Local Hero E-Book

Jonathan Melville

• Herausgeber: Polaris
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

'It's not a high concept movie, there's actually no story there really. It's what happens in between the story that's important' – Bill Forsyth The story of an American businessman sent to buy the Scottish village of Ferness with the aim of turning it into an oil refinery, Local Hero is one of Scotland's most beloved, and most misunderstood, films. When Bill Forsyth's incredible success with the low-budget That Sinking Feeling and Gregory's Girl found him collaborating with Britain's best-known film producer, David Puttnam, he soon found his independent ethos clashing with Hollywood's desire for superstar actors and a happy ending. Jonathan Melville checks into the MacAskill Arms and looks back at Bill Forsyth's career with the help of new and archive interviews, before spending time with the cast and crew, including stars Peter Riegert and Denis Lawson, who made Local Hero on location in Houston and Scotland in 1982. With access to early drafts of the Local Hero script (including hand-written notes) that reveal more about Mac and mermaids, excerpts from a previously unpublished interview in which Bill Forsyth explains why he refuses to call his film 'feel-good', and a look at long-lost deleted scenes with exclusive commentary from those involved, this is the definitive history of the Scottish classic. 'Genuine fairy tales are rare; so is film-making that is thoroughly original in an unobtrusive way. Bill Forsyth's quirky disarming Local Hero is both . . . it demonstrates Mr. Forsyth's uncanny ability for making an audience sense that something magical is going on, even if that something isn't easily explained' – Janet Maslin, The New York Times 'Local Hero is kind of transcendent. It's poetic in a way that most films can't hope to be' – Frank Cottrell-Boyce 'Local Hero is one my favourite films of all time . . .  A timeless masterpiece' – Mark Kermode

Leseprobe

First published in 2022 by

POLARIS PUBLISHING LTD

c/o Aberdein Considine

2nd Floor, Elder House

Multrees Walk

Edinburgh

EH1 3DX

www.polarispublishing.com

Text copyright © Jonathan Melville, 2022

Map copyright © Ben Morris, 2022

ISBN: 9781913538866

eBook ISBN: 9781913538873

The right of Jonathan Melville to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

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British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

Designed and typeset by Polaris Publishing, Edinburgh

Printed in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM JONATHAN MELVILLE:

A Kind of Magic: Making the Original Highlander

Seeking Perfection: The Unofficial Guide to Tremors

For Iain MacColl

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

INTRODUCTION

1: Learning the ropes

2: A domino effect

3: David vs the Studios

4: No violence, just eccentrics

5: Mr Forsyth goes to Houston

6: Mr Happy Happy

7: Taking the high road

8: Scotland-bound

9: East is East and West is West

10: Roaming in the gloaming

11: Going to church

12: Ad libs and ammonia

13: Ongoing negotiations

14: Sea and sky

15: Fishy business

16: The ceilidh

17: Ten thousand grains of sand

18: She’s the boss

19: Last call

20: Hero worship

21: Living with Local Hero

AFTERWORD

REFERENCES

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Bill Forsyth and Peter Riegert standby as clapperboard operator James Ainslie gets ready to signal filming for scene one, take one in Houston. © Graham Attwood

Bill Forsyth directs a boardroom shot in Houston, backed by Jonathan Benson, Anne Rapp, Jan Pester and Mike Coulter. © Graham Attwood

Roger Murray-Leach, Iain Smith, Bill Forsyth and Chris Menges in Pennan. ©Warner Brothers / courtesy Everett Collection

Bill Forsyth and David Puttnam on Camusdarach Beach. © Everett Collection Inc / Alamy

Burt Lancaster and Peter Riegert on the Happer Tower set in Fort William. ©Warner Brothers/courtesy Everett Collection

Members of the cast pose with local extras from the Fort William area during the shooting of the church scenes. © Graham Attwood

Ferness (or rather Pennan) from above. © Iain Masterton / Alamy

Jonathan Watson (far left), John Gordon Sinclair (on motorcycle), Bill Forsyth, James Kennedy, Tam Dean Burn, Charles Kearney (with Luke Coulter in pram), Caroline Guthrie and Jimmy Yuill. ©Warner Brothers / courtesy Everett Collection

Peter Riegert poses near Camusdarach Beach. © Maximum Film / Alamy

In a scene deleted from the film, Gideon (David Mowat) discusses mermaids with Danny (Peter Capaldi). © Graham Attwood

Continuity stills show another angle to the deleted scene, plus Peter Capaldi listening to his Walkman between scenes. ©Bill Forsyth / University of Edinburgh’s Centre for Research Collections

Fulton Mackay and ten thousand grains of sand. © Warner Brothers / courtesy Everett Collection

Peter Riegert and Christopher Rozycki between takes. © Allstar Picture Library Limited. / Alamy Stock

Ben’s shack on Camusdarach Beach. © Graham Attwood

Riegert, Burt Lancaster and Peter Capaldi on the beach. © Alamy

Burt Lancaster, Bill Forsyth and Fulton McKay discuss a scene. ©Warner Brothers / courtesy Everett Collection

Bill Forsyth and Burt Lancaster plan a scene as Denis Lawson stands by. © Graham Attwood

Front from left: Denis Lawson, Jennifer Black. Centre from left: Peter Capaldi, Peter Riegert, Christopher Rozyki. Rear from left: Burt Lancaster, Fulton Mackay. © Warner Brothers/courtesy Everett Collection

Local Hero poster. © Alamy

A fiery sunset in Pennan. Courtesy of Fiona McRae / Focal Pennan

The Northern Lights visible in the night sky behind Pennan’s surviving phone box. Courtesy of Monika Focht Photography, Pennan Inn BnB & Gallery

INTRODUCTION

ALTHOUGH BORN AND raised in Scotland, it wasn’t until I started university in the mid-1990s that I realised my home country had anything resembling a film industry.

Up until then I’d never really considered Scotland’s indigenous output, happy to watch whatever our three terrestrial broadcasters, BBC, ITV, and Channel 4, offered up alongside VHS rentals from the local corner shop and the occasional visit to the cinema in Inverness, 50 miles away from my home in Golspie. For most of my teenage years, Scottish TV meant dramas such as Tutti Frutti and Taggart, comedies like City Lights and Rab C. Nesbitt, or the soap opera Take the High Road. By no means a bad range of programming, but if you didn’t want to watch something set in Glasgow then you were pretty much out of luck.

Moving to Edinburgh in 1994, I became a regular at the Cameo and Odeon cinemas where, alongside the latest Hollywood fare, I noticed what seemed to be a never-ending stream of Scottish films appearing in the listings: the likes of Shallow Grave (1994), Small Faces (1995), Braveheart (1995), Rob Roy (1995), Loch Ness (1996) and Trainspotting (1996). Mel Gibson’s history-book-trashing Braveheart won five Oscars and reignited Scotland’s tourist industry, while Danny Boyle’s Trainspotting terrified the Tourist Board with its depiction of heroin addicts in present-day Edinburgh. They needn’t have worried: The List put ‘the radge quartet’ of Ewan McGregor, Jonny Lee Miller, Robert Carlyle and Ewen Bremner on the front cover of a February ’96 issue and exclaimed that ‘the intoxicating film version of Irvine Welsh’s modern classic . . . has more resonance in the hip, self-aware 90s than stylised “youth” films like Shopping’. For a few months at least, being Scottish was cool.

As aware as I was of this surge of Scottish cinema, it wasn’t until I wrote an article for my course magazine that I realised most of the Scottish films I was watching weren’t really Scottish at all. Braveheart had been made with American money and mostly filmed in Ireland, while Trainspotting was funded by Channel 4 in England. Some home-grown films did receive public funding from the likes of the Glasgow Film Fund, others from the Scottish Film Production Fund, but there were strict criteria film-makers had to meet. For my first foray into film journalism, I wanted to find out why my home country was suddenly all over the big screen.

Celia Stevenson, director of Scottish Screen Locations, whose remit was to market Scotland as a filming location, told me, ‘Script is always what drives a film. If you don’t have a good script, you don’t have anything. Rob Roy was such a script. We also have the talent, the crews and facilities to back that up. There is a genuine want to come and film in this country; to put Scotland on the film map, as it were.’ Stevenson opened my eyes to a world of Scottish film-making I’d never considered before, explaining that as well as our incredible locations being a cinematographer’s dream, our long summer days meant more hours available for filming, while the famous Scottish weather lent a unique quality of light to productions. Accessibility was also a major plus, with film crews able to arrive at Glasgow airport and be in the heart of the Highlands, the Borders, or on a remote island in a matter of hours.

I quoted Trainspotting producer Andrew MacDonald as highlighting the quality of Scottish technicians, stating they were ‘some of the best in the country, partly because they all know each other and work together all the time. They’re like a team.’ I also discovered that change was coming in the shape of Scottish Screen, a new body combining Scottish Screen Locations, the Scottish Film Production Fund and the Scottish Screen Council. Meanwhile, the National Lottery had awarded over £3 million in development money to bring two Scottish novels to the screen (Neil Gunn’s The Silver Darlings and Alasdair Gray’s Poor Things), along with John Byrne’s play The Slab Boys, though only the latter ever made it into production.

But would the rise in Scotland-based productions translate to an actual Scottish film industry, one which didn’t rely so heavily on outside companies basing themselves here for a few days or weeks and which might even be self-funded? I ended my article pondering whether such activity was a sign that, unlike that classic ‘Scottish’ film Brigadoon (1954), our film industry wouldn’t soon vanish into the Highland mist.

While my two-page article was never meant to be a deep dive into the Scottish film industry, and it would be another decade until I started writing professionally about film and TV, today I can see how rooted in the moment it was, avoiding any mention of the sector’s history and focusing on the future. For a 20-year-old student it was probably only right that I was thinking of where things were going rather than where they’d been, but over the next few years I watched or rewatched older films, including 1949’s Whisky Galore!, 1973’s The Wicker Man, 1985’s Restless Natives and a couple of titles from director Bill Forsyth (1980’s Gregory’s Girl and 1983’s Local Hero), realising that the past really did inform the present.

The more I saw actors such as Jimmy Yuill, Alex Norton, Barbara Rafferty, Rikki Fulton, Caroline Guthrie, Jonathan Watson and Dave Anderson crop up in the likes of Doctor Finlay (1993–96), The Tales of Para Handy (1994–95), Hamish Macbeth (1995–97), and the ever-present Taggart, the more I realised that while Ewan McGregor was off fighting stormtroopers in the Star Wars prequels and Bobby Carlyle was taking on James Bond in The World is Not Enough (1999), a kind of unofficial repertory company was keeping the home fires burning. They were the public face of a screen industry powered by writers, producers, directors, technicians, editors, sound engineers, runners and dozens of other experts in their field, names the viewing public doesn’t usually recognise. If they’ve done their job right then they’re invisible, their list of credits only of interest to the next broadcaster or production company.

Just as the 1990s were about to give way to a new millennium, articles appeared in the press about another film from Bill Forsyth, a sequel to Gregory’s Girl called Gregory’s Two Girls, which would reunite him with John Gordon Sinclair. The articles focused on Forsyth’s history of making feature films, which stretched back to the late 1970s, mentioning how he’d funded 1979’s That Sinking Feeling without relying on the equivalent of Scottish Screen or the National Lottery.

I soon realised that I’d missed a major piece of information in my 1996 article, and that any analysis of the current film industry had to include at least a passing reference to Bill Forsyth; though, in reality, books could be written on his contribution to Scotland’s film and TV sector. I’d failed to note that the Scottish Film Production Fund was founded just a few years after Forsyth’s twin successes with That Sinking Feeling and Gregory’s Girl had raised the profile of Scottish cinema. Soon after that he was making Local Hero on a budget of £3 million. I’d missed the fact that, thanks to their work on Forsyth’s films, particularly That Sinking Feeling, many of the crew were then able to find work on bigger productions, while the largely amateur cast could also go on to work professionally in other TV series or features.

Of course, it didn’t matter to the handful of people who had read my original article that I’d glossed over this information, but as the years went by I was keen to find out more about Forsyth’s work and importance to my country’s cultural history. By 2008, 12 years after my first attempt at film journalism, the much-anticipated Scottish production boom of the late ’90s had never materialised; though TV shows and films continued to be made each year, many funded by Scottish Screen, there was still no sign of a dedicated film studio in Scotland, despite numerous newspaper reports suggesting viability studies were being commissioned every few years.

In February 2008, I attended a 25th anniversary screening of Local Hero at the Glasgow Film Festival, seizing on the opportunity to hear stories from members of the cast and crew and to watch the film on the big screen. ‘Just to warn you, I always start crying when the music starts at the end,’ said a woman in the row behind me to her friends before Festival co-director Allan Hunter introduced Iain Smith (Local Hero’s associate producer), Roger Murray-Leach (production designer), Denis Lawson (Gordon Urquhart), Jennifer Black (Stella Urquhart), Tam Dean Burn (Roddy), Jonathan Watson (Jonathan) and Dave Anderson (Fraser) to the stage.

We heard about building fake churches, filming inside distilleries, Hollywood stars dropping their trousers, and how the cast and crew spent weeks on end in idyllic surroundings eating the finest seafood. The making of Local Hero sounded not only like a dream job, but a dream full stop.

Fast-forward another five years, and by 2013 I’d found myself working with the team behind Screen Machine, an articulated lorry which doubled as Scotland’s only mobile cinema, touring the Highlands and Islands screening the latest films for communities which couldn’t easily make it to a bricks-and-mortar cinema. For the cinema’s 15th anniversary, we’d organised a screening of Local Hero in Mallaig to coincide with the film’s 30th anniversary, close to Camusdarach Beach where much of the film was shot. In attendance would be Bill Forsyth and his long-time friend and colleague Iain Smith, making it a dream event for Screen Machine’s lead operator Iain MacColl who, along with Neil MacDonald, kept the lorry on the road in all weathers.

So it was, on a wet November evening in 2013, that Forsyth and Smith joined us along with 80 film fans to watch Local Hero on the big screen, followed by a Q&A session at which I was finally able to put the kind of questions to the pair that I’d long been wanting to ask. For more than 40 minutes we were able to discuss all aspects of the film’s production, from casting Peter Riegert to shooting mist on a Highland road, from the real fate of Trudi the rabbit to what the film really meant to its director. By sheer coincidence it turned out that the date we’d chosen to show the film was the centenary of Burt Lancaster’s birth, lending an extra poignancy to the night.

A few years ago, with Local Hero’s 40th anniversary fast approaching, I decided it was time to look at the film in more detail, partly to make up for my own lack of research in 1996, but mainly because for me it’s undoubtedly the best film to have been made in Scotland by a Scottish director and with a predominately Scottish cast and crew, though whether it’s technically a ‘Scottish’ film depends on your point of view and is something I’m happy to debate over a 42-year-old whisky in the MacAskill Arms.

If I’m being honest, I have no idea when I first watched Local Hero. For many of us, it’s just always been there, part of Scottish culture, ingrained in our collective psyche. There’s no single thing that makes it work for me, just a combination of intelligent writing, the perfect cast, incredible locations, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on that’s only present in certain films which burrow deep inside you and refuse to budge.

Thanks to the generosity of many of the women and men who were involved in the making of the film and with Bill Forsyth’s wider career, I’ve pieced together as complete a record of the production as I could. Thanks then to the following for taking the time to chat over the phone or by Zoom: Matthew Binns, Jennifer Black, Michael Bradsell, David Brown, Tam Dean Burn, Alan Clark, Paddy Higson, Denis Lawson, Roger Murray-Leach, Peter Riegert, Alistair Scott, Jenny Seagrove, John Gordon Sinclair, Iain Smith, Anne Sopel, Frank Walsh, Jonathan Watson, Arthur Wicks, Jimmy Yuill and Sandra Voe. I’ve also transcribed my 2013 interview with Bill Forsyth, and you’ll read excerpts from it throughout the book.

Other interviews have been culled from newspaper, magazine and TV archives, plus a few reference books. If I’ve not interviewed someone who’s still alive then it’s not for want of trying; it’s either because they’ve declined, not replied to emails, or I’m unable to find their contact details. Where possible, I’ve still tried to represent their side of the story via archive interviews.

Part oral history, part scene-by-scene breakdown, I’ve focused on trying to tell the personal stories behind the production, sometimes going into intricate technical details but mostly focusing on what it meant to be on set in Houston and Scotland in 1982 as Local Hero went from script to screen. For those of us who couldn’t be there, this is as close as we’re going to get. So, please keep the noise down, the first assistant director is about to shout . . . ‘Action!’

Jonathan Melville

Edinburgh

October 2022

ONE

LEARNING THE ROPES

‘Film-making is a pretty grubby occupation.’

Bill Forsyth

GLASGOW HAS ALWAYS been a city in love with the cinema. By 1939, Glaswegians were said to be the UK’s most-enthusiastic cinema-goers, making their way to the likes of the Majestic, the Govanhill or the Calder to watch the latest Cary Grant, Jimmy Cagney or Bette Davis movie an average of 51 times a year, compared to 35 times for the rest of Scotland and a paltry 21 in England.

Just six years later, things had changed dramatically, the war in Europe having closed many picture houses or halted the building of new ones. When war ended in 1945 and a populace tired of years of austerity embraced the opportunity to be once more entertained in the safety of their local picture palace, cinema-owners’ fears that their industry was mortally wounded proved unfounded; 1946 saw more tickets sold than at any time in the history of the medium.

That same year, on 29 July, William David Forsyth was born in the Whiteinch area of Glasgow, north of the River Clyde and close to the Clydeholm shipyard where his father worked as a plumber. It’s unclear how often young Bill was taken to the local cinema to watch the latest cartoons or serials, but it is known that, while he was a pupil at Knightswood School, the headmaster surprised his pupils one day with a screening of Jacques Tati’s Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday (1953). The film’s numerous sight gags had a lasting effect on the boy. ‘I didn’t even mind that it was in black and white and a foreign language – almost all of the fun in it was visual,’ revealed Forsyth to Gerald Peary. ‘I’ve seen Hulot lots of times since.’

Keen on becoming a writer when he left school aged 17, Forsyth’s plans changed in January 1964 when he answered an advert in the local paper placed by documentary film-maker Stanley Russell. It read, ‘Lad required for film production company, Maryhill.’ Forsyth was soon making his way to Russell’s Thames and Clyde Films alongside a school friend, the pair ending up with back-to-back interviews for the job. While the initial questions seemed easy enough to answer – ‘Can you handle a broom?’ ‘Can you use a lawnmower,’ ‘Can you drive a car?’ (Forsyth explained that he couldn’t, but he could wash them) – the most important part of the interview was when he was asked to move a heavy piece of equipment and managed to do so. Forsyth notes that it ‘was in the old days of the one-man documentary film companies. One man and a boy, and I was that boy.’

Successfully beating his friend to the position, Forsyth started at Thames and Clyde on Monday, 10 February 1964 on a salary of £3 a week, Stanley Russell looking after the filming of a series of short, sponsored films while his young apprentice ‘had to do virtually everything [the boss] didn’t’. Forsyth took on the job of assistant editor, assistant cameraman, assistant sound recordist, or whatever was required on a particular project, the pair travelling the length and breadth of Scotland’s Central Belt between Glasgow and Fife, filming everything that moved, ‘and if it refused to move we panned across it, or tilted up it . . . what we made were glorified magic-lantern shows, pictures with words’.

Forsyth’s introduction to screenwriting came just a month into the job, when Russell asked him to write a script for the Bank of Scotland called Order to Pay. ‘They were trying to encourage people to open cheque accounts in 1964, so it was quite pioneering, I suppose,’ explained Forsyth to Allan Hunter in 1990.

The young man’s interest in cinema blossomed during this period, regular visits to Glasgow’s Cosmo cinema (now the Glasgow Film Theatre) and their regular screenings of European films such as Louis Malle’s Le Feu Follet (1963) and Jean Luc-Godard’s Pierrot le Fou (1965) being of particular interest. ‘You would go around in a leather jacket, smoking Gaulloise [sic] and trying to pretend you were French. I suppose it was a revelation to find that movies could be different to the run of the mill thing that would turn up at the Odeon, Anniesland.’

After learning the ropes at Thames and Clyde, Forsyth was tempted into making his own experimental films in the late 1960s, including Waterloo (1968) and Language (1969), explaining that the latter was ‘a human story that wasn’t told in dramatic narrative but in a psychological monologue. There was lots of talking in it, incident, bits of poetry, information and what you were supposed to get from it was a sense of human loss and distance; emotional, physical and temporal distance.’

Waterloo was entered into the Edinburgh International Film Festival where it was met with audience apathy, many patrons walking out before it had finished, prompting Forsyth to claim that it ‘was the first moment I felt like a film-maker because I had actually moved an audience. If not emotionally or anything else, I had actually moved them out of their seats.’ Meeting Hollywood director Samuel Fuller at a festival party and describing Waterloo to him, the American took a swing at Forsyth, shouting, ‘What an insult to your audience!’ According to the director, Fuller’s response helped ‘nudge’ him into narrative cinema.

Soon after, Forsyth joined film-makers Eddie McConnell and Laurence Henson at International Film Associates (IFA) Scotland, a company producing sponsored films for the likes of the Central Office of Information and the Children’s Film Foundation, and it was during his time there that he met a young man called Iain Smith, who was interested in starting a career in film-making. ‘They were generally accepted as the most successful film company in Scotland at that time,’ explains Smith, noting that there were others who made ‘pretty tedious stuff’, but that McConnell and Henson had ‘a kind of edge’ to them.

Keen to get some experience with the film-makers, Smith visited them in their basement office and came face to face with Bill Forsyth. ‘Bill was standing there, and I was thinking, He’s a real editor, and he was like, Who’s this prick that’s just walked in? And so it proved to be, because I started to comment over his shoulder, “Wouldn’t it be better to make that cut just a wee bit sooner?” which he took very measuredly, but he’s never forgotten. To this day he’ll say, “You came in and told me how to do my job,” which is what I’ve spent my life doing, telling people how to do their job better.’

Smith is referring to the fact that today he’s one of the UK’s most sought after producers, with credits including Children of Men (2006) and Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), but as the 1970s rolled around he was still trying to find his feet in the film industry, accepting a place at the London Film School. Bill Forsyth soon followed him south for a short stint as one of the inaugural intake of students at the newly established National Film and Television School in 1971, where he claimed he ‘lorded it over the Cambridge and Oxford graduates and the Commonwealth cousins who hadn’t seen an Arri or a Steenbeck before’.

Leaving the school before the course ended, Forsyth returned to Glasgow in 1972 and teamed up with his old IFA Scotland colleague Charles Gormley to establish their own company, Tree Films, their aim being to make Scotland-based feature films. In reality, the three men spent the next six years producing sponsored films as part of the Films of Scotland collection, a series of 150 shorts which charted the changing face of Britain from 1955 to 1982. The films were made under the auspices of the second Films of Scotland Committee (itself established by the Scottish Council for Development and Industry), representing all branches of the film industry, tourism and local and national administration and manufacturing. Tree Films produced films such as the Forsyth-directed Islands of the West (1972), a 27-minute film looking at the scenic beauty of the Hebrides, and Shapes in the Water (1974), a Fulton Mackay-narrated look at Highland boat-building.

Following his time in London, Iain Smith also made his way back to Glasgow, joining Forsyth at Tree Films, which he recalls being inside ‘a little shed at the back of a Park Circus building. As far as I can remember, I was the only one with any common sense. Charlie was a wonderful man who loved to talk about Hollywood, but running a company? No. Bill? No. Bill was idiosyncratic to a T. So, I was the one saying, “This month we spent £520 more than we did last month, this is not a good sign.” We got to know each other really well there and we made quite a few of these sponsored documentaries; anyone who wanted a film about anything, we were up for it. I would do the budgets, get the money, and make sure we were spending less than we got. Bill and I became friends. He trusted me, as much as he trusted anybody.’

Despite being paid to work at his craft, Forsyth revealed in a 1982 episode of BBC Scotland’s long-running Current Affairs series that he was never very happy as a documentary film-maker, though he admitted it was a useful training ground. ‘You can learn your craft, because if you’re making a film about something that isn’t inherently interesting, then by the efforts that you make to make it interesting, you’re learning. We had to make films about marine engines, and not very exotic ones. They were only on things like tug boats; they were kind of backup-generator diesel engines. So, if you’ve got to apply your mind to thinking of ways of making that interesting, you’re actually exercising your film-making brain in quite a good way.’

Forsyth looked back at his time at Tree Films as ‘virtually a hand-to-mouth existence’, going on to state that ‘money is the perennial problem in the film industry, simply because making films is an expensive business’. In programme notes for the 1979 Edinburgh International Film Festival programme, Forsyth wrote that a few years earlier his career as a documentary film-maker was ‘in a bit of a mess. I had always felt slightly ill-at-ease in the role, although I liked the costume – the tweedy jacket and the wellingtons and the expensive anorak. The crunch came when I found myself up the mighty Amazon River with a film crew on a hunting expedition, up to my scalp in debt.’

The director had travelled to South America to document a joint British and Ecuadorian expedition investigating the claims of Erich von Däniken’s book, Gold of the Gods, in which the author claimed that cave formations were created by alien life forms using laser technology. Said Forsyth, ‘The flying saucers didn’t materialise, and neither did the final payment of £15,000 from the “Producer”. Luckily we had insisted on return air tickets before we left Britain. They were safely wrapped up in plastic bags to protect them from rapid decay in the tropical moistness.’ Back home in Scotland, the director sat in the cutting room hacking 20,000 feet of film into 1979’s The Legend of Los Tayos for Thames Television, realising that he ‘couldn’t be any worse off’ if he was making a feature film.

Glasgow-born actor Bill Paterson knew Forsyth during his documentary film-making days, explaining that it was while ‘he was making films with Charlie Gormley doing programmes about the herring industry and Harris tweed, as Scottish film-makers did in those days. Because of the success of the theatre revival in and around shows such as The Cheviot, the Stag and the Black Black Oil, which I was in during the mid-’70s as part of the 7:84 group, there was a great sense of Scottish theatre showing what was happening at the time in Scotland and in people’s lives. Bill said, “We’ve got to do what you guys have done on stage: we’ve got to get the stories about our lives today in the here and now. We can’t sit and wait for the herring-industry board to give us another job, we’ve got to do it.”’

Forsyth wasn’t alone in his ambitions, and it was in 1976 that he and other Scottish film-makers gathered at Film Bang, a two-day exhibition and conference held in Glasgow to debate issues of funding and create a sense of identity within the sector. A printed directory of the same name was published as part of the event, listing 11 production companies and 66 Scottish film personnel, from animators to videotape producers. In her introduction to the directory, Lynda Myles, director of the Edinburgh International Film Festival, wrote: ‘Scotland at present is on the threshold of great change . . . if Scottish cinema is to have any relevance to life in Scotland, a feature film industry must be established.’

An injection of youth

Desperate to find a way into making feature films, Iain Smith explains that he and Forsyth ‘sort of cartwheeled along’ through the early stages of an idea called ‘Singles’, a story about football and young love. Looking for help to write a character-driven screenplay, Forsyth sought out help from the Glasgow Youth Theatre, located in the Dolphin Arts Centre in the Bridgeton area of the city. At the time, he felt that getting to know the Youth Theatre would be ‘a crafty way’ to get some experience working with actors, writing that ‘the Arts Council will on the odd occasion give a painter or sculptor money to make a film. But would they subsidise the likes of me to spend some time at the theatre? Or maybe even make a little film? Here’s a clue to the answer; painting is an ART, and film-making is not, Arts Council-wise. I didn’t figure that getting to know the Youth Theatre would change my life, but it did. Up until then, I had been more interested in film than in people. Now the balance is better.’

Forsyth would arrive on a Friday to observe everything from play rehearsals to improvisational sessions at the Dolphin from afar, too shy to reveal he was mulling over the idea of writing a film script. When he was properly introduced to the amateur actors, they began improvising scenes which would end up in a script called ‘Gregory’s Girl’, bringing the perspective of young people to his story. One of those young people who joined the Youth Theatre around this time was Gordon Sinclair, who in later years would go by the name of John Gordon Sinclair. On his first day at the Dolphin, Sinclair found the actors rehearsing a scene featuring a nurse from the ‘Gregory’s Girl’ script. ‘I remember going in and standing at the side of the hall and they said, “We’re just doing a scene from a film this guy’s writing.” Rab Buchanan was playing Gregory.’

The story being developed revolved around the central character of teenager Gregory Underwood, a football-mad schoolboy whose experience with girls is limited until he’s introduced to a new recruit on his school football team, Dorothy. As Gregory attempts to get closer to Dorothy, he’s ultimately introduced to another girl, Susan, who is keen on him, the pair going on to become a couple.

For Sinclair, the Youth Theatre was less about becoming an actor and more about meeting like-minded people. ‘I was really into this Canadian rock band Rush, and the very first day I went along there was a guy wearing a Rush T-shirt. Every time I asked anyone else in Glasgow, they didn’t know them, and here was this guy in this shirt and that could only mean one thing: that he’d been to the concert. It was a place where people thought like me. It was never the acting; it was to do with being in a group. I was interested in school plays, and it wasn’t that I’d watched loads of TV or movies. It was much more organic than that with no real thought process. I know Bill wanted to make movies but couldn’t get the money together and he was happy working with a bunch of kids interested in mucking around and theatre.’

With the ‘Gregory’s Girl’ script completed, all Forsyth had to do was find the money to make it, estimating he needed £29,000 to film it on 16mm. ‘Film-making is a pretty grubby occupation,’ he wrote in 1979. ‘Every day you encounter liars and cheats and two-timers. I love it. Setting up a film is probably the most fun of all. Trying to find money for a locally produced feature film in Scotland seemed very much an impossibility. With no track record to tout, no eager audience to boast of, we were in pretty bad shape.’ Forsyth shared his ‘90-page humdinger’ with the British Film Institute (BFI) Production Board and spent the next two years in meetings to discuss his plans, revealing that ‘on different occasions they loved it, hated it, and were indifferent to it. In the end their hatred and indifference triumphed, and I didn’t get the money, not even after I had found one-third of the budget from TV.’

‘The Scottish Film Council were playing hard to get about the £1,500 we were asking for, and this enraged Bill,’ adds Iain Smith. ‘They were the body in Scotland supposed to support film-making and creativity and they were going, “Aye, well, it lacks a bit of enchantment.”’ Dismayed by the response to ‘Gregory’s Girl’, Smith secured work as unit production manager on Death Watch, a new film from French director Bertrand Tavernier starring Harvey Keitel which was to be filmed in Glasgow in 1979, while other local crew and actors were also able to gain experience on the production. Soon after, Smith accepted an offer to meet a team of film-makers in London who were in the early stages of developing a new project led by producer David Puttnam, while Forsyth remained in Glasgow.

Annoyed by the negative reaction to his ‘Gregory’s Girl’ script, Forsyth returned to the Youth Theatre and suggested they make a different film. ‘I felt duty bound to deliver in some way or other [and] I had this determination to show the world we could get by without them. So, we came up with the idea of That Sinking Feeling.’ The film-maker knew the boundaries of his replacement project. With no budget, he’d have to rely on his cast of unknown actors, keeping filming close to the Youth Theatre to save on transport costs.

He also knew that his teenage cast could be relied upon to help improvise a new story, particularly if it was based around the location and world they knew. Said Forsyth, ‘I remember a couple of boys at the Youth Theatre talking about how some locals had broken into a bowling club, and all they’d come away with was a silver trophy with the bowling club name on it, and how difficult it was to move this loot. It led me to this idea of That Sinking Feeling, which was based on kids breaking into a factory and stealing these kind of useless objects and trying to dispose of them.’ The idea workshopped by Forsyth and the actors became a heist story revolving around the theft of sinks from a Glasgow warehouse, with members of the Youth Theatre playing the parts of the young thieves.

In Forsyth’s own words, the film was dedicated to ‘the prowlers’ of Glasgow, ‘young people, aged 16 or so, walking the streets day in and day out. Jobless, they are spending their lives killing time. They live in a world which has reared them for labour and offers them nothing but idleness. The film is about a group of prowlers and what happens to them when they concoct a “way out” of their predicament. It is about the difference between what is going on inside your head and what the rest of the world makes of you. The humour is the humour of the gallows, which is where it all comes from anyway.’

In need of a location for the heist and aware that one of his cast worked at Thomas Graham plumber’s merchants in Bridgeton, Forsyth asked production manager Paddy Higson to approach the owners regarding filming in the building, something she was able to do with ease. Higson is a veteran, Scotland-based producer who in 2018 was awarded a British Academy Award for her Outstanding Contribution to the Scottish Industry, but in the late 1970s, she was busy working alongside her husband Patrick Higson and his partner Murray Grigor as they made numerous Films of Scotland shorts. She notes that her early work involved ‘kind of production managing for them; organising their travel, doing location catering, booking hotels, and whatever else happened to be asked of me’. The trio mixed in the same circles as other Films of Scotland production teams, including Bill Forsyth and Charles Gormley.

Higson’s experience had grown when she was hired to work as a production manager on 1977’s The Mackenzie Affair for New Zealand’s South Pacific Television, meaning she ‘knew a bit about scheduling and budgeting, and I suppose I was just reasonably good at organising things. I got involved with Bill for that reason.’ With Forsyth stung by his treatment by the BFI, Higson notes that he was ‘determined he was going to make something. He’d been turned down by the BFI and by various others, and we had no money. We had two grand in cash.’ The rest of the £5,000 budget was raised from a variety of sources, including £25 from both William Hill and Marks & Spencer, £10 from Glasgow District Trades Council, and £250 from Scottish Television (STV), with money looked after by the newly formed Minor Miracle Film Cooperative. Adds Higson, ‘It was very exciting because the kids who were performing in it were all great fun. They were really good to be working with. There was an atmosphere about the shoot, which was kind of special, and it’s not something that happens very often.’

For Forsyth, That Sinking Feeling proved to be a crash course in making narrative feature films, introducing him to many aspects of production that he’d hone over the next few years. It helped that he was surrounded by a crew which he was comfortable working alongside, some of whom had transferred directly from his Films of Scotland productions, while others had worked on Death Watch. Forsyth directly attributed their willingness to join him to a visit to Glasgow by the founder of the Association of Independent Producers, Richard Craven. The Association had been established in 1976 following the government’s announcement that a Prime Minister’s Working Party would look at how a British Film Authority might be established to encourage British film production. According to Forsyth, Craven ‘addressed a bunch of surly, squabbling, shell-shocked, sponsored film people [and] turned them into a spirited band of Independent Film-makers. In the wake of such political arousals, I was able to gather together the production and performing cooperative of 50 people to make the film.’

One such collaborator was cinematographer Michael Coulter, the second assistant camera operator on Death Watch who now introduced Forsyth to the idea of shooting multiple scenes set in the same location at the same time. ‘We were using the Dolphin as the office space for the factory, filming scenes of two guys dressed up as decoys coming through a door. I said to Mike, “OK, we’ve got that shot, now we’ve got a shot over here . . .” and Mike [who had spent half an hour lighting the shot] said, “Hold it, does anybody else come through that door?” I said, “Oh aye, later on,” and he said, “Well we’ll shoot that now so I don’t have to come back and bloody light it again for another half an hour.” I thought this was great, a terrific idea. That was when my education in feature film-making rapidly expanded.’