Always the Bad Guy Read online

  Table of Contents

  ALWAYS THE BAD GUY

  An autobiography

  Shane Briant

  Copyright © 2011 The Marburg Press. Sydney.

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the women in my life. My mother, Elizabeth Nolan, my fairy godmother Kit Adeane, my first theatrical agent Adza

  Vincent, my literary agent, Laura Blake Petersen,

  and Wendy, my muse.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I'd like to include in this book the names of people I've met on the Internet and who are now my cyber friends. Michael Christian, Elba Cruz, Melinda Villalobos, Russ Lanier, Ian Jennings, Jeffrey Cryer, Leslie Suzie Cryer, Santiago Villalobos, Jackie ONeal, Andrew Satmer, Deborah Clinger-Vacano, Andrew Ralton, Mike Chinea, Manuel Ballesteros Gimeno, Cynthis L. Watson, Jane Considine, Uwe Sommerland, Steve Thompson, F.H. Tocho Canales Jr, Christopher Philip Olivas, Brett Wright, King, Jane and Mark Thompson, Jake and Ruby, Autumn Caro, Ian Ashley Price, Annalisa Bastiani (Miss TiggyWinkle) Jeffrey Simon, Brett Ashworth, Kristen Hall, Christian 'Perry' Salicath, Tara DeVries, Beverly Anne Thompson, Neil Fulwood, Jeffrey Simon, Melissa Para Adedeji, Molly & Robert Kenchington. Amanda, Josef and Beau Nalevansky. Midge and Brydon. Kerrie Eichhorn, Maryanne O'Donnell, Gosia and Michael Ihlein.

  I'd like to thank Scott for helping me. He's a wonderful designer.

  I love you Giblet and Freddy – sit on the keyboard any time you want!

  Love to Marnie, Tash, Rosie, Nick, Tom, Toby, Theo, Jonah, Jessica, Olivia, Harriet, Beatrice and William.

  Huge thanks to Lizie and Hervé de la Morinière for being so good to me in London.

  …and Rupert Byng for the stay in his mansion in Battersea.

  CHILDHOOD

  WHY BAD GUYS?

  Why write my memoirs at all? Good starting thought. I'm hardly Daniel Day Lewis, Peter O'Toole, Richard Burton, Alec Guinness or any other celebrated actor. I think of myself as an actor who has managed to make a decent living solely by acting – a rare thing these days. When Brad Pitt walks down the street people stop and stare. When I walk down the street possibly every thousandth person thinks to themselves, 'Hey, haven't I seen that face before, somewhere…' That's good enough for me. I hope people will see this biography for what it is – a book that gives some insight into my personal life; one that features all manner of hopefully funny anecdotal stories about the fascinating people I've been lucky to work with.

  I've been cast as dangerous people all my life, and I've always been happiest playing them. On the odd occasions I've played 'good guys', I've had to dig deep into my imagination to come up with an interesting character. Does this suggest that I am at heart a bad person? I hope not. I consider myself a pussycat at heart. I run at the very prospect of immediate violence and am overly kind to anything that moves on the earth – other than mosquitoes.

  I think that 'bad guys' rule. They're a better bet than 'nice guys' to win Golden Globe nominations. The number one award-winning genre involves mentally challenged people. Very politically incorrect to suggest this, but I think it's a fact. If you ever get a chance to nail a mentally challenged role, grab it; you know you're on a winner. Just look at the stats. Cliff Robertson for 'Charly,' John Mills for 'Ryan's Daughter,' Jack Nicholson for 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest,' John Voigt, for 'Coming Home,' Dustin Hoffman, for 'Rain Man,' Daniel Day Lewis for 'My Left Foot,' Tom Hanks for 'Forrest Gump,' as well as countless others. If there isn't such a challenging part, then settle for being a 'bad guy,' but give him a twist. Or find an outstanding part where you can play a gay role – they always attract critical comment. Physically or mentally challenged or gay, always give him or her one redeeming feature.

  I've had, and continue to have, an amazingly blessed life. By the time I was thirty, I knew I'd had so many lucky breaks it didn't seem possible my good fortune wouldn't end soon. A novel based on my life wouldn't have been credible. I'm not saying for one second that I'm rich or famous – far from it. But somehow things have always fallen into place just when I was thinking they'd turn awry.

  For instance, just when I thought I would have to give up all thoughts of a tertiary education so I could become the bread winner and look after my asthmatic and troubled mother; recently divorced and suffering badly from the 'Black Dog,' along came a fairy godmother named Kit Adeane, a magnificent woman who paid for my education and set everything straight at home. And just when I thought I'd have to knuckle down to grown-up hard work to work as a barrister, along came a play that catapulted me into London's West End; an event which translated into the movie career that's kept the wolf from the door for nearly forty years. And when I hit fifty years of age and thought I was going to have to settle for the 'old fart' roles, along came directors of the caliber of Roger Spottiswoode and Roland Joffe; directors who made me feel I was back in the loop, about to be a part of the major league film world again; saved from television soap operas and commercials for Viagra and Cialis.

  When I look back on my career, I've mostly have great memories. How I managed to avoid working with all the pain-inthe-arse directors and actors of the world amazes me. Everyone works with a few actors who think they know everything but in reality are as wooden as a park bench, as well as directors who believe they know how to direct feature films but have a television mindset. Yet for most of my career I've been luckyenough to work with some of the most accomplished actors in the business, and have been directed by the best directors imaginable. All my anecdotes have up till now only been shared with my closest friends at dinner parties, so now is my chance to see if I can remember a few and put them down on paper.

  MY FIRST THEATRE ROLE – AGED SIX!

  Was I born with the 'acting gene'? Maybe. If you think it's possible that a career choice is based on genetics.

  My mother, Elizabeth Nolan, starred in London's West End opposite Rex Harrison.

  My Mother, Elizabeth Nolan.

  It was a time before the Second World War when Londoners were fond of light-hearted comedies. There was always a gorgeous young ingénue to delight theatergoers. My mother was one of these gorgeous actresses. Not only stunning looking, she was a fine actress (yes, I still like to use that word!) But alas, the war came and ended her career abruptly and she went on to become a journalist for the News Chronicle newspaper as a celebrity interviewer, lunching with the likes of Enrico Caruso in the Savoy Grill. I still have all her scrapbooks and I am amazed by how beautiful she looked in those

  days. As I grew up, she seldom talked about her acting days nor ever encouraged us to embark on a similar career path.

  My mother in my grandmother's arms in the Blue Mountains. 1917.

  Born in Queen Charlotte's hospital in August of 1946, I was soon living in Bad Oyenhausen in Germany. My father, Keith Briant, a former editor of the Oxford Isis, an author and poet before war broke out, had ended the war as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Irish Guards tank regiment, and was soon appointed Public Relations Officer for the Army on the Rhine.

  So mum and dad, older brother Dermot and I packed our bags. Actually, my mum packed mine, as I was one year old. We went to live in a big family house the British conquering army had requisitioned from a German woman by the name of Frau Riedel. She was given the task of running it for us. She was more than happy to do this as Germany at this time was in a very poor state indeed; food was difficult to find outside of the confines of the Allied Army NAAFI, and starvation was endemic. So most Germans were very anxious to have their houses requisitioned, as they no longer faced starvation.

  I grew up a little German boy, speaking German as my first language, chatting with my German nanny Anna-Marie, reticen
t to speak any English at all, something that soon proved an

  embarrassment to my father. Each time he entertained his fellow British army officers at home he used to say to me: "Speak English, Shane." I'd usually be hovering greedily close to the canapés (I was a fat and gluttonous child.)

  Christenening at the Guards Chapel with my Godmother June Ross and my father, Colonel Keith Rutherford Briant.

  "Nein! Ich will nicht," I'd shoot back. "Ich bin ein kleiner Deutscher!" No, I will not. I am a small German!

  My Aunt Margaret recently told me that apparently the first sentence I ever spoke in English was addressed to my father at a cocktail party after I'd been brought down from my bedroom by Anna-Marie to be shown off to the officers' wives.

  "Vot you vont?" I enquired of my father, stone-faced. The British officers' wives were horrified – possibly the war had taken the edge off their sense of humour.

  Each Christmas Dermot and I would have a delicious Knuspenhaus made for us, fashioned out of biscuits and other sweet things. Our fresh tannenbaum, the Christmas tree, would be decorated with lighted candles. Today's safety-hounds would shudder – but back then I found the smell of pine and candle wax absolutely intoxicating. And to top it off, one of Frau Riedel's friends, a man we called Der Holzschnitzer because he carved delightful nativity items from wood, would give us some beautifully carved wooden toys.

  I loved those years in Germany and when we had to return to England I missed the fabulous rose garden at the rear of the house. If ever I went missing, my mother would know where to find me. In the garden, my head buried amongst the petals of some flower, sniffing like a deranged bloodhound!

  A dedicated flower-sniffer.

  When I was five, we returned to England and moved into a big flat belonging to my brother Dermot's celebrated godmother, the wonderfully eccentric pioneer of birth control, Marie Stopes Roe. This lovely apartment was spacious, had lovely gardens back and front, and overlooked Kew Gardens.

  Marie Stopes had a wonderful way with children. She never cooed and patted our heads. She treated Dermot and me as adults and discussed all manner of things with us as though we were grown-ups – religion, aliens from outer space, politics… everything! I

  think children appreciate this kind of behaviour – they loathe being patronized by grinning adults.

  Marie Stopes lived on an estate near Dorking called 'Norbury Park.' We'd visit for the weekend every now and then. Marie would send her vintage black Rolls Royce (driven by a vintage chauffeur) to pick up mum and my father, then Dermot and me at our school in Richmond, and we'd all cruise down to her big house. There were always chocolates in our bedroom when we arrived, and fresh cream for dinner – cream she'd made herself from the milk of her twin Jersey cows.

  The reason Dermot and I found her so much fun was not just because she treated us both as equals, but also because she was so subperbly different from other adults. For example, on one weekend at 'Norbury Park' she showed us a new addition to her family – a baby crocodile she was looking after for a friend. On another occasion, just before we went to bed, she recounted the story of how she'd been abducted by aliens from outer space, and had spent a whole day inside a UFO chatting to little green people, finally being delivered back to her home in the evening. We sat agog.

  She firmly believed she'd live forever. Fitness and the right diet were fundamentally important to her. She'd swim around the lighthouse she owned at Portland Bill each day she was there, and then drink a pint of seawater. She was a powerhouse of a woman, but sadly died in 1958 aged seventy-seven after a long illness. Incidentally, my father wrote a splendid biography of Marie Stopes, which I highly recommend.

  Aged six and a bit, I started my prep-school days at Kings House in Richmond, and it was there I came to love the stage. So, possibly it was in my genes, since my mother had never shared her London theatre memories with me nor even showed me her scrapbook. When the opportunity arose to play a part in the end of term production of 'Little Miss Muffet' I knew I simply had to play the bad guy – The Spider.' My mother made me a brown costume that had four extra 'bits' to give me eight legs. I then scuttled around chasing Little Miss Muffet on stage. So, even then it seemed to me that the bad guys had the most fun.

  I'd say that almost fifty years down the line more than ninety per cent of the roles I've played have been dodgy people; murderers, hired assassins, deviants, sociopaths, twisted serial killers. I love 'em all!

  During my years at Kings House I was blissfully unaware that my parents were, in essence, practically separated. My father, Features Editor at Newnes & Pearson, a company that published amongst many other magazines 'Woman's Own,' would leave for work before Dermot and I got out of bed, and would return when we were back in our beds. As we lay in bed each night we'd fool around until we heard a key in the front door. Then we were quiet as mice. So, close to my father I was not then, nor later – he never showed much interest in me. A shame, but a fact of life.

  When I think of my father I think of driving through the night in Germany in his classic vintage Rolls Royce, while my mother cuddled me in the back seat. I remember very clearly looking out the window and seeing the dawn rise on the outskirts of Lindau and the Bodensee. It's funny what things are burnt into your brain.

  I also remember that when I was six, and Dermot was nine, my father Keith would take mum and us boys to the refreshment bar at Kew Gardens Underground Station. He and mum would have drinks while we'd chugalug Vimtos (an old-fashioned English soft drink) as we sat on the platform. The game we were told to play (to keep us quiet, I think) was to correctly predict whether a red train or a green train would arrive next. Not exactly the most fun a kid can have on a Saturday morning, eh?

  Playing 'Le Chef' in 'Le Café Crème' aged eight.

  Kings House had a rich tradition of end of school entertainment. Each year they'd construct a stage in the main hall and three plays would be selected for production – one for the 'littlies', one for the middle age group, and one for the final year. I well remember my favourite role. It was a short French play produced when I was aged nine called 'Le Café Crème.'

  I played 'Le Chef '– the head of a band of criminals. I dressed up in my mother's clothes, and smoked a cigarette in an overly long cigarette holder. It's interesting to note that in 1954 no one at prep school took issue with a nine-year-old smoking, so long as it was on stage. The entire play was performed in French, and I worked long and hard on my accent. Each year after the play, my father would take us to an early dinner at an Italian restaurant named 'Valcheras.' I was only to see my father once after he finally moved out of our Kew Gardens flat. It was odd living without a father, but I'd seen so little of him up until then that it didn't affect me too dramatically. Yet, despite the fact that mum disliked my father Keith with a vengeance after he left her for another woman, I know she led a lonely life from that moment onwards – she'd also become the bread winner, and there was precious little alimony granted to her in the divorce settlement. She had a quirky sense of humour. An example of this was when she visited me in Sydney aged seventy. She walked into a shop in the Rocks run by Aboriginal Australians and asked if they had a 'pointing bone,' for sale because she currently had a grudge against the man who delivered her newspapers. When you 'point the bone' very nasty things happen to the pointee!

  Dermot and I loved growing up in the mid to late 50's. We were very close brothers. Because he was four years older than me he usually called the shots and I liked to imitate nearly everything he did or said. I certainly picked up his very dark and tasteless black humour! Probably inherited from my mother.

  This was the time of coffee bars such as Pronto and the Wimpy- burger. My music heroes were Guy Mitchell, Lonnie Donnegan, Bill Haley and, at a pinch, Tommy Steele. Dermot's heroes were composer Arnold Schoenburg (Pierrot Lunaire, was his favourite rather creepy piece) and philosopher Freidrich Nietzsche. While I was an average kid who wanted to play the guitar, he was happiest reading existentialist poe
ts. I well remember one year, when he couldn't have been older than eleven, he began sticking sheets of paper on his bedroom walls. One I remember word for word – it was stuck above his bed. "The sclerosis of objectivity is the annihilation of existence.' I'm NOT kidding. I asked him what it meant – I was seven years old – he replied simply that I'd find the answer 'too depressing.'