Talking Têtes

Entrepreneur, risk-taker, patron of the arts, Eddie Mercury is a man on a mission—a mission to revitalise the UK's waning creative industries. Having worked closely with such greats as Langzaam Vervagen, Art Hurr, and our own Concrete Octopus alumni, J K Hauser and Edgar Roseveare, our film correspondent, Terence Gunboat, was champing at the bit to interview the man behind the myth.

Though the origins of this Solomon Guggenheim of avant-garde cinema remain shrouded in mystery, and despite Eddie's reticence at the prospect of meeting with a journalist, we were able to track him down to an undisclosed location, somewhere in the vicinity of Epping Forest, to secure this exclusive interview. After much cajoling, several threats of violence—from Eddie, not the Concrete Octopus researchers, who conduct themselves with the utmost professionalism as long as they can be kept away from the Irish dew—and, last but not least, a cash bribe of £42 sterling—being the contents of one researcher's wallet—Eddie consented to the interview on the condition that we a) not reveal his whereabouts to the authorities—including but not limited to; the police, HMRC and Interpol—b) brought him £400 in £5 denominations in an attaché case and c) agreed to the presence of his personal assistant and sometime body-guard, Redge Heavy, throughout.

To describe Eddie Mercury as an enigma is to do a disservice to the concept. Nevertheless, I felt some trepidation as I walked beneath the expansive canopy of Epping Forest, following the map drawn by Concrete Octopus' faithful researchers which was to guide me to that most elusive of creatures; the film producer.

A financier by trade, Mercury is known to have many fingers in many pies. Like any great producer, he has seen his fair share of flops as well as successes—who, after all, could forget the ill-fated attempt to bring Georges Bataille's Story of the Eye to the big screen a few years ago, a film that was instantly banned and critically panned on release, much to the chagrin of budding writer and director, Lee Pissington, even now serving a five year sentence for crimes against literature? No, the role of a producer and financier is not always a smooth one and Eddie has cleared many a pothole in his time.

I found Eddie camped out in a tent at a location I cannot reveal for reasons of contractual confidentiality, enjoying the sunshine with his PA, Redge Heavy. We sat down for a chat about the shadowy world of film production, his favourite people to work with and his partnership with Art Hurr and Langzaam Vervagen.

Terence Gunboat: Eddie, hi, it's Terence, Terence Gunboat, from Concrete Octopus—it's a pleasure to finally meet you.

Eddie Mercury: I don't shake hands.

TG: Oh? Why not?

EM: The authorities can trace me from the skin cells—put those under a microscope, analyse them for soil samples and I might as well be broadcasting my location on Google bleeding maps. It's a dead giveaway.

TG: I see. Er... You know, we can do this another time, if—

EM: Oh sit down, you melon. Drink?

TG: Sure, what do you have?

EM: Redge?!

Redge Heavy: Yes, boss?

EM: Tell the gent what we have.

RH: We got wine, we got beer, we got arak.

TG: Anything non-alcoholic?

RH: There's eggnog?

EM: Don't be daft, Redge, the eggnog's more alcoholic than the rest put together—it's my nan's special recipe; two parts eggnog, two parts Dutch advocaat, four parts cognac and six parts Everclear, bless her piss-soaked cotton socks.

TG: Do you have water?

EM: Do we have water? Jesus, do we have water? No, you mug. Water's controlled by the government—that's why it comes out of taps, innit? All it'd take is one nano-machine wriggling around my gutty-works and my cover's blown wide open. Water. Give me strength.

TG: Alright, I'll have a beer then.

EM: You got the scratch?

TG: Oh, yes, here it is—£400 in £5 notes, as you requested.

EM: Nah, for the beer.

TG: Oh. How much?

EM: Tenner.

TG: Okay, here you go.

EM: Redge! Fix our guest a beer.

RH: Right away, boss.

EM: So, you're Art [Hurr] and Langzaam [Vervagen]'s tame journalist are you?

TG: I don't know about that. I try to be balanced in my interviews—give my subjects room to breathe, make them feel as though they can really express themselves, reveal the vulnerable soul of the artist, that kind of thing. Ta, Redge.

RH: No problem—just holler if you need another one, I’ll be in the tent.

EM: Hah, you even talk like them. Well, what is it Eddie Mercury can do you for? I’ve got wheels, I’ve got deals, I’ve got hard-drugs, soft-drugs, exotic pets—you ever fancy an armadillo for a companion? I can get you an armadillo if you want? I’ve got a guy.

TG: Actually, I was hoping to get some insight into your work—how you choose projects, which individuals to patronise—

EM: I don't patronise anyone—I've never talked down to someone in my life, isn't that right, Redge?

RH: Sure is boss.

TG: I meant to be a patron of their work—to support them financially.

EM: Don't patronise me, I know what you meant.

TG: Right. Well, for example, what made you decide to fund Art and Langzaam's first film?

EM: Passion 2? That was an easy decision—they owed me money.

TG: So you helped them make a film?

EM: Yeah, well, it was like this, right? They owed me a bit of dosh—about ten gees, I think, all told—so I kidnapped them, brought them to the place I was staying—an abandoned substation near Ealing Broadway, it was—and told them I'd break their fucking legs if they didn't cough up. Now, neither of them are what you'd call financially savvy to begin with and they told me they didn't have two pence to rub together, but if I helped fund their film, I was guaranteed to walk away a rich man.

TG: They owed you ten thousand pounds?

EM: Yeah, well, octopine’s expensive, you know? Doesn’t just grow on fucking trees, does it? Or maybe it does—I’m not sure about the science behind it, all I know is I get it from a guy who knows a guy who’s second cousin twice removed works at a Conoctopticon Industries warehouse.

TG: You kidnapped Art and Langzaam?

EM: In a manner of speaking. Another way of putting it would be to say I had someone bash them over the head with a cricket bat and take them from where they were at the time of said bashing, to where I was, which as I say, happened to be an abandoned substation somewhere in the vicinity of Ealing Broadway.

TG: That does sound like a kidnapping.

EM: Yeah, well, I don’t mince my words—or my meat, for that matter; no way of telling what Big Beef are trying to sneak into your Bolognese, if you catch my drift.

TG: How were they able to guarantee a return on the film? They were relatively unknown back then, weren’t they? There was no fan-following or cult appeal to speak of—from what I understand, the total audience for their adaptation of The Silmarillion was three, and one of those was a stray dog. Surely it was a big risk fronting the project—

Sorry, is that an egg-timer?

EM: Sure is, squire.

TG: Can you turn it off? It’s rather distracting.

EM: I don’t know, have you got another four tons on you?

TG: I thought we’d already paid you?

EM: You did, but that was only for four minutes of my time—hence the old egg-timer here. My time is money—your money, to be exact.

TG: Right… Only I didn’t really bring any more money with me.

EM: Hmm… Alright, a bit unprofessional of you, if you ask me, but I’ll tell you what, how much do you have on you currently?

TG: Er… Let me see… I’ve got twenty-six pounds and thirty pence.

EM: Give it here—we’ll do the rest on tick, since you seem trustworthy and I like your tie.

TG: Oh, thanks, it’s from Burtons.

EM: No, no, you misunderstand me, I like your tie, as in, I would like to have it, as in, give it to me.

TG: Oh, right, I see. Here, take it.

EM: Thank you. Now, I expect to be fully remunerated within the next fortnight, or I’ll have the Heavy brothers come round your place and use your bollocks to knock-in their cricket bats—isn’t that right Redge?

RH: Right enough, boss—me, Sedge, Wedge and Ledge’ll be over before you can say “ouch, those are my testicles”.

TG: Crikey—I’ll bear that in mind. Now, if we could please return to the interview?

EM: Of course.

TG: We were talking about how Art and Langzaam were able to guarantee a return on Passion of the Christ 2: Once More With Passion. Wasn’t it a big risk agreeing to finance it?

EM: Oh we didn't expect it to succeed—we decided to run an insurance scam on it—get people to invest and then, when it flopped, claim the money back. I was just providing the wossname—the seed capital—to get other investors interested.

TG: Sorry, but isn't that the plot from The Producers?

EM: Yeah, and?

TG: When did you realise it was actually going to be a hit?

EM: Not right away, obviously, I mean we walked out of the premiere before the end, so we never saw that standing ovation people keep going on about—the three of us went back to my place and got shit-faced instead. I woke up five days later with the worst headache of all my life and a cheque for two-hundred grand waiting for me over at my nan's place—cleared up the hangover right quick, that did. Of course, a lot of that went to paying the other investors, but there was enough left over to clear Art and Langzaam’s debt to me and help fund their next venture.

TG: This is the first of the John Christ films, correct?

EM: In a way, yeah—it was the first they made using the John Christ title. Really Passion 2 is the first in the series.

TG: Is it true you received a letter from Mel Gibson asking you to pay royalties on the name?

EM: Yeah, the presumptuous cunt. Just because it was an unauthorised sequel, using the same title as his film, doesn’t mean he owns the fucking thing, does it? I mean, surely Jesus is public domain? It’s what he would have wanted, innit? I mean, he didn’t get himself nailed to a tree so Mel fuck-mothering Gibson could come along two-thousand years later and try to copyright the greatest story ever told, did he?

TG: So what did you do?

EM: Told him to go fuck himself.

TG: And he accepted that response?

EM: Accepted? God no—the guy wants to kill me, but he’s going to have to find me first. I mean, why do you think I’m out here in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?

TG: Mel Gibson wants to kill you?

EM: Yeah. Of course, he can’t say it publicly, but he’s made his intentions clear enough in private, isn’t that right, Redge?

RH: The boss’s survived five attempts on his life in the last year and at least two of ‘em were traceable to Mel Gibson.

TG: Blimey. What about Art and Langzaam? Does he want to kill them too?

EM: Nah, but he said some pretty unsavoury things about them—lots of epithets and what have you, stuff I wouldn’t repeat here. He’s a very angry man, is old Mel—bitter, you know?

Oscillation Jones: Terence? Terence Gunboat, is that really you?

TG: Oh for fuck’s sake… Oscillation? What are you doing here? I told you, I don’t need on-the-job training and even if I did, I wouldn’t need it from you, so you can fuck right off.

EM: Sorry, am I missing something here?

TG: This is my colleague—

OJ: Boss, you mean.

TG: My colleague, Oscillation Jones, cultural editor for Concrete Octopus. Oscillation, meet Eddie Mercury, of Mercury Productions fame.

EM: Editor? Sort of sounds like he’s your boss, mate, if you don’t mind me saying.

TG: I do mind, actually. Oscillation, if this is your idea of editorialising, I’m going to have to have words with the owners again. Me and Ken have told you about this before—not while we’re in the field.

OJ: Actually, it’s a bit embarrassing, but I’m sort of lost—I came here to interview Toe Mogan but he’s ditched me, my phone’s out of battery and I have no idea how to get back to civilisation.

EM: Ah, good thing you ran into me—I’ve got just the thing. Redge?!

RH: Yes boss?

EM: Get the wossname.

RH: The what, boss?

EM: You know, the doer—the gizmo—the thingamajig—the GP-effing-S, that’s it. Christ, I swear I’ve got a brain like a sieve these days—all that 5G beaming sourdough recipes straight into my noggin that does it—Big Bread have a lot answer for, I tell you.

RH: Here you are boss.

EM: Thank you, Redge. Now, what I have here is the latest iteration of wireless global positioning systems currently on the market—when I say global, I mean global; this thing could stick a pin in a gnat’s cock in Thailand if you asked it to. Colour LED display—that’s true colour too, none of that RGB nonsense the other manufacturers use—touch screen interface, the whole shebang.

OJ: Oh, thank you—that’s very kind—

EM: Ah buh-buh, you think I’m giving it away?

OJ: Well, you sort of seemed to imply—

EM: Never you mind what I’m implying, what I’m doing is selling it to you for a very reasonable price.

OJ: How much?

EM: Normally, I’d want at least a grand for it, but we’ll call it a monkey, since you’re in dire need and I like those sandals you’re wearing.

OJ: Sorry, you want how much for it?

TG: He wants five hundred and your sandals.

OJ: Five hundred and my sandals?

EM: Take it or leave it.

OJ: Fine, here’s the money, but do you really need my sandals?

EM: I don’t know, do you really need to get out of Epping Forest?

TG: Just give him the sandals, Oscillation, for god’s sake.

OJ: Ugh, fine—I’d better not get ringworm because of this.

TG: Was there anything else? Or are you ready to fuck off and stop interrupting my interview?

OJ: Just one more thing actually. You lead your interviewees too much—makes it very obvious what your angle is. Stop trying to railroad them and just let them talk—I learned that from Toe Mogan just now.

TG: Thank you, Oscillation, for that entirely unprompted critique of my interviewing style.

OJ: My pleasure.

TG: Right, where were we? Oh yes, let’s move on to a more pleasant subject. How did you enjoy the premiere of Mail My Pussy To Jesus?

EM: Something tells me you’re going to get a nasty surprise in your annual review. Sorry, that was cheap shot. To answer your question, as you know, I was there incognito, disguised as a large bucket of popcorn—don’t know how that got leaked to the press, but hey-ho, at least the rozzers were clueless as usual. Art and Langzaam mostly behaved themselves too, which is a rarity—I had Redge keep an eye on them, since we didn’t want a repeat of the John Christ 3 fiasco. What else? Oh yeah, Samantha Engelstadt was absolutely radiant—really stole the night, she did—dressing up as a giant vulva was inspired.

TG: Were you surprised by Jeff Goldblum’s absence? Art mentioned there had been some tension on set between him and a couple of your associates—Jarvis Lautrec and Karpal Marik.

EM: Nah, we all knew Jeff wouldn’t show. It’s a shame, really—a simple misunderstanding—but I’ve been in this business long enough to know how temperamental actors can be.

TG: Art led me to believe they tried to set him on fire?

EM: Yeah, like I said, a simple misunderstanding—happens all the time in show business. Of course, Jeff had a bit of a tantrum about it—wanted us to get rid of them—but I told him in no uncertain terms that they were as vital to the production as anyone else. I mean, there’s no better pussy wrangler in the business than Karpal and don’t even get me started on Jarvis—he can do things with his hands you wouldn’t believe. Terry Bumfist—that was our original make-up artist and squeezer, before he went freelance—said Jarvis would have made the best squeezer in the business.

TG: On the subject of Terry, is it true he once squeezed a marmoset into orbit?

EM: What?

TG: Art Hurr said—

EM: Not that—I thought I heard something. Your boss isn’t coming back is he? Only that GPS I just sold him isn’t exactly the most reliable—in fact, you’d probably be better off consulting the I Ching, which is lucky since it actually has a digital version installed free of charge.

TG: I don’t think—

EM: Oh bloody hell!

???: Afternoon gents. Now, I want the pair of you to stay nice and still for me while I ask you a couple of questions—Mr Browning Hi-Power here hates sudden movements and he’s on a hair-trigger, dig?

EM: Who the fuck are you?

???: My name’s not important. All you need to know is that I’m an associate of a certain individual, with a certain grudge against a certain person, that person being you, Mr Mercury.

EM: Mel bloody Gibson. Redge! We’ve got ourselves another one!

???: Jesus, where did he come from?

RH: Hello Mr Assassin. I think you should put that gun down—mine’s a lot bigger than yours.

???: You’re telling me—the fuck is that thing? A minigun?

RH: M61 Vulcan 20mm rotary cannon, to be exact.

???: Fucking hell, Mel didn’t mention you guys were packing bloody artillery.

EM: Put the gun down, cowboy.

???: What? So your pet gorilla can turn me into giblets? I don’t think so, pal. You, ghost of Quentin Crisp, on your feet.

TG: Who? Me?

???: Yes, you—you see anyone else here that looks like a post-mortem Dame Maggie Smith?

And so ended my interview with Eddie Mercury. As I was frogmarched through Epping Forest at gunpoint, I reflected on my brief time in Eddie’s company and the man’s role in establishing the new-wave of independent cinema sweeping the western world. To what extent was he responsible for shaping it? What neuronic blueprints lay nestled beneath his New York Yankees baseball cap? Was he truly the Cosimo de’ Medici of the modern era, crafting, through the careful selection of an artistic pantheon, the cultural cannon of an entire era? Or was he simply drug-addled numpty?

I was starting to feel as though I would never get to the bottom of the mysteries that have as yet eluded me in my last three interviews—the conjuring of Wayne Gretzky’s immortal soul, the truth behind Jarvis Lautrec and Karpal Marik’s sinister histories, what being a “professional squeezer” actually entailed. I would not give up hope of finding answers, though the continuation of my investigations may indeed need to wait until I have been released from captivity.

Mercury Productions provides professional assistance to all manner of creative projects and can be reached via carrier pigeon.

Eddie Mercury would like us to remind our readers that finance is available through Mercury Payday Loans and to inform them that he is currently selling Ultra Pineapple Titfuck Kush, £10 a gramme, £20 an 1/8th.

Terence Gunboat will hopefully be back next week, once he has made contact with the Concrete Octopus offices.

Oscillation Jones is still believed to be somewhere in Epping Forest and will be recovered just as soon as our researchers have slept off their hangovers.