Mavens:
This chronicle is for those who screened An Education Saturday. And those who didn't - but intend to, when An Education opens October 23rd.
Here, from the Times of London, is Lynn Barber's telling memoir of the making of the film, An Education, based on her own memoir of what she calls a 'dark and shameful memory' of her childhood. It tells endless truths on how movies get written, financed,staffed, cast, produced - or don't as the case may be. I thought you might be interested.
peter
This chronicle is for those who screened An Education Saturday. And those who didn't - but intend to, when An Education opens October 23rd.
Here, from the Times of London, is Lynn Barber's telling memoir of the making of the film, An Education, based on her own memoir of what she calls a 'dark and shameful memory' of her childhood. It tells endless truths on how movies get written, financed,staffed, cast, produced - or don't as the case may be. I thought you might be interested.
peter
Lynn Barber: My age of innocence
At a party the other day someone asked me quite seriously what I thought about the Oscar chances for “my” film, An Education. Well, I said, equally seriously, Carey Mulligan (who plays me) seems a shoo-in for best-actress nomination, and there is also much talk of Alfred Molina (who plays my father) as best supporting actor. I think Rosamund Pike deserves a supporting nomination because she is absolutely hilarious in the film, but it’s a “well-known fact” that comedy never wins Oscars. And of course Nick Hornby deserves an Oscar for best film adaptation. All this uttered with convincing gravity, as if I actually knew what I was talking about. Since when did I become a film expert? How on earth did it happen?
I suppose it all began six years ago when I wrote about my schoolgirl affair with a conman, Simon, an associate of Peter Rachman, the notorious slum landlord. It was 1960; I was 16, living with my parents in Twickenham, when this suave older man in a red Bristol sports car drew up beside me at a bus stop and offered me a lift home. For the next two years I led a strange double life — going to school and swotting for my A-levels during the week, then swanning off with Simon for weekends in Paris, Rome, Amsterdam.
What was extraordinary was that my parents let me — up till then they’d put all their energy into urging me, their only child, to win every possible scholarship and go to Oxford. But they were completely charmed, or conned, by Simon, to the point that they were putting pressure on me to marry him. I don’t want to give away the denouement but I escaped his clutches in the nick of time. I went to Oxford, he went to prison.
It was a story I always meant to write one day, but I thought it could wait till I was retired and my parents were dead. My parents always hated to be reminded of the Simon debacle — they felt even more betrayed by him than I did. But then my husband was diagnosed with myelofibrosis and told he had only two years to live unless he had a bone-marrow transplant. He was only 58, the same age as me, but suddenly death seemed just around the corner. I went up to my study and wrote the story in about two days flat. I have never written anything so easily before or since — it felt as though the story was already fully formed in my head and I just had to type it out.
I say story, and it felt like a story; I was writing it in a voice that was not quite my own. I think it was the voice of my 18-year-old self: there was an arrogance and sureness of tone the present me can only envy. How brilliant I thought I was then! I published the story in Granta magazine because I didn’t want my parents to see it and knew that Nunton, Wilts, where they lived, was a Granta-free zone. Soon afterwards my agent rang to say a film producer called Amanda Posey wanted to meet me with a view to optioning the story. It was the worst possible timing — my husband was in hospital having his bone-marrow transplant and I was virtually living there — but she said she would come to a nearby coffee bar any time I could get away. She came with her co-producer, Finola Dwyer. They seemed bright enough, but not remotely like my notion of film producers, which involved fat cigars and vicuña overcoats. Amanda asked if I wanted to write the film script myself and seemed delighted when I said no — she said she already had a screenwriter in mind. I thought she was mad and went back to the hospital and forgot about her. It was just one more weird incident in those weeks of constant weirdness that ended with my husband dying.
Among the many funeral bouquets was one “From Nick and Amanda”. Total blank. Some time later my agent explained that Amanda Posey was the girlfriend of Nick Hornby (she is now his wife), and he was the screenwriter she had in mind. He had spotted the story in Granta and showed it to Amanda, who showed it to Finola, who agreed it would make a good film. They kept batting names of possible screenwriters between them and Nick kept finding fault with them (“He was jealous!” says Amanda), till eventually he said: “Why don’t I do it?”
Nick seemed to know the characters way beyond what I’d said about them, and to intuit completely what it felt like to be a l6-year-old schoolgirl who was on the one hand very intelligent but on the other hand very ignorant about the world. He even seemed to understand my parents, which is more than I could ever say myself. He asked a lot about period detail: what posters I had on my bedroom wall, what music I listened to. For a ghastly moment I thought he might be planning a soundtrack full of l960s pop hits — that black hole compounded of Cliff Richard, Paul Anka, Liberace, Lonnie Donegan — but Nick said no, he wanted to know what I and my schoolmates really listened to. So I told him the truth: that we were far too pretentious to listen to pop. We listened to jazz at Eel Pie Island and collected records by French chansonniers like Jacques Brel, Georges Brassens, Juliette Gréco. He evidently took this on board, because it’s reflected in the soundtrack of the film.
I put a clause in the contract that I should have the right to see and comment on (but not alter) every draft Nick wrote. And there were so many drafts over the years — I think eight in all. He fleshed out characters who had been no more than names before and created whole scenes that were not in my story at all. He made me a cellist in the school orchestra and took me to an auction where I bid for a painting by Burne-Jones. He showed a positively eerie understanding of my father, giving him long rants (“Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know”) that are so exactly like the sort of things he might say in real life that
I still have to keep pinching myself to remember Nick Hornby has never actually met Dick Barber. The only bad thing he did was to change Simon’s name to David, which was my husband’s name, and I wish in retrospect I’d put up a fight. While Nick was working on the script, Finola and Amanda were looking for the money to make it. They also started talking to directors and enlisted Beeban Kidron. She was on board for a year and half, and helped Nick develop the script, then she had to jump off-board because she had a prior long-standing commitment to direct Richard Neville’s autobiography, Hippie Hippie Shake, co-scripted by her husband, Lee Hall.
(Big mistake — she made the Neville film but then withdrew her name from the credits.) Nick told me that when Beeban left he was ready to give up. But then Amanda and Finola found Lone Scherfig, and she was passionate about the script. Lone seemed an odd choice, given that she is Danish, but she proved to be exactly right.
Lucy Bevan, the casting director, had already started looking for an actress to play me. They knew it would have to be an unknown, because she was meant to be only 16, but they wanted someone with a bit of experience, and eventually found Carey Mulligan, who had done a memorable episode of Dr Who and played one of the Bennet sisters in Joe Wright’s Pride and Prejudice. When Nick heard she was 22 he had a fit. “I thought they’d buggered it up because I couldn’t believe there was a 22-year-old girl in contemporary Britain who looks innocent in any way. But when I saw Carey’s screen test, I knew she was completely fine, and when I saw her in her school uniform, I thought, oh my God, she looks 14!”
Nick and Amanda asked their friend Emma Thompson to play my headmistress, and she agreed. In fact, she only appears on screen for about five minutes, but it cheered up the backers no end to have an Oscar-winning “name” on board. They were also pleased to have Peter Sarsgaard, who, though not a great box-office name, is universally admired in the industry. And Rosamund Pike clamoured to play the small part of Helen because “no one ever lets me be funny”.
The drafts of the script came and went; the film option was renewed for a second year, a third, a fourth. Occasionally, Amanda or Nick would get in touch and say that such and such an actor was interested, but it all had a comforting never-never feel as far as I was concerned. And then — shock horror! — in December 2007 they e-mailed to say they would start shooting in March. What? I went into complete meltdown. Until then I’d never actually believed that the film would be made (I had plenty of writer friends who’d sold film options without ever seeing a finished film). I thought my Granta story was just fine as it was; I didn’t want to see actors impersonating my parents and audiences criticising them. My parents by now were in their nineties and living in a retirement home. They wouldn’t actually see the film — my father is blind, and they hadn’t been near a cinema for at least 20 years — but they were bound to hear about it. I kept dithering about how to tell them, until my daughters briskly pointed out that my parents never listened to a word I said anyway. So we made a plan that we would take them out to lunch and at some point I would tell them about the film, and Rosie and Theo would be on standby to break a plate or something to distract them if they asked too many questions. I spent the whole lunch in a fever of nerves, but eventually chose my moment and said: “Someone is making a film about my life. About my teenage years, you know, when I went out with Simon?”
“Oh that’s nice,” they said. “We’ve got a new chiropodist. He’s very good.”
And so the moment passed.
Soon afterwards, the film started shooting in London. I heard all about it from my 18-year-old niece, Freya, who played a “featured extra” (so much better than an extra extra) in the crowd scenes and became a walking encyclopaedia on the progress of the film. She lived through the heartbreak when Orlando Bloom pulled out just a week before shooting began. He was meant to be playing Danny, the second male lead, and it was an incredible coup for Amanda and Finola to have got him, and the backers were thrilled.
“The deal was done, he’d had his medical, his security people were all sorted, his dog was about to be put on a plane from Los Angeles to London,” says Finola, “and then he started wobbling. I was on the phone to him all night.”
Then Nick got a call saying Bloom wanted to ring him about a couple of script changes. “He rang me and said how great he thought the script was and how much he liked my writing and he hoped we could work together on something else but it wouldn’t be this. I couldn’t understand how we’d got from a couple of script changes to this. So I rang Amanda and said, ‘He just told me he wasn’t doing it.’ And she said, ‘Well, what did you say to upset him?’ And I said, ‘Nothing.’ So Amanda rang Bloom’s agent, who said, ‘Oh, Nick’s just got the wrong end of the stick. I’ll get Orlando to ring again.’ So he gets on the phone again, and I’m in the kitchen with Amanda and before I can say a word, he starts, ‘As I was saying, it’s a great script and I wish I could do it but I can’t.’ Amanda could hear then that it wasn’t anything I’d said.”
Finola spent two hours on the phone to Bloom; his agent rang him, his manager, his fellow actors, but he was adamant. It remains a mystery why he dropped out; Finola thinks he just lost confidence. Anyway, he served a useful purpose in keeping the backers happy while they closed the deal.
The Bloom phone calls happened on a Tuesday and Wednesday; on Thursday Amanda and Finola decided, “Okay, we’ve got to move on.” They had already talked to Dominic Cooper (The History Boys, Mamma Mia!) long before Bloom came on board, and his agent, hearing rumours of Bloom’s defection, rang and said, “You know, Dominic still loves that part,” so they did a deal that same Thursday. And he is great in the part, so Orlando Bloom missed his chance, poor possum.
Shooting started in March 2008 and Amanda asked if I would like to watch. I said I wouldn’t mind watching one of the school scenes. (I couldn’t bear to watch the scenes with my parents, but school felt like neutral territory.)
So she said, come to the Japanese school in Acton on Tuesday. Driving over there, I thought: “Why would they set my school days in a Japanese school?” and suddenly realised that it was April Fools’ day. I almost turned back, but when I arrived, I saw it was the old Haberdasher Aske’s girls’ school that we used to play lacrosse against, and it felt completely right. There was only one surreal moment, when I opened a classroom door and found a group of Japanese teachers quietly marking papers.
Wandering round the school, I was absolutely gobsmacked at the care that had been taken to get all the props and period details right. There were school photos along the corridors that were so much like my old school photos I kept looking for myself in them. It smelt like my old school, it felt like my old school, and when the teacher handed essays back to the class, they were in those scuzzy orange exercise books we always used, and I felt that old tremor of anxiety in case I hadn’t got an A.
Andrew McAlpine, the production designer, told me that he and Lone decided to move the action forward a year to 1961, because Britain in 1960 looked exactly the same as Britain in the 1950s — ie, drab — whereas by 1961 there was some glimmer of style and colour on the streets. He also told me that he’d been to look at my old school, Lady Eleanor Holles, but it was unsuitable for filming because the geography didn’t work — they wanted a scene where the girls came streaming out onto the street, but LEH is set behind playing fields, far back from the road.
He also went to look at my old home in Twickenham (an Edwardian terraced house), but said the street had become too smart, and anyway he’d already decided he wanted to use mock-Tudor. Apparently, foreigners are always thrilled by mock-Tudor houses, because they seem uniquely English and quaint, like red London buses. He found a whole mock-Tudor enclave in Ealing, inhabited mainly by Poles, which was perfect for filming. He also found the red Bristol car that Peter Sarsgaard drives and said it would thrill petrolheads all round the world, “because it’s a truly seminal car. They’ll get excited just by the sound of the door shutting”. And he campaigned successfully to have one scene — where I meet Peter Rachman — set at Walthamstow dog track, simply because he wanted to film the place before it closed for ever. It seems odd that he, a New Zealander, and Lone Scherfig, a Dane, should have this tremendous affection for London, but it’s part of what gives the film its charm.
At one point when I was chatting to Amanda outside the school, I noticed a flock of ring-necked parakeets flying overhead and remarked casually: “Of course, that wouldn’t have happened in 1961. Parakeets are a very recent arrival.” Amanda looked aghast: I swear she was wondering whether they should have marksmen on the rooftops to pick off any incoming parakeets, and what would that do to their budget? But I don’t think there are any parakeets in the finished film.
All the film people at the school kept asking if I was excited to be meeting my 16-year-old self, and I had to keep biting my tongue and saying: “Yes, absolutely thrilled.” How daft would you have to be to believe that meeting an actress was the same as meeting your 16-year-old self? But actually I was thrilled when I saw Carey Mulligan playing one of the classroom scenes. I knew she was pretty, but you have to believe that she is enough of a swot to get into Oxford. Anyway, she was perfect, with a sort of tremulous earnestness that reminded me of myself at that age. When she finished the scene, a film publicist brought her over to meet me and insisted that a cameraman record this deeply meaningful encounter “for the DVD”. I think I was meant to burst into tears and hug her or something, but instead I shook hands and said “Well done”, and she said “Thank you”, and we both smiled for the camera. The publicist was disappointed.
Weeks passed. Amanda had told me that they hoped to release the film in March 2009, so I assumed I wouldn’t hear any more till then. But in August I got an e-mail from Finola saying they were having a private screening of the rough cut in Soho that week if I wanted to come. Of course I wanted to come. I went with trepidation but was then absolutely thrilled. The film is a masterpiece!
Seriously. The film has now moved so far from my own life that I don’t really recognise any of it. Alfred Molina as my father is positively heart-rending. Peter Sarsgaard is handsome and sympathetic and only faintly a conman. Even the suburban streets look idyllic. What was once a dark, shameful memory has become sunlit and glamorous thanks to the magic of Nick Hornby, Lone Sherfig and all. The film had its first public showing at the Sundance Film Festival in January and won the audience prize. Distribution rights have been sold to practically every country in the world — Greece and Turkey were the last to go — so people in Bangkok, in Bahrain, in Budapest will be watching my Twickenham childhood. How weird is that?
I suppose it all began six years ago when I wrote about my schoolgirl affair with a conman, Simon, an associate of Peter Rachman, the notorious slum landlord. It was 1960; I was 16, living with my parents in Twickenham, when this suave older man in a red Bristol sports car drew up beside me at a bus stop and offered me a lift home. For the next two years I led a strange double life — going to school and swotting for my A-levels during the week, then swanning off with Simon for weekends in Paris, Rome, Amsterdam.
What was extraordinary was that my parents let me — up till then they’d put all their energy into urging me, their only child, to win every possible scholarship and go to Oxford. But they were completely charmed, or conned, by Simon, to the point that they were putting pressure on me to marry him. I don’t want to give away the denouement but I escaped his clutches in the nick of time. I went to Oxford, he went to prison.
It was a story I always meant to write one day, but I thought it could wait till I was retired and my parents were dead. My parents always hated to be reminded of the Simon debacle — they felt even more betrayed by him than I did. But then my husband was diagnosed with myelofibrosis and told he had only two years to live unless he had a bone-marrow transplant. He was only 58, the same age as me, but suddenly death seemed just around the corner. I went up to my study and wrote the story in about two days flat. I have never written anything so easily before or since — it felt as though the story was already fully formed in my head and I just had to type it out.
I say story, and it felt like a story; I was writing it in a voice that was not quite my own. I think it was the voice of my 18-year-old self: there was an arrogance and sureness of tone the present me can only envy. How brilliant I thought I was then! I published the story in Granta magazine because I didn’t want my parents to see it and knew that Nunton, Wilts, where they lived, was a Granta-free zone. Soon afterwards my agent rang to say a film producer called Amanda Posey wanted to meet me with a view to optioning the story. It was the worst possible timing — my husband was in hospital having his bone-marrow transplant and I was virtually living there — but she said she would come to a nearby coffee bar any time I could get away. She came with her co-producer, Finola Dwyer. They seemed bright enough, but not remotely like my notion of film producers, which involved fat cigars and vicuña overcoats. Amanda asked if I wanted to write the film script myself and seemed delighted when I said no — she said she already had a screenwriter in mind. I thought she was mad and went back to the hospital and forgot about her. It was just one more weird incident in those weeks of constant weirdness that ended with my husband dying.
Among the many funeral bouquets was one “From Nick and Amanda”. Total blank. Some time later my agent explained that Amanda Posey was the girlfriend of Nick Hornby (she is now his wife), and he was the screenwriter she had in mind. He had spotted the story in Granta and showed it to Amanda, who showed it to Finola, who agreed it would make a good film. They kept batting names of possible screenwriters between them and Nick kept finding fault with them (“He was jealous!” says Amanda), till eventually he said: “Why don’t I do it?”
Nick seemed to know the characters way beyond what I’d said about them, and to intuit completely what it felt like to be a l6-year-old schoolgirl who was on the one hand very intelligent but on the other hand very ignorant about the world. He even seemed to understand my parents, which is more than I could ever say myself. He asked a lot about period detail: what posters I had on my bedroom wall, what music I listened to. For a ghastly moment I thought he might be planning a soundtrack full of l960s pop hits — that black hole compounded of Cliff Richard, Paul Anka, Liberace, Lonnie Donegan — but Nick said no, he wanted to know what I and my schoolmates really listened to. So I told him the truth: that we were far too pretentious to listen to pop. We listened to jazz at Eel Pie Island and collected records by French chansonniers like Jacques Brel, Georges Brassens, Juliette Gréco. He evidently took this on board, because it’s reflected in the soundtrack of the film.
I put a clause in the contract that I should have the right to see and comment on (but not alter) every draft Nick wrote. And there were so many drafts over the years — I think eight in all. He fleshed out characters who had been no more than names before and created whole scenes that were not in my story at all. He made me a cellist in the school orchestra and took me to an auction where I bid for a painting by Burne-Jones. He showed a positively eerie understanding of my father, giving him long rants (“Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know”) that are so exactly like the sort of things he might say in real life that
I still have to keep pinching myself to remember Nick Hornby has never actually met Dick Barber. The only bad thing he did was to change Simon’s name to David, which was my husband’s name, and I wish in retrospect I’d put up a fight. While Nick was working on the script, Finola and Amanda were looking for the money to make it. They also started talking to directors and enlisted Beeban Kidron. She was on board for a year and half, and helped Nick develop the script, then she had to jump off-board because she had a prior long-standing commitment to direct Richard Neville’s autobiography, Hippie Hippie Shake, co-scripted by her husband, Lee Hall.
(Big mistake — she made the Neville film but then withdrew her name from the credits.) Nick told me that when Beeban left he was ready to give up. But then Amanda and Finola found Lone Scherfig, and she was passionate about the script. Lone seemed an odd choice, given that she is Danish, but she proved to be exactly right.
Lucy Bevan, the casting director, had already started looking for an actress to play me. They knew it would have to be an unknown, because she was meant to be only 16, but they wanted someone with a bit of experience, and eventually found Carey Mulligan, who had done a memorable episode of Dr Who and played one of the Bennet sisters in Joe Wright’s Pride and Prejudice. When Nick heard she was 22 he had a fit. “I thought they’d buggered it up because I couldn’t believe there was a 22-year-old girl in contemporary Britain who looks innocent in any way. But when I saw Carey’s screen test, I knew she was completely fine, and when I saw her in her school uniform, I thought, oh my God, she looks 14!”
Nick and Amanda asked their friend Emma Thompson to play my headmistress, and she agreed. In fact, she only appears on screen for about five minutes, but it cheered up the backers no end to have an Oscar-winning “name” on board. They were also pleased to have Peter Sarsgaard, who, though not a great box-office name, is universally admired in the industry. And Rosamund Pike clamoured to play the small part of Helen because “no one ever lets me be funny”.
The drafts of the script came and went; the film option was renewed for a second year, a third, a fourth. Occasionally, Amanda or Nick would get in touch and say that such and such an actor was interested, but it all had a comforting never-never feel as far as I was concerned. And then — shock horror! — in December 2007 they e-mailed to say they would start shooting in March. What? I went into complete meltdown. Until then I’d never actually believed that the film would be made (I had plenty of writer friends who’d sold film options without ever seeing a finished film). I thought my Granta story was just fine as it was; I didn’t want to see actors impersonating my parents and audiences criticising them. My parents by now were in their nineties and living in a retirement home. They wouldn’t actually see the film — my father is blind, and they hadn’t been near a cinema for at least 20 years — but they were bound to hear about it. I kept dithering about how to tell them, until my daughters briskly pointed out that my parents never listened to a word I said anyway. So we made a plan that we would take them out to lunch and at some point I would tell them about the film, and Rosie and Theo would be on standby to break a plate or something to distract them if they asked too many questions. I spent the whole lunch in a fever of nerves, but eventually chose my moment and said: “Someone is making a film about my life. About my teenage years, you know, when I went out with Simon?”
“Oh that’s nice,” they said. “We’ve got a new chiropodist. He’s very good.”
And so the moment passed.
Soon afterwards, the film started shooting in London. I heard all about it from my 18-year-old niece, Freya, who played a “featured extra” (so much better than an extra extra) in the crowd scenes and became a walking encyclopaedia on the progress of the film. She lived through the heartbreak when Orlando Bloom pulled out just a week before shooting began. He was meant to be playing Danny, the second male lead, and it was an incredible coup for Amanda and Finola to have got him, and the backers were thrilled.
“The deal was done, he’d had his medical, his security people were all sorted, his dog was about to be put on a plane from Los Angeles to London,” says Finola, “and then he started wobbling. I was on the phone to him all night.”
Then Nick got a call saying Bloom wanted to ring him about a couple of script changes. “He rang me and said how great he thought the script was and how much he liked my writing and he hoped we could work together on something else but it wouldn’t be this. I couldn’t understand how we’d got from a couple of script changes to this. So I rang Amanda and said, ‘He just told me he wasn’t doing it.’ And she said, ‘Well, what did you say to upset him?’ And I said, ‘Nothing.’ So Amanda rang Bloom’s agent, who said, ‘Oh, Nick’s just got the wrong end of the stick. I’ll get Orlando to ring again.’ So he gets on the phone again, and I’m in the kitchen with Amanda and before I can say a word, he starts, ‘As I was saying, it’s a great script and I wish I could do it but I can’t.’ Amanda could hear then that it wasn’t anything I’d said.”
Finola spent two hours on the phone to Bloom; his agent rang him, his manager, his fellow actors, but he was adamant. It remains a mystery why he dropped out; Finola thinks he just lost confidence. Anyway, he served a useful purpose in keeping the backers happy while they closed the deal.
The Bloom phone calls happened on a Tuesday and Wednesday; on Thursday Amanda and Finola decided, “Okay, we’ve got to move on.” They had already talked to Dominic Cooper (The History Boys, Mamma Mia!) long before Bloom came on board, and his agent, hearing rumours of Bloom’s defection, rang and said, “You know, Dominic still loves that part,” so they did a deal that same Thursday. And he is great in the part, so Orlando Bloom missed his chance, poor possum.
Shooting started in March 2008 and Amanda asked if I would like to watch. I said I wouldn’t mind watching one of the school scenes. (I couldn’t bear to watch the scenes with my parents, but school felt like neutral territory.)
So she said, come to the Japanese school in Acton on Tuesday. Driving over there, I thought: “Why would they set my school days in a Japanese school?” and suddenly realised that it was April Fools’ day. I almost turned back, but when I arrived, I saw it was the old Haberdasher Aske’s girls’ school that we used to play lacrosse against, and it felt completely right. There was only one surreal moment, when I opened a classroom door and found a group of Japanese teachers quietly marking papers.
Wandering round the school, I was absolutely gobsmacked at the care that had been taken to get all the props and period details right. There were school photos along the corridors that were so much like my old school photos I kept looking for myself in them. It smelt like my old school, it felt like my old school, and when the teacher handed essays back to the class, they were in those scuzzy orange exercise books we always used, and I felt that old tremor of anxiety in case I hadn’t got an A.
Andrew McAlpine, the production designer, told me that he and Lone decided to move the action forward a year to 1961, because Britain in 1960 looked exactly the same as Britain in the 1950s — ie, drab — whereas by 1961 there was some glimmer of style and colour on the streets. He also told me that he’d been to look at my old school, Lady Eleanor Holles, but it was unsuitable for filming because the geography didn’t work — they wanted a scene where the girls came streaming out onto the street, but LEH is set behind playing fields, far back from the road.
He also went to look at my old home in Twickenham (an Edwardian terraced house), but said the street had become too smart, and anyway he’d already decided he wanted to use mock-Tudor. Apparently, foreigners are always thrilled by mock-Tudor houses, because they seem uniquely English and quaint, like red London buses. He found a whole mock-Tudor enclave in Ealing, inhabited mainly by Poles, which was perfect for filming. He also found the red Bristol car that Peter Sarsgaard drives and said it would thrill petrolheads all round the world, “because it’s a truly seminal car. They’ll get excited just by the sound of the door shutting”. And he campaigned successfully to have one scene — where I meet Peter Rachman — set at Walthamstow dog track, simply because he wanted to film the place before it closed for ever. It seems odd that he, a New Zealander, and Lone Scherfig, a Dane, should have this tremendous affection for London, but it’s part of what gives the film its charm.
At one point when I was chatting to Amanda outside the school, I noticed a flock of ring-necked parakeets flying overhead and remarked casually: “Of course, that wouldn’t have happened in 1961. Parakeets are a very recent arrival.” Amanda looked aghast: I swear she was wondering whether they should have marksmen on the rooftops to pick off any incoming parakeets, and what would that do to their budget? But I don’t think there are any parakeets in the finished film.
All the film people at the school kept asking if I was excited to be meeting my 16-year-old self, and I had to keep biting my tongue and saying: “Yes, absolutely thrilled.” How daft would you have to be to believe that meeting an actress was the same as meeting your 16-year-old self? But actually I was thrilled when I saw Carey Mulligan playing one of the classroom scenes. I knew she was pretty, but you have to believe that she is enough of a swot to get into Oxford. Anyway, she was perfect, with a sort of tremulous earnestness that reminded me of myself at that age. When she finished the scene, a film publicist brought her over to meet me and insisted that a cameraman record this deeply meaningful encounter “for the DVD”. I think I was meant to burst into tears and hug her or something, but instead I shook hands and said “Well done”, and she said “Thank you”, and we both smiled for the camera. The publicist was disappointed.
Weeks passed. Amanda had told me that they hoped to release the film in March 2009, so I assumed I wouldn’t hear any more till then. But in August I got an e-mail from Finola saying they were having a private screening of the rough cut in Soho that week if I wanted to come. Of course I wanted to come. I went with trepidation but was then absolutely thrilled. The film is a masterpiece!
Seriously. The film has now moved so far from my own life that I don’t really recognise any of it. Alfred Molina as my father is positively heart-rending. Peter Sarsgaard is handsome and sympathetic and only faintly a conman. Even the suburban streets look idyllic. What was once a dark, shameful memory has become sunlit and glamorous thanks to the magic of Nick Hornby, Lone Sherfig and all. The film had its first public showing at the Sundance Film Festival in January and won the audience prize. Distribution rights have been sold to practically every country in the world — Greece and Turkey were the last to go — so people in Bangkok, in Bahrain, in Budapest will be watching my Twickenham childhood. How weird is that?
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