CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
1971-72

The shooting was over. As he drove back to Montreal alone in the cab of the large equipment truck, Paul finally pondered: would he now for the first time sit down and properly discuss the future with Geneviève? He longed for, and at the same time dreaded, that meeting.

During the shoot, they had lived in separate houses and had fallen into the relationship established over many shows: director and actress. No question that Geneviève still admired him as a director, as did Paul her. But not a mention of their future crossed their lips. That now lay ahead.

When shooting ended, the cast and crew voiced their goodbyes, some tearful, most happy to get back to their families, but still sad that the overwhelming experience was over. Gail Garnett, who played Morgan (after Morgan le Fay) the repository of dreams and seer of the community, told Paul later: “You know, when we left, we cried. We had not only lived our roles but a whole new life style. Journey was an experience that none of us will ever have again.”

Shooting had run somewhat over budget due to an inexperienced production manager because reduced financing hadn’t allowed for a proper executive, so no cleanup crew remained. The producer-director, the production designer, and young Bert Tougas, a great favourite of the crew who called him Bertie-Bert, had to go round themselves with bags and rakes, cleaning debris, checking bushes for burned-out bulbs, empty containers tossed aside, all the detritus of a film crew. It absorbed Paul’s last ounce of energy. Finally, Glenn drove back to Montreal in the dysfunctional MG, and Paul was left to return the equipment. Late that day, worn out, he got into the truck and set off overnight at no great speed, due to the fragile equipment in the back, to meet the deadline at the rental house.

Paul wondered over and over, what should he say? Did the fact his former wife played in the film show she still had an undercurrent of feelings for him? Would they come back together as man and wife? Now that actual shooting was not taking up his every pore, every moment of waking consciousness, he focussed on this one meeting. What would his future life be — more films with a beautiful young star? More children with a mother to look after them? Or an arid home on Redpath Crescent, empty of life, striding room to room, restless as always, seeking, questing after some kind of healing enlightenment?

Being in charge of the shoot had developed in him a new courage. He now had the sense to recognize that his own house should properly belong to him. He would move back. Geneviève, who had walked out with his child and his housekeeper, would now, if she did decide to separate, have to find her own accommodation.

Having dropped the van at the equipment house by its deadline of eight am, Paul got his suitcase, grabbed a taxi, and went straight to 1272 Redpath Crescent, where Geneviève, Matthew, and Madame Pecetto were ensconced. Not having a key, he rang the doorbell. Madame Pecetto answered it, inscrutable as always, and ushered him into the kitchen where Geneviève was having breakfast.

A few pleasantries followed about the film cleanup, the farewells of the crew, and how Matthew was doing. Then, with his back to the unlit fireplace, Paul asked, “Well, Geneviève, what’s the decision. Are we getting back together?”

The fateful question had been asked. It reached into the very depths of his being. His whole future hung on her response.

Geneviève looked down at her breakfast plate for what seemed a very long time. Then she looked up. “Paul, my darling, I’m afraid it’s over. Nothing to do with you. It is just... I cannot come back.”

Paul stared.

“The last few days, I’ve gone back and forth. I knew you would ask me that.” She sighed. “I’ve finally resolved it in my own mind, and in my heart.”

Paul did not move.

“I’m sorry. There is no going back. What has been, has been. And what is, is. I still love you. I probably always will. But no, I cannot be your wife. I shall move out with our son, and Madame Pecetto. She has been saying recently she’d like to find other employment. So I shall get someone else, I shall rent a house, and now, this place is yours.”

As Julius Caesar once said, the die was cast, and Paul’s second wife had left him. The house, the empty house, was his.

Paul stared into a bleak future.

***

Bertie-Bert and Honor Griffith set up the editing room in the basement of 1272 Redpath Crescent. Rick Kline, the company scribe, had provided such good energy during the production that Paul asked him to stay on. A quite brilliant graduate of Berkeley and apostle of the Great Piehler (as the professor became known) he’d run messages, do the shopping, and as it turned out, make cheap meals for them all.

So the little team set about editing. Paul found a kind of solace in this cohesive and creative group, all of whom liked each other, all of them focussed on getting the best film they could. On weekends, Paul saw his little son. Geneviève had for some reason turned down a book that Hal Wallis had bought for her, True Grit, which eventually starred John Wayne and Kim Darby. She also told Paul she had turned down Hal’s offer of another costume drama, Mary Queen of Scots. “I’ve done all that. I didn’t want to repeat it.”

Another shock – on January 13, 1972, Auntie Hilda phoned, deeply agitated, to tell him his mother had passed away.

Paul dropped everything. Editing twelve hours a day, he hadn’t been out to Mont Saint-Hilaire as much as he should. When he got there, the doctor had already issued a death certificate.

Paul travelled by train down to Shigawake to inter his mother’s remains, accompanied by faithful Glenn and, oddly the next day, Geneviève and Matthew. Elton helped unload the coffin from the train onto his truck, and Rene’s body was laid out in the parlour. After a gathering of friends, she was buried in the cemetery along with her husband Eric and many relatives.

Back in Montreal again, Paul saw his aunt bearing up reasonably well, sustained by several friends, so he returned to editing. So sad that his mother had died with her only son distraught, his psyche tattered and no prospects in sight. Dealing with her probate documents over the next weeks only left him even more depleted and depressed.

Journey began to come together over the autumn. The numbness and desperation that had settled in the very marrow of his bones began to lessen, though by no means disappear. He loved editing, as did the rest of them, and before spring they had a pretty good cut.

For the music, no lush strings nor choral music that had marked his earlier films. John Wyre’s unusual and bizarre percussion group Nexus worked in free form and were considered by some at the top of modern music. Paul visited their studio-barn near Toronto, and decided instead of a written score like every other film, Paul should just let them improvise around themes; he’d lay in the music with Honor as required. He attended an all-day session and gave them topics to elaborate on with their clinks and dongs and bangs and biffs and clunks. For example, when Saul, the Undersky bull, came down with a mysterious illness — was this to be the end of the community? — Paul asked the group to improvise around, “there’s an undefined force at the barn...”

Aware that Journey would hardly attract the crowds required for a commercial release, their only hope was Cannes. The usual committee to choose Canada’s official selection was meeting at the NFB. But a huge snow storm had stopped all traffic — and the street cleaners went on strike. So when the time came to take Journey to the NFB, no taxi moved on the snow-clogged streets. No hope for the little green Datsun, which now replaced the junked MG.

Paul and Bertie-Bert loaded the rough-cut film, ten heavy cans of picture and magnetic sound, each thirty to forty pounds, onto Matthew’s plastic swimming pool, its bottom painted with smiling dolphins. Wrapped warmly, they donned 1930s snowshoes from Shigawake and curved down the Crescent, across McGregor now snowed up and empty of cars. Holding back the plastic pool, they slithered down a steep Peel Street with its morass of cars stuck at every angle. At Bonaventure Station they caught a commuter train under the mountain to Montreal North, where they unloaded the heavy reels. Then they snowshoed across to the Film Board.

Chilled and worn, Paul and Bert were welcomed by the committee with open arms and hot mulled wine. Afterward, making their way home, they knew beyond any doubt that their snow-bound odyssey would lead the committee to choose their film.

Wrong! They chose La vrai nature de Bernadette.

***

Paul had made a deal with Bob Crone to mix the film at his new Film House where he had hired Joe Grimaldi away from the National Film Board. That meant trips back and forth to Toronto.

After a long sound edit, the film finally got finished. Its distributor Astral Films set up a press conference. One of the first questions asked was: what’s the next project? Paul had to admit, he had no plans; his psyche was far too battered.

The film’s only hope was the Canadian Film Awards, where Journey might walk off with a few prizes. Paul went hopefully to Cinesphere in Ontario Place, on Oct 13th.

Again, no luck. Bill Fruet’s Wedding in White took best film, and Gilles Carle Best Director for La vraie nature de Bernadette, with Gordon Pinsent taking Best Actor for The Rowdyman. Well, at least, Paul thought, Geneviève will win best actress, but no, Micheline Lanctôt won instead. Paul could understand all that, but was outraged that Glenn missed Best Art Direction. He had designed and made every single hand prop, every table and chair, every building, everything on site, and supervised the craftsmen. Even the reviews, mostly mystified by the film, praised its beauty. But Glenn, without a friend in Toronto was seen as an upstart genius, and some local Ontario Art Director won.

Ah well, the film got invited to the Los Angeles Film Exposition, proudly touted with tongue in cheek as “a tradition since 1971”.

In the great auditorium of Grauman’s Chinese Theater in early November, a goodly five hundred greeted Journey with more enthusiasm than heretofore. There seemed to be general agreement on its exquisite images, but no one, including the critics, could make head nor tail of it. The thing Paul remembered most was the look in his friends’ eyes at the Toronto opening. No mistaking their almost pitying looks as they watched their once proud friend brought low. But Paul was happy with his achievement, and later, many audiences found this “cult” film satisfying in its beauty.

***

With autumn progressing and the editing crew gone, Paul was befriended by three stunning ladies: one blonde, petite Swedish Playboy centrefold, another attractive vixen, and lastly, a tall, lithe, Italian model with the deepest eyes, rich brown hair, and lots of fun. They came and went as they wanted, surrounding him at least with the aura of beauty. Being perhaps overly optimistic, he called them his muses, but they actually turned out to be harpies, tantalising but unobtainable, never once offering emotional nor physical gratification. His desperation grew.

Then, all at once, Marigold, a twenty-four-year-old Westmount socialite arrived, big-boned, with an elephant’s heart, lovely warm face and inviting eyes. Paul found her sensible, down to earth, someone he could perhaps genuinely love. She seemed to need him as much as he needed her. Paul was entranced. What a long time since anyone had loved him! And allowed him to love her back.

She soon became a constant visitor, and then one night, stayed over and then, actually moved in. She offered advice, help, emotional support, they had fun together, and his feelings grew. But after a time, it became clear that she had no desire for the life of a mop-swinger. Hopeless in the kitchen, she let Paul cook, buy food, and look after her. He found that begin to pall. So he hit on an idea. “Marigold, let’s fly to Germany, pick up a Volkswagen camper and, if we’re careful with money, we can travel around Europe for a few months.” So in January 1973, they flew off for an adventure that Paul hoped might expunge the devils of loneliness and worthlessness tormenting him.