Wild Horses - By Dick Francis Page 0,7
author (Howard), proven camera wizard (Moncrieff), vastly successful producer (himself) and young but experienced director (T. Lyon), all allied to one megastar (male) and one deliciously pretty new actress; money spent on the big names and saved on the actress and me. He, producer O’Hara, had told me once that in the matter of acting talent it was a waste of resources employing five big stars in any one picture. One great star would bring in the customers and maybe two could be afforded. Get more and the costs would run away with the gross.
O’Hara had taught me a lot about finance and Moncrieff a lot about illusion. I’d begun to feel recently that I finally understood my trade – but was realistic enough to know that at any minute I could judge everything wrong and come an artistic cropper. If public reaction could be reliably foretold, there would be no flops. No one could ever be sure about public taste: it was as fickle as horseracing luck.
O’Hara, that Tuesday, was already in the Bedford Lodge Hotel dining-room when I joined him for dinner. The studio bosses liked him to keep an eye on what I was doing, and report back. He marched into operations accordingly week by week, sometimes from London, sometimes from California, spending a couple of days watching the shooting and an evening with me going over the state of the budget and the time schedule. Owing to his sensible planning in the first place, I hoped we would come in under budget and with a couple of days to spare, which would encourage any future employers to believe I had organisational talents.
‘Yesterday’s rushes were good, and this morning went well,’ O’Hara said objectively. ‘Where did you get to this afternoon? Ed couldn’t find you.’
I paused with a glass of studio-impressing Perrier halfway to my mouth, remembering vividly the rasping of Valentine’s breath.
‘I was here in Newmarket,’ I said, putting down the water. ‘I’ve a friend who’s dying. I called to see him.’
‘Oh.’ O’Hara showed no censure, registering the explanation as a reason, not an excuse. He knew anyway – and took it for granted – that I’d started work at six that morning and would put in eighteen hours most days until we’d completed the shooting.
‘Is he a film man?’ O’Hara asked.
‘No. Racing… a racing writer.’
‘Oh. Nothing to do with us, then.’
‘No,’ I said.
Ah, well. One can get things wrong.
CHAPTER 2
Fortunately, Wednesday morning dawned bright and clear, and Moncrieff, his camera crew and I attended sunrise beside the Jockey Club’s railings, filming atmospheric barred shadows without interruption.
Rehearsals with Cibber and George went fine later on the forecourt, with Moncrieff opening his floods easily to supplement the sun, and with me peering through the camera eyepiece to be sure the angles brought out the spite developing in the erstwhile ‘best friends’. By eleven we were ready for the cars-inward, carsoutward sequences, the police cooperating efficiently in the spirit of things.
Our male mega-star, laconic as always, patiently made three arrivals behind the wheel of a car, and four times uncomplainingly repeated a marching-to-execution type entrance through the hallowed front door, switching his fictional persona on and off with the confidence and expertise of a consummate pro. As if absentmindedly, he finally gave me an encouraging pat on the shoulder and left in his personal Rolls-Royce for the rest of the day.
At midday we broke for a well-earned hour for lunch.
O’Hara came in the afternoon to watch George’s Iago touch (which basically needed only an inoffensive ‘cool it just a bit’ comment from myself) and sat smiling in a director’s chair for most of the afternoon. O’Hara’s hovering smile, though I was never sure he knew it, acted like oil on the actors and technical crews, getting things smoothly done: under his occasional sliteyed disapproval, problems geometrically increased.
After wrapping things up on the forecourt O’Hara and I went together to Bedford Lodge for an early beverage (light on alcohol, following the film company’s overall puritanical ethos), discussing progress and plans before he left fantasy land en route for marketing and advertisement in offices in London. Making the film was never enough; one had to sell the product as well.
‘I see you’ve booked our chief stuntman for Monday,’ he said casually, standing to leave. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Untamed horses on a beach.’
I answered him lightly, giving him the option of believing me or not.
‘Do you mean it?’ he asked. ‘It’s not in the script.’
I said, ‘I can fit