by Di Morrissey
‘These laws, they are ridiculous!’ The large man at a table surrounded by friends, acquaintances and the curious, flung up his hands in exasperation. ‘Maxim Topov should be able to drink wine where and when he wants!’
Colin, sitting alone in a corner, watched the other people in the coffee shop hover around the burly man with the loud Russian-accented voice. They appeared to hang onto his every word. To Colin, the people looked to be arty types. Some of the men had beards and wore berets. Many of the women were heavily made-up and wore flowing clothes or chic little dresses. The Russian gave out a handful of leaflets and then dramatically left the café with several people in his wake. Another man gathered up his cigarettes, paid the bill and, as he left, stuck one of the flyers onto the café noticeboard.
On his way out Colin made a point of reading it.
A Cinema Masterpiece!
Direct from Russia! The brilliant cinematographer and filmmaker Maxim Topov will be screening his film ‘Under Dark Skies’, Sunday, three pm, at the Roxy Cinema, Paddington.
Come, hear Topov speak about his career and his exciting plans to make a film in Australia. You could be part of Topov’s next masterpiece!
Admission 2/-
Colin loved films. He enjoyed the interesting ones with subtitles, as well as Hollywood movies and the few Australian films he’d seen. This Russian one intrigued him. So, on Sunday afternoon, Colin threw a long scarf his mother had knitted around his neck, which he thought gave him a more rakish air and set off for the little art-house cinema in Paddington.
There was a smallish turnout and Maxim Topov stood in front of the stage with a very large, flamboyantly dressed, alarmingly red-headed woman. The two were in deep discussion until the woman turned and marched up the aisle and took her seat in the centre of the theatre while the director disappeared into the wings. The lights dimmed save for a spotlight on the stage as Topov reappeared, parting the curtains with a flourish and announcing to the empty gods, ‘I am Topov.’
There was a smattering of applause.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. My dear friends. Lovers of cinema. Thank you for coming. This is truly magnificent evening. Tonight you see only one of my masterpieces. First I explain why all are here.’ He paused for dramatic effect and Colin was aware that every person’s attention was focused on this chunky man with the wild and woolly hair and commanding presence. Topov raised his arms above his head, his throaty, accented voice bellowing across the rows of seats as he enunciated, ‘We make film . . . yes?’
There was a burst of applause.
‘Australian film, yes?’
The applause was louder.
‘So we are going to do this! Topov will make Australian masterpiece. I show wild Australia. Real outback, yes?’ He was almost shouting. ‘Next year in Melbourne comes Olympic Games. Our film will show real Australia to world.’
Colin, like most of the audience, was swept up in Topov’s enthusiastic speech. He sat forward in his seat wishing he could be part of Topov’s brilliant plan to make a film in outback Australia.
Topov was pacing the stage. ‘So Topov needs help. You be part of great film. Topov needs investors. They can come with us – to jungle, to see wild animals, natives and film adventures never seen on screen before. Do you want to join us? Put in money?’
There was applause, slightly less enthusiastic at the mention of investing money.
Colin’s mind was whirling as Topov introduced the film he was screening – a story of love, betrayal and revenge set against the background of the Russian Steppes. But as the snowy opening sequence flashed onto the screen Colin’s thoughts were elsewhere. He thought of the outback of Australia – hot desert, great red rocks, large shy kangaroos, heat, dust, the remoteness of it all. He thought of the five hundred pounds that his grandmother had left him. Could he use that money to invest in Topov’s film? He knew that his parents would not approve. That money was earmarked as a house deposit. However, he thought, the least I can do is meet Topov later and discuss his venture.
Colin found the film ponderous and heavy handed but assumed that was part of the Russian ethos. The Russian Steppes were not at all as Colin imagined them. He had trouble following the plot and at times he really had little idea of what was happening. Nevertheless, Colin recognised that Topov must be a creative and original director, for the film was unlike anything he had seen before.
A table and chairs had been set up in the small lobby of the cinema and Colin, who was at the head of a very small queue, introduced himself to Topov. Topov shook Colin’s hand and, in turn, introduced him to the large woman with the henna hair whom Colin had seen earlier as Madame Olga Konstantinova, his business partner.
Colin found her overwhelming. She was dressed in very colourful clothes, her braided hair, swept on top of her head, was caught with an elaborate tortoiseshell comb studded with coloured stones. She wore a lot of dazzling jewellery but Colin could not assess whether it was genuine or not. His mother would have considered her flashy but even though her earrings, bracelets, rings and necklace were all large pieces, they suited her big size and personality. And while Olga’s dark plum-coloured lips were full and her smile seemed friendly, her pale blue eyes, outlined in green eye shadow, were hard and calculating.
‘So you are interested in films? In movie-making?’ asked Topov.
‘Passionate. I belong to a film society. I study films as well as watching them for enjoyment,’ enthused Colin. Then he quite surprised himself by blurting, ‘I’d rather like to be a film scriptwriter one day.’
‘Wonderful. Olga, make a note of this. And what is your name, young man?’
‘Colin Peterson. I think your idea is terrific. About the outback. All those people coming here for the Olympics. If they see the film before the Games they’ll know more about the place. And when they hear the Games on the radio, they’ll know what other parts of the country look like. Very good idea,’ he added again.
‘You know wilderness? Northern Territory? You have been there?’ asked Topov with interest.
‘No. I haven’t been out of Sydney. But I have read a lot and seen some old Australian films shot in the bush,’ said Colin.
‘And so you are a scriptwriter?’ asked Olga. ‘Do you plan to invest in our venture?’
Put on the spot like this, some innate caution made Colin hesitate. ‘I believe I can write. And I’d love to come on this adventure . . .’ The idea of handing over his only savings to the determined Olga made Colin pause.
Topov waved his arms expansively, ignoring Olga’s slight frown of annoyance. ‘Mr Colin, you are an Australian and a writer so you shall write our screenplay and invest in great film. We have not many Australians eager for this adventure. Here, this is Peter, he has signed on.’ He indicated a tall, rangy, fair-haired man who came over at Topov’s waving gesture.
‘Peter is our motor mechanic and electrical technician. He is Dutch so he has little sense of humour but we forgive him that.’
Peter nodded seriously at Colin and shook his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Colin was pleased to meet a fellow adventurer. ‘You’re new to Australia?’ he asked.
‘I have been working on the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme. I have worked hard. So now I am in need of a change.’ He didn’t elaborate.
Olga handed Colin a small business card on which was printed her name and an address in Darling Point. Squeezed onto the bottom was a handwritten line appearing as an afterthought: ‘Executive Producer Topov Prods’.
‘We shall have a meeting at my house, Wednesday at five pm. Please to be there.’
‘It might be a little after five,’ said Colin nervously. ‘Leaving work, getting the tram, you know.’
Olga seemed indifferent and turned her attention to another person who might be a potential investor. The idea of going on this trip had now taken a firm hold in Colin’s mind. Leaving work, managing expenses and assuming responsibility for writing a script were big issues yet to be
tackled. Right now he was taken with the romance of the idea and the fact it could actually come to pass.
‘I wonder who else is going on this trip? I hope they can get enough investment to make it work,’ said Colin.
‘I’m sure we shall learn more on Wednesday at Madame Olga’s,’ said Peter pragmatically.
The following Wednesday Peter and Colin arrived simultaneously at Madame Konstantinova’s home at exclusive Darling Point.
‘This place is very expensive, I think,’ commented Peter as they gazed at the rambling pile of old stone set back from a lush garden with a small square of emerald lawn. Steep steps cut into sandstone wound up to the house, perched, like its more flamboyant neighbours, to capture views across the water to Point Piper.
‘I got the impression Madame Olga hasn’t been in Australia very long,’ said Colin.
‘Only a few years. I believe that she escaped from Russia with her family when she was a little girl and lived for many years in China. There, I have been told, she met her husband who made a great deal of money in that country, but when the Japanese invaded they came to Sydney with their two little daughters. I do not think that they are poor.’
‘How come you know these things,’ asked Colin thinking that the recent Dutch immigrant mechanic was well informed.
‘Not all immigrants that come here do so with just a suitcase and the clothes on their backs. Australia is the land of opportunity and some who have come here hope to exploit that. They paint a welcoming picture but your country is conservative, indeed, oppressive,’ said Peter. ‘Like its mother country there is a club and you are part of it or not. Capitalism can disadvantage the poor and make the rich richer.’
The Dutchman’s tone was rather grim and disapproving. But before Colin could ask more questions, their attention was taken by the gathering on the terrace where Madame Olga and Maxim Topov were hosting a small group of people, some of whom Colin recognised from the film screening and Nino’s Café. The two men were swept into the circle, introductions were made and waiters passed around drinks and hors d’oeuvres on silver trays.
Colin was glad he’d worn his best jacket and tie and while he chatted he tried to take in all the expensive surroundings in order to describe them to his mother. He hoped they’d be invited indoors so he could see more. A tall, strong-looking woman was talking to Olga who waved at Colin to join them.
‘You are Peterson, yes?’ said Olga. ‘Mr Colin. This is Miss Helen Thompson. She is business manager for the expedition. Mr Colin will be writing the script.’
‘Excellent. It all sounds quite exciting. Do you have an outline or anything down on paper yet?’ Helen had what Colin considered to be an aristocratic British accent. She was athletic looking, with a plain face, free of make-up and wore a grey flannel skirt with a blouse buttoned up to the neck and fastened with a cameo brooch.
‘Not really. I believe this is all still in early stages. I’m anxious to know more.’ Colin hesitated, not wanting to admit he hadn’t actually made up his mind about the project. Helen Thompson seemed an intimidating sort of person. ‘As business manager do you know exactly where we’re going, how long we’ll be away, the sort of things we’ll be filming?’ began Colin.
But before Helen could respond, Olga held up a jewelled white hand to silence them all. Her rings, sunk into fat white fingers, caught the fading sunlight. She was wearing a floor-length swirling cape made of silk and splashed with bold colours that matched the swathe of silk wound around her head, a jewelled clasp in the centre of the turban.
‘You are all so eager. So charming. Topov will explain more. He works in a very unorthodox manner.’ Olga smiled. ‘But he is very talented. Very creative man.’ She looked quite emotional at this declaration of the talents of Topov and Colin felt very uncomfortable. He turned to Helen.
‘And you? Do you have family here?’
‘No. I’m travelling. Looking for a bit of adventure. Life in the home counties is rather dull and the country suffered so much in the war, I rather felt I’d like to travel while my mother and father are still spry and occupied,’ she answered.
‘Oh, so you’re not a ten-pound Pom,’ said Colin lightly, trying to make a small joke. The assisted passage of British immigrants to Australia for the cost of ten pounds was regularly in the news. But his remark seemed to offend Helen.
‘Certainly not. I travel at my own expense and do as I wish. This filming thing seems a good way of seeing the country that might otherwise be inaccessible.’
‘Helen comes from good family,’ interjected Olga. ‘My family also.’ She lifted a champagne glass from the tray proffered by a waiter. ‘Let us drink toast to success of Topov.’
Hearing his name, Maxim Topov raised his glass. ‘To great hostess and patron, Madame Olga. To all supporting great expedition to Northern Territory and to all embarking on great adventure! Salute. We are ready to make plans. You are with us or you miss out! Come, let us meet in dining room and sign names!’ He turned and headed into the house.
Peter walked beside Colin as they went through the long French doors where the pale brocaded curtains had faded from scarlet to rose in the Sydney sunlight. ‘Do you suppose we sign our names in blood?’ he remarked with a slight smile.
Colin thought of his savings. His late grandmother would have considered this venture a total folly and it would dismay his parents if they knew what he was contemplating. He might not see a return on his investment, despite Topov’s glowing promises, but if it was a way of breaking out of the box he saw as his life, then maybe it was worth the gamble. Going to the Northern Territory sounded such an adventure, especially compared with living in Sydney and working at the bank.
‘Hollywood here we come,’ he said, attempting to sound jaunty as he made the biggest decision of his life.
Peter gave him an unamused glance. ‘I will stick to motor repairs. This experience will be useful for me. I’m not swallowing the fairy dust of Topov.’
Colin glanced at the others in the room. What did they expect as a return on their investment? Money, the promise of a new career, being part of the Australian film industry, or an adventure, like Helen hoped?
Madame Olga, assisted by Helen, neatly laid out a pile of contracts, a large map of Australia and a receipt book. The room, with its formal decor and expensive trappings, was intimidating. There was little chatter or banter as the investors shuffled forward and committed not just their money, but also as Topov and Olga said, their passion and spirit to the enterprise.
Maybe it was the room, the champagne and the atmosphere, but Colin felt there was now no turning back. He looked around him, committing his surroundings to memory. It was a scene he could perhaps use some time later in a film – the late afternoon sunlight coming through the dusty leadlight windows, a glimpse of blue harbour through dark European trees, the hushed voices, save for Helen’s brisk, ringing English accent as she filled in the paperwork for each of the investors. Madame Olga fanned herself with a document, beaming at each person as Helen handed them their formal agreement with their receipt. Topov’s voice could be heard from the adjoining drawing room.
Colin was surprised at how calmly he wrote out his cheque and signed it almost with a flourish instead of his usual careful and deliberate signature. He smiled at Helen.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound. One of my granny’s sayings.’
‘Yes,’ said Helen shortly. ‘I have heard the expression.’
Colin joined Peter the Dutchman in the next room. Topov stood in front of the marble fireplace as a group of people listened intently to what he was saying.
‘There’re a lot more of us than I thought. Do you think everyone will be coming along?’ asked Colin.
Peter shook his head. ‘I doubt it, these people do not look like they want to get their shoes dusty. Helen says they are non-participating investors.’
Colin took a small pastry from a plate on the dining table and suddenly saw another man he recognised. He inched around
the room and when the man was alone he introduced himself.
‘Hello, I recognise you. I’m Colin, I’ve seen you at a couple of New Realist film screenings down at the wharves.’
‘Is that so? Sorry, did we meet? I talk to so many people at those meetings. I am Drago.’
‘Yes, yes. The cameraman. I heard you speak at one or two of the Wharfie’s Film Unit documentaries. There was one about workers’ living conditions. I was interested in what you said about film being the new instrument of progress. Are you part of this project?’ asked Colin with interest.
‘Yes. Regretfully, there is little work for cameramen in Australia. Not much film industry, not yet TV, so when I heard Maxim Topov was planning a film, I contacted him. His idea for this film is a good one, though we don’t know what is actually planned just yet.’
‘So you will be the cameraman, that’s exciting,’ said Colin, pleased the team had an experienced hand on board. Though Drago was only in his thirties, he seemed to be very worldly and capable, like Peter the Dutchman.
Drago shrugged. ‘I am not officially the cameraman. Topov likes to control the camera. I am his assistant. But I need to work and Topov is not as good as he thinks he is. Maybe he will need an experienced cameraman. This could be a big opportunity for me.’
‘Yes, I’m excited to see the outback.’
‘So you are coming along? What role has Topov for you?’ asked Drago with a smile.
‘Writer. Though I’m not very experienced,’ began Colin, ‘but I hope I can create something worthwhile and bring a sense of what we find to a cinema audience . . .’
Drago broke into Colin’s stumbling explanation and justification of his credentials. ‘Don’t worry about it. Topov will tell you what he wants. He is boss. Always boss.’ He glanced at Madame Olga and Helen. ‘Maybe too many boss people. It will be interesting.’
The party was winding up. Topov clapped his hands.
‘Topov has announcement. We have very good team coming here. We have Maxim Topov director, cinematographer.’ He gave a small bow as the room politely applauded. ‘We have patron, Madame Olga. We have business manager, Miss Helen. We have writer, Mr Colin. We have mechanic and driver, Mr Dutchy. We have assistant camera and second driver, Mr Drago.’ Each nodded as they were briefly acknowledged. ‘We take turns cooking.’