by Stephen Vagg
When a super-rich entrepreneur from a non-film background gets involved in movies, typically the trajectory goes something like this: fascination with the new medium, toes dipped in waters, some early success, then a flop or two brings them down to earth, and goodbye pictures. This is what happened in the 1980s with Richard Branson, the legendary CEO of the Virgin Group.
Branson made (and continues to make) a lot of money in various fields over the years, particularly retail, transport and music – and for a few years in the 1980s, he had a red-hot go at filmmaking, via his Virgin Films (actually the second British company to have that name – we discussed the first here).
Branson’s interest in cinema wasn’t, in hindsight, surprising. In the 1970s, the British music industry was moving into films in a big way, attracted by the glamour and possibilities of synergy. For instance, EMI records had taken over Associated British to make the major studio that was EMI Films; Australian music entrepreneur Robert Stigwood had made profitable forays into movies such as Tommy, Saturday Night Fever and Grease; American music mogul Lou Adler earned a fortune from The Rocky Horror Picture Show; rock stars had been key investors in films such as Monty Python and the Holy Grail (which everyone remembers) and The Odd Job (which no one does); George Harrison stepped in to save Monty Python’s Life of Brian and created his own company Handmade Films; new filmmakers such as David Puttnam, Ken Russell and Alan Parker were very music savvy and placed great emphasis on music-orientated promotion (Melody, That’ll Be the Day, Stardust, Lisztomania, Bugsy Malone, Midnight Express); several bands/artists made musical movies (Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, Slade in Flame, The Song Remains the Same, The Kids are Alright); pop stars tried to be film stars (Alan Lake, Roger Daltrey, David Bowie, Mick Jagger, Donovan, Ringo Starr, Roy Harper, Olivia Newton-John); film stars became pop stars (Richard Harris, David Essex).
So, when Branson and Virgin got involved in cinema, there was something almost natural about it.
Two of Branson’s biggest artists in the 1970s were Mike Oldfield and The Sex Pistols, both of which were involved in his first investments in the film industry. Virgin had money in The Space Movie (1979), a documentary to commemorate ten years of the moon landing with music by Oldfield. No one talks about this movie anymore, but it existed.
More memorably, Virgin also had a role in in The Great Rock n Roll Swindle (1980), a Sex Pistols movie with a very colourful history that included Ronnie Biggs, Russ Meyer and Johnny Rotten leaving the band. Directed by Julien Temple, it’s hugely entertaining, endlessly fascinating, and makes a great double bill with Temple’s later The Filth and the Fury.
In the early 1980s, Branson got a little more serious about movies and created a subdivision, Virgin Films. This was run by Al Clark, a former publicist and head of “creative affairs” at Virgin, and Robert Devereux, Branson’s brother in law. He also set up Virgin Video, a British home video distributor. Branson wrote the cheques, but we think that it’s safe to say that Clark was the tastemaker.
Virgin Films started properly when Clark was approached by a producer seeking completion funding for A Shocking Accident (1982), a short film based on a Graham Greene story about a young man’s embarrassment at his father being killed when a pig fell on him. Clark persuaded Virgin/Branson to kick in the necessary funds, and was rewarded when the movie, which starred Rupert Everett and Jenny Seagrove and clocks in at a decent 25 minutes, wound up winning an Oscar for Best Live Short. As debuts go, this was pretty good.
Invigorated, Virgin started splashing the cash in a series of films that came out in 1984. Secret Places (1984) was a schoolgirl crush story based on a novel by Janice Elliott. It was directed by Zelda Barron, a top script supervisor, producer, video clip director and production consultant who was coming off Reds and Yentl. Secret Places was not a big hit but received nice reviews, and did the art house/festival circuit. If the leads had become stars, and/or Barron had gone on to direct other movies, it would be better known.
Electric Dreams (1984) was a charming romantic comedy from Barron’s son Steve, a big name in the music video directing world at the time. Virgin succeeded in selling the movie to MGM for a big chunk of change and the title song became a huge it. Weirdly, this was not a success at the box office. Maybe it lacked the necessary stars to “put it over”, though it’s hard to imagine a more likeable female lead than Virginia Madsen. The film has a huge devoted cult and people are always talking about remaking it.
Loose Connections (1984) was another rom com, an enemies-to-lovers road trip tale, with a feminist/’80s Britain slant, starring Stephen Rea and Lindsay Duncan and directed by Richard Eyre. Everyone involved was very talented but the movie didn’t quite click, at least not for audiences. The Brits wouldn’t really conquer rom coms until the 1990s. Incidentally, the National Film Finance Corporation provided the bulk of the budget – most Virgin movies were co productions.
Virgin’s biggest movie that year was totally different: 1984 from the novel by George Orwell. Starring John Hurt and Richard Burton (in his last feature film role), it was directed by Michael Radford. The Virgin touch was notable in the addition of a soundtrack by the Eurythmics, which did ensure the movie didn’t fall into an art house ghetto, though there was controversy about its use – Branson insisted that the Eurythmics be put on the soundtrack which made Radford unhappy, and the director whinged publicly about it. In turn, Branson was displeased that the film had gone seriously over budget. Still, 1984 made a big, deserved splash, as well as money at the box office. No one much talks about it these days (its fame has been overshadowed by Brazil), but it’s actually brilliant, incredible to look at, and emotionally devastating – it was a worthy one for Richard Burton to go out on; and Branson had every reason to be happy with the job that Al Clark was doing.
But not for long.
Absolute Beginners (1986) was based on a Colin MacInnes novel about teens in late 1950s London discovering rock music. It was championed by director Julien Temple, who wanted to make a musical out of it; he got finance from all the cool kids of ‘80s British cinema – companies like Palace, Goldcrest and Virgin. The budget blew out horrendously and the film became notorious as a fiasco that helped kill off Palace, Goldcrest and Virgin Film. We actually love Absolute Beginners – there’s so much great stuff and talent on display and it’s a lot of fun. It just cost far, far too much money (like, four times what it needed to), it screws up its central love story, and had a male lead actor who couldn’t sing, dance or act (for whatever reason, weak male lead actors were a recurring theme of Virgin Film productions). As a result, while there were paying customers in Britain, Absolute Beginners didn’t recoup anywhere near its budget. It’s still more fun than the two other flops which killed Goldcrest, Revolution and The Mission.
Gothic (1986) came from Ken Russell, the story of that famous weekend where Mary Shelley came up with the idea for Frankenstein; it’s basically a lot of people running around with weird stuff happening, but is superbly acted and consistently interesting (as so many Russell films were), and was a big hit on video. Indeed, Russell credited the movie with reviving his career, as its video success prompted Vestron to finance his next few films. (Incidentally, the movie is credited to Virgin Vision, which was one of the Virgin Group companies, rather than Virgin Films, but it was an Al Clark film.)
Captive (1986) was less widely seen – from Paul Mayersberg (a regular Nicolas Roeg collaborator), it was based on the Patty Hearst story, with Oliver Reed and Irina Brook (Peter Brook’s daughter) and a soundtrack by the Edge. The movie doesn’t quite work (the cast aren’t all up to it) but it is worth a watch: it’s full of style, Reed is always watchable, and you see Irina Brook from many different angles (it’s very Roeg-like in that way, i.e. pervy).
Aria (1987), also credited to Virgin Vision, was an anthology film of directors filming opera arias. The directors included Bruce Beresford, Nic Roeg, Jean Luc Godard, Robert Altman, Temple, Derek Jarman and Ken Russell. An artistically bold swing that the public didn’t really embrace but no disgrace.
Then Branson decided to pull out of film production, although Virgin kept up its video distribution arm (later sold to Jonathan D. Krane’s Management Company Entertainment Group). You can’t blame Branson – movie making is expensive, filmmakers can be annoying, it’s risky, and Absolute Beginners would have cost a lot. Still, it was a shame. Virgin’s output was consistently interesting, imaginative and bold – there isn’t a single programmer in the bunch. Maybe it was unlucky with its casting in a few key roles.
In hindsight, the company could have gotten more into horror. Just before Branson left filmmaking, Virgin Films was going to co finance Hellraiser (1987) from Clive Barker with New World – but Virgin pulled out before the movie was made; as a result, the studio missed out on a highly profitable film. These things happen. But that one more movie could have made all the difference.
Still, look at the output that Virgin did make: an exciting short, George Orwell, Ken Russell gothic, Roeg-esque art house weirdness, a feminist screwball comedy, a computer Cyrano de Bergerac, an elaborate musical, a queer romance. They’re all worth seeing.
Al Clark wound up emigrating to Australia, having a lot of success in particular with Priscilla Queen of the Desert (other credits include Red Hill, Chopper, Heaven’s Burning and Swinging Safari). Priscilla, with its thumping soundtrack, extravagance and British star, feels very much like it has the DNA of the best of Virgin Films. Britain’s loss was our gain.
