Close-Up

The body movements of the actors and actresses – not just the dancers – were important to me and I brought in Eleanor Fazan, experienced choreographer, to oversee the whole production and to ensure that such devices as the leap-frogging officers could be smoothly integrated into the outdoor location. Together with Eleanor I checked out every dancer to make sure they looked right for the wartime period. I wanted the costumes to be authentic and to conform to the changes that the progress of the war brought. I found Tony Mendleson, a distinguished and experienced costume designer, and he gallantly accepted as a historical adviser May Routh, an art school friend of mine who later became a successful costume designer in Hollywood. Her knowledge of military and civil uniforms and experience as a fashion artist made a vital contribution to the film. The sketchbook she compiled during her research and the filming is a most lovely record and deserves to be published in volume form. To have the slings, medical dressings and bandages right I employed a Red Cross nurse to check such things prior to each shooting sequence. I had many sets built on the pier and I visited suggested locations well before schedule, so that I could switch to alternatives if needed.

There were still some surprises to come. I didn’t fully appreciate the fact that movie credits can be a battlefield where determined Darwinians fought to enhance their reputation at the expense of others. I even had people asking me for a co-writing credit on my script. I had commissioned Ray Hawkey, with whom I had studied at the Royal College of Art, to design the titles. They were original and beautiful and now in a childish attempt to shame the wannabes, I told Ray to remove my name from the credits. But I had severely misjudged the clamorous ones. The removal of my name only encouraged the claimants.

Credit or no credit, the production company was entirely mine and the producer is the only person who can’t be fired or even replaced. So in accordance with my contract with Paramount, I continued to nurse my film through the postproduction weeks and deliver it. I had learned a great deal from the previous film. No claimants were around now; postproduction is a lonely time, far removed from the glamour of lights and cameras. I watched and learned more every day as Kevin Connor, the film editor, cut it into shape and the complex sound track was trimmed and modified and a thousand small changes were supervised by truly dedicated technicians. By the time I had a final cut of the film I knew that these amazing things I had seen must not be wasted. I decided to write a book about the film business showing its joys and technicalities plus a few of its warts and wrinkles. Close-Up is not reality; writers go beyond reality to find and depict truth. Close-Up is the truth as I experienced it. A year or two later, one of the proudest moments of my life came as I stood at the bar of Les Ambassadeurs Club off Park Lane. Bud Ornstein said to me: ‘I was reading one of your books recently and I thought this is someone who really knows about airplanes. Then I read Close-Up and thought this is someone who really knows about the movie business. Then I realized that you had written both of them.’

I hope you will share Bud’s satisfaction. If not, you can try one of my aviation stories, my history books or one of my spy stories. All that remains to be said about Close-Up is that although it reflects what I learned producing two films it is in no way an account of that experience or a memoir. The twists and turns, vendettas, deals, disappointments and betrayals are not specific ones and none of my characters depicts real people living or dead. But these fictional people are real to me.

When, years later, in a rather mangled version, a DVD was made of Oh! What A Lovely War I was not invited to contribute an interview. Marshall Stone would have understood.

Len Deighton, 2011

1

Today we spend eighty per cent of our time making deals and twenty per cent making pictures.

Billy Wilder

The heavy blue notepaper crackled as the man signed his name. The signature was an actor’s: a dashing autograph, bigger by far than any of the text. It began well, rushing forward boldly before halting suddenly enough to split the supply of ink. Then it retreated to strangle itself in loops. The surname began gently, but then that too became a complex of arcades so that the whole name was all but deleted by well-considered decorative scrolls. The signature was a diagram of the man.

Marshall Stone. It was easy to recognize the hero of Last Vaquero, the film that had made the young English actor famous in 1949. He’d sat at this same desk in the last reel, reflecting upon a wasted life and steeling himself to face the bullets. For that final sequence he’d required two hours’ work on his face. Now he would not need it.

A lifetime of heavy make-up had ravaged his complexion so that it needed the expensive facials with which he provided it. Around his eyes the wrinkles were leathery and the skin across his cheeks and under his jaw was unnaturally tightened. The shape of his face and its bone structure would have little appeal to a portraitist, and yet its plainness could be changed by the smallest of pads, tooth clamps or hairpieces, or by a dab of colour over the eyes or a shadow down the bone of the nose. Just the blunt military moustache, grown for his latest role, ensured that some of his dearest fans and nearest friends needed a second look to identify him.

Nor had the ageing process provided Stone with more character. Like many of his contemporaries, he’d grown his hair long enough to cover his ears and make a fringe on his forehead. This hairstyle framing his severe face made it difficult to guess what his occupation might be. His clear blue eyes – as bright as a girl’s and as active as a child’s – might just be a tribute to the eye drops that he put into them. His raven hair suggested the judicious use of dye. His chesty actor’s stride could just as well be that of a seaman or an athlete. Only when he spoke was it possible to label him. The classless over-articulated speech that RADA students assumed so well that few of them ever lost its pattern:

‘Jasper, are you there, Jasper?’

Jasper – driver, bodyguard and valet – was seldom out of earshot. He came into the room and closed the curtains. A summer storm had darkened the sky. The study had become dim except for the desk lamp which painted a green mask across Stone’s face and chopped his bright hands off at the wrists.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A letter to post, a cheque for the club and an open cheque so that you can get me some cash.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The bank would remain open for him. Stone had not yet grown blasé about the favours that money could provide. He’d told them six-thirty, but they’d wait: they’d learned that artistes had little sense of time. Through the heavy brocade the London traffic could be heard.

‘I waste a lot of money gambling, Jasper.’

‘You do have bad luck, sir.’

Stone was not a social reformer and yet his servants made him feel guilty. That’s why he was secretive about his afternoon naps and about his shopping sprees. He insisted that they knock before opening the doors so that he could be alert and industrious when they came upon him. It was for this reason, too, that he mentioned to them the worries and problems of his working life. As of the moment he was working on a film called Stool Pigeon.

‘I’m doing the swamp scenes tomorrow. I hope they’ve fixed up better heating in the dressing-room. Last week I spent four hours under the lamps before getting rid of that pain in my knee. Roger at the gym says that’s the classic way to get arthritis.’

The servant didn’t reply. Stone read the letter again.

From the desk of Marshall Stone

Wednesday evening

Dear Peter,

The idea of a biography of me has come up from time to time but I have always vetoed it. However, a writer of your talent and reputation could bring a whole new dimension to it. Who better to do a star’s biography than the man who wrote the very first script of Last Vaquero?

Now, no show-biz crap, Peter, a real warts-and-all portrait, and damn the publicity boys! And not just a book about an actor! A book about the electricians, the camera assistants, the extras, the backroom boys in production offices. In fact, about the way it all comes together.

Talk to my private secretary, Mrs Angela Brooks, and arrange our get-together as soon as you like.

The piece you did for your paper last month was damned good and mightily flattering to boot! I can’t wait to see what you will do in a whole book devoted to such a humble thesp as,

MARSHALL STONE

He crossed out damned and inserted bloody, hooking the y of ‘you’ with the loop of its b. There should always be at least one alteration in a letter. It gave the personal touch. He put his signet ring into the hot bubbling wax and sealed both envelopes.

‘Is Mr Weinberger here yet?’

‘I showed him into the library, sir.’

‘Good.’ Stone’s vocal cords had tightened enough to distort his voice, and he tasted in his mouth the bile that anxiety created. On such sudden visits his agent always brought bad news.

‘He has documents with him. He’s working on them. He seems content.’

Oh my God: documents. ‘You gave him a drink?’

‘He declined, sir.’

‘People always decline, Jasper. You must persuade them.’ Stone cleared his throat.

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Cut along to the bank, then, and be outside at eight-thirty: the Rolls, and tell Silvio I’ll have my usual table. I’ll probably sleep here tonight. You can tell the servants at Twin Beeches to expect me for dinner tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Stone closed the roll-top desk, locked it and went to the bathroom.

He did little more than splash cold water on to his face. Then he dried it carefully, so that the warm yellow towel would not be soiled by eye-black. He selected high boots, a faded shirt, and tied a red kerchief at the throat. After looking in the mirror he retied it and put a crucifix around his neck on a fine gold chain. He tucked it into the front of his shirt. It was almost, but not quite, out of sight.

‘Viney!’ he said as he entered the library. He spread his hands wide apart in an almost oriental gesture of hospitality. For a moment he stood there without moving. Then he walked to his agent and took the proffered hand in both of his.

Weinberger looked like a gigantic teddy-bear that had survived several generations of unruly children. He was tall, but of such girth that his Savile Row suit did little to flatter him. He had a dozen such suits, all of them equally undistinguished except for the cigarette burns that he inevitably made in the right side of the jackets. His hair was unkempt and his club tie was, as always askew. Under sadly sagging eyebrows his eyes were black and deep set. His nose was large and so was his mouth, which only smiled to show the world that he would endure without complaint the slings and arrows that were his outrageous lot.

It was his desire to be as unsurprising as possible. He succeeded: except to the people who read the fine print in his contracts. His voice had the gruff melancholy that one would expect from such a man.

‘Sorry it had to be tonight, Marshall. No real problem: a formality, really, but it needs your signature.’

Stone did not release the hand. ‘It’s good to see you, Viney. Damned good to see you.’