Letters of Note - Part 2

Persistence, and the subtle art of kicking in doors

In the previous instalment I wrote about rejection and persistence, and what to do when you keeping getting NO…

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The first thing I should say, is if you haven’t realised so far, that this isn’t some HOW TO… essay. It’s more like a DON’T DO THIS written warning.

Yes, persistence in the ever-increasing looming brick wall of adversity is the key, but when does a breakthrough happen? When do you “MAKE IT”?

What is success? A question so pertinent they even wrote a song about it.

There’s an oft-shared image of what the path to success looks like:

See that squiggle on the right? That’s it. That’s the journey. The climb. That’s the story. I would say that the straight part - the “success” - only leads to more squiggled lines. There is no “making it” (well, earning enough money to pay your bills is “making it” - but the rest is whatever you think it is.)

As I repeatedly said mantra-like when mentoring earlier this year, the key to persistence is ASK.

If you don’t ask, you don’t get.

Of course, you can ask and still not receive anything, but as the old chestnut goes:

You miss 100% of the shots you don't take.

I would also add that sometimes the shot you take can bounce off the goal, rebound, smack you in the face repeatedly, and bounce off the walls a few more times before miraculously landing in the back of the net.

1992

I had been volunteering at the Kenneth More Theatre in Ilford for a few months, starting out with props (I still know the words to HMS Pinafore, even though I wasn’t actually in the show). I was kind of left to it, I didn’t know what I was doing and felt like an outsider the entire time, but persisted… I’d go hunting for pieces of set with the stage doorman, make starlight backdrops with expanses of black cloth and LED lights… Work up in the flies for all kinds of shows - anything that was required to get the show done.

But there’s only so much volunteering you can do, and I was growing increasingly frustrated. But then came a chance conversation: One of the other volunteers was leaving the theatre to join a theatre lighting course in London. They suggested I should check out the college, and see if there’s anything suitable for me… within a couple of months, I had started a video and television course at the City of Westminster College.

The course was part of the Youth Training Scheme, meaning I would be at a course-related work placement for four days of the week, with one day at college learning about the technical side of working in television. Sounds great, and I’ve no idea if an equivalent exists these days, but the YT Scheme paid a pittance. A shockingly small amount of money, as if you should be grateful just to be there. Enough money to cover my travel expenses into central London, and maybe enough cash to buy a couple of CDs or see a movie for effectively working a full-time job. Sheesh.

Beggars can’t be choosers, right? True, but how do you feel about exploitation?

ANYWAY: Persist…

I secured a work placement at Metro Video on Gt. Chapel Street, Soho. Don’t look for it, it’s not there anymore (I said that in my best Marti Di Bergi voice): The entire block was demolished to make way for the Elizabeth Line/new Tottenham Ct. Road station. (So when you’re standing on the escalator, heading down to the platforms, you’re moving through where the basement of my old workplace used to be. My 1993 memory ghost says hello.)

1993

Whilst working my bits off at Metro for peanuts, I continued writing short scripts and plucked up enough courage to write my first feature-length screenplay. I had written a full-length (and by that I mean 160 pages) script before, but it was very silly and was the equivalent of playing with Star Wars figures in my mind.

I had recently seen Reservoir Dogs and was blown away by the writing: It showed me what was possible; a new way of doing things. So I wrote my first “grown up” screenplay, which was (like many, MANY scripts in the 90s) Reservoir Dogs-but-not-anywhere-near-as-good.

Whilst attending college in Westminster once a week, my first tutor was David Hanson. He was a professional scriptwriter who had a hand in creating Max Headroom. Hanson encouraged me with my writing, which provided me with the necessary push.

ENCOURAGEMENT.

This is sometimes all that is required to take the next step or to be brave and step outside your comfort zone. I can’t say I’ve had a great deal over the years, but when I have received some encouragement it has always produced great results. It doesn’t always have to be a grand gesture, just a kind word or enthusiasm. Sometimes it’s all that we need to keep going.

Whilst working at Metro, I had read in Empire Magazine that Quentin Tarantino was going to be curating a season of Harvey Keitel films at the Broadway Cinema in Nottingham - not local to me by any means, but a work colleague had suggested I should go there and try to meet Tarantino. Cue self-doubt: Why? What would come of it? What would I say? What would be the point? I was/am crap at social interaction, so on the surface, it was a recipe for disaster. Besides, I’d have to convince my Dad to drive me all that way…

So I’m sat in the cafe area of The Broadway Cinema, clutching a manilla envelope containing a letter and a script which I planned to thrust into Tarantino’s open hand. I’d been sat there for almost two hours with no sign of Tarantino, and my Dad had checked his watch for the fiftieth time. He had to get home for work, so time had run out. We had to leave.

And then Tarantino emerged from a doorway, flanked by a small entourage.

It was now or never.

My jelly legs carried me off towards the foyer, following Tarantino out to his waiting car. By the time I had caught up with him, he was sittting in the back of the car. Sensing trouble, one of his people extended a hand, telling me not to bother Mr. Tarantino.

Tarantino was gesturing through the back-seat window, and the guy telling me to get lost relayed a message to me: Quentin was heading off for dinner and would be back in ninety minutes.

I wouldn’t be there in ninety minutes, so I asked the guy to pass my envelope to Tarantino. He refused, got in the car, and drove off.

Insert expletive here.

Not one to be beaten, I marched back into the cinema foyer armed with the information that QT was coming back later. So I handed my envelope to a member of staff behind the counter.

“Make sure QT gets this.”

(looking at the envelope) “Is he expecting this?”

(me, pausing before lying through my teeth) “Yes.”

SLAM CUT TO: Six Months later. (Of course, it wasn’t a slam cut. I had left the cinema that day with no idea if QT would receive my envelope. That day had drifted from my mind until:)

The phone rang. I was at home, watching This Morning (as you do when you’ve got a day off). My Mum was doing the ironing. I answered the phone.

“Hi, is that Andy? It’s Quentin Tarantino.”

INSERT BIG EXPLETIVE HERE.

QT explained that he had recently moved house, and whilst unpacking he found my envelope in a box. He read my letter and script and wanted to let me know he enjoyed my writing. Imagine your hero letting you know you were worthy - that’s what it felt like. We chatted for half an hour, during which I got to ask him about Pulp Fiction (he’d just started editing it) and what Reservoir Dogs meant.

I went to work the following Monday and told my friends in the basement that QT had phoned me. They all thought I was lying, naturally. Bang on cue, a colleague from upstairs came down to ask if Tarantino had phoned me. I’d written my letter to QT on my employer’s headed notepaper.

I’d asked QT if I could send him another script of mine. He gave me his office details, and told me how to mark up the cover letter. Off went my script to America, and…

Failing to capitalise on a single phone call weighed on me for many years. Not that I expected anything more than what it was, but the story would often come up in conversation and would always end with “Well, what happened next?” It got to the point where if it cropped up in conversation I would shrink and play it down.

What happened next was… nothing. And it would be wrong to expect anything else. Certainly, when I initially took the phone call it blew my mind - but there was never an expectation that he was going to take me under his wing and mentor me as my own personal Obi Wan or whatever. Those sorts of phone calls only exist in the movies. Mine was just a phone call.

Some believed I should keep pushing - PERSISTING - keep trying anything to maintain a tenuous level of contact. But it was what it was: A nice gesture from someone who didn’t have to pick up the phone and dial my number.

Certainly it became a nice story to tell - and it always piqued the interest of potential employers, and it did lead me to my first job working on a bona fide film set.

(See? The ball bounced off the wall and rebounded off my face, only to land in the net.)

1994

My boss at Metro left, and the new guy held the belief that I wasn’t a good fit for the company image. To him, I was an “ugly youth” (his words) who should be replaced with some “fit birds” (again, his words). He didn’t like me, and he wasn’t exactly endearing himself to me.

So I bought Screen International from the newsagents across the road on Oxford Street and wrote to whatever was about to go into production. The first film which caught my eye was Judge Dredd.

So I wrote to the production office, mentioning my recent QT story in the hope of impressing them into giving me a job, and…

I was never sure what the slightly cryptic PS was all about: I was never certain if I had offended Mr. Cannon by mentioning Tarantino/not mentioning him, or if his PS was a face-value innocent comment: You decide. The fact of the matter was, I did go to Nottingham in the hope of seeing Tarantino and not Cannon (I honestly had no idea he was there!).

Anyway: Cut to a week and a bit later.

Dammit.

I was now “in between jobs”, and was back into writing to every single production that was about to start rolling. Then I received a phone call inviting me to interview for a low-budget film. Office runner. I met with the line producer, whose first question was “Tell me about the Tarantino thing”.

Bing. Job landed.

Three months based at St. Katherine’s Dock in London led to being offered the chance to be an on-set runner at Twickenham Studios, then shooting on location in Oxford.

I soldiered on that job: wake up at 4.45 am, on the train by 5.15, at Twickenham Studios by 8.30, back home around 11-11.30 pm. I was on my feet all day and barely eating. People began to ask if I was ill.

From here I began to make contacts in the film industry. People I could show my scripts to.

1995

My YT course was finished, but a few months later I was invited to an award ceremony. I was the first person to receive such an award on the film/TV course.

I would pop back to the college to “borrow” their edit suite from time to time, and my ex-tutor informed me she would tell my story to the next influx of students as an encouragement for them.

1995 was the year in which I wrote ten screenplays. Were they any good? The honest answer is “bits of them”. Some were downright nonsense. One script was written in a weekend. Another was written for a would-be producer, which gave me my first taste of writing to someone else’s suggestions, even if that someone else was a complete fantasist who had no way of getting the film made. But then it takes one to know one, right?

You mean James Cameron DOESN’T want to read my stuff? How rude.

I also wrote my first adaptation of a novel. I was heavily into H.G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds and took it upon myself to write a version that was close to the book i.e. set in the 1890’s, which always felt like the point of the book: That mankind just wasn’t up to the task of battling an alien invasion. I also included touches of Jeff Wayne’s musical, which I was (and still am) obsessed with. I had it all worked out: Anthony Hopkins would play Ogilvy the astronomer, Tim Roth the infantryman, and Gary Oldman the journalist. Hugh Grant was going to be a new-ish character, Stent (who features at the start of the book and always struck me as a bit of a git). Hugh would be the villain who, at the end of the book, was offering up humans to appease the Martians (a sort of Ant-Overlord-worshipping Kent Brockman). It was the first script I had written which ticked the box of ‘This is EXACTLY what I was hoping for’ (even if, looking back, I’d make some major edits). It was a boost to my writing confidence, even if I didn’t possess the film rights and had no chance of getting the film made.

Whilst working on film/television sets, I realised I wanted to be making films myself. I loved being on a set, working with strangers who you would get to know whilst navigating through all the frustrations and restrictions. It’s a cliche, but I don’t care - it was where I felt alive.

So I made a grainy black and white short film on 16mm film, which taught me a lot about what not to do - but then I was onto the next one: A feature film. I had read ‘Rebel Without a Crew’ by Robert Rodriguez, which completely inspired me. But his story is the exception. And mine was not his. We started rehearsals knowing we had NO MONEY, other than my savings (which would just about cover camera hire). I was doing the usual write-to-everyone begging letters, and nothing was working and time was running out.

And then:

We had the money to cover developing the film/telecine costs, which meant I would be able to edit. If only I could find a free edit suite. Which I did, in a sales showroom of a Soho video company. It was a nightmare, but the only way to get it done. I would receive random calls to say I could come in and would have to do so at the drop of a hat. Then came the bombshell that the AVID I was working on was to be sold, meaning I had to rush the edit and get it all completed in a weekend before the drives were wiped. Not the best way to make a film, no.

1997

Writing, writing, writing. Scripts went out to agents and production companies, the no’s came back. I pitched lots of projects to producers - one producer in particular lowered his tone and pointed a serious finger at me, saying “There will NEVER be a television series about zombies”, which is always a good reminder to stick to your vision/beliefs. I wrote a script about my times working on films, which received a fair response from Eric Fellner from Working Title:

I made a (again, no budget) tv pilot for a comedy drama which was meant to be the antidote to Channel 4’s Hollyoaks, only to be informed by Channel 4 that they already have Hollyoaks.

“But I was taking shots at Hollyoaks!”

LIVE TV (yes, THAT Live TV: the one with the news bunny) were interested in the project for a brief moment - there were meetings, and all sounded promising until they suddenly were not.

So I wrote another script, this time determined to up the quality whilst keeping it affordable (minimum locations, small cast). Imagine a murder/mystery with the cast of Friends. That was the concept. That script was probably the first where I felt like there was something there. I rewrote and edited it repeatedly, and for a moment Luke Goss (of Bros fame) was interested in playing the dead body… Things started moving with it and then… stopped.

1999

The year where “Letters of Note” became “E-mails of Note”.

In my endless quest for an agent, I had sent yet ANOTHER script to one of the biggest agencies in the UK, Peters Fraser and Dunlop, only to receive ANOTHER rejection. But this time was slightly different: They replied, suggesting I contact one of their ex-agents who had recently set up his own small agency (I mean, I was never going to get signed with PFD anyway!), so I contacted Rupert Heath.

Rupert asked for a sample of what I considered the best example of my writing. I had just finished writing a 180-page sci-fi western which I had written out of pure frustration/pleasing myself: I just threw everything into it because why not? To my amazement, Rupert replied saying he wanted to meet the person who wrote THAT script to find out if they were actually crazy. He loved the script, and it was immensely satisfying to finally talk to someone who GOT IT. He understood what I was aiming for. Yes, he had a big list of notes and suggestions for edits - the main one being “cut the first 30 pages and re-do it”, which made me feel physically sick/indignant, but deep down I knew he was right. So I did it, and the script was all the better for it.

There were more edits, and eventually, I got the script into shape (and down to 120 pages!). It remains a personal favourite because it’s pure imagination, but what made it work was having someone alongside me, give feedback and help me edit the damn thing: It was the first time I had experienced the editing process, and it was an eye-opener. No longer saying “that’s good enough” would do (because it never did!).

Rupert believed in the script, but at his admission, he was more books than film. He punted the script around town, even back to PFD who said my script was “too epic” and only Ridley Scott or Terry Gilliam could make it work, which sounded nice but also sounded like… talk. There were possible leads to this producer and that director, but in the end, Rupert suggested I should turn the script into a novel.

That terrified me. You have to be educated and smart to do that, right? I ran away from that idea because I didn’t think I had it in me. Thankfully now I know I’m not smart or educated enough to do it, so WHY SHOULDN’T I DO IT?

My story doesn’t end there (I will be writing more about my exploits at a later date), but the letters of note do, so this seems like a good place to wrap things up.

How do I feel when looking back?

On one hand, I could cry for sixteen-year-old me, because he was just so naive. He didn’t know himself at all, just the world he had created for himself. On the other, I think he did the best with what he had, and whilst I am not the same person as I was then, I am still on the climb with some better skills, if not so much of the opportunity to take the same risks.

Arnold Schwarzenegger maintains to this day that using negative energy to fuel the fire - AKA KEEP GOING - is perfectly acceptable, just so long as you’re not hurting anyone. I get what he’s saying, and having an “I’ll show ‘em” mentality can keep that necessary fire going, but you need to keep checks on that approach.

As the years went on I was developing quite an argumentative streak. Call it fighting for what you believe in, standing your ground or whatever - the thing was, I grew tired of it. Films and writing had always come first, but now I had to put myself first.

Whilst raising my children, I continued to write when I could, and eventually plucked up the courage to write a book. My first attempt blew out at fifty pages. I was starting from scratch and just didn’t have a clue. But a year later I tried again, and I wrote the first draft of the comedy/murder-mystery Backstabbers. This took a long time to finish (mainly due to a hip injury which meant sitting at my desk was agony), but it was the most rewarding thing I had written so far because I had said everything I wanted to say - whereas with scripts you’re always trying to cut everything within an nth degree of its life. That’s not to say my book is bloated and rambling, more that I wasn’t constrained by the format of a screenplay. Since then I’ve written another book, Nostalgia, and I’m working on many more.

Around May/June this year, I was mentoring a film student, and I would repeat the same message over and over.

ASK.

PERSIST.

ENCOURAGEMENT. Find it. Use it. And encourage others, even if it’s a small gesture. It could make a world of difference.

Keep climbing.