Ladies in Black Read online

  About the Book

  Previously published as The Women in Black, now a major film directed by Bruce Beresford and starring Angourie Rice, Rachel Taylor, Noni Hazlehurst, Susie Porter and Shane Jacobson.

  Sydney, 1959

  On the second floor of Goode’s famous department store, the ladies in black are girding themselves for the Christmas rush. Lisa, the new Sales Assistant (Temporary), is assigned to Ladies’ Cocktail. She is about to meet the glamorous Continental refugee, Magda, guardian of the rose-pink cave of Model Gowns.

  Madeleine St John, a ‘modern-day Jane Austen’, conjures a vanished summer of innocence with the lightest comic touch.

  With a new introduction by Bruce Beresford, director of Ladies in Black.

  AN AUSTRALIAN CLASSIC NOW A HIT MUSICAL AND A MAJOR FEATURE FILM

  ‘A pocket masterpiece. A jewel.’ HILARY MANTEL

  ‘Shimmers with wit and tenderness.’ HELEN GARNER

  ‘Funny, affectionate, moving.’ MONICA Mc INERNEY

  ‘Brimming with elegance, uncannily modern and sparkling with mischief.’ ZOË FOSTER BLAKE

  This book is dedicated to the memory of M. & Mme. J. M. Cargher

  CONTENTS

  Cover Page

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  INTRODUCTION

  Ladies in Black—At Last by Bruce Beresford

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  About Madeleine St John

  About Bruce Beresford

  Copyright page

  Bruce Beresford

  Ladies in Black—At Last

  I always expected that many of the lively group I associated with at Sydney University in the early sixties would, over the years, produce a steady stream of novels and plays. Oddly, this didn’t happen, or at least it hasn’t happened yet and probably won’t, as the survivors are now all in their late seventies. A number became journalists, quite a few became actors (John Bell, the most acclaimed) and several have published memoirs—not novels. Les Murray and Clive James emerged as major poets and Robert Hughes became internationally known as an art critic, while the loquacious and dynamic Germaine Greer became world-famous after the publication of The Female Eunuch in 1970.

  Clive James, who left for London in 1962, did actually write a few novels somewhere along the way, which puts a small dent in my original statement, though he is best known for his long stint as a TV personality. He also published scores of essays, several volumes of autobiography and a highly regarded translation of Dante—and, incredibly, managed to sandwich in a career as a tango dancer. It was he who told me, sometime in 1993, that Madeleine St John, whom we had both known at Sydney University, had published a novel—The Women in Black. He was so effusive in his praise of its graceful prose, its humour and observations, that I rushed into Hatchards, in Piccadilly, and bought a copy immediately.

  Like Clive, I was entranced by the book, the touching story of a young girl whose life is influenced by the migrant woman she meets while working in a Sydney department store during the Christmas holidays. The Women in Black immediately struck me as being the work of a modern-day Jane Austen, with all the wit and acute characterisations of that great writer. The setting, Australia in 1959, I remember vividly—a time when the country was deluged with migrants from Europe. There was a big migrant camp not far from where I lived on the outskirts of Sydney. I remember being shocked at the hostility shown towards the migrants by some friends and even family members, who regarded the newcomers, against all evidence to the contrary, as wealthy opportunists. A formidable aunt of mine assured me many of the migrants had brought with them jewellery and gold. I tentatively pointed out that most had come from countries where the currency had collapsed, so they had no alternative, as their paper money was worthless.

  I remembered Madeleine as small and slight, with a mass of unkempt ginger hair and a sharp, sarcastic manner that kept me in awe and rather wary of her. She was not one of the student beauties I pursued fruitlessly (mostly) over the years. Both of us were in a drama group, where I did little but carry spears or announce the arrival or departure of some other character, but Madeleine’s odd looks and skill with dialogue landed her some major comedic roles, notably a brilliant version of Lola Montez, a ‘Spanish’ beauty—actually Irish—who visited the Australian goldfields in 1855, where she performed her scandalous ‘spider dance’, much admired by the goldminers but condemned by the clergy and the press.

  Obsessed with making a film of The Women in Black, I set about finding Madeleine. I had lost contact with her over the years, but heard she was living in London. A few fragments of information had reached me…she had been married but was now single… she had spent some years as the acolyte of an Indian guru, until she found out (surprise) that he was a fraud…she had worked in a bookshop… I tracked her down by the simple method of calling her publisher for her address. I found her living in a surprisingly large council flat in Notting Hill, which was at that time still a run-down suburb but showing signs of rejuvenation.

  Madeleine was living alone, with minimal furniture and a number of paperback books. She had emphysema, so was almost permanently attached to a large oxygen cylinder, tube and mouthpiece. Her only companion was a ferocious watchcat, who took his job seriously and attacked all visitors. Unlike the cat, Madeleine was quite friendly, though as sharp-tongued as I remembered. Her hair was as red as ever, but the colour was now achieved with chemical assistance. Over the years she had seen and, I was relieved to hear, admired some of my films. She was happy to let me have an option on The Women in Black.

  I visited her a number of times once contact was re-established. She shared my passion for classical music and we went to several concerts at the Albert Hall, where other audience members tactfully ignored us, which couldn’t have been easy. Carrying a large oxygen cylinder and holding a breathing tube aloft, I would follow Madeleine—a diminutive, flame-haired elf—as she led me to our seats.

  Back in Sydney I worked on a film script with producer Sue Milliken, and some months later took it to London and gave a copy to Madeleine. Expecting a tirade of advice and corrections, of the kind her publisher was subjected to, I was surprised at her relatively mild reaction. In retrospect, I think this was simply because the novel had been written economically: scenes followed one another logically and the dialogue was naturalistic and succinct. The script was much closer to the novel than any other adaptation I had done, or have done since. Perhaps there wasn’t a lot that Madeleine could complain about. It’s possible, too, that she didn’t want to dampen my enthusiasm, and I was fairly sure her sanguine manner about the film concealed a real desire to see it happen.

  Naively, I imagin
ed that my passion for this charming and cheerful novel would be shared by the potential investors whom Sue Milliken and I approached for finance. This was not the case. Our ordeal over the next twenty-four (!) years was very similar to what I had gone through with the scripts of Tender Mercies and Driving Miss Daisy, though it lasted much longer. (Both of those projects were dismissed by various ‘readers’—an anonymous group who supply ‘coverage’ to the finance people—as inept, pointless, amateurish, boring, etc., etc. Despite these acute insights, both films would go on to win the Academy Award for Best Screenplay.)

  Madeleine died in 2006. I let her down, or she let me down, as I had promised I would make the film while she lived. After her death we kept trying. In 2009, Text reissued the novel, which sold well. There was interest from some producers in America but it fizzled out, mainly because of the Australian setting. I was unwilling to transfer the story to the USA. A German group seemed enthusiastic for a while but wanted major changes to the characters which would make some of them thoroughly unpleasant. A mistake, we thought, as Madeleine’s good-natured group was a key aspect of the novel’s appeal.

  Sue Milliken and I felt that the attachment of a major actress to play Magda would assist in gaining support from the Australian Film Finance Corporation, its successor, Screen Australia, and from distributors. At one point Isabella Rossellini committed to the part, and later Monica Bellucci. No one seemed impressed by either name. An earnest lady at one of our government funding body meetings informed us that if we changed the storyline and the characters, we might receive some support. She even presented us with a detailed written outline of how this could be achieved. We declined, saying we preferred to film what Madeleine St John had written. By 2015 Sue and I were ready to admit defeat.

  Only a few months later I had a call from the composer Tim Finn, who had read the book and was keen to write a musical version for the stage. By now I was convinced my film would never happen so, as Madeleine’s literary executor, I gave Tim permission to go ahead. He did so, and the production—with the new title Ladies in Black—was a winner, with a first-rate cast, delightful songs and lively direction by Simon Phillips. Madeleine’s royalties were paid to a cat shelter and a children’s home in England.

  In 2017 a phone call came from a vivacious young woman named Allanah Zitserman, who had emigrated from Russia to Australia with her family as a child. She was captivated, in particular, by the migrant theme in The Women in Black. She proceeded to focus her awesome energy into raising finance for the film—the script that Sue and I had written, not the musical adaptation. (I thought Allanah and Sue Milliken, also a strong personality, would clash and the whole affair would end in tears. This didn’t happen, as both realised that they needed the strengths—enthusiasm vs. experience—of the other.)

  Allanah sent the script to Stephen Basil-Jones, the personable head of Sony in Australia. He liked it and arranged for all of us to go to Sony’s office in Los Angeles. After a lot of discussion—spearheaded by Allanah’s energy, allied with her thorough preparation—the company agreed to invest. As we left the Sony studio in Culver City, I remarked to Allanah, ‘They’re doing this just to get rid of you. They know that if they don’t invest you’ll never go away.’

  Sony didn’t cover the entire budget. Once again we applied to the Australian funding bodies—bureaucracies that make the law courts of Bleak House appear streamlined. Many applicants have retired defeated, but Allanah could deal with the mountain of paperwork required. Luckily, the woman who thought it was a good idea to write a new story with different characters was not in evidence. I have to admit, though, that there was genuine enthusiasm for the project from the Screen Australia people, so it seems churlish to complain about government protocol. Allanah and Sue also located a number of private investors, most of whom I met, doing my best to impersonate a gifted but at the same time admirably sane and fiscally responsible film director.

  Casting was something of a problem. The finance, particularly that from Sony, was contingent on the recruitment of some ‘name’ actors. There are exceptions, of course, but it is, and always has been, difficult to find an audience for films without ‘stars’. For the role of Magda, an Eastern European immigrant to Australia, it was essential to find someone who would be accepted as such, and not as a native English speaker putting on an accent. Numerous actresses were discussed: some were not available, some were astronomically expensive, but most were considered implausible. I was working in Canada on another film when someone mentioned having worked on Legends of the Fall with Julia Ormond. Something clicked and I immediately sent a script to Julia’s agent in Los Angeles. A few days later I had a call saying Julia loved the role and was available, more or less, at the time we wanted to shoot. She immediately found a coach to tutor her in the Slovenian accent the role demanded.

  For the role of Lisa, the sixteen-year-old girl who takes a holiday job in the department store Goode’s (based on David Jones)—a character who is unquestionably Madeleine St John herself—we cast a talented Australian girl, Angourie Rice, who was still in her final year of high school. (She had to leave the set early one day to fly to Melbourne for a French exam.) Angourie had, amazingly enough, already played major roles in eight films, including three or four in America.

  Other key roles were played by Australian actors, nearly all of whom had to come back from the USA for the shoot, as they were working in American film or TV productions. These included Rachael Taylor, Ryan Corr and Alison McGirr. Happily, I was also overwhelmed by wonderful local actors who had not emigrated to California and were enthusiasts for the script—Noni Hazlehurst, Shane Jacobson, Susie Porter and Nicholas Hammond. My old friend Vincent Perez, a huge star in Europe, came from France to play Magda’s Hungarian husband.

  Shooting a film in 2018 which is set in the Sydney of 1959 was no easy task. Virtually everything had changed during the intervening sixty years, and our resourceful location finders, Jeremy Peek and Rhavin Banda, spent months combing every suburb in search of period locations. Both young men had considerable charm, an essential attribute, as they had to knock on hundreds of doors and explain to cautious residents that a film unit might want to take over the premises for a week or two. Fortunately, residents rarely understand what this involves—as a crew of thirty or so people trampling around the house can be disconcerting, no matter how courteous they are, or how careful with the owner’s possessions. Undoubtedly, a fee and/or a week or so in a smart hotel can be an incentive.

  Sydney had an extensive tram network in 1959 (why was it ever abandoned?!) and this posed another problem. Luckily, the Sydney Tramway Museum, near Sutherland, came to the rescue with its immaculately restored trams and a few kilometres of track. Similarly, the Penrith Museum of Printing, with its superb collection of pre-digital compositing machines in working order gave us the location for a key scene set on the compositing floor of the Sydney Morning Herald.

  David Jones even let us use their mysteriously empty and unrestored seventh floor for one day’s filming. The production designer Felicity Abbott and her team turned it into the ground floor of Goode’s by adding fake entrance doors, and a street beyond them, as well as bringing in a vast load of clothes, jewellery, etc., suitable for sale in 1959. All of the other department store scenes were filmed at Fox Studios on a stylish set designed by Felicity.

  A major difficulty in recreating 1959 for the film was the costumes. The designer Wendy Cork and her assistants had to design and then make the clothes for all the leading actors. More of a problem were the dozens of dresses needed for the female extras in all the store and street scenes. The clothes of 1959 had gone out of fashion and very little was to be found in second-hand shops. Experience on other films had told me that no matter what is needed for a film, someone, somewhere, will have a house or warehouse full of the stuff. Working on Breaker Morant, I met a man in Wales whose house was a shrine of Boer War memorabilia. On And Starring Pancho Villa as Himself, I found a man with a stunning co
llection of vintage guns going back to the fourteenth century. There was nothing he didn’t know about firearms, including every weapon used during the Mexican Revolution. Invariably, it’s a matter of tracking down the collector/fanatic. Sure enough, I had a call from Wendy one morning to say that she and Allanah had found someone in South Australia who was disposing of his collection of hundreds of 1950s dresses, the majority of them in perfect condition.

  I think that most film directors have projects about which they become obsessive. Many of my obsessions, over a fifty-year career, have remained just that, as the films were not realised—and never will be. Thankfully, some of them were made—Don’s Party, The Getting of Wisdom, Breaker Morant, Driving Miss Daisy, Tender Mercies, Black Robe and probably a couple of others. Ladies in Black was on my mind for nearly thirty years. I hope I have done justice to the fine work by Madeleine St John. If it fails I certainly won’t be able to blame my cast or gifted Australian crew, headed by the brilliant cameraman Peter James. (This was our twelfth film together. He has photographed almost all my films since Driving Miss Daisy in 1989.) Above all, I realise there would be no Ladies in Black but for the endlessly resourceful producers, Sue Milliken and Allanah Zitserman.

  I certainly underestimated Madeleine St John in our student days. I was aware of her wit, and her knowledge of arcane novelists and poets—though that rarely has any relationship to creativity, otherwise more film and literary critics would be scriptwriters, directors and novelists. It was only when I read The Women in Black, after that lunch with Clive James in 1993, that I became aware of Madeleine’s powers of observation, her understanding of character, the insights behind her wit, her rather unexpected warmth.

  I’m sorry that I lost touch with Madeleine for so many years—from 1963 to 1993—but I was busy trying to carve a film career for myself. And—it’s not unfair to say—being a friend of Madeleine’s was not easy. She was fiercely opinionated, even to the point of hostility. I know that her scathing remarks as she demolished others’ opinions resulted in a number of friends taking evasive action.