The Real Mrs. Brown: The Authorised Biography of Brendan O'Carroll (24 page)

‘“Yes, I know what this is about. We’ll give you two million.”

‘At this point Rosie stood up and yelled, “You’ll up my money? You’ll up my money! Let me tell you something. I do a hundred shows a year for Fox, I’m paid extremely well for them, and I’m contracted for five years. You cannot UP my money.”

‘And at that she threw everyone out of the house.’

Jim Sheridan’s rewind on that scene doesn’t play out the same way as Brendan’s. He maintains Rosie began walking backwards the moment Bette Midler was named. Regardless, the Rosie O’Donnell dream was over. Brendan’s heart sank. He knew how much he’d lost. But who would play Agnes now that Rosie had walked? Or was Agnes Browne being killed off before the script had even been completed?

Could the Sparrow Fly?

BRENDAN had never given up on the idea of turning
Sparrow’s Trap
into a movie. After RTÉ passed on the idea, he became even more determined.

And now, with
Agnes Browne
in development, albeit without an Agnes, he was part of the film world. He had an understanding of the process. So why not use this understanding to make another movie? Wouldn’t it be fantastic to have two Brendan O’Carroll films coming out within months of each other?

The other attraction in developing
Sparrow’s Trap
was that it represented a sharp contrast to the oestrogen-driven world of Agnes Browne. Agnes Browne’s story was grey at times, but never black, thanks to the raw humour.
Sparrow’s Trap
was different – a story about making the wrong decisions, about a boxer who throws a fight and ends up working for gangsters. It was a story about how life could change in a matter of seconds. Brendan knew of this dark, precarious Dublin existence. He had friends from Finglas who had taken the wrong path.

‘If I hadn’t become successful, I could have ended up a bank robber or a drug addict,’ he admits one night at his home in Dublin. ‘It could easily have happened.’

Sparrow’s Trap
was a good story that would make a good film. Brendan and Gerry reckoned they could make the film themselves, using some of the family and friends such as Jenny, Fiona, Danny and Eilish to help with production. They came up with the idea of making a guerrilla movie, a low-budget film in which a director shoots scenes quickly at real locations – streets, railway stations, shopping centres, parks; anywhere they can.

The pair reckoned they could make the movie for around £150,000. But after a meeting with a producer from the Irish Film Board, they were persuaded that only a bigger-budget movie would do the story justice, and they should be thinking about something in the region of £2.2 million.

As optimistic as ever, Brendan and Gerry weren’t daunted by that figure, especially after Agnes Browne’s original producer Greg Smith and film partner Morgan O’Sullivan had read the script and loved it – and announced they would consider becoming distributors for the movie, making sure it got a cinema release.

And if that happened, it would be likely to recoup the £2 million-plus investment. But they laid down some conditions.

‘They wanted a name to play the lead role. They said they needed a star in the credits to make it easier to distribute.’

Brendan, of course, would have been perfect for the role, had he not been aged 42, and with a public profile that didn’t go beyond the Eire borders.

‘What I wanted to do was ask for four million quid to produce this film, and make a few bob for myself.

‘When I talked to Greg and Morgan about finance I told them I’d approached Stephen Rea and Aidan Quinn and neither of them had said no. Greg said, “If you get either of those, we’ll give you the four million.”’

Great. All Brendan had to do was sign Stephen Rea or Aidan Quinn on the line that was dotted.

‘I met up with Stephen Rea, and found him to be a lovely guy. I hadn’t a lot to offer for the lead part – around fifty grand, which wasn’t a huge amount – but it would cover a few bets on a Saturday. Stephen was interested and I thought, “Great!” But then he called and told me he had just started on another film and he couldn’t do mine.’

One down . . . but Aidan Quinn was still a real possibility.

‘I sent a copy of the script to Aidan Quinn via his management company, CAA, in Los Angeles.

‘Now, we were scheduled to begin shooting at the end of January 1998, so on New Year’s Eve I found myself on a plane to LA, trying to track down Aidan’s agent.

‘I finally got him on the phone and he agreed to meet me on 2 January. And I got to the agency – and it was closed.

‘So I thought, “Okay. I’ll come back tomorrow.” And I did. And I met the agent and he said Aidan loved the script, but that he was doing another Irish film and he didn’t want to compromise one against the other. But I wasn’t for giving up. I said, “Look, I appreciate you won’t make much money on this, the budget is too small, but I’m looking for your permission to talk to Aidan, that’s all.”

‘So he said, “Okay, sure.”’

Doreen didn’t take off with her husband on the trips to Hollywood. Brendan reckoned his wife didn’t want to be a part of the politics of getting a movie made. And there’s little doubt the gulf between them was now becoming a gaping chasm. It seems they were staying together more for the children than their own relationship.

Gerry Browne didn’t fly to Tinseltown either. Yet, Brendan, at the time, was saying his right-hand man was with him every step of the way in the project.

‘If I’d said to Gerry that I wanted to paint the moon green, he’d say, “Right, I’ll go out and price the paint.” That’s the kind of support I get from him. He’s an incredible friend.’

Meantime, there was a little problem in Brendan meeting with Aidan Quinn. The actor lived in New Jersey, on the other side of the country. Brendan managed to get hold of Aidan’s number from a friend, though, and rang him. The actor answered.

‘“How do you do, Aidan? You don’t know me. It’s Brendan O’Carroll. I’m a writer from—”

‘“Yes, I know you, Brendan. I’m sure I saw you when I was home in Ireland. Was it on
The Late, Late Show
?”

‘“Grand. Well, Aidan, I’m just getting your thoughts. I’m making the movie
Sparrow’s Trap
and your agent said you liked the script but that scheduling could be . . .”

‘“What movie? What script?”

‘So I told him about the story. And Aidan was interested. And as it turns out I had a guy in New York who had three copies of the script.

‘I got one sent out to Aidan while I was on the flight and I let Aidan know which hotel I’d be at. So I got in at ten o’clock that night and Aidan promised he would ring me, before midnight, once he’d read the script.

‘I had a bath, called Jenny to fill her in on the news, and had something to eat. And then I looked at the clock and it was ten to one. I thought, “Well, that’s that.” But then I realised the light on the phone was flashing. It was a message from Aidan. He said he’d meet me the next day in a coffee shop in the village at two o’clock. Well, my heart lifted at this. And I rang Jenny back and told her.

‘She was curious. “Do you think it’s good news?”

‘“Well, Jenny, he’s not meeting me to tell me he doesn’t want to do it.”

‘“Do you think he’s in?”

‘“Sure, I do.”’

As John Lennon said, ‘If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.’

The next day, Brendan was picked up and taken to the Princess Hotel and he met with Aidan Quinn as arranged. The meeting began well enough. Aidan complimented Brendan on the script.

‘It’ll make a nice little movie, Brendan. But listen, my agent wasn’t lying. I’m doing a little Irish project myself, me and my brother, based on my father. And I wouldn’t do anything that would compromise that project.’

‘Does this film compromise it?’

‘No. It’s a million miles away from it.’

‘Great.’

‘But I have a couple of difficulties.’

‘Well, run them by me. As long as it doesn’t change the basic tenor of the story, I’ll be glad to make changes . . .’

‘No, no, it’s not the story. It’s fine. It’s a personal thing. My wife is about to give birth. So I’ve got to run it by her, to make sure she’s okay with it.’

‘Sure, Aidan.’

‘Look, I’ll let you know by midday, Monday. Irish time. Is that okay? And I have to say I’m predisposed to do this.’

‘Great, Aidan. I really appreciate that.’

Brendan could have flown home without the plane. Aidan Quinn was as good as signed. That meant he had his star. And that meant he had the £4 million he needed to make the movie – and make some serious money.

‘On the Monday, we set about auditioning kids in Jurys Inn in Dublin, and a few adult actors. But what a horrible day we had. Jenny’s hairdresser’s pal Paul, we discovered, had been killed crossing the road while on holiday in Spain. And she was devastated. And I was trying to console her. But while doing this I looked at the clock and it was half past twelve. No word from Quinn.

‘I thought, “I can’t wait any longer.” So I rang his office. And a secretary answered. I said who I was and she said, “Oh, hi. Did you get the message?”

‘“No, what message?”

‘“I left a message on your answer phone.”

‘“No, I’m not at home. What is the message?”

‘“Aidan can’t do the film.”

‘My chin dropped to the floor. “Is there nothing I can do to change that?”

‘“I don’t know. All I know is that he can’t do it.”’

This didn’t mean the film was cancelled. No, Brendan hadn’t lined up a star name, but the deal was so far down the line it couldn’t be halted now.

And the day wasn’t all about bad news. Just ten minutes later, purely by chance, Brendan took a phone call from actor Bryan Murray, who starred in the TV series
The Irish RM
and in Channel 4 soap
Brooksid
e, in which his character, the evil Trevor Jordache, came to be buried under the patio.

‘Bryan had heard about the film and was asking if there was any work going. He said that just because he was in England, directors in Ireland had forgotten about him.

‘“Any chance of a crack at something, Brendan?”

‘“Crack at it? You’ve just got yourself a leading role.”

‘“What? With this phone call?”

‘“Yes, can you be here next Monday?”

‘“I most certainly can.”’

So Brendan had a terrific actor in the cast. But not one the film company would back with £4 million. It didn’t matter, though. A deal with a distribution company had been agreed verbally. Brendan and Gerry would still be able to cover the cost of making their movie.

But three days before shooting, the letter of guarantee from the distribution company hadn’t arrived. They’d pulled out at the last minute.

Brendan wasn’t sure if he should be worried, but rang again repeatedly until he finally spoke to someone. To his horror they blithely told him they’d changed their minds and Brendan’s reaction was understandably furious. Now, Brendan had a major decision to make. He had a movie and cast standing by, which was budgeted to cost £2.2 million. But he had £25,000 in the bank. Disaster. Major disaster.

And the film was cancelled. The dream of bringing Sparrow McCabe’s story to the screen was over. Or at least it should have been.

Brendan refused to throw in the towel. This was just another challenge, he reckoned. He’d make this movie somehow. Think PMA. But who to play the lead role? He’d do it himself. So what if he were a little old? He looked like a boxer. And he could play Sparrow McCabe wearing a wig.

But what about the money to make the movie? He got on the phone. He and Gerry Browne called everyone they knew with cash to invest. They asked friends, Dublin businessmen, anyone they could think of to get the film moving. And they told them they’d not only get their money back, they’d make a few bob. It meant begging and borrowing – if not stealing – money to make the movie.

Dublin responded. The money emerged to pay the basic costs of film production, of hiring cars, Winnebagos, use of venues, etc. And his cast responded. Brendan called in the actors’ union and told them he wanted to make the movie. He said he would direct the film himself, but asked permission to get the actors to work for next to nothing until he could get backing.

The actors’ union backed him. Then Brendan spoke to his cast and crew and explained the situation, and said he would understand completely if anyone chose not to work on the project.

Incredibly, such was their belief in Brendan, very few walked out. The scene was so powerful it could have been part of a movie in itself.

Brendan was incredibly touched by the backing, but he also had support from close quarters. Eilish stepped up to the plate, doing whatever necessary. Jenny became Brendan’s assistant director. And between them they determined to make the worst of times something close to bearable.

‘I’d get up at five a.m., be on the set at six, start shooting, acting and directing. I’d shoot till six, then I’d go and watch rushes till eight, and by half eight I’d have dinner with guys who were potential investors. And I’d schmooze them until ten, half ten. And then I’d go home to sleep.’