Carnforths creation, p.9
Carnforth's Creation, page 9
‘That’s great,’ muttered the cameraman, who was fifty-five, and had a well-deserved reputation for beastliness to young directors. ‘You know what time some of us got back from Newcastle last night?’
The worst problem with filming on odd days over a long period was that Matthew rarely got one of his favourite crews. He gritted his teeth.
‘So do we set-up or not?’ asked the sound-recordist, exchanging glances with one of the lighting boys, who was thrusting coins into a hot drinks dispenser. Knowing how much technicians enjoyed a chance of some piss-taking at the expense of inexperienced directors (which he felt insulted to be thought), Matthew replied quietly, ‘Let’s wait for our contact to show up, shall we?’
He sank down on a puce-coloured velvet sofa, with reasonable composure.
‘What a cock up,’ said the lighting lad at the drinks dispenser. He took a sip of coffee and made a retching noise.
‘You want to call the health inspector?’ asked the receptionist, with a practised blend of contempt and come-hither.
‘Not unless you need inspectin’, dahlin.’ He leered suggestively, and parked his bottom on her table. ‘It’s your lucky day,’ he announced breezily.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Like I can getcher complimentaries for all the live studio shows.’ He started to list them with an encyclopaedic thoroughness that brought Matthew to the brink of screaming. ‘So what are you doin’ tonight, dahlin?’ he wound up.
‘Nothing.’ She gave him a cheese-cake smile. ‘Nothing with you anyway.’
Matthew held out for half-an-hour before telling them they could pack up and return to base. They were still engaged in humping out their extensive armament of boxes, cameras, tripods and lights, when Paul swept in. He hurried across and laid a sympathetic hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘If you knew what I’ve been through this morning,’ he groaned. ‘Sodding advertising men … I crawled; I grovelled, but their head office still wouldn’t budge.’ Having made sure the crew knew Matthew was not to blame, Paul turned to the receptionist. ‘Daphne, love, can you rustle up some drinks … champagne, scotch, beer … anything these gents want.’ He smiled at Matthew. ‘The least they can do for me. Exodus uses this hole whenever packaging for a record company.’ He sank down next to Matthew on the sofa. ‘Listen,’ he began softly, ‘you asked for a quickie in the charts before you’d lay out on a production. Knowing it was a plastic duck to a battleship I’d fail first time off, I decided not to risk a straight record. No point losing a bundle and the film too. So what I did …’
Before he could finish, Gemma, magnificent in purple hat and patchwork jacket, bounced in with Roy in tow – his all-black outfit suggesting (at least to Matthew) the simplified Tudor kit worn by actors in pared-down Shakespearian productions. A large white tooth or claw, hanging round his neck, suggested something more futuristic. While Roy was meeting some of the technicians who had crowded into reception on his arrival, Matthew became more and more convinced that Paul had miscalculated.
Hardly any pop songs written for commercials made the transition into hit records – largely because only a handful of products were sufficiently glamorous. The process happened far more often in reverse: an established song being bought for an ad, and then selling more records as a result.
Going through to the control room, Matthew gathered from the engineer, that session men had come in the day before to record the instrumental backing. Though this solved the problem of Roy’s non-existent group, Matthew felt no less doubtful about the whole venture. When Paul and Gemma went into the studio with Roy and the record producer, a baby-faced balding man in a many-zippered anorak, Matthew wished he could hear what was being said. His wish was answered when one of the technicians flipped a switch. Gemma was complaining that Roy had never been given an idea of the visuals.
‘I was coming to that,’ claimed the producer. ‘Okay … we open on pages of an album flicking over. Black and white family snaps; old and fading. The mood’s a bit bleak; it’s all in the past; you can’t get back those parties and holidays … That’s why we’ve got the cello on sound.’
‘Sounds like a rip-off of Rigby?’ suggested Roy.
‘Can’t be bad,’ laughed the producer. ‘So, Rory, the moment we get to your line, “Better catch the moment, baby”, the mood changes … bang.’ He slapped a zippered pocket. ‘More like Down Town than Rigby. We’re outside now. Bright light, classy shops; maybe King’s Road. Great chicks strutting by. And the actor who hears you sing that, is trying to pull these birds, but they keep walking past … You follow?’
‘Right on,’ muttered Roy. ‘Till I sing, “Image Man can trap it for you, baby”. Then they all go goofy when they see his sexy Image Man camera poking at ’em …’
‘Okay, that’s one point,’ agreed the producer tetchily. ‘The other is, his camera can spew out instant pics so goddam fast he really is “catching the moment”. Every time he goes click, we freeze frame on vision, and that’s his picture too. Photos for now … unlike the album snaps.’
Matthew could only marvel at Paul’s ingenuity. How the hell had he managed to find the ideal product? That name! Possibly the company was a client of the merchant bank handling his loose change. Even if Exodus had spawned the idea, Matthew’s hunch was that Paul would have made it happen. One thing to find the right product, but quite another to persuade the company’s marketing department and their agency to play ball.
When Roy started to sing, Matthew wasn’t only impressed by his voice. It was the words that shook him. They fitted the commercial of course, but would be almost better on their own.
‘Do you remember? Can you remember?
Faces and places and scenes lit by last summer’s sun?
All the fun and laughter, months before and after
The day when you turned twenty-one?’
It did sound rather like Eleanor Rigby; but the more Matthew heard, the more convinced he became that he was hearing a song and melody that would make the rare leap from telly ad to hit record. Schmaltzy without doubt; but that was no drawback.
‘Here are the pictures. Here are the memories,
Cherished and kept in a book that is precious to you.
But time keeps on flowing; just can’t stop it going,
Whatever you or I may do.’
After that, the sudden change in mood. Faster music; excitement.
‘So-o-o-o-o better catch the present, baby,
Better snatch the moment, baby,
Get yourself what’s new today…
‘Image Man’ can trap it for you, baby.
‘Image Man’ can snap it for you, baby,
Rightaway-ay-ay-aaay!’
When they broke to give Roy a breather, Matthew learned that the idea had first occurred to Paul when Gemma wrote a supplement piece on advertising whiz kids. One of her interviewees had just landed the ‘Image Man’ contract. The rest Paul modestly put down to luck and barefaced nerve in equal quantities.
When Roy went out to the ‘gents’, Matthew drifted after him. With Paul apparently able to work miracles at will, Matthew knew he would have to start sowing doubts quickly before Roy’s faith became unshakeable.
Roy was drying his hands as Matthew came in. He walked over to the urinals and asked blandly, while relieving himself, whether Roy had ever given much thought to the kind of documentary he was going to take part in.
Roy started combing his hair. ‘That’s your bag, man.’
Matthew zipped himself up and wandered over to one of the opulent marble basins. As he turned on a gilded tap, he said mildly, ‘Doesn’t bother you I might say you’d sold out?’
‘On what?’ asked Roy, still combing.
Matthew frowned. ‘Weren’t you quite keen on progressive pop?’ Roy put away his comb and moved towards the door. ‘Or I might write into the commentary that you hadn’t always agreed with everything Paul said.’
Roy paused and looked back at him with a smile Matthew disliked. ‘You know what?’ he said at last, with an impatient toss of his freshly combed hair. ‘You’ll do it how Lord Paul wants it. So let’s get on, huh?’
‘That’s what they’ve told you, is it?’
‘Aw, stop crapping.’ Roy flicked his tiger’s tooth talisman irritably. ‘First of all Paul’s got it sassed like nobody you’ve ever met. Second he’s given you some Goya or whatever, and …’ He paused, as if forgetting something; then snapped his fingers. ‘Oh yeah … you’re balling Gemma babe.’ He was turning the door handle when Matthew grabbed him with a soapy hand.
‘Swallow that lot and you’ll swallow anything.’
Roy removed his hand, and wiped his sleeve on the roller towel. ‘Give you a rough time, did she?’
Matthew drew in a long breath. ‘Was it uh Gemma babe, who mentioned the painting?’
Roy gave a passable imitation of Rodin’s thinker, and shook his head, ‘Wish I could remember, Mat.’
‘Then remember this. Nobody gave me anything.’
Roy raised a finger to his nose and winked. “Don’t worry, Matty boy.’
‘You don’t listen.’
Roy grinned. ‘Gave it to your missus, didn’t he?’
‘But I didn’t want it.’
Roy made a farting noise, and kicked the door open.
9
November; three months since Roy had recorded the track of the ‘Image Man’ ad and just twelve days since the commercial started hitting the nation’s TV sets. So far, three record companies had approached Exodus with a view to signing up song and singer. Roy had also learned that there had been a flood of calls to regional ITV stations, about when, where, and whether people could get their hands on ‘the record’.
His career poised for blast-off, Roy’s only real headache was the film. He’d tried hinting that it mightn’t be too sensible to be funny about his image just when they were starting to get it taken seriously, but Paul was still banging on about getting there by shredding all the usual rules for success. ‘Why be like the rest of them, Roy? Beavering away behind the scenes, but pretending to be a nice easy-going lad. So stuff that; we’ll lay it on the line: what we’re going to do, how we’re going to do it, and then … watch us do it. And what’s wild about it is how they’re going to love you for being that straight.’
Today, November 8th, they were shooting again for the first time in three months; and according to Matthew the messing-around stage was over. There’d be no more talk about things depending on how the single went. The film was going to go the distance now, whatever.
Roy was standing in one of the window bays in the Long Gallery at Castle Delvaux, watching a group of gardeners burning leaves under an oyster-coloured sky. Outside it looked freakily dark, but only because the gallery was glowing like a lighthouse. A few yards behind Roy, Matthew Nairn was conferring with his film bods, who were having problems with reflections stabbing back at them from a row of display cabinets. When Paul had first said it’d be a knock-out visually to have them both filmed, eating off gold plate at a small table, slap in the middle of the biggest room in the house, Roy had thought so too. Like after the grotty footage of Desolation Row, it’d be a mind-blowing contrast to see them here, chatting about pop with a couple of blokes in flunkey outfits dancing round pouring out wine. Then if this codded-up graceful living was followed by kids wetting themselves at a concert … what a film.
But when he’d been bowled over by Paul’s quirky ideas, he hadn’t cottoned to what a spooky guy Matthew was. No need to look at him closely to guess what he thought of the present set-up. Not that he wasn’t getting on with the job like a pro, but the way he was smiling one moment and then looking like a man with a mouthful of lemons, wasn’t reassuring. And as if that wasn’t enough, Paul had pissed off somewhere with Gemma, without saying what they’d actually talk about when Matthew’s camera started rolling. Presumably Paul knew what he was going to say, which Roy reckoned would mean he’d be tagging along second-fiddle all the time. But if he started getting at Paul, he’d look a jerk to have agreed to play along in the first place. When he saw Gemma coming towards him from the far end of the gallery, he remembered what she’d said about Matthew not liking people who didn’t believe in their act.
But as Matthew came over and said the lighting problems were licked, Roy couldn’t stop himself. ‘Thought you liked doing things strictly realistic.’
Matthew nodded. ‘Quite true, Roy … but you tell me how to treat Paul realistically?’ He smiled. ‘Maybe the only way’s to show the kind of set-ups he wants to mount.’
‘So you can do what with ’em?’
Matthew tugged at his curly hair and made a Christ knows face. ‘This’ll be one day’s filming out of I don’t know how many. Most directors don’t begin to know the score till they’ve spent a week or two in the cutting-room.’
Roy turned away. Matthew was great on boyish honesty, but when it came down to it he was a match for Paul in keeping his thoughts to himself. Roy heard him say pleasantly (perhaps for Gemma’s benefit, since she’d just joined them), ‘Actually it’d be easier to shoot this semi-rehearsed stuff like drama. Camera on Paul for all his bits; then shift around and have it on you for your lines. Much easier to cut. As it is, with only one camera, we have to vary a basic two-shot with pans from face to face, pull in, pull out …’
Gemma laughed lightly. ‘Obtuse as ever, Matty. Roy hasn’t a clue what he’s going to say.’
‘Perhaps Roy doesn’t know, but I daresay Paul could tell us.’
Gemma took Roy’s arm solicitously. ‘It’s really very touching that Matty thinks so much of Paul.’
‘Not the word I’d have used,’ said Roy, moving away.
A moment later he saw a man wheel in a trolley with covered dishes on it. If the food had arrived, maybe Paul might choose to put in an appearance. Moments later he did choose. And the second Roy saw him, his mood did one of those instant shifts that Paul somehow produced when least expected. For a start the man was wearing an embroidered coat and poncy ruffled shirt, which made him look like Errol Flynn about to stick his sword into a villain. He sauntered up to Matthew, drawing on a cigar, and suggested he start filming after the food had been dished up. And that was how it happened.
A little later Roy was sitting opposite Paul, while a man in a check shirt fiddled about amongst the Fort Knox crockery, placing a pair of microphones where they wouldn’t get knocked. Then he asked them to talk how they were going to, so he could get ‘some level’.
After telling Roy to have fun, Paul started talking nonsense for the sound recordist’s benefit. Did Roy like spiders? Yes, said Roy, if they were big and hairy. Delicious in chocolate sauce, agreed Paul. When the sound bod was satisfied, Matthew called, ‘Quiet please.’ Then came the routine Roy was already used to: ‘Turn over …’ ‘Camera’s running.’ And one of the crew banging the clapper-board, and saying, ‘Rory Craig, slate forty-two, take one.’ Next a long silence Roy didn’t like, because, though he knew they’d cut out all the duff bits later, he still felt a twat sitting there waiting for Paul to kick off, while half-a-dozen blokes crouched round the camera looking hopeful. Paul didn’t make any kind of move but just sat like a contented dummy, sucking at his cigar (which had to be wrong with a plateful of turtle soup steaming under his nose). Five more seconds and Roy had had enough.
‘Know what you remind me of?’ he asked abruptly.
Paul blew a smoke ring. ‘What?’
‘One of those nurds who advertise cigars on telly. Butlers oiling around … antique furniture …’
Paul put down his cigar on his side-plate, and lifting his wine glass, sniffed the contents. He smiled dreamily and crooned, ‘Only the rich smooth taste of fine old vintage snobbery will do for people who care about the quality of their social climbing.’
‘Okay,’ spluttered Roy, not meaning to laugh. ‘But what’s that kind of ad saying about people like you?’
Paul looked worried. ‘I suppose … that we’re still big enough in the public mind to sell over-priced luxury items.’
‘Not much of an image,’ muttered Roy, sipping his soup.
‘Dead right,’ sighed Paul. “But that’s where you’re such a help, Roy.’
Roy’s heart hammered as he tumbled to the kind of flip word-play Paul wanted, to set up their relationship on film. ‘Calling all nobs,’ he intoned nasally. ‘No common touch? No chins? Wake up feeling fossilized? Dial Rent-a-Pleb now. Be seen with one in public; chat to one on TV …’
‘And pop stars aren’t isolated?’ Paul enquired softly. ‘Publicity machines, gossip columns, mass envy. We’ve a lot in common, Roy.’
‘Arms and legs?’
‘People never seeing us; only media clichés. The hunting and shooting peer. The pig ignorant singer, who can’t tell Mantovani from Monteverdi …’
‘Or Manfred from Thomas Mann …’
‘You’re no lunkhead, Roy.’
‘Did half an “A” Level … Can say, “Pass the brown sauce” in Spanish.’
Paul lowered his spoon. ‘That’s incredible.’ He shook his head. ‘What gets me is the unfairness. I mean, it’s fine for me to eat off this stuff, but a flogging offence for anyone who’s earned enough to bid for a set at Christies.’
‘A sneer a day keeps envy away,’ replied Roy, quoting Paul, who laughed like he’d never heard the phrase before.
‘Come to think of it, being beastly to the nouveau riche must be the most popular national sport after soccer.’
‘I say let ’em get on with it.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ declared Paul. ‘Suppose … not very likely … but still suppose a star turned up who knew the whole cultural wangle from Wittgenstein to Warhol? A star so super-sneer-proof he could drive the pensions-before-pleasure brigade barmy.’ He gestured to one of the flunkeys to fill his glass. ‘He drinks better claret, collects better pictures, says brighter things. Who’d be sneering then?’
