Imagine: Marlon Brando, BBC 2 – On the Waterfront, director Ella Kazan, 1954 and Steve Riley’s award-winning documentary, Listen to Me Marlon.


I spent three and a half hours with Marlon Brando, which is quite a long time for an old buddie like me without falling asleep, especially on a Saturday night, when there’s football on, and I’ve not got a beer in my hand, but I don’t feel that it was time wasted.

I’ve watched On the Waterfront before. Don’t ask me when, or what it’s about, that’s a bit like asking me if I’ve read a book, and I say yeh, and then can perhaps pick out some detail that has sellotaped two neurons together with sufficient force to constitute working memory. In this case, it’s Terry Malloy (Marlon Brando) telling his brother ‘I could have been a contender.’ There’s universality about that line that sticks, an everyman truth that if we did the right thing and stuck at it, we’d get our just rewards. It’s a morality play and the American Dream, writ large on Malloy’s face and nothing and no one is going to stop us.

The film is black and white, but that’s not what makes it dated. Johnny Friendly (Lee J Cobb) is mobster that runs the docks and what he says goes and without him no ship gets unloaded. He’s corrupt because unions are corrupt and, with kickbacks, stop people from working for a fair’s day pay. Yankee Doodle I say to that, because I remember mobsters, I even remember unions, but this notion of a fair day’s pay that really was an 1950’s invention. Offshore tax free havens for money laundering such as the British Virgin Isles, Jersey or London hadn’t even been invented. All right then, London had been invented.  Shoreman lining up for a job, if their face fitted, they got a job, if it didn’t they never. No change there, as far as I can see. I ask myself who the villains would be now? Ask yourself that question too.

Then there’s the question of loyalty and ratting on your friends. Johnny Friendly tells Terry to go and spy on those that want to do things differently, the disgruntled masses that don’t want to pay kickbacks to workshy loafers in their chapel that give nothing back but take everything. Strangely familiar too. That’s not ratting, or grassing, because you’re really for us or against us, and these people are different. That was a theme Ella Kazan was all too familiar with. In Arthur Miller’s marvellous autobiography Timebends he tells how Kazan was asked to appear before the Hoover inspired witchhunt House of UnAmerican Activities to talk about his friends, associates and work colleagues. Someone like B-part player, Ronnie Reagan was delighted to do so. As did Kazan. Miller, his former friend and associate, didn’t. Kazan’s knowledge about ratting and stool pigeons came first hand.  (

I get it, I really do, and Marlon Brando, the youngest actor to receive an Oscar for best actor got it too. Hollywood was open for business and Marlon Brando was the new star and the bright young thing that offered something different from traditional male leads. He was lucky. ‘I arrived in New York with the clothes on my back,’ Brando tells the listener. ‘Luck Be A Lady Tonight,’ Guys and Dolls. Brando was hot as Sarah Palin in snow boots. Watch him being interviewed by two young and attractive presenters. It makes your toes curl with embarrassment. But a magazine cover asked ‘Could there have been an Elvis without Brando?’ Another way of putting this is could there have been a John F Kennedy without Brando? JFK didn’t even like wearing hats, that’s how hip the first Catholic president was.

Brando sought a new self, away from the razzmatazz of Hollywood in Haiti. There wasn’t just a Mutiny on the Bounty. He found that the old self didn’t go home. The old self was home. ‘Give me the boy and I’ll give you the man,’ is the Jesuit epigram in Apsted’s 7-UP series.  Luck isn’t always a Lady. A son that kills his half-sister’s boyfriend and is convicted of manslaughter and his daughter that commits suicide.

Brando’s life becomes what he says he most hates – a soap opera. If he didn’t become an actor he claims he would have made a good conman. The world’s greatest actor. Imagine how he felt having to audition for roles such as that in The Godfather. That’s like Muhammad Ali, being called Cassius Clay, and  having to audition for the boxing ring. Then I realized that Ali did have to, when he came out of prison. Brando supported King and the black right’s movement. He was an activist for social justice. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine what he thought of Donald J Trump.

Actors come and go. Brando’s tapes include him boasting about being paid $14 million for twelve days work on Superman. Then, there’s Macbeth’s soliloquy, all actors seem to have it in their portfolio, even the best actor in the world but if you want to hear the real thing then listen to Anthony Hopkins sending up his Shakespearean friends on Parkinson, most notably that other best actor in the world Laurence Olivier. Even the mad Conrad’s Kurtz, in Apocalypse Now would recognise the sentiments.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Superheroes Don’t Always Fly First-class.


I was sitting on the balcony of my penthouse apartment block,  downwind from the Dalmuir sewerage work, looking over the latest statistics from my feeble attempts to market myself and sell my novel Lily Poole, when Batman appeared. There were a lot of guys masquerading as footballers (now Brian Biggins has taken up golf, it’s golfers)  in Dalmuir — and other Jokers, so me and Batman go back a long way. Before I could speak Superman flew in. Both of them were all ears, especially Batman, they were interested in my cloak of invisibility.

Batman said, ‘I only get a Batmobile and a purrfect girlfriend (although she’s not really my girlfriend) spill the beans.’

It was a bit cliched, but his heart was in the right place and you never look a gift horse in the mouth, so I did.

‘It’s simple Batman,’ I said. ‘You try to get a book published. There’s 50 000 books published in the English language every week. Ask people to support your work and — KAPOW– you become invisible and as threatening as a fart in a broken-down lift with two old people that want to chat about the good old days.’

‘I wish I’d thought of that,’ said Batman. ‘I better make a note of it.’

‘Publish it,’ I said. ‘It’ll no doubt become a New York Times bestseller. Even Bruce Springsteen’s getting into the act, publishing a book about a rift from one of his two million songs.

‘Whose Bruce Springsteen?’ said Superman.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘He’s already became invisible. But be warned, your writing voice is not necessarily your reading voice, or the real you.’

‘Look Jack,’ said Superman, ‘you don’t need ex-ray vision to know that. For God sake, I get changed in a phone box, or I used to before everybody had a mobile phone –’

‘Sorry,’ I said, cutting him off. Superman can drone on for Scotland. ‘I’m just a bit fazed. My marketing skills need upgrading. I don’t have the time to read or write much anymore.’

‘You need some superhuman powers,’ said Batman. ‘Apart from invisibility,’ he quickly added to make me feel better.

‘Maybe you should move to another planet,’ said Superman. ‘That’s what I did before I became all-American.’

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘I used to live in Paisley. That wouldn’t work.’

‘Maybe you should wear a cape,’ said Batman. ‘These pointy ears don’t happen by chance.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘you could cut a deal with those goofballs you capture and let them off with a warning if they sponsor my book.’

‘I’d rather swallow Kryptonite,’ said Superman.

Batman laughed. ‘What kind of books do you write – fairy tales!’

‘What don’t you write something somebody wants to read?’ asked Superman.

‘Good point,’ I said, because I never argue with anyone wearing a cape. ‘I’ll stick with the invisibility.’