Carrie looking very small and delicate, her soft, pale skin a refreshing change from the butch aerosol-spray health look of most Los Angeleans. She doesn’t know anyone, but is straight and funny at the same time, and we have a mutual line of chat – both belonging to the select band of Saturday Night Live hosts. She is currently ‘going with’ Paul Simon, so sees a great deal of Lome. Lome the Great Catalyst – whose name is the criterion for meeting sympathetic people.
The two heroes of Star Wars are also there – Mark Hamill (Luke Skywalker) and Harrison Ford.
Hamill is chirpy and is dressed like a delivery boy. Harrison Ford looks young and alienated. He would look over his glasses at us if he had any. As it is he moves broodingly around – like a famous man might do if he knew how famous he is.
Monday, June 18th
Collect Rachel from school on the new bike. She laughs and giggles all the way home as we cycle over the bumpy, pitted roads beside the garment factories and under the railway. Definitely a successful purchase.
In the mid-afternoon, Cleese comes round with a small, slim, handsome, trim-faced girlfriend called Suzanne.
We sit in the garden and John eats fruit and talks me into doing a few sketches for the Amnesty shows next week. Nothing terribly exciting.’Custard Pie Lecture’ again. ‘Cheese Shop’ to look forward to.2
Sunday, June 24th
Midsummer’s Day. To Her Majesty’s Theatre for rehearsal of the second Amnesty Show [The Secret Policeman’s Ball]. John being very serious and efficient as director. Like a character in a sketch who one expects to suddenly crack into uncontrollable comic spasms – but it never happens.
Meet Rowan Atkinson and Buckman and Beetles1 for the first time. I suppose we (i.e. the Pythons) are the senior team now – the ‘famous ones’. But Eleanor and Pete Cook are there – comforting figures from our past.
Helen applies coat after coat of bronzing cream to recreate Tunisian tan on my white body ahead of a Brian re-shoot tomorrow.
Monday, June 23th
Drive out to Shepperton soon after eight to shoot a new opening to the much-filmed ‘Ex-Leper’ sequence – a last ditch attempt to try and salvage a piece which everyone (with the possible exception of Eric) thinks ought to be in, but are not quite happy with.
It’s over seven months since we last shot ‘Ex-Leper’ – I’ve put on a few pounds, but make-up does a pretty good job (Elaine and Maggie).
Shepperton depresses and embarrasses me – the dressing rooms are uncleaned, the place looks shabbier and more down-trodden than ever. The canteen, now partitioned off with hideous paint and a huge, unsightly, unfriendly expanse of plastic sheeting, is unspeakably grim.
We shoot at the main gate of the old Oliver set – in itself a sad and crumbling place, with memories, for me, of Jabberwocky. The shooting, between showers and aeroplanes, goes along well and we even do some hand-held dialogue shots.
At one point, a strange occurrence. The catering manager shuffles up to me and asks if he might have a word. Is this the moment of truth, when he will at last confess to the appalling service he has inflicted on Shepperton these last few years? Not a bit of it. He tells me he is going to Los Angeles with a film script he has written and slips an envelope containing said script into my Ex-Leper’s palm, for my perusal – and could I give a copy to Mr Galsworthy (John Goldstone). Game, set and match to him.
Afterwards, over a drink and a very acceptable sandwich in the ‘executive’ canteen, I talked to David Munro2 and was astounded to be told by him that he resigned five weeks before, and is only staying on for another month.
On the way home I drop in at Cleese’s mighty ex-Bryan Ferryish pile in Ladbroke Road and we rehearse ‘Cheese Shop’ together. I notice John has all the books I see reviewed, covet and never buy, in his shelves, in pristine condition. ‘For my retirement,’ John tells me.
Wednesday, June 27th
First night of The Secret Policeman’s Ball. The shows have all been sold out since Monday and they’ve been selling standing tickets.
A motley crowd assembles at Her Majesty’s about 10.30. The pattern of the evening is set by the first sketch, an E L Wisty piece involving Cook and Cleese and a park bench, which is down on the running order as three minutes, but by the time John C has finished corpsing and Peter ad-libbing, is well past nine.
We take a book on the time of final curtain (curtain up being 11.15). I plump for 1.53 and am nearly an hour out. By the time we pull sweaters up over our heads for Peter Cook’s Beyond the Fringe ‘End of the World Sketch’, it’s just passing 2.30 – we finally take our bows at 2.35.
Saturday, June 30th
Drive over to Anne Henshaw’s for a meeting with Denis O’Brien, only to find that the meeting is at Denis’ place in Cadogan Square. Dense traffic down Piccadilly, the carbon monoxide fumes filling my lungs as bitter anger fills my rapidly wearying brain.
Finally reach Denis’s. John C, Terry G and Terry J – the ‘Home’ Pythons – are all there. John G and Anne as well. They’ve been waiting for me. For once I cannot raise a smile in acknowledgement of the usual abuse which any late Python arrival has to endure.
Then Denis pitches in. He’s never aggressive, never boorishly arrogant, but by God he’s persistent. He would like to take on Python and any individuals in Python. He claims that his organisation (Euro Atlantic) will be able to minimise our UK tax liability on the money we earn from Brian – which could be substantial.
So, after very little hard talking, Denis has managed to persuade the four of us that we should let him ‘structure’ our earnings from Brian right away. I suppose this is the thin end of the wedge and I expect that Denis and Euro Atlantic are with Python to stay.
Drive back across London. The parks look green and pleasant, and the Gay Pride March, which caused the traffic build-up which nearly resulted in my death from carbon monoxide poisoning four hours earlier, has dispersed.
Can’t get in till late at Her Majesty’s as Ain’t Misbehavin’ has come down late. A relaxed show – usual, very warm, very appreciative audience.
Mike Brearley1 beats up Terry J in the ‘Celebrity Sketch’ rather well, and Peter Cook’s judge’s summing-up of the Thorpe court case, which he wrote yesterday, is the small triumph it deserves.1 Sad it is for the country that political satire, or just satire of important people, has been so effectively stamped out of the media in the last ten years. Good for P Cook.
A huge crush of folk in the stalls bar for a party afterwards.
Home by four. Dawn is breaking over Gospel Oak. Richly satisfying ‘after the ball’ feeling…
Monday, July 2nd
Ate lunch at an empty but excellent Indian restaurant in Berwick Street with Clive Hollick and put to him as clearly and forcibly as I could the extent of my dissatisfaction with Shepperton’s progress over the last year. He would not at first accept that things were as serious as I made out – as indeed they are not from the point of view of the balance sheet – but I was talking about the guts and soul and down-to-earth human appeal of the studio, which has suffered disastrously.
He began to take this in, I think, and I persuaded him that things were urgent enough for us to pay a visit within the next week to the studios, as a Board, and inspect it, and I think I dissuaded him from accepting Charles Gregson’s recommendation that we should not employ a replacement for Munro, but busk along with two girls. This was contrary to all I felt was needed.
Shepperton needs someone with a spark of fight in them – someone who will be fiercely proud of the studio, who will not be intimidated, who will not be a forelock-tugger to the Board. Ideal sort of man would be Simon Albury, I suggest, almost flippantly, but the more we think about it, the more of a possibility it becomes.
Back into London for some dubbing and post-synching on Brian. The new work on the ‘Leper’ last week does seem to make the speech clearer, but I seesaw on the effectiveness of the sketch. Terry J is the greatest champion of the ‘Leper’ at the moment. I think
Denis O’B would rather see it out. (Have noticed his artistic and creative participation increasing slowly but surely as he and we have got to know each other better.) I dub George Harrison’s voice on – another to add to my collection.
Wednesday, July 4th
To the Camden Swimming Gala at Swiss Cottage Baths. Tom P wins the third-year crawl against six other schools, makes up ground in the relay and helps Gospel Oak to the overall and the boys’ trophy – and they only just missed a clean sweep in the girls’. A terrific occasion. I feel wonderfully proud. Tom does not brag or boast and is quietly over the moon.
Thursday, July 3th
To John’s for a writing session and discussion on film posters and publicity generally in preparation for the Warner launch. JC says he’ll chair the meeting, as he’s written a film on how to chair meetings – he means it half in fun, but mostly seriously.
Eric is in France and has sent a letter with suggestions. GC is in Los Angeles and has sent a request for another loan from Python. TJ bears gloomy news about our post-Grail tax situation. The authorities are getting tougher and could interpret our tax position in such a way that we fork out at least £60,000 of our Grail earnings to the government.
But it’s a sunny day and we are brought cups of coffee by John’s lady retainers and we spread out over his huge dining table (originally in Holloway prison) and churn out the sort of easy drivel which gives much pleasure and does not have to follow plot, story or character. JC works upstairs, writing heavily sardonic biographies of us all, and TG looks through photos.
I read out a long and inaccurate synopsis of the film which brought tears to assembled eyes (there is no better moment in one’s creative life than hysterics at a first read!).
Wednesday, July 11th
I go to Neal’s Yard and yet my heart is not really on the (Life of Brian sound-track) album – it’s somewhere else, with the children in the sun. I find myself gazing at pictures of the countryside, looking at maps, reading novels – all the paraphernalia of getting away seems much more important than the paraphernalia of getting on.
In the back of my mind plans turn towards all the things I want to do, but keep postponing – learning Italian again, going on walking weekends with the boys, travelling to India – getting out on a limb again, taking a few risks, facing a few unknowns.
A new kind of summer holiday for the Palins this year. Instead of Europe, we stayed for almost a month at Al Levinson’s house in the old whaling port of Sag Harbor on Long Island.
Sunday, July 29th, Sag Harbor
Here in the middle of this cosy, little New England town (they all call it a village, but it’s South wold size), I have, for almost the first time in a week, a few moments free of my family and Al, who is taking the boys for a swim, and my first urge is to get to the diary.
In the mornings I rise good and early and each new day is greeted with elation – a run through sweet-smelling gardens and woods – breakfast is jolly, and our mornings, spent on the beach at Bridgehampton – a huge, broad, clean sweep of sand with a big clear sea and Atlantic rollers to add to the entertainment – are unequivocally fine – cool in the water, hot in the sunshine, full of invigorating physical activity.
The holiday so far has been a helter-skelter of happiness and frustration. Great ups and downs of pleasure and irritation. I’m afraid that I cannot get France or Italy out of my mind and keep making unfair comparisons between their sophistication and the naivety of America.
Sag Harbor is a beautiful little town, with delightful clapboard houses, all comparatively well-kept, all architecturally consistent, nothing new and horrendous. It’s attractive to walk around, full of trees and the scent of flowers and yet … and yet … What is it? What is this gloss with which the American Way of Life coats everything? Is it trying too hard to impress?
Is it that the freshness of America has been near-suffocated by the materialism of the place – by the vast wealth of the country, which pours forth a million products, where a thousand would do?
Standards of food and television are appallingly low, and yet there are lots of both. Yet the standards of kindliness and consideration amongst the people are high – though they are sometimes made fools of by their over-sufficiency. See the size of so many over-fed citizens of all ages. Human incarnations of the economy of waste.
Tuesday, July 31st, Sag Harbor
At about six – when my resources were not at their best after a long, hot, tiring day – the phone rang. It was Anne H, from London, ringing to say that Warner’s go to press on the posters in two hours.
They have finally rejected our unanimous Python ad-line ‘He Wasn’t the Messiah, He Was a Very Naughty Boy’, and have suggested three alternatives – all of which are dreadful and tend to accentuate the ‘outrageousness’ of the movie.
Wednesday, August 1st, Sag Harbor
Al’s ‘guru’, the poet and writer Norman Rosten – has arrived. Like Jack Cooper, he is the sort of charming, slightly roguish, loquacious, salt-of-the-earth character that Al seems to attract to him. One of the Brooklyn writers’ group that included Mailer, Arthur Miller, James Jones, Joe Heller – a real group of literary giants.
Rosten is respected, but never achieved world status. He wrote a nice little book on Marilyn and he reminisces easily and unselfconsciously about her. His friend was Arthur Miller, and he remembers Miller going to meet Marilyn at the penthouse in the Barbizon Plaza. ‘He was scared stiff … I mean, Arthur was a good Jewish boy … he asked me to go up with him because he was literally afraid of going up there on his own.’
Rosten is wonderfully dry and self-deprecating and wittily observant. Marilyn really wanted to be a housewife, and she ended up with Miller and Di Maggio, both ‘very religious men’ – Rosten called them the two high priests, Jewish and Catholic, presumably to stress the irony of their association with a lady of such profane associations.
Rosten talks of Nixon’s revival – of his threatened return to active life and New York. R reckons Nixon one of the two ‘diabolic’ forces in America. I can’t remember the other one. Norman advises me to read DeTocqueville’s observations on America as providing some of the best insights on the US, albeit 140 years ago.
Thursday, August 2nd, Sag Harbor
Up at half past seven. Run along the quieter roads, full of a wonderful mixture of scents – musty, sweet, poignant, sharp – rising from the woods and gardens. It’s a very sticky, close morning again.
Rachel and I saw a middle-aged man wearing a T-shirt ‘More people died in Ted Kennedy’s car than at 3 Mile Island’.
Thursday, August 9th, Sag Harbor
Cooler, clearer sunshine on the way.
Am dripping with sweat on the patio after my fourth run this week when the phone rings. It’s Denis O’Brien, to apologise for his sudden indisposition and to renew the invitation to Fisher’s Island. Although he has fathers, mothers, children and hordes of relatives arriving and departing, he says we must come. ‘We’ll try and break house records,’ he promises cheerfully.
I take a call from Nancy. She has some request for the two Terrys and myself to go to Toronto during our film publicity in September. This ‘publicity binge’ rears menacingly close. God, it’s then I shall miss these superb, drifting, timeless, sunny days. This Thursday is near-perfect – sunlight bright, sky royal blue, all the countryside lit as if God was showing round prospective buyers.
Friday, August 10th, Sag Harbor
Shopped for presents, then took an early lunch and drove in search of Easthampton Airport. At the airport we waited for a single-engined Piper Cherokee Six to float in like a butterfly over the low surrounding woodland and taxi up to the little suburban bungalow with sun-deck, which served as the airport office building, refreshment room and control tower. This was our Yankee Airways flight to Fisher’s Island.
The entire Palin family filled the little plane, with one spare seat for the pilot. Weather was good and we turned north and then east in a circle to avo
id some restricted area over Plum Island where ‘they do experiments on animals’ (said the otherwise taciturn pilot, darkly), then within 20 minutes we were turning over Fisher’s Island and down onto an overgrown strip surrounded by what looked like a scrap yard.
Brian, Denis’s ‘man’, who is from Huddersfield (with a Yorkshire accent tempered weirdly by fifteen years in Vancouver), meets us and drives us the length of the island (about six miles) to what he calls ‘The Castle’, but Denis calls ‘The Farm’. This confusion is understandable, the house on the point is a hybrid of Scottish baronial and French fortified farmhouse. Built in the middle of the Depression (1930) by a man called Simmons – a bed magnate! – who spent money on a grand scale.
We sat after dinner in the long, dark room, and Denis turned the lights so low that at one point (his wife) Inge thought Helen had gone to bed, although she was in fact sitting in a chair opposite.
We went up to our brass four-poster bed soon after ten. Rachel’s rubber lilo kept deflating and we had to improvise a bed for her. Eventually, and slowly, I drifted off to sleep, surrounded by a cacophony of nocturnal seagulls and buoys making a variety of doom-laden, bell-tolling rings out on the Sound.
Saturday, August 11th, White Caps, Fisher’s Island
After breakfast, Denis and I adjourn to the long room, sinking into their comfortable sofas and looking out towards the not-too-distant Connecticut shore and the bevy of fishing boats come to snatch bluefish from the rich waters off the headland. Denis and I talk about his taking over my financial affairs – everything will be looked after from holidays to contracts, all of which will be personally negotiated by Denis himself. He wants to give us ‘flexibility’ – that is to take all possible measures to ensure that we control as closely as possible the commercial exploitation of all our work.
Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years Page 76