Despite Python leaving the HandMade stable, O’Brien knew what side his bread was buttered and continued to court members of the team to make films for him. His dealings, however, with Steve Abbott were less than cordial. Although no longer with HandMade, Abbott continued returning to Cadogan Square, in his professional capacity as Python’s accountant, sometimes even making the odd trip over to Guernsey, to look at the books and files pertaining to Life of Brian and other Python/HandMade-related films. He was always made to feel incredibly welcome by the office staff. There was no hostility whatsoever, although such visits were always carefully arranged to coincide with O’Brien’s absence from the country. ‘Denis didn’t speak to me for years. I remember John Cleese said to me, “It’s just like in The Godfather when Brando says, ‘Never, ever go to anyone outside the family.’ ” Well, Denis sees you as having left the family.” Denis is the only person to this day that’s actually cut me off in public. I was going to a screening and he and Alfie Jarratt jumped out of a cab and Alfie, even though we’d only crossed over for like six weeks, greeted me like a long-lost son. And I said, “Hello, Denis,” and held out my hand, and he just looked the other way and walked off, and that’s not happened to me before or since. I don’t think he could forgive what he saw as a betrayal, sort of moving on to the other side.’
5
A VERY BRITISH INSTITUTION
HandMade as a film company was unlike any other then operating in the British film industry. For starters, its headquarters wasn’t an office per se, but a tall and narrow, brown crenellated house in a predominantly residential square. Hardly filmic. And it was situated in Knightsbridge at a time when every one of its competitors and contemporaries were based around the coffee bar and sexpot environs of Soho or Wardour Street. It’s position, no doubt, contributed greatly to the team spirit within the office, the fact that they weren’t among a cluster of a dozen or so other film companies. It was interesting, certainly provocative, and very clever except it became too estranged in many ways. Brian Shingles comments, ‘HandMade did its own thing fairly quietly and I always wished we banged the drum more. But that wasn’t Denis’s way and that fitted in with the image of Cadogan Square, away from Wardour Street, we weren’t part of that, and I think that probably didn’t help because you’re not one of the boys. And I don’t know that George would’ve wanted to have been in Wardour Street anyway.’
Unlike Goldcrest, the nearest competitor to HandMade, then headed by a much more spirited and vocal leader in the guise of David Puttnam, O’Brien deliberately generated an air of semi-anonymity, not so much blowing his own trumpet as not even owning one. HandMade, for example, failed to exploit sufficiently the terrific success of Time Bandits or their own part in it to the degree that, say, Goldcrest did with Chariots of Fire. This despite the Gilliam fantasy taking more money at the US box office. It was Chariots of Fire that won the propaganda war and was very much seen as the great white hope of the British film industry, even if Goldcrest needed Hollywood backing to get it made, while Time Bandits was funded by English pounds. Ray Cooper observed, ‘We pulled back while Puttnam was out front waving the banner.’
Even worse, O’Brien and Harrison (especially) were almost invisible as figureheads when they should have been much more front-of-house, more visibly representative of the company. Instead, they rarely, if ever, consented even to giving press interviews. Such behaviour inevitably led to accusations of aloofness and a fuzzy, nondescript public profile that even this early on produced mumblings of disquiet from leading HandMade figures. Shingles says, ‘We were so low key, that used to be very galling because you had Goldcrest in the trade papers every week. It was Goldcrest this, Goldcrest that, David Puttnam was the saviour of the world, and you used to feel that somehow we were being left behind. And you had the Palace boys starting up who were mavericks — Nick Powell and Stephen Woolley — they were personalities, they had a profile, and they were always in the trades. And Denis said, “No, we don’t want to be like that, we just want to get on with our thing, doing what we do best, keeping a low profile. People will recognise us for what we are.” It was so galling. You’d say “HandMade” and people would say, “Oh, is that the George Harrison thing?” And you’d say, “Yes.” And they’d go, “Oh, you haven’t done much, have you?” That used to be really frustrating.’
What HandMade did have, though, was a great logo and O’Brien exploited it to the full. Wendy Palmer remembers, ‘The HandMade logo was on everything. Denis was a master in many ways, nothing could go out without a logo on it. That logo was plastered everywhere. I guess more could have been done in publicity terms, but we didn’t really need to with hindsight. We were always a bit elusive, a bit of an enigma. No one really knew what went on or how it went on. That added to its mystique.’
As you entered the actual HandMade building in Cadogan Square, through the double doors, your eyes fell immediately upon the lift, the famous lift. One scarcely used the staircase, which was immaculately polished every day. The HandMade lift is fondly remembered by those who frequented the office, chiefly because of its size, or lack of size. It was tiny. Michael Palin observed wryly, ‘HandMade has the only lift in the world which has a maximum occupancy of one-and-a-half people, or four children. You wonder why Denis didn’t like to do co-productions? It was because he couldn’t get anyone else into the lift.’
HandMade shared the building with EuroAtlantic and the offices of Dark Horse, Harrison’s own record label. ‘EuroAtlantic was like the parent company,’ according to Shingles. ‘It used to operate Denis’s companies and also oversee George’s interests. Initially, there was no cross-fertilisation, it was two distinct companies, there was a clear divide between them and us. They used to get the perks at that point and we never did. Denis would always say, “We’re all one family, really,” and we said, “Well, that’s not quite right.” But that did change later on, the company became much more involved between the two and we were just part of one big, happy family and never thought of ourselves as separate entities.’
The building itself was like a rabbit warren inside, haphazardly broken up into numerous offices, some remarkably small. In the rarefied upper echelons was Denis O’Brien’s comfortably upholstered office, with its views across rooftops of apartments and offices bustling for space behind Harrods. His office was serviced by the lift, but only if one was in possession of a certain key, without which there was no access. Cooper says, ‘We had meetings twice a week, early in the morning, in this boardroom at the top. Not quite the top because that was the penthouse where Denis actually lived, but as far as you could go as a normal mortal, unless invited or given the key. The boardroom was very elegant, this huge Regency table, and we would have our creative discussions there.’
Denis was particularly fond of this table and had let it be known within the office that it was a Chippendale. ‘The irony was that, later, when everything had to get sold off, it turned out it was a fake,’ remembers Wendy Palmer. ‘And Denis was just so freaked out about this table, if he came in and there was a coffee cup on it without a mat underneath he’d get totally freaked out. And I remember Bruce Robinson used to get on that table and dance. I kid you not.’
On another occasion, during a birthday celebration, the table was all laid out with food and it collapsed under the weight. Shingles says, ‘Denis wasn’t there so we had to get French polishers in to fix it and, of course, things never look the same afterwards and Denis came back and he looked at the table while we were talking, and he looked, and everyone just carried on as though nothing had happened. I don’t know if he ever found out.’
Anyone unfamiliar with the layout of O’Brien’s office might never have guessed that there was a secret door, a panelled door, designed to blend in with the wall. It opened to reveal stairs leading up to his private apartment, his UK residence when he wasn’t gallivanting around the globe doing deals or luxuriating on his private yacht. The suite perfectly complemented O’Brien’s cultivated li
festyle. Cooper recalls, ‘It was beautiful... beautiful furniture and books everywhere. Very tasteful.’ Here, indeed, was a man of elegance and style, not averse to ranting at members of his own staff who lent too heavily back on his prized antique chairs. He was also particularly proud of his own special store of expensive claret, each bottle carrying its own number. This air of culture also extended to his appearance. ‘Denis was very elegant,’ Ray Cooper confirms. ‘Bow-tie. Originally bearded, which was his token to being slightly left of field.’
When he was there, O’Brien was very much a nine-to-five figure. Even when he was out of the country, which was often (one colleague joked that O’Brien was the only person he knew who suffered from jetlag going from one holiday to another), he’d remain in touch with the office; his presence was always felt. In charge during his absences would be his secretary, Corrina Howard. Palmer believes, ‘You can’t really look at Corrina without looking at Denis. She kept everything together.’
Harrison couldn’t have been more different. Although he retained a private office, with a permanent assistant attending to his affairs, he was scarcely seen at Cadogan Square. When he did come in, he might pop his head round a few doors to say ‘Hi’ and catch up on industry gossip. He also made the effort to attend the odd office party or lunch. At Christmas, everyone got gifts from him, or if he had a new album release he enjoyed handing out free copies. But, as a rule, he rarely socialised with HandMade staff, some of whom he wouldn’t even have recognised if he passed them on the street. Cooper says, ‘George didn’t want to come in; he had me there and I would go out to his house and we would talk scripts. I’d tell him stories and he’d agree them. He would come in every so often, but normally he wouldn’t come in because he didn’t want that position, and I don’t blame him... he didn’t want to be the businessman or the ogre, he wanted to help people do what they wanted to do. And I think that was the whole aspect of The Beatles anyway, Apple Corps, the shop, many things that were about, naively and innocently, just trying to help people, enable people.’
For Harrison, the last thing he wanted out of HandMade was an office job. ‘I never intended to be David Puttnam,’ he once said. Because O’Brien and Ray Cooper were there to keep him informed of any developments and about current projects, he felt his presence wasn’t really required. Happy to take a back seat, involving himself only as much as he wanted to, Harrison had perhaps finally managed to find the perfect balance between show business and personal peace and quiet. But his absence, particularly on the publicity front, was seen by some as handicapping the company. ‘Everyone used to say it was “George the recluse”,’ says Shingles. ‘He certainly wasn’t high-profile, he wouldn’t be seen at premières. I wish George had been more involved because distributors used to say, “Will George come and do publicity for us... will George do this?” And we’d say, “He’s very busy.” And, in the end, we’d stop passing on requests to George because you knew the answer, it was almost academic, so why ask? But it would have been very beneficial.’
Besides Ray Cooper, another old friend from Harrison’s past, Derek Taylor, who’d been The Beatles’ publicist, also had an office at HandMade during these dangerous and wonderful early years — ‘the glory days’ as Terry Gilliam refers to them today. ‘There was a kind of wonderful avant gardeness in the beginning,’ Cooper recalls. ‘But suddenly there was a clean-up, the whole thing started to change. Derek Taylor left very early on, he saw the writing on the wall a long time ago. Unfortunately, what started to happen was HandMade got bigger; suddenly Dark Horse was getting smaller and George’s little bit of the office. We ended up taking the whole thing over.’
With money pouring in from Life of Brian and Time Bandits, HandMade’s expansion was inevitable, though O’Brien took pains not to lose the family atmosphere that he had done so much to engender and which made working in the office so special. Shingles says, ‘Most of the staff would agree it was unique. You were protected, not molly-coddled, but we were protected and it gave rise to lots of eccentricities, people behaved how you would never see people behave in any other walk of life. It really remained a small company and you fed off each other and you behaved ridiculously. That was why it was so unique. At that point, we had a wonderful time. You can never recapture it.’ Shingles recalls one memorable winter’s afternoon when the staff enjoyed a massive snowball fight... inside the office building!
This uniqueness was felt almost immediately by new recruit Hilary Davies who arrived at HandMade from Warner Brothers. She arrived initially as a secretary, but would stay on for 15 years. ‘It really was like being part of a big family, because there was only 20 people maybe at that stage, it grew a bit afterwards, but it was never massive, so that’s what made for a really nice atmosphere. I thought it was wonderful. I really enjoyed going to work. And you either came and you liked it and you stayed, or you came, didn’t like it and left pretty quickly. You were either one or the other. Everybody really got on and they were just very committed to their work. It was total commitment from everybody. We all loved the films that we were working on, even the ones that didn’t turn out so well... in the end you had an affection for them.’
Because Hilary had studied languages at university, she eventually wound up at distribution and marketing, attending film festivals and markets around the world, notably Cannes. And it was in the area of distribution where potential dangers concerning HandMade’s burgeoning ambitions first manifested themselves. Getting bigger inevitably means larger overheads, then you have to keep making films or buy in product from elsewhere to get your overheads down. A lull in production immediately following Time Bandits meant there was a void out there which had to be filled by something.
Unfortunately, of all the clapped-out, turgid rubbish floating around in 1981, HandMade had the distinction of picking up possibly the worst three for distribution. Tattoo featured ex-Bond actress Maud Adams and was about a mad tattooist who kidnaps a beautiful girl and paints her body before forcing her to have sex. Venom was one of those so-bad-it’s-laughable British thrillers that centred around an escaped snake inside a house full of stereotypes. One’s tedium is saved only by the exceptional moment where the reptile wanders up the inside trouser leg of Oliver Reed and bites into his knackers. Lastly, The Burning was a repellent Friday the Thirteenth rip-off remarkable only for being the first film from Harvey Weinstein’s soon to be behemoth Miramax.
How could any company survive such a trio of releases? Cooper suggests, ‘As an acquiring force and an independent company, uniquely independent in those days, we were up against the majors, so they had all the great work. We didn’t have the money, even HandMade didn’t have the money at that stage to buy in the best films, so we were dealing with stuff like Venom and The Burning. Awful. It was a big mistake.’
The Burning actually should have been a money-spinner, arriving as it did during the great censorship and video nasty debate, but HandMade got cold feet over it and toned down the ad campaign to such an extent that the film failed to find its target audience.
Inside HandMade there was much vocal disquiet about the film choices being made and it was Alfie Jarratt who began feeling the pressure. At CIC, he’d ridden on a wave of successive hits but now found the clout he once wielded all but wiped out. There was a sense of him being marginalised and frustrated that he wasn’t able to achieve at HandMade what he’d wanted to. He’d regularly saunter off to the famous White Elephant restaurant at lunchtime to meet up with old film mates like Bernie Delfont, but back at the office he seemed to have lost the will to fight his corner. Shingles’ view was that ‘it became increasingly tense between Alfie and EuroAtlantic. Denis’s view of HandMade was to be a classy production/distribution outfit and Alfie didn’t fit the bill in a way — he was aggressive, the old school, and the films let everyone down badly. In the end, they realised it just wasn’t working and Alfie went.’ Not long after his dismissal, Alfie Jarratt died.
In November 1982, surprising no one, Han
dMade announced they were to wind down the distribution end of its operation. It had been a bold experiment that had dreadfully backfired. Although the company intended to continue distributing its own movies wherever possible, no longer would it seek to buy in films from other sources.
But the whole distribution débâcle hadn’t been a total waste of time. According to Cooper, ‘Venom with Klaus Kinski and Susan George baring her tits yet again, bless her heart — and magnificent they are always to see — was a piece of nonsense, really. But one good thing did come out of it. Michael Kamen wrote the score for that movie and I heard it and some other music that he’d done. At the time, I was moonlighting on Brazil. One of the jobs I always had was to help Terry Gilliam through the music side of post-production. So I heard the Venom soundtrack which was interesting and realised this was a man who had a sense of space, but his film career was going nowhere. I said to Terry, “I think I’ve found a composer for you. He’s unknown but I think you should meet him.” I brought him along to see a rough cut of Brazil and Michael’s mouth dropped open, and we sat with Michael week after week pulling out of Michael what he didn’t know he had in him. And that launched his career because when Steven Spielberg saw Brazil, he wanted the composer and Michael’s career never looked back.’
In between his assignments on ’80s Hollywood blockbusters like the Lethal Weapon and Die Hard series, Kamen perhaps felt duty-bound to return periodically to HandMade, becoming almost their composer-in-residence, scoring Mona Lisa, Shanghai Surprise, The Raggedy Rawney and Cold Dog Soup.
Very Naughty Boys [EBK] Page 13