Remembering Windmill
The first real job I ever had, my longest single place of employment and half my lifetime ago, and the impact that it still has on me.
The thing about working in Windmill Lane was that it was never as good as it was before you started. Or at least, that’s what they always told you.
I began working there in September 2004, mere months after the closure of Dockers Pub on Sir John Rogerson’s Quay (Dockers has since re-opened, but that’s another days story…) and so I was constantly reminded of the fact that I was never really a proper Windmill person because I hadn’t been to Dockers. I joined, therefor, at a time of rebirth and discovery, as Friday nights were spent trying to find new pubs to house us; flitting from O’Neils on Pearse St to the Ginger Man via Neds on Shaw St (now a glass-rimmed Travelodge) I learned how to deal with not having much money on a night out. I would arrive at the pub and order a giant platter of food; €18; including cocktail sausages, chicken goujons and wedges, for the whole team, “Jesus, Shane, you really shouldn’t have. Next pint on me.” I wouldn’t pay for another pint all night. Even still, it was never as good as Dockers.
The old Windmill Lane will be spoken of wistfully by editors for years to come but in many ways it really shouldn’t have worked . Located on the absolute edge of the blast radius of where you might conceivably venture in Dublin at the time (this was long before Grand Canal Dock played host to Google and Facebook was a mere twinkle in Bebo’s eye) On weekends you would often see pilgrimages of bewildered Americans clinging together outside the gates as some junkie took a shit in the abandoned doorway “are yisser lookin for U2, are yis?” One Saturday I was conforming an episode of Family Silver in Online 1 (on the first floor) when a graffiti artist shimmied past the window, peered in and shouted down to his mates “here, there’s someone in here!” before shimmying back again. Another time I was leaving on a Sunday afternoon, heard the familiar clickity-clack of paint cans to look over and see a family of four; mother, father and two kids; all dressed in their Sunday best, giving the kids a go at the old spray painting like they were teaching them to ride a bike for the first time.
Windmill itself was a warren of jailbroken industrial buildings that looked like they had been bored out of the old factory units by a drunken badger; little steps and stairs up and down, to the left and right. James Morris’ office was buried right at the back like he’d gotten as far as he could and then just given up. There were bricked up windows used as shelf spaces and sleek modern appendages attached to aging granite membranes. It was always too cold in the winter and god forbid you worked in Avid 4, 5 or 6 on a hot summer day.
Down on the ground floor, in behind reception was Number 4, Paddy Gibbons mixing desk and a small studio space, the last remaining slice of what had once been the Windmill Lane recording studio. Bono, coming in one Saturday to watch a music video which Tony Kearns was cutting, commented politely to Laura on reception “Do you know we recorded some of our earlier stuff in that room back there?” “Oh yeah?” replied Laura (like she hadn’t been told that a million times before)
The heart of the building was a spiral staircase that wound its way all the way up to the top floor client area. One time a runner, fresh faced and on their first week on the job, tipped a water cooler bottle from the top floor, spilling 25 litres of fresh still water Ballygowen down through every floor of the building. Right in the centre was the production office, where Tim,Therese and Emer, Jess, Jen and Dave Quinn could be found. On Friday afternoons, if it was quiet enough, they would do Pictionary on the white board. Therese was particularly bad at this game, once drawing a picture of a woman with a skirt. “How is that supposed to be The Birds?!” Lee screamed after time ran out “Tippi Hedren wore the best costumes!” was Therese’s reply. Once I made the mistake of naively asking Dave Quinn “Which is bigger, Windmill or Screen Scene?” His face went purple with rage and Jess Felton quietly ushered me out of the room before he had a chance to explode.
Night shift was where I came into my element as I had full run of the building. I knew the best couch for sleeping on (Avid 1), quietest room for sleeping in (Flame Suite), best place for 2am sweets and chocolates (that little room behind Number 4 reception where Deborah kept all the snacks) Once I set up every digi-deck in CAR to digitise into every Avid in the building and did 20 hours of footage in 2 1/2 hours. I learned to maximise my £16 dinner order by getting a coke, large pepperoni pizza and a tub of Häagen-Dazs ice cream for exactly £16 (back when I had the constitution for coke, pepperoni pizza and a tub of Häagen-Dazs five days a week) or a #10 from Chilli Club. At one stage I did so many night shifts that I must have known half of the taxi drivers in Dublin. On one particularly wet Friday night out, a bunch of us finally managed to hail a cab “Aww, howaya Shane!” The guy knew me by name. Iseult Howlett just looked at me “You really need to work less!”
I would go over to Ciaran in the library and take out Shots Magazines and DVDs. I would watch commercials made in Framestore and Molinaire and The Mill in London. Dave Dillon, who now lived in London, and I met up one time when I was over and he gave me a tour of Soho. He showed me Soho Square with its 20th Century Fox building and Doldy screening rooms and headquarters of The Farm. It all seemed so exotic and I dreamed of working there some day.
My leaving Windmill Lane wasn’t very well thought out or planned. An opportunity came up for me and I had to move on quite quickly. In the end I only worked in Windmill Lane for 3 1/2 years and that was half my lifetime ago. But the impact on my outlook, my work ethic and my approach to the industry was established behind those thick graffitied walls.
I did do some work on a freelance basis in the year prior to moving to London in 2011, by which time Windmill had moved to a new facility in Herbert Lane. It was so nice to work there again, although I wasted no time in telling everyone who would listen of the fact that they were never really a proper Windmill person if they hadn’t worked in Old Windmill. The film and television industry is a fickle, ever-changing landscape. Post-production facilities merge, split, rebrand and merge again all the time. Very little remains constant. No matter what changed, there was always a comfort in the fact that there would always be a Windmill Lane.
On Thursday, 9th January, Windmill Lane Pictures announced that it would be ceasing trading, with immediate effect. My heart goes out to everyone who worked there, many of whom were the same people that I worked with 20 years ago. Windmill’s loss will leave a scar on Dublin that will take some time to heal.