Words © Simon Wells

“Basically The Beatles are getting fed up with the Dick Lester type of direction. They want dialogue to speak … Difficult this, as I don’t think any of The Beatles can act in any accepted sense.”

Joe Orton. 15th January 1967

Despite no advance banked, Orton continued working on The Beatles script. With no exact brief, Joe decided to go far out - thoroughly revising Owen Holder’s effort to a mere shadow of what was created the previous year. Ever the magpie, even when it came to his past efforts, Joe cribbed pieces from his catalogue of unpublished material; notably from the novel he co-authored with his partner Kenneth Halliwell - The Silver Bucket and his 1961 effort The Vision Of Gombold Proval, (AKA Head To Toe). Not surprisingly, what was pouring out onto the page proved audacious in the extreme.

 “The boys, in my script,” wrote Orton as he neared completion of the first draft, “have been caught in-flagrante, become involved in dubious political activity, dressed as women, committed murder, been put in prison and committed adultery.”

Despite having no inkling of where the script would go, members of The Beatles were nonetheless aware of Orton’s input. Joe’s inconclusive meeting with Brian Epstein had nonetheless prompted a meeting at his Belgravia town house with Beatle Paul present. The date was the evening of Tuesday, 24th January, 1967.

Even to someone who’d hobnobbed with the illuminati of theatrical aristocracy, the land of The Beatles was the highest step on the social ladder during the mid-1960s. Even to an enfant terrible like Orton, parleying with The Beatles was a leap into a new stratosphere.

Nonetheless, Joe wouldn’t allow any stardust to blur his vision. As was his style, he’d approach the convergence with McCartney (and possibly other Fabs) with typically cheeky aplomb. Not the chauffeured limo or black cab; no, for Joe it meant a London bus – a number 38. Belgravia slightly off the West End track, a bus ride was the quickest route to Epstein’s house.

Darting through Mayfair, past Hyde Park Corner and down the busy corridor towards Victoria, the red double-decker dropped Joe off at the junction of affluent Chapel Street, on the fringes of Belgravia and edged by the high rear garden wall of Buckingham Palace.

Epstein’s house was very much in keeping with what The Beatles’ manager had long aspired to. He’d bought the Chapel Street property in January 1965 – his previous London bases either hotels or flats. Situated towards the far end of the street, Epstein enjoyed its affluent presence. Replete with butler and servants quarters, Brian was now assuming the vision he’d carved out during his shop-keeping days back in Liverpool. Regardless of the swanky address, number 24 maintained its uniformity with the other houses in the road. Even with a pub and mews residences to its rear, the thick walls behind the stuccoed façade of number 24 ensured a relative peace inside.

While it was clear that Epstein was nesting in Belgravia, his presence in Chapel Street during early 1967 was sporadic. Lost in a whirl of drugs, alcohol and desperation over the Beatles uncertain plans, Brian had taken to frequenting London’s gambling clubs after-dark, often wittering away thousands of pounds in a single evening. His other, more nefarious encounters, found him in the shadowy avenues of London’s uncertain and dangerous homosexual underground – a landscape that had already seen him injured; blackmailed and only just avoiding prosecution. Not that either knew it at the time, but Epstein was treading the same path as Orton on London’s gay Olympiad network. While Brian had been effusive in inviting Orton to his house, the playwright’s otherwise detailed notes would make no reference to The Beatles’ manager being present that night.



Walking up Chapel Street, Orton would have difficulty distinguishing Epstein’s house from the other affluent symbols of Belgravia wealth. An ornate lamp hovering over the entrance gave little away as to its interior. After climbing up the four stone steps, Orton’s slender gait would have been illuminated by a light illuminating from a glass crescent situated above the entrance. While a large brass knocker was attached to the door, Orton chose a different route to announce his presence.

“I range the bell and an old man opened the door,” recalled Orton in his diaries. “He seemed surprised to see me. ‘Is this Brian Epstein’s house?’ I said. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and led the way into the hall. I suddenly realised that the man was the butler. I’ve never seen one before. He took my coat and I went to the lavatory. When I came out he’d gone. There was nobody about. I wandered around a large dining-room which was laid for dinner. And then I got to feel strange. The house appeared to be empty. So I went upstairs to the first floor. I heard music only I couldn’t decide where it came from. So I went further upstairs and found myself in a bedroom. I came down again and found the butler. He took me into a room and said in a loud voice, ‘Mr Orton.’”

The gaggle of personalities in the house looked around and rose to their feet. Most of those present were clearly familiar with name of “Orton”, and appeared primed for his appearance. Despite the conviviality on display, Epstein was hugely conspicuous by his absence, presumably playing elsewhere. Nonetheless, he’d left his personal assistant Peter Brown (who’d Orton had met previously) to tend to business.

Orton’s presence was duly absorbed into the gathering. However, as was always the case when a Beatle was in the room, the other-worldly ambiance of Paul McCartney trumped all other energies. Accordingly, Orton recognised the cute one before introductions took hold.

“He was just as the photographs,” recalled Orton on viewing Beatle Paul. “Only he’d grown a moustache. His hair was shorter too.”

As was McCartney’s indulgence when a new Beatles record was due for release, he’d share the recording with all and sundry to gauge opinion. While still at mixing stage, McCartney was excited about the group’s new single release, and had brought along an acetate disc to play. “He was playing the latest Beatles recording, ‘Penny Lane’ recalled Orton. “I liked it very much. Then he played the other side – ‘Strawberry…’ something. I didn’t like this as much.”

Once the single preview had concluded, McCartney and Orton broached the subject of Up Against It, although with some bustle as dinner was announced, the conversation was fragmentary and inconclusive. Transferring to the dining room on the ground floor, a butler attended to the place settings as the incoming diners sat down. With Orton sat next to McCartney, the pair began a more continuous dialogue – a lot of it centring on their respective professions.

“The only thing I get from the theatre,” said McCartney to Orton, “is a sore arse.” Nonetheless, McCartney flattered Joe by saying that his play Loot was the only production he hadn’t wanted to leave before the end, expressing a thought that he wished the play had been longer. “We talked of the theatre,” said Orton as they conversation deepened. “I said that compared to the pop scene the theatre was square. ‘The theatre started going downhill when Queen Victoria knighted Henry Irving,’ I said. ‘Too fucking respectable.’”

Like numerous avenues of popular culture, January 1967 witnessed a watershed in attitudes to drug use. While narcotic use within the theatrical and entertainment fraternity was rampant, to the world outside, no one had any inkling that their favourite stars were gobbling drugs left, right and centre. While it would be a further five months before they were outed on their drug use, in early 1967, The Beatles “boy next door” image was still forefront in the public consciousness - any notion of adventures with powder and puff a scandalous notion.

“We talked of drugs,” recalled Orton to the newly psychedelicised McCartney, “of mushrooms which give hallucinations – like LSD, ‘The drug, not the money,’ I said. We talked of tattoos. And, after one or two veiled references, marijuana. I said I’d smoked it in Morocco.”

The nods and winks confirming that Orton and McCartney were in simpatico with their preferences, the atmosphere relaxed considerably. Dinner finishing late - around 11pm –everyone moved upstairs to watch television. Looking at the TV schedule for the day, it’s evident that they were off to watch Late Night Line Up – a popular review show that traditionally closed BBC 2 transmissions for the evening. Given the dearth of culture shows on TV in early 1967, the show was essential viewing for anyone connected to the arts. This night’s show had phrases like “the in-crowd” and “swinging London”, something that amused those present.



Late Night Line Up finished at nearly midnight – but more entertainment was on its way, but not via the cathode ray.  This arrived in the shape of Australian band, The Easybeats. The five members who were on a major high with their current hit song “Friday On My Mind” and were in London riding the entertainment rotunda. With Epstein’s NEMS organisation courting interest in Australian acts courtesy of his fraternisation with Robert Stigwood, the band was welcomed in at Chapel Street. With their Beatlesque looks and suggestive presence, Orton was duly smitten.

“I’d seen them on TV,” recalled Orton of The Easybeats. “I liked them very much then. In a way they were better (or prettier) offstage than on.”
The television room becoming congested, McCartney pulled Orton and assistant Peter Brown to the third floor of Epstein’s house, a small room – the idea to focus on the important business of The Beatles film script. However, they were not alone for long, as French photographer Jean-Marie Perier arrived with three young friends to touch base with McCartney. Perier, already renowned for his work with The Rolling Stones, had just taken a host of promotional photographs of The Beatles that (somewhat historically) first displayed their new psychedelic incarnation. Decked out in Edwardian coats, billowing shirts and drooping moustaches, it was evident that the group were tuning into new frequencies. Within the imagery were a clutch of iconic shots that would later adorn the sleeve of “Penny Lane” and “Strawberry Fields Forever” single release. Handed around those present, Joe too had a chance to view them.

“Excellent photograph,” recalled Orton on what Perier had captured “The four Beatles look different with their moustaches. Like anarchists in the early years of the century.”

The small chat over, and still no firm dialogue concerning the script, Orton and McCartney retired downstairs. With The Easybeats still dominating interest with the house guests, any talk of picking up the conversation was abandoned. Distracted, Joe honed in on the Easybeat’s lead singer Stevie Wright. “Feeling slightly like an Edwardian masher with a Gaiety Girl,” wrote Orton of his encounter with the Easybeat’s pneumatic front man.

The clock ticking well past midnight, Orton came over tired. Nonetheless, he felt compelled to collar McCartney regarding the film– not least payment of his fee that was still outstanding. “I’d like to do the film,” said Orton to Paul. “There’s only one thing we’ve got to fix up.”  ‘You mean the bread,’ replied McCartney. “Yes,” said Orton.

From there, any detail of the conversation remained unreported. With just a smile and a nod as a parting salutation, Orton left Chapel Street and walked out into the rainy January night. Post midnight, and buses back to Islington finished, Joe wandered down to the end of Chapel Street and hailed a cab to take him back north to Islington.

No immediate resolution to hand, in reality, Orton had just tasted the indeterminate world of The Beatles. While the group were fiercely democratic in their business dealings, pinning down all four entities – especially during their psychedelic period – was a nigh impossible task. While the group still had an existing picture requirement with United Artists, they felt little impetuous to complete a third movie. Recording, soul searching and other adventures outweighing all other commitments during the indeterminate landscape of 1967, The Beatles were unlikely to devote 12 weeks to an intensive filming schedule. While A Hard Day’s Night and Help! proved immensely enjoyable products to the general public, the group made no secret of their hatred of rigid and demanding filming schedules.

Orton would deliver a copy of his first draft script to his agent a month following his meeting with McCartney on 24th February 1967. The meeting with both McCartney and Brian Epstein proving inconclusive to the direction of the script, Orton was uncertain of what sort of feedback he’d receive.

As the days and weeks past, frustration turning to muted anger. After a period of months, the script would be returned from The Beatles with no communication attached to it. While never articulated at the time, there was a prevailing feeling that the group had shied away from the controversial elements in the script, although with zero explanation Orton was nonplussed to know the reasoning behind their silence. In characteristically smug fashion, Joe bullishly shook of his disappointment on hearing that the script had been returned sans any feedback. “No explanation why,” wrote Orton on news that Up Against It had mutedly rejected. “No criticism of the script. And apparently, Brian Epstein had no comment to make either. Fuck them”.

Beatles or no Beatles, communications with director Richard Lester would endure through the first half of 1967. Lester, his ear far more attuned to the eager buzz surrounding Orton, would sense that the script could be easily tailored to suit Mick Jagger – at that point without any filmic credentials, and scandalously hot following his contretemps with officialdom over the Redlands drugs’ bust. With Ian McKellen mooted as a possible co-star –the project was revived again at the beginning of August 1967 by long time Orton admirer - director and impresario Oscar Lewenstein. Orton was delighted on numerous fronts – not least that the script was optioned for a second time, sending a large fee tumbling into his already bulging band account. With a lunchtime meeting with Lewenstein and director Richard Lester planned for 9th August at Twickenham Studios, the signs were excellent for the project’s revival. Chuffed at securing rights to the script, Oscar Lewenstein ordered a chauffer driven Rolls to pick up Orton at his Islington flat on the morning of August 9th 1967.



However, what Oscar Lewenstein’s chauffer discovered that morning was a sight that would upstage anything that Orton had conceived in any of his plays. On receiving no reply from Orton’s modest Islington flat, the driver peaked through the letter box – discovering Joe’s partner Kenneth Halliwell lying prostate on the floor, dead from an overdose of barbiturates. The door broken down by the police, Joe’s bludgeoned body would be found on his bed soaked in blood. However grievous the picture, Orton’s fragile partner had succeeded in levelling his own failure by terminating his lover’s startling career.

Orton’s death closed numerous doors – not least the fortunes of Up Against It, which was shelved following the controversy of Joe’s passing. Considered a strange curio in The Beatles’ overwhelming diary of the 1960s, the script was never revived for screen, its overt Beatles connection clearly proving daunting for any serious reappraisal.

It wasn’t until the 1980s that the script was looked at again. Without any cinematic interest, several attempts were made to bring a scaled down version to the stage. Pop artist and musician Ed Ball revived the project for an imaginative album and concert during 1986 – a concept that was similarly replicated by Todd Rundgren in 1989 in New York. The BBC imaginatively transferred Orton’s script as a radio play on the thirtieth anniversary of the playwright’s death in 1997.  Starring Leo McKern, Sylvia Syms and cameos from Sir John Gielgud and Blur’s Damon Alban, the project remains the most cogent adaption of Orton’s script to date.

Just why The Beatles chose to reject Up Against It only adds to the gulf of mysteries within Joe Orton’s short yet eventful life. With no word surfacing from camp Beatles on its fate, it took Paul McCartney three decades to finally explain why the dream alliance of The Beatles and Joe Orton failed to materialise. Given that their Magical Mystery Tour effort at the tail end of 1967 mined considerable weirdness, it clearly wasn’t the surrealistic approach Orton took that alienated The Beatles senses.

"The reason why we didn't do Up Against It,” said McCartney in 1997, “wasn't because it was too far out or anything. We didn't do it because it was gay. We weren't gay and really that was all there was to it. It was quite simple, really. Brian was gay...and so he and the gay crowd could appreciate it. Now, it wasn't that we were anti-gay -- just that we, The Beatles, weren't gay."


Part One Here