We actors and writers are lucky in a way, now that the internet has swept the world, because ever since movies began, actors, writers and director have been judged relentlessly, either in a favorable mode or in derision by the millions who eventually see the end result. So having people like you, creating radio programs, or writing for the press, or creating blogs, you give us a viral soap box upon which we can plead our case; somewhere to finally explain why or what or when and tell the reason why. Was it money, desperation, (often the case) coercion? Yes, that too, but somewhere for us to explain what induced us to do what we eventually did.
BROTHERS was directed by Terry Bourke, but not many people know that it was adapted from my novel entitled REFLEX.
I must prefix this explanation about the history behind REFLEX with the information that Terry Bourke, of whom the question above is really regarding, was a shifty but clever and cunning little character who did a lot of work. Some was good. However, the good was canceled out by his cavalier attitude to money (always other peoples'), his disrespect of his peers, and an almost obsessive jealousy of anyone else in the industry. He ostracized and put many people down including me when he sent off a debilitating entry to IMDB regarding my date of birth and my beginnings in the industry; an entry that despite years of trying was not removed until 2011 and only then because an actress sued them for the very same reason I had.
To his credit, Terry had an uncanny ability to make a tiny creek in the suburbs of Sydney look like the back blocks of Vietnam. He could also carve a piece of cardboard, put lights behind it and shoot it with a title beneath, and those that saw it on the silver screen would swear it really was a Manhattan skyline. He could shoot beneath a doctored typewriter or through a disassembled camera or use a single house for the entire shoot of a film. He also wrote many show business articles for daily newspapers, but at best he was an egotistical arsehole who was nowhere near as talented as he imagined he was, and a terrible spendthrift of other peoples' money. He also wrote threatening letters of demand and abuse on paper with my letter head. He also singed my name. A fact I only became aware of when the documents were shown to me by receivers. He was also a pathological liar.
But that's show business.
A screenshot from NOT QUITE HOLLYWOODAs is already well documented, I spend a number of years writing THE SET, a novel that eventually created a movie of the same name. At the same time, I dabbled in other projects, amongst them was REFLEX. A novel and proposed film that was inspired by the Vietnam war. As seeing horrific news reports and photographs regarding that shit fight, I felt the need to document. So I created as my main protagonist, a photojournalist (influenced by the fact that Sean Flynn, the son of movie legend Errol, was in the area as a photographer). I also created a twin brother to act as the journalist who would write the stories that go with the shots. But after researching the atrocities being performed by both sides, I realized that a film based solely in Vietnam would be too heavy, so I had the journalist escape the war and seek peace and solitude in New Zealand.
This departure caused the cameraman to chase his brother to the land of the long white cloud and attempt to lure him back.
The brother's time in New Zealand, despite the exquisite scenery and contrasting visuals, would end up with even more conflict than they had left behind.
At that stage I was writing my narrative in the normal manner, but in early 1970 I happened to read 'Love Story'. a book that had been adapted from a film play and released as a novel purely to stir interest in the pending film. The book was virtually a film play in hard cover, yet it read well and caused me to trim my own book to the bare minimum.
I finished REFLEX sometime in 1972 and took it to Greater Union in Sydney, a film company I was associated with through various productions as an actor. The local chief at the time was a delightful man named John Fraser, and I proposed a book/film scenario as was done with 'Love Story', but John poo-poohed the idea. He felt the Vietnam war was an open wound, that no one wanted to see a movie, or read a book about the atrocities that were being performed.
Of course I was extremely disappointed and placed the project in the bottom drawer of my desk. Within a year, however, John Fraser rang to ask if REFLEX was still available. His interest had been aroused by an American director named Francis Ford Coppola, who had come to Australia to look for locations for a proposed Vietnam war film set in... you guessed it, Vietnam, and again you guessed right if you thought the name of the film was going to be APOCALYPSE NOW. I naturally kicked up a fuss, indicating my dissatisfaction that John should wait for the Americans to bless the filming of this area before we attempted it. I was angry and disappointed that we would be second can off the rank, but succumbed when John suggested we shoot with myself in the role of the cameraman and that another up and coming Australian actor, Jack Thompson, should play the journalist.
All was set until just weeks prior to production John Fraser and I went to a Greater Union private screening of a Jack Thompson film entitled PETERSEN. It was Jack's first major role, and while I enjoyed the film and Jack's acting, I was a little taken aback by his rather heavy Australian accent, as I was, and still am, a firm believer in using an international accent when making films to be released abroad. It was something I intended for Jack and myself on REFLEX. So I was not really surprised when John announced that "Jack was embarrassingly bad." I knew it would be the end for Jack, and wondered if in fact it would be the end for REFLEX and headed for the hastily organized meeting with trepidation. My fears were directed in another direction, though, when John informed that far from firing Jack, he wanted to elevate him to the role of the cameraman and for me to play the journalist. Now both were strong roles and great characters to play, but I had honed the writing to suit the actors playing them, and the journalist's character was a laid-back hippie type which suited Jack, while mine was volatile and edgy. I could course kicked back on the change and brought up what John had said about Jack's performance in PETERSEN.
"Yes I know," said John. "But we have to cash in on his publicity."
I took the project away.
Foolish I know, but it was a stand against the bullshit that permeates and controls this business. But it did leave me having to sell in to other avenues. A project that did not prove easy. My profile as an actor not helping at all, as in those days, one was never allowed to differentiate and most comments regarding the script were negative and downright insulting, with one coming from a highly respected assessor that was just plain bitchy. "Inside every stuntman is a genius trying to get out," was insultingly written.
It was the straw that broke my back, and after years of negativity I decided to take the project overseas.
I reached London in early 1978, selected a literary agent from the thousands in the phone book, knocked up an introductory letter and mailed the manuscript to them. When I went across to Europe and ended up at the Cannes Film Festival. While there I met John Sainken, a movie producer from Western Australia who had heard about REFLEX, and asked if he could read the script. I had one copy with me and gave it to him to take back to his hotel.
He came to me first thing in the morning and said "Being new to this business, I know I am supposed to knock back twenty scripts before I even consider one, but I'd really love to make your film."
Although flattered, I was reluctant to sell as I had my mind made up to make the film with an international company, so I put John on hold, and that very day while strolling the promenade with an Italian actor of whom I had made an acquaintance, a maroon Rolls Royce pulled up and a couple of what appeared to be Italian gangsters leaped out and bombarded my compatriot with questions.
"They want to know if you're American," my friend informed.
Now I must admit I was wearing my uniform of buckskin trousers, Cuban heeled boots, cowboy hat and illustrated shirt. But I replied almost indignantly.
"No, I'm Australian."
The word was carried back to the car and a rotund well-dressed gentleman climbed from it and my Italian friend stiffened. "My God," he said. "It's Sergio Leone."
I was equally weak kneed because I had, only days previous, thumbed through the massive tome of Rome's phone book looking for Sergio's number as I thought REFLEX may be of interest to him.
"They tell me you're an Australian,: he asked in a broad American accent.
"That's right, and you know what?" I said rather cheekily. "I've been scouring Rome looking for you."
By then, the motorcycle and motor vehicle-conveyed paparazzi following the Roller dismounted and disembarked and surrounded us. Of course they thought I must have been a star wearing the outrageous clothes that I was, and now with Sergio talking to me, well that clinched the deal.
Likewise Sergio, who must have forgotten for a brief moment that he was prime fodder and thought, for some reason, that I must have been the lens men's subject of choice and gripped my hand with one of his and threw the other around my shoulder where we posed unashamedly while we told each other lies.
His parting words as he climbed back into the Roller and handed me his card were "Send me the details."
Of course he was referring to REFLEX, of which I had given him a quick sell in amongst the flashing bulbs and shouted instructions from the pap.
I returned to England and rang the literary agent. His secretary answered and when I introduced myself she said "Mister Ward, where have you been, Mister Lowe is dying to see you."
I was convinced it was a manner of mistaken identity but no, the agent definitely wanted to see me.
I went to his office, he locked the door, picked up the phone and muttered to his secretary "No interruptions". He then turned to me and said "Mr. Ward, this is the best thing I've ever read, what are your going to do with it?"
Despite not believing what I was hearing I told him I intended to take it to the States to sell.
"I'll do that," he said. He would also follow up on the lead Sergio had given me.
I told Robin I would precede him to the States to arrange interviews and meetings with the stars of the day.
I can't remember them all, but I do remember Sylvester Stallone was one of them. Jeff Wald, his manager at the time, told me "You know, Sly will want to re-write the script."
"He hasn't even read it."
"He'll still want to re-write."
Nick Nolte, who had just come from a very successful television career, wanted to get into movies but had a few clauses that he laid before me.
"I can't touch it if it's a war movie."
"It is, but he's not a soldier."
"Okay I can do that, but no love story."
"There is love, but your character is incapable of love. His head is too fucked up to love."
"That's fine," and so it went on. Everything the film was, Nick couldn't initially do, but in the end he was rearing to go.
I also spoke to Allan Ladd Junior, an up and coming producer who was keen to come on board. In fact that only knock back I got was from Clint Eastwood, who refused point blank to even discuss.
Even Lee Marvin, who was probably too old for the part, was prepared to talk, but he wanted me to fly to Nevada and meet him at an airport lounge and then fly out again. I decided he was too old, despite my eagerness to meet him.
Meantime I was getting angrier and angrier with Robin Lowe, who was still in London and had missed all of the preliminary meetings, and in exasperation I rang him and asked "Are you still representing me?"
"Of course I am. I'll be there eventually. Leave it all to me."
I had spent almost a year traveling by then and had spent a small fortune with, so far, no return, so I decided to leave it in Robin's hands and began a long and protracted journey home. Firstly I went to San Francisco, then Hawaii, American Samoa, Samoa, Fiji, New Caledonia and then Sydney. It took me three months to reach my shores and with each and every new destination my address was telegraphed to Robin.
Not once in all of that time did I hear from him, so when I saw John Sainkin waving from the sidelines when I landed at Sydney airport I knew I had won. We flew to his home town of Perth where he had a contract for the script arranged. I at least knew the money that I had spent over the past twelve months would be returned, although there was not enough to compensate for the years of writing and research that had gone into the script. That night, when I returned to my Perth hotel, I found a telegram had been thrust beneath the door. It had been forwarded from my Sydney home. "Have deal with MGM, return to LA immediately." It was from Robin. I collapsed on the bed in both joy and anger. Because the film now belonged to Sainken, but at least it would be made by a company of worth.
John was delighted and even though I could not face another sojourn in the States, I was surprised when he indicated there was no need for me to go, that he would attend the meeting and take over where I had left off.
Relieved and feeling very tired, I went to Mother's house in South Australia and just sat around. I painted her house. I did the gardening. I wandered the old and familiar streets, but each and every day I checked the mail box.
There was never any mail.
After three months of uncertainty and now suspicion, I rang Sainken in Perth.
"How did the meeting with MGM go," I asked.
"I didn't go."
"Why the hell not?"
"I bought another nightclub, it took up all of my time. Never mind, we'll make REFLEX, but we'll make it over here."
Again I took the project away from a would-be producer and again I returned to the thankless task of producing the work myself.
I began negotiations with George Miller, whom I had worked with on MAD MAX. He was interested, but having felt the brunt of frsutrations with the let-downs I had, and obviously sick of hearing my final demands, he said "If I do REFLEX and you decide you want Frank Sinatra in the lead, well, let me tell you now, that if I don't want Sinatra, you don't get Sinatra."
Point taken, George.
I then employed Terry Bourke, a prolific producer and director of low budget straight-to-television films to do the budget. Of course he needed to read the script in order to create it, and after a couple of days he asked in a casual manner:
"Who do you have to direct?"
"George Miller."
Terry laughed. "George can't even direct traffic. I'll direct it for you."
"Thanks, Terry, but no, I need a proven International at the helm."
Terry flared up and told me what he would do with the project if he directed. Of course he had read and re-read the script and could see what I intended. Although he did elaborate even further on my ideas and he got me when my guard was down.
Within a week, I had signed yet another contract on REFLEX. Terry to direct and produce, myself to co-produce and star alongside Hugh Keays-Byrne.
"Of course we need to re-write the script." Terry said when the ink on the contract was hardly dried.
"No," I cried.
"Just a few elements, and we need to get away from Vietnam. There are so many movies being made about that joint, we'd be better to change it to Timor."
I really do get angry when, after working on a project and the characters within it for a number of years, someone like Terry, or as we mentioned earlier, Sly Stallone, come on board and have the audacity to order re-writes. After all, it was the original script that garnered their attention and caused them to come on board, but once there they feel the need to stamp it with their own.
With Terry, after just a month on the project, he claimed to know more about the characters, their motivations, their thought processes and the manner in which they spoke than the creator who had lived with them since inception. His attitude and arrogance caused endless shouting matches between us, and the basement garage that we used as an office became a battlefield, ultimately causing Terry to fling the 130 page script across the room and hit me in the chest and then cascade over the floor. "Take your piece of shit," he yelled at me in the ensuing silence. "See if any other idiot will agree to make it."
One has many options when something like that happens. I could have smacked him. I could have walked out. Or I could have picked up the script, stack it into a neat pile, place it on the desk and tell him to do it his way.
I took time to think of the consequences of what any of those actions may take. One thing was for sure, I could not begin the rounds again. So I took the latter stance, preceding it with "Take my name off the script." I then followed up with "Give me eighty grand." And finished off with "And you can do it your way." When the grin of achievement and satisfaction reached boiling point, I topped it off with "And I will fuck your wife."
He laughed like hell at that. Too high with achievement and success to even give the statement a second though.
Then he did all that I knew he would.
He re-wrote the script, conned an investor to pay me the nominated fee, used an actor who was completely unsuitable for the leading role and consequently made a shit movie that went straight to television.
The film owed me more than eighty grand for what I had spent in the previous twelve months. So the years of work have not been compensated. They will be though, as REFLEX is ready to go again. Set in the new millennium, it uses the conflict in the Middle East and is a bloody good read and is going to make one hell of a movie.
No one will fuck it up this time either, not even Terry because he's dead now. Although he has attempted to come back, this time through a medium, where he apologized and told me I was right all along.
Did he mean I was right to fuck his wife?
Because that is what I did; the very same day that the check was cleared.
The same day, in fact, that Terry re-printed the script without my name. Ten years of work relegated to the bin because of some other prick's ego.
Still, the erasure of my name was of my own choosing. So was the fucking of his wife. She was gorgeous by the way, but no replacement for my ten years of hard work.
