"So you are not coming back with us tomorrow?" Brian asked.
"No, I have taken a day's leave and am taking a quick trip to Brighton."
"Family?"
"No. I am going to visit Thomas Brownjohn."
"Should I know who that is?"
"An art house movie director."
"Say no more. Say no more." Brian rolled his eyes. "See you back in the office on Monday."
"It's been a very productive business trip." I conceded
"Indeed it has." he said and left.
I was excited the following morning as I got into the train at Victoria Station headed for Brighton. I had been introduced to Thomas Brownjohn by a friend who had been a literature student at varsity. Initially I had been hesitant to go to one of his movies. I could not believe what I had seen. After that I was sold on his work and style. The intricate way in which he choreographed the facial expression of his actors was like no other film director seemed to be able to do. One movie critic said, 'If you went to see a Brownjohn movie and turned the sound off you would still be able to follow the plot.' Another said, 'Brownjohn has photographed the soul.'
The trip from Victoria station to Brighton took under an hour. I reviewed the questions I wanted to ask Thomas Brownjohn. My mind wandered back to my days at Witwatersrand University in Johannesburg, to a conversation I had had with my then girlfriend, Karen and her best friend Barbie, in the student canteen
"Why do you go to see those Brownjohn movies, they are so depressing." Karen asked.
"And do they make money?" Barbie was a serious business management student.
"Ladies!" I replied, "We are talking about significant artistry. Look at anyone of the characters in any one of his movies. You can see their pain, their angst, their heartache, the opening up of their soul. Do you think Walt Disney or Franco Zefferelli could come anywhere close?"
Karen rolled her eyes. "I go to movies to be entertained. The only time I went to a Brownjohn movie, hell man I wanted to blow my brains out afterwards."
"Go ahead, do it. There aren't any brains there to blow out. So no damage." Johan said as he passed our table. Karen lobbed an empty cool drink can at him.
"It is all a question of the market." Barbie continued. "Why make movies that don't sell. What is the point? It's not cheap to shoot a movie, and if you are not going to attract an audience, who is going to pay for it?"
"Are you seriously saying art that doesn't sell should be destroyed?"
"Even artists need to eat." Barbie replied.
"What about future generations?"
"Can you collect money from them?"
"What do you think would happen if Michelangelo had smashed up his David because he couldn't get a good price for it?"
"All the Italian gays would be broken hearted. Their one source of porn lost forever." Johan passed our table again. This time Barbie lobbed an empty cool drink can at him.
I loved those guys, and it broke my heart when we left university and our life paths took us in different directions. Nevertheless, admiration for Thomas Brownjohn was a lonely business. If there was a Brownjohn movie showing at one of the boutique cinemas, I always went alone. Once I was the only person in the audience.
The train had arrived and I asked a taxi driver outside the Brighton station to take me to 25 Connaught Avenue. I had tracked Thomas Brownjohn from his studio in London to his holiday home in Brighton. Whoever answered the phone at his home told me he would be in all day and I was free to drop in any time.
The taxi driver dropped me right outside his house. The door was answered by an elderly lady who spoke with such a broad Scots accent I couldn't understand what she was saying. Nevertheless I followed her into the house, until she pointed me to a room with a half open door.
There he sat at a desk writing on a large pad of paper. He was a little different from how I had imagined him to be. The photographs I had of him were taken when he was a much younger man. I was overcome with a sense of awe. It felt like I was standing in the presence of God. My mind raced over the various scenes from his movies. I had flash backs to the discussions I had had with Majorie a Master's student. She had been writing her dissertation on art house movies. She had given me most fascinating insights into Brownjohn's work.
There before me was the mind that had created all that art. There were the hands that had directed where the actors should move and where the camera should shoot. The apex of all my artistic thoughts and wanderings over so many years was right in front of me.
I knocked on the half open door, in response he looked up at me momentarily and continued writing.
"Good afternoon Mr Brownjohn. I am George Oliver from South Africa. I arranged to come and see you today. I feel that it is a great pleasure and privilege to meet you at last. I have been an admirer of your work ever since my student days."
He didn't look up, he merely carried on writing.
"I feel that you are destined for the crown of immortality. When the razzmatazz of the Walt Disney's and Steven Spielberg's of this world have died down, serious students of cinema will look back to the twentieth century, the first century of cinema, discover your work, and be amazed that such a monumental giant had arisen so early in the life of this art form. The unique way in which you direct your actors, ranks your movies way above the output of other directors."
I inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. I had completed my prepared speech. Usually what happens is that I prepare a speech for an occasion like this, I either get flustered and forget my lines and leave important bits out, or I lose my nerve and don't deliver the speech. I just mutter a few clichés. Or what often happens I get interrupted by protests of modesty "No! no! you are too kind. None of what you are saying is true."
I wished at for a third option, because he did not react at all. He merely continued to write. I looked around the room. I was astonished to see no movie memorabilia on the walls. Possibly the painting on the opposite wall resembled a scene from one of his movies. I then thought maybe this is not his holiday home, but a holiday home. One that he is renting, or one that he has borrowed from a friend. I looked at him. He continued to write, ignoring me.
What do I do now? I thought to myself. Do I say good bye and leave? I hoped not, I had questions which I had wanted to ask him. Do I start asking him, my questions? Or do I just wait? A thought struck me. He is an elderly man, like many elderly people he is probably losing his hearing. Maybe he never heard me.
I took two paces into the room and started again in a louder voice. "Good Afternoon Mr Brownjohn, I am George Oliver from South Af....." He waved his hand up and down motioning me to stop speaking. So I concluded, he knows I am here, he has heard me, all I have to do is wait.
I watched him as he wrote. My eyes wandered around the room to see if I could pick up any clues to his illustrious career. Eventually he put the pen down, but my relief was short lived. He then read what he had written, and picked up his pen from time to time to make corrections. Eventually after what seemed like an eternity he put both pen and paper down and turned to me.
"Young man, do please forgive me my bad manners. I am a writer and I wished to put some inspirational thoughts down before they were lost forever from my memory."
"I understand that," I replied, "I am a writer too and I know what..."
Ignoring me he continued. "I must confess that you have expressed yourself very powerfully, and have been most generous in your praise. However many people make the mistake you have just made. If you want Mr. Thomas Brownjohn to hear those lovely words, you are going to have to go to number 25 Connaught Avenue. This is number 25a.
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