That September 9, 1989, was going to be one of the happiest days of my life. It was my marriage proposal. Everything had gone according to plan with the dates’ preparations. St Teilo’s, a little church in Bishopston Valley on the Gower peninsula, served as the venue for the wedding. About one hundred and thirty friends and relatives had made the trip to South Wales. After the ceremony, Rachel and I were going to walk up the hill from the church to my in-laws’ house for the party, with our guests trailing after us and a little jazz band playing. But when I was holding my father, he suddenly died away as we were leaving the chapel. He was sixty-five, the same age as me at the moment I write this.
I can still clearly remember that moment. a significant event that influenced my career’s topic matter and writing style. An example of how tragic things often happen when people are the happiest and most unpredictable.
He let out so hard of air from his lungs that he wheezed to death as he descended to Earth. Like a flat tire, he seemed to lose his vigor and passion. His mouth giving the world a farewell raspberry. I started doing CPR on him, our business clothes—morning suits and tails—seemingly inappropriate for the circumstances at hand. I clearly remember thinking two things. The first thing that is said is, “No, this cannot be happening.” It’s not the day today. Please don’t put me in the role of the person whose father died while he was getting married. In a curious vein, I also wondered who won the best picture Oscar in 1948—the year my parents were married. My goal at the time was to work as a screenwriter and director, and I think my subconscious was telling me that because this is how things can end up in the end, none of my goals would matter. Standing outside a little Welsh church on a damp street wearing a traditional morning suit. I turned to look at Rachel and swatted at something that had gotten close to my face. When I looked more closely, I saw that what I had first thought was a fly was really a rosary bead. Two old great aunts stood over my father and me, praying passionately for his soul. Really? I wondered. He’s only just stopped breathing. Wearing a beautiful silk wedding dress, my wife looked at the sight, tears running down her cheeks and smearing her black mascara. Her look was like that of a Tim Burton movie bride.
Several in attendance responded with apparent understanding of what needed to be done. My father needed rescue breathing and cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR), so two doctors took over for me. Rachel was quickly hoisted away from the scene by one person. A few of people started gathering the guests—a few of whom were still unaware of the circumstances—to go up the hill toward the house. My father died away during the jazz band’s rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” They stopped suddenly, their voices mixing into a disorganized chaos. After some thought, I realized that the audience would not have believed me if I had included that same incident in a script.
The doctors at the A&E department of Singleton Hospital gave my sister Valerie and I information that we already knew. The father was no longer among us. Looking around the emergency department at the typical faces of drunks, rugby players, and elderly people, I couldn’t help but marvel how life could go on as usual despite the recent occurrences. Then an unusually young and apologetic policeman showed up to ask me some questions. When our little conversation came to an end, he asked who the people performing the wedding were. When I told him that the object in issue was mine, he started crying. I gave him a hug and consoled him as his helmet fell to the ground and rolled over the surface till two little children accidentally picked it up and began to play with it in shock.
I started to become interested in what was happening during the wedding reception. Has everyone left? Would you kindly not do so? A humorous remark from one of the groomsmen indicated that he understood why I had decided to have two best men for the drive back. He said, “One for the hospital, and one for the reception.”
My father-in-law politely suggested that we not make any comments. This offended me greatly. I had been working on mine for many weeks. Some very good jokes were in there, and I knew I wouldn’t have another opportunity to make them. As we stood in front of the crowd, I was still not sure what behavior was suitable for us to follow. “My father always had a great sense of timing,” was what I said at the beginning. There was a slight pause before the crowd began to applaud. And then, with my best friends making much funnier presentations than I did, there was laughter. When those who weren’t there heard about the wedding later, they were shocked by what had happened as well as our tenacity. What I saw that day was that people often behave in extraordinary ways when faced with extraordinary circumstances. They just go on without waiting. We laughed and joked around, ate and drank, and moved to the beat of the music. There would have been no other choice for my father.
Death has no manners and doesn’t care about context or time. Later on, I used my own wedding as a model for the film Jack & Sarah, in which Richard E. Grant’s character’s wife dies at the beginning of the film while giving birth. A number of financiers rejected it when it was presented to them because they didn’t think audiences would find anything funny when the protagonist died early in the movie. That being said, my wedding had given me a fresh viewpoint. As soon as the movie came out, many in the crowd clearly showed tears and laughter. This, in my view, is often the crucial element of humor. You have to add a constant dose of tragedy or sorrow to it. Things typically have a humorous impact enhanced when they are juxtaposed. The goal is to have your audience laugh and cry at the same time, if possible. much more beneficial in the event that they are unsure about which of the two tasks they need to do.
The film that most definitely seemed to capture my experience was Four Weddings and a Funeral. A few years later, I took my mother to see the movie as I hadn’t seen it. Then I got a phone call from her, which is not unusual, I have to confess, but it was angry and spiteful. “Why did you tell me to watch that movie?” she insisted. Simon Callow, like your late father, dies at the wedding! I have always wondered whether Richard Curtis learned about my marriage via our joint agency or maybe through other common friends, and then included it in the movie. Taking this essay’s substance into consideration, I sent him an email. When he learned of my father’s death, he showed disbelief. He acknowledged that he was ignorant of the circumstances and wondered whether he would have included the scene in the movie had he known. He raised the worry that it could be too sensitive. All in all, I’m glad he didn’t do it, even if I can’t talk about the possibility of it occurring anymore. We would have missed that pivotal scene in his movie if he had done it.
My father’s funeral happened precisely one week after the wedding. Even though they didn’t know my father, a few guests at the wedding came. Being there gave us all the impression that we had become members of an elite club. A hearse drove down the M4 to take my father to Surrey. The idea of his going so far without any flowers was too much for Rachel to handle. She gathered every single white lily from the wedding and placed them all on his coffin. It was among the week’s most profoundly touching scenes.
I had bought a very fancy coffin in the middle of my grief, with no ostentatious details left out. As a result, it weighed a tonne and was enormous in size. I fervently argued that he should be carried to his last resting place instead of being driven by a loud trolley, which, considering my father’s past bad experiences, probably had a broken wheel similar to a neglected shopping trolley and would not have moved in the desired direction. One of the people supposed to carry the coffin at the funeral was ill, so his sixteen-year-old son was designated as a stand-in. The burial was set back from the road quite some distance. Not long later, the young guy began to sag under the weight of the hefty burden. Walking behind, I imagined the coffin colliding violently with the earth and my father’s corpse spilling out in a shower of broken pieces, like something out of an Ealing comedy. I thought that would have worked well with the strange plot of that week.
It was clear that my mind was in an odd place.We got together at my parents’ house for a tea party. Jonathan, my five-year-old nephew, once ran in carrying what seemed to be a dead frog. “He is dead!” he said, demanding that we provide him a proper and timely funeral. It is obvious that he still harbors resentment and finds it difficult to comprehend why he was left out of the morning’s activities. Our second funeral of the day was conducted by a few of us outside in the garden using a trowel to conduct a proper burial.
After half an hour, Jonathan stormed back into the room, yelling, “The frog! The frog!” Move quickly! Come with me! This time around, around twenty people made the trek to the little graveyard. Looking down, we could plainly see an outstretched hand and arm rising shakily from the early grave of the frog. Jonathan said, “I sincerely hope that Grandpa is truly deceased,” voicing the unspoken idea that had been on all of our thoughts as we watched in horror.
