Making The First All Digital Film - Part III: Montreal Pre-Production

From the first days in Montreal, there was a sense the city was the right place to make the film. Not simply because locations suited the style we imagined, but also it was an inviting place to live and work, an urban mix of North America and Europe which was personally appealing. In fact, we had originally envisaged a Washington DC setting for the story; yet years of development had subsequently evolved into a New York base. When we worked on the film with John Heyman at World Film Services, we were taken on a tour of the Bronx to get a feel for the environment – it was an interestingly short experience, since we were told not to get out of the vehicle when approaching more interesting yet threatening locations and our twitchy driver claimed we were being followed by a gang.

The contrast of a rainbow both visually and metaphorically, brilliant colours and the hope of escape, would have made an interesting contrast with the bleak background, yet we wanted to go for something more. After all, our concept was for the world to fall apart, and the threat of apocalyptic conditions wouldn’t have provided such a visceral contrast if we were already establishing an initially distressed setting. Instead, Montreal provided us with the opportunity for older, small-scale community neighbourhoods amid sparkling, modern city structures.

The six weeks of prep at Ealing Studios had given us a solid creative heart. Now we needed to spread wings and incorporate a larger team. Initially based out of the imposing Hotel du Parc, with its expansive view of the Montreal mountain and its dominant cross. We had teamed up with Filmline International and producer Nicolas Clermont. He had an office in an impressive redbrick building in the heart of the Old Town district, and was a welcoming host, especially when we first visited in the dead of winter. Right from the start, a regular haunt became Chez Gautier restaurant where negotiations, arguments and laughter often played out. Indeed, it wouldn’t be hard to exaggerate that the quality of food was a major bonus of working in Quebec over a period of two years!

As we embarked on location recces across the city during the summer of ’94, there was a real sense of inspired togetherness. Like most productions, the creative adrenaline of exploring and imagining storytelling played out on real streets kept everyone on a high, especially with genial, receptive production designer Claude Paré and happily stressed costume designer Janet Campbell on board.

Bob had also been introduced to composer Alan Reeves, who joined us in Ealing and was now to be with us throughout prep and shoot. Alan had some peculiar demands regarding accommodation which ruled him out of staying at hotels as he burrowed away at mining melodies. In fact, Alan always appeared at every location, keyboard at the ready, plugging in headphones and losing himself in musical ideas. At the time, nobody knew how this was going to work out, especially when Bob and Alan became enamoured with the sound of the Jew’s Harp.

The primary and most vital consideration became casting. Through Bob’s veteran CCA agent Fred Specktor, we were able to approach Dan Aykroyd, whose enthusiasm for the police probably played as much a part in his coming on board to play a smalltown Kansas sheriff as the quality of the script. We also managed to secure seasoned pro Saul Rubinek, who Bob had worked with on “Sweet Liberty”, to play a sympathetic teacher. However, the real intangible was always going to be finding the four kids at the heart of the story.

Bob’s stated aim was to find “real kids”, saying he wanted understated performances, stripping away any tendency towards overacting – the innocence of a disaster movie through the eyes of children. The auditions set up by our enthusiastic casting directors presented us with much choice – however Bob tended to latch onto kids too immediately without going back to explore their abilities further. Without prior experience, they certainly had a naïve, fresh quality; however, working on a set, in front of an expectant crew when money is being burnt through by the second, was always going to be a risk. At least, for the older brother, the already experienced Jacob Tierney was chosen.

We also cast an Australian cattle dog, Sonny, who was indeed perfect for the role, despite issues we were subsequently going to have with the trainers. As Bob said, here was an animal that could run sideways.

Immediate, intuitive decision-making as a director tended to become a trait of Bob’s as we sunk deeper into prep. Strangely his work on the character of Frank, amateur magician and kindly uncle, was much more considered. The seeds of unease for coming production were being sown.

Bob’s involvement was a primary part of why we were making the film. Especially in the UK, yet increasingly across international markets through the success of films like “Who Framed Roger Rabbit”, “Mermaids” and “Hook”, he was an attractive star name. Originally, Bob had come onto the project solely as director, a prospect we actively encouraged. Yet our sales agent, Marie Vine, was particularly persuasive, and she needed Bob’s on-screen potential for pre-sales. In the end, it wasn’t a prolonged issue to get his involvement as actor, the kindly grandfather was a good role – the most difficult part of the deal was the expensive demand for wigs needed since he was adamant the character would be long-haired!

As a director, and subsequently actor, Bob was always a willing partner in selling the potential of the film. When we met with Cary Granat, then at Universal, he was an enthusiastic collaborator and when the offer was made for us to consider a development deal with the studio, he was also a supporter of our making the movie independently. He believed it was better to maintain creative control and prove with the final product what a good film we had. Subsequently, there were ongoing visits to Montreal from Universal representatives, and we always seemed to be on the verge of a distribution deal, yet it never solidified. In the end, it was wariness of our unproven digital technology.

The other solid interest for the US market came from neophyte studio Savoy Pictures. In fact, it was more than interest, there was a commitment and a deal proposed. For one of the only times, we were sent an internal reader’s report from Stacey Attanasio, who was VP for their Motion Pictures division at the time – it was a glowing appreciation, not only for the craft of the script but also perfectly summing up and understanding our thematic ambitions. It was an energizing affirmation.

Unfortunately, while we were still in pre-production, Savoy’s initial film releases fizzled at the box office and as a result skewered company finances. Any deal was on a permanent hold.

Making the film as an official co-production between Canada and the UK did mean, however, that we had to secure a Canadian distributor. It was a mandatory part of the treaty agreement. We’d completed the British side of the equation when the deal with First Independent was hammered out at the Cannes Film Festival and there had already been initial interest from Allegro Films Distribution, headed by Franco Battista. But our co-producer Nicolas was wary. Indeed, there were already frissons of disagreement bubbling up over the budget and the best way to make the film, with our argument that the money really needs to end up on the screen, rather than syphoned off on production fees. In any case, regarding Allegro there was no way Nicolas believed we’d achieve the figures in the sales estimates. That made us even more determined to arrange a meeting and prove him wrong.

The eventual get-together we had with Allegro delivered even more than we’d imagined. And yet, despite the additional financial input, it only caused a further split in the working relationship with Nicolas. Maybe it felt like we were stepping on toes in Montreal, yet our core team established back in Ealing was determined to make the film we’d collectively imagined. Pushbacks on production and budget, matters that stretched way beyond creative differences, were coming to a head. It all ended in a pivotal meeting in the Filmline office, where the careful closing of a file was the sign for Bob and us to leave a dispiriting collision of ideas. It was a shame that it dampened the working relationship with Nicolas, though he steadfastly abided by the co-production agreement. It was a production issue rather than personal. Line producer Stewart Harding was now assigned to the production on a day-to-day basis.

For a while in Montreal, work and time became painfully extended. A remaining gap in the finance plan (part of the remnants from our abortive time at Ealing and a floundering relationship with their on-site financing arm Screen Partners) meant we couldn’t close with Berliner Bank on overall funding against pre-sales, estimates, investment and subsidies. The situation was finally resolved by Gary Smith, our Winchester partner back in London, and we finally moved into the full prep offices down by the Saint Lawrence River and initiated studio construction of the main apartment set.

In an expansive and empty industrial space, big enough to host the warmth of the art department (the place always to go to on any production when you need to de-stress) and costume department, a myriad of offices was established under the control of flamboyant, imperious production manager, Mychèle Boudrias. Despite our basic understanding of school-taught French, the conflict of language would be a constant if often humorous dilemma – especially when production meetings descended into ricocheting differences in the local Quebec dialect, and we had to demand English so we could understand what was going on. It also took some time getting used to a unisex toilet!

Work on the script continued unabated, whether for creative or budgetary reasons. Actually, it was mostly to accommodate the budget, which necessarily reduced much of the apocalyptical chase sequence near the story’s end. It did help us, though, to sharpen dialogue and characters for our actual actors.

In September 1994, a couple of weeks before the shoot was scheduled to commence the camera crews gathered, spearheaded of course by Freddie Francis. Alongside him were two operators for A and B cameras, John Palmer and John Warwick, both plucked from the UK, while locals filled out the remainder of the unit. That was the traditional camera crew team. But of course, there was another, entirely different part of the department, who arrived from across the US – the Sony High Definition unit – with the truck, support equipment and cameras driven up from Texas or imported from California. The main purpose of the first week was to assimilate the two sides – the traditional film crew and the pioneering HD digital team. Both were respectful of each other, and both were similarly arrogant in their superiority.

It was fascinating to see the technology up close, even more to enter the HD operation hub in the control truck. It was quickly obvious that ingenuity would be needed to cope with the umbilical cords attached to the cameras. But beyond the technical, it was also obvious that creating a bond between the separate disciplines was going to take time and effort.

On the one hand, the traditional elites of a hundred-year industry of celluloid, the flickering and ephemeral magic at 24 frames per second that professionals had perfected and abused.

On the other, technical nerds dealing in digital code, seeking a visual hyper-reality without motion blur, and convinced of a digital future – using our movie as practical proof (and trial) that feature films could be made this way.

Necessarily, both sides had their own methodology and prejudices. The secret would be to somehow mesh these sensibilities. For the first few days this meant basic camera and lighting tests, the two crews getting used to each other and the new equipment. It was also working out systems and a chain of command, because once on the shoot there couldn’t be delays.

In fact, after a few days sparring it did seem to be working out. The day before commencing principal photography, we scheduled a test shoot, taking the camera and HD units thirty minutes outside Montreal to Clarenceville, a small community of little more than a thousand. A wide landscape of cornfields comfortably doubled for Kansas, where the kids land after flying through the rainbow. Simple shots included a car driving by while the camera moved up to reveal our Art Department sign stating: SATIVA FALLS.

It was an efficient few hours. The shots were completed without fuss. The units worked in tandem. We felt confident for the proper shoot, and that whatever minor kinks needed to be ironed out, they could be dealt with as we proceeded.

After all the only added elements would be a director, kids, and a dog.

What could go wrong?

Making The First All Digital Film - Part II: (Pre) Pre-Production

The art of film can refer just as often to the skill of knitting together the people and finance needed for a production as it does to the themes and ideas which a confusion of different talents, with their often-divergent views, bring to the screen. It’s been eternally claimed how much of a miracle is required for a film to be made, let alone ending up with something moderately entertaining or provoking. The industry devours so much cash that even low budget endeavours consume the efforts of an army of technicians, let alone the invisible amounts which evaporate through legal, insurance and years of development.

Of course, when you make an independent, international, treaty co-production you multiply the difficulties times ten!

One of the pleasures in traveling the world making movies is the cultures and individuals you work with, which are always a challenge and learning experience. The emphasis here is on working together. As writer / producers we approach every project with a distinct sense of authority as creators and manipulators - until reality smacks us and compromise becomes the key.

On Rainbow this originally saw production and financing designed as a UK / Canada / Germany co-production with all the subsequent national content and spend requirements to be faced - a series of governmental hoops to be jumped through which are seldom based on creative benefits. It often creates a bizarre series of abortive relationships which are only resolved by financial necessity.

That means story discussions turn out to be interesting.

Our film's narrative is kicked into gear when the young hero finds the end of the rainbow. One of the original partners suggested that perhaps the rainbow hides from Mikey, darting behind buildings in some elaborate show of hide and seek. Another idea posited was the audience never actually sees the rainbow, leaving it the imagination, a harsher approach that could reduce the budget. Both proposals were met with our stony silence.

Initially, financial necessity saw us develop the project out of Ealing Studios, a famous British institution and home to classic movies during the 1940s and 50s. As part of its survival in 1993, the stages and offices had been purchased by supplies company BBRK. A new direction and lease of life promised. We should have known there’d be trouble when the incompetent people at the helm pursued not the refurbishment of threadbare sound stages but a rebuilding of the main bar.

There was certainly generosity in the long, boozy lunches, yet very little in the way of business vision. Instead, hawks preyed on amateurism. Investment promised to us and deals to use the facilities never materialized.

However, during the stifling heat of the summer of 1994 it did become a base to bring together the creative team for “Rainbow” to discuss story and technology - and how we were going to conjure dreams into reality. Director / star Bob Hoskins, DP Freddie Francis and designer David L. Snyder were among those gathered to pick apart the art and mechanics as well as to interrogate Sony’s digital guru John Galt who we flew in from Los Angeles. Apart from the joy of simply talking ideas (what sweeter period can there be without the weight of physical and financial limitations), there was also the chance to work on storyboards and test the capabilities of the HD camera. A major debate was how to actually create a rainbow. It would be a discussion and struggle that would last even beyond the reshoots in California months after the shoot. In the meantime, we managed to visit a company specializing in laser displays and filmed a multi-coloured corridor of light, which eventually did become an element in the final visual effects. We also had the rather extraordinary experience of the Ealing special effects department proposing to use a miniature rainbow they had physically constructed and incorporate it with the location shoot in Montreal. It was the kind of bone-headed suggestion that summed up the decline at the facility and a potent sign that it was time to move on.

Apart from the well-stocked bar, the Ealing cafeteria was expansive and the food decent. Unfortunately, we also discovered that nearly everyone on the lot had been using the ‘rainbow’ account even if they had nothing to do with us. We had a fight over the bill. It was a shame. The initial plan was to shoot interiors on the fabled stages. In March of 1994, our long-running series Best Of British had finally ended its run on BBC1, a seven-year, sixty-seven episode look at the British film history between the 1930s and 80s. So, we knew all about the glories of Ealing’s past and it would have been a romantic ideal to reinvigorate the place with new technology and new ideas. A few months after we left, Ealing Studios imploded under debt and mismanagement. The individuals escaped. The lot needed to be rescued once again.

After so many sweating weeks in the art department, it was time to go to Canada, where the co-production had been ultimately established. Strangely enough, as a creative team, discussion over the digital technology we were about to pioneer was only about how it would benefit production. Freddie Francis was giddy with the potential. Most were genuinely enthused, although the camera operator was nearing hostility. There were bigger problems of course, in particular that finance was rapidly falling away with our German co-producer failing spectacularly to deliver and the Ealing connection crashing.

With any evolving narrative, however, there’s always a background or a flashback to provide a way forward. In our case, it was provided by Marie Vine at the Cannes Film Festival in May. It always helps to have a sales agent who’s a genuine fan, who believes in a project as much as making the deals. The promotion was good, the sales spiel was even better and there was a script which received a positive reaction. There was even a live Q&A with Bob Hoskins beamed into a reception room at the Majestic Hotel for assembled buyers and journalists. Of course, that particular event suffered a customary technical blowout (a loss of picture, even as sound continued) that was eventually traced to a waiter tripping over a power cord and dislodging the plug from the wall socket!

Despite industry scepticism (especially from the U.S.), the end result from a few hectic days was a robust series of distributor sales and a bidding war between British companies that was resolved by a midnight meeting where we were questioned about the centrepiece rainbow ride. We had to ramp up our best pitch, though it’s always helpful when your audience wants to be convinced. By the early hours, we had a rich deal with First Independent that was an important foundation to financing the film, not just the money itself but the sense of confidence it gave everyone.

The Ealing art department had provided a solid base to spin fantasies. In fact, all movie art departments conjure up a relaxed, open atmosphere, although the result in this case was yet another re-write on the script. (Of course, whether it’s approached as a blessing or a curse, the evolving state of a screenplay provokes re-writes throughout production, even pushing into post-production.) Right now, however, in the height of summer, the schedule dictated for us to decamp to Montreal, storyboards and dreams still intact. The vital work of pre-production was about to commence, the real battles of creativity and finance ready to clash.

It was also time to prove digital filmmaking was a reality.

Making The First All Digital Film - Part I: Beginnings

Rainbow originated more than a decade before filming finally commenced in September 1994. The initial idea came from our general fascination with the physical wonder of rainbows and how they appear as both an antidote to and a symbol of nature’s power across the world, whatever the country or culture.

Our concept was to involve human interaction within a fantasy setting and then create a family adventure. At the same time there was opportunity for an ecological slant to the tale, not something to sledgehammer the audience over the head with, but a comment on the dangers of messing with nature.

The first treatments proposed a stylistic and genre mashup that fused Spielberg fantasy with Carpenter horror, something like E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial meets Halloween: kids steal gold from within a rainbow, gold which powers the rainbow and in turns gives colour to the world - not only does this mean that the world rapidly drains of colour and is plunged into darkness, but vengeful phantoms (rainbow protectors) hunt down the kids and will kill anything that gets in the way of retrieving the stolen gold.

The actual essence of the story never changed, except the killer phantoms were dropped and the ecological background strengthened. Based on a lack of photosynthesis, oxygen starts to evaporate and as the earth loses colour and dies, society breaks down - the only chance left is for the kids to return the gold and bring back normality.

In 1993 Bob Hoskins joined the film as director. Producer and co-writer Robert Sidaway approached Bob’s agent after seeing The Raggedy Rawney, a gritty drama centred on Gypsy life and family bonds. Forty-eight hours after sending the script, a meeting was set to meet Bob in Wolfe’s Wine Bar in Great Queen Street, just down from our Winchester Pictures office at the time. He was full of enthusiasm and eager to become a part of the project. Of equal significance, and an aspect he pushed from the very start, was a suggestion to shoot in Sony High Definition.

Bob had recent first-hand experience of the system when starring in the miniseries When Lions Roar. Without an extravagant studio budget, he felt this could provide a viable way to make the film, considering the large number of visual effects anticipated and the colour manipulation required for the apocalyptical scenes in the third act, when the screen bleeds of colour. It summed up the dichotomy of Bob so well – at once a archetypal everyman, responding to the emotion of the story and next the ambitious thinker, exploring new tools to create the story.

It was the start of long journey.

A journey that from the outset was fraught with risk. The first was a meeting with Sony to talk through the project and discuss the feasibility of making a digital film which could be released theatrically. The second was to find a DP with the courage to take on the associated challenges. And the third was facing the scepticism of industry partners. Actually, forget about scepticism, more like outright ridicule and hostility.

In 1993 nothing could replace the practical and aesthetical pleasures of celluloid. To be honest, it wasn’t as if we totally believed in it at the start, despite meetings with the Sony reps in Basingstoke and their enthusiasm to be involved.

Most difficult of all at this initial stage was securing a DP. Strangely enough, younger cinematographers, who we thought would be more receptive to experimenting with fresh ideas, were the most resistant to take on new technology. Deam Semler was approached but was already booked (although his wife sent us the most unique of good luck messages, with illustrations!) and John A. Alonzo was a suggestion after he had photographed When Lions Roar. But because we were setting up as a UK / Canada co-production, talent was needed from the respective countries.

As is often the case, the solution came by chance. In the Sussex Cricketer pub (sadly now demolished) beside Hove Cricket Ground, an accountant acquaintance told us he was working on the books for a certain Freddie Francis. Double-Oscar winner for Sons And Lovers (black and white) and Glory (colour). A career encompassing classic films in Britain and the U.S. as well as notable visual experimentation as a director of horror films in the 60s and 70s.

But what were the chances he’d be interested in our film?

The answer was an immediate yes and a key member of the creative team was secure. Even more surprising, Freddie leapt at the chance of exploring HD and the digital potential, seeing it as another part of the cinematographic toolbox, an exciting marriage of the technological and the creative. The way of the future.

So now we were truly set. For better or worse, the digital adventure was about to commence.

Industry Screenings

Remembering the festival screenings for our production "Rainbow" prompted us to recall some of the other the screenings we had, both from a sales and technological view, on the first all-digital movie. Producing the film in conjunction with Sony Pictures High Definition Center, the studio saw it as an experiment for the future of the business; we approached it as a creative opportunity, a toolbox for the colour grading and visual effects that play such an important part of the story. But making the first all digital movie was more often a battle against scepticism and often outright hostility.

The first screenings (or part screenings) took place at Sony Studios while we were in post-production in the High Def facility at the Capra Building. It saw an assortment of creatives and producers visiting to see what craziness we were up to, including tours for people ranging from George Lucas to Michael Jackson. A main aspect was projecting cut footage from the movie on digital and comparing it to the same sequence transferred to 35mm film. Since every executive on the lot was initially so dismissive, claiming that only celluloid works in cinemas, it was a chastening experience when they so routinely couldn't tell which one originated on film stock. A peculiar concentration on motion blur missed the fact that much of 35mm enjoyment comes from the softness and the blur.

The demonstrations were curtailed after a few weeks due to overwhelming antagonism.

During the American Film Market in February of 1995, distributors and professionals were ferried over from Santa Monica to Culver City to view more extensive sequences. There was even an industry panel to explain what we were up to. Suspicions and doubt remained.

As such, it was left until the movie was complete, and the full transfer to neg and a print, for us to finally prove our madness. In fact the lab work and colour correction / colour timing was another elongated experience. Although we'd already performed a pass in the digital environment, including the desaturation of colour that’s an integral part of the story, once we were back to film it was an entirely different set of rules. First at Technicolor near Heathrow Airport with our great and contrary DP Freddie Francis. Sitting beside him as he gave instructions for the next version, notes taken by the timer as we watched a pristine print made just hours before, was to experience an art that is now long lost.

Next it was back to Canada for a further pass delivered through labs in Montreal and Toronto, such are the wonders of making an international co-production. In fact, the making of any filmed entertainment is an ongoing jigsaw that arbitrarily needs to be delivered rather than organically completed.

For us, that finally meant a screening at the end of the year for our distributors and investors. They wanted to see the creative results of the production as well as technical proof the system worked and there was a product that could be distributed in theatres. To meet the deadline, it's hard to believe we flew back from Montreal to London with a physical print (all six reels) actually in our laps. The screening was within hours of arrival and since we'd managed to safely navigate the return and subsequently delivered the film to the screening room, we were confident all would go well. After all, the location was BAFTA on Piccadilly. The home of British film. Technically all we wanted.

What could possibly go wrong?

'We had some issues with "Waterworld" last night,' was the somewhat throwaway explanation from one of the projectionists. At the time we were sitting in the middle of the theatre, sinking deeper into the seats as the sound gradually disintegrated on all sides during a rehearsal showing. As befits the technological breakthroughs involved visually, we'd pushed the aural boundaries, fully utilizing the possibilities of Dolby Digital's surround sound. So much so that when the Dolby consultant prepped the Montreal dubbing theatre, he told us that we couldn't use the rear and sides so much, that they were supposed to be 'discreet' channels. Our view was they were there to be maximized and we wanted to be more immersive, to create an experience.

Maybe it was some sort of revenge that at BAFTA, on that fateful evening, the meticulously designed sound so spectacularly collapsed.

With the rear speakers a murmur, the right side completely gone and the sub-woofer on its last legs with ominous crackling sounds, our desperate calls to Dolby went ignored. Meanwhile, just beyond the doors more than two hundred expectant and suspicious invitees waited. Patience was fast running out and the only solution was to ply them with copious amounts of alcohol.

Our darkening mood and cold sweats made the situation increasingly frantic, especially since there was no answer to the "Waterworld" issue - if there'd been a problem, why didn't they do something about it?! 'Well, that's the risk you have with film,' the infuriatingly blasé BAFTA head told us. 'Anything can go wrong.' It certainly reminded us of how vital a digital revolution was - and how amateurish supposed leaders of a parochial industry could be.

'David Puttnam had the same problem when he first screened "Chariots Of Fire" - and look how that turned out.' Blurred memories can't precisely pinpoint the reaction to this fount of wisdom. But a physical altercation was not far off the cards, especially when our own company partners started to accuse us that something had to be wrong with the film itself. In any case, as the delay agonizingly creaked over an hour and without any solution in sight (in fact it was actually getting worse), we were forced to set the reels spinning. A weep-inducing resolution to years of work.

An enduring memory is not just of the alcoholically impaired audience staggering into the theatre, but also fighting the projectionists to try and switch the volume up beyond '10' during the subsequent screening.

As an antidote, the Italian distributors invited us to Milan for a press conference and a special screening for schools. The cinema in the city centre was one of those grand old structures that towered high and felt like you were climbing to the heavens just to reach the projectionist's booth. A requirement to check everything was working properly well before any showing was now more than a necessity. The sound swirling round the vast auditorium was a thrill. The enormous screen was spectacular. Of course, the huge throw necessary meant a slightly dimmer image, but in the imperfect world of cinema projection that was a minor loss.

What we had certainly learnt through the experience of starting to change the cinematic process, and a form of exhibition that at the time had barely changed in almost one hundred years, was that people suspect anything beyond the current norm - without really understanding the need for revolution. The seductive beauty of celluloid would transition whether filmmakers were willing or not, though how radically it would change the industry not even we knew at the time.

Festival Screenings

The approach to film festivals and markets fall into two distinct types for filmmakers - the celebration and the sell. Both of them tend to be gut-wrenching for different reasons, either the anticipation of how an audience will react or the hope of interesting future collaborators and financiers. The latter was especially true in years gone by, before independent film began to be swamped by the age of the streamers, a change of emphasis only accelerated during the current Covid era. In any case, developing a project has always been just the beginning of a tortuous journey to finally getting the final story in front of viewers.

That process eventually gets us to the other type of festival - the invitation to screen your baby as part of a curated schedule. I suppose some personalities enjoy the process of revealing the film before an expectant audience in a special one-off. More sensible people feel the tension. After all, apart from some test screenings during the post-production process (when people gleefully tell you how better it could have been), this is the first time the final product will be screened. No matter that the organizers are willing the showing will be a success, there are no guarantees.

For "Rainbow" in 1995, we were invited to two festivals, programs for younger audiences that are still thriving today.

In November, we took a print to Belfast for Cinemagic. Chief memories for this trip mainly centred on the tremendous hospitality supplied by the festival staff (that year the festival seemed to be exclusively run by women). If helped that our director Bob Hoskins provided a boisterous presence and the copious dinners and parties, fuelled by alcohol and impromptu Riverdance demonstrations, meant the few days were a blur of laughter.

The other memory was the screening itself. The opening night premiere was at the modern multi-screen MGM Cinema in Dublin Road, a theatre that first opened its doors in 1993, but was demolished in 2021. It was good to have a relatively up to date theatre for the film, because although of course the story-telling was of primary importance, it was also a technological first - the first all-digital motion picture. So it deserved the best.

A packed house gathered on a chilly November night and we were confident "Rainbow" would look good. After all, it had been rehearsed earlier in the day with visuals and sound balanced. We had also decided to put an added bonus on the film for special screenings - an Overture that would play in the background as the house lights dimmed and curtains opened. Just as the music finishes it was timed for the first titles to appear on screen. It was a fun idea.

Unfortunately, it wasn't designed for modern cinemas.

Before the film was shown there was a short. A very good animated short, as I remember. Problem was that meant the lights were already down and screen open. No turning back when everything is automated, which resulted for "Rainbow" in two minutes of dark with music. Never a good idea, because most people naturally thought something had gone wrong.

(In fact, it got worse with the release prints a few months later because somehow the Overture was left on by the lab, causing a flood of panicky calls from cinemas, let alone bewilderment from audiences! But the distribution was another story...)

In any case, we survived and had a great evening with our Irish hosts. Actually, there was one other event from the trip, a screenwriting class we held for students the following day, which was actually quite invigorating (or at least a potent tonic for the thumping hangover).

The second festival was in the sunnier climes of Giffoni Valle Piana in south-west Italy during late July 1996. A well-established event, the Giffoni Film Festival is actually a lot of fun and genuinely celebrates movies for young people in a lovely setting. Since it had been running for twenty-five years by the time we arrived, there was no doubting that it would be professionally run.

This time Bob couldn't be there and instead spoke to the competition jury via video conference. However, the hospitality was again open and generous. In fact, the relaxed, affectionately disorganized feel should have been a red flag. One of the aspects we had been confused about prior to arrival was how the film was to be shown - had they prepared subtitles to show alongside the screen, or had the Italian distributors already sent a dubbed print? Nothing prepared us for what actually took place.

I seem to remember it wasn't a big auditorium, although the screen was good enough. It was strange, though, that after introductions were made, three people proceeded to gather around a microphone just to the side of the screen, thick wads of paper in their hands. Even when the lights went down, they remained. It started to dawn about what was to happen, even if my mind refused to accept the concept.

The film is pure visuals and music for the opening shots and the soundtrack boomed around the cinema - then the first dialogue scene started and suddenly the 'performers' at the microphone spoke the Italian translation over the English voices. After the first moments of shock, we had to laugh, both at the craziness of the situation and the simplicity of translation. A real live action cinema fusion.

Then the reels went out of order.

The centrepiece rainbow ride that transports the kids across America to Kansas was missing, which not only made a nonsense of the narrative, it threw the intrepid Italian performers into confusion and eventual panic. Taking it upon myself to somehow rectify the situation, I darted to the back and into the projection booth, meaning to help get the right reel up. Opening the door, the image is seared into my memory - two men with cigarettes dangling from their mouths, buried beneath a mound of celluloid spinning out into the air from sputtering projectors. The irony of our pioneering efforts to push technical boundaries was not lost. Joining people outside on the small town street, in the sun and cigarette smoke, the screening was over.

A lovely outdoor evening meal preceded the eventual awards ceremony. We couldn't blame anyone for not recognizing our art, although one of the officials did rush over with a special medal, either out of shame or as a mistake. We never did find out which it was. What both screenings proved, however, is that for sensible people it's right to be tense.