The papers had picked up on the fact that Brendan had been nominated for a ‘Best Supporting Actor’ gong for his part and journalists’ requests for interviews flooded in. Since Brendan was the only actor from the movie who happened to be in town, it was all a godsend for the Toronto papers, a city that carries three major dailies.
Brendan couldn’t believe his luck. And he felt he had to capitalise on it.
‘We were booked to play in a small, six-hundred-seater theatre, but we reckoned that with the publicity we’d get, we had to move to a larger theatre. And we did, hiring the St Lawrence Theatre in the financial district, with two and a half thousand seats.’
The gambler was throwing the dice again. But there was a worrying sign that Brendan and Gerry’s relationship was becoming strained. Gerry had suggested everyone take an extra suitcase with them on the trip, with everyone carrying their own wardrobe. And so the actors, including Brendan, arrived at Toronto Airport and picked up the luggage, soon laden like pack mules. Except Gerry. He leapt into a taxi upon arrival and headed straight to the hotel bar. Brendan was incensed when he realised what had happened.
‘I phoned his room and got him and yelled, “I’m coming up.” And I did, and when he opened the door I chased him around the room, throwing a television set at him in the process.’
It turned out that Gerry wasn’t as badly damaged as the smashed TV set. But the incident highlighted the fact that the comedy partners weren’t entirely on the same page.
Then major disaster struck. At the last minute, The Van was withdrawn from the Film Festival.
‘It seemed Roddy Doyle and the director Stephen Frears couldn’t agree on the final cut. As a result, the film was pulled.’
And with it went the miles of column inches that the interviews with Brendan would have produced. The tickets for The Course simply didn’t sell. The first night was papered, which means tickets are given away free, in the hope word-of-mouth will encourage sales. But the second night saw only fifteen people in the audience. There were more in the cast and crew than punters in seats. More importantly, Brendan had fourteen people in hotels with no guarantee of their wages.
It didn’t matter if reviews were good, Toronto just didn’t turn out. Perhaps it was that the culture of the play was too un-Canadian. Brendan and Gerry lost £60,000 on the trip, and the Irish tour hadn’t been successful either. The reasons? Hubris. Ego. And simple economics. It was all very well taking a troupe of friends around Ireland, but they had to be paid. The Course worked in Dublin without hotel bills to pay, transport and food costs, etc. Outside of the city, it simply wasn’t viable.
However, there was another problem. The lack of cash had put a major strain on the Brendan–Gerry relationship. If their company balance sheet were a movie script, it would have been a horror, classified ‘X’ certificate.
By now, the pair were barely speaking. The blood brothers had developed anaemia.
Deal Or No Deal
BACK in Dublin, Brendan’s relationship with Gerry Browne improved, although it wasn’t quite what it had been before they had taken The Course to Toronto. Brendan had become closer to Jenny Gibney, though. It seemed she had now become much less of a gobshite in his eyes and more of a friend and a confidante. Their time on the road together had taught them that they had more in common than they’d first thought.
Meanwhile, the third in the trilogy of Agnes Browne books was released. The Granny went straight to Number One in the Irish bestseller list and the first print-run sold out immediately.
It was darker than the first two. With all the Browne children now grown up and leaving home to go their own ways, Agnes Browne becomes a granny at 47 when Mark and Betty have their first child. Some of the children have gone on to lead very successful lives, but Cathy is stuck in a bad marriage, and Dermot ends up in prison for manslaughter along with his best mate, Buster. Agnes finds the break-up of the family hard to deal with, but with her lover Pierre by her side, she copes.
Brendan’s writing was believable because he had drawn from his own childhood. And the work was described by the Sunday Independent as ‘a brilliant book’ and by the Irish World as having ‘language as rich as oxtail soup’.
The sales would help to make a little dent in Brendan and Gerry’s personal overdraft, but Brendan knew the books should be more successful. He didn’t feel his Mammy adventures were being promoted in the way they deserved. It was all very well doing great box office in Ireland, but he wanted to conquer the world. And he saw a chance to push Agnes Browne into the international spotlight one afternoon in a Dublin restaurant while having coffee with film director and producer Jim Sheridan (director of the 1989 Oscar-winning film My Left Foot, starring Daniel Day Lewis).
The pair had become friendly in recent months and were joined by literary agent, Darley Anderson.
‘We got talking to Darley, who had managed to secure a book deal and film rights for Jim’s brother, Peter, who was writing his first book. Jim pointed out I’d done three books but sales were contained in Ireland. Anyway, Darley asked me about the foreign rights and I told him nothing was happening on that front. He was astounded and said he wanted to become involved.
‘Later that day, Darley rang Michael O’Brien, who then called me and told me the “great news”.
‘“Darley Anderson’s been on to me, Brendan.”
‘“I know. I’ve been talking to him.”
‘“We really need to push sales abroad.”
‘Now, I’m thinking, “It’s about time, Michael!”’
The result of the meeting with Darley meant that Brendan’s work was showcased at the Frankfurt Book Fair.
Some weeks passed and the plan to promote The Mammy and her two offspring paid off.
‘The result of going to Frankfurt was that it caught the eye of Penguin in America. And they wanted to release the three Mrs Browne books in America under a licensing agreement with O’Brien. Fantastic.’
Brendan went on a promotional tour of America, covering 22 cities in 30 days. And his books sold in their thousands. After that, he returned to his screenplay about boxing, Sparrow’s Trap. His Dublin publisher, Michael O’Brien wanted another O’Carroll book, and when he read the film script of Sparrow’s Trap he was convinced the story could be rewritten as a terrific novel. Brendan protested, rather incredibly given his success, that he wasn’t a prolific writer, certainly not someone who could turn a screenplay format into novel form. And it wasn’t a case of false modesty.
‘I’m not a writer in a structured sense. I just sit down and have a go when the mood, or the idea, takes me. But in the end I agreed to try, to keep Michael happy. Yet it was such hard work.’
He slugged it out with Sparrow’s Trap and won with a knockout. The book would become an Irish bestseller. And, out of the blue, during the writing process, Brendan found himself volunteering to step back into the boxing ring.
Jim Sheridan, coincidentally, was working on a boxing script for a movie, based on the life of Irish World Champion flyweight Barry McGuigan. And he wanted to make sure that there was no overlap. So the writer/director tentatively asked Brendan if he might be able to look at his script. When Brendan readily agreed, Jim Sheridan was surprised.
‘People don’t let you read their scripts normally,’ he said. ‘For all you know, I could steal some of your ideas.’
‘Well, if you did I’d just write some more.’
What confidence.
When Brendan read the McGuigan story, he loved it. But not just because of Sheridan’s clever structure and storytelling skills. He was struck by a thought. ‘This is me. I’m the guy in this story.’
He had a point. Brendan had boxed as a teenager. He even looked like Barry McGuigan.
Then Brendan had a call from Jim Sheridan, who asked him to come up to Dublin as he was keen to talk to him. It all made sense. Brendan knew, instinctively, that Jim wanted him to play the Barry McGuigan role.
So they met back in Dublin and Bren
dan went up to Jim Sheridan’s house. However, Brendan walked in to a surprise. Daniel Day Lewis was there. Rather taken aback, Brendan said to Jim Sheridan, in the nicest possible way, ‘What the feck’s he doing here?’
Jim Sheridan’s reply threw Brendan onto the ropes. ‘He’s playing the lead in the Barry movie.’
‘You must be joking!’
‘I was stunned. There are only two boxing weights that translate into movie terms, that’s stories about heavyweights and lightweights. This was a great lightweight story.
‘I desperately wanted to play this part. And this was one of those great roles. So I said to Jim, “Look, you can’t cast Daniel. I’m perfect to play this part. I even look like McGuigan. And I can box.”
‘“Yeh, well, I’ve done some boxing in my time too,” said Daniel.
‘I turned to Daniel and said, “Listen, Daniel. I’ll tell you how we’ll decide who’s the best man for the part. We’ll go down to Foley’s gym and get in the ring and we’ll put on the gloves and go at it for three rounds. The winner gets to play Barry McGuigan.”
‘At this point Daniel looked stunned, turned to Jim Sheridan and said, “I’m not fighting him!”
‘Now, I know I would have knocked the shite out of him – and he knew it too. He wouldn’t fight me. But he still got the role in The Boxer!’
Meantime, Brendan wanted some answers.
‘“Look, Jim. If you didn’t want me to play the lead in this movie, why did you call me over here?”
‘“Endings, Brendan. I can tell from your books you write great endings. I wanted you to write the ending for my movie.”
‘So I took the positive from the experience. Jim Sheridan needed me to finish his picture. He needed me. That was a great compliment.’
Jim Sheridan’s comment about Brendan coming up with great endings would prove to be ironic. Later on, the pair would argue over one of Brendan’s film endings – to the point, says Brendan, of coming close to blows.
Brendan never did write the ending for this particular film. The Boxer ceased to be about Barry McGuigan, and instead became the story of an IRA man, a former boxer, who comes out of prison and refuses to return to the ring. Daniel Day Lewis played the lead role of Danny Flynn, and, it has to be said, did a typically brilliant job.
As Brendan got more and more involved in the film world and international book deals, he looked for support from those closest to him. But it wasn’t Doreen he was turning to instinctively for support any more, it was Jenny. ‘I guess we were on the same page, whereas Doreen wasn’t overly interested in that world. She was making sure the family were all fine.’
The strain on Brendan’s marriage would develop as he headed deep into the film world.
Hot Milk And Pepper
THE CANADIAN adventure had shown Brendan indeed had wings. But like Icarus he’d flown too close to the sun and been badly burned. He’d landed his international book deal and written Sparrow’s Trap. But what to do next? Irish TV station RTÉ came up with an answer.
‘After that major appearance on The Late, Late Show and the success of Mrs Browne’s Boys on radio, RTÉ sent out a command to their producers, “Get O’Carroll into something. Get him in everything.”
‘I could have written my name on a piece of toilet paper and they’d have used it. But, to be honest, television didn’t really appeal to me; my thinking at the time was it didn’t pay that well and it uses up a lot of comedy material. So you have to limit yourself. However, RTÉ kept coming up with ideas over a two-year period, to front Ireland’s Funniest Videos, that sort of thing. But I kept saying no.’
It was only during a trip to London, when Brendan turned up to the opening of Riverdance at the Hammersmith Apollo, that he began to rethink his attitude towards TV.
‘At the break I bumped into the controller of programmes for RTÉ and he said, “Look, Brendan, we’ve offered you almost fifteen programme formats. And you’ve turned them all down.”
‘“Well, I don’t think the time is right to do television.”
‘“The truth of it is, Brendan, RTÉ gave you your first break. In the past two years you’ve been on The Late, Late Show five times. There has to be some payback.”
‘The next day we were gigging in Manchester and I thought, “You know, he’s right. I do owe RTÉ.” So I made the decision that the next thing they offered me, I’d do it. And it wasn’t long. About two months later I was offered a quiz show. I agreed to do it and RTÉ were stunned. And delighted.’
Brendan decided the name of the show would be Hot Milk And Pepper, a reference to the drink he’d once served Margaret Thatcher.
‘We went through the format and it was okay and then I asked what Gerry’s role was. The producer, Gerald Heffernan, looked at me blankly.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing? No, you don’t understand. It’s Brendan and Gerry. We’re a team.
‘So they came up with a device whereby Gerry read out the scores and announced the prizes. Gerry was delighted. And the credits for the show would read: Starring Brendan O’Carroll . . . and Gerry Browne.’
Brendan saw Hot Milk And Pepper as an experiment; it wasn’t exciting television and it certainly never played to his strengths, i.e. allowing him to be himself. But it was an opportunity to reach kids and that section of Middle Ireland that might be offended by his stage show. He decided that in the next series he would be looking for more control.
‘The best bits were edited out. I don’t think it was done deliberately. The way it was edited made it very disjointed. But I liked doing it. In for two weeks, twenty-eight shows recorded, take the money and good luck.’
But Brendan was soon able to see the bigger picture. Almost literally. Thanks to The Mammy. The book had gone on to reach the bestseller list in 28 countries. The tale of Agnes Browne – mischievous, irascible and yet warm – was so popular, so universal a character, it would have come as no surprise had the publishers called to announce the book was to be translated into Apache. It was surely only a matter of time till Hollywood came calling.
Meantime, Brendan and Gerry were back touring Ireland with their comedy show (now far softer than The Outrageous Comedy Show), selling out 600-seater theatres. Brendan loved the live audience. This was so much more fun than the routine of the TV quiz show. And he loved to meet the fans and sign autographs at the stage door. Brendan was certainly attracting his share of female attention.
‘Occasionally, a girl would ask you your hotel room number, for sure. But you’d put them off, in a nice way. I certainly didn’t want to spend the night with the girl that wanted to spend the night with me. I wanted to be with the one that didn’t want to be with me. At every gig, there was somebody who was mesmerised by this thing that’s on the stage because, God love them, they don’t have a fulfilled life of their own. They want to be part of your life. Now, I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t look at some young women and think, “God, she’s lovely!” But I wasn’t into a quick bang-bang.’
And of course he had Doreen and three kids at home. But where was Doreen at this point? Life with Brendan had never been easy for her. She’d stood by her man through a whole range of traumas, from The Abbot’s Castle to the financial crash of The Course. She’d watched Brendan climb ladders with book deals, make it onto TV with The Late, Late Show and Hot Milk And Pepper.
But Brendan was away from home a great deal and he was far from the man Doreen had married. He was forging his own path, dealing with the adulation of fans and the like. Although not all of Ireland was in love with him. Comedian Sean Hughes, for example, had made repeated derogatory references to Brendan at a recent Dublin show. But Brendan took the criticism in his stride.
Brendan, it seemed, at forty-one, couldn’t win over the next generation of comedians who appeared in Dublin stand-up clubs such as The Attic and Lillies. Many were critical of the O’Carroll comedy show, claiming it to be old-fashioned, obvious and crude.
But as Brendan says, ‘By this time we
had made four videos of the shows, and between them they sold a quarter of a million copies. There couldn’t have been a quarter of a million eejits out there.’
Brendan hoped a TV company would offer drama or sitcom work but, meantime, he had another, bigger idea. At the end of 1996 he began pitching his film script. Sparrow’s Trap had sold well as a novel. It had a cracking storyline. Why wouldn’t it make a great film? And indeed Brendan believed it could launch a series of RTÉ films.
But doesn’t pride always come before a fall?
In Brendan’s case the fall would be spectacular.
Mammy Mia!
BRENDAN sums up his creative life pre-1992 (when Mrs Browne was born) with a succinct line.
‘I’d done nothing really. Then I did the stand-up, the radio series and The Late, Late Show. Then, over the next five years, I wrote three plays, four novels, two screenplays and made four stand-up videos. Why the explosion? I think this was all a result of the dumbing down I’d imposed on myself. It was all inside, desperate to come out.’
He’d tried to unleash his comedy talent along the way. He’d won the talent competition, he’d tried pirate radio, he’d worked for a comedian, but never managed success. Then the radio show came about – and it all changed. Brendan was born on the same day as Agnes Browne.
However, he dismisses the notion that his talent was always there, waiting to boil to the surface. ‘I’ve always been funny. That’s not a boast, it’s just a fact. People have always laughed at me. But it’s not talent, it’s attitude. It’s about making the leap. Lots of people, for example, could write a play, or at least make a passable attempt, but they just don’t have the attitude. It’s about facing the sun, rather than turning your back and wondering why your face is full of frost.
‘I think I’m lucky in that I’ve always seen possibilities, whether it’s trying to grow my own food on a farm or setting up a company to sell videos. The ideas don’t work out, but I’ve never been afraid of failure. Most people see the negatives as soon as they come up with an idea. I see the positives. And the ideas keep on appearing.’
The Real Mrs. Brown: The Authorised Biography of Brendan O'Carroll Page 15