- Summer: The Film Star
Summer: The Film Star
by Steve Wells
A series of memoirs in which our oldest member, Sir Reginald Bread-Basket, talks about his memories of photography in the early days. (As revealed to Steve Wells over a glass of fine scotch whisky distilled exclusively from the nettles adjoining the paddock at Falling Plate Hall).
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"Did I ever tell you about the day Hollywood came to Loose Chippings?... No! Then fill your glass and pull up a chair."
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We had met as usual in the back room or the Red Cow which, as you know is close to the hairpin bend on the way into the village. There were some people who wanted to straighten out that hairpin bend; they said it was dangerous! I couldn't see the argument myself. I always walked to the pub, and I never got hurt. Except of course on that night when Joe Witherspoon decided to ride his bike back home. Then it wasn't the hairpin bend that was the trouble: it was the hump backed bridge! Joe fell in and I nearly caught pneumonia trying to fish him out.
No, as far as I can see the only people who get hurt at that hairpin bend are strangers.
Alf used to say that that hairpin bend was his living. It was what he called his "passing trade". They went "past' as fast as the wind and then came back walking, usually with a limp, to ask if they could use the telephone. When he had them indoors the "trade" began; usually double brandies all round to soothe the nerves.
Alt had his act all worked out. In they would come, desperate to find someone to mend the car. Alf would be all soothing and sympathetic and would go out with the driver to assess the damage. The conversation was always the same.
"Ooo dear", says Alf.
"D'ye think its bad", says the driver; his youthful blonde hair blowing in the wind and the fighter pilot's white scarf looking a little limp despite the biting wind.
"Weell, I dunno".
"That bad", say's the scarf. "The car's the Pater's, I don't s'pose you know anyone who could mend it without Pater findin' out?"
"Pater's eh?"
"Rather!"
"Come on in, I'll ring round and see what I can do."
The pair of them would then go inside. They'd sort out a few drinks and Alf would lean conspiratorially over the bar, wink and say "I must just go and make a phone call".
This would, without fail lead to another round of drinks with no more that the usual 50% surcharge added to cover custom from non-locals. Alf didn't bother making a call. The local grapevine would already have alerted Joe down at the filling station on the new bypass.
Sometime I must tell you about Joe, he was, like Alf, myself and Chalky, a staunch member of the Loose Chippings Camera Club.
Now, I have to tell you that Chalky was a bit keen on what we used to call the "moving pictures". He said it was an extension of his photographic interests - cameras and all that. In a sense I suppose he was right, but it wasn't the equipment that attracted him. The pictures he produced down at the club of young Molly Witherspoon were clear evidence of that.
Anyway, there we were as usual in the back room of the Red Cow waiting for the model we (or, I should say Chalky) had booked for the evening. She had, of course got lost and Chalky who had been looking forward to the evening for several weeks was looking inconsolable. Our wait was interrupted by an ear splitting and highly expensive crunch from the ditch by the hairpin bend.
Alf's eves lit up. "Passing Trade", he said, and vanished to the lounge bar. (People who owned cars in those days always went to the lounge bar).
We smiled, got up and went to look at the damage. Chalky held back a bit, after all, as a policeman he would have to take official notice of the accident and it wouldn't be reasonable to do that until after Alf had satisfied some of his "Passing Trade".
So, after a suitable interval had passed and after the second round of double brandies had been poured, the local constable "happened" to turn up at the scene of the accident. The composure of the representative of the law was rather destroyed by his recognising among the in the lounge the delectable figure of Camilla Jardinia.
In these days when one film is much the same as any other I don't suppose you remember Camilla Jardinia, but she was a real star, an international heart throb who could woo a nation by the angle of her little finger. And here was Chalky receiving, head on, the full force of "L'Amour Internationale". Frankly he didn't stand a chance.
His knees gave way first. We had been waiting and, as he fell into the waiting arms of Miss Jardinia, five flash bulbs burst. We had the evidence.
Miss Jardinia responded immediately to the flash bulbs; she ran rapidly through her repertoire of standard publicity poses. Using the unconscious Chalky as a prop she became the heroine mourning her dead lover; first just holding him with tears welling in her eyes, then kissing him with a wild passion.
Her agent, on the far side or the bar suddenly realised that the quaint atmosphere of the Red Cow would be ideal for the publicity photographs for Miss Jardinia's next film. With a whoop of excitement he yelled at the driver "get the cameras".
The driver explained, in language which I cannot repeat here, that cameras which are waterlogged are not a lot of good for taking publicity photographs. He left open the possibility that there could be other uses for such equipment and that, if the agent was to press the point much further, the alternative anatomical uses might be demonstrated.
Camilla would not listen to the complaints, She pointed to us and said "Here are all the photographers I need." By this time even my knees were beginning to weaken, but I held out and we completed the commission.
That is why, if you look at the old publicity stills of "L'Amour a la Vache Rouge", you will find that the picture of the hero has been painted in over what is clearly the image of a country policeman. It is also why the only member of the club not to take photographs of Camilla was our film buff, Chalky.
Mind you, he was the only one to be kissed by her, so who's to say who got the better bargain?
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