out that our quartet is not romantically entwined, one of them approaches. His courage, bolstered by the whoops of his friends, wilts in the face of our expectant smiles. ‘Can I get you a coffee, love?’ he asks, ‘or how about something harder?’
‘Ta very much,’ she says with a Mockney twang. ‘I’d love some. I’m sure my friends would too.’
‘That’s great then,’ he says, taken aback.
‘One mocha, two lattes and an espresso. Ta.’
‘Great. Well then, I’ll go and get them, shall I?’
‘That’s so kind,’ she says dismissively. ‘Now where we were? Oh yes, your opening gambit, Vincent.’ We watch the chastened suitor slink away and join the queue at the counter.
‘The poor lad,’ Jewel says. ‘We’ll have to pay for them.’
‘Don’t you dare! Make him think twice before trying it on next time,’ Sophie says with chilling indifference. Yet, for all my reservations about her manner, I have none about her expertise. She cuts through red tape as effortlessly as her mother cuts the ribbon at a village fete. Ambition and altruism may be uneasy bedfellows but, when we are on a shoot, she allows nothing to distract her from the matter at hand. Like Jamie and Jewel, she has a shrewd understanding of the kind of film I make: passionate, polemical and quirky, where the director is a presence in front of the cameras as well as behind. Nonetheless, I take it as a compliment that, even after hobnobbing with the Eastenders in Zambia, I’ve only been recognised – or at any rate accosted – once, by a boy who asked if I were a weatherman.
I wonder whether our professional shorthand will be as effective this time. If so, they will need to know my mind better than I do myself. I am still perturbed by the strength of my reaction when Miles Redfern, head of Lion’s Share, announced that the Beeb was looking for someone to make a film to mark the 150th anniversary of the Virgin Mary’s apparitions at Lourdes.
‘The so-called Virgin’s so-called apparitions,’ I insisted.
‘Which is why you’re the perfect man for the job.’
‘It’s such an easy target. However cynical Scott’s and Sammy Jo’s motives may have been for travelling to Zambia, the trip at leastensured that the villagers got their latrines and the great British public was alerted to the problem. What can we possibly find to say that’s positive about Lourdes?’
‘Challenge yourself along with the viewer. How often have I heard you hold forth on the evils of the Roman Catholic church? The opium of the masses; the absurdity of the mass. Anti-abortion; anti-birth control; pro-life but life-hating. Now’s your chance to put it to the test. Spend a week in a place where their faith and your scepticism are at their most pronounced. It’s a brilliant opportunity all round. Prime time, not God slot.’
I delayed signing until my long-awaited drama debut fell through, when the BBC hired Douglas Simcox to helm its serialisation of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists . All the class resentment that afforded me an intimate insight into the piece bubbled up when they chose Simcox’s public school poise and confidence over my commitment and experience. Alarmed by the lack of alternative offers, I accepted Miles’s. He arranged for us to join the Jubilate, an independent pilgrimage about two hundred strong, which, drawing its members from around the country, is less parochial than most. Now that we are finally on our way, I remain at a loss as to the cause of my unease. I have never made any secret of my contempt for the Church, but I am equally exercised by the incarceration of asylum seekers and the cult of celebrity, and I had welcomed the chance to shed light on them.
Then, when the luckless Geordie returns with the coffee and I clasp the steaming cup by the flimsy handle that protrudes like the cardboard wings on a Nativity play angel – an angel played by a perfectly cast five year-old girl – I realise why my feelings
‘Ta very much,’ she says with a Mockney twang. ‘I’d love some. I’m sure my friends would too.’
‘That’s great then,’ he says, taken aback.
‘One mocha, two lattes and an espresso. Ta.’
‘Great. Well then, I’ll go and get them, shall I?’
‘That’s so kind,’ she says dismissively. ‘Now where we were? Oh yes, your opening gambit, Vincent.’ We watch the chastened suitor slink away and join the queue at the counter.
‘The poor lad,’ Jewel says. ‘We’ll have to pay for them.’
‘Don’t you dare! Make him think twice before trying it on next time,’ Sophie says with chilling indifference. Yet, for all my reservations about her manner, I have none about her expertise. She cuts through red tape as effortlessly as her mother cuts the ribbon at a village fete. Ambition and altruism may be uneasy bedfellows but, when we are on a shoot, she allows nothing to distract her from the matter at hand. Like Jamie and Jewel, she has a shrewd understanding of the kind of film I make: passionate, polemical and quirky, where the director is a presence in front of the cameras as well as behind. Nonetheless, I take it as a compliment that, even after hobnobbing with the Eastenders in Zambia, I’ve only been recognised – or at any rate accosted – once, by a boy who asked if I were a weatherman.
I wonder whether our professional shorthand will be as effective this time. If so, they will need to know my mind better than I do myself. I am still perturbed by the strength of my reaction when Miles Redfern, head of Lion’s Share, announced that the Beeb was looking for someone to make a film to mark the 150th anniversary of the Virgin Mary’s apparitions at Lourdes.
‘The so-called Virgin’s so-called apparitions,’ I insisted.
‘Which is why you’re the perfect man for the job.’
‘It’s such an easy target. However cynical Scott’s and Sammy Jo’s motives may have been for travelling to Zambia, the trip at leastensured that the villagers got their latrines and the great British public was alerted to the problem. What can we possibly find to say that’s positive about Lourdes?’
‘Challenge yourself along with the viewer. How often have I heard you hold forth on the evils of the Roman Catholic church? The opium of the masses; the absurdity of the mass. Anti-abortion; anti-birth control; pro-life but life-hating. Now’s your chance to put it to the test. Spend a week in a place where their faith and your scepticism are at their most pronounced. It’s a brilliant opportunity all round. Prime time, not God slot.’
I delayed signing until my long-awaited drama debut fell through, when the BBC hired Douglas Simcox to helm its serialisation of The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists . All the class resentment that afforded me an intimate insight into the piece bubbled up when they chose Simcox’s public school poise and confidence over my commitment and experience. Alarmed by the lack of alternative offers, I accepted Miles’s. He arranged for us to join the Jubilate, an independent pilgrimage about two hundred strong, which, drawing its members from around the country, is less parochial than most. Now that we are finally on our way, I remain at a loss as to the cause of my unease. I have never made any secret of my contempt for the Church, but I am equally exercised by the incarceration of asylum seekers and the cult of celebrity, and I had welcomed the chance to shed light on them.
Then, when the luckless Geordie returns with the coffee and I clasp the steaming cup by the flimsy handle that protrudes like the cardboard wings on a Nativity play angel – an angel played by a perfectly cast five year-old girl – I realise why my feelings
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