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An Interview with Tony Grisoni, Screenwriter, Filmmaker

by Mike Haberfelner

January 2016

Films written by Tony Grisoni on (re)Search my Trash


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Let's kick this off by talking about your mini-series Southcliffe - in a few words, what is it about, and what were your inspirations when dreaming it up? And how did the project fall together in the first place?


Producer Peter Carlton and myself had been tossing ideas back and forth for some time, trying to find a project we could work on together. The idea for Southcliffe, a 4 part TV drama centred around a shooting spree in a UK market town began here. We shared an interest in the poignant, very human relationship between the dead and those still living, a relationship at once both comforting and disquieting.


I found the following early message: “The real gold dust, the backbone to the drama, has to be personal testimony – people’s experiences of bereavement - of emotions and experiences they find difficult to assimilate. The truth and strangeness of the actual informs everything. Gathering these testimonies will involve a great deal of time and trust.”


Rather than start with invention I wanted to be guided and informed by true stories and memories. Our lead researcher, Susannah Price placed ads and put out the word inviting people to share their experiences of sudden bereavement. The resulting recordings and texts were humbling. People you will never read about in the style magazines or see on television shows responded with heartrending, courageous accounts of how their lives were smashed. The truth was so much richer and more strange than our fictions. These tales of loss were not without poignancy and humour; the deceased refused to vanish, they argued, interrupted waking reality, mocked our logic. In the face of tragedy, time and space disintegrated - something which informed our non-linear, dove-tailed narratives. Gradually, characters emerged, not portraits of existing people, but combinations and recombinations of what we found in reality


Let's go on to your other big TV series, Red Riding - again, what is it about, and how did it come into being?


In early February 2006 Andrew Eaton made me an offer to which I could not say no. He asked me to take a look at the Red Riding Quartet of novels by David Peace with a view to adapting them. I started reading 1974 and from the first unsettling parody of a fallen angel to the final Jacobean shoot-out I did not stop to take breath.

I plunged into the other three novels 1977, 1980 and 1983. They read like an English James Ellroy cut with Stan Barstow and drenched in the occult sensibilities of an Iain Sinclair. Here were fictions torn from the facts. Each book was powerfully contextualised; 1974 against the background of a hung parliament and the IRA bombing campaign. 1977 – the year of the Jubilee and Punk. 1980 – Thatcher’s Tory majority and the Yorkshire Ripper. 1983 – The Falklands war and Thatcher’s re-election. But the world of Red Riding is not purely material, it is a universe where the dreamed, the imagined, the supernatural is as alive as the natural world. We’re talking about people’s souls here. We’re talking about eternal perdition and the possibility of redemption. Yorkshire noir. Dickens on bad acid. And that is what we planned to bring to the screen.

I had worked with Andrew and Revolution Films before. In This World was one of the best filmmaking experiences I have been fortunate enough to have been part of. I didn’t refuse Andrew’s offer. The bigger decision was whether to take on just the first novel, or to go for the whole quartet:. I went for the whole set. It meant that I’d lose the next two and a half years to David Peace’s world. A dark place to go.


What were some of the key challenges when adapting David Peace's novels for the screen, and did you at all directly or indirectly collaborate with him/get any feedback from him? And since the novels are (loosely) based on actual events, did you do any further research on the facts behind the fiction?


The plan was to make each drama both a stand-alone, full-length film, and at the same time link into the other three. Characters would develop and reappear in later films, events would be referred to and revisited in flashback. It meant that any change in the action, characters or sequence in one story would have consequences for the other tales.

I subtitled each title by way of signposting an overall theme – a sort of sheet anchor:

1974: “This is the North where we do what we want.”

Eddie - film noir hero – lazy, libidinous. Becomes entangled with a damaged and dangerous woman. His need to know the truth about the connections linking a series of missing girls draws him into the dark web that will destroy him.

1977: “We're the flowers in the dustbin/We're the poison in your human machine/We're the future, your future”

A double-hander. A crazed journalist and a policeman, married to the boss’s daughter but in love with a prostitute. The policeman turns whistleblower and pays the price.

1980: “But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid.”

Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter investigates his own. A good man with a guilty conscience. Against the background of the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper.

1983: “Everyman is guilty of all the good he did not do"

The child killings start again. A shabby solicitor investigates. A police detective revisits the past and all the good he did not do.


I was fortunate in that neither Revolution Films nor Channel Four ever demanded detailed outlines before I embarked on the screenplays. After relatively little discussion, I was given complete freedom to plough straight in and produce a first draft. Hayley Williams came on board to disassemble each novel. She cross-referenced characters and events, drew up charts of who knew what, did what and to whom. It didn’t always add up…


After a flurry of emails, I finally met David Peace face to face at a seedy London hotel – his choice. He was in London to promote his new novel, The Damned United. David lives in Tokyo, the Red Riding Quartet was written in exile. I had a long list of questions for him – exhuming the people and places and events of novels he thought he was finished and done with. We spent four hours picking over the broken narrative paths and buried motives. He helped the disinterment with equanimity, always generous and humorous. Later, while writing the screenplays, if I came across something that puzzled me, I knew David was always there in cyber space, willing to delve and postulate.

Looking back over our communication: “…for me, the books were about Nature vs. Nurture - did the time, the place and the society of West Yorkshire give 'birth' to Peter Sutcliffe or was West Yorkshire just 'unlucky'…”

One email I sent asking for a Yorkshire colloquialism for ‘chippy’ as in resentful and grudge-bearing was met with a page long free association involving French and German word derivations, ruminations on the Yorkshire psyche and research phone calls to family  and friends in God’s Own Country itself. “Right (reet) bitter cunt” was favourite.


A novel is not a screenplay. We show, we don’t tell. I amalgamated characters; in 1974 the sadistic property tycoon, John Dawson, is a combination of three characters from the novel. I compressed and simplified events – trying to find clean lines of narrative energy. At the same time part of the innate darkness of the novels is the serpentine nature of the tales, that feeling something terrible is happening on your peripheral vision. The balancing act was how to retain the sweaty anxiety without tipping into confusion.

Kate Ogborn was heading up Revolution Films’ TV development at the time. I’d spend the first hour or two of most mornings at her family breakfast table, competing for space, chewing over the latest plot convolutions or mysterious death or barbaric torture. Then to Stoke Newington public library where I virtually lived 6 days a week. Halcyon days.

That rare freedom and trust afforded me by both Andrew Eaton at Revolution Films and Liza Marshall and her team at Channel Four went a long way. By the end of 2006 we had two drafts each of 1974, 1977 and 1980. These dark scripts stayed true to the spirit of the novels; they were unfettered by sentimentality and avoided simplistic notions of good and bad. The anti-heroes descend into a world riven with corruption and uncertainty. The damaged journalists and policemen may strive to combat evil and uncover the truth, but their involvement in the world always compromised them. In early 2007 I began adapting 1983.


Finding an email I sent to David Peace: “…between us - like hunter i am obsessed with trying to save one child. just one. have you read that article on natascha kampusch who was found wandering vienna 8 years after she was kidnapped as a child?...”


The action in 1983 revisits 1974, shining a light in some of the darkest corners. It is a collage of events and years bound by a rent boy’s stream of consciousness. And with the conclusion of the novel, David doesn’t spare us. No future. And so it became a kind of mission of mine to save a child and to turn this into a redemptive story. Nothing stays buried. Truth will out. Truth hurts. The challenge was how to do this without destroying the essential nature of David’s novels. All through the process I’d held onto his words as a guide through the process. I hope against hope he does not feel betrayed. But I had to save that one child.


I've read somewhere that Red Riding was being dubbed "Yorkshire noir" - a label you can at all live with?


David prefers the English word, “black”.


What got you into writing in the first place, and screenwriting at that?


I’ve always been involved in film and TV work. I worked in cutting rooms, as a runner, third, second and first assistant director, production manager and producer on TV films, commercials and music videos. In 1983 I stepped back from everything - left London - and tried to recapture the wonder and optimism of my time at film school. I found it in writing, collaging, imagining films that might be made. Writing was a way of sustaining the cinema in my head. 

I went to what was then called The Polytechnic of Central London. Melies showed his first films there. Back then in the 70s there was a wonderful sense of freedom. In a film school, you are cocooned and protected from the outside world. You get a pause in time when you can experiment and think and talk film and play. The trick is to continue playing when the course finishes. And for that to happen, you need producers and executives with big cojones! They exist.


How would you describe yourself as a writer?


A filmmaker.


Do talk about your screenwriting debut Queen of Hearts for a bit, and how did that one come about?


Back in 1983 I had started to put together ideas for films I wanted to see, stories I wanted to tell. These took the form of treatments, outlines or collages of images; anything to give an idea of the world of the tale. One of these was titled Queen of Hearts. 5 years later, thanks to a couple of commissions I was surviving solely through screenwriting. That said, apart from 3 short films, nothing had actually gone into production.

Queen of Hearts was set in a re-imagined Little Italy - inspired, in part, by the actual Italian quarter in London’s Clerkenwell. An Italian family live above their café in a piazza of London brick, suspended in time and cocooned from the world. So, not an illusion or mirror of reality but an attempt to inspire what Borges calls “poetic faith” in the viewer. None of this concerned me when I started writing. The only thing I cared about was how to allow 10 year old Eddie Lucca to narrate his story as best he could given his tender years and his limited experience. Eddie wasn’t always capable of separating the real from the wished for, the waking reality from the dreamed. And I, in turn was protected and supported throughout the writing process by director Jon Amiel and the producers. Filmmaking is a social act. Later, when watched an early cut, it was like waking with a start; I was shaken by my meeting with Eddie and his family. Actors had become people, sets were houses and streets, truth had become fiction...

I cannot think of any greater way of expressing my deep gratitude to cast, crew and audience.


Now I'm sure you have by now grown tired of the next question and wish you'd get a Pound for every time somebody asked you, but I wouldn't do my job if I didn't ask as well: Over the years you have worked with Terry Gilliam quite frequently - so how did that collaboration come into being in the first place, and what's it like working with him?


I got a screenplay to Terry. He passed a message back to me via my agent saying it was quite good but very visual, so it didn’t stand a chance of being made! I sent a message back saying, maybe he could direct it. He replied saying he was busy with his own stuff but did I have any interest in the Minotaur? I said that maybe I did. He said, ring this number. I rang. I left a message. This went on for 4 years. Finally he returned my call. I said, after 4 years?! He said, “Well I’ve been busy”. We started work that afternoon. Working with Terry is hard play.


... and hot on the heels of the last question, another one I feel obliged to ask even if it might turn you utterly against me: The Man Who Killed Don Quixote - what's the present status on that one?


The status of The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is that we are and absolutely have to make it.


You obviously also have to talk about your directorial debut Vanished! A Video Seance for a bit, and what urged you to assume directorial duties on that one?


I think the best I can do here is to quote both the South London Gallery blurb for the 1999 opening and also Jonathan Romney’s piece in The Guardian:


The South London Gallery

Vanished! A Video Seance

Brian Catling and Tony Grisoni
This collaboration between the poet/performance artist and the screenwriter has produced a hybrid work that uses atmospheric narrative to unwind a compelling true story.

In 1932, an elderly mother and father lived with their young daughter in bleak isolation on a windswept hillside on the Isle of Man. They became the reluctant hosts to another presence, haunted by a voice which described itself as "Gef, a spirit in the form of a mongoose with small yellow human hands." Their complex and hidden relationship became a nationwide curiosity for a short time but eventually disappeared into obscurity... until now.

After months of field investigation and research in libraries and psychic archives, Brian Catling and Tony Grisoni produced Vanished! using a professional cast and crew. This is the first showing of this work in London.

The video summons the dead parents and sleeping daughter, now 87 years old, to tell their versions of this strange event. Actors Julian Curry, Rosemary McHale and Victoria Seifert became the possessed family.

Made for gallery screening, Vanished! will convert the SLG into a temporary cinema, reminiscent of travelling shows and gatherings in village halls with folding chairs and a hanging screen. It is back projected and has controlled ambient sound.


Jonathan Romney for The Guardian


Scarier than Blair Witch

The Guardian

Vanishing Act

Jonathan Romney

Wednesday October 27, 1999

Oh, but they're shrewd at the South London Gallery. It makes obvious sense to put on Vanished! - subtitled A Video Seance - for Halloween, but it's particularly smart to programme it just after the release of The Blair Witch Project. Now it's trumped by this British ghost tale, which contrives to send shivers down your spine without so much as a single camera movement.

A curious mixture of fireside tale and tabloid curio, Vanished! is the work of poet, sculptor and performance artist Brian Catling and screenwriter Tony Grisoni, who has worked with John Boorman, Terry Gilliam and Jon Amiel. The latest of the increasingly frequent encounters between mainstream movie story-telling and the art avant-garde, Vanished! does tell a riveting story. What makes it all the more gripping is that it's supposedly true.

In 1932, a family living in an isolated house on the Isle of Man - the elderly James and Margaret Irving and their daughter Voirrey - received their first visitation from a mysterious spirit. Its name was Gef, and it took the form of a mongoose-like creature with yellow human hands. The story was briefly celebrated, then forgotten. Now, as they say, it can be told again.

Vanished! really feels like a seance. First the Irvings' house appears on screen. Then the families' necks appear in close-up, their breathing and swallowing amplified until they become an unearthly roar. Then the characters appear in close-up, father and mother summoned from the dead, while the daughter, now aged 78, manifests herself in her youthful form. Dad establishes himself as a no-nonsense chap, proud of his skill with wall insulation, and so the last person we expect to hear muttering portentously about "things not of this world".

Each person has a different relationship with Gef. Father treats it as a surrogate son, calling it "that lad". Mother is charmed by its antics, but comes to recoil at its anarchic presence. The daughter has an odd, mutually protective relationship with the thing. It's at once her pet and her guardian, as well as the traditional "imaginary friend" - telling her about its adventures up the Ganges. But the relationship has sexual overtones, too: "He's tickling me with his muzzle."

Gef proves to be a very sexual beast indeed. The father catches him/it watching the mother as she undresses. In other words, the father is spying on an invisible, possibly imaginary creature spying on his wife - a bizarre case of voyeurism at one remove, as if the adults were using the spirit as a go-between in their own perverse relationship. Gef is a medium for all three's fears and desires, and possibly a screen for something nastier. This is not simply a story of a folie ŕ trois, but apparently a drama of deception and abuse - but, tellingly, nothing is spelled out.

It's here that Vanished! comes into its own as video, making the most of ideas associated with projection: we are literally seeing the family's fantasies and disturbances projected on screen. Another meaning of projection is voice-throwing, and the story is at its strangest when the characters lapse into Gef's eerie, high-pitched keening.

Vanished! is as simple and suggestive as the best ghost stories - as Henry James's The Turn of the Screw, for example, where an apparently sane character gives us a straightforward account of uncanny events, and we're left to sift out veracity from delusion. The three narrators of Vanished! recount events in a way that's at once matter-of-fact and demented, the actors (Julian Curry, Rosemary McHale and Victoria Seifert) striking a balance between domestic matter-of-factness and Old Dark House character playing.

The piece is something of a genre-buster. You can imagine seeing it on TV and finding it a bit static. But watching it on site, sitting in church-like pews, gives the characters a real presence in a real space, and makes the piece more akin to theatre than cinema. And I suppose it has to be regarded as docudrama, because, remember, it's all true.

Of course, unless you're prepared to seek out the contemporary coverage in the Times and elsewhere, you can only take that on trust. But as the father says, "No one would be fool enough to invent such a bloody stupid story." Well, quite - making up such a bizarre apocryphal yarn is the sort of stunt that American independent horror film-makers would pull. It couldn't happen in a British art gallery, could it?


Any other films of yours you'd like to talk about?


A short film I wrote and directed: Kingsland. I have lived in roughly the same area of London for around 20 years now. There are two neighbourhoods in fact. The first is in the London borough of Haringey in north London. When I first moved there with my partner, it was predominantly Cypriot - it used to be called "Little Cyprus". It was also an area full of small shops: grocery shops, dry-cleaning places, bars and cafes. They were privately owned small businesses and there were no chains. In the 10 or 11 years we were there, the demographic changed; more and more people came over from Turkey and these people were predominately Kurdish. At the time I didn't know why these people were coming, I didn't know very much about them at all. I was pretty ignorant. Towards the end of our stay there, there was a big street fight involving around 40 or 50 young men armed with pool cues and things they'd picked up. It was a really serious fight; many were injured and one man died. When I asked people about it, they just said, "Oh, it's drugs! It's drugs!" as if that explained anything. So I didn't really know why this fight had happened. We then moved - not very far - but to a slightly different area, where I am now. The local overland railway station is Kingsland Dalston and, again, this area is predominantly Kurdish. In 2001, I worked on a film that Michael Winterbottom directed called In This World. As part of this film, I went and met some Kurdish people at the local community centre and asked them if they would mind coming along and being extras in the film. Through that, I made some Kurdish friends. So I started to ask them about this big street fight and what was behind it. Around that time, I thought, "I really want to make a film set in my backyard, a film set where I live." These were the people I had to go to because it wasn't something I wanted to make up or invent; it was something I wanted to source from reality. The producer, Kate Ogborn, came on board and raised a little finance from production company The Bureau, for research. I went about it in the same way that I went about working on In This World – which is to meet people, and to ask to hear their stories. I did this with my stepdaughter, Lily. We collected hundreds of tales, and in researching, I discovered a little of the true story behind the street fight I had witnessed four years previously. It was a very complex thing, but amounted to a local community having enough of gangsters dealing drugs on their doorsteps and enough of finding money and guns under their sons' beds. They couldn't get results from the police or from local politicians, so they took the power into their own hands. It's a lot more complex than that, but that's the main thrust. So I had all of these stories, and in order to knit them together, I needed a framework of some kind. I went to the Italian Neorealists – specifically Visconti's movie Rocco And His Brothers. It's a story about five brothers and their mother who come from southern Italy up to the rich, industrial North looking for work. Each brother has a story and that story is interlaced with the other tales - I really liked this framework. So I tried to give the tales that I came across that type of structure. I decided to have four or five different people whose stories would be interwoven and converge at the end. And the first character was called 'The Dreamer'; a young man who arrives in a place where he doesn't know the rules, doesn't know how things work - he is literally a dreamer.

In the middle of trying to get people interested in the feature film, I was given an opportunity, thanks to Jo McClellan at Film4. She made a real act of faith in me and put up enough money for us to make a short film. I ripped out the first of these stories - The Dreamer - and I then started shaping the tale so that it came round in a circle and had a form to it, which I felt would make a short film. We were making a film sourced from real stories and I knew that I wanted to shoot the film in real locations. I wanted to shoot it in the same locations where these stories took place. I also wanted to involve non-professional actors. It seems to me that if you are lucky enough to get a chance to make a short film, then you should take risks.


There's a tendency for directors to behave themselves because they're frightened that they won't get another chance. Then there are filmmakers like Michael Winterbottom and, although he's a totally different type of filmmaker, Terry Gilliam. The thing they have in common is that they like taking risks and I admire this very much. So we had real locations, real people, but the difference was that I really wanted to shoot this using a classical cinematic language. The co-producer, Mike Elliott, introduced me to the DOP Florian Hoffmeister. We got along straight away and decided that we wanted to shoot the film on 35mm using anamorphic lenses to give an epic feel to these true stories, rather than go the traditional route - which would have been closer to a kind of documentary. Similarly, the wonderful score by Jem Finer helps give an otherworldly atmosphere to the piece. So, that was the plan, and our casting director Shaheen Baig really had her finger on the pulse. Shaheen and I met lots of people at the Kurdish Community Centre who wanted to be in a film. Then we'd start to play games. We played charades: acting things out, doing impersonations, like a charade of someone mending a bicycle tire and they would have to guess what I was doing. Of course, I was so bad at it that they couldn't guess, but at least if I was making a fool myself than they were less frightened of making fools of themselves.


Very quickly we learned who wanted to play and who didn't. Interestingly, for the main character I had in my head Lamberto Maggiorani from Bicycle Thieves. I kept thinking a man in his late thirties was what we were looking for, but we couldn't find anyone who fit the bill. One day we were seeing some people and Shaheen looked in the corner where one young man was just getting some things out of the cupboard. It was Abdullah Gurlek, who was 18 years old and in college. She just nodded at him and I looked at this young man, and he had such charisma; it was so clear that he was the person we were looking for. We approached him and he agreed. I then went back to the script and I changed it all to take on a younger man. It made for a better film thanks to Shaheen's instincts.


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I have just emerged from adapting China Mieville’s wondrous novel The City and the City. My head is spinning, my mind is bent. I wonder what I have written. And in what language.


Writers, filmmakers, whoever else who inspire you?


A long list of new people I meet who are knocking at the door.


Your favourite movies?


The ones to come.


Your website, Facebook, whatever else?


Thanks for the interview!


Special thanks to Richard S Barnett, founder of IIWYK!!!


© by Mike Haberfelner

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Robots and rats,
demons and potholes,
cuddly toys and
shopping mall Santas,
love and death and everything in between,
Tales to Chill
Your Bones to

is all of that.


Tales to Chill
Your Bones to
a collection of short stories and mini-plays
ranging from the horrific to the darkly humourous,
from the post-apocalyptic
to the weirdly romantic,
tales that will give you a chill and maybe a chuckle, all thought up by
the twisted mind of
screenwriter and film reviewer
Michael Haberfelner.


Tales to Chill
Your Bones to

the new anthology by
Michael Haberfelner


Out now from




On the same day
a Burglar wants to kill you
and your Ex wants
to make up ...
... and for the life of it,
you can't decide


A Killer Conversation

produced by and starring
Melanie Denholme
directed by
David V.G. Davies
written by
Michael Haberfelner
Ryan Hunter and
Rudy Barrow

out now on DVD