Hollywood Pirates

In the early 1980s I was broke and trying to become a writer. I had come across the extraordinary true story of two 18th century female pirates called Anne Bonny and Mary Read. Anne had been the illegitimate daughter of an Irish attorney and his maidservant, and Mary was a Londoner who had run away to sea disguised as a boy. It was a hell of a tale ending up with the two of them and Captain “Calico” Jack Rackham being chased around the West Indies by the ruthless pirate hunter Captain Barnet. They were all eventually captured on the orders of the Governor of Jamaica; Rackham and his men were sentenced to death by hanging but Anne and Mary both “pled their bellies” – in other words claimed to be pregnant - and temporarily escaped the gallows. Mary Read died in prison and Anne Bonny disappeared altogether, possibly bought out of prison by her wealthy and influential father.

It was a ripping yarn with all the ingredients of a great swashbuckling adventure. The girls, the pirates, the Caribbean, the gallows - it was all there. I came up with what I thought was a cracking good title, The Strumpet Pirates, and started sending out a six episode breakdown to all the main British TV companies. Predictably the letters came back faster than a group of thirsty Jack Tars splicing the mainbrace. They all said more or less the same thing; they found the subject matter fascinating but couldn’t consider producing it as the necessary location cost would be far too high to film. I was still convinced of the potential of the story so I went back to the drawing board.

Maybe television was the wrong medium. The Strumpet Pirates cried out to be a movie and although I had discovered the story, maybe someone more experienced than me was needed to write it. My record producer at the time, Andy Miller, had a friend, Jonathan Wolfman, who was a screenwriter and so a meeting between the two of us was set up.

I met up with Jonathan, told him the story and he liked it straight away. Like me he had a writer’s instinct to know what worked and what didn’t and he could see the potential immediately. A few weeks later he had written an impressive fifty-page film treatment and my instructions were to forget the UK and go out and pitch it to every film producer in Hollywood.

Hollywood??

Now Hollywood is a faraway place when you’re living in a Bayswater studio flat and you’re broke. But just as I was weighing up what to do, my sister Roselle phoned me. She was a British Airways air stewardess and as such could get me a flight discount. Her offer could not have arrived at a more opportune moment. “How much would it cost me, a flight to LA and back?” I enquired idly, twisting the phone cord. “£12” was her reply.

I immediately started packing.

Not long before my departure another extraordinary coincidence occurred. My mother living in Cornwall belonged to a Bridge circle. A recent addition to her gang that I had christened the ‘Miss Marple card sharks’ had been a man who had spent his life living in Los Angeles but had now returned to Cornwall to retire. He knew someone in LA called Gary Pudney. Would I like a letter of introduction? Someone to help me find my feet in LA when I got there? I wasn’t particularly keen, I am an independent type and surely Hollywood letters of introduction went out with C. Aubrey Smith, Basil Rathbone and David Niven. Nevertheless I was curious enough to ask what this Gary Pudney did. “He’s a Vice President at ABC Television,” replied my mother. “Specialises in specials.”

I got her to send the letter to me as soon as possible.

A week later I was boarding my British Airways 747 flight at Heathrow. I couldn’t believe how fast things were moving. It had only been a short while since I had come across the story of Anne Bonny and Mary Read and here I was about to fly to Hollywood with a film treatment and a letter of introduction in my pocket to someone who could genuinely change my life.

We finally approached Los Angeles airport and the Captain tilted the plane’s wings and said over the PA system, “Look to your left ladies and gentlemen and you may see something familiar.” And there was the famous ‘Hollywood’ sign glinting in the early morning sunshine. It was the most beautiful introduction to one of the oddest places on earth.

Odd because just about everyone you meet in Los Angeles is trying to break into movies. Take my taxi driver who drove me from the airport for instance. He not only looked just like Richard Pryor but he spoke just like him and had all that great comedian’s mannerisms too. As we got into conversation on the highway, it wasn’t long before Richard Pryor’s name came up.

“I’m an actor you know.”

“Really?”

“Do you like Richard Pryor?”

“Yes, I do. Silver Streak is one of my all time favourite films,” I said.

“Well I’m going to be the next Richard Pryor.”

“The next Richard Pryor?”

“That’s right. The way I see it, Pryor’s not going to be round for ever and when that day comes I’ll be ready to take his place.”

You certainly couldn’t fault his logic. So if you ever see a Richard Pryor lookalike on the screen and he’s a former LA cab driver – he once drove me in from LAX.

I booked myself into the ‘Kensington’, a motel situated on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. It was an ideal location in which to base myself for the ‘pitch’. Although there was not much I could do on that first day as I had arrived on that most sacred of American holidays (and the last one before Thanksgiving) – Labor Day.

The next morning I got up early and after a breakfast of coffee, ham and eggs, sunnyside up, and waffles at a beach café, I rammed some coins into a public phone booth and called Gary Pudney up at ABC. A secretary told me he was unavailable but after I explained what it was about, she gave me the number for the ‘Colonel’. For a moment I thought I was being put through to the Elvis camp but it turned out the ‘Colonel’ was not Parker but Pudney. Gary’s dad.

Pudney senior listened to me wittering on about letters of introduction and film treatments of women pirates and then cut to the quick. “Gary’s in Europe right now, setting up some film deals. He won’t be back for two weeks but I’d be happy to meet you if you want.”

He then gave me his address, which as far as I could make out was in the middle of the Santa Monica airfield.

It was then that I committed that unwritten sin of any Englishman in America, I decided to walk the two miles or so from my motel to the airfield. I had to, in those days I couldn’t drive. But as anyone knows who has ever visited the USA, Shank’s Pony is just not the desired way of getting around. Even in laid back Santa Monica I was attracting weird looks from truck drivers and street cleaners. If that wasn’t enough I then got hopelessly lost. And in the days before mobile phones, there was no way I could tell my host that I was running late. And trying to find a phone booth just got me more lost as I wandered down unfamiliar streets in search of anything with Bell stamped on it.

Eventually, almost collapsing under the strong mid-day Californian sunshine, I was trailed for a block by two cops in their patrol car. They cruised up beside me and the one who wasn’t driving wound his window down. “What are you doing sir?” he asked. “I’m afraid I’m walking to Santa Monica airport and I’m lost,” I replied. The cops smiled, an English accent was still a rarity in Southern California even then. “Why are you going to the airport? You don’t seem to have any luggage.” I explained that I was going to meet someone called Colonel Pudney whereupon immediate recognition spread across their faces. “The Colonel? Sure, jump in we’ll give you a lift.” I climbed into the back of their patrol car and came back to life in the welcoming blast of their air-conditioning. “Anyone who’s a friend of the Colonel’s is a friend of ours,” said one of the policemen.

At that moment I didn’t consider the Colonel to be a friend of mine but that was soon to change.

The patrol car dropped me off at a single storey office block right on the edge of the airfield under some pine trees and I thanked the policemen. The Colonel was standing just behind the glass door in the lobby. I had been so late in arriving that he had come out from his office to see if he could spot me. He had been most perplexed to see me arrive in the back of a police car.

“Where have you been? Was there an accident?” he demanded. I tried to explain how I had been walking and got lost but he was having none of it. “No-one ever walks in LA,” he said. “At best you’ll get blisters and sunstroke and at worst you’ll be mugged. Next time you want to go anywhere Miles, you let me know and I’ll drive you. Consider me your personal chauffeur.”

That was typical of the man’s generosity.

The Colonel was an extraordinary man. Short, chubby and always wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, he looked like a cross between Mickey Rooney and Spencer Tracy but behaved like Mr Magoo. I don’t know if it was the permanent shades or what but he was always knocking things over. Pens would fall off desks and then when he bent down to retrieve them his head would knock over the stapler and then when he tried to pick up the staples his jacket sleeve would send a full cup of coffee flying across the room. He was like a vaudeville act but he had a heart of gold. He was probably in his seventies and I believe he may have flown with the USAF in the Second World War but I never really found out because as soon as he started talking about it, something would get knocked over and he would be distracted.

Arlene was his companion, a lovely gentle lady who was most interested in my accent. “You Brits all sound like Prince Charles,” she said. “We love him and that Diana, don’t we Pud?” The Colonel leant back in his leather chair and considered this. “We sure do. Say, have you ever bumped into that Charles guy in one of your pubs?” The Colonel was continually under the impression that everyone knew everyone in England and we all drank in some boozer just behind Harrods.

They were the most friendly and welcoming couple. They decided in the absence of the Colonel’s son Gary that they would adopt me for the two weeks that I was staying and show that great hospitality that Americans are known for.

And what a ride it became.

Most days would start with the Colonel and Arlene arriving at my Santa Monica motel at about ten in the morning. For some reason they both seemed to think that if you came from England you were addicted to Gordon’s gin. The Colonel would knock on my bedroom door and stand there like Jeeves clutching a brand new bottle of gin with a fresh bottle of tonic water and a lemon. “Get this down you Miles, I know you English guys love a nip,” he would chuckle as I stared at him bleary-eyed. “Now get your clothes on, Arlene and I have got a great day planned.”

We would then drive all over the place, me rolling around in the back seat half-drunk as the Colonel did his best to show me his Hollywood. And to be fair half the city seemed to know who he was. We would drive up to the gates of Fox or the Warner Brothers lot and the security men would suddenly jump to attention and open the barrier with a “Good morning Colonel, how you doing?” Whether this was because of the high profile of his son Gary or whether the Colonel himself was something in the film community I never found out. Anyway I wasn’t complaining. Doors were opening left, right and centre as the Colonel introduced me to a variety of film people. Everywhere I went I made sure I had a copy of The Strumpet Pirates in my bag. In the days before email, my local photocopy shop in Santa Monica was earning a fortune out of me.

After a few days of this extraordinary existence (early gin and tonics followed by visits to various studios and lengthy lunches that lasted all afternoon. Not to mention Arlene’s tea-dances and the Colonel’s boxing matches, he was a huge fight fan), the Colonel announced he was going to play his trump card. He knew the very top literary agent in Hollywood and he was going to ask him to read the film treatment of The Strumpet Pirates. Arlene herself would personally deliver it.

“If this guy bites, you’re made,” was his prediction.

The following day, the phone rang in the Colonel’s car. It was the agent. He had read the treatment just like the Colonel had requested and told him that it was too similar to a movie that Bo Derek was currently involved in called Pirate Annie. Because of this he didn’t think there was much point in pursuing the project.

The Colonel took me to one of his favourite restaurants in Marina del Ray so I could lick my wounds. “Never mind Miles, we’ve had a good time. Have another gin and tonic?” He put his hand up to attract the wine waiter and sent a vase of flowers crashing to the floor.

A week later I flew back to London and gave Jonathan Wolfman the bad news. It seemed that we had just been beaten to the finishing line by the Bo Derek movie.

But what an introduction to tinsel town. The Colonel, Arlene and a crate of Gordons.