Joe Orton (1st January 1933 – 9th August 1967)
“Basically The Beatles are getting fed up with the Dick Lester type of direction. They want dialogue to speak … Difficult this, as I don’t think any of The Beatles can act in any accepted sense.”
Joe Orton (January 1967)
"The only thing I get from the theatre is a sore arse."
Paul McCartney (January 1967)
The time was the 1960s, a period that even while 50 years
have since passed still has the power to enchant, captivate and consume. The
strands that ran off of every day of this remarkable period could fill
an entire library of books and probably will do by the time we're all dust. For those
of my generation who are reminded constantly on how bloody great it all was, it
hardly remedies the hurt at missing out on the biggest and most amazing party
ever. Punk may have been great; House may have liberated many and Britpop might have reinvented cool but the Sixties
still reigns supreme for sheer unadulterated cool.
If Britain
was where it was all happening during the mid -1960s then London was the epicentre of this artistic
explosion. Leading the way were The Beatles. By 1966, they’d conquered every
tier of society – globally and culturally. Most importantly, they’d torn down
the walls that separated class and division – handing working-class artists the
broadest canvas to run riot over. Regardless if one actually liked the band, it’s
clear that every young artisan who came to prominence during this period owes a
huge debt of gratitude to The Fab Four.
Orton’s cheeky celebrity masked an even more outrageous
private life. Enjoying his homosexuality at a time when one could have been
jailed for one’s preferences, Orton treated London as one giant sexual playground,
excitement tucked around every corner, down every nook and cranny. The
permissive 60s were tailor-made for Orton’s insatiable promiscuity – favouring
the public lavatory to schmoozing in West End
clubs. Orton’s interminable dallying at the sharp end of London ’s sexual network gave his observational writing a razor’s edge and a rare salacious
humour.
While Orton’s contemporaries in rock music were also
satisfying their collective libidos at every opportunity, they rarely collided
– theatre and pop at that point separated by a thick wall of snobbery that
despite Orton’s iconoclasm was still infused by stifling class attitudes and
ineffable snobbery.
With the benefit of hindsight, it would appear obvious that
Orton would collide with The Beatles at some point during the 1960s. The Fab
Four's abandonment of concert work in 1966 had allowed them time to explore London – at that point the
hub of the creative world. Like other areas of the arts, theatre was starting
to become accessible to the masses.
As songwriters of their generation, Paul McCartney and John
Lennon had been approached to write a stage musical, a predictable rite of
passage to exploit their enormous talent. Nonetheless, despite considerable
riches for the taking, the pair didn’t care too much for theatre. While they’d
mingled frequently in drama circles, their short attention spans wouldn’t allow
for prolonged spells in auditoriums where the action was often understated and
slow. While McCartney (the most artistically adventurous of the group) had
famously mentioned that all he got from the theatre was “a sore arse”, Lennon was far less tolerant, reportedly storming out of a performance of the musical "Oh What A Lovely War" after a few minutes.
Cinema was a far more viable (and lucrative) option for the
group. As the astronomical success of both A Hard Day's Night and Help! had
witnessed - a third movie was a formality and had been pencilled in for 1966. A
proposed script with a Western theme entitled A Talent For Loving had been
optioned during late 1965 – and reportedly had found favour with the band.
Written by "Manchurian Candidate" author Richard Condon, the
concept took The Beatles back to the Wild West of the 1870s. Despite public announcements that the film
would go into production during 1966, the group would ultimately pass on the
movie. Another idea that only reached proposal stage was a reworking of
Alexandra Dumas’ "The Three Musketeers". While the boys were reportedly excited
at the prospect of having Bridget Bardot playing "Lady De Winter", the project
would ultimately be rejected, although it would be successfully revived by
Beatles’ director Richard Lester in 1974.
There were other elements that were fast changing The
Beatles view of life. The band’s discovery of marijuana and
(particularly) LSD had coloured the lads’ vision considerably, reducing
their egos to a point where the frippery of predictable plot-lines was of
little interest. Nonetheless, the group had an existing three-picture deal with
United Artists, who were understandably desperate for the band to realise the
contract while their popularity was still at its global peak.
To keep United Artists at bay, Brian Epstein had negotiated
a deal for Yellow Submarine, an animated project that he hoped would satisfy
their contract while minimising his charges involvement. While Epstein was
quick to sign off the deal, he ignored the small print that was implicit on the
group’s actual involvement in the film; animated Beatles no substitute for the
real thing. Epstein had a poor track record as regards film deals. His tepid
deal for A Hard Day’s Night and a disastrous tax haven plot with Help!'s putative profits had drawn derision from the band, and
weakened his acumen. Similarly, Lennon and McCartney had mocked him when he
suggested that they compose the music for Walt Disney’s animated version of The
Jungle Book in 1965
Walter Shenson, producer of A Hard Day’s Night and Help! , had invested a lot of his reputation in The Beatles continuing film career. Nonetheless,his terrier enthusiasm was being sorely tested by the Fabs luke-warm responses to a third movie.
The group’s gradual retreat from public appearances during 1966 meant that there was no real interest in turning over 12 weeks of their lives for filming.
In an attempt to elicit some interest, Shenson had
commissioned 45-year-old TV screenwriter Owen Holder to put together a script
that was in line with the experimental atmosphere that was invading cinema
during 1966. With Blow Up forging a new visual sensibility for film, Shenson
sensed that the Beatles current experimental phase (as per their “Revolver”
album) would be well suited for the cinema. With a brief (of sorts) handed over
to Holder, he went away and began constructing a script. From the few parts of the
script that have escaped, it certainly was light years away from the silly
nonsense plots that had been embedded in their previous films.
Holder’s basic premise was that each of the Beatles would be
an aspect of one person. That person would be called “Stanley Grimshaw",
reportedly going to be played by John while the rest of the boys would play the
other personalities in his mind. While little else has been revealed, the
film’s love interest would pursue all four members of the group with a proposal
of marriage (which the script coyly fails to reveal which Beatle accepts). A
treatment by Holder was clearly prepared by August 1966 – and had found some
favour with the group.
“Somebody gave us a good idea,” said George Harrison in
answer to a question regarding the film in August 1966. “We told him to go and
write it into a script. So we won't really be able to tell if we're gonna make
the film until we've read the script. And as he hasn't finished the script, we
haven't read the script- so we won't know yet until about Christmas, maybe. But
if it is a good one and we like it, we'll probably start it 'round about
January, February, or March... or December."
With the working title of “Beatles 3”, Holder’s draft formed
the basis of several meetings. With a green light to complete a script, Holder
would complete a 109-page document. The signs at that point were promising,
with reportedly a budget larger than the group’s previous films and a far greater creative hand afforded to the group. The added carrot for the producers was (of
course) the likelihood of a soundtrack album containing half a dozen original
songs, with recording slated for the last quarter of 1966.
However, as was becoming a formality for the group during
the mid-60s, projects would come and go with frightening rapidity. Nonetheless,
in lieu of any group filming commitments, members of the group were involving
themselves in projects relating to the movie industry. Paul McCartney had been
contracted to write the score for a Boutling Brothers’ production The Family
Way. Despite his lackadaisical persona, John Lennon had already agreed to star
in Dick Lester’s anti-war film How I Won The War in the autumn of 1966, a subject Lennon was eager to associate
himself with. With George in India
and Ringo busy playing husband and father, any talk of the group’s new film
project was not considered a high priority.
Owen Holder’s script not maintaining any great
continuity, and at the tail end of 1966
– and with the Fab Four locked in the studio – a decision of sorts was made to
jettison Holder’s draft. While the idea was still considered worthy of further
investigation, with the recording of “Sergeant Pepper” taking far greater
precedence (and with drugs and soul searching filling in the rest of their
time) none of the Fabs appeared interested in pursuing the film any further at that
stage.
The beginning of 1967 saw The Beatles retreat to the studio for a series of intensive recording sessions.
Elsewhere, and far more publicly, Joe Orton was the toast of London ’s drama society – lauded by critics,
loved by audiences and at the beck and call of producers. His first two
productions “Loot” and “Entertaining Mr Sloane” had become West
End sell-outs, collecting rave reviews and provoking controversy
in equal measures. With “Loot” destined for Broadway, film rights on the table for both scripts and a
television drama “The Good and the Faithfull Servant” in rehearsal for ITV,
Orton was rightfully chuffed by his endeavours.
The crowning moment of this period was an award from the
London Evening Standard for "Loot" becoming “Play Of The Year” for 1966. Orton
would be duly crowned at a televised award ceremony at the swanky West End eatery Quaglino’s on 11th January 1967.
Elsewhere, Orton would find himself eagerly sought after company for both media
events and London 's
vibrant dinner party circuit.
Orton’s Beatlesque rise to fame and celebrity would prompt
producer Walter Shenson to make a very cogent connection that an amalgam
between Joe and the Fabs may well prove fortuitous. Owen Holder’s script
dangling in limbo, it was decided to approach Orton to beef up the initial
premise that (at least) ideas wise had excited the group. Shenson had evidently
mentioned Orton’s name to The Beatles at this period who had evidently approved
the approach. As was the way of things, a phone call was made to Orton’s flat
in Islington on 12th January 1967.
“'I've discussed it with the boys,” said Shenson to Orton.
“I mean, I’ve mentioned your name to them. They’ve heard of you. They didn’t
react too much, I must say. But I think I can persuade them to have you.”
Orton’s working-class confidence, elevated by his sharp rise
to fame - would spare no time in returning Shenson’s somewhat unceremonial
approach.
“Well, I’m frightfully up to my eyes at the moment,” replied
Orton. “I’m writing my third play.”
Undeterred, Shenson pushed for Joe to show some interest.
Rarely, if ever did someone turn down an opportunity to work with The Beatles –
and Shenson was aware that an association with Orton would prove exciting. “I’d
certainly love to have you take a look at this draft,” urged Shenson.
Acquiescing to the offer, Orton would shelve his temporary
nonchalance. “Please send the script over and I’ll read it,” he said in
closing.
On that mildly cordial note, the script was couriered over
to Orton’s flat the following day. The third stage play that Orton had referenced to
Shenson was “What The Butler Saw”, a romp much in the vein of Loot and “Entertaining
Mr. Sloane”. With no immediate pressure on the “Butler ” script (as it had reached first draft
status), Orton took two days to read The Beatles idea. While he had never
written a film script as such, he was intrigued by the approach that Holder had
taken, especially the possibilities for sexual adventure within the split
personality angle.
“Like the idea,” wrote Orton on turning the final page.
“Basically it is that there aren’t four young men. Just four aspects of one
man. Sounds dreary, but as I thought about it I realised what wonderful
opportunities it would give.”
Inspired by the inter-gender possibilities, Orton called
Walter Shenson and arranged to meet him over lunch to discuss the project – the date of 16th January 1967 pencilled in for a meeting. Before he ventured to the
producer’s office, Orton conferred with his agent (Margaret) Peggy Ramsey. Beatle money commanding premium rates, Ramsey
informed Joe that she’d ask for an advance of £10,000 on the first draft
(around 100k in today’s money).
The meeting with Shenson over lunch proving cordial, Shenson
would leave with a magical possibility. “Don’t be surprised if a Beatle rings
you up,” said Shenson as they bade their farewells. Fired on all cylinders,
Orton immediately began working on the script straight after the lunch with Shenson. With
no exact brief, Joe decided to go far out - thoroughly revising Owen Holder’s
effort to a mere shadow of what was created the previous year. By the end of the first day, he’d typed two
pages and had already dreamed up a ribald title, Up Against It attached to it. Ever the magpie even when it came to
his own work, Orton began to incorporate elements of “The Silver Bucket”, his
first novel, (co-written in 1953 with his partner Kenneth Halliwell) and parts
of The Vision Of Gombold Proval”, Orton’s first true solo novel from 1961.
“The boys, in my
script,” wrote Orton as he neared completion of the first draft, “have been
caught in-flagrante, become involved in dubious political activity, dressed as
women, committed murder, been put in prison and committed adultery.”
Sensing the enormous potential, Orton pushed his agent to up
the fee for the script to £15,000.
Furthermore, a contract would be prepared with a clause that would allow
the rights to revert to Orton if The Beatles did not go through with their
intention to film his work.
While words and promises were typically inconsequential in
the 1960s, a call from The Beatles office made its way to Orton on 23rd January
1967, requesting a meeting with the playwright.
Excited by conferring with the group, Orton duly travelled up to The
Beatles’ office in Argyll Street
in London ’s West End
the following afternoon. While Orton had become largely inured by the contrary
attitudes of the show-business world, he’d be seriously irked by what he
encountered that day. “All the boys' appointments have been put back an hour
and a half,” reported Peter Brown -Epstein’s assistant. - to Orton as he sat waiting
in their office. “I was a bit chilly in my manner after that,” wrote Orton in
his diary later. Brown then attempted to defer Orton with the promise of a date
in the future. “What guarantee is there that you won’t break that?” said Orton,
now aware that there were no Fabs in the building. “I think you better find
yourself another writer,” snapped Joe as he prepared to leave.
Brown, used to the world and his wife grovelling at The
Beatles’ alter, quickly moved to stymie Orton’s threatened exit. Excusing
himself to an office, he swiftly returned with Brian Epstein – not a Fab, but
the closest one could get to their gilded inner circle. On first impressions,
Orton wasn’t that impressed with the aura of world’s most famous impresario.
“I’d imagined Epstein to be florid, Jewish, dark-haired and overwhelming.
Inside, I was face to face with a mousey-haired, slight young man.” Epstein
quickly ushered Orton into his office and attempted to placate him. “Could you
meet Paul and me for dinner tonight?”
said Epstein. “We do want to have the pleasure of talking with
you.” While Orton had a theatre
engagement that night, he made vaguely positive noises that he would be over
that night.
Nonetheless, Joe wouldn’t allow any stardust to blur his
vision. As was his style, he’d approach the convergence with McCartney (and
possibly other Fabs) with typically cheeky aplomb. Not the chauffeured limo
that Brian Epstein had offered, or a black cab; no, for Joe it meant a London bus – a number 38.
Belgravia off the London
underground network, a bus ride was the quickest route to Epstein’s house from
Islington.
Darting through Mayfair ,
the bus dropped Joe off at Hyde Park Corner. He then walked down the busy
corridor of Grosvenor Place
towards Victoria before turning right into
affluent Chapel Street ,
on the fringes of Belgravia and within spitting distance of Buckingham Palace .
Epstein’s house was very much in keeping with what The
Beatles’ manager had long aspired to. He’d bought the Chapel Street property in January 1965 –
his previous London
bases either hotels or flats. Situated towards the far end of the street,
Epstein enjoyed its affluent presence. Replete with butler and servants
quarters, Brian was now assuming the vision he’d carved out during his
shop-keeping days back in Liverpool .
Regardless of the swanky address, number 24 maintained its uniformity with the
other houses on the street. Even with a pub and mews residences to its rear,
the thick walls behind the stuccoed façade of number 24 ensured a relative peace
inside.
While it was clear that Epstein was nesting in Belgravia , his presence in Chapel Street during early 1967 was
sporadic. Lost in a whirl of drugs, alcohol and desperation over The Beatles
uncertain plans, Brian had taken to frequenting London ’s gambling clubs after-dark, often frittering
away thousands of pounds in a single evening. His other, more nefarious,
encounters found him in the shadowy avenues of the capital's uncertain and
dangerous homosexual underground – a landscape that had already seen him
injured; blackmailed and narrowly avoiding prosecution. Not that either
personality knew it at the time, but Epstein was treading the same path as
Orton on London ’s
gay network. While Brian had been effusive in inviting Orton to his house, the
playwright’s otherwise detailed diary notes would make no reference to The
Beatles’ manager being present that night.
Walking up Chapel
Street , Orton would have difficulty distinguishing
Epstein’s house from the other affluent symbols of Belgravia
wealth. An ornate lamp hovering over the entrance gave little away as to its
interior. After climbing up the four stone steps, Orton’s slender gait would
have been illuminated by a light illuminating from a glass half-crescent
situated above the entrance. While a large brass knocker was attached to the
door, Orton chose a different route to announce his presence.
“I range the bell and an old man opened the door,” recalled
Orton in his diaries. “He seemed surprised to see me. ‘Is this Brian Epstein’s
house?’ I said. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and led the way into the hall. I suddenly
realised that the man was the butler. I’ve never seen one before. He took my
coat and I went to the lavatory. When I came out he’d gone. There was nobody
about. I wandered around a large dining-room which was laid for dinner. And
then I got to feel strange. The house appeared to be empty. So I went upstairs
to the first floor. I heard music only I couldn’t decide where it came from. So
I went further upstairs and found myself in a bedroom. I came down again and
found the butler. He took me into a room and said in a loud voice, ‘Mr Orton.’”
The gaggle of personalities in the house looked around and
rose to their feet. Most of those present were clearly familiar with the name
“Orton”, and appeared primed for his appearance. Despite the conviviality on
display, Epstein was hugely conspicuous by his absence, presumably playing
elsewhere. Nonetheless, he’d left his personal assistant Peter Brown (who’d
Orton had met previously) to tend to business.
Orton’s presence was duly absorbed into the gathering.
However, as was always the case when a Beatle was in the room, the
other-worldly ambience of Paul McCartney trumped all other energies.
Accordingly, Orton recognised the cute one before introductions took hold.
“He was just as the photographs,” recalled Orton on viewing
Beatle Paul. “Only he’d grown a moustache. His hair was shorter too.”
As was McCartney’s indulgence when a new Beatles record was
due for release, he’d share the recording with all and sundry to gauge opinion.
While still at mixing stage, McCartney was excited about the group’s new single
release and had brought along an acetate disc to play. “He was playing the
latest Beatles recording, ‘Penny
Lane ’ recalled Orton. “I liked it very much. Then
he played the other side – ‘Strawberry…’ something. I didn’t like this as
much.”
Once the single preview had concluded, McCartney and Orton
broached the subject of Up Against It.. With some hubbub as dinner was
announced, the conversation was fragmentary and inconclusive. Transferring to
the dining room on the ground floor, a butler attended to the place settings as
the incoming diners sat down. With Orton sat next to McCartney, the pair began
a more continuous dialogue – a lot of it centring on their respective
professions.
As was his style, McCartney broke the ice - flattering Joe
by saying that his play “Loot” was the only production he hadn’t wanted to
leave before the end, expressing a thought that he wished the play had been longer.
It was quite a complement given McCartney’s rude noises concerning theatre.
Nonetheless, Orton was in sync with a lot of McCartney's views. “I said that
compared to the pop scene the theatre was square. ‘The theatre started going
downhill when Queen Victoria
knighted Henry Irving,’ I said. ‘Too fucking respectable.’”
Like numerous avenues of popular culture, January 1967
witnessed a watershed in attitudes to drug use. While narcotic use within the
theatrical and entertainment fraternity was rampant, to the world outside, no
one had any inkling that their favourite stars were gobbling drugs left, right
and centre. While it would be a further five months before McCartney outed the
band on their drug use, during 1967, the Beatles “boy next door” image was
still forefront in the public consciousness - any notion of adventures with
powder and puff a scandalous notion.
“We talked of drugs,” recalled Orton as he chatted with the
newly psychedelicised McCartney, “of mushrooms which give hallucinations – like
LSD, ‘The drug, not the money,’ I said. We talked of tattoos. And, after one or
two veiled references, marijuana. I said I’d smoked it in Morocco .”
The nods and winks confirming that Orton and McCartney were
in simpatico with their preferences, the atmosphere relaxed considerably.
Dinner finishing late - around 11pm –everyone moved upstairs to watch
television. Looking at the TV schedule for the day, it’s evident that they were
off to watch “Late Night Line Up” – a popular review show that traditionally
closed BBC 2 transmissions for the evening. Given the dearth of culture shows
on TV in early 1967, the show was essential viewing for anyone connected to the
arts. This night’s show had phrases like “the in-crowd” and “Swinging London”,
something that amused those present.
“Late Night Line Up” finished at nearly midnight – but more
entertainment was on its way, but not via the cathode ray. This further distraction came in the shape of
Australian band The Easybeats. The five members who were on a major high with
their current hit song “Friday On My Mind” and were in London riding the
entertainment rotunda. With Epstein’s NEMS organisation courting interest in
Australian acts courtesy of his fraternisation with Robert Stigwood, the band was
royally welcomed in at Chapel
Street . With their Beatlesque looks and suggestive
presence, Orton was duly smitten.
“I’d seen them on TV,” recalled Orton of The Easybeats. “I
liked them very much then. In a way they were better (or prettier) offstage
than on.”
The television room becoming congested, McCartney pulled
Orton and assistant Peter Brown to the third floor of Epstein’s house - the
idea to focus on the important business of The Beatles film script. However,
they were not alone for long as French photographer Jean-Marie Perier arrived
with three young friends to touch base with McCartney. Perier, already renowned
for his work with The Rolling Stones, had just taken a host of promotional
photographs of The Beatles that (somewhat historically) first displayed their
psychedelic incarnation. Decked out in Edwardian coats, billowing shirts and
drooping moustaches, it was evident that the group were tuning into new
frequencies above and beyond their monochromatic image. Within the imagery was a clutch of iconic shots that would later adorn the sleeve of “Penny Lane ” and
“Strawberry Fields Forever” single release. Handed around those present, Joe
too had a chance to view them.
“Excellent photograph,” recalled Orton on what Perier had
captured “The four Beatles look different with their moustaches. Like
anarchists in the early years of the century.”
The small chat over, and still no firm dialogue concerning
the script, Orton and McCartney retired downstairs. With The Easybeats still
dominating interest with the house guests, any talk of picking up the
conversation was abandoned. Distracted, Joe honed in on the Easybeat’s lead
singer Stevie Wright. “Feeling slightly like an Edwardian masher with a Gaiety
Girl,” wrote Orton.
The clock ticking well past midnight, Orton came over tired.
Nonetheless, he felt compelled to collar McCartney regarding the film– not
least payment of his fee that was still outstanding. “I’d like to do the film,”
said Orton to Paul. “There’s only one thing we’ve got to fix up.” ‘You mean the bread,’ replied McCartney.
“Yes,” said Orton.
From there, any detail of the conversation remained
unreported. With just a smile and a nod as a parting salutation, Orton left Chapel Street and
walked out into the rainy January night. Post midnight, and beyond the bus
timetable to Islington, Joe wandered down to the end of Chapel Street and hailed a cab to take
him back to north London .
No immediate resolution to hand, in reality, Orton had just
experienced the indeterminate world of The Beatles. While the group were
fiercely democratic in their business dealings, pinning down all four entities
– especially during their psychedelic period – was a nigh on impossible task.
While the group still had an existing picture requirement with United Artists,
they felt little impetus to complete a third movie. Recording, soul searching
and other adventures outweighing all other commitments during the indeterminate
landscape of 1967, The Beatles were unlikely to devote 12 weeks to an intensive
filming schedule. While A Hard Day's Night and Help! had proved immensely
enjoyable to the general public, the
group made no secret of their hatred of rigid and demanding filming schedules.
Undeterred or unawares of the Fabs’ flakiness, Orton would
deliver a copy of his first draft script to his agent Peggy Ramsey on 24th
February 1967. The meeting with both McCartney and Brian Epstein a month
earlier proving inconclusive to the direction of the script, Orton was
uncertain of what sort of feedback he’d receive.
As the days and weeks past, frustration turning to muted
anger. After a period of months, the script would be returned from The Beatles
with no communication attached to it. While never articulated at the time,
there was a prevailing feeling that the group had shied away from the
controversial elements in the script, although with zero explanation Orton was
nonplussed to know the reasoning behind their silence. In characteristically
smug fashion, Joe bullishly shook off his disappointment on hearing that the
script had been returned sans any feedback. “No explanation why,” wrote Orton
on news that Up Against It had been coldly rejected. “No criticism of the
script," wrote Orton. "And
apparently, Brian Epstein had no comment to make either. Fuck them”.
Beatles or no Beatles, communications with director Richard
Lester would endure through the first half of 1967. Lester, his ear far more
attuned to the eager buzz surrounding Orton, would sense that the script could
be easily tailored to suit Mick Jagger – at that point without any cinematic credentials,
and scandalously hot following his contretemps with officialdom over the Redlands drugs’ bust.
With Ian McKellen mooted as a possible co-star –the project was revived again
at the beginning of August 1967 by long time Orton admirer - director and
impresario Oscar Lewenstein. Orton was delighted on numerous fronts – not least
that the script was optioned for a second time, sending a large fee tumbling
into his already bulging band account. With a lunchtime meeting with Lewenstein
and director Richard Lester planned for 9th August at Twickenham Studios, the
signs were excellent for the project’s revival. Chuffed at securing rights to
the script, Oscar Lewenstein ordered a chauffeur driven Rolls to pick up Orton
at his Islington flat on the morning of August 9th, 1967.
However, what Oscar Lewenstein’s chauffeur discovered that
morning was a sight that would upstage anything that Orton had conceived in any
of his plays. On receiving no reply from Orton’s modest Islington flat, the
driver peaked through the letter box – discovering Joe’s partner Kenneth
Halliwell lying prostate on the floor, dead from an overdose of barbiturates.
The door broken down by the police, Joe’s bludgeoned body would be found on his
bed soaked in blood. However grievous the picture, Orton’s fragile partner had
succeeded in levelling his own failure by terminating his lover’s startling
career.
Orton’s death closed numerous doors – not least the fortunes
of Up Against It which was shelved followingg the controversy of Joe’s
passing. Considered an inconclusive curio in The Beatles’ overwhelming diary of
the 1960s, cinema kept a distance from Orton’s script, its overt Beatles'
connection clearly proving too overwhelming for any serious reappraisal by
others.
It wasn’t until the 1980s that the script was looked at
again. Without any cinematic interest, several attempts were made to bring a
scaled down version to the stage. Pop artist and musician Ed Ball revived the
project for an imaginative album and concert during 1986 – a concept that was
similarly replicated by Todd Rundgren in 1989 in New York . The BBC imaginatively transferred
Orton’s script as a radio play on the thirtieth anniversary of the playwright’s
death in 1997. Starring Leo McKern, Sylvia
Syms and cameos from Sir John Gielgud and Blur’s Damon Alban, the project
remains the most cogent adaption of Orton’s script to date.
Just why The Beatles chose to reject Up Against It only
adds to the gulf of mysteries within Joe Orton’s short yet eventful life. With
no word surfacing from camp
Beatles on its fate, it
took Paul McCartney three decades to finally explain why the dream alliance of
The Beatles and Joe Orton failed to materialise. Given that their Magical
Mystery Tour made for TV effort at the tail end of 1967 mined considerable
weirdness, it clearly wasn’t the surrealistic approach Orton took that
alienated The Beatles senses.
"The reason why we didn't do Up Against It,” said
McCartney in 1997, “wasn't because it was too far out or anything. We didn't do
it because it was gay. We weren't gay and really that was all there was to it.
It was quite simple, really. Brian was gay...and so he and the gay crowd could
appreciate it. Now, it wasn't that we were anti-gay -- just that we, The Beatles,
weren't gay."