by David Hare
Angelis You have read the script?
Mehta I cannot read five pages.
Angelis (to his Assistant) Thank you.
The Assistant goes.
No, well, admittedly … there are weaknesses –
Mehta The dialogue. When they open their mouths, dead frogs fall out.
Angelis Yes, well, certainly … it can do with polishing …
Mehta A moral story has been reduced to the status of a romance, transferred to a vulgar medium and traduced. Very well. It is what one expects. One looks to the cinema for money, not for enlightenment. And to be fair, the money has arrived.
He turns and faces Angelis.
It is in the matter of meaning I have come.
Angelis Meaning?
Mehta Meaning, Mr Angelis.
Angelis Ah, yes.
Mehta looks at him. Then starts afresh.
Mehta There is a balance in the book. Each of the characters is forced to examine the values of his or her life.
Angelis Yes.
Mehta The novelist is accused of dalliance and asked to put a value on what he has seen as a passing affair. The actress questions her easy promiscuity and is made to realize adulthood will involve choice. And Stephen, the journalist, assumes the confidence of his own beliefs.
Angelis And is killed.
Mehta Killed, yes.
There is a pause.
You show this?
Angelis Of course. We have a train.
Mehta looks at him. Another pause.
Mehta In a sense, I care nothing. A book is written. It is left behind you to be misinterpreted by a thousand critics. The reader brings to the book his own preconceptions, prejudices perhaps. He misreads sentences. A tiny incident in the narrative is for one person the key to the book’s interpretation; to another it is where he accidentally turns two pages and misses it altogether. So if you come, if you make a film, you reinterpret. And yet, in spite of that, your film is a betrayal unless at the heart it is clear: for all the bitterness, for all the stupidity … you must see, we admired this young man.
A pause. Mehta sits back.
Of course, death, death brings him dignity, but also in truth, even at the time …
Mehta looks away. Angelis waits tactfully.
Angelis Yes, well, that’s clear.
Mehta Clear to you, perhaps. Yes, your intention. But is it there in the script? Peggy didn’t see it when she visited this morning.
Angelis I see. Is that all?
Mehta No. The death.
Angelis Ah.
Mehta And the way you tell it.
Angelis I see.
Mehta There is something there. An emotion I had. (There is a pause. Then, soberly) Certainly we drove, as you suggest it. Peggy heard first. She was awoken at six and came to my room. We found a taxi-driver. All the way from Bombay he smoked marijuana. Thirty miles out Peggy and I demanded to change cabs. Another drive, the day beginning to get hot. And we knew, long before we reached the disaster, just how close the disaster was. Small groups of people at first; driving further, more people. Now in larger groups, now more excited, finally crowds, in the middle of the valley. A valley like any other but for the crowds. We had expected a corpse. A body on its own, we had thought. It was impossible even to get close to the carriages which had overturned. All one side, people had clung to the framework and been crushed. A single cow had strayed on to the line. Forty more miles to the mortuary … to unidentified bodies … paperwork … hysteria … the heat. And the conference itself was suddenly rendered ridiculous. Whatever meaning it once had was now lost. As tomorrow … in this barn, the lights will burn, the camera will turn, a predetermined script will be acted out by men and women who know it has been robbed of sense. (He nods.) The machine turns of its own volition! Oh, the will that is needed to bring it to a halt! (He smiles, bitter.) I was not there, and M’Bengue denounced me. Yes! In savage terms. ‘This fascist novelist, this charlatan, who, when the moment comes, ducks the chance to defend his indefensible work …’
A pause.
I was not there. I was at the accident.
Angelis Of course.
A silence. Angelis uneasy.
But surely when people realized, I mean, your reason, why you weren’t there …
Mehta Why should they care? The whole conference was longing for a dogfight. What a disappointment when it did not occur.
No, the book is clear. I was moved by what happened, and later that day I made a choice. The conference could continue without me. This you do not mention but you must make it clear. I chose to be silent. In memory of Stephen … I stayed away.
Angelis I see. Yes. I’d not understood that. If what you’re after is this feeling that everything is meaningless, then, of course, we will put that in as well. A slight dialogue adjustment, a page maybe. Then it is clear.
There is a pause. The Stephen-actor has appeared at the back, dressed in baggy trousers and an expensive coat. Soft-spoken. The Peggy-actress is standing behind him, dressed very young in a smart coat and jeans.
Stephen Oh, I’m sorry. Are we interrupting?
Angelis Michael …
Stephen We were half-way to Belgravia before I realized I’d forgotten …
Mehta is staring at him.
Mehta You are he.
Stephen … my script.
Then Stephen makes a formal move towards Mehta, the Peggy-actress following a little nervously behind.
Mr Mehta?
He turns to introduce the Peggy-actress but Mehta, overcome, has turned away, not taking his hand.
Madeleine …
Mehta I am sorry.
The other three stand, uncertain. Peggy and Stephen look fresh and scrubbed and absurdly young. Stephen looks nervously to Angelis.
Stephen Angelis, here, said you weren’t happy with the text.
Mehta I cannot begin to say. Everything is wrong.
He turns back, recovering. Stephen at his most diffident and charming.
Stephen I can see from the outside it must be discomforting. Film is.
Mehta looks at him with respect. Peggy, emboldened, smiles.
Peggy We can’t be doing what you want, Mr Mehta. We’re aware of it, ours is bound to be a love story. A commercial picture with, eventually, after the studio, some exotic locations. Sex and death are really the standout features, rather than the arguments in the book, some of which we are filming … all of which, I guess, we think, will be cut.
They smile, only Angelis uneasy.
Angelis This is, by any prevailing standard, a picture of integrity.
Peggy Can you imagine?
Stephen Even though they’ve put in a scene where Elaine bathes topless in the holy river.
Peggy It’s true. It’s hard to believe.
Stephen Two thousand Indians in dhotis and she takes her top off. A reporter? From CBS?
Angelis looks silently resentful.
Peggy Quite apart from how the holy river …
Mehta It is not in Bombay.
Stephen Quite. It’s a thousand miles away. That small detail apart …
Angelis sulky on his own, as the others smile.
Angelis It is not true. She is to bathe in the tank.
Stephen points to his own forehead.
Stephen We have this book here, however.
Mehta Thank you.
Stephen In our heads. This blunderer … (He gestures amiably at Angelis.) Me, an actor of limited ability. Madeleine, God bless her, who is reading Herodotus – can you imagine? – to get into the part.
The Peggy-actress blushes and looks at her feet.
‘Reading Herodotus?’ I said casually one day. ‘Oh, you know,’ she said, ‘just skimming.’
Mehta smiles, touched.
All the warmth, all the kindness we can bring, we will bring.
Mehta Thank you. That is something. I suppose.
He stands a moment, the whole group still. Then, resigned:
For th
e rest, of course, let it be toplessness.
Stephen What else?
Mehta And bad dialogue. What else?
Peggy No sauna scene so far, but we’re expecting one.
Mehta nods slightly, the joke shared. Then Stephen makes to go.
Stephen If you like, I can drive you back to London.
Mehta That will be good.
Stephen I’ll just get my things. (He goes out to the dressing-rooms.)
Peggy Excuse me. (Peggy follows him.)
Mehta Mr Angelis, farewell. Thank you for listening.
Angelis No. (He shakes Mehta’s hand.) If we can do it as you wish, we shall be pleased.
He goes out. Mehta is left momentarily alone on the huge, empty stage. Then he turns his head and at once Martinson walks on, eerily quiet, and, from the other direction, M’Bengue. SCENE TEN. The lights change. A sinister calm.
Martinson Monsieur M’Bengue …
The two men stand still opposite each other, formally, in the centre of the stage.
Your speech was excellent.
M’Bengue Yes. I admired this young man. So few whites have any understanding.
Martinson The occasion was perfectly handled. And in a way, although tragic – the tragedy eats into my soul – but also, we must say, the way things fell out has also been elegant.
M’Bengue Elegant?
Martinson Convenient.
M’Bengue looks at him with silent contempt.
M’Bengue I see.
Martinson Mr Mehta’s necessary absence certainly removed the problems we had had.
M’Bengue looks at him a moment, still quiet, still calm.
M’Bengue Mr Martinson, overnight I have been reading the conditions, the terms, of the aid you are proposing to give. They are stiff.
Martinson They are exacting, yes. No aid is pure. There is always an element of trade in all such arrangements, and trade, after all, benefits both sides.
M’Bengue Surplus corn, surplus grain from America, at a commercial price.
Martinson Less than the market price.
M’Bengue A considerable price.
Martinson smiles.
Martinson Perhaps.
M’Bengue The other part of the package, the facility of a loan from the World Bank.
Martinson That’s right.
M’Bengue At 13 per cent. And not even that is the limit of it. With it a demand for changes in the internal policies of our country …
Martinson Adjustments, yes.
M’Bengue … deflation of the currency …
Martinson Well …
M’Bengue … high internal interest rates.
Martinson Strict monetary measures. (He smiles again.) Good housekeeping, yes.
M’Bengue A recognition that younger countries cannot expect to have social security systems. In sum, the destruction of the policies which brought our government into being. You throw us a lifeline. The lifeline is in the shape of a noose.
Martinson shrugs slightly.
Martinson Well, I think you will find it’s not necessarily that sinister. Certainly, over the five-year period the bank is insisting, for its own protection, on certain parameters – is that the word? There may well be some hardship at first. A largely agricultural country like your own, peasant-based, one would expect things to be hard when such measures are introduced. Five years, ten years’ belt-tightening. Suffering. Comparative. Then, well, surely … you’ll be out of the woods. (He gestures to one side.) Shall we go through? There’s a final dinner. We were going to have pheasant, but it was generally felt, for a symbolic gesture, it being the last night, each one of us will eat a single bowl of rice. I hope it’s all right. (He is about to go.) Oh, by the way, you will not refuse it?
M’Bengue The loan I cannot. I shan’t eat the rice.
M’Bengue turns and goes out. Martinson, left alone, turns and goes out the other way. Mehta stands alone, then the Peggy-actress reappears at the other side of the stage. He smiles absently at her. There is an embarrassed silence between them, Mehta still thinking about the scene which has just passed.
Mehta Do you have children?
Peggy Oh, no. No, I don’t. You have a son?
Mehta By my first marriage, yes. I have custody. He lives with Peggy and me. He’s sixteen. A boy. He wants to change the world.
Peggy Well, I guess … that’s the best thing to do with it. (The actress smiles.) I’d like to meet him.
Mehta And he no doubt you. (He stands a moment.) This feeling, finally, that we may change things – this is at the centre of everything we are. Lose that … lose that, lose everything. (He stands, the man who has.)
Peggy I’m sorry. I didn’t catch what you said.
The Stephen-actor returns, yet more cheerful than before.
Stephen I have an open car. I hope that’s all right. It can be a bit cold. It’s a steel-grey, 2.4 litre 1954 Alvis. A Grey Lady. With real running-boards. Like this. Not very practical for the English winter. But it is so beautiful. (He looks at Mehta.) It’s my whole life.
Mehta Yes, I am sure.
Distantly, music begins to play. Mehta moves a few paces towards the door, then turns, suddenly cheered.
Madeleine. Michael. To London. Let’s go.
He lifts his arms, the music swells and the lights go out.
SAIGON
Year of the Cat
For Lewis, my son
Characters
At the Bank
Barbara Dean
Mr Haliwell
Quoc
Donald Henderson
Lhan
Phu
Tellers, Customers etc.
At the Embassy
Bob Chesneau
Jack Ockham
Frank Judd
Joan Mackintosh
Colonel Fiedler
Linda
The Ambassador
Secretaries, Officers, GIs etc.
Elsewhere
Van Trang
Nhieu
Brad
Barbara’s Maid
Waiters, Bar Girls, People of Saigon
Saigon: Year of the Cat was first shown on Thames Television in November 1983. The principal parts were played as follows:
Barbara Dean Judi Dench
Bob Chesneau Frederic Forrest
Quoc Pitchit Bulkul
The Ambassador E. G. Marshall
Jack Ockham Josef Sommer
Frank Judd Wallace Shawn
Donald Henderson Roger Rees
Mr Haliwell Chic Murray
Colonel Fiedler Manning Redwood
Joan Mackintosh Thomasine Heiner
Nhieu Po Pau Pee
President Thieu Thavisakdi Srimuang
Directed by Stephen Frears
Produced by Verity Lambert and Michael Dunlop
Part One
1. INT. LIVING ROOM. DAY
We are tracking through Barbara’s apartment in the largely diplomatic section of Saigon. The blinds are all down against the fierce sun outside. It is dark and quiet and looks cool. There is a little plain furniture in good taste. The living room is bare-floored, tidy, the chairs in plain wood with white cushions. As we move through, we hear Barbara’s voice.
Barbara (voice over) Afternoons have always hit me the hardest, I don’t know why that is, it’s always been so …
2. INT. BEDROOM. DAY
Into the bedroom, continuous, past the door jamb. We can make out very little, except slits of light across blinds at the end of the room. There is a dim lamp on beside a double bed on which Barbara lies. We track nearer.
Barbara (voice over) Mornings are fine, there’s something to look forward to, and evenings, yes, I begin to cheer up …
In the bed Barbara is lying bunched sideways, not really reading the paperback in her hand. She is in a cream slip, covered by a sheet. She is almost 50 and blonde. She has the quietness and reserve of the genteel English middle class, but in her it has a pleasantness which is definitely ero
tic. She is sweating slightly as we approach.
(voice over) But what would I wish for if I could wish for anything? This would be my wish: abolish afternoons.
3. EXT. TU DO. DAY
Later. After her siesta, Barbara in a linen dress walking down the busy street at the centre of Saigon. Shops, cyclists, the low blue taxis. The Vietnamese selling food and American PX goods on the sidewalk.
Barbara (voice over) It was never my intention my life should be secretive, it came about by accident, I think …
She goes into a small newsagent’s.
My first affair was with a friend of my father’s, so really the style was adopted from then.
She reappears with the airmail edition of The Times, and walks on down the street.
People say, ‘Barbara, I’ve never known anyone so secretive.’ But it’s only something which has happened with the years.
4. INT. HALIWELL’S OFFICE. EVENING
A Victorian-seeming office with a fan above. Haliwell working at a mahogany desk. Behind him, a large old-fashioned safe and wooden filing cabinets. He is in his late fifties with some silver hair left. A bachelor, fattening slightly, in a cotton shirt.
Barbara Mr Haliwell.
Haliwell Barbara. A satisfactory siesta?
Barbara Fine. I collected the paper.
Haliwell Ah thanks.
He looks up. A routine.
Any news of the Arsenal?
Barbara I haven’t looked. The sport’s on page ten.
5. INT. BANK. EVENING
An old-fashioned commercial bank. Busy. Vaulted ceilings. Grandeur. Fans. The Vietnamese sitting behind iron grilles, serving a clientele of Asians and whites. Beyond the grilles, a large open area where the desks of the more senior staff are set out. A Client is being ushered in to meet Barbara by Quoc, a tall, thin, grave Vietnamese in his late forties, who wears grey flannel trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. The client is named Trinh.
Barbara Hello.
She shakes Trinh’s hand and gestures him to sit opposite her. Quoc brings round documents to her side of the desk and puts them down.
Mr Quoc has explained your application. You have good collateral?