Roy Fowler is one of the luckiest writer, he was invited to join Bel Ami on location in the beautiful Greek island of Mykonos. He gave his impressions in a lengthy article “FLY ON THE WALL” for Mandate magazine special # 75 (Mandate presents BelAmi) with breathtaking photography by Benno Thoma.

Gallery

It’s nine o’clock on a May morning outside the Bel Ami garage in Bratislava. A passel of pulchritude piles into a fleet of limos for the drive to Vienna’s airport where it will enplane for the Greek island of Mykonos, chosen location for a forthcoming George Duroy production. On call is a selection of new generation models – Luke Hamill and Paul Valery (who recently had made a bit of a splash on the website), Alex Orioli and Manuel Rios, Hans Klee, Elias Kudrow and débuting boy Justin Boyd. Shepherding his charges and supervising the loading is Johan Paulik, the film-to-be’s production manager, general factotum and baby sitter. Johan famously was an early principal star of the long and remarkable Bel Ami saga but now works strictly behind the scenes.

He and I share a car with two other original company stalwarts, Marty Stevens, director and senior video/stills cameraman, and Mel Roberts, who will be wearing his several hats but functioning mainly as director/cameraman/editor of the documentary that will chronicle the trip. Marty, ever quiet and calm, his eye on the job, will this time be videoing in widescreen and high definition. George went ahead a few days ago to suss out the location and several more crew already have left to drive straight through with equipment and props, a long, tedious, demanding journey for them.

For us it’s an uneventful flight down to Athens. Luke is my seat companion, a gangly, blue-eyed Czech blond. He’s a friendly and composed lad, eager to improve his self-taught English (so many of these boys skived off at school and now regret it) which we practice mainly around the topic of cell phones. He’s poring over a thick magazine listing hundreds of examples which appear to do everything including, I wouldn’t be surprised, haircuts. For an ancient like me they’re a plague but for his generation of which he is typical any latest gizmo becomes a mandatory toy.

Luke tells me his ambitions extend beyond modelling and he’s on the Bel Ami payroll as a trainer and as a runner for George, on call twenty-four hours a day. This is the first of several flirtatious get-togethers during the two weeks that follow and he surprises me when, during one of our occasional English lessons, he draws a parallel with the ritualized pederasty of ancient Greece when boys were mentored by their elders. It’s been a while since I was erastes to such a choice erômenos and I’m not complaining.

We suffer a wearisome three hour stopover in Athens’ new but unimpressive and poorly designed airport, passing the time wandering around the shops, drinking coffee, making phone calls (what else?), kibitzing. I notice that Alex and Manuel, a handsome couple invariably to be found together, have been engaged in conversation by a black fellow traveller. Since they both have very little English it’s clearly one-sided but they pose for the requested photographs with a smile. I assume they have been recognized as Bel Ami boys but, no, he shows them pictures of his family in Gabon and off he goes. Never did get to the bottom of that.

At last we board for the short final hop to the island on a plane that has seen better and cleaner days. Now we know where old turbo-props go to die! Mykonos at last: is it to be our enchanted isle? At the bijou airport we are met by a buffeting wind and the overlanders – Sebastian Bonnet, Adrian Kinski, and Eli Rogers (in the main production assistants but pitching in for whatever needs to be done), together with Mark Russos, second principal camera.

Sebastian is all they say of him and more, he grows younger by the day; is there a picture of him stashed away up there in his attic? Adrian can look glum and disapproving but eventually a smile breaks across his handsome face. It strikes me he and Sebastian could be brothers and, indeed, they are as close as. Eli is new to me and I need to get to know him better. Mark is what’s known as a character; piss artist extraordinaire, jack-of-all-trades, a man of infinite resource. He fixed my spectacles when they broke. (They came apart again the next day.)

They have already settled into base behind the gates of the Geranium Hotel which George has taken over for the duration of the shoot. It sits atop a crest above the town, bordering a murderous ring road that all but saw my end, sprawling, white, very attractive, gay and proud of it, part of the pinkotel.com confederation. Everyone now settles down in the lobby for George’s lengthy indoctrinal briefing. This complex and sometimes difficult man, our Prospero, is always in command of a situation: I’ve known him for many years but have never seen him fazed or flummoxed, no matter the provocation. For me, having little Slovak or its sister Czech, his address remains a mystery but cast and crew respond appreciatively with smiles and chuckles. This is a happy family listening to Big Daddy, a heap of Ferdinands with nary a single Miranda.

But, worryingly, there are some ominous signs. The foliage outside bends in the breeze and, given our presence on this legendary isle, an analogy has already taken shape in my mind. It’s not quite Act One of Shakespeare’s Tempest (Blow, till thou burst thy wind!) but we’ve all packed for sizzling days and sultry nights and there’s little enchantment so far here; it’s heavy sweater weather. That’s for sure the next morning when, one by one and two by two, we gather at the pool for breakfast and it is co-o-o-ld! Not typical, we are assured, but I wonder. What else can they say?

For George it’s nuisance time plus. He must toss out his mental notes and refigure. George plans long term and in his mind and already in work is a major trilogy, his chef d’oeuvre, his biggest yet, some scenes for which were to be shot here. For the rest another full release featuring Luke and Paul was intended but given the jinxed weather that now seems unlikely. As an old Hollywood hack I chatter on about weather insurance but am silenced with a baleful stare.

Working on any location one is at many mercies and improvisation has to be the game’s name. A reconfiguration of the hotel lobby is rapidly sketched out, a car is summoned, a local fabric and furnishings shop is plundered of its
array of pastel materials and cushions, the modular upholstered couches are rearranged to form a smart sex pit and scattered with the colourful coverings, a few extra items are dressed in, the scene is set. Episode # 1 is underway, Alex and Luke the players.

To confirm, it certainly seems as if the weather is not going to be kind to us on this trip. A cold Aegean wind continues to numb and it’s far too chilly for any exterior work. Already the schedule is slipping so during a long evening conference, wrapped up warmly on the terrace with a beaker or two, alternative plans are devised. Work in Mykonos on both George’s long-term project and the new feature is largely jettisoned and a decision taken to concentrate primarily on material for the Bel Ami website. That done, for a nightcap, Mark produces a bottle of Borovicka (by any other name it’s gin) and a solicitous Luke escorts me to my bedroom and a goodnight kiss. Yes, Scarlett, you’re right, tomorrow is another day.

And, surprise, surprise, it is raining. The hotel lobby is consequently turned about again for the second chapter, this time it’s a prime one with Luke and Paul. A hefty bed is trundled out and strewn with one of those blinding trademark Bel Ami duvets. We’re living off the land and dressed in are some objets trouvés, including a massive fabricated tropical plant that George has unearthed in the town and, something dear to his heart, a Buddha’s head. Everyone pitches in; even the Maestro totes props around. (When this footage is cut together these simple but cleverly contrived backgrounds will be convincing as stylish room interiors; similarly so with another energetic episode later filmed with Troy Allen and Joel d’Amici in the revamped pool house.)

The unit settles in for the day’s hard work and Luke, the company Ariel, usually a busily flitting bee, lies back in all his quality ready to be skewered (thinking doubtless of Ceska). I exclude myself from the naughty bits. Extraneous people are like a spare prick at a wedding, a redundant distraction and an intrusion, and anyway an afternoon watching limbs being rearranged for the old in/out is singularly non-erotic, so instead I sit quietly reading on my adjacent terrace. But suddenly there’s a commotion and a blubbering Paul Valery descends on me. He’s what’s called tired and emotional, babbling away about “shit happens” (his favourite phrase). His tears are wiped away with a length of toilet roll, I comfort him with vapid words, and away he goes still blubbing. I learn later from George that he had been sent off to prepare himself for the scene but, whatever his reasons, took to the bottle and could not perform. George is not amused but is tolerant. It’s all in a day’s work and the show must go on. The scene is made good the next day.

An extramural photographer is with the company and is sometimes joshed for his parsimony. I rue the costly dinner I gave him for any indebtedness of mine, even in Starbucks, he always calculates down to the last euro cent. But he’s a good photographer, engaged here on a couple of tasks. Alexander Georgiev, the Geranium’s manager, has commissioned him for a series of panel photographs that will decorate the bedroom walls. He’s also amassing shots for a future book to feature Bel Ami models on their various journeys around the world, and he’s obliging some of the models by knocking off a few fashion shots to satisfy the curiosity of parents and partners.

He has an eye for seeking out photogenic nooks, crannies and vistas around the place and then with the models in natural light working wonders in them. The book undoubtedly will be handsome and impressive. It becomes routine to be invited to a showcasing of the day’s work as he proudly and enthusiastically twiddles his laptop’s knobs to crop and edit and adjust and talk about money and his lavish new house.

The first three days pass and mercifully the weather begins to break. I’m always first down to the pool for breakfast and to greet the day. Having hoarded a CD of Brokeback Mountain’s lambent soundtrack, intended for a friend in Bratislava, it seemed to suit the setting so each morning it becomes our play-in music. The pool is large and very attractive but I’m intrigued by a curious, lazily circling device on its surface, which looks to me to be extra-terrestrial. I worry, with all else going on, one day we’ll turn up to find its spawn have taken over and are busily munching their way through our cluster of nubile charmers. (No, it never happened.)

The sun climbs and warms and the poolside mattresses begin to be decorated with naked bodies in the quest for a perfect tan. (I’m reminded of Key West, many years ago, when only on the good days would a bunch of camp and twittering young sailors appear at Tennessee Williams’ house. If it rained, forget it! My Fair Weather Queens, he called them.)

That’s not a Muslim at prayer – it’s Hans Klee browning, if that’s the word, a fundamental crevice. Bottoms up! The boys are a sociable lot and very well behaved. George declares that as a group they’re the least troublesome he’s ever taken away, a judgment due possibly for revision on the last night. They’ve been provided with those dinky four-wheel power bikes and when not on call off they zoom to engage with Mykonos’ nocturnal delights, whatever they may be. I don’t ask, but one or two of them can look distinctly ropey the morning after. My only distress is to see so many of them smoke, some to idiot excess, and then there’s the matter of baseball caps worn backwards. Do we never learn?

Only breakfast is available at the hotel, when each day it’s the rallying point for individual tasks to be parcelled out by George. Thereafter we seek our sustenance all over. A useful taverna is close by (more Greek salads) and it serves as our canteen failing any more social engagement. George is a trencherman and to see him is to know how much he enjoys his food: evenings he and I explore a few of the island’s more classy (and pricy) venues, and he also treats the company to a couple of comradely get-togethers. Otherwise the crew generally eats together whilst the cast settles into its own combinations.

Mykonos is the quintessential tourist trap, expensive and plastic, fit for the massive cruise ships that tie up for a day whilst their passengers tramp the narrow alleyways in search of something cute. The number of boutiques is astounding – all selling similar high-priced labelled clobber and other tat. When Troy Allen (a later arrival) said he had to go buy a couple of tee shirts for his partner back home it seemed only helpful to point out that in Bratislava identical stuff was one quarter the price and it was all made in China anyway. I rate Troy highly, he’s a living delight, but I have to tell you he did not take my fashion advice. All the lads love their labels.

Johan is ubiquitous. Wherever one goes on the site one is likely to encounter him, recording through his viewfinder a world in part he has helped to make. I love him dearly having watched him grow from fledgling to maturity, sweet and sassy, feet on the ground save when motorbikes are involved. Anything and everything is grist to his website Journal’s mill; he’s the Jane Austen and Elsa Maxwell of Bel Ami.

A week into our stay there’s new interest as he’s off to the airport to collect three additions to the cast – the luscious Troy, Greek god passing as Czech student (or is he our Ferdinand?), Joel d’Amici, another tall and elegant student, very intelligent, speaking excellent English, and Ben Keaton. Ben appears to be a tiny toughie, another smoker, tattooed, lip curled, expert at construction. At first he seems sullen and reserved but turns out to belie his image, he’s not as butch as he looks.

So let’s proceed to our onions. All save your correspondent, a ghost at the feast, are on the island for a simple and single purpose, the production of some superior erotica. Indeed, or so we are told, the day after our arrival the gay bush telegraph had already passed the word, Bel Ami is at the Geranium making porn. One gathers a certain amount of hissing was involved.

It’s unfortunate but eventually, with all the problems, relations with the hotel begin to fray around the edges. A film unit on a finite schedule has to be very single-minded. Yet it’s surprising, given the multiplicity of activity, how quiet things can be. The crew members have worked together in harmony for years; with few exceptions each has experience on both sides of the camera so they know the ropes. They’re also multi-faceted and can double and triple on disciplines as required. George runs a tight ship and having detailed his imagination’s well plotted scenarios he now delegates much of the doing, making sure the while he knows exactly what’s going on. This is direction by indirection as he pads around the various production areas, current abstruse reading always in his hand. Major inscribed signature work is, of course, under his personal command for that is where the Duroy touch, often imitated, never replicated, comes in.

One way and another, despite the lousy weather, a huge amount of material is recorded and stockpiled. I’ll avoid too much descriptive detail since the when and where of ultimate usage is not always certain and, anyway, there’s a long lead time in post before everything is readied, but here’s a sketchy idea of what was shot and brought back to the editing suites. What’s past is prologue, you might say.

A lot certainly went on. I’ve mentioned the kick-off with Luke and Alex, starting with a touch of the orals by the pool and then the sequel in the lobby: also the Paul/Luke get together that was briefly interrupted but later completed without further problems. Troy bottomed for Joel in a memorable encounter also down by the pool, and this is likely to be a classic: they certainly were both smiling when they were through with it. These are major sequences in the full Bel Ami tradition. Less ambitious, perhaps, were the two scenes shot at a villa outside the town, the one with Hans Klee and Paul Valery, another with Troy, Hans and Paul mixing it together.

Meanwhile, as they say, in the hotel’s rooms, at the distant villa, and around the lot, Johan was shooting material for six more of his Journal entries, the casts as follows: Alex & Manuel/Elias & Justin/Eli, Manuel & Sebastian/ Elias & Hans/ Ben & Justin/ Luke & Ben. Cute little Justin deserves a special mention: the prideful possessor of a world class derriere he’s a smiler, eager to learn, very much the new boy gaining daily in experience. He’s sharing a room with Luke who confides to me with a glint that not only sleeping goes on up there. O brave new world!

Marty concurrently was also finding time for some photo sessions, taking stills to be used on box covers and as promotions, and this more or less is what the Bratislava crew accomplished. Mel Roberts, who is based in Prague, in addition shot some seventeen hours of video footage for trimming down to a documentary length, including four photo and video sessions with all the principals. His digital photographic manipulations from this material are stunning, real exhibition works of art.

So that’s the aptly named raw footage in the can. At this stage whatever is fashioned from it, how and where ultimately you’ll get to see it, is in the future but sooner or later you’ll be finding out from the Bel Ami website. Stay with it.

Now does my project gather to a head. An end of term feeling is gently setting in; it’s time to reflect. George and I share wavelengths and we enjoy long conversations together, debating just about everything. He has been contemplating his past but in shifting circumstances is more concerned to analyse an unpredictable future, knowing it’s time to formulate significant and innovative plans for his company. For the rest, he seeks the verities and is not happy with this world.

Joel and I want to round out our stay with a quick trip to Delos, the smallest of the Cyclades, a remarkable islet close by that in antiquity was a focus of Greek civilization and worship. It’s our fancy to pay our respects to Apollo who possessed a keen eye for a pretty boy and whose birthplace in myth it was. (George shot there a few years ago during the Greek Holiday expeditions but that uncompleted footage remains in the vault.) We race down to the harbour in time for the ten o’clock boat. They’re painting it. Never on a Monday does it sail! Next morning instead we aim for the eleven o’clock. It left at ten and that was it for the day and our stay. Apologies Apollo, we tried!

So, the end is nigh. When comforting Paul on his difficult day I’d assured him that all shall and does pass, and so it has. Our time on this not-so-magic isle is drawing to its close and now I’m feeling like Prospero. Perhaps a few regrets will linger but we’re really content to pack and head back to routine familiarities. Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe.

At the Magic Garden, a favoured restaurant in the town, George in absentia hosts the last supper (he wants to relax and take stock). The indefatigable Johan circulates with his camera, immortalizing a genial culmination to the fortnight. Everyone else pops away with a digital something or other; it’s an apt occasion for those phenomenal phones.

Our temperate gathering breaks up fairly early. Two or three of the hardier specimens wander off to make a night of it but most of us cab it back up the hill – enough is enough. Our plane leaves at seven in the morning while the overlanders, gear already loaded, must catch the late ferry.

There’s one final slice of drama and I missed it. At 5am. I drag my suitcase from my slightly off-campus suite to the main complex to learn that, last night, Paul set the hotel on fire and it could have been a total disaster. Despite our communal nosh he later wanted more but fixing himself some chicken in the apartment he shared he forgot to switch off the oven which eventually went up in flames. Paul previously had told me of his ambition to become a wealth management advisor. Judging from his accomplishments on this trip any clients would soon find themselves heavily into breweries and fire insurance. But, good luck to him! (I think he’ll need it.)

“And so we say farewell . . .” as those ancient travelogues once intoned. Remember? No, you’re all far too young. At daybreak the cabs arrive and somnolently we clamber in. Alex of the hotel is there for the keys and a tight-lipped adieu. Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that’s gone. We’re off.

Before you know it the clapped-out turbo-prop is rattling up, up and away. Athens airport seems no better organized than it was a couple of weeks ago. On the main leg of the flight George is turning the last few pages of his book; Johan and I are side by side but he’s catching up on sleep, dreaming of his darling boy; dainty Ariel, my tutee ephebe, is across the aisle from us being noisily social. Our flirtations are concluded and I reflect, putting all thoughts of civil partnership aside, that braying laugh would be absolute hell to live with. Our revels now are ended and we leave not a rack behind.

George’s car is waiting at Schwechat to drive us back to a damp Bratislava and by midday we’re there. It’s a wrap, this insubstantial pageant faded.

Royko (July 23, 2006)

[via Johan's Journal]