galway film fleadh

Mr Curry informed me were going to the Galway Fleadh to sell our film, The Boat People. There would be more industry bigshots in Galway for two days than in Cannes and Santa Monica combined.

We landed at Shannon and drove through drizzle, just in time to check into the hotel before Mr Curry had to head to the ‘G Centre’ for the grand networking supper. The G Centre was a ten minute walk from our hotel. Half way down the road, Mr Curry’s back gave out. He started spasming on the side of the road. I left him to fend for himself and made my way into town to register. Half an hour later he called from the hotel, saying I had to get over to the G Centre to witness the garishness of the new Irish wealth. I trawled across sand-blasted roundabouts to the G Centre, a temple to Mammon created by Phillip Treacy the hat designer. A glass of strawberry flavoured champagne was levered into my hand. An extreme silver bollocked concoction hung over everyone’s heads. After half an hour and ten glasses of champagne I was ejected from the Temple, whilst Mr Curry went to the dinner. An Irish filmmaker told me to make my way to McDonaughs for fish and chips. I weaved my way through forests of despairing Spanish tourists, wondering what kind of humourless god had sent them from their sun-crushed homeland to the grey wastes of Galway for their ‘Summer’ holidays.

The fish and chips was as good as promised, despite the dive-bombing seagulls. Then I went to the festival hang-out, the Rowing Club, for a pint, and sat on the terrace skulking as all around me men and women with sharp specs discussed budgets and overspend. I fled back to my hotel, drained already. Hours later Curry rolled in, saying he’d been sitting next to the most important German in the world, who we were meeting the next day, who’d already expressed his disdain at all things even remotely low budget. And we are the lowest of the low.

The next morning we took a cab into town for our 10am meeting. Mr Curry managed to dispose of the only press pack for The Boat People we’d get rid of all festival. This constituted success. Our next meeting wasn’t until after lunch. We checked our email for significant messages. Mr Curry tried and failed to get his phone to operate in a foreign country. After a hearty sandwich it was back to the pitch. The most important German in the world looked at us with disdain from behind his red-framed glasses. He wasn’t buying anything. We moved on to meet the Dude.

The Dude is the original dude. He was wearing a Big Liebowski T-shirt, in case anyone didn’t know. His hair was wild, and he looked rather more dishevelled than Jeff Bridges. The Dude shook my hand. Writers, he said, that’s what we need. You’re the first writer I’ve met. I love your ideas. I love it. Send me an email. Here’s my card. Mr Curry moved on to talk to the most important Swede in the world, but I stayed on for more from the Dude. He told me a story. He’s in a bar with Sam Shepherd and Nick Roeg. Nick Roeg says he wants to direct something of Shepherd’s. Shepherd says no fucking way. Roeg says what? Shepherd says you’ll murder my work. Roeg acts hurt, the Dude smooths it over, next thing is the three of them having a six hour conversation on which came first, the image or the word. The Dude tells me the word always come first. That’s why the world needs writers. Writers who write narrative. Not character sketches. Real stories.

The Dude’s got me in a fascinating corner, but I’ve only got twenty minutes, and I have to meet the most important Swede in the world. Curry’s telling him about Truck, our groundbreaking rollercoaster script. The most important Swede in the world says he has ten million euros to spend, and the decisions are all made by him. Send us a script and he’ll let us know by the end of August. If he wasn’t Swedish this would be hard to believe, but he is, so it seems like another potential chink of light, which we carry forward as we head for the last interview of the day. This is with a laconic Irish producer, who says he’s sick of hearing pitches, and tells us to speak to the head of ITV acquisitions. When asked what he’s looking for, he replies: Nut-ting. Nut-ting at all. I just came over to see some films. The head of ITV passes on the Tempest, but at least she gives us the time of day. Five meetings, two potential developments, and words of wisdom from the Dude. It’s not been a bad day.

We go and see a film. It’s set on the night of Ceaucescu’s fall. The multiplex cinema’s full of literate Galway cinephiles. It’s impossible to tell who’s fighting who in the movie, but then that’s probably the point. After that we head to the Rowing Club. One of our interviewers is drinking Murphy’s. We join him. There’s an Irish producer there with an English director. It looks like they’ve known each other years but they just met an hour ago. We head to the Kings aftershow party. I chat some more to the Dude. Everyone spills out into the Galway street. The Irish filmmakers all know each other. They feed me beer and cigarettes. The most important German in the world is hovering like a wraith. Suddenly it’s half one and time to move on. We carry crates of wine through the Galway side streets. Beside an industrial development is the Radisson Hotel, with its late bar. By now it’s like we’ve all known each other years. Whisky flows. I’m introduced to dozens of Northern Irish filmmakers. More than the combined Benelux population. They all buy me whisky. No-one talks film. The night’s heading towards oblivion, and the casualties are mounting when Mr Curry and I retire, in an attempt to preserve some last shred of dignity.

We’re up at eight and speaking to a laid-back teenage New Yorker by ten. He’s hungover too. He likes the idea of Truck. He wants us to email it. Next we meet the man who found the Coen Brothers. A grizzled veteran, the New York antithesis to the West Coast Dude. He tells a story about John Houston winning his battle to make The Red Badge of Courage. Even though the producers knew it was commercial suicide. People have to write what they want to write, not what they think the industry wants. In the old days the studio heads would give young hotshot directors a title. Tell them to make the film. When the Corman or the Demme said – where’s the script? The producer would say – What are you talking about? You’ve got a title – go shoot the movie. Those were the old days. Before the industry started pitching. The old man’s got watery eyes, a fierce goatee, and a vivid handshake. We do a couple more pitches then head for lunch, followed by another pitch. Then, at last, the pitching’s over.

Mr Curry wants to see the Chad movie. The Omniplex is once again full of feverish Galway punters. Mr Curry is on his last legs, and snoozes through the point at which the elderly Chadian warlord complains about his bad back. Many of the revellers from the night before finally appear to watch the next film, a Newcastle tale which the director describes as a ‘Rock n roll cancer film’. All of which proves to be undeniable. After a food break its time for the last film of the night, Nick Roeg’s Puffball, receiving its official premiere. It starts at eleven, half an hour late. I spot Rita Tushingham in the audience and point her out to the Curry. Who tells me not to be ridiculous. The great director and Shepherd adversary introduces his film, set in Ireland. He thanks the cast and crew who have come to Galway. Including Rita Tushingham.

After the film we make one last valiant attempt to get drunk in the Rowing Club, but are buffeted back by wave upon wave of international filmmakers, storming the bar with in an effort to recreate a scene from Battleship Potemkin. We give up and mosey back to the Radisson, where the Puffball party’s taking place. Curry has been on a mission to hand a copy of The Boat People to Nick Roeg, which he does, whilst I talk to a friend from the cast, who describes the octogenarian’s director’s instinct to dispense with the script at the drop of a hat. This kind of validates Sam Shepherd’s standpoint. A few whiskies later and a great deal the wiser, the Curry and I flee the drink. The most important German in the world is still there, manoeuvring his way around the various hotel bars.

We’ve met the elderly statesmen and pitched to some of the most important men in the world. Drunk with actors, producers, directors, distributors. Sampled oysters, mussels, Guinness and Murphy’s. Half a dozen people want to see the new script and god knows how many are wandering around with a DVD of The Boat People which they’ll unearth in a corner of Stockholm or New York or Belfast or London. Mr Curry decrees that the Galway film festival should be designated as a success, and we sleep the sound sleep of hard-drinking networkers.

On our last day in Ireland Mr Curry takes me to something completely different but more or less the same. This is the Willie Clancey festival in County Clare, where a village is devoted to Guinness and wild heathen music for a week. Barbarous banjo players down pints between note picking and dark-eyed fiddlers serenade staggering farmers. I spend the night in a trailer van which used to belong to the Rolling Stones. In the middle of the night I wake and walk out into the warm damp air of the country, and all around there’s silence.

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