by Shane Briant
Anyway, one day on set I walked over to Peter and told him I
had to meet with a journalist who was going to interview me. I'd be half an hour. Peter told me to sit down – I wasn't going anywhere.
"This is my set. Do as you're told."
Fifteen minutes later Michael Carreras stormed in, strode up to me and told me very firmly so that everyone could hear; "I told you earlier today to be in my office at 11.30 for an interview with Screen International. What the hell are you doing sitting here?"
I replied, "Peter told me I was not to leave the set."
Michael looked at me, furious. "I am telling you to get your arse in gear and get over there. Now!"
He pointed to the studio door then walked off. As I stood, Peter, who had been watching this entire scene walked up me and shouted at me. "Stay where you are! Do as you're told."
I didn't much care for being called out in this way in front of everyone, so I replied, "I have to do what Mr. Carreras says, I'm afraid. My contract is with him." Peter looked daggers at me. "I'll handle Carreras," he replied, "You stay there – we're trying to make a feature film, not accommodate some stupid journalist."
He then followed Michael outside. I sat down again, wishing I could vanish. Ultimately Peter returned. I never gave that interview. Somehow he had managed to get his own way yet again. But from that moment onwards I never felt that Michael saw me as a friend – they had both challenged me and I think I made a poor decision.
Apart from that day, the shoot went really well. I got on famously with Rita, not so much with Tom Bell, who I think needed the work but wasn't too excited taking part in horror films. He was, I thought, sulky and distant. But it had been his choice to accept the support role so he had to live with it. That was how I felt. As nearly all my scenes were with Rita, all was fine.
I remember almost killing a pedestrian outside Earl's Court tube station. I was supposed to pull out suddenly into the traffic in my white E-Type and the street had not been adequately 'wrangled' by the assistant directors.
I believe there were two major glitches that spoiled what could have been a decent film. One was the way they dressed Rita. She was supposed to be 'an ugly ducking.' That was simply supposed to mean she was not too glamorous. Yet Peter and the designer went completely over-the-top and gave her incredibly dowdy clothes, and a ridiculous blonde wig – one her character buys to make herself look beautiful for my character. Funny how some small point such as this can ruin a film.
The critics had a ball making fun of those two facets. The other big 'no-no' was to have our hero butcher his pet dog. Not only was such a thing so completely anathema because it turned off the entire audience (except for a handful of sociopaths) but it was the manner in which it was supposedly done – slashed to death with a Stanley knife – that appalled everyone. Adza told me at the wrap party I'd have to seek representation elsewhere if I ever killed an animal again on film.
We had a great wrap party at Elstree. Always the joker, Peter played a practical joke on me that ended up going very awry.
The party was a sit down affair, and all the cast and crew were invited.
Sitting at our table were Rita, Peter, Jane and I, and a great looking woman who might nowadays be referred to as a 'cougar.' She must have been around thirty-five and had fire-red hair in a ponytail falling down her bare back. She wore a very tight-fitting dress. She was definitely very curvaceous – the French have a word for her cleavage; 'tout le monde au balcon,' (the whole world on the balcony!) The fact was she actually was very gorgeous. A red-haired 'Mrs. Robinson.'
As she was sitting across the table from me, I didn't have a chance to chat with her, but our eyes did lock a few times – I couldn't resist sneaking occasional looks, and I have never been exactly subtle when I try to sneak peeks at gorgeous beauties in the high street or in a restaurant.
I was to get a shock an hour later.
I was at the bar ordering a drink for Jane when this voluptuous woman sidled up to me. We hadn't even been introduced, but she whispered something in my ear that took me completely by surprise. She asked me very casually when I intended to become intimate with her. The actual words she used were, "So when are you going to **** me?"
I was so surprised, I was temporarily lost for words. What to
say? Something witty? I couldn't think of any clever repartee. I said, "Let's see. Next Thursday at all convenient?" I was joking of course, but she seemed to take me very seriously.
"Thursday it is," she said, handing me a slip of paper with her address on it. She then returned to the table.
When I sat down, Peter avoided all eye contact with me. Every time I looked across at 'Red', and then at Peter he always seemed to be chuckling.
He never came clean that night.
Thursday came and went. During that entire day my thoughts strayed frequently towards 'Red', but I stayed put at home. I often wondered if Peter and a few of his friends had waited for me to arrive at the address she'd given me in Lancaster Gate, hoping I'd knock on the door.
It was just as well I didn't, as I found out later that she was 'an extremely very close friend' of Michael Carerras, and only months previously had been the girlfriend of Barry Spikings, one of the biggest English studio bosses in the seventies – producer of the Oscar winning 'The Deer Hunter.'
What an escape!
When the film premiered in England and America it received mixed reviews. A few critics were put off my 'killing' Tinker the dog – and quite rightly; it was completely gratuitous.
My favourite review was in the Sunday Times written by one of London's all-time finest reviewers, Dilys Powell. She drew attention to my 'steely arrogance' and 'goldilocks good looks.' It didn't seem to be too bad a notice; 'Mr. Briant deserves a better film.' Then came the crushing blow. 'So does Miss Tushingham. So, for that matter, does the dog.'
Hmmm. You can't win them all.
One last footnote, my great cyber friend Melissa Brooks emailed me out of the blue a while ago saying, "I watched 'Straight on Till Morning' last week, and then discovered you are married to a girl called…Wendy. Spooky."
Incidentally, a few months after 'Demons of the Mind' was
released I suddenly realized I had a stack of Hammer film fans. They seemed to appear from everywhere, wanting to shake my hand, ask for an autograph, and bring me gifts. It was a new and amazing part of being a film actor.
One such fan would quite often knock on my door in Pembridge Crescent hoping he could have a chat with me. This didn't bother me in the least, although I often wondered quite where the appeal lay in chatting with a complete stranger for ten minutes. However, this fan came around frequently.
To give some background to this story, my great uncle, Sir Dudley Colles (not actually a blood relative – my grandmother remarried after my grandfather, Morven Nolan, was killed in action in The Great War) was what was referred to as an Extra Equerry to the Queen. When he retired he went to live in a Grace and Favour House in Kensington somewhere. As a consequence my grandmother would often ask me if I'd like to see any concert at the Royal Albert Hall, as Sir Dudley could let us have seats in the Royal Box, which were of course the best seats in the house.
A week before a concert called 'Film Harmonic 74', an evening of film soundtracks played by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, I was delighted to hear from my granny that Dudley had obtained two tickets for Jane and me.
It was the same evening that my friendly fan arrived on my doorstep, carrying a bottle of red wine. "This is a present for you, Shane," he said, adding, "I happen to have some seats for 'Film Harmonic' on Saturday. Would you like a couple for yourself and your lovely girlfriend," he asked.
Rather than show-off about the Royal Box, I thanked him kindly and told him we couldn't make it because we would be in the country that evening.
Come the night, Jane and I dressed appropriately for the Royal Box and made our way to the Royal Albert Hall.
However, on entering the box,
who should we see sitting in the front row but my fan and his partner. Our eyes met and I smiled weakly, embarrassed.
My 'fan' turned out to be Prince Charles' dresser.
What an ass I felt that night.
'CAPTAIN KRONOS VAMPIRE HUNTER.'
In my third Hammer film, 'Captain Kronos Vampire Hunter,' I was cast as a red herring – the character everyone thinks is the bad guy, but isn't.
With John Carson in 'Captain Kronos Vampire Hunter.' (Plus silly hat!)
When I first read the script at home I recall thinking that it was a very original idea, one that could easily translate into a whole series of 'Captain Kronos' films. But what was I doing in it? Not a great deal – that was for sure. To put it mildly I was annoyed at suddenly being asked to play such a nothing role after starring with Rita. What had happened to the films that Michael Carerras had promised me – the re-make of 'Lorna Doone' and the biography of Bram Stoker? In 'Kronos' I was little more than the unwitting son of two filthy rich titled vampires, a character too stupid to ever realise the fact that mum and dad were blood-lusting vampires draining the blood of innocent virgins every night.
Was this payback for getting on the wrong side of Carerras? Maybe my character slept too soundly and never heard the terrible screams? I was extremely disappointed, but as Adza observed "don't rock the boat, we can't do much – I've had a lawyer check out the
contract and strictly speaking you are under contract so you have to accept what you're given."
I replied, "But what about good faith?"
She smiled at me. "You've still got a lot to learn about show biz, Shane.'
'Kronos' starred the wonderfully good-looking German actor Horst Janson as the Captain. His entourage consisted of the mouthwateringly sexy Caroline Munro and the late John Cater. The idea was that as a team they ride furiously from place to place, exterminating vampires.
While Horst, Caroline and John Cater had all the fun cavorting around the countryside, Lois Dane, Wanda Wentham and I were mostly stuck in the interior sets. Someone also had the brilliant idea of putting me in a wig that made me look like Harpo Marx. Why anyone would want to put a wig on someone with as much lustrous hair as me was a mystery. I'm surprised they didn't give me eyebrow extensions!
Since I was playing the 'cypher,' I had few decent scenes. This meant I went to work most days with little enthusiasm. I'd also do my best to avoid bumping into Michael Carerras as I was afraid I'd let him know exactly how I felt about my role in 'Kronos.' Fortunately Lois was such great company the days flew by. We joked around on the set while the heroes were busy with their swordplay. Lois always had me in stitches, and as I remember she was always having boyfriend problems. Wanda was equally good company – she enjoyed life immensely and didn't take a lot too seriously. She was always smiling and sending me up if I got too serious.
I enjoyed all the carriage scenes. Where other kids liked to go to drive fast cars, I enjoyed riding in antique horse-drawn carriages. The smell of them was heady and took me back to a time I'd never in fact experienced.
I was happy that 'Kronos' wasn't my last Hammer film because, good as it was and a great vehicle for Horst, it did me no favours as I was hard pressed to make anything of my character
With Lois Dane as we realize mum and dad are actually vampires. Surprise!
Lois with a crop, eyeing my grapes.
'FRANKENSTEIN AND THE MONSTER FROM HELL.'
My fourth and final foray into the heart of Hammer was to be in 'Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell.'
With Peter Cushing on 'Frankenstein.'
At last, a classic Hammer tale! And not only was I going to star with 'Mr. Hammer' himself, the indomitable Peter Cushing, the film was to be directed by Terence Fisher, veteran of 69 feature films at that time – the King of Gothic Horror!
This was my 'Dream Team.'
Fisher had begun his film career very late and had finally made a name for himself with the film 'The Curse of Frankenstein', a film that broke box office records. In so doing he shocked a lot of film critics with 'propensity towards ample bloodletting.' Most film buffs agree that his 'Dracula' was possibly the best Dracula ever. He was a natural master of the genre, and I couldn't wait to meet both Cushing and Fisher.
Both were charming and professional gentlemen of the old school. I can't recall one moment when I glanced at Terry and he wasn't smiling. He was seventy years old when I met him, but had the most incredible vigour. He loved his work and was happiest when on the set directing. He had such a happy demeanour, while Peter seemed to be perpetually putting on a brave face to the world while trying to keep his all-abiding sadness at the death of his wife Helen to himself.
Terry was a workaholic – he was happiest on set. I never saw him in the dining room, he was forever working on the next scene in some quiet spot on set, such as a cell or cage.
Terry Fisher working through lunch.
Many people have told me that when Helen died Peter lost a great deal of his will to live and threw himself into his work. We were the best of friends almost at once – that was the way he was, friendly, outgoing and generous to a degree, as well as fiercely proud of his professionalism, which was prodigious.
Each day he'd come to work completely secure in his lines, alert, and ready to see what the other actors had to offer, so he
could put that into the mix and we'd all end up bouncing new ideas off each other.
With the enchanting Maddy Smith in 'Frankie & the Monster from Hell.'
One thing I remember most about him was his ability to make things work on the day. His portrayal was never set in stone – it changed with the moment. If I delivered a line a trifle differently his reply would adapt.
This was a salutary lesson to me, and I now pass it on to other actors. If you are REALLY listening to your fellow actors, they often change either their tone, their expression, or the way they bear themselves. So if your portrayal is the same each time, you're not really listening and your response will make little or no sense.
Madeleine Smith was the female lead. She was brilliantly cast by a man who later became my friend, James (Jimmy) Liggat.
Maddy was the sweetheart playing a sweetheart.
As Sarah, the Baron's assistant, she was supposed to be dumb – speechless, that is. Only at the very end of the film, when she has to speak to save lives, does she say anything. Yet, she acted her
heart out throughout the film and the audience's heart went out to her character. Again, it's not the lines, it's what you do with silence.
The Frankenstein story was this time set in an insane asylum where, Simon Helder a young imprisoned surgeon, discovers that the Baron is piecing together a monster from his dead inmates. Of course eventually the monster goes mad and has to be killed – being torn asunder by the crazy inmates. Classic horror stuff!
Dave Prowse played the monster from within a latex monster suit. I well remember seeing it for the first time. I was being made up and Dave entered. All I could hear were some muffled words from inside the suit.
"What do you think, Shane?"
I looked at him from head to toe. I have to say I thought the costume was way over the top and looked like a hairy plastic Halloween suit. But since it couldn't be changed and I didn't want to disappoint Dave I tried desperately to think of one redeeming feature – in the same way as people say after a play 'I loved the costumes.'
Finally I looked at the feet. They were huge, gross and very ugly – almost deformed. At least the feet were good, I thought to myself. I told him so. There was a long pause, then he said, "The feet are my own."
As most film aficionados know Dave and James Earl Jones went on to play Darth Vader.
We had a great supporting cast – actors who were only too happy to come in and perform cameos just to be part of Terry Fisher's horror circus. There was Bernard Lee who we all know as Bond's 'M,' Patrick Troughton who everyone in England will know as a 'Dr. Who' played a body snatcher, Philip Voss, who played
the lead in 'Keane' at the Globe Theatre just months before was a jailer. Charles Lloyd Pack was a crazed Professor.