If you've read the earlier post about alternative Beatles histories, here are more thoughts about Snodgrass, the short story by Ian R. McLeod which imagines the group achieving success without John Lennon.
In that earlier piece I had been relying on my memories of the original story and the film adaptation (above, with Ian Hart as Lennon); since then I have reacquainted myself with both, and it's interesting to note the differences between the two.I did David Quantick, who adapted McLeod's story for TV, a disservice in suggesting that his version of Snodgrass ended on a more upbeat note; I don't want to give too much away for those might be seeking them out for the first time but the broad thrust of the ending in both versions is, I think, the same.
Both story and film make clear that the event which triggered Lennon's walking away from potential fame and riches was George Martin's insistence that they record Mitch Murray's How Do You Do It?, the song which later became a hit (in our universe) for Gerry Marsden.
In real life the Beatles did submit to his demand, even tweaking the number musically a little to improve it, despite the fact that their hearts weren't in it, but in the story, and suggested in a more impressionistic way in the film via flashback (above), matters get no further than the group hearing the demo before John storms off, refusing even to make a token attempt at covering something so at odds with what he wants for the group.
Generally speaking, Snodgrass the short story is more densely packed with detail - I suppose because, with John as the narrative voice, it's easier to have a rapid parade of events and feelings flashing upon that inward Natonal Health eyeball which is the bliss of solitude; attempting to replicate every jot and title of McLeod's account of John's thoughts would have resulted in a dizzying experience for a TV viewer, recalling the worst excesses of the recent Moonage Daydream documentary about a sometime collaborator of Lennon's.
A fair chunk of What Johnny Did Next in the short story is omitted from the film, presumably for the above reason; other than knowing he left the Beatles the details of his interim existence are not vital to an understanding of the film's main action, John's brief attempt to hold down a job which has been foisted upon him.
But we are still given a satisfying amount of inner monologue by Quantick - though that's a misnomer at least some of the time: he has no compunction about sharing his every thought with the other passengers on the bus as it speeds towards the site of his new employment.
No Beatles or Lennon music is used in the film but we occasionally hear snatches of Lennon pastiches on the soundtrack, conveying the impression that we're directly connected to a still-inventive brain even if it no longer has the outlet Abbey Road would have afforded ...
Just to be clear, though, he doesn't actually try to sing to his fellow passengers on the bus, Cliff-style, nor is there any suggestion that he's actually tried making music in recent years. I think it was George Harrison, or possibly Donovan, who said that songs were around everywhere, just waiting to be plucked out of the air; this Lennon seems to be dimly aware of them but can't be bothered to reach out and take them - so maybe it's more accurate to say that the soundtrack plumbs his subconscious.
To sum up that period between the day he left the Beatles and the day in which the film's action is taking place: Lennon formed another band, with limited success, then had a sojourn in Spain with a seeming soulmate before returning, alone, via Paris, to the familiarity of Mendips and Mimi - "slept in me old bed with me feet sticking out the bottom" - until the familiar cosiness became too much and he ended up, by accident rather than design, in Birmingham, renting a room from Cal - not his lover, as I had misremembered, but a supportive young woman who also happens to be a prostitute, Cynthia and his son having been abandoned along with the Beatles. The flashback depicting his leaving his wife and baby is extremely brief but calls to mind Jim McLaine's father, and later Jim himself, running out on their responsibilities in That'll Be the Day.
In the original tale John and Cal attend a Beatles concert; in the film John sees the posters for it but doesn't go. One rather surprising note which McLeod introduces into his alternate universe is that Stuart Sutcliffe didn't die in Hamburg but gave up his artistic ambitions in order to stay on in the group - and Lennon is amused and incredulous to see that, thirty years on, McCartney is still berating Stuart for playing badly:
Paul shoots Stu an exasperated glance as they kick into to riff for Long Tall Sally and he comes in two bars late. Jesus, has anything changed.
It's a pleasing detail, even if a Sutcliffe who chooses to remain in the Beatles long after John has left - tolerated by Paul, not feted by Paolozzi - must be accounted something of a stretch. And I'd forgotten a bit of grim fun injected by McLeod when Lennon, relieving himself at the concert, gets talking to a lavatory attendant with an American accent ... but I can't say more for fear of ruining your enjoyment.
Anyway, Snodgrass, in either version, is fascinating, like the other twists of Lennon discussed in the previous entry. So many of us know so much about the Beatles' lives and careers, and the way in which chance played its part in their success, that it's very tempting to wonder "what if?". How many more disappointments when meeting Brian Epstein at Lime Street on his return from yet another fruitless expedition to London would it have taken for the group to have given up?
I can't remember the details but I recently read that there had been a period, early on, when the group's future had genuinely been in doubt. Would those individual parts of that famed four-headed monster have found anything approaching a similar sense of fulfilment and success elsewhere?
George Harrison says in the Anthology documentary series that when Ringo Starr first sat in for an unavailable Pete Best, there was an immediate collective realisation that something special was happening, that now things were finally cooking. It isn't given to all of us to find our creative soulmates; we can only be profoundly glad, for ourselves and for them, that the Beatles happened to do so.
To return to the novella which started these recent musings about fictionalised versions of the Beatles, "Sorry, Boys, You Failed the Audition", it's easy to understand Ray Connolly's pleasure and satisfaction in his work. Yes, it's a nice idea, neatly executed. But it's more than that: it's fundamentally optimistic and cheering, suggesting that talent or destiny or love or something will out - something positive, anyway.
And the Beatles are not just any group. For many people there's a sense of an intimate connection, almost a familial link. Numerous interviews and articles in music papers in the seventies seized on any remark which floated the possibility of a reunion or even just some titbit of news which suggested that at least they might be talking civilly to each other once again; the Beatles' story is one which so many of us have shared for so long that the wish for a happy ending, no longer possible, stubbornly persists.
As mentioned before, Ian Hart takes on the role of Lennon yet again in Snodgrass, and it's difficult to think of anyone who has summoned up his spirit in quite the same way; I didn't think much, for example, of Christopher Eccleston's portrayal in the fairly joyless biopic Lennon Naked; in Snodgrass Hart gives us a more convincing balance of comedy and bleakness.
There has been another recent attempt at capturing Lennon which hasn't been mentioned yet: the feature film Yesterday, written by Richard Curtis, in which the protagonist meets an older Lennon. Hart could, I suppose, have taken the role (was he offered it?) but it feels right that he didn't. Although the Lennons of Snodgrass and Yesterday seem diametrically opposed, with Curtis giving us a mellow character, dispensing wisdom for the hero to follow - very much the Lennon canonised after his death, his stray utterances mined for significance. But perhaps it's unfair to compare the two portrayals: the Lennon of Snodgrass is fifty; the Lennon of Yesterday (played by Robert Carlyle) is in his late seventies - and they have very different backstories.
The scene may work in the film - I can no longer recall the context - but despite what I said earlier about wishing for happy endings, and while admitting the appeal of Curtis's fantasy that our idols should be rewarded with contentment for all that they have given us, and conceding that the portrayal in Snodgrass may simply be another side of the myth, it's hard to escape the feeling that a placid Lennon, at any age, doesn't seem right ...
Links and related posts:
The Fabulous Beatles - literally
Snodgrass is included in Ian R. McLeod's e-book collection Nowhere - details of where to buy it can be found on the author's website.
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