The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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down in the back of Sidney’s Rover 2000. Dad is obviously choked at having to give Sid best at anything and starts complaining about the positioning of the ashtrays. Sidney lights up a Wills’ Whiff and starts making like Cecil Beady-eyes.
‘It’s the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done,’ he says, nearly running an invalid car off the road, ‘bringing culture to millions of people who haven’t had my advantages. Being associated with so many great talents. Marvellous. It really is!’
He rambles on like this ’til we get there and I can sympathise with Dad snorting and wheezing in the back. Sidney really can get up your bracket when he puts his mind to it.
I am a bit surprised that the bloke on the studio gates does not question us being there at this hour and even more so when I see a number of cars outside the hangar in which we have been shooting.
‘They must be getting ready for tomorrow,’ says Sid, when I mention this to him. ‘Don’t let on that you don’t belong or we’ll have the union on our necks.’
‘Don’t you start being derivative about the unions, mate,’ says Dad. ‘You wouldn’t be where you are now if they hadn’t established your rights.’
‘I’ve never been in a union in my life and I don’t intend to start now,’ says Sid. ‘I believe in Lassy fare.’
‘That’s a dog food, isn’t it?’ says Mum. ‘I’ve seen that on the telly.’
‘Do belt up,’ I say, swinging open the outside door. ‘You are not really supposed to be here, remember?’
Once inside, I get another surprise. The lights round the set are on and there are a large number of people milling about.
‘They must be doing a re-shoot,’ says Sid. ‘Look, Mum, you’ll find this interesting.’
Now, I don’t know if ‘interesting’ is quite the word I would have used, but it is very difficult to think of a single word that adequately describes what is happening before our popping eyes.
Behind the camera is Justin Tymely and half a dozen naked girls are removing the clothing from a large black man. And when I say large, I mean large. This bloke obviously finished up all his runner beans when he was a little boy.
‘Oh!’ says Mum.
‘Oh, my God!’ says Sidney.
Dad doesn’t say anything. He has swallowed his dentures.
‘I know, I know,’ says Justin, raising his hand. ‘I know exactly how you feel. It was most unfortunate that you chose that moment to burst in on us. Of course I was going to explain all about Oliver NTwist.’
It is an hour after the remarkable revelation at the studio and we have saved Dad’s life – much to Sid’s disgust – and sent him home with a bewildered Mum. Justin is pouring generous slugs of scotch and explaining all.
‘Oliver NTwist?’ says Sidney.
‘The Central African market is very big for us,’ soothes Justin. ‘They’re not very well up in Dickens so we have to simplify the story line, give it a flavour that appeals locally.’
‘You were making a blue movie,’ accuses Sid.
‘We call them Black and Blue movies,’ says Justin in his best George Sanders voice. ‘Listen, Sidney old bean. I feel I must explain one or two facts of life to you. The old motion picture industry in this country is a teeny weeny bit dicky, to put it mildly. Employing directors of Ken Loser’s class costs a great deal of money. Your contribution, greatly appreciated as it is, covers only a fraction of your overheads. In a high-risk business such as this we have to take every opportunity to recoup our losses before they occur. Now. There is a guaranteed world market for films of – shall we say – a slightly risqué nature. By making these we can subsidise works of art such as the current Loser epic.’
‘I didn’t know I was putting up money for blue films,’ says Sid.
‘My dear Sidney. You are putting up money to finance a masterpiece. Put yourself in my shoes. Have I the right to put your money at risk when I can ensure a very healthy return for you as well as allowing you the satisfaction of participating in the creation of a work of art? There is a considerable amount of capital tied up in this studio and the equipment you see lying around. If we can utilise that twenty-four hours a day then we are maximising profits. You obviously look for a return on your money?’
‘Of course, but I thought it would all come out of Oliver Twist.’
‘It probably will but I feel it my duty to guard against disappointments. The public are very fickle. You can’t guarantee success with purely artistic ventures in the same way that you can when you leaven the mixture with a trace of eroticism. By shooting Oliver Twist in the day and Oliver NTwist and Olivia Twist at night we double the profit potential.’
‘What’s Olivia Twist?’
‘For the Swedish market. Again we’ve taken a few simple liberties with the original story line. We have replaced Fagin with the madam of a brothel – not Jewish of course, the anti-semitic aspects of the story have always been quick to give offence – and changed all the pickpockets to tarts.’
‘I think it works better like that anyway,’ says Sid. ‘What was that you were saying about profit potential?’
‘Very satisfactory. You could see a two hundred percent return on your investment. If we’re shooting at night, of course.’
Sidney nods his head and I can see him racked by the conflict between artistic integrity and a few grubby greenbacks. Eventually he draws himself up and utters the words that prove to me that when it comes to the crunch Sidney can be relied upon to act in a way consistent with the principles in which he believes so deeply.
‘Can we shoot on Sundays?’ he says.
‘I think it’s all very dicey,’ I say to him later. ‘Shooting with a non-union crew, flogging skin-flicks to Bongo Bongoland. It’s a bit of a come-down, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t you ever listen to anything anyone says?’ chides Sid, who changes faster than litmus paper. ‘You’ve got to make a few compromises these days. It’s the end product that matters.’
‘You mean the shekels you’re going to rake in?’
‘No! I mean the best Oliver yet.’
‘I reckon you’ve got two of the best Twisters already. That man Justin is nothing more than a con man and Loser is a nutter. Have you seen any of the rushes of his stuff yet? It’s junk.’
Sidney starts doing his pillar-box imitation. ‘It hasn’t been edited yet, has it?! No need to get all narky just because you haven’t been made the bleeding star of the film.’
‘All this sex and violence is played out, Sid. People want something light and cheerful.’
‘ “People want”, “people want”. People want shaking up, that’s what they want. Remember what Loser said: “to vomit is to feel”.’
‘On the strength of what I’ve seen I’d say: “to see is to throw up”.’
‘You can sneer,’ snarls Sid, ‘but you wait ’til the film opens. Rave reviews and queues all round the Empire.’
‘You mean the British Empire, do you Sid? Surely you’re not thinking of Oliver NTwist. That should get them padding down to the chief’s clearing.’
Sid’s reply reveals that his nerve ends are fraying and in the weeks that follow, tempers all round the set become strained to the point of rupture. Glint’s booze intake hits new heights and he only puts down the bottle to grab another