Quota Quickie Directors Notes.

From the diary of George McBride, director of Dracula's Soho Virgin Bride.
Written 1957

Terrible morning. Woke, went to the studio to see Gustav before filming begins tomorrow, that bore with his grotesque wandering accent. Where does this fat and annoying man come from? Seems to have no real past, accents and stories wandering from all over. Most of them were made up from what I've have heard but have moments of truth, like the story of him helping Howard Hawks dispose of a body in someone's pool. I hear it had something to do with a homosexual actor in one of Hawks' films, a night of passion gone awry, and no police. Or the tale of helping three forgettable hussies rip-off a Howard Hughes flunky of no little stature and doing it so well that Hughes himself gave them better parts in his movies, as he found the story so tremendously funny. He calls me the jock and complains I offer no direction. How to direct a man as offensively verbal as he, whose response to avoid leaving the light is I'm Dracula, I know what Vampires do, and then spins off a yarn involving Valentino's dead body and a cabal of strange yet well-paying fans, who wanted the body for reasons that he would not go into but assumes me that its got to do with his portrayal of Dracula.

Walking into the ramshackle studio in the morning, saw a dead body of a young actor lying at the front door. Recognised the actor. He's not very good so its no great loss. That grotesque leading man Michael Deer walked up behind me, saw the body and started kicking it violently for ten minutes, in a rage, yelling obscenities at this deceased thespian. The stagehands then took the body and threw it over a bridge nearby, then called the police, who found the body. Now the bruising and method of death is a great mystery but is free publicity for three as yet unreleased of my films, which this actor tried to ruin. With Help from Mr's Deer and Trebeck.

Jackson Tulord Breen DeWitt Delauncy 111 called me into his office, where he crawled from the door back to his seat, his desk surrounded by lots of paper that he'll never read. So much dust in this office that it's hard to breath. He is our studio head as he calls it, owns 30 percent of studio, some annoying lord owning the rest but wants to keep it quiet. In his mid-seventies, wears a ridiculous brown wig like a teddy boy while he coughs for breath. He is most famous for a line he said last week when his accountant (who was in his mid-fifties and still lived with his mother) decapitated a minor actor in a rage. He said "There's an ugly head in my soup and I know ugly as I work in the British film industry!" Informs me that I owe him three more films in the next two months so I better get cracking. Also informs me I'll have a good writer for one of them but doesn't know what the plots are as of yet. Also says don't worry about the dead body outside. Payments have been made. His accountant also has gotten off as they have framed the now-dead actor and said they were after the same woman. Which is odd as the one who died last week was gay and the other one had his balls cut off. Which led to a unique acting style that is difficult to write for.

Met with two writers.

One was an actor, then my assistant, now a writer. not bad for a man who has been here six months. He's pitched me the sequel to Soho Bride involving lesbians but I have been told by Delauncy 111 that no lesbians shall pass in a horror nor any other British movie. Therefore the new blood have to be male. I think we're onto something yet the writer looks disappointed.

The other one is an alien invasion movie set in a public school. I give the nod, having no idea how we'll be able to afford it. It'll get cancelled and they'll still have to pay me.

Met with third writer in private. He is drunk and a national poet (and pulp writer under an alternate name for the money). he can only come here while drunk as we offend his dignity but is paid and says he'll come up with something. Which is good enough for me. I'm going up in the world.

P.S. His name is Alistair Brian Jones McLellan and his poetry is bloody awful. As are his novels, and lamentably, his film scripts.


LATER IN WEEK

Shooting is going okay. Gustav Trebeck continues to annoy and molest the leading lady but she doesn't say anything, is terrified of losing this job. Getting fired from here is the next direct step to prostitution. Although she can probably keep the same agent for those services.

The set looks bloody awful and my DP keeps spitting up blood. I do say eventually that he should go see a doctor but he says "No bloody way do I go see a duck." I don't know exactly what that means. It kind of makes sense yet the way he said it was crazy enough for me to think it meant something more sinister and oddly sexual.


EARLY NEXT WEEK

Gustav has started importing prostitutes and is grooming his leading lady to be one of them. And she seems willing. Odd his late forties fiancee is watching with interest and not disgust. I just don't get these people and am not sure that I want to. A mature-looking youngster also appears on set, making Gustav very nervous. He makes some sinister visual suggestions to his fiancee, who nods in a way that suggests, well, I don't want to know.


MID-WEEK

Gustav refuses to learn his lines. He has them placed out of camera view, meaning few establishing shots are possible as this vampire talks way too much, most of it improvised so why demand that there are cards. I can't see any rise or lowering of quality in the improvising though, to be honest. The D.P worries me. he seems to be very ill.


LATE-WEEK

Gustav Trebeck died this morning. Heart gave out after being drown in fat and being full of s**t. Oh god, what do I do now? On the plus side, my D.P looks to be a lot better now.


EARLY THE NEXT WEEK

Start shooting Dracula's Virgin Soho Bride with a stand-in for Gustav. Kinda looks like him and I am assured that no-one will notice the difference. I am not convinced but am under contract and will do as I am told.