the Revolution, used the words to indicate the radical and conservative sides in Church politics, as the following quotation from his Decline and Fall makes clear: “The bishops … were attached to the faith of Cyril, but in the face of the synod, in the heat of the battle, the leaders … passed from the right to the left wing, and decided the victory by this seasonable desertion.”
* To quote the wise old judge: “Reform? Reform? Are things not bad enough as they are?”
What all the wise men promised has not happened, and what all the damned fools said would happen has come to pass.
LORD MELBOURNE
It is most expedient for the preservation of the state that the rights of sovereignty should never be granted out to a subject, still less to a foreigner, for to do so is to provide a stepping-stone whereby the grantee becomes himself the sovereign.
JEAN BODIN, Six Books of the Commonwealth, 1576
Any writer or journalist who wants to retain his integrity finds himself thwarted by the general drift of society rather than by active persecution.
GEORGE ORWELL
Oh, I’ll keep it to myself – until the water reaches my lower lip, and then I’m going to mention it to somebody!
Jack Lemmon as Professor Fate in
The Great Race, screenplay by Arthur Ross
“One For All, and All for Fun”
MY CAR, an ageing Vauxhall Cresta, broke down within a few yards of the Sizzler Restaurant, Onchan, Isle of Man, where Richard Lester and I had been discussing my possible participation in a new film version of The Three Musketeers, which left us facing a walk of about a mile along Douglas Promenade to his hotel. No way to treat an eminent film director, and I wondered if he might be offended to the extent of getting another writer – I didn’t know him in those days, or realise that to a man who’d made two movies with the Beatles, a mile walk along a surf-lashed coast in the middle of the night in late December was a mere bagatelle.
All I could suggest was that we push the rotten vehicle to the top of a nearby slope, and then leap in, free-wheeling downhill to a point reasonably close to his destination; he sportingly agreed, we heaved and strained and sprang aboard at the psychological moment, coasting down and fetching up, with Richard sitting patiently and me crying: “Roll, you bastard!” not far from home.
That was when I asked him (eager to know if he was still talking to me): “How d’you want the Musketeers – straight, or sent up?” I knew his reputation for offbeat comedy, and was by no means sure that I could give him what he wanted. He responded with perhaps the nicest reply a screenwriter ever received: “I want it written by the man who wrote Flashman.”
I didn’t know, then, just how astonishingly lucky I was. It was the week between Christmas and New Year, 1972, I had three novels, a history, and a short-story collection to my name, but my only experience of film writing was a script which I’d done from my short stories at the request of a rather eccentric Scots-American entrepreneur; like so many projects, it had died some distance short of pre-production.
Then Lester’s offer came out of the blue. I knew him not only by reputation but because he had been engaged to direct a movie of my first novel, Flashman, but that, too, had been stillborn. I hadn’t been involved in the script, so Lester’s fastening on me, on the strength of my fiction alone, to write what promised to be a mammoth star-studded blockbuster, was a considerable leap of faith. I thought he was crazy; when I think of the chance he was taking, I still do, but I thank God he took it.
He flew across to the Isle of Man, we talked for about four hours, and while I can’t remember anything of our discussion, I know that one thing, the vital thing, became clear: we were on the same wavelength, and that, from a writer’s point of view, is something beyond price.
My first thought on meeting him was “Pied Piper”, for he was tall and slim and restless and mercurial and
his sharp eyes twinkled
like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled.
I was to discover in the ensuing weeks that he thought like lightning, always questing for the joke, jumping from idea to idea at speed, imagining, improvising, full of enthusiasm, listening eagerly; eventually it would become like a game of ping-pong in which we batted notions to and fro, many of them well over the top – but it’s a great truth of the film business that if you never go over the top you never get anywhere.
There are limits, of course. The original notion of a remake of the Musketeers had come, I believe, from Ilya Salkind, son of the great Alex, and one of the shrewdest ideas men in the business; he later came up with Superman, and frankly, if Ilya suggested a movie based on the Book of Job I’d think hard about it. Whether it was he who floated the notion of the Beatles as Dumas’s band of adventurers, I can’t say, but I imagine that was how Lester, as the Beatles’ director, had come to be involved in the project. Fortunately (at least from my point of view) the casting of John, George, Paul, and Ringo went no further, and Lester was commissioned to come up with a more orthodox version.
At all events, he left me on the Isle of Man with a remit like a pipe-dream: one of the great classic adventures to adapt into four hours of film, the assurance that it was going to be a big-budget spectacular, a free hand to write as I wanted, and one hint about the quality of cast he was looking for: he wanted Richard Chamberlain for Aramis. That told me a lot; in most Musketeer movies the trio tend to blend into each other, three jolly swordsmen all for one and one for all, but Richard had hit on a man who was ideal for Dumas’s priestly killer, cold, urbane, supercilious, and cruel. In doing the script I wrote little separate character studies for the actors, and I remember describing Aramis as quite the least likeable of the Musketeers.
The first half of the script, up to the Intermission, took me three weeks; Richard was enthusiastic, and then we went into heavy sessions in his office at Twickenham Studios, changing, editing, discarding, re-casting, and going through that long, painful and ultimately rewarding process which eventually transforms the first draft into the finished article. (But always, said Billy Wilder, keep that original draft by you, because you’re sure as hell going to go back to it.)
There were occasions when our drama became a crisis: at one stage another writer, a household name, was asked to rewrite an early scene, but to my delight Lester flung it into the bin. Again, when my suggestions seemed to be falling on stony ground, I lost patience and offered to quit, at which he sighed and said: “You’re being hysterical, George, in your own quiet way.” Looking back, I’d say he was the ideal director for a novice screenwriter to work with, always encouraging, always optimistic, convincing me that I, and only I, could do his script for him.
We gradually developed a close harmony,
