Blade Runner, Deer Hunters & Blowing The Bloody Doors Off: My Life in Cult Movies

Michael Deeley and Matthew Field,
Blade Runner, Deer Hunters & Blowing The Bloody Doors Off: My Life in Cult Movies.
London: Faber & Faber, 2008
ISBN: 978-0-571-23919-1
Au$49.95 (hb)
304pp
(Review copy supplied by Faber & Faber)

After a period of neglect, recent years have seen the publication of a number of books dedicated to British cinema of the 1970s. Why has it taken so long? Were scholars hoping to forget this much maligned era? Were we too temporally close for a worthy revisionist examination? For too long a time interested readers had to rely upon Alexander Walker’s spiky and opinionated National Heroes: British Cinema of the 70’s and ‘80s for a cultural and industrial assessment of the period. Certainly there were those dedicated cultists and completists who have done service to the marginal works of the period – the sex comedies, James Bond entries, Carry-Ons and horror films. Yet, for many, it is those films that sum up the decade in British films and pejoratively so. The oft-told tale is that the sleepy conformity of the 1950s was revitalised by the Free Cinema movement in the early 60s which bled into the ‘Swinging London’ period. The international popularity of those films saw an influx of American capital which evaporated after a series of high-profile failures, and with the investment went the industry. By the early 1970s Rank had moved out of the market, and there existed little more than the confessions of Robin Askwith, big screen versions of On the Buses, Amicus portmanteaus and Ken Russell grotesqueries keeping the industry afloat, with the occasional Bond film masquerading as British adding some international box-office clout. Things barely improved until the 1980s when the likes of Goldcrest spluttered to some (albeit short-lived) mainstream success.

In a nutshell, that was the story for many. Yet the 1970s did still offer a number of staunch believers and entrepreneurs who attempted to resuscitate the British film industry. Bryan Forbes’ stint as head of production at EMI-MGM early in the decade was ill-fated and the only spectacular aspect of Lew Grade’s attempts to conquer the American market with anachronistic big-budget action and adventure films was the magnitude of the financial losses. Success stories in the 1970s were rare, with David Puttnam’s Goodtimes enterprise arguably the most triumphant with its ability to allow promising new talent to create works that resonated with audiences and critics alike.

To that short list one could possibly add Michael Deeley. Critically and commercially he had qualified, both as an independent producer and as managing director of British Lion. His memoir Blade Runners, Deer Hunters & Blowing the Bloody Doors Off: My Life in Cult Movies presents a career that encompasses the hectic production years of the late 1960s, the less than halcyon period of the early 1970s, and his triumphs towards the end of that decade and into the early 1980s. For one interested in this period it promises to be a most rewarding book, covering areas still too little known about; his tenure as general manager of Woodfall films and his partnership with actor-producer Stanley Baker at Oakhurst Productions were each worthy of an exclusive detailing. Yet, like so much else of potential interest in Deeley’s career they are passed over within a matter of pages.

Of course, the title of the book should be preparation enough for what appears between the covers. The cynical among us may suspect that an enterprising publisher has made the connection between Deeley and The Italian Job (UK 1968), The Deer Hunter (UK/USA 1978) and Blade Runner (USA 1982) and realised the potential for a book that would lure fans of all films. For some obligatory context the subtitle of a life spent in ‘cult movies’ is the prism through which his career must be seen. The fact that Matthew Field, the author of The Making of the Italian Job and a regular correspondent to 007 Magazine is credited as a co-writer on this exercise perhaps adds some credence to this theory. Deeley does, in his introductory chapter, make some claims as to why his films may be seen as cult movies and what actually a cult movie may be, using a definition so loose as to include the likes of Star Wars (USA 1977). It reads as half-hearted, but such is the framing of the narrative, it is an understandable, albeit wince-inducing, inclusion. Such a requirement does involve qualification and it is Deeley’s contention that he has always been a supporter of original film projects. It is this belief that has guided the production of films that achieved dedicated followings, but it is also one that will return to bite Deeley later. For it was Deeley that has been long pilloried as the man who, upon taking over British Lion, mutilated Robin Hardy’s The Wicker Man (UK 1973), a film many would argue is closer to being a genuine cult movie than any of the titles Deeley so cherishes. Having accepted the title of cult film producer, it is a claim Deeley must answer and his defence barely convinces. To state that the climate of film exhibition at the time did not allow for the film to be released in the director’s form is a harsh but reasonable economic assessment; however Deeley then attempts to divert the argument with petty attacks on actor Christopher Lee (who was aggrieved at having some of his scenes cut) and the patronising claim that he was only ensuring that this ‘interesting’ film was seen by the general public.

Responsible production head or cult film producer? A career spent as one and now, on the page, refashioned as the other. Deeley’s memories are infused with dualism. He is a producer who sees egotistical behaviour as either detestable (The Deer Hunter’s Michael Cimino) or maniacal (Sam Peckinpah on 1978’s Convoy) but when such arrogance is shared with Deeley, such as the case of Blade Runner’s Ridley Scott, the director is nothing short of a visionary genius. It is ironic that, in the wake of his dealings with The Wicker Man, Deeley should relate with such displeasure his efforts to have Blade Runner released attuned to his and Scott’s original vision.

Deeley would contend that his memoir should be included among the shelves dedicated to the history of British cinema of the 1970s. To a degree he is right – the pages he spends discussing the dealings of EMI and British Lion and the machinations of such characters as Lord Delfont and Lew Grade are most enlightening (if purely subjective). Yet, apart from the very British The Italian Job, just how many of Deeley’s most fruitful (and lengthily discussed) productions could be counted as British? The Driver (1978), Convoy (1978), Nickelodeon(1976), The Deer Hunter and Blade Runner? From offices based in London they may have been approved and Deeley, a staunch believer and lobbyist for the homegrown industry, enthused that they would be taking on the Americans at their own game, but in effect these were trans-Atlantic productions and positioned not far from the Los Angeles coastline at that. The ‘British to the bootstraps’ producer whose greatest success came with films featuring little British talent and themes of a predominantly American nature. The contradictions within the Deeley character are what constantly come to the fore of this memoir, which is a disservice to a potentially fascinating exploration of a neglected period.

The problematic nature of Deeley’s consistency may have been alleviated through an exploration of his own personality. However, as he explains, his apprenticeship as a film cutter has trained him to leave out anything not essential to keeping the story moving; a belief he states he has brought to the writing of this book. Yet, as a producer, Deeley should be aware that character development is essential to any project. Instead, we learn little of the person, with family barely mentioned, politics only hinted at (possibly conservative) and life experiences limited to the film business. We are not even privy to the year he was born.

Blade Runners, Deer Hunters & Blowing the Bloody Doors Off: My Life in Cult Movies serves as a corrective for Deeley. Now retired from the industry, he is refreshingly candid in settling old scores. It is no surprise that Peckinpah and Cimino are the subject of most of his disdain but the likes of former partner Peter Yates, Steven Spielberg, Harrison Ford, Quincy Jones, John Boulting, the Grade brothers and Julia Ormond are among the others who come under fire for perceived wrongs. With such a disparate filmography and one that appears to have little in the way of thematic continuity, this memoir also serves to re-fashion the producer as a form of auteur, one who was the true guiding force behind films that share the label of ‘cult’.

Viewed through such a conflicted prism, this memoir is a missed opportunity. For aficionados of the films featured within the title, it does offer a lively account of those productions and their difficulties, but for those seeking a portrait of a man whose entire career encompassed a crucial and rarely related period of British cinema, one wrought with cultural uncertainties and industrial necessities, it is best to look elsewhere. The lack of either an index or a filmography also weakens its utility. One could argue that a book should only succeed upon whether it delivers what its title promises. Deeley does, but in the process he short-changes his leading man – himself.

Dean Brandum,
RMIT, Australia.

Created on: Sunday, 30 August 2009

About the Author

Dean Brandum

About the Author


Dean Brandum

Dean Brandum is a PhD candidate at RMIT University, analysing the performance of British cinema at the North American boxoffice during the 1960s.View all posts by Dean Brandum →