cannot be fully debated in this meeting. Peter Horton [one of our local group representatives] stokes the fire a bit here, ‘Important document’, ‘We put it off last time’, etc, etc. Quite unhelpful, but maintains his own position as guardian of the heart and soul of Transport against the wily and untrustworthy Londoners.

Massive relief at another board meeting completed. I have a worrying feeling that I didn’t enjoy it as much as the first. Is this the familiar Palin
pattern? Attracted by something new, accepting an unusual challenge and then, once the challenge is overcome, being rapidly disillusioned by the usualness.

Walk across into Tavistock Square. Sit beside Gandhi and the tulips, as a brisk cool breeze dilutes the warmth of a, so far, clear, sunny morning.

Try to focus my mind for the next hour on
Mirrorstone
, for I have to jolly along the Cape sales conference on the same subject within half an hour. I remember so little about it, except Cape’s prodigious editorial interference. Look at Gandhi for inspiration, a hunched bronze figure over there in the centre of the flower bed. He doesn’t look at all like Ben Kingsley.

Summoning up all my powers of positiveness, I head for the conference venue at the Drury Lane Hotel. A modern, concrete infill hotel, which doesn’t improve the north end of Drury Lane. Silent foyers, signs, conference suites. Up to the fourth floor. Am on the phone to the office when Tom M emerges, greets me warmly and says ‘You’re on!’

Without further ado I’m ushered into a room packed with expectant people. Most of them sit round a table which must be thirty yards long, but many others sit behind them. It’s like an over-stocked peace conference. I’m told Roald Dahl is to be there later in the morning. God knows what that rather shy and reclusive author will make of it.

Tom announces me and I waffle on as best I can for a few minutes. Jokes go well, general good reception, but occasionally I catch the hardened, cynical faces who recognise a Maschler hype when they see one. Tom says a quick word, leads me out, cries ‘Thank you, you were wonderful!’ and shuts the door. I’m left quite alone in a small ante-room. Search for my coat and leave.

Taxi takes me across to Acton, to the BBC Rehearsal Room for the
East of Ipswich
read-through.

John Nettleton and Pat Heywood are wonderful as the Burrells. Nettleton misses not a single line or a single moment of humour. I don’t think I’ve heard anything of mine read as well first time.

After playing Mrs Wilbraham in the read-through and seeing the crew and cast together, I begin to feel broody for acting.

This morning a letter from someone who had never forgotten the image of me having breakfast in the Lochalsh Hotel looking out over Skye and had eventually made a pilgrimage to the same breakfast table. Not only was it all he’d ever hoped, but he took a friend and they fell in love and ‘have been in love ever since’.

Gilliam rings. We talk over
Munchausen
. He’s off to LA next week, though, to talk to Fox about the production. Once again he chides me about not being able to write any more – about being busy with everything but the main thing, and so on.

To Martin Lewis’s party.
¹³⁰

Ever since reading the Rachel Roberts book [
No Bells On Sunday
, published 1984]
¹³¹
I’ve thought of Lindsay Anderson and how I could use some of his acute and down-to-earth good sense. But I couldn’t really think of any reason why our paths might cross again. And there, on the lawn outside Martin’s basement flat off the Finchley Road, is the man himself. A little larger in the belly than I remember, but his fine hawk nose still the distinctive feature.

I am so pleased to see him, I don’t have time to think what to say, so out comes my spontaneous pleasure. We have a very good, too short, natter. Lindsay, who stands so close that I feel myself being edged into a flower bed, is, he says, going to start a campaign against the use of the words ‘rather’, ‘slightly’ and ‘quite’. He would cut this diary at a stroke.

He hasn’t yet seen
Private Function
. He confesses that he thinks he might not like it, but clearly doesn’t like himself much for saying so. And he couldn’t go to
Room With a View
because he’s fed up with films ‘in which Maggie Smith and Denholm Elliott are
so good
!’.

He also is the first person I’ve come across who didn’t like
Englishman Abroad
. His brow creases painfully at the mention. ‘Oh, too facile … all
those
camp
Englishmen.’ The only film he’s liked recently is
Crazy Family
.
²
‘The violence is so
productive
’!