MEMORIES OF VINCE
(Eulogy from Vince's Service - 25th Nov. 2004)

Now the truth can be told. The man we came to know as Vince Moran was not really Vince at all. His real name was Vivian James Moran, and he lived in Innisfail. We don't quite know what his parents had in mind when they christened him Vivian, but they were ahead of Johnny Cash and "A Boy Named Sue" by a whole generation. Even when a superstar cricketer called Viv Richards loped into the limelight in the eighties and nineties, Vince stuck to his adopted moniker. To us he was always Vince—until he also became known as "Big Vinnie". He was re-christened Big Vinnie by the Crawford mob, not only because of his size-- for which Phyllis can take a lot of the credit-- but because of his great heart. In what can only be termed a cut-throat business, Vince was unfailingly generous, polite, and considerate of others' feelings. He never had a bad word for anyone-- though he must have been sorely tempted at times. Hec used to refer to him as a true gentleman -- and there was no doubt he meant it. The rest of us got no such kudos.

The Crawford gang first met Vince on Friday, the 6th of August, 1971, when he arrived at Crawford-Senior in St Kilda. He'd come down from Sydney to participate in a seminar we were conducting to find new writers. Let's insert a short flashback here. It was always Hec's theory-- or one of his many theories-- that the number of shows we could produce was only restricted by the number of writers we could find. This is before the Australian Film and Television School or any other accredited film or TV training body was even dreamt of. If we wanted more writers, we had to track them down and train them ourselves. So we put an ad for screenwriters in the Saturday Australian and The Bulletin. We got 300 replies. Anne Stapleton read them all and made her recommendations. We whittled her list down to 25 and invited them to a weekend seminar in Melbourne. One of the 25 was Vince.

We spent the next two days teaching them everything we knew about plotting and writing police shows-- and had an hour or so left over on Sunday afternoon to have a drink with our bamboozled pupils-- before they were sent home to come up with a storyline. Their storylines were later assessed and eight were selected to go on and write a first draft script. One of the eight was Vince. From that eight four were chosen to go to second draft. One of the four was Vince.

Prior to launching our search for new writers, Hec had asked Tom Hegarty to analyse the most productive occupations from which to draw potential dramatists, and also at what age they were most likely to be able to adapt from "normal" life to the world of endless deadlines, crazy actors and dingdong directors. (The networks were the least of our worries back then.) It was a big ask and, from past performance, we knew fifty per cent fell at the first hurdle. There was no consistent pattern for drawing on previous occupations –they could be journalist, novelist, photo-engraver, cartoonist, school teacher or soap salesman-- but a clear pattern emerged for the age group. The optimum range was 28-32, with a few exceptions like John Dingwall and David Boutland-- who were both younger than the optimum. But this guy Vince was 45! And when Hec asked Tom what chance he thought Vince had given his age, Tom glibly replied-- based, of course, on his infallible statistics-- "Zero".
Fortunately Vince didn't know the odds stacked against him. It probably wouldn't have made any difference if he had. He'd gone from 300 contenders to four and was still in the ring. And he wasn't going to stop there. On the 31st of May, 1972, he signed a staff contract and stayed with Crawfords for the next twenty-three years. So much for the Hegarty statistics.

Vince wrote just about every Crawford show, from 21 episodes of Homicide through to Young Ramsay to All the Rivers Run to Flying Doctors and to The Feds. (His full credit list would take until Saturday night to get through.) The only notable exception was The Box -- too much the gentleman for that bawdy romp. He and Tom wrote a ninety-minute Homicide special together, which rated very well. Their next joint effort was the pilot for a program called Hotel Story for Channel Ten. Unfortunately, coinciding with commencement of production, a new head of Network Ten had been appointed. On his way from the States to take up his appointment, he was heard in Hawaii to say that Hotel Story would go to air over his dead body – though he'd not even read a script. So production was cancelled by Ten after only six episodes had been produced. The whole industry was up in arms against the extraordinary cancellation. Such was the industry anger that the female lead received a Logie, though it had never been to air, while one of Vince's episodes, "Reunion", won a 1978 AWGIE Award for Best Episode of a TV Series—again it had never been aired. Vince also won an AWGIE for Best Original Work for Children for an episode of Young Ramsay in the same year.

I don't mean to give the impression that Vince was without fault. He had the odd quirky habit. For at least ten years he used to turn up at every script-editing session wearing the same tie and possibly the same shirt: brown and green respectively. It wasn't poor dress sense, though a few may have raised that question. His explanation was: he'd worn the tie at his first editing session and it had bought him luck. So he wasn't going to take any chances from then on--that is, until the damned thing wore out.
And then there was his politics: he and Ian Jones were the only boardroom regulars who came from what might be called, and often was, the Genghis Kahn side of politics. There were endless debates at after-work drinks about representation in Federal Parliament. Vince firmly believed that the bigger electorates in Queensland should have two members each because they covered such large areas and had to travel, apparently on foot, huge distances. "Bugger one man, one vote!"

Then there was football. Every Friday night in the boardroom there was heated discussion about who'd win the next day. Teams and players were rubbished and had their manhood ridiculed, their parents' state of wedlock questioned. Insults were freely traded. Bets were made-- but rarely paid. Vince supported Carlton, and had a staunch ally in Marie Trevor, whereas Nigel Dick and Tom Hegarty supported Hawthorn. The rest, including moi, either ardently or prudently supported Collingwood -- the Chairman Hector's team. But Hec, for all his selling prowess and cunning wiles could never persuade Vince to switch to the Magpies. A demonstration of Vince's strength of character and loyalty as a team player – a Carlton team player.

And now, a thought from Peter Kinloch, who was unable to come from Queensland today, but was desperate to be a part of it.

"ODE TO BIG VINNIE"

Big Vinnie rode out from fair Innisfail,
Broad of shoulder and girth, a strapping young male
chasing a deadline that couldn't be tighter
to become his industry's leading scriptwriter.

Locals say he was bitten by a deadly taipan
the poor snake died, but not the great man
fit as a mallee bull, strong as a bullocky
Vinnie claimed descent from the Oirish king, mullocky.

His partner in crime was a young lass called Phyl.
Comely of looks, she worked with a will.
Daughter Marg rounded out the accomplished trio
they'd plunder the southland then set sail for Rio

The Morans hit Melbourne with an almighty bang
Vinnie threw in his lot with the old Crawford gang
joined Hec, the Ians, Tom, Terry and Henry
to create some of the greatest dramas in living mem'ry

Honours and accolades came thick and fast
they wondered how long such a good thing could last.
Well it didn't last long, dreams of greatness soon sank
out of sight when dear Marg up and married … a Yank!

Marg and Charlie hung the shingle in downtown Ballarat.
Between them they had general practice down pat
and before you know it, some offspring appear!
Phyl and Vinnie blessed with two grandsons to rear.

Clan Moran was thriving in the fullness of time
Phyl and Vinnie were ageing like the finest of wine.
Then Vince got the call, "settle up your affairs,
they're short of good writers in the network upstairs"

Dust rose in the heavens, hoofbeats made a great din
as a posse of angels began closing in
but that wily old trooper cared not a whilliker
"ye'll not take me till Jim's done his high school certifiker".

And the posse fell back, respecting his origins,
descended from mullocky and his gaelic denizens;
bitten by taipans, befriended by Hector,
"Boys, we'll wait this one out in the non-violent sector".

St. Pete at the pearlies had a question in hand
before Vinnie could travel that much-promised land.
He said, "son, can you tell me how great stories are born?"
Vince replied, "no worries, old mate, get 'em mowing the lawn".

"Phyllis, where's the two stroke?"

I'd like to say just a few words of my own:
When Vince started working with us, we were operating in the long narrow Olderfleet building in Collins Street, with full-length corridors, offices on either side. But the writers, of which there were many at that time, were given offices which had been halved in size – and my memory is we called them the writers' cubicles – a politically correct term for cupboards.
It's likely there's another corridor in heaven, cupboards on either side; for as John reported that Jesus said "Do not let your heart be troubled. In my Father's house there are many rooms. If it were not so I would have told you." The far-sighted Jesus was probably referring in particular to his Father's writers' wing, and I can imagine Vince, in writer's heaven, in his new, larger cubicle, his window now sparkling clean, the sun reaching in, lighting up Vince's typewriter as he beavers away finishing his latest script.
In the cubicle next to him I can see his marvellous friend Terry Stapleton, on the other side of him is his close mate Howard Griffiths, while on the opposite side of the corridor are dear old Monte Miller and the irrepressible Charlie Stamp, each in their own enlarged cubicles, hurrying to meet their deadlines. But it is truly a heaven made for writers -- no story editors to have to argue with, no script editors trying to change things occasionally for the better, usually for the worse, no directors or actors about to meddle with their scripts without their knowledge, although Dorothy Crawford, metaphorical whip in hand, prowls up and down the corridor making sure the boys' scripts are going to meet the heavenly schedule. And at the end of the day there'll be drinks and discussion in the boardroom with Hec and Dorothy, probably with Marie Trevor and John Dingwall, and maybe Glenda, Pat Forster and Di Howard. For any writer that would be heaven indeed.

Tom Hegarty said – those closest to Vince, Phyllis, Margaret, Charles, Jim and Bob, will miss him the most, and we extend our deepest, deepest sympathy to them. From wine merchant in Innisfail who wrote plays for amateur theatre, to one the most admired and respected writers in the television industry, with a career spanning more than twenty years, is a remarkable leap. It will never be repeated. But for those who knew him, his most impressive quality was not his unstinting work, nor his amazing work ethic, it was the quality of the man. It was who he was, who we all knew and loved, and will always remember.

Big Vinnie.