CANNES, FRANCE, 1979–2012
David’s been going to the Cannes Film Festival on the Côte d’Azur in France with the Australian contingent since the late 1970s when his earliest films were produced and released. He usually heads to France the second week of May, but this year he must cancel this annual pilgrimage because that’s the week he will begin his first round of chemotherapy.
His annual attendance at the flashy festival reflects his obsessive love of routine and ritual. Once he stumbles across something that pleases him, he’s inclined to repeat that joyful experience time and time again. He’s become an institution at the Cannes Film Festival.
It’s an opportunity to network, to tout for funding for future film projects on his slate, and to mix creatively with new young writers and directors in the hope of ultimately working with them. This approach has certainly been effective: several of his most interesting and applauded films were a direct result of contacts and associations made during the frantic twelve days that is Cannes.
While it sounds glamorous and expensive, David worked hard to make it a success and he knew how to do it all on a shoestring budget. He prided himself on spending as little money as possible (not just at Cannes – in every aspect of his life) and he’d evolved a strategy over the decades where he shared very basic digs in the back streets with a small group of not-quite-famous-yet international identities. Known as the ‘boys’ dorm’, eight or more people would be packed into a suite normally designed for three or four.
David hasn’t missed a festival in thirty-three years, but as we sit by the fire after dinner on the eve of his first chemotherapy assault, he hints sadly to me that he may never return to that beloved stomping ground. The festival is due to start in just ten days.
‘I’m trying not to think about France,’ he says. ‘It all just seems impossible now.’
This breaking of a time-honoured routine is the first chink in his armour. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged that his life is about to change. It frightens me to hear him utter the words, and I make light of them.
‘Surely you will be fine by this time next year. The chemo will have long finished and you will be feeling strong again.’
Was I in denial or just trying to cheer him up?
I hate the thought that something that has brought him so much pleasure and kudos could be all over.
David’s fastidious management of money didn’t arise from stinginess, but from a parsimonious Scottish upbringing on his mother’s side. Although they were a conservative and well-off family, there was an abiding dislike of financial ostentation or wastefulness. David’s handsome actor father, who was more relaxed about spending money, was considered ‘flashy’ by his wife’s side of the family – a view that was maintained through his parents’ entire married life.
This ability to make money last with careful economy has always stood him in good stead within the local film industry. David was capable of administrating huge production budgets – often in the multimillions – and ensuring that every film he produced came in on time and well within budget. Quite a feat when you consider the endless possibilities for disaster during the film making process – accidents on set, actors falling ill or having a meltdown, disputes between departments vying for a larger slice of the pie. Unforeseen weather.
Yet David was much more than just a numbers man, a glorified accountant. He loved all aspects of the creative process from collaborating with the screenwriter to working on casting and locations with the director and the finer details of music and art direction. He was great at delegating responsibility but also quite capable of stepping in firmly if any area of the production was falling behind. He never missed rushes in the evening, was on the film set or location several times a day (often to coincide with meals being served by the catering trucks) and was totally involved in the post-production – the editing and sound mixing were as important to him as the script and the casting.
This absolute immersion in his craft meant he was away from me and his family for lengthy periods of time – weeks and endless months when he’d be completely absorbed in the task at hand. I greatly respected this dedication and the fact that he took so much pride and pleasure in his career. Even though at times I found it a struggle to keep life at home on an even keel – a large family, a big house and garden and a demanding fulltime job – I’d rather have had a passionate husband than one who was vaguely bored or frustrated in a routine nine-to-five job.
In contrast, my attitude to money was formed by an entirely opposing set of childhood circumstances. My father and mother both worked and both earned high salaries, yet we lived fortnight to fortnight. They never bought a house – we lived in the same rented flat until I was sixteen when they contributed a small amount to a house being bought in the same suburb by my recently divorced brother Jon. Except for a brief period when my father inherited money following the death of his mother in Melbourne, we were permanently short of cash. Bills were not opened but stuffed away out of sight in a drawer. Debt collectors sometimes came knocking on a Sunday morning. I can’t really say where all the money went – our only family holidays were staying with family friends who owned farms and we didn’t own a car or television until I was nearly ten years old. Money was just frittered away. My father indulged in smart handmade Italian wool suits and expensive shirts and ties; he gambled on the Saturday horse races and was a member of an exclusive inner-city gymnasium. Both our parents were excellent cooks and they always used the most expensive ingredients so our household food bills were always high. A large percentage of the income went on alcohol and cigarettes.
I inherited this casual approach to expenditure and it’s caused plenty of friction in my relationship with David over the decades. I’ve never spent much money on myself – my clothes, shoes or hairstyles – it was more about making our home comfortable and welcoming. Largesse in food and wine; a generosity of spirit. Our garden always sucked up a lot of money, as did books, newspapers and journals. While David loved being part of this lifestyle, it also made him very nervous. The film industry is precarious at the best of times – good money can be made when a film has been financed and is in production. But there were always lengthy droughts between films – sometimes years and years with no income. Just outgoings.
So my earnings as a jobbing journalist, author and trek leader were fundamental to our survival. We could rely on a steady income from my freelance work, and that held the fort between film projects. But David’s constant concern about our future, about surviving financially in such a competitive and at times ruthless climate, has caused no end of stress.
The cancer treatment clinic in Bathurst is sunny and welcoming. The oncology nurses there are marvellous women; gentle and kind, humorous and helpful. David is taken into a warm room with big windows facing west, shaded by a handsome old tree. He’s made comfortable in a well-padded reclining chair and a port is inserted into a vein in his left arm. I note that the nurses are wearing protective clothing over their uniforms – a sort of plastic shield – to prevent the risk of being splashed or splattered by any of the chemicals in the mix called Taxol that will be pumped into David’s body.
There are cheerful volunteers bringing us cups of tea and sandwiches – it’s a very homey, convivial atmosphere. I leave him to get on with it for an hour while I go shopping. Living twenty-five minutes from town means we don’t ‘pop to the shops’ every day, so this is a good opportunity to stock up the pantry for the weeks ahead. Back at the clinic we eat the homemade soup and bread that I brought with us and chat with the nurses until the dose has been fully delivered. There is nothing traumatic about the process.
We go home and I watch him closely for adverse reactions or side effects. Nothing. He just gets on with his normal evening routine. I google Taxol and am bemused to learn it’s a drug derived from one of my favourite conifers, the yew tree.
The species Taxus brevifolia, Pacific yew, is a native understorey tree of the western forests of the United States. I’m more familiar with the European yews and know yews are toxic, but have no idea about their medicinal uses. However I’m not really surprised to discover that long ago the bark was boiled to produce an elixir to induce miscarriage. It had been an abortion drug. Modern chemistry has developed a compound obtained from the bark which is extremely effective in treating solid tumour cancers. One of the websites looks at the symbolism of the yew. As well as being an obvious symbol of death, they also represent the cycle of life and are a symbol of rebirth because a new tree grows from the decaying trunk of the old one.
It seems curious to me that a much-admired tree which I’ve photographed on my overseas garden tours is now part of David’s cancer regime. I study the sheet we were given at the clinic that lists the possible side effects of Taxol. It’s a long list, but we’ll jump these problems if and when they occur. David hasn’t shown any interest in reading all this extra information in the factsheets and booklets that we are constantly given. He hasn’t googled anything; he hasn’t asked any questions or sought out any alternatives to conventional mainstream treatments. He appears to have entirely handed himself over to the medical profession and is placing all his trust in whatever is recommended. This seems such a contradiction to me, given his usually inquiring mind and pleasure at thumbing his nose at convention. It must be a form of self-protection: the less he reads or knows, the less he will worry.
He’s well aware that I’m doggedly reading everything I can find on the subject; spending hours on the internet, making lists of questions and posing alternative ideas. This is now my role, to be his advocate and advisor.
He, on the other hand, has decided the best therapy will be complete distraction. He loves film, and our local cinema has five screens. So instead of swimming lengths of the pool every day, as he has done for many years, his plan is to see absolutely every new film that’s released. Over the next twelve months we do just that. Hours and hours spent in the dark, eating choc-tops and escaping the reality that is our new life.
During this lengthy chemotherapy we struggle to communicate about the reality of the situation. My problem isn’t the physical side of David’s illness. He seems to be coping valiantly, still getting up early every day to make coffee for himself and a pot of tea for me. When you live with a person of rituals, it can be both amusing and wearing. Every action follows a precise order: trip to the bathroom followed by walk to the office to switch on the computer: kettle on and coffee machine filled with water and grounds. The pot is heated, the bread sliced and into the toaster. Two scoops of tea leaves, boiling water. Butter the toast, pour in milk then the tea, through a strainer. He brings me the tea and toast, smiles and then stays to watch me take the first sip.
‘How is it?’ he asks, every single day.
As this tea ceremony has been perfected, he should know it’s exactly as I like it. But he still needs to ask. I usually just smile and say, ‘Perfect, thanks darling’.
But some days I can’t resist wrinkling my nose just to shake him up a bit. It amazes me that even after all these decades, he still can’t recognise when I’m teasing him. When I laugh, he laughs. Funny old bloke.
The worry I have with David is his overall reaction to his illness. Gradually he’s started to share the news with his closest colleagues and has been inviting them to come to the farm and visit – to spend time and hang out. I’m delighted with this idea, knowing the love and support they will offer. Yet he’s filled with despair at the thought that he’s letting these people down, that he’s failing them in terms of getting their projects into production. He becomes obsessed with this notion, and most of his days (apart from when we drive to town to see a movie) are spent lamenting the hand he has been dealt, and the impact it’s having on the people he works with.
I can’t help but be irked by this lack of balance. Not once has he mentioned the impact his illness and probable death is having on me, on our four children and ten grandchildren, his siblings and other family members. It’s all about his work and his perceived failings.
Long ago I accepted that David’s a workaholic, driven to prove himself and to succeed. We’ve talked about it so often – usually in bed on a Sunday morning, always our most serene time together. He puts it down to his troubled relationship with his father, who returned injured during the war and was thereafter a difficult, demanding man. Despite having been an actor himself, his father was scathing about David’s career direction – first as an actor and then as a producer of television and film. I remember visiting his family in New Zealand and his father referring to David – then well into his thirties – as the ‘boy wonder’. I sensed it was a put down. So did David.
The disapproval of a parent is damaging. David has always been very tough on himself. He takes life pretty seriously and often questions my philosophy that life is meant to be fun. He doesn’t get it – he seems to quite enjoy doing without fun. Not quite sackcloth and ashes, but almost.
I attempt to have discussions about setting priorities, about looking at and appreciating all the fantastic things he accomplished in his life; and the love that is surrounding him. Our wonderful home, our terrific family, our combined career highs. He’s won dozens of industry awards and accolades but even seeing these trophies sitting on a mantelpiece is no comfort to him.
I just cannot seem to break through. I can cope with him being angry and railing against the injustice of the disease. I can’t cope when he’s hangdog, self-pitying and indulgently negative.
We both have our own offices at the farm – his is the smallest bedroom that we converted into a cosy workroom and mine the glassed-in veranda with lovely views through the arboretum to the creek. David frequently stays too long in his office – the dinner will be cooked and I’ll be waiting for him to come out and join me for a drink and a few minutes of watching the news before we eat. I have often sent him an email:
Remember me? I’m that red-headed woman who lives here and I’m gagging for a gin and tonic.
He’d immediately close down his computer and scurry out, mix us a drink and we’d sit cuddled up in front of the television.
However, after weeks of dealing with his gloomy and joyless demeanour, I sent him a missive in a completely different tone:
I’m writing to you in the hope that some of the things I say will have some effect. Talking doesn’t seem to be working.
It was 5 April when Dr Death announced that you had, on average, twelve months to live.
I don’t believe this – any more than you do (or should).
But many weeks have passed. The radiotherapy treatment and the time at Lilier Lodge were hugely beneficial. However, you have made no progress in terms of trying to rationalise the situation, to harden-the-fuck-up and move forward.
If Dr Death is right then you have just wasted one-twelfth of your time left on this earth. I will keep writing these emails until you agree to start enjoying your life.
You’ve spent the last seventy-two years giving yourself hell. Can’t you stop now PLEASE and try to have some happy times for all of us to enjoy?
Your not-very-long-suffering wife.
I didn’t need to send another email. Looking back, I’m appalled that I sent such a strongly worded letter, given the grim situation he was facing. But I needed to shake him up. To change his perspective.
After all this time, searching my old email files I can find no response to my outburst. I honestly can’t recall us ever talking about it afterwards. I just know that his attitude does change from that day onwards. He opens up, starts to look around and see the world again. It’s a huge relief. The last thing I want is to be fighting him at a time when I know he needs my unequivocal love and support. It’s just too important for me to allow this bleak and self-punishing state of mind to continue.