George Jaques

I’m shitting it, you know! We’ve had such a journey with this movie. We first tested it in front of an audience in October last year, then world-premiered it at the Berlinale on opening night, and then did an Italian festival. Audiences have seen it, but this feels so much bigger because it’s the public! Festival-goers love film, they love coming-of-age movies — they’re sometimes not the warmest audience, sometimes they are; it’s a real mixture, but they all love movies. Whereas this is going into public cinemas. My mum lives by the seaside in St Leonards and it’s in the local Odeon, and I’m like, What the fuck, this is mad! I’m shitting it, basically, and I hope people love it.

It was theatre at first because I wanted to tell stories truthfully. We lost a mate to an overdose when we were kids — none of my family are in this industry; I was the first one — and I wrote a play about drug culture in South-West London. I ended up putting it on in an abandoned railway arch in London Bridge. For me, that was the only way to do it.
You’re sort of fearless because you don’t know that it’s not normal. I called all the theatres and said I really wanted to put a show on, and they didn’t answer the phone. And I was like, Right, well, I’m just going to get under an abandoned railway arch — and this is normal! It’s not normal, I realise that now, but at the time it was amazing: all these young actors from different parts of London coming together and making work. It felt so organic. That’s how I’ve always approached every project I’ve done: getting like-minded people together. That’s where you make the best work.

The fearlessness of youth, and not knowing what’s normal. There’s a great joy when you’re young and fearless. The idea of putting a show on in an abandoned railway arch now is utterly terrifying. But then it was like, yeah! It was also a time in my life when my mum got diagnosed with cancer; I was fifteen, so I was very determined. That was my passion project, my thing to distract me in lots of ways.
Then it was just a desire to tell stories. And it’s the people around you, truthfully, who keep you on track and make you feel fearless, because when you’ve got a group of actors with you, if you have a bad day, someone else is having a great day. You just buzz off each other, which is so amazing.

It was definitely challenging. When I started working professionally at sixteen, I was probably one of the younger directors going. That was hard, because people treat you like a kid. I struggled with that because I was like, I’m not a student filmmaker, theatre-maker or playwright; I’m just a playwright who’s young. I was so determined to get there, and I did quite quickly. Then the pressure was always there because people would ask, “You’re doing it all so young, are you going to go to university?” or “You haven’t gone to film school”, or drama school or whatever. I definitely felt the weight of trying to show that you could do it differently.
Then you start being told, “Oh, you made me not want to do that,” and I think, Fuck, no, go to uni, do the thing! Don’t listen to me. It was scary in that sense. But the biggest joy of my career to date is being treated as a filmmaker who’s young, not as a student, and that’s such a big achievement for me. I try to show that across all my work.

Yeah! Neither of my parents went to uni, and my sister went to Oxford to do English, so there was a big “Why are you not going to uni?” from there; my school was sort of similar. I had a full scholarship from Bristol University to study Business Management, and I dropped out a month before I was supposed to go because I landed my first lead acting role. I didn’t really want to go, in truth. I felt a lot of pressure, and I felt so lucky to have that scholarship. People would dream of it, and I felt that very heavily.
Then there was drama school. It was interesting because the more work I made and the more short films I directed in theatre, the more offers I got to go to great filmmaking and drama schools. But in my head, I learned on the job. I trained a lot, but in part-time classes or under people. I trained under Nick Hytner — I was his theatre intern, and Nick famously ran the National Theatre and directed The History Boys. There are people along the way I’ve learned so much from, so in my head, why would I go to film school? I’m making short films, and that’s what I would do at film school. That was my path, but it’s not right for everyone.
I speak to a lot of young people now who are deciding whether to go to drama school or start acting. I think, do both. Go to film school and make films, if you can and you want to. Or, if you don’t want to go to film school, just make films. It always needs to start with making your own work. That’s the only thing we can control in this industry. Even for you, writing your own pieces about people before they’re commissioned, the only thing we can do is make our own thing, because that’s all we have.

With Black Dog, it was such a journey. I was eighteen when I wrote it, then twenty-one when I shot it. We did a preview at Cannes, then we were part of the London Film Festival, and it felt huge. I remember the Leicester Square premiere, like, Holy fuck, this is mad. We were sold out; it was massive. But by the time I was doing that, I already had the second movie set up and Bella [Ramsey] was attached. It was really weird. I’ve never been one to sit still and wait until a movie comes out before setting up the next one, because there’s such a fear of, Oh my God, will it run out? Will it not?
I love the press stuff and promoting the film — it’s a massive part of it — but I prefer making the work. I’m always trying to get back on set, or back to theatre, TV or writing. Those nominations from quite a few festivals for Black Dog gave me confidence that I was doing good, I guess. Black Dog is such a small movie: an intimate story about two young boys who experience love and grief and everything. I’m so proud of it — of the performances and what I was saying about the world — but it’s not the kind of movie I want to make anymore. I want to make much bigger movies: movies that feel timeless and have a huge sense of scale. I want to make more genre stuff. I wanted to make comedies with Sunny Dancer, then go on to thrillers and action and all that.
I look at John Hughes like, Oh my God, I want to be doing that. But I’m also so proud of Black Dog. It’ll always be the film I grew up on, my first movie, and I’m so proud that it was so well received and loved by the people who saw it.

My mum had cancer when I was growing up. What you realise is that there’s a lot of darkness with cancer, but there are moments of joy because you have to find them. If we were all just miserable the whole time, it would be fucked. So I always wanted to make a comedy about cancer, but I never knew how to do it, truthfully. I also wanted to make these sort of 90s ensemble films. I had those two things in my mind, and I started working with Teenage Cancer Trust as an ambassador. I met all these young people who had gone through cancer. They have a residential camp, and you start realising that cancer is the least interesting thing about them.
They’re telling you these stories, all this naughtiness, and you’re like, Oh my God, where is that movie? Where’s the movie that doesn’t have a single hospital scene? Where’s the movie that showcases these young people in remission, trying to be young again and getting another shot at it — trying to relearn where they fit in the world and having another shot at childhood? And I thought, I really want to write something like this.
Then my editor, Caitlin Spiller, mentioned that she used to go to summer camps for kids affected by cancer, and I was like, that’s the movie! It felt really born out of authenticity. I didn’t have cancer growing up, but my mum did, and there was a story there. Meeting all these young people who had gone through it, having Caitlin alongside me, and working with Teenage Cancer Trust and Rachel Hough, who is a professor at UCLH, all made me feel equipped to tell the story. But, fuck, it was daunting to make a comedy about cancer.

I wanted to make an ensemble where every person in the audience could relate to at least one of them, or a bit of one of them. They’re classic archetypes: the weird, quiet one in the group, the loud one. There were lots of things I was fascinated by, and I wanted to make these characters full of life, skills and jokes — really three-dimensional people. To do that, I always think it’s down to the actors and our relationship in rehearsals.
All the actors packed their own bags for camp. We’d talk about what music they’d listen to, how that might influence costumes, what skills they had at school, what clubs they used to go to and, when they had cancer, what bits of life they missed out on. That impacts production design, costume and all those things way more than you might think. Ivy’s room, for example, is full of little nods to the stuff Bella and I had done. That, for me, is so exciting, because all that work makes you feel like you can reach in and grab that character, or feel them as one of your own friends.

Yeah, it’s been amazing. I’ve been an ambassador with them for a few years now, and they’re the most incredible charity. I didn’t know this, but in the 90s, adult cancer survival rates were increasing and children’s survival rates were increasing, but teenagers’ were staying the same. When Teenage Cancer Trust was set up in the 90s, that was because so many teenagers were missing chemo and treatment because they wanted to go to house parties or do normal teenage things. They didn’t have their parents walking them in like when they were kids, but they weren’t quite adults either, and weren’t necessarily making the right decisions. So Teenage Cancer Trust set up these units on the wards: a place for young people to hang out and be young people while going through treatment.
Once they did that, the survival rates rose again. I feel so blown away by that as a concept. I’ve spent so much time with the staff on the cancer units and with these young people, and I feel deeply proud that they love the movie, feel proud of it too, and think it’s the right way to talk about cancer. It’s about teaching people how to talk about it and not treat people like they’re other. They’re still your mates, and even if they can’t come out, you should still invite them out. Don’t cancer-ghost people. It’s been an amazing partnership. My biggest joy with it is that we did a big open call for two roles in the film for young survivors and cast two people with lived experience of cancer. Now they have their own agents and are going on to do massive things; they’re at work nonstop. That’s so gangster — to be a small part of what I think will be a really big journey for them both.

Professor Rachel Hough — I reached out to her. We partnered with another place called OKRE; their job is to connect writers with academic researchers, professionals and lived-experience experts. They introduced me to Professor Rachel Hough, who worked with me on things like the medicine, dexamethasone. She was like, “No-one calls it that, it’s nicknamed Dex.” In the original script, Jake got a stem-cell transplant from his aunt, and she was like, “That’s impossible, it would have to be a sister.” I wanted to get all that stuff right even though the film doesn’t centre on it, because it really is about joy and young people coming together.
I worked with some grief professors at Oxford and read their books around grief. We also brought on this amazing movement coach, Polly Bennett, who did a workshop for the young actors. Polly was the movement coach on Bohemian Rhapsody, and she did a class around what a long-term illness might do to the body and how it might feel different. That was really special. Professor Rachel Hough also spoke with the young cast, so they could ask questions about cancer, and she worked with the make-up designers. Teenage Cancer Trust was a back-and-forth throughout, and we had the two young people in the movie.
Then, obviously, Caitlin, my editor. We were an open book around cancer; no question was considered dumb, but we wanted to get it authentic, right and real. That came with a massive responsibility for me as producer, director and head of the set. I thought, I’m exposing a big film crew to quite heavy things. Even though the film is about joy, there’s still a heaviness. You might go home and remember a family member who passed away from cancer, or your best friend, or whatever it is. So I decided to pay for everyone’s therapy on set, giving everyone full access to therapy twenty-four hours a day via a company called Solace Mind, who were amazing.

I think you have to, when you’re writing stories like that. It’s a huge responsibility to that world, and I feel that incredibly deeply.

It’s hard! I try to separate the different hats I wear. When I’m writing, I’m just writing — I don’t want to think about budgets or the producing side of things, like how hard it’s going to be to do the talent show or raft-building and all that stuff. I have to write, in whatever form that takes. Then I look at it as a director and start going, This is what I want to do, this is the scale. Then I have to put the producing hat on and go, Fuck, okay, we just lost a million pounds from our budget, or something. But we adjust. I always describe it as a fire-escape moment: I know how to get out. I’ve done this for ten years now, so when you’re up against it and don’t have the money to do something, you know how to get out of trouble and still pull it off.
My original plan was to have a crane on the back of a car — a U-Crane — driving into camp, and we couldn’t afford that. So instead I did a very simple shot of the sign, with the car driving past, and it looks great. You find those little things as a director because it is an independent movie. We did no overtime, and if I go over, there’s no one to call and go, Hey, can I have a million pounds more? We don’t have Amazon or Netflix or Warner Bros. or a big studio behind us. If I miss something, it doesn’t get shot. That’s scary, but also exciting when you’re a young director. You’re learning so much, so when I’m doing studio movies, I feel more equipped. All my favourite directors started in independent film.

Yeah! Everyone focuses so much on the negatives: “There’s no money, there’s no this, there’s no that.” But actually, it’s the most creative you’ll ever be, because you have to think of different ways of shooting things — sometimes because of the budget, but also because you don’t have other people meddling with the vision. Sunny Dancer is the movie I wanted to make. That’s so amazing, and when you’re a young filmmaker, that’s so important.
I didn’t make my first movies with BFI or Film4 or whatever, so it was me and the stories I wanted to tell. I’m not saying those places don’t have a positive impact — they do, massively — but it was lovely to be able to make the stories I wanted to tell. Now, when I’m working with much bigger partners, I also have a level of respect from them because they know what they’re getting into. They know they’re sort of going into my mind to get the George Jaques version of that story. I’m proud I didn’t skip that jump too soon, because now when I get approached to work on something, it’s because they watched Black Dog and Sunny Dancer, or my shorts or whatever it is, and they want my lens on that story. That feels great.

And that’s hard! You have to remind yourself. Also, the danger of independent film is that you say yes to everything. You think, Well, if I say no, we’re going to be fucked, so I might as well say yes — but then you can have a really diluted vision. You have to choose your battles. If you’re going to argue over someone’s top, you’ve got to be sure it’s the right thing to argue about.
For example, the talent show: the budget was hard, and I really wanted to keep it in because I knew it would be such an explosion of joy at the end of the film, before the twist. I was like, Okay, I’m going to push and fight for that and find a way to do it. The original version of that talent show, you don’t really remember once the film’s done. All the things that feel massive on set become so small. I think the original was in this huge sports hall, at night, blacked out, with this crazy light show. It was a daytime talent show in the end, and now I watch it and go, Yeah, of course it was. It’s the middle of summer — what are these kids going to do, wait until midnight?

James Blunt was a funny one because, for a long time, the script just said ‘music superstar’, and we weren’t sure who we were going to work with. When I was sixteen and started the production company, I met a man called Todd Interland at the pub I used to go to with my fake ID. Todd was James Blunt’s manager. I remember him saying, Take my number, and if you need anything, give me a call. We didn’t speak for years, then I called him out of the blue for Sunny Dancer and said we’d met when I was sixteen. He was like, “I remember you, how is it all going?” I told him, and he was like, “Holy fuck, okay, I didn’t know that was going to go there.” He’s always been so kind, and I said, I hate to ask you this out of the blue, but I’ve written a role and I really want James Blunt to do it. He was like, “Okay, what is it?” James is so self-deprecating and I think people try to take the piss a lot, so I was like, Look, he’s not the butt of a joke. He really isn’t. There’s a big celebration that he’s coming to camp; it’s just funny that it’s James Blunt, because how the hell did they get James Blunt to come to camp?
He really loved what the film stood for, and he was like, “All right, I’ll send it to James.” I sent the script to James with a little letter: “James, Back to Bedlam was one of the only CDs my dad had in the car when we used to drive to Devon, where my dad’s from. I felt like I grew up with those songs at such an amazing moment.” He was like, “Yeah, I’ll jump on a call with you and let’s see it.” Then I got on the call with him and said, James, I’m so fucking sorry, but we have no money. I can only get you an EasyJet flight to Glasgow, I’m sorry — and he was like, “Yeah, I’m in.” It was amazing. He is so talented, so funny, so generous and warm. I really think he’s a one-of-a-kind human being. He’s unbelievably special.

Yeah, I called James the other day and was like, I’m doing this press tour for Sunny Dancer, and it’s so stressful — there are so many questions all the time. He was like, “You can’t say anything wrong as long as you’re kind.” And I thought, that’s how he’s approached everything. He’s never been unkind to people. I thought that was a really cool approach.

I’m loving making stories that make you laugh and cry. I also love making work where you think it’s going to be one thing when you go in. With Sunny Dancer, you think you know what a cancer movie is, or what a camp movie is, and then it’s totally not what you think. I love doing that: you come into a film, TV show or theatre show of mine thinking you know what I’m about to do, and then it pulls you around a little bit. That’s what I’m most excited about.