Nineteen

Hollywood Comes to Provence

We first met Ridley Scott more than forty years ago, long before he became Blockbuster Scott. In those days, Jennie and I and Ridley all worked in London, doing our bit for the advertising business; Jennie and Ridley each had TV production companies that specialized in commercials, and I worked as a copywriter in an agency. It was a pretty small universe then, I suppose rather quaint by today’s standards, and there was a good deal of mingling. We all knew one another.

My first experience of working with Ridley was on an unpromising project for a deodorant commercial. Try as we might to think of something original to say about it, all traces of originality were weeded out by the client until all we were left with was a tired jingle that had been created by a previous agency to accompany some standard bland footage of young people enjoying themselves.

Even in those days, Ridley had the reputation of being able to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and so in desperation we turned to him. At our first meeting, we played the jingle for him. After taking a few moments to recover, he said, “This is a product for young people, right? Let’s see what we can do.”

And here’s what he did. He took the bare bones of the jingle and had it totally remade by one of London’s junior rock musicians. He then filmed the band—guitarists, drummer, double-bassist, saxophonists, all of them suitably shaggy and sweaty—playing and singing the jingle. It looked and sounded more like a clip from a televised rock show than a deodorant commercial, and we loved it. So did the client. I’ve been a fan of Ridley’s ever since.

In the years that followed, Ridley went off to Los Angeles and we went off to Provence, where we were pleased and surprised to find one day that we had a distinguished neighbor, none other than Ridley himself, who had a house twenty miles from us. He loved it there, he told us, when he had the chance, but work kept him in LA. So he was permanently on the lookout for something that would let him spend more time in Provence without being gnawed by guilt.

At that time, I was close to finishing a story about a young London executive who inherits a Provençal vineyard from his uncle, and who finds himself up to his neck in grapes and crafty peasants. It was a nice little story, but a long way from the great sweeps of history and drama that Ridley specialized in, and so I was surprised that he asked to see what I’d done. It was more in hope than expectation that I left it with him.

To my surprise, he liked it enough to suggest that I finish it and then let him have another look. So I finished it, he had another look, and that was it. Next stop? Choosing locations and casting. It was that quick.

I knew, of course, that my success was not entirely due to my writing abilities. My story had an unfair advantage over all the other projects that Ridley was considering: it was the only one that offered him the opportunity—no, the obvious necessity—of spending several sunny weeks in his Provençal home.

It didn’t take long for news of the film to reach every village in the Luberon, and reactions were mixed. On the whole they were good, with a small chorus of groans and grumbles from those who were convinced that Provence was turning into Disneyland. Despite them, the complex and sometimes delicate preparations for filming went into overdrive: locations had to be found, and terms negotiated. Lodging for cast and crew had to be arranged, transport organized—as I watched, from a safe distance, I began to think that my contribution to the project had been by far the easiest. And then there was the casting.

Ever since the success of Gladiator, Ridley had enjoyed a good relationship with Russell Crowe, and so nobody was surprised when he was chosen to play the leading role of the fortunate executive. Naturally, Russell needed to have a little romance as he labored in the vineyard, and here Ridley showed once again his talent for spotting talent. He had given Brad Pitt’s career a kick start in Thelma and Louise, and this time it was the turn of a young actress, Marion Cotillard, who was then little known outside France. Now, of course, she is a major star. Merci, Ridley.

To add the final touches, there was the wonderful Albert Finney, Tom Hollander, and a fine supporting cast. All that remained was to start the cameras rolling.

I had always imagined that shooting a major film would be an exciting, glamorous affair, bursting with high drama and memorable moments. It was high-level showbiz, for heaven’s sake, with famous names and delicate egos swirling around. Surely there would be a few social indiscretions at least, if not a full-blooded fight. I got to the set early on the first morning of shooting so I wouldn’t miss anything. Marion Cotillard was there, reading a paper. Ridley was having breakfast. Russell was nowhere to be seen. Various technicians scampered back and forth, looking busy and important. The owner of the chateau where we were shooting poked his head out to make sure we weren’t trampling on the vines. And that was about as far as the morning’s drama went. I was later to find out that Ridley’s shoots are like that—extremely well organized, unhurried, and actually quite relaxed. The calm was only disturbed once while I was watching.

This was caused by the star’s difficulties with punctuality. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour—Russell seemed to have a problem turning up on time, causing the waiting film crew to sigh loudly and mutter. It wasn’t long before they started to call him “the late Russell Crowe,” and it might have been this that prompted Ridley to act.

He called a meeting—crew, actors, everybody—to tell them that it was crucial for today’s shoot to begin on time. Not a second should be wasted. He wanted a full turnout on set that evening.

Sure enough, they were all there, including Russell. But where was Ridley? They waited. And they waited. And they waited, for forty-five long minutes, until Ridley emerged, apologizing for a long call he’d had to take from LA. After that, the star’s punctuality improved significantly.

For me, one of the most memorable scenes in the film was shot in the village of Cucuron, which enjoys the distinction of possessing the biggest bassin in Provence—a rectangular, thirty-meter-long ornamental pool, fringed with huge plane trees, the envy of less fortunate villages. On this particular evening, it had been transformed. Tables for two had been placed all the way along the side of the bassin, complete with white tablecloths, candles, and fully charged ice buckets. At the far end, a small group of musicians played seductive music, and the surface of the bassin was sprinkled with white flowers and floating candles. Magic.

This was the setting for a romantic diner à deux, Marion and Russell, alone at last. Well, almost. Because in addition to the crew, a distinguished local figure was studying the idyllic scene. It was his honor the mayor of Cucuron, and he was sufficiently impressed to ask Ridley if there was any chance that the set could be left exactly as it was once shooting was done.

The film was duly finished, but the excitement definitely wasn’t over. Cucuron was perhaps the only village in the Luberon to have its own cinema. It was certainly the only village to hold the premiere of a Hollywood movie, and the audience provided a relaxed alternative to the normal premiere crowd.

There was not a limousine or a long dress to be seen, nor a tuxedo. Jackets and jewelry were rare, and pre-screening refreshments were supplied by the local café: rosé, and not champagne. The atmosphere was lively, almost boisterous. It was our film, and we were going to enjoy it.

The rosé-tinged post-screening verdicts were kind, especially from those extras who had spotted themselves decorating various scenes, and the audience eventually drifted off with the feeling of a job well done. The mayor can’t wait for Hollywood to call again.