Life’s a Scream

Matka loved England. She had been afraid that the renowned English fog and damp would play havoc with her rheumatism but within a month she was dashing about, aided by her A-framed walking stick, and soon became a well-known figure around Richmond. As she steadily grew stronger she virtually took over the running of the house. It made us both happy. She loved the idea that she had a purpose and was contributing, and for me it was a relief. Maria had gone back to Spain – to retire, as she had put it. I knew Steffka would be utterly safe with her grandmother.

I was still getting a reasonable amount of work but nothing really substantial, so it was back to the obituary of thespian dreams, PCR. Among the list of films completed was a notice saying that Robin Hardy was about to launch a venture called The Wicker Man in Scotland. The story was described loosely and the piece ended with the information that the part of the nymphomaniac librarian was still not cast. It was a Sunday but I wasn’t going to wait until office hours before getting on the case. I rang George and obtained Robin Hardy’s home telephone number. Apologising for phoning on a Sunday morning, I said it was absolutely imperative that I spoke to him at once. He talked about the film for a while, then asked me to call round to discuss the part further.

I drove in record time to his home in Chelsea. We talked for a couple of hours and got on so well that Robin decided to ring Peter Snell, the producer. I was beginning to like this company: they didn’t hang about. Peter was on the point of leaving for Scotland but wanted to see me so I flagged down a taxi and sat impatiently while the cabby, enlightening me as to his philosophy on life in general and Sunday drivers in particular, picked his way across London to St John’s Wood. Peter thought I would be perfect for the part and a week or so later I was on the sleeper to Dumfries.

The car that picked me up from the railway station sped along the hilltop overlooking the Irish Sea – not a reassuring sight. It was October, and mist and rain obscured everything but the waves gnawing up the rugged coastline. Even with the heaters going full blast I could feel the icy wind blowing into my pores. I wondered how we’d avoid the goosebumps showing in the first scene, as we pranced around naked celebrating the joys of spring.

The Kirroughtree Hotel, outside Newton Stewart, was the HQ for the production. After a snooze I went in search of a pot of tea. The decision whether or not to have a second was postponed when Peter Snell walked in. He was looking wind-swept and miserable. I waved the teapot at him and he joined me. Over tea we discussed our schedule and he let slip that his dishevelled appearance was due to being stuck on top of the cliffs of Burrowhead overseeing the construction of the Wicker Man. Of course, I had to squeak and demand that he took me to see it immediately. As we drove up, the mighty Wicker Man towered over us, the setting sun shining through its intermeshed branches creating a magical effect. Peter explained that the compartments which made up the body were for the sacrificial animals and that the larger one in the centre was for Edward Woodward.

We all had dinner that night in the main hall of the hotel with its oak-panelled walls, massive doors and large leaded windows overlooking the cliffs. Tony Shaffer, the writer, and I talked for hours. He was not happy with the ending of the film. In fact, all through the shooting he kept going to Dumfries library in search of a better ending. Every night he and I would sit on the floor between our rooms discussing this ad infinitum until I could no longer stand trying to convince him that he’d done it right the first time round. The producer also argued the point and at last, after considerable coaxing, Shaffer resolved that his first ending was the best.

The Wicker Man was beset by difficulties. British Lion, the production company, changed hands three times during filming. Peter Snell had to do some fast footwork to keep the film from collapsing. The cold got worse as we nudged into November. We all huddled under blankets, clutching rapidly cooling hot-water bottles until the shot was set, then we’d throw off our coverings and prance about pretending it was spring and the sun was warm. Poor Edward Woodward had to run around barefoot in a shroud. On ‘cut’ he would rush over to where I sat trying to convince my body that it was really spring, and stick his freezing feet under my hot frock. Britt Ekland had this fabulous sable coat which she’d throw into the bramble bushes on ‘action’. She was pregnant with her son Nikolas at the time and I think she would have been happier anywhere else but on that windy Scottish coast. Diane Cilento, Britt and I shared a car every morning driving to the location. I like to talk but never got a word in. Their entire conversation revolved around what bad chaps Sean Connery and Peter Sellers had been and trying to outdo each other with the level of poverty they had been left in.

The nasty bottom line to The Wicker Man was that George refused even to look at the film, claiming it was not commercial. The Rank Cinema circuit therefore wouldn’t show it. Later, in one of our frequent rows, he said that any other film I might manage to make would suffer the same fate. I thought how absurd he was, but I was naive. He subsequently showed that he was a man of bitter action.

Eventually, Bob Webster of EMI, the only other cinema circuit in Britain, took the film with the proviso that it went out on a double bill with Don’t Look Now. The two producers, Peter Snell and Peter Katz, were rather annoyed. Nevertheless, they took the offer as no one else was beating a path to their doors. Neither film deserved the double-bill treatment – each stood up on its own. And both have become classics.