Shooting 007: And Other Celluloid Adventures (2 page)

‘That’s not the point of this exercise!’ Suzy whispered in my ear.

So now I considered being more controversial, writing kindly of those whom I respected and had the pleasure of working with, while others would be treated with the contempt they deserved – diplomatically, of course. In the end both would feature in my story, leaving me grateful for their part in my challenging career.

Here I should point out that it was never my style to sit back and say nothing when an honest opinion ought to be voiced, if necessary disagreeing with an egotistic authority and questioning his opinion. Silly me, thinking I would be safe with this approach! There were times when it would have been wiser – indeed safer – to remain silent when sensing disagreement, allowing others to dictate the conversation without reasonable discussion. However, this was not in my character and sometimes it resulted in people having a negative attitude towards me personally, but even at the time I knew that I would have hated myself for not voicing an honest opinion. I will come back to this later, along with the ensuing consequences.

After all the problems that came my way in this ever-changing industry, it was now time to look back on my small part and see how ‘my scene’ had played out in this special profession. If I am honest, my career seemed to come my way by chance. Later, I came to believe that things in life do not necessarily just happen by accident!

With my working days now over, I started to ask questions of myself – had I achieved all that I hoped and worked so hard for? On balance, I believe that I have, and happy I am to admit this, in spite of my failings – which I also intend to share with anyone who might be interested. My aim is to hold the reader’s interest by telling my version of the truth, or at least as near to the facts as memory allows.

I was advised to keep my account of my personal life to a minimum, as readers would be more interested in my film work. While I believe this to be true, on thinking about it further, I decided that it would be dishonest to the reader if the real Alec Mills did not surface or was not even recognisable. I decided not to go along with that false image. ‘I am what I am,’ for better or worse, come what may. This personal account will be a private evaluation of both my life and career.

It was my good fortune that life pointed me to an industry which is so out of the ordinary, action packed and rewarding that after sixty years of working in the world of films I cannot recall a day when I did not look forward to going to work. In all probability, that is true for many who work in the British film industry. Fortune surely smiled on me in allowing me to progress with some of the great British and European cinematographers of my time, not forgetting those directors who played their part in influencing my work later on. From the age of 14 my career was completely dominated by these incredible people who were so generous in their support to this young fool, so if I claim some measure of success through idol-worship, then so be it! I would happily plead guilty to that.

The observations you will read come from a selection of personal experiences which over the years have given pain, joy, tears and laughter, all of which gave me much to reflect on as I wrote. More than likely some of the continuity will be awry but – with apologies to Eric Morecambe – I’m playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order!

However, before my film career comes to dominate the book, there is a part of my history which can only be established in my own way: my early background, where I came from with recollections from my early years during the war. In a strange way these experiences would point me towards where my future would eventually take me. A humble life with a happy ending – a real fairy tale!

Should you decide to read on, you will learn how a foolish young boy ceased to exist the day his schooling came to an end, and all because of a woman going by the name of Lil. However, for you to understand this sequence of events in their proper context, I would ask your patience, with the need to go back to school, where my story really begins, and where to this day I still remember my teacher saying …

‘Mills … this is just awful … really awful!’

Mr Lee, my long-suffering school teacher carefully studied my paper, occasionally changing his vision by taking off his spectacles to study my nervous state as I stood in front of his desk. He tapped his ruler on the small table in the way we students recognised as a bad omen and he followed the gesture with the predictable overstated deep sigh before returning to read the drivel in front of him – my ‘composition’, as it was called in those days.

He was right, of course; we both knew that. His comment simply underlined an attitude that I had to my early schooling in the years during the Second World War, now long past. It would be fair to say that under the teaching skills of Mr Lee my school days could be described as nothing short of disastrous. Now, seventy years later, I sit in front of the computer facing up to the reality of his teaching, hoping to reclaim past history which at times may well be embarrassing. I still remember the grin on his face, the nodding head suggesting that I was doomed to fail in life. At the time I would have agreed with his judgement; I was without doubt a terrible student. To complete the image I paint of my teacher, a veteran of the First World War, this sad human being had a dreadful habit of spitting into the coal fire that warmed the classroom, claiming this peculiarity to be the result of a gas attack during the conflict. I can offer no such excuse to salvage my lack of interest in his teachings.

The groundwork of my education continued to drag on with little expectation of achieving medals of any kind, either academic or on the sporting field – just another frail specimen of youth who struggled to keep up with other athletes at school. In my defence, this was partly due to bad attacks of asthma, most of which were blamed on the black and yellow smoke pouring out of the tall chimneys that spread their pollution across the capital, the main contributor to the famous London fogs. Even so, it cannot really be used as an excuse as I do not recall ever staying away from school because of my condition – Lil would make sure of that. Should I look for any excuse for my academic failings, I would point to Hitler’s never-ending bombing of London and the changing of schools with different teachers due to the bomb damage, which I hope gives some explanation for the continual interruptions in my education. In all honesty, I should also admit to a certain lack of self-discipline. Whatever excuse I may offer, there was little continuity in my schooling during those dark days when living in the capital was dangerous, although for a youngster it could also be exciting. Now, of course, I regret those wasted years; I am what I am and the clock cannot be turned back.

Even so, images from those war-torn years would linger, and still remain in my memory. One recollection was of Lil with concern on her face as she put her comforting arms around me as the bombs of the nightly visits of the Luftwaffe fell around us. It is an unfading image of a loving mother which is perhaps difficult for the current generation to understand.

I was relating these experiences to Suzy, who threw down the gauntlet challenging me to mention these experiences in these memoirs.

‘Did you tell Simon or Belinda about your war?’ she asked, using my children to highlight my parental failings.

Strangely enough, I had never considered it. Suzy made an interesting point with that comment, so now it was necessary for me to think more about my offspring and give them something of my past history to remember me by, digging deeper into the library of memories where I hoped something would remain from my early years. Faint they may be, but they are necessary, otherwise my story would make little sense. Bear with me …

I remember little of my early childhood, apart from the occasional flashback triggered by a photograph in the family album. As a child I never had my own bedroom. I slept in the sitting room on a put-u-up, as they were called – a couch during the day opening out to a double bed at night. When I lay in bed everything seemed scary as I stared at the distorted shadows flickering on the ceiling, projected images from the paraffin oil heater that took the chill off the cold room – central heating did not exist in humble homes then – leaving cold, unpleasant memories. My eyes scanned the dark surroundings for unwelcome ghosts who might be present, perhaps exaggerated by the crying wind coming through the poorly fitting windows. Pulling up the eiderdown, I would cover my face and I could at least take comfort from the hot-water bottle. It was frightening, but this is how things seem to a small boy.

‘England expects …’ Even in my early days it looks as if my mum and dad had me singled out as officer material.

Margate beach in the 1950s. This had always been a popular holiday resort for the Mills family and my parents would eventually retire to this town in the 1960s.

Lil was a tailor’s assistant in London’s Savile Row, where her working life was spent making trousers for the wealthy. Mum took pride in her work and was pleased to be associated with the elite tailors, but with the passing of time her hands became arthritic and her tailoring days were no more. She was a mother who scrubbed the front stone doorstep once a week, suggesting the cleanliness of the inhabitants within – a habit not uncommon in those days. Luxuries were few and far between, but a certain dignity existed in working-class families. Alf, my dad, a porter and decorator by trade, came home from work on a Friday night and gave Mum her ‘weekly allowance’ to feed and clothe us, while I would be spoilt with a small bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate – a joy that has never left me.

My two older brothers, Alfie and John, were vaguely around. I say ‘vaguely’ with respect to them both, particularly Alfie. He died early, as a 16-year-old, having suffered the agony of infantile paralysis, which was not uncommon in those days. I remember little of Alfie, but what I do recall is the pain my parents went through when he passed away. Alfie was a much-loved son but due to his condition his legs were fitted with callipers (braces) so he could only walk with the aid of crutches. I can only imagine how life was for this young man. Should his name come up in a casual conversation, you could be sure that tears would appear in Lil’s eyes, even many years after his passing.

Yet, in spite of all the difficulties described, a highlight was the yearly ritual of going on holiday to Margate, where we would meet up with other family members to enjoy the wonders of the sea air. A daily ritual of hired deckchairs on the beach would take place as the family claimed our spot in a circle, warding off others from intruding on our territory. To complete this idyllic scene, loudspeakers on the sea front would play ‘I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside’
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such joy! With the sun slowly burning its way into flesh, handkerchiefs now suddenly appear with four corners tied in knots fitting snugly on heads to give added protection from the fierce rays, our red faces suggesting we had had a wonderful holiday. Images still remain of ladies’ skirts pulled above the knees, their brown linen stockings allowed to roll down to their ankles
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memories now long past …