Drawn Out

by Tom Scott

  You gotta like a guy who shares that sort of stuff with you. We met up a couple of times in Santa Monica coffee bars.

  ‘Does this Hillary guy have to be a New Zealander?’ he asked.

  Not wanting to sound negative, I replied, ‘Why? What do you have in mind?’

  ‘I see him as a big guy from Nebraska. What if he was a lanky guy who comes from Nebraska? Just a thought!’

  I thought it best not to tell Ed and June about Jim. I was wondering what my next move should be when I was rung in the middle of the night by a young producer and hot-shot rock climber, Kevin Cooper, who had heard about the Hillary film project. He liked the sound of what I was doing. He flew me back up to Los Angeles for a scriptwriting conference and I flew home with more notes to add to my growing pile.

  In the meantime, the fortieth anniversary of the first motorised crossing of Antarctica by the 1955–58 Commonwealth Trans-Antarctic Expedition was fast approaching. Ed was deputy leader of that expedition and famously upset the British by beating them to the South Pole. Inspired by Mark and John Keir’s example, I tentatively suggested to TVNZ a one-hour documentary commemorating this event. To my delight and terror they agreed. I had never made a television documentary before in my life.

  I was still digesting this when American Zoetrope flicked Averil and I business-class tickets and invited us to a meeting in LA. By sheer chance, also in business class were TVNZ’s commissioner of programmes, the giant Aussie Mike Lattan, and his trusty sidekick, the diminutive Andy Shaw. At one point in the journey Mike came back to our seats, crouched down and said, ‘What are we fucking around with one hour for? This guy is on the five-dollar note, for fuck’s sake! He’s gotta be worth four hours, surely? I wanna know why he’s on the note! Give us four episodes!’

  View from the Top was conceived then and there, high above the Pacific. I had been panicking about making a one-hour documentary and now I had to make four. Holy Jesus! Holy Jesus!

  Buoyed by this, Averil and I went to lunch with Fred Fuchs and Kevin Cooper in a plush Santa Monica restaurant. They sipped mineral water from a mountain spring. I swigged wine straight from the bottle and regaled them with tales from my travels in the Solukhumbu with Sir Ed, full of bravado and derring-do. They were suitably spellbound.

  Fred disappeared to make a phone call and came back flushed. Francis Ford Coppola himself, no less, wanted Averil and I to have lunch with him the next day. They would fly us to San Francisco in the morning, a limousine would pick us up at the airport and whisk us over the Golden Gate Bridge to Geyserville, and we would dine al fresco with the great man under a spreading oak in his vineyard.

  It was finally happening. A feature film on Ed Hillary by the genius director who made The Godfather trilogy and Apocalypse Now was just one pasta meal and two bottles of zinfandel away.

  We were too excited to sleep that night. I gave up counting sheep and instead counted my chickens. Big mistake.

  Some time before dawn a despondent Fred Fuchs rang us with bad news. Kenneth Branagh, the filthy bastard, who was acting in as well as directing Frankenstein, was bonking his female lead, Helena Bonham Carter, the filthy cow. His wife, the lovely, pure Emma Thompson, found out and was demanding a divorce. A shit-fight of epic proportions was brewing and Francis had to fly off to London to hose it all down. Lunch was off.

  We flew back to New Zealand with mixed emotions. The Ed movie would have to wait, but the Ed documentary was happening, and happening fast. Filming and assembling that soaked up the rest of 1996 and most of 1997.

  Easily the best part was the week Averil and I spent with Ed and June in their sunlit Remuera home going through boxes and boxes of newspaper clippings, photograph albums, old magazines, cards and letters. I did the picture research and Averil went through the newspaper clippings and personal correspondence between Ed and his first wife, Louise, who, along with their daughter, Belinda, was killed in a plane crash in Kathmandu in 1975. Ed set up a desk for Averil in the washhouse, where she worked furiously, making copies in longhand of everything that might be relevant. I have read those notes several times since in the course of writing screenplays and I am always dazzled by the sheer amount of hard work she put in and the astonishingly acute story judgement she displayed.

  Ed must have discerned this as well. There was a cupboard on the wall labelled ‘Louise’s papers’, unlocked but protected by an invisible force-field. Ed opened it one morning and, reaching in, pulled out an envelope wrapped in plastic.

  ‘Gosh, I haven’t seen these in years,’ he remarked calmly. He proceeded to show Averil charred photographs of the Hillary family. They were from the small photograph album Louise carried with her everywhere. Ed had picked them up from the smoking crash site, just feet away from the blue tarpaulin under which lay the scorched remains of his wife.

  Averil and Ed shared a special bond. Belinda would have been close to Averil’s age had she lived.

  Of the five trips I have made to Nepal, my favourite was the one where there was only Ed and June, George and Mary Lowe, Averil and me. We detoured off the trail to Everest to the remote village of Beni. In a hamlet en route, the only toilet was a Dr Seuss-like structure cantilevered precariously over a wild river. Undeterred, George strode towards it purposefully, returning quite some time later when we were on our second rough Nepalese rum and Coke.

  ‘How was the toilet?’ enquired Averil, expecting a report that was structural and engineering in tone and content.

  ‘Well,’ said George matter-of-factly, ‘I went into my usual squat and after a very great deal of effort managed to produce a pellet you could sell to any army in the world as an armour-piercing shell.’

  In Beni they baked a birthday cake for Ed. A monk seated beside Ed wanted to know who Averil was. Ed explained.

  ‘Ah, many young!’ Ed nodded and smiled. Then the monk wanted to know who I was. Ed did the honours again.

  ‘Ah, big fat!’ I made the mistake of telling John Clarke this and it became his email greeting for many years.

  DURING THE MAKING OF View from the Top we also took Sir Edmund back to his old climbing haunts in New Zealand’s Southern Alps. We accompanied him on a fundraising tour of North America. We took him to the holy city of Varanasi, where he had undergone a life-changing religious experience while leading a fleet of jet boats up the Ganges. We were with him at the unveiling of a commemorative statue of Tenzing in the hill-town of Darjeeling. Best of all, we took him back to the South Pole, the place he had driven to overland in 1957–58 in a convoy of humble farm tractors.

  Denis Harvey from the TVNZ sports department was the producer, Haresh Bhana was the sound recordist, Mike Single was the camera operator and the late John Carlaw was the director. John was a heavy drinker and could be brusque to the point of rudeness. Ed asked me once why I hadn’t smacked him one on the nose. In truth, I knew very little about documentary film-making and John was savagely bringing me up to speed. In the end he trusted me enough to do the paper edit, which was really his job. He accepted I knew the story, and how to tell it, much better than anyone else, and to the surprise of us both we became mates.

  After the first episode went to air I got a very generous congratulatory note by fax from Peter Jackson, which I was chuffed about. I should have photocopied it because it has since faded into non-existence. I turned to Peter for advice when American Zoetrope asked me to trim my bulky storyline down to a succinct treatment. He invited me around to his zany house on the Seatoun coast and spent several hours with me going over the three-act structure and explaining how the treatment should reflect that division in no more than thirteen pages. Impossible, I thought, but no! Peter patiently explained that if I couldn’t do that I didn’t have a tale that could be told cinematically—I had a book or, worse, a small library.

  I went home hugely inspired and encouraged and spent weeks rendering my Moby Dick of a manuscript down to a single chalice of real oil, and dispatched this to Fred Fuchs. He immediately flew me up to Los Ange
les to pitch the project to Hutch Parker at 20th Century Fox, Alex Gartner at Fox 2000, Gareth Wigan at Columbia Pictures and Betsy Newman at TNT. I was often the oldest guy in the room, babbling rapidly to confident young men in Hawaiian shirts and cowboy boots that they placed on the table when they leaned back in their chairs. They didn’t seem to see any need to take notes, which was disconcerting.

  Things looked up at Columbia. For starters, Gareth Wigan was older than me, which made a nice change. As co-vice chairman he had a huge corner office on the top floor. He couldn’t wait to tell me that as a young university student he was part of the huge Coronation crowds lining the streets of London. He remembered how they stood in the drizzle and cheered when they heard the news over loudspeakers that Everest had been conquered by a New Zealander, Edmund Hillary, and the Sherpa Tenzing Norgay. I thought, We’re quids in here, and I set off on an emotional spiel that reduced me and everyone else to tears. When Gareth had finished dabbing his eyes he took us to lunch at The Commissary. His parting words rang in our ears like church bells on Coronation Day: ‘I want to make this movie!’

  As we drove out the gates, an ecstatic Fred Fuchs told me it was the best pitch he’d ever heard. He was absolutely convinced that our long quest was over.

  I think we might have passed the new owners of the studio as they were sweeping in. Within days Gareth was gone. In the end they all passed, though Betsy Newman at TNT did say they didn’t actually need to make my film; they just needed to film me making my pitch—my passion was amazing and my accent was adorable.

  Back home I got a wistful fax from Fred.

  Although they seemed fascinated by the idea, I think there was some hesitation regarding your experience as a screenwriter in tackling this unique subject. I have hopes that the right script would attract Francis as a director as well as a producer. Not unlike many great films we should not be dissuaded by the initial response …

  It was time to stop telling people what a great script it would make and make it into a great script. It was time to piss or get off the pot. I had spent four years accumulating more and more data. I was using the research process as an excuse not to start.

  WHEN I FINALLY SAT DOWN to write I found it an exhilarating, cathartic experience. Whole days flew by in what seemed like a flash. I resented sleep because it interrupted my flow. It seemed to take no time at all. As promised, I dropped off a copy at WingNut Films for Peter Jackson.

  A few days later the phone rang. It was Peter.

  ‘Congratulations. I’m quite surprised, to be honest. It’s very good. Fran wants a quick word.’ Peter’s wife, Fran Walsh, came on.

  ‘Hi, Tom. Fran here. I’m surprised too. It’s very good.’

  Fran came around to my house with script notes for the next draft and they were intimidatingly brilliant. Phew! These people are smart! I predict a big future for them both. You heard it here first.

  I got another phone call from Peter. Could he direct it and produce it after The Lord of the Rings or even instead of if—God forbid—LOTR didn’t happen? At that time things were wobbly with Miramax, who wanted one movie only and something reasonably modest. Peter and Fran were desperately searching for new production partners who would allow them to make two movies grand in scale, which they felt they owed to the much-loved books.

  I wished him luck, got off the phone and promptly went on an odyssey lighting candles, igniting joss sticks, laying flowers and making offerings in every church, chapel, mosque, synagogue, monastery, temple, gompa and Masonic lodge in the lower North Island, praying fervently that Peter and Fran would fall arse over kite.

  They didn’t, of course. Their one-picture deal with Miramax became a three-picture deal with New Line, which I must say has left me pretty disillusioned with religion on the whole.

  This pushed any shooting date for Higher Ground well beyond 2005, by which time Sir Edmund would be hitting 86. Peter understood that I wanted to make this movie while Ed was still alive, and he was candid with me—while he would like to make Higher Ground he could not guarantee absolutely that it would be his next project. Anything could happen in the five-year interim—priorities change, other utterly compelling movies could scream out to be made. I understood that. We agreed that I should try to get it up with someone else. What happened after that belongs in another book.

  —

  THERE WAS A WONDERFUL UPSIDE to all of this. A few years earlier, Chris Hampson asked Averil to be the accountant on a small first film written and directed by Anthony McCarten—Via Satellite. It was Averil’s first film as well.

  Since his BAFTA award and Oscar nomination in 2015 for his screenplay The Theory of Everything Anthony, a good chum and brilliant writer—you could publish his emails—has deservedly been farting through silk. For a long time it was sackcloth and ashes. He will never have to make a small film again. It’s blockbusters only for Anthony from now on. Nothing less will do—and he may well work with Averil again. Peter’s bold gamble with New Line meant she got to work as the accountant on the LOTR trilogy, then The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, The Water Horse, Avatar and The Hobbit. She has just finished a stint as the financial controller on Mortal Engines, the Peter Jackson-produced big-budget action drama set in a dystopian future (is there any other kind?), and is about to start work on Mulan, a live-action remake of the animated classic. Like her brother Grant, she is a terrific team leader and gets the very best out of people who work for her, all of whom would take a bullet for her (again, just like Grant, which he greatly appreciated when he was head of the Armed Offenders Squad).

  I was about to quote Oscar Wilde and say she lacks a single redeeming flaw, but I should put on record that she suffers from hay fever and at the height of the pine pollen season she goes through multiple boxes of tissues in a single night. As a consequence our bedroom floor can resemble a snowdrift some mornings. Wading ankle-deep to the door en route to the bath that I have run for her, she can spot a sock of mine buried in a crevasse of scrunched, damp tissues and will roll her eyes at the ceiling in exasperation. ‘Do you have to do that?’

  There’s no point arguing with her. She runs rings around me. She has a prodigious memory, she is a fabulous cook, a generous friend, hates gossip, refuses to judge people, is a wry and witty storyteller—mostly against herself—is super-fit, always dresses elegantly, takes care of my appearance as well, reads voraciously, is just as obsessed about world affairs as I am, loves travelling, doesn’t mind losing luggage occasionally, loves going to movies, hates bullies, insists on drinking good wine, hates eating leftovers, wins most board games … but she can’t draw. Hopeless! Bloody hopeless!

  However, this didn’t stop her arguing the toss with me when we were going over the plans for the flats we were building our mums with a fine-tooth comb, and they are all the better for it.

  INT. GRANNY FLAT—DAY

  JOAN: I can’t believe how old, staid and stale me own children have become. I much prefer the company of me grandchildren now. They’re fresh and full of curiosity. You can tell them anything without fear of being patronised or having them stifle a yawn.

  Rosie, Sam, promise me this. Promise your old Nana! If you ever find me lying in me own shit, shoot me!

  Do we have to talk about this at the dinner table, Nana?

  Yes, Rosie. We DO have to talk about this at the dinner table. What could be more appropriate? We all eat. We all shit. If ye find yer old Nana lying in a pool of her own shit, put a pistol to her temple and blow her brains out. Promise me Sam you’ll do dat for your old Nana!

  Averil’s little boy, William, is not my flesh and blood, but there’s something special about that kid. So polite and considerate. Not at all rough and tumble like Stewart when he comes to stay with his old Nana.

  JOHANNA (as AVERIL): One time Will went downstairs to play with Stewart and came back up almost immediately. When I asked what had happened, Will explained that Nana Joan thinks Stewart is getting over-excited and needs some time out. When I ask wh
at Stewart was getting over-excited about, Will said he wasn’t sure, but he was using the ‘F’ word a lot.

  Maybe Stewart doesn’t know the ‘F’ word is a swear word, darling.

  Actually, Mum, Nana Joan doesn’t know either.

  If Averil gives up film accounting she could go into casting films. When we were auditioning guys for the role of Errol the fireman in Separation City, a man with anger issues who terrorises a men’s group with his admission of domestic violence, she insisted I should consider a young runner and general dogsbody on LOTR, Mike Minogue. She told me how she went into the Stone Street studios kitchen one Monday morning after a weekend shoot. The place was awash in filthy plates and cutlery. Mike had already washed and dried a huge pile of dishes. An even bigger pile stretched out behind him, waiting to be attended to. Wearing rubber gloves, enveloped in steam, he was working furiously at a sudsy sink with a pot scrub. Just ducking in to make herself a quick coffee, Averil felt obliged to ask him, somewhat guiltily, how things were going.

  ‘You know, Av,’ he drawled laconically, ‘living the dream.’

  She was right about him playing Errol. He knocked the audition out of the park, and he came to the read-through match-fit and ready to rumble. Jason Hoyte, who played oily Steve from Guidance in Seven Periods with Mr Gormsby, did the same thing, lifting, inspiring and giving courage to all the other actors around them.

  INT. THOMAS HOME, LIVING ROOM—NIGHT

  French doors open onto the pool. Three couches surround a coffee table. Aboriginal artefacts cover the walls. Cushions litter the floor. Eight men are gathered in a nervous circle.

  Some are husbands from the dinner, plus four others, including a powerfully built fireman, who has brought his toddler with him. KLAAS enters last—

  ERROL: All quiet on the Western Front.

  SIMON: I’m married to Pamela and we have three lovely children. That’s about all really.