Sunday 24th March - Spring Tour Day 27

A grey and cold morning in Boston – great! I can’t take all these sunny days giving folk the option of going to the beach when naturally they should be thinking about sitting in screenings of In Search of Haydn. Yesterday’s screenings were poorly attended and that is even more frustrating when those that were there were so enthusiastic. Again a reminder, though none is required, that it’s all about publicity. You have to be prepared to spend 20% of what you may earn through Box Office (and DVD sales) on making sure people know about the event. That said, the venue tried and we tried. Kristin – the very excellent manager – pushed as best she could but it didn’t really happen for us. It certainly doesn’t help where it’s a March day that gives you sunburn if you so much as poke your head out of the window. Still, I like the venue which is not a traditional cinema but the Museum of Fine Arts. If you go to Boston, you have to visit this lovely museum. It’s very fresh and has a brand spanking new wing. Actually, so far on my US trip, I’m having my own experiences and preconceptions challenged. In recent trips, I have found the US to be very tired in so many ways. Crummy airports, crummy hotels, crummy coffee. Well, blow me down with a feather but so far the airports (LA, San Fran, Boston) have been excellent, the airline (American) as good as any, the hotels I’ve been in have been good too. What remains true is the inability to make coffee, produce proper bacon, understand that bread should have a taste, and no I don’t want a 600 calorie muffin thanks… Going back to my jog, how lovely and modern Boston seems. I know it’s a passing view of downtown but still…. The only thing I didn’t like about my run this morning was that there I was jogging along listening to Leif Ove Andsnes playing Beethoven and feeling pretty good with myself for getting out there so early when a bunch of male sportsmen ran past – maybe just a college basketball team – but they certainly made me regret all the times I’ve said yes to the 600 calorie muffins.

As I write this, the third of 5 screenings of Haydn is going on – and for the third time, it’s poorly attended. Shame. But I can look back to the previous two dates in LA and just outside San Francisco. Both were very well attended and the audiences very happy. There was an interesting development too: a bunch of them said I need to try crowd-funding for Chopin – essentially ask people to donate to help me make the film. Maybe $100 gets a name on the credits, $250 a signed DVD, $500 credit, DVD and invite to a screening with me – and $10,000 will get me cooking you dinner anywhere in the world! Might give it a go! It would be so great to be able to make one of these films without constantly getting on one knee to the broadcast high & mighty. I think people in the USA are genuinely shocked when they hear that few European and no US TV stations have any interest in these type of films…so they are now suggesting that they, the audience, fund (in small amounts) the films themselves. Interesting – wouldn’t that be nice…50 people who all donated $1000 once a year to let me make In Search of Chopin, then Bach…. Hmmm….any takers?

While you ponder that surely irresistible offer, let me comment on something I’ve seen so much of in only three days in the USA: no-one seems able to survive five minutes without talking into their phones…Barely has a plane touched down before people seem to be talking (loudly) to themselves. Then you realise they are making phone calls. ‘Hi – I’ve just touched down in Boston, how are you? How’s fluffy the cat? Tickle him for me. Is your rash getting better? Oh, I had delicious ravioli last night…’ etc…blah blah…etc. One of my pet projects is to make a film with film-maker David Bickerstaff called ‘Silence’. I’m now more determined than ever. My double screening in the beautiful San Francisco area (north of the Golden Gate bridge) allowed me some time to work but it is hard when around you is so noisy - I stick some Chopin on and that drowns everything out. I thought I’d have cleared my email in-boxes by now and finally finished some proposals but no matter how early into the morning I work, I can’t quite crawl up the rope to safety…I feel like I’m dangling over a long drop and if I ease up I’ll fall in to a deep dark pit of unanswered requests…. Some of the emails of course relate to the continued push of Haydn in Australia and New Zealand (and a few THE BOY MIR screenings coming up too). The first week’s Box Office was one-third Mozart’s and one-tenth’s Beethoven. Shame – again, not enough publicity (and the slightly diminished appeal of Haydn probably). Here’s a review we just got – it’s great but why two weeks into the run do we get it now? Especially as Sydney has already scaled back screenings…still, it will drive DVD sales I guess:

Seeking Haydn by: Evan Williams - The Australian - March 24, 2012
Phil Grabsky completes his fine trilogy of films about great classical composers. In Search of Haydn is the third in Phil Grabsky's fine trilogy of films about great classical composers, a worthy successor to In Search of Mozart and the somewhat less successful In Search of Beethoven.
It follows the established formula: interviews with musicians and extracts from letters (the narrator is Juliet Stevenson), mixed with deftly chosen musical excerpts, beautifully performed. And because the emphasis is more on the music than the man, the films are not strictly biographical. We are told little, for example, of Haydn's unhappy and childless marriage to Maria Anne Keller, and nothing of his earlier infatuation with Maria's younger sister Therese or his passionate affair in later life with a young Italian opera singer, Luigia Polzelli, all of which would have made for a juicy biopic in the old Hollywood tradition.But Haydn remains a no less vivid and forceful presence. The key figures in his musical career were Mozart, his revered friend and mentor, and his employer, Hungarian Prince Nicolaus Esterhazy, whom he served for 28 years as a kind of court composer and resident orchestral conductor. Grabsky is a master of lucid exposition and the essentials of Haydn's career are recounted in clear and orderly style, enlivened by fascinating details. I hadn't realised that the theme from one of his string quartets -- a form he virtually invented -- became Austria's first national anthem and later the tune for Deutschland Uber Alles. We are given a glimpse of the only surviving portrait of Haydn showing him without a wig and he looks nothing like the benign and fatherly Papa Haydn I remember from picture books and record covers. The musical excerpts are shot and edited with dazzling skill. Extreme close-ups of strings and flying fingers are intercut with anxious faces and furrowed brows. Haydn wrote no fewer than 104 symphonies before turning to vocal music in later life. We hear something of his oratorio The Creation, an acknowledged masterpiece, and as the film would have it, "a hymn to the perfectibility of man in a divinely ordered universe". It is said that Haydn thought highly of his operas until he heard Mozart's. Someone in the film observes that he needed a Da Ponte to provide him with a decent libretto occasionally. Who knows what operatic treasures he might have given us with Da Ponte at his side? In Search of Haydn is primarily a film for musicians. But all who love music will find it irresistible.  In Search of Haydn (G) - 4 stars

I have to say I’ve been watching loads of films over the last four weeks. I have dozens of the recent BAFTA submissions and few have been worth even two stars, never mind four. Gosh, some dreary, dreary stuff – or, and let me ruffle some feathers here, self-indulgent ponderous stuff like Melancholia. Last night I finally put in a film that had me interested from start to finish – and guess what? – It was a documentary. It’s called Knuckle and it’s about two warring traveller families in Ireland.

You’ll probably never get a chance to see it but if it ever pops up somewhere, give it a look. Certainly a lot more interesting than the drivel that seems to form the majority of Hollywood’s production. Well, I can hear that the film is ending and I need to go do my Question & Answer session. Probably be easier to all sit round a table in the café as there are only about 20 folk in. Mind you, even there was only one person in I’d still do the full Q&A. Then back to the hotel for supermarket sushi and a night transcribing Haydn interviews for a forthcoming book. One more day tomorrow then I’m having three days off – so talk to you in a week. I’d love to know where you blog-readers are so do email me on pgrabsky@seventh-art.com and let me know – and if you have any questions, fire away…

Monday 19th March - Whistle-stop tour of New Zealand

Phew, well that was a whistle-stop…New Zealand done and dusted.


At least on this trip (unlike my previous two) I got to see a little bit more than Auckland and Wellington. Straight from the plane to the first screening of Haydn and then pretty much non-stop for the next 3 days. I drove about two hours out of Auckland for a couple of small-town screenings. They have a lot of hundred-year-old cinemas that have to work hard to survive and often choose the option of dividing the cinema from one screen to 5 or 6. It’s obviously not as attractive but makes much more sense and offer far more choice to the local community. They obviously have a great love of movies – often the cinemas have dozens and dozens of old posters up – and they have to hope they continue to get good ones to drag people in from the street or away from their TVs.

I was lucky to have a lot of sun and both the towns and countryside were lovely but that didnt lend itself to getting massive crowds. Mind you, I can see why families get in their camper vans and take off. I’d always thought NZ was supposed to be very English – old-style England – but I didn’t really sense that. It seemed to have a sense of itself – not a pastiche of the UK or Australia. As for the screenings, well I conclude that neither I nor my distributor had done enough to publicise them. I’ve been endlessly hustling and emailing for six months but it still wasn’t enough. One or two key press interviewers weren’t contacted, no social media really happened to music groups, etc and there were one or two NZ acquaintances that I simply didn’t get time to contact. I did at least manage a short walk talking to a Kiwi telling me about local history and the Maori. Notably too, everyone half-jokes and half-worries that they are sitting on big volcanoes…..

Back to work, and half-full cinemas again…though the reaction was very strong and positive. Lots of people saying they are going to tell their friends – let’s see. You really can’t be half-hearted about putting a film in the cinema – it’s full on. The last night in Auckland we had a double-feature of The Boy who Plays and The Boy Mir. That was very well attended and the cinema decided on the spot to keep the Boy Mir film on for at least a week. We’ll actually open it across the country though in mid-May. That’s when we’ll target the press for.

Anyway, time flew…I have no idea what’s happening in the world although I did manage (via Skype and my wife’s iPad) to have dinner with my family and parents (on Mother’s day in the UK). I’m not sure my 90-year-old ma has ever talked to anyone over Skype before – my, the world has moved on.

And talking of moving on…I’m now on a plane for a 13-hour flight to Los Angeles.

Thursday 15th March - Australia done, on to New Zealand

Thursday 15th March

Well, that’s Australia done. Here’s a whistle-stop of where I’ve been…Hobart, Melbourne, Sydney, Melbourne again, Avoca, Brisbane, Byron, Sydney again…And conclusions? Well, first of all this is a beautiful country or at least these cities are jewels. Each and every one of them I love. The hours have been long but travel Qantas, take cabs, stay in decent hotels and the schedule becomes very do-able. Mind you, I don’t actually get out much – there are long hours in my hotel room dealing with emails and the press. Ah yes, the press… you have to take the rough with the smooth. Over the years I’ve had my share of 5-star reviews and my share of duds. That’s what happens in any sphere and making docs about long-dead classical composers is not everyone’s cup of tea. Broadly speaking, the younger reviewers are less likely to rave about a film about Haydn. Reviews in Oz have certainly been mixed – certainly not a wildly in favour as they were for Mozart & Beethoven. I’m used to people making fun of my love of nature shots when listening to the music but people have also found it hard to get beyond the fact that, yes, Haydn is not as gripping as biography as Mozart & Beethoven. Mind you, how many life stories are?

On the plus side, the radio coverage – and I’ve done a good dozen radio shows over past few days – have been very positive. Probably the one-hour Margaret Throsby ABC Classic FM Desert Island discs style show was the most useful but there have been many other national and local too. Audience attendances have not been great – or at least in comparison to Beethoven in 2009. Perth was full, Adelaide half, Hobart half, Melbourne not bad, Avoca half, Brisbane poor, Sydney great. I think I got the sense that the radio shows were kicking in by Sydney, especially the wonderful 2MBS and the lovely Julie Simmonds. So you can sense on my part a degree of disappointment especially when you think it’s been two weeks away from home, the family, the office, friends, the South Downs, the golf course…

On the other hand….(and I’m very good at finding a positive ‘other hand’) those who have seen the film (apart from three pesky reviewers) have loved it. Just last night, after the show I had a lady in tears, young music students enraptured and keen to tell me, 15 or 20 folk who wanted to shake my hand and thank me, and so on. And buy the DVDs, without which none of this makes any commercial sense. That reaction just about tips the balance and certainly, unquestionably, unforgettably makes me conclude that Australia Spring Tour 2012 has been a success. But here are two short reviews of Haydn – same film, completely different reactions:


Completing the trilogy he began with In Search of Mozart and In Search of Beethoven, Phil Grabsky brings a riveting study of Haydn. It is a simple film that doesn’t rely on reconstructions or dramatization to explore the composer’s life. Instead, Grabsky uses prints and contemporary footage of the places he lived and worked in order to give a lucid chronological account of his life. Juliette Stevenson’s narration is understated and never obtrusive, and while Haydn’s life was not as dramatic or exciting as either Mozart’s or Beethoven’s, it was longer. Both Mozart and Beethoven felt themselves in debt to Haydn and here we are given the opportunity to hear how his music had an openness that appealed to audiences as much then as it does today. It is sensitive music, but does not evoke huge suffering or overwhelming passion, which is perhaps why it appeals to so many. The interview subjects are engaging, intelligent and clearly knowledgeable in their field. Grabsky lets them speak without interruption or leading questions. Even if you’ve never heard Haydn’s music, this is a smart, relatable and wholly enjoyable film.


If ever a film was made for radio, this collection of talking heads and still photos is it. Juliet Stevenson is writer-director Phil Grabsky’s chief mouth-piece, voicing an uninspired but reasonably informative script which walks us through the life of the late 18th century’s “other” great composer, “the man Mozart and Beethoven looked up to”. The rich sampling of the music is the main attraction, and the film certainly opens a door worth walking through. But would Haydn – puckish, lively, brilliant Haydn – like it? Glad as he’d be that we still listen to him, I think he’d be horrified to find his life could look this boring

See what I mean…you never know. My composer films are deliberately straightforward and unflashy. Some don’t get it or don’t like it. Some do. You’ll notice how I can still find a line or two (above in bold), even in a bad review, that I can use on a press release…

Friday 9th March 2012 - last installment on first days in Afghanistan

Kabul, August 2002, was fantastic. You could feel the release of pressure following the departure of the black-bearded, black-turbanned Taliban. Music was everywhere; pirate copies of the most recent Hollywood and Bollywood movies on every corner. Aid agency 4x4s and armoured vehicles with confident gun-toting soldiers in wraparound sunglasses rushed through crowded street junctions. With my Afghan translator, Sami, I visited a restaurant called Khandahar. I had been warned there was no food in Afghanistan and told to bring powdered goods – and here I was eating the best kebab of my life. I admit some of the stares I attracted were hardly what you’d call friendly but I was too excited to care. At daybreak the next day, a blisteringly bright morning, I headed north. I had arranged to travel with a small UN convoy going to Bamiyan. I’ll never forget that drive – the landscape was breathtaking; the destruction from the centre of Kabul all the way to Bamiyan was endless and remarkable. Barely a building untouched. Barely a stretch of road without a rusting, upturned hunk of armoured vehicle. One small village through which the road passed had a broken-down tank in the middle of its main market street and no-one could move it. Most shocking of all were the endless red and white stones marking where one could or could not walk for fear of mines. Every so often, I would see in the middle of some vast field a group of three men on their hands and knees, poking a metal stick into the earth, slowly locating and dismantling mine after mine. You have to be desperately poor to want that job.

Nine hours, one flat tyre and one rushed kebab later and the bumpy gravel road led us into the valley of Bamiyan. It was worth every moment of spinal discomfort to get there. Even as I write this, I wish I was in Bamiyan gazing at the multi-coloured mountains, the dark greens of the fields and the piercing blue of the sky. I have travelled the world as a film-maker but few places are as beautiful. That made the destroyed tanks, the mines, the graves of fighters, the smashed houses, the shattered trees, the refugees living in caves, all the more distressing. Night was falling and I asked Sami where we were staying. “Oh”, he replied, “I haven’t organised that”. A night on the back seat of the 4x4 didn’t appeal so we set off to the compounds of the many Western NGOs (Non-Governmental Agencies) that reside in Bamiyan; it’s a popular spot because of its beauty and relative safety. We knocked on the metal gates of a British NGO – and were refused entry. A Japanese one: no. A Dutch one: no. It was dark now. “Sami”, I asked, “why don’t we ask the locals – I haven’t come all this way to mix with westerners anyway”. Sami, an experienced journalist and ex-Muhajaddin, took me to the local warlord’s house. Karim Khalili was no mere warlord either but the leader of the Hazara people and one of the most important politicians in this new Afghanistan. I was somewhat nervous in advance of our reception but it couldn’t have been warmer. We were ushered to his guesthouse without delay. It was a four-walled compound belonging to a family that had fled, like so many millions, to Pakistan. It was dark, we were famished and the meal we were offered was even more delicious as a result. Fresh bread, rice mixed with a few thin strips of meat and sultanas, once again washed down with warm Pepsi. I thought then, rightly as it turned out, that it wouldn’t be long before Coke made its way here. I crawled into my sleeping bag at exactly 10 o’clock when the generator was switched off and the compound shut down. The stars outside were like a wall-chart. Not one cloud, not one light on anywhere. As I stretched out, exhausted, exhilarated, a little frightened, little did I know that only hours later I would meet the subject of my film, a young boy with whom I would spend, one way or another, the next decade.

And so here I am dashing from one Australian city to another – showing on the one hand a film about Haydn and on the other showing or trying to show a film about that little boy that I met by pure chance ten years ago. Funny old world.

Monday 5th March 2012 - more on Afghanistan

...It had only been two days since I had flown into Kabul for the first time. The destruction I saw below me reminded me of those famous aerial shots of endless burnt-out apartment blocks in 1945 Berlin. As we neared the airport itself, I stared wide-eyed at the upturned, torn-apart hulks of Afghanistan's national airline and air-force beneath us. Shell craters peppered their way alongside the runway and the control tower was a ridiculously bullet-ridden mess. What exactly had I flown into? Despite the chaotic nature of things, customs and passport control were brisk and before I knew it I was outside the terminal waiting for my pre-arranged taxi. As I waited, I reminded myself to be on my guard, as I was standing very near the spot where the Minister for Transport had arrived for a flight some weeks earlier and had been beaten to death by delayed passengers. This was a man who had returned from exile vowing to help rebuild his beloved country. What a stupid way to die.

Despite, maybe because of, this heightened sense of danger, the taxi ride to my guesthouse was exhilarating. The smells, the sights, the sounds. I noted that every lamp-post was pierced with bullet holes through which sunlight streamed, highlighted by the dust and fumes. Nor was there a building that was free of shell damage. It was extraordinary and very exciting. The guesthouse was called Everest and the two young Afghan owners, who had immediately seen an opportunity to make some money in post-war Kabul, were very welcoming. Some tea, toast and boiled eggs were placed on a table decorated with plastic roses in a cup of water. Nearby, gripped by music videos on the satellite TV, sat Iranian traders, a Pakistani journalist and, most remarkably, another film-maker. His name was Dennis O'Rourke and, to steal a line from the film Casablanca, 'of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world', what a coincidence that he was here! For, in some ways, it was his influence that had brought me to Kabul in the first place.

The feeling that I needed to change the way I made films had been creeping up on me throughout the 1990s. I loved making films for the BBC, Channel 4 and the Discovery Channel but this was unquestionably the start of a 'dumbing down'. Meanwhile, stories from outside the UK were frowned upon; reality strands were the new 'must-watch, water-cooler' TV. 'Big Brother' was a massive success and I remember how joyful its commissioning editors were. In private they told me that the worse the housemates behaved the happier they were. Personally, I was fed up with it. I didn't want to make series about British shopping centres and airports and ignore the other 200-plus countries in the world. As I was beginning to ponder just how to change things, I visited the Sheffield Documentary Festival. There I ignored the many sessions dealing with what commissioning editors were looking for; instead I sat for three days watching feature documentary after feature documentary. This was before Michael Moore came along and changed everything by making Fahrenheit 9/11. That film took more than $100m at the box office and, in doing so, opened up all sorts of doors. At this time, the very word 'documentary' was dirty to distributors and exhibitors. Few wanted them. And yet here in a dark cinema in Sheffield, I was seeing film after film where the film-makers clearly had felt compelled, no matter what, to make the films they wanted to make. One film in particular made a real impression on me. It was Dennis O'Rourke's Cunnamulla. What most impressed me was that he had shot it on his own with a small new Sony camera called the PD150. Now, when the history of film-making is written, a whole chapter ought to be dedicated to this piece of technology. This small camera changed everything. Costing only £4000, fully kitted out, these cameras were designed by Sony, apparently for the corporate market. But they made them so well that professional film-makers snapped them up - no longer did we need an expensive crew costing thousands a day - now, if you were a director who knew how to use a camera, as I did, you could pack all you needed in one case and hop on a plane. The only hurdle was your own indecision. People have asked if it was hard to get into Afghanistan? No, it was easy. I caught a plane to Islamabad then another to Kabul. I then caught a taxi and checked into a hotel where, bizarrely, I had bumped into O'Rourke.

Dennis was there making his own film - eventually called Landmines: A Love Story. We chatted over a beer and it was rather comforting that Dennis wasn't really sure what his film was to be about - the premise was to look at stories concerning landmines in three different countries. In the end, it was focussed entirely on Afghanistan. I too had come to Afghanistan with an incomplete vision; I just had the desire to find out for myself what Afghans were like. I wanted to know more about a country that seemed engulfed in a perpetual litany of horror. I remember at the beginning of July 2002 reading in the paper how an American AC-130 plane had accidentally bombed a wedding party in the Afghan southern province of Uruzgan. The Americans claimed they had come under fire but in fact they had just seen, from a great height, some wedding party members celebrating by firing their rifles into the air. The next thing those men and women knew a series of missiles arrived at 300mph out of the blue sky and blew them to bits. That was the moment I decided to go to Afghanistan and find out who these men and women getting married, getting killed, really were. Who were the Afghans trying to rebuild their lives after so many years of war? Who were the Afghans trying to stop them? I chose Bamiyan for the simple pragmatic reason that I thought people would recognise the name. But what the film was to be about, I wasn't sure. I vaguely assumed I would find a man and make a film about his life. I didn't consider focussing on a woman - I was sure I wouldn't get access. And I certainly never thought about a child...

Sunday 4th March 2012 - Remembering the first visit to Afghanistan

Sunday 4th March 2012 - Off on another plane, this time to Hobart in Tasmania. It’s been another packed day but I thought I’d spend some time answering an email I’ve received. ‘Why did you go to Afghanistan in the first place and how did you meet Mir?’. Well, it’s a bit of a tale but here goes:

July 2002: A warlord's guesthouse, central Afghanistan. A long way from home. I am, perhaps surprisingly, really quite comfortable. There are no luxuries but the floors are clean, the thin foam mattress supports my weary bones nicely and, above all, breakfast, lunch and dinner arrive in a rolled up plastic mat straight to my feet. Bread and oily brown soup, rice, an egg, some Pepsi, an apple or two. Did I say no luxuries? Forgive me; this was the height of luxury. Wonderful. Waking at 5am, the near-darkness lent an air of unreality. I was indeed a long way from home. Peeking out of the window, I could see the first wash of light stroking the early risers; men wrapped in blankets who were shuffling along the road outside. I dressed and crept down the well-worn mud-brick staircase and out into the courtyard. Silence. I banged my camera’s tripod against the wooden gates on the way out and the sound echoed off the high defensive walls. But no-one stirred. I looked to the mountains on my left. The Hindu Kush – the ‘Killers of Hindus’ - an unpleasant name for such a magnificent view. Two women, head to toe in sky blue, drifted past averting their gaze. A dog barked. Ahead of me was one of the world’s most extraordinary tourist attractions except there were no tourists any more.

What had once been a favourite stop on the bus route from Europe to India was very much now off-limits. The cliff that I was approaching contained two huge vertical niches into which, 1400 years earlier, two statues of Buddha had been carved. These ‘Buddhas of Bamiyan’ were the most famous spot in Afghanistan. Bamiyan, a verdant valley at 2500 metres, is bordered by two cliffs – in between which cultivated fields are dotted with mud-brick houses, each like a fort. Those homes – like the one in which I was staying – were little changed from the time the Buddhas were built. Their size and defensive nature told a story: the Silk Route that passed through this valley, linking Central Asia with India, had brought both wealth and trouble. These enormous statues, each of a calm Buddha gazing serenely across the valley, had marked this spot for centuries with impunity. Then the statues, having lost their faces to Islamic soldiers in the 18th century, were utterly destroyed by the brutal Taliban regime in March 2001. Over a period of two weeks, the Taliban had packed explosives in crevices around the statues and, despite last-minute offers of $50m from both Japan and the Metropolitan Museum of New York, they lit the fuses. For a brief period, this remote valley in central Afghanistan had been front page news. Few held sympathies for a regime that was just as brutal to its own people. It was said that on this very road a woman had been beaten to death for showing her ankles. True or not, countless atrocities like it had indeed happened. During the rule of the Taliban – and in the preceding Russian occupation and civil war - an estimated two million people had been killed. Two million. This was undoubtedly a land of guns and rocket launchers. I was carrying my camera and a microphone. A year earlier and had I been seen with a camera I’d have been thrown into jail. But then the world had been turned upside down by the Al-Qaida attacks on the eastern coast of the United States. In the fall-out, US President Bush had given the Taliban an ultimatum: hand over their ‘guest’ Osama Bin Laden and stay in power or refuse and face the consequences. The Taliban refused, Bin Laden fled, the US and a wide coalition of international forces forged a united and rapidly successful front of Afghan anti-Taliban groups under the title of the Northern Alliance.

I had followed this story in the news back home and had found it all very confusing and very far away. Yet now here I was making use of the hospitality of one of those very warlords who had fought against the Taliban. Walking down this dusty road in central Afghanistan, I wondered to myself what exactly did I have in mind? More immediately, would I even be allowed to get my camera out? The only way to know if I had any chance of making any kind of film was to set my camera up and see what the reaction was. A few people stared curiously at me as I walked but most went casually about their early-morning business – tending crops by the roadside, urging donkeys laden with produce towards the bazaar, collecting water in yellow containers from the single stream. At the remains of the larger of the two Buddhas, I stopped. Three Afghan men stood talking, leaning on shovels alongside wheelbarrows. They were clearly about to start a day’s work. The three were exactly what one would have expected Afghan men to look like if your only point of reference was the TV news: turbaned and bearded. ‘Here goes’, I thought. I set up my tripod and slid the camera on to it. The three men turned towards me and picked up their shovels. I smiled nervously while also keeping my hand on the tripod’s quick release button just in case. I pressed ‘record’. A sudden move and the men sprang into action; one jumped into a wheelbarrow and started dancing and the other two began singing.

Then, while I was looking through the lens and marvelling at the unpredictability of human behaviour, something else strange happened. A little child in a colourful hat suddenly stood in front of the camera and stared down the lens. It was a split second and I barely noticed but that was the first time that I saw Mir. It was a fleeting moment but it was enough. That chance moment subsequently led to his face being seen by audiences around the world.

(More on Afghanistan tomorrow...)

Thursday 1st March

Thursday 1st March
Now here’s a tough one. I have been asked to do a lecture on my top ten documentaries…Crumbs! I’ve been mulling that over. Where to start? It’s so easy to think about the last two or three years but I’ve been watching docs for 30+ years – and then there is 70-odd years before that too. And Top Ten in what sense? My favourites to watch? The ones I feel were the best made? The most effective? The most popular? Go on, take a moment or two and think for yourself which ones come to mind. Naturally I can’t vote for my own so I’ll have to think of another ten! (My own top three would be THE BOY MIR, IN SEARCH OF BEETHOVEN and HEAVY WATER)… Only kidding, right, let’s go. 


Image from IMDb

Night Mail, loved it. The mix of photography, music and poetry were and remain wonderful. I wish we had more films like that today. Koyaanisqatsi (or however on earth you spell it) – a very influential film for me. I remember seeing it when it first came out – and it showed me how documentary can be anything the director wants. It doesn’t need interviews or narration. And those shots of the packed Twin Towers’ escalators have taken on such a meaning for me now.  Dennis O’Rourke’s Cunnamulla – shot on a PD150 in his typically direct, bit tricky, emotional but certainly signature style. I saw it at Sheffield and decided I wanted to do feature docs too. My Muhammad Ali feature doc that I then made opened the next year’s festival and remains one of my proudest days.



Image from IMDb



Others: Little Dieter needs to Fly, Touching the Void, Anvil, The Great Silence, The Elements, Shed your tears and Walk Away, got to be something from Errol Morris surely…and what about those hundreds of docs on TV I’ve watched…hmmm, dozens of poor ones but some of those old Modern Times were super.… and the work of my buddy David Bickerstaff…OK, I’ll need to think about this…oh, and some non-English language ones….

Anyway, back to today: had a screening this evening of THE BOY MIR. It was particularly nice as lots of the Adelaide Afghans came and I always enjoy the screenings when Afghans are there – not least because they can hear the profanities in the background which are not in the subtitles. Half the audience are giggling and the other half guessing why. It’s very interesting, actually; I always imagined I was making the film to inform (and entertain) a western & Japanese audience. I don’t remember ever really taking into account the Afghans who might see it. Now, I realise my mistake – they are actually the most important audience of all. Why? Two reasons: first, I have had so many Afghans who have said they watch the film again and again at home – they adore seeing their homeland, hearing the jokes, seeing a film that is actually about Afghans not foreign soldiers. Some talk of their parents watching the film maybe once a week, every week! So the film has really offered something to many Afghans in exile and that is wonderful. Also, I had not predicted at all how many wish the film were shown immediately in Afghanistan to reinforce two keys things: first, that education is essential and for those who have it, look at Mir, and know not to take schooling for granted.

Secondly, I have had at least a handful of Afghans stand up and declare ‘I am Pashtun. I have always looked down on the Hazara but, after this film, I will never do so again’. My ego and ambition want more for the film but actually aren’t those Afghan responses enough? After the film I went to dinner with about 30 of the audience – I couldn’t resist the offer of kebabs – and was very touched by how much the film meant to them. The life of exiles and refugees is so tough that I’m glad a little film can bring a lot of joy.

Wednesday 29th February

Wednesday 29th February

Adelaide. Raining and grey, that’s not fair. 15 hours of screenings, meetings and press. I can’t remember a thing. Could be a very short blog. OK, OK…let me think.


There was a meeting with an American distributor which was interesting and, being over breakfast, stopped me from eating too much! Distributors are always on the lookout for shows that will sell but, unsurprisingly, are sure-fire hits and free. Doesn’t really apply to the worlds of art, classical music and social docs. Nice guy though, nice chat. Then a quick chat with local radio about tonight’s In Search of Haydn screening. Then a talk for younger film-makers about the ways to keep a production company alive. I had to give it to them straight: 95% of you will be out of business in 5 years and the other 5% will be struggling from project to project…Well, no need to sugar-coat stuff is there? Someone suggested that being a documentary film-maker means taking a vow of poverty. That makes me mad: if you think like that then you’ll behave like that. We should be able to be creative and informative without a life of penury. Of course there are wonderful rewards in what we do too. Anyway, gave them that whole spiel and then moved on.

A quick chat with a great commissioning editor from ARTE and then a quick dash to local ABC radio. Australia is great for local radio – it knocks the UK way into touch. I tried to answer the host’s questions and, in the best politician way, keep mentioning tonight's Haydn screenings… I didn’t really succeed but hopefully it all helps.

The afternoon was spent doing emails – which eats up so much time. Then after a meeting with my cinema distributor, it was off for the Haydn screening. Not a great turn-out it has to be said. Cinema was about half-full. Or half empty. They really liked the film and the Q&A went well. But it was still half empty … so went for a beer with my distributor and threw lots of ideas around: more social media, more press, more targeting of music groups, offers, flyers, digital stuff and any crazy idea we could. But it’s all more time and more money. And I need to remind myself why it matters. Back to the hotel: knackered but, hold on, better check the emails and, oh yeah, better write the blog….

Tuesday 28th February 2012

Tuesday 28th February 2012

Perth: Tuesday night. It’s a great flight to Australia – but I did feel odd flying over the top of Afghanistan knowing the characters of my film THE BOY MIR were down there fighting the cold and uncertainty of an Afghan winter. I miss being in that extraordinary country and, of course, I don’t miss it at all. Life can seem very cheap there. On we fly…


I have 45 minutes in Singapore to change planes but it’s enough to smell the humid air and let one’s mind wander to exotic adventures one could have in this part of the world. I love it here, I have to say. But no time to wax lyrical before boarding another plan for the flight to Perth…a mix of TV magazines and Family Guy videos gets me there in no time.

I might love Asia but I love Australia more and I’m delighted to be back. A cab ride into central Perth and my routine kicks in. In to the hotel room, unpack, charge computers, check emails, read notes, pack a small bag of DVDs and head for the cinema. It is the Australian premiere of In Search of Haydn and I’ve really no idea if people will come. Both my previous Mozart and Beethoven films did do well – with a lot of effort involved in pushing them. But how much of that was the name and how much the approach? Will Haydn attract people?

A few press interviews first and then with half an hour before the film starts, people start to trickle in – and trickle and trickle. It’s almost a sell-out. I am relieved and pleased. Even better: they love the film. The Q&A afterwards is a long one: how do I select the musical extracts? Why so many shots of nature? Is it hard to get permission to film musicians? Who’s next? What moment most made my hair stand on end? Who funds it? What’s your favourite bit of his music? How do you choose the interviewees?

A good crowd in Perth

So, a good start. The film actually opens (with a 2 week booking to begin with) in a few days. I didn’t tonight but I’m glad to say that directors are now able to insist on ‘appearance’ fees & expenses for such Q&As – and we should. It’s not yet the standard everywhere but it’s coming. We should be able to, of course – any other industry would charge for hours of one’s time like this. Again, film-makers have done it for free for too long. As I mentioned in a blog a few months ago, you can find yourself on a train for five hours to get to a screening and the cinema will still charge you for a cup of tea. That’s just plain mean. We have bills to pay too. Back to the hotel for the nightly stream of emails. I hope I get a good night’s sleep and slip into the timezone easily. 8 hours ahead at the moment.