by Shane Briant
I told the producer that this was in no way the proper way to do things. It was a stupid credit that made no sense. But it seemed to placate Richard, so I let him have it. I had a very nasty taste in my mouth by this time.
In some ways I suppose I did give in. But I think arbitration is always the way. Let an independent body look at the facts and decide. Why would anyone not agree to that?
Wendy and I attended the Montreal Film Festival, and we had a ball. We didn't win, but we were very well looked after. And I got to meet the love of my teenage life, Anna Karina, the star of Jean Luc Godard's 'Pierrot le Fou.'
At one of the daily cocktail parties I happened to see Anna sitting at a table with some younger people, one of whom was a very beautiful girl who was up for 'Best Actress.' So I asked the festival director if he'd introduce me to Anna just for a couple of minutes. He said he'd be happy to do so, and led me over.
With French screen siren Anna Karina in Montreal.
At the table, during a pause in the general conversation, he said, "Excuse me, this is Shane Briant from Australia who has written 'A Message from Fallujah.' He would love to meet…" He paused and I saw the beautiful young girl wait for her name to be called.
"The woman Shane tells me he's been in love with all his life. Anna!"
The young girl stared at me, while Anna Karina laughed aloud. I actually preferred Anna to this young lovely – absolutely!
I sat next to Anna, had a drink, and we chatted – just for one minute. She looked radiantly beautiful, and a gorgeous sixty. It made the festival for me.
At the Montreal Film Festival with Wendy 1995.
As I left Anna, Wendy drew my attention to a group of four young people in one corner. They looked like they knew nobody.
"It's those Americans who were in that very, how shall I say, 'graphic' film we saw yesterday," she said.
I remembered the film well. It was yet another coming of age film set in America. The only thing I can remember now was that within five minutes of the opening of the film there's a three-minute sequence in a shower where the young lad masterbates very graphically. The scene seemed to drag on and on in lurid close-up until he achieved an orgasm. I couldn't fathom why we'd been treated to all of this. Nor could I understand the fact that every cast member masturbated during the rest of the film. It had a definitely documentary feel.
"No one's talking to them. They look so lost. Let's go over and say nice things about their film, eh?" Wendy suggested.
We walked over and introduced ourselves. A few moments later Wendy came up with this gem. "We saw your film yesterday. You parents must be so proud of you."
From Montreal I flew to Los Angeles. Wendy flew home to look after the cats – something she and I regret to this day because I wish she had been with me at L.A. Shorts.
Winner 'BEST IN FEST,' L.A. International Short Film Festival 1995.
'The Los Angeles International Short Film Festival' – such a mouthful that they call it 'L.A. Shorts' – is an annual event with short films being invited from all over the world. In fact, it's the biggest short film festival in the world, as well as being the most prestigious.
Because the inspirational Jeffrey Bloom had steered me towards Ambrose Bierce's story, I insisted that he and his wife Carole attend the awards ceremony.
We sat with Richard Gibson near the front of the auditorium as the awards began.
Many people had said nice things about 'Fallujah,' during the festival, so much so that our film was tipped as a front-runner.
To make the awards more interesting, the organizers stuck to the Oscar Format. Five names were read out, then the winner. When it came to 'Best Drama' (we were one of the five) we didn't win.
I felt deflated. Richard looked as if he'd been snap-frozen in
dry ice, and immediately walked out into the corridor to smoke a cigarette. The awards continued. As Jeffrey pointed out, there was still the 'Best of the Fest' to go. A very long shot. Thank heavens Richard thought to return, because when it came to the last award we heard 'and the Best in the Fest is… 'A Message from Fallujah.'
It was thrilling. Richard accepted all the prizes as director and made a speech about the current relevance in society of the film. I then stepped forward and thanked all the crew who had given their time free of charge and had worked tirelessly. Richard wandered off, while Jeffrey, Carole and I went out to a restaurant and celebrated. I called Wendy immediately and told her the great news – you can imagine how she felt to have missed out on this wonderful evening. It won't happen again.
All the winners at the various film festivals around the world are considered by the Academy Awards committee, and a lot of people in the know tipped us for an Oscar nomination, because L.A. Shorts is so highly regarded.
Wendy and I were skiing in Austria on the day the news of the nominations was revealed. We knew the time of the announcement, and we were expecting a telephone call should we be nominated. So we stopped skiing at 4 p.m. that day and sat with our gluhweins, waiting for the call. It never came.
One can't have everything, I say. Winning in La La Land was enough.
When I got home I continued work on a screenplay that Richard's company, Luscious International Films, had taken an option on. It wasn't the happiest time because of the fiasco regarding the credits on 'A Message from Fallujah.' Everyone at Luscious made it clear that they thought I'd behaved badly by suggesting arbitration, so now it wasn't the same going to their offices. Before, I'd always got on well with everyone, had copious coffees and the occasional lunch. Now it was strictly business.
Of course I really should have seen it coming, but I didn't. I'd worked almost non-stop for two years with the Luscious producer on various versions of the screenplay. We'd look at the script together and he'd make suggestions. Lots of them. And so would I. That's the way it works – the producer looks at the writer's work and suggests how it could be bettered.
Around the twenty-second draft stage, out of the blue he said something to this effect – I can't remember the words, simply their import. 'I feel that I should get an equal writer's credit with you because I think I've come up with so much over two years.'
It sounded like 'Groundhog Day to me. First 'Fallujah,' now 'Worst Nightmares.'
I remained calm, pointing out that the producer had in fact not written a single line – that had been done by me. He became defensive and instantly cold, telling me of all the ideas he felt he'd made that impacted on the script.
I had no alternative but to make it clear to him that business practice in America was this. The producer options a script. The writer either writes the script or starts writing it. At this stage the producer is still the producer and the writer is still the writer. During the time the producer and the writer work together, it is the function of the producer to say things like 'this is not right', 'this should come later,' 'how about making the woman a man,' 'how about having the man in a wheelchair rather than in a chair.' This is commonly known as the producer guiding the script along. None of this logic helped. Again I was 'the bad guy,' and being incredibly difficult. I again suggested arbitration, since I had a fair idea about what the outcome would be bearing in mind that for two years I had typed every word into my computer. However, the more I suggested arbitration the angrier the producer became. Until we parted company and the option ran out. A shame. He had put a great deal of time and trouble into taking the script to Cannes and putting it about in L.A. but some people aren't content to be simply producers, they have to be writers too.
I haven't seen the producer or Richard Gibson since.
'GRAPHIC.' SYDNEY CRIMINALS.
In 2004 I published my fifth novel, 'Graphic,' about a graphic novelist who undergoes a curious personal metamorphosis in which he feels himself changing into his fictional tough guy, 'Sainte Claire.'
As soon as the manuscript had been expertly edited by Wendy, I contacted Harper Collins Australia, so that we could again work together and make money; me a
s publisher, they as distributors.
I was referred to the new distribution manager. He told me rather coldly that Harper Collins Australia had made a decision to no longer distribute books not written in-house authors.
I was surprised to say the least, and put some figures to him. I estimated they had made close to $50,000 distributing my last two books while I was an independent author.
It took the new distribution and marketing manager a few seconds to compose a plausibly logical explanation for not wishing to make another $50,000, while not stretching the sales team one iota.
"It's…er…a policy decision," he replied.
"Can you give me any logical reason this decision was made?" I asked.
"It wasn't me that made it, Mr. Briant. So, no, I can't."
"But you are in charge of distribution and marketing, aren't you?" I wasn't letting him off the hook so easily.
"Yes, I am but…er…it's policy. So I can't help you." He would have obeyed any order in Nazi Germany.
So I contacted another distribution company and had my books printed in Hong Kong – they do a good job there and, much as I would have preferred to use Aussie printers, as an individual I simply couldn't afford it. They were much more expensive.
'Graphic' is about criminal power struggles between the Aussie crims in Kings Cross, and the new Vietnamese crims in Paramatta. It had been a joy to write as there was a lot of humour in the book, and it goes without saying there was a great deal of me in the central character – a man who would love to be a tough guy.
Wendy in Kings Cross, Sydney pretending to be a hooker for 'Graphic.'
Research? I called the Paramatta Police station and asked to speak to a detective, explaining I was writing a thriller. I was immediately transferred to Chief Superintendent Deborah Wallace, who was cleaning up the Paramatta district. She invited Wendy
and me to visit the station and promised to show me around her 'patch.'
She was nicely down to earth and not in the least stuffy. As she drove us around her area, she told me so many stories that my pen was practically white hot as it sped across my research notebook.
Chief Super Wallace is an inspirational cop respected by everyone including the local crims. All the petty criminals and dealers in Parramatta respectfully called her 'Ma'am,' and in return she showed them respect. For instance, rather than publicly cuffing offenders and putting them in a paddy wagon, she'd tap the offender on the shoulder and tell him to present himself at the cop shop within the hour where he'd be charged. In this way the Asian criminal didn't lose face. They always arrived within the hour.
At 1 p.m. she took us to a local Vietnamese restaurant she was fond of. All the locals treated her like a friend because she'd brought the crime rate down by leaps and bounds.
"Try the 'Cop Soup'," was her suggestion as I read my menu. "It's what all my officers choose to eat."
I asked her what was in it, and she replied, "Everything! The police in my station can never make up their minds what they want so Nuguen made up a soup dish especially for them. It has beef, prawns chicken, vegies…everything!"
Detective Superintendent Deborah Wallace went on to become Commander of the Asian Crime Squad, and then Commander of the Middle Eastern Crime Squad. In 2011 she was awarded the Australian Police Medal in the New Year's Honours list. She'll be the Chief of Police soon. Bank on it!
When 'Graphic' was published it received some great reviews, so much so that I entered it in the New South Wales Writer's Centre Awards.
What a surprise it was when I received a telephone call from the organizer of the award, Irina Dunn, to tell me I had won the Best Fiction award!
Well, let's be honest, what does a writer do when he or she wins a lovely fiction award? He or she tells the world at large! I started with Wendy, who was delighted, then told her family, then my friends, then everyone I passed in the street!
So here's one small piece of advice. Keep your powder dry for a few days, as with 'Veronica Clare.' There may be big problems ahead!
A week down the line, Irina called again. Her tone was subdued and a trifle conciliatory. "I am afraid we cannot allow you to win the award, Shane."
"But it's too late for that Irina, I've told everyone," I replied, hugely disappointed. I was going to look like a complete ass.
"The thing is, it's an Australian driven award and in the fine print you should have read that it's only open to books that are 100% Australian. 'Graphic' was printed in Hong Kong!"
Much as I argued the toss, pleading I'd be a laughing stock, she wouldn't budge – rules were rules,' But Irene has a good heart, so she came up with a face saving idea. The Best Fiction Award would go to someone else, while I would receive a new award.
You won't believe this, but this was the award; '2006 Best SelfPublished Book Disqualified from Competition.'
Pretty wonderful, no? No.
No mention why I'd been disqualified – that was left to the imagination. Possibly the author had been caught with an underage girl, or had held up a bank, or the novel was considered too prurient and unsuitable for anyone other than deviant adults?
That award was my first literary award till now
Commercials!
JAMES BOND. AND 'M.'
Practically all actors make heaps of money making commercials because they've become famous – some can name their price. Even Olivier did the odd advertisement or two. And why not, some are short, witty and beautiful films.
Joan Collins and Leonard Rossiter in the famous 'Campari' commercials are examples of hilarious coupes de film. Those beautiful Hovis ads, directed by Ridley Scott were superb; brilliant, evocative, appetizing!
My personal favourites are the Al Pacino Vittorio coffee series, directed by the great Barry Levinson. Brilliant short films, performed with consummate ease that sell the product beautifully and are both amusing and tongue-in-cheek. And the Dos Equis commercials featuring Maximillian Schell. Wonderful!
Over the years I have been saved from penury many times by commercials – they always seemed to come along just when my back was to the wall and I worried about bills.
My first ad featured 'Hamlet Heaters' in Dublin after I'd played the role at the Eblana Theatre. Looking back at that ridiculous stitched-up photo of me in my black velvet coat I cringe. It saved my bacon then.
In America the actor gets a very small fee for showing up at the shoot, but is compensated by getting another small fee each time the commercial is aired. These are called residuals. So if it's for Maxwell House and shown for six months across America, that's amounts to a fortune.
Here in Australia, it's all up front; the fee and all the possibilities of how the fee might be augmented by street poster campaigns and the like.
I remember making two advertisements for Colombian Coffee way back. Both were directed by one of Australia's best commercials directors, Pete Cherry, and produced by Paul Ibbetson. Both Pete and Paul became great friends over the years and without their commercials some years would have been very lean.
The first Colombian coffee commercial was shot in Australia for transmission in America. The deal was a buy-out–you get a certain amount of money and that's it. No more.