In this story about the UK Film Council meeting an end worthy of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, what caught my eye was this bit:

About 18 months ago, my friend, the journalist Duncan Campbell, persuaded me that Stuart Christie‘s memoir Granny Made Me an Anarchist was ideal for making into a film.

I think he’s right, though it could also go horribly wrong. Could be at least three different films, depending on which part of the story becomes the focus – a tough political thriller, a farcical crime caper, or a death penalty drama.

I feel sorry him pitching it to an apparently hip and edgy film company in the USA though:

That afternoon in New York, I outlined the basics: “This is a true story, set in the early 60s. It’s about an 18-year-old boy from Glasgow who travels to Madrid to assassinate General Franco.” I plunged on, ticking off the elements I thought would be part of the movie’s appeal: we’d have a great soundtrack; it would be part-road movie, part-unusual coming of age story. There would be idealism, politics, humour, sex . . .

It wasn’t apathy I sensed. It was something else. Confusion. The executive had started to look worried. He interrupted: “This boy Stuart is going to assassinate who?”

“General Franco.”

He looked at me. There was a pause. “Now I know I should know this,” he began uncertainly, “but who is General Franco?”

No wonder films are so full of stupid these days.