-•✦--✦--✦•-
Wednesday, May 5th, 1999 — Thoresby Hall, Newark
Standing in a familiar darkness, I did another familiar action. I put on the skin of Pip. Only a few days had passed since I'd last been Pip, yet I found it more difficult than before I'd gone off to New York. It didn't help that I was grumbling all morning and even now my mood was as dark as the room I was in. Turns out messing with the timeline by hopping time zones wasn't that great for my circadian rhythm. I'd tossed and turned as I failed to get myself to sleep — by the time I finally lost consciousness, my Nain was already shaking me awake. Time was messing with me, all right.
Mum had left for Chester, but our lodge didn't miss out on lodgers with the coming of a long-awaited guest. Unfortunately, we barely even exchanged greetings before I was out the door for my tutoring session.
There was a lot that I needed to make up for.
"ACTION!" Julian called out.
Opening the heavy blue door, I walked out in a defeated fashion. Last time we filmed here, I'd nailed it in one take. But today, I wasn't as hopeful.
This grumpy mood of mine seemed perfect for this particular scene, so I didn't even bother to clear away my tiredness with a morning cuppa. Holding onto the rope belt on my waist, I walked out like a boy whose world had been turned upside down. Such was the case for Pip, who'd been apprenticed to his good brother Joe Gargery and told to never harken the doors of the Satis House again. Worst of all, Estella was to leave for a lady's training somewhere abroad. That word seemed as foreign as the lands that she'd leave off for to a boy whose farthest travel out had been to the coast which was only a few miles off the smithy itself. While Estella was training to be a lady, Pip was to hammer iron for bits when folks ought to pay bobs.
Black iron and bleak future awaited me.
Gentlemanly sponsorship was out of reach, as was the girl who Pip had fallen for. I'd failed to obtain the favour of Miss Havisham and a life of mediocrity was to be my punishment. I was always afraid of such a mediocre life, for I'd been gifted with revelations, life of mediocrity was a nightmare. So if my performance today would be better than my usual work, I'd trust that it was the true emotions that did the job.
The overcast skies seemed to reflect my mood.
I had to shield my eyes from the brightness of it, for even the overcast sky seemed to mock me for deigning to look upon it. Truth may be that I was in a dark room moments before but it was great to think in character. So, my head bobbed down to look at the ground. The mood in my mind and the tiredness of my body made it hard to lift my head. This was to be the norm for Pip, the common living was low living. I'd trudge through the mud while Estella sailed the sea in her frilly dresses on paddle steamers.
"Hello, young fellow! Who let you in?" asked a boy.
He was taller than me by a head and dressed a lot better than I was. After all, a blacksmith's wife's orphan brother-in-law's Sunday best was much too threadbare for the genteel sort. The way the boy asked the question made my blood boil too — as if I was some street dog that'd been let in, as if I didn't belong here. Then I remembered the words. Miss Havisham had forbid me from visiting. I'd forgotten. Bother, it was a rotten old shack anyway.
Words escaped my mouth with more bite than I intended to.
"It doesn't matter who let me in, I was sent for and now I'm leaving!"
I walked away, hiding my angry face, my tail tucked between my legs. Dog I was, dog I would leave like. I tasted bile in my mouth.
"Didn't she take a fancy into you then?" the older boy pressed on.
My legs came to a jarring halt as if a snare caught me. Turning around, I demanded an answer. Estella's face flashed through my mind. Confusion and jealousy fought for domination.
"Who?" I blurted out.
"Miss Havisham — I'm on trial too. My father's her cousin," the older boy said casually.
I felt myself relax on hearing it wasn't Estella's fancy that he was after. But learning that Miss Havisham had called for another boy before I'd even left the grounds was just as infuriating. I was a roadside stone that'd been picked up for a moment's fancy and thrown away without second thought.
"I've no more business in this house. Excuse me," I said, walking away as fast as possible without being considered wholly rude.
This place had nothing left for me. I was to be a blacksmith. That sealed it.
My heart would be as black as the iron I would beat on.
"Oh yes you do! Come and fight," the boy said, tugging at my shoulder.
"Fight?" I asked, confusion evident on my face.
I eyed the boy again — he was dressed as the genteel man's son he claimed to be. A pristine white shirt, proper necktie, cotton vest and a jacket that was the right size for him. For comparison, all my clothes were at least two sizes too big for me and my necktie was the nicest rag that sister sewed and tied around my collar. Miss Havisham's nephew was from a rich household and this sort of duel seemed much too bold and too beneath a boy of his station.
"Come to the grounds. Regular rules and we'll go through the preliminaries," he explained even as he walked away.
Perhaps even the gentle sort needed a scrap or two at times.
"Cut!" Julian said, running over to provide feedback and direction.
Wilfred Price the actor had to tread carefully for at least a few days. After all, I'd come awfully close to messing up the schedule on his stripboard. Thankfully, Julian was quick to compliment my acting as Pip and I was able to relax a tiny bit. I'd have to be careful, but if I kept nailing my scenes, perhaps he'd forget my lateness.
Larry received simple direction about his marks and more about his expressions. I thought him as acting a bit too stiff, yet Julian complimented Larry for his stiffness because it captured the character of Herbert. The story went that the boy was doing his best at impressing Miss Havisham. Much like Pip was told by his sister to charm the woman, Herbert's father had done the same with him. If the stiffness was any measure, Herbert's father may be a harsher educator than Pip's sister. It almost made me shudder to think.
The best bit of advice came from Estella, who was standing a short distance away, watching us perform our roles alongside our families. She'd brought up a comment about Julian's hand placement — a very simple observation that started Julian on a long tirade of direction for Larry. He was so overwhelmed with the direction that I almost wrote him as a lost cause for the day. But after only a few attempts, he had it down pat.
I'd formed the habit of keeping my hands on my jacket lapel or about chest-high with both arms, and even around my belt loop. Something that gentlemen of the time did and Pip tried his best to copy. It was essentially the posh way of putting your hands in your pockets. The rich had to invent something new in order to do ungentlemanly things with dignity. The entitlement was astounding.
These were mannerisms that I'd added to the character profile of Pip and did without conscious thought these days. Larry was tasked to learn it within a few minutes and use it in a believable way.
Larry's gait was smoothed out in some parts and stiffened in others as per Julian's direction. This was Larry's only sequence in the film and it was an introduction for a character that would play a bigger role later on in the story. There went a lot more thinking into this than the final audience would ever imagine. Larry's walk, speech, mannerisms — it had to give off an impression about a nervous, smart, loyal, awkward and fair sort of child. A task made difficult from the need to tell it in such a short scene.
Larry walked with his chest puffed up, elbows swinging with each stride, with his hands grasping his lapel. His legs were wooden, as if he had a stick up his arse — don't blame me for the description, because that was the direction Julian gave. Ultimately, Larry was portraying a bookish rich child with just enough ridiculousness to be funny and endearing.
Three takes it took for Larry to nail his scene completely. I did my best in playing the scene exactly as I did the first time around. Larry had a bright smile after every take, but when the print was finally called, his smile was replaced by disappointment. I could understand what Larry might be thinking. He wanted to be on screen more — he had the bug that every actor seemed to struggle with.
My acting teacher Georgie always said something about screen acting. Not that she'd done much of it, but she'd attended a class with a famous actor and that person had left an impression on her.
"Camera loves every actor, but you must never love it back," Georgie would often say.
That was a lesson in never looking at the camera, but it was a great saying for those who had the bug. They wanted, no needed to have the camera always pointed at them. On the set of Tea with Mussolini, I'd seen it happen often enough. The actress who played the role of Luca's stepmother had only one scene to her name and she made sure to milk it as much as possible. Too often actors went above and beyond to get the camera staying on them for longer. It was something I couldn't hate, as long as they never messed up on purpose.
Larry would soon have the camera set on him. Hopefully he'd get over his bug.
—✦—
The grounds we were to fight in were the least derelict area of Satis House, for it had not been used for filming other than appearing once as a background. The production didn't love the area because it was cared for and the construction — or rather the destruction — of the animal stalls had not reached here just yet. The two of us fist-fighting legends were surrounded by dour-faced men who looked about ready to start a fistfight of their own. Gordon, the stuntman, stood far away where my family was standing. He'd been trying but had not gotten a word in edgeways when the director planned out the shot. Gordon looked particularly sad. It was even sadder that the only two people who took notice were his two temporary pupils.
"Isn't he the stunt guy? Shouldn't they ask him how it's all done?" Larry whispered beside me.
He was referring to the problem that Julian was having with our cinematographer for the last hour. David Odd had made a name and career out of shooting period films and series all over England, Scotland and Wales. He was exceptional at shooting well-blocked scenes with the precision and smoothness it required. What he wasn't good at was action scenes, for all of his prior action scenes involved musket fights from a wide shot. He'd been complaining about the shot list all morning and he'd exploded at Julian a few times for calling his shots for what it was. It was quite bad.
"It's his first project. They wouldn't ask you on how Herbert should be acted because you've only got a day's scene. Julian's been directing you to act like how Daniel's been acting." I explained.
"Who's Daniel?" Larry asked.
"He's you, but older. He went away after filming in Kent, won't be back until the adults go to Edinburgh for his main scenes."
"Oh, still… it doesn't seem so fair," Larry complained.
I shrugged helplessly even though I agreed with him completely.
The way that Gordon had worked his camcorder and showed us how the scenes actually looked was a lesson I'd not forget. Practical lessons could explain so much that theory could never fully put to words. It may be Gordon's first film project, but he was so passionate about his work. He was a chatterbox and funny to boot, though that might just be me reacting to a Scouser rattling off names like Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan and many Hong Kong actors who were copying action choreography from the best. Often it felt like he was speaking gibberish with the foreign names or unfamiliar jargon he used, but it only highlighted his passion.
David Odd waved his arms, Julian tried to bring him closer to whisper harsh words into his ears without making too much of a scene. Then the arguing stopped just long enough for Julian to say, "Right, we'll shoot with the kids instead of the stand-ins. Perhaps it'll work…"
We were off to shooting immediately. Larry started his scene exceptionally well. We'd workshopped it all day yesterday on how this scene should go. The stacking portion we'd practised heaps, but there were two important things that Larry had to do for his acting part of the job.
Larry's eyes met mine — there was no longer the danger that I felt from him yesterday. No, in our previous scene Julian gave a direction about Larry's character and the lesson stuck deeper than he'd intended. Larry was applying it even now to make himself appear more nerdy and over his head with what he was about to do. Herbert rolled up his sleeves, puffed up his chest and started to do ridiculous stretches. Some might call it bad acting, but it worked to build a character while also making it more believable that I could defeat the taller boy. He was a natural.
"One, two, three, four!" Herbert said, his hair flapping around or drooping down as he stretched up, down and sideways.
He then circled his arms, shoulders first, going to elbows and wrists.
"Five, six, seven, eight!" he called out, somehow sounding out of breath already.
If I wasn't using my method, I may have burst out laughing. Larry could do a good job as a comedian, surely. Outwardly, I displayed Pip's face — half taken aback, which was easy, and half in shocking realisation that Herbert was a complete fool. It was just the sort of thing that seemed to contrast Pip the blacksmith's apprentice and Herbert the future gentleman. We were of two different worlds, for I'd been scrapping for real with the village kids. Pip had lived a rough life — orphans had it hard. I'd spent some time visiting Miss Havisham and Estella to form some understanding of nobility. Herbert, as most gentle folk did, read adventure stories of brave nobles who threw gloves at each other for some perceived slight, then showed up at the agreed place before calling it quits. For the gentle sort, the appearance of bravery was more important than the real skill or outcome of fighting. They probably gave each other compliments after showing up to the duel and became friends after. It was sort of a social currency that they exchanged.
It was different for Pip — a fight happened where the two boys first exchanged their unpleasant words. The fight didn't end until a clear winner emerged and the only compliment would be for the winner. Though, I suppose social currency was still exchanged even in our scraps. Maybe we weren't too different, him and I.
Larry played his role to perfection as he kept up the funny face, threw bad punches and held a worse martial stance. Looking at that short act, I was sure that Laurence would go on to have a long career. He was not Estella, but this was his first role and he was soaking up the direction like a sponge. Perhaps he'd be as good as her if he had worked on as many sets.
Herbert threw a few punches as I looked at him with pity. He stopped his posturing and seemed to think things over. Perhaps he didn't want a real scrap. Perhaps this was the part where he'd give Pip a compliment for showing up to the duel and displaying the valour of bravery. I was proven wrong.
"Hang on, you ought to have a reason," Herbert declared, stepping up close into my personal space.
His hands went up, palms wide, wrists loose. Suddenly his hands shot towards my cheek. I stacked the slap subtly even though it never connected with my cheek. I imagined the dainty slap hitting my cheeks. It was a weak slap when compared to Sister's stinging slaps, but the shock of it had me lose my balance for a moment. Before I could bring forth the emotions necessary for the scene, Julian stopped us.
"Cut!"
He was under an umbrella, watching the monitors closely for this one, as he had no trust in David for the action sequences. David was instantly unhappy about the cut and started to rattle off curses. I couldn't believe it because we were going to cut anyway and would have to switch the setup for the close shots. The argument started over as fiercely as ever, with Julian pointing at the monitor, highlighting exactly what was wrong with it. David, of course, had a whole load to say about what he thought of that.
I tried to steal a peek at the monitors. Our budget had been pretty good and so we had a VCR hooked up to the camera to capture a low-resolution picture of what the viewfinder saw. I noticed that the angle David shot at wasn't quite right to eliminate the distance between me and Larry. We didn't look like we were on top of each other. In fact, we looked a mile away from the high angle that showed our knees and — worst of all — the ground where our feet were planted.
The crew all around us grew eerily silent as they tried to hear every curse exchanged between the two men. I took notice of some folk with laughter ready on their faces, while some were worried about their jobs. Chatter rippled across the set as a man in dark sunglasses cut through the sea of crew. This was the other David — the one with real authority. He wasn't alone. At his side walked a heavyset woman in her fifties, grey hair set neatly, pearls resting at her throat.
I hadn't seen her before. But David hadn't shifted the temperature of a room just by walking in. She had — and we were out in the countryside. Wow.
"Who's that?" Larry murmured, suddenly wary.
"No idea," I whispered back.
"What's all this, then?" David the producer demanded from the foulmouthed children.
It wasn't us.
Julian and David the cinematographer rushed in at once, tripping over each other to explain — right up until they clocked the woman beside the producer David.
"Rebecca!" Julian exclaimed.
I nearly laughed. The switch was instant — the same tone children used when the teacher walked into class. Seeing it switch-up on a director was oddly satisfying.
"I thought I'd pop in and see how my money's being spent," Rebecca said calmly. "Why does it sound like a playground in here?"
"Ah — we were just discussing the best way to shoot the scene," Julian said, gesturing vaguely at the monitors.
"Yes, just getting ourselves creatively aligned," David the cinematographer added helpfully.
"You mean you're rowing over spilt milk," Rebecca replied flatly.
"It's a minor disagreement about execution," Julian said, stiffening.
"We're almost in agreement now," David the cinematographer insisted.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow. "What, you need another five minutes of bickering before you're made up?"
The two men exchanged a look — then nodded.
"Actually… yes," Julian admitted.
Rebecca sighed. "Fine."
"Sorry about them," David the producer said smoothly. "Creatives can be terribly passionate sort."
"Oh, don't I know it," Rebecca said dryly. "I keep hiring them. That's on me."
Her gaze shifted — and landed on us.
"And who are these two cute boys?"
It was our turn to squirm under her scrutiny. Larry and I straightened at once, suddenly very aware of ourselves. There was only one force on set that made both a director and producer bend — money.
"These are Laurence and Wilfred," David said quickly. "Young Herbert and Pip. Very hardworking boys."
"Look more like they're mucking about," Rebecca said, unimpressed.
"Sorry, we were—" Larry began.
"Oh hush, love," she said, waving him off. "You've been abandoned while the grown men argue. Happens all the time. Frankly, I'm impressed you're both doe eyed. Most kid actors lose their focus like that," She clicked her fingers. "How are you finding the production?"
"It's great — love it," Larry said at once.
"Yes, what he said," I added.
"Oh come off it, mate, that shot's all over the place!" David the cinematographer suddenly barked. "We need a steadicam — it's in the name, for God's sake. Steady cam!"
"These two are exhausting, aren't they? Worse than me and my husband — though at least they last till the end." Rebecca giggled.
David the producer cleared his throat awkwardly.
"I could show you the rushes, some of the finest picture I produced," he offered quickly. "Come see, how Masterpiece Theatre's money is being spent."
"I'd hope wisely," Rebecca said. "We're planning a little collection around this. The Charles Dickens Set."
She gestured in the air, arranging invisible letters.
"Three sweet children on the DVD cover. Oliver, David, and Pip in their wee costumes. I can already smell the sales cut."
David the producer chuckled — strained. Rebecca only giggled louder.
"Ah, I get it when my humour isn't appreciated. Right, lead on," Rebecca commanded.
They wandered off, stopping every few steps as David explained bits of equipment and process. They were heading towards base camp — where the dailies would be. More importantly, no one was working at the front of the hotel where the base camp was.
"You know," Larry said quietly, watching them go, "I'd like her job, whatever it is."
"Executive producer, probably," I said. "You've heard it right? She represents Masterpiece Theatre."
"What's that?"
"They fund half the period dramas in England. Or so my agent says. Supposedly it's not just the BBC licences that produce shows — these lot have their names in everything."
Larry snorted.
"Bet that's how they skim money from taxes. That's what my papa says — third parties in government deals are always robbing good folk. Follow the money and you'll find a civil servant somewhere in their family tree."
I paused. "Huh."
It was my turn to pull a stupid face. The theory made an uncomfortable amount of sense.
Five minutes later, we did the scene again. Once, twice, with cuts being called over and over again. Twice more we stopped, twice more David and Julian argued. When we doubled our take length by some miracle, the argument between the two got doubly more loud. Gordon kept drifting in closer like a windblown leaf. Every take we did, every take that David screwed up, he would be a few steps closer. He was like a predator cat chasing prey or a sneaky child trying to reach into the cookie jar.
David simply wasn't a handheld man. He liked his dollies, his arms, tripods, jibs — and on the rare occasion he went mobile, it was with a gimbal, a steadicam like the one we'd been using earlier. What he truly loathed was quick motion — whip pans, intentional shake, anything that looked remotely uncontrolled. Action scenes thrived on that sort of energy. David Odd called it amateurish. I could almost sympathise. Throwing away decades of muscle memory and instinct wasn't something anyone did lightly.
"You can't see a bloody thing on that — what did I say?" David scoffed, arms folded.
"Nah. We'll fix it in post. I've told you — the cuts will sort it," Julian shot back, pacing a tight line in front of the monitor.
"Piling work onto post isn't how we do things at the BBC. Look at it — it's a mess. We need the steadicam and proper stabilisation to capture real image," David said, jabbing a finger at the screen.
"Steadicam is the exact opposite of what we need. Oh, sod off. We've done enough BBC jobs together — and you still act like I've got snot behind my ears. I've been directing for ten years. Ten. I know what I want! Film stock doesn't grow on trees either — how many more feet do you want to waste before you actually listen to me?" Julian barked.
Silence slammed down over the set. David didn't reply. No one did. Even the birds seemed to have decided now was not the time make a peep. Truth be told, Julian was frightening when he lost his temper. David was gruff and sharp by nature — you expected it from him. Julian was usually calm, measured, almost gentle. When he exploded, it rattled everyone.
Estella's wide-eyed shock set me off laughing — until she caught me and scowled. The calm lasted about three seconds. My laughter was overtaken by shouter — was that even a word? If so, I wasn't laughing anymore. These two had worked together for years — films, series, the lot — and now they looked one shove and a push away from swinging at each other. Larry and I both felt our faces heating at some of the language.
Maria cuffed Estella round the ear to save her innocence. My grandad was laughing his arse off. He came over to watch me scrap and it seemed that he'd gotten his time's worth.
Our chaperone finally marched in and told both men off — sharply — for the language, reminding them there were children present. That, oddly enough, did the trick. They broke off, muttered apologies, and even laughed — clapped each other on the back like old mates.
We rolled another take. The calm was broken instantly, argument started again. Only louder.
Laughter. Shouter. Louder.
Over and over again.
"Sorry… Hello — Excuse me, hey! Stop it." I found myself cursing up at the two men.
Not sure how I even came to standing out here or why I'd even come over. But once my mouth opened in that tone, I'd already decided on telling off the two men I was working for. I was fed up with the day's shoot, I was fed up having to endure endless repetition only for the camera to not even capture us. Through no fault of our own, Larry and I had to endure the hell of living out the same scene and perform the same actions over and over again. Don't get me wrong, it was great practice for my method, sort of a stress test for how many times I could do the Snapshot technique. But what really made me walk up to these two pot-mouthing foul old geezers was the beaten puppy look that Gordon had developed. The man was suffering from a case of the itch as he listened to the two argue about fight scenes and how to shoot them.
That was the sort of look that I was familiar with. It was the sort I'd seen in audition halls, rehearsal spaces and jealous faces. Sometimes I was the one with the itch — it happened when I saw kids dancing to music, doing great technical movements but never moving on beat, never synchronising with the song. I would shut my eyes when seeing something so dreadful, but I couldn't shut my ears. I've always had perfect timing lodged somewhere in my brain. I liked to call it the invisible drum machine. It was the imagery I had, like a tiny metronome stuck in my brain. Tap shoes beating on, clothing ruffling around, squeaky shoes on slick floor. The itch would get worse as I listened to the torturous music.
Call it the recognition of suffering — because I recognised Gordon's face for exactly what it was: pain. The kind born of watching people do something badly while believing they're doing it well. I'd worn that same expression myself — children dancing off-beat, singers mangling pitch. Gordon was trapped in his own private purgatory, forced to watch two experienced men — a director and a cinematographer — fumble through an action setup while congratulating each other like bumbling idiots.
"Have you forgotten him?" I asked — no, demanded — cutting straight through the constant sniping between the two men.
Both Julian and David followed the direction of my pointed finger. Their eyes slid clean past Gordon and landed on a cluster of crew further off. Blank faces. Confusion.
"No — him," I said, pointing again, sharper this time. "Gordon Seed. Our stunt coordinator. For God's sake."
"Just stunts —" Gordon cut in quickly. "That's what my contract says."
"Gordon," I said, over-enunciating every syllable though there weren't many, "has rehearsed with me and Larry yesterday. He taught us a cracking action sequence and filmed the whole thing on his camcorder."
Pride crept into my voice despite myself.
Julian and David looked Gordon over properly now. Gordon visibly shrank under the attention, shoulders drawing in, hands clasped in front of him. I didn't let up — piling on details, terminology, compliments — building Gordon up while knocking the two of them down as politely as it's possible to do while being furious. The mix of my restrained anger and righteous irritation seemed to amuse the crew immensely.
The laughter got louder.
I ground my teeth, I just couldn't win, could I?
"He said you need instinct when filming action," I went on. "And before you get offended, David — he wasn't teaching you. He was teaching us. So don't take it personally."
David's expression flicked from embarrassed to annoyed in a heartbeat.
No one likes being told someone else might be better at their job. Still, Gordon — inexperienced on large sets or not — had filmed more action scenes than David Odd ever had.
"So," Julian said, interest clearly piqued, "you've got a reel, then?"
"You cannot be serious," David snapped. "You want me to copy his work?"
"Yes," Julian replied flatly. "What's the issue? He's done action. You haven't. It's not complicated. This is a team effort — is it not?"
"Well — yes —" David said, bristling. "But a team works like an engine. You're the carburettor, I'm the timing belt — we function together, sure, but we've got our separate roles. He's a — he's a —"
David floundered, searching for an analogy, then gave up entirely. He threw his hands out in a dramatic, dismissive wave — a very British way of declaring someone irrelevant. But I saw it for what it was — a gesture of a defeated man.
"He's a person is what he is," I said coolly, "and he's your entire stunt department. Coordinating stunts is literally his job."
"Kid's got you there, David," Julian said. "Mate, no one's asking you to hand over the camera. You let Vince run the Steadicam, we've got another bloke for underwater shots — and you weren't exactly volunteering to squeeze into a wetsuit. Just look at the reel. If it's rubbish, we bin it off. Simple. You're still in charge and we'll never mention it again."
David huffed, jaw tight, but the fire had gone out of him — possibly because being talked down off the fury by a near ten-year-old is difficult to argue with. Julian clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him away, murmuring encouragement as they went.
"Grab the reel and meet me at the monitors," Julian called over his shoulder.
Gordon shot off towards base camp, practically skipping.
"They're completely mad, aren't they?" Larry muttered beside me.
I nodded helplessly.
"Why'd you do that?" Larry asked.
"Gordon was about to blow a gasket," I said. "Not like them — not angry. Just… trapped. He knew exactly how to shoot it, and watching people get it wrong is torture. Didn't seem fair to leave him stewing. And," I added, grinning, "I want this scene shot today."
"Eager to get rid of me, are you?" Larry said. "Can't have that. Mum wants to stay a few more days if Julian allows it. Learn how sets work — it'd be a big help when I'm filming with him again."
"Great. I'll show you around —"
"Oh, no need," Larry said, smirking. "Estella already offered and I said yes."
I just shook my head.
She really was frighteningly quick at making friends.
Larry and I kept our talk going, he was a dab hand at it too. Might be that he didn't have the gift of gab, but it was close enough. He was a lot more socially adjusted than I was and quick to direct conversation and keep it going. What I really liked about him was how he took everything at face value — nothing really phased him and he was always happy to throw in a barbed line or two to tease me. Unlike Estella's comments, his barbs were fun and not at all as biting. It kept me honest and on my toes. It also made me like Larry.
Gordon returned with the camcorder and the director and his cinematographer crowded over the tiny screen. Just like Larry and I had made impressed noises yesterday, the two older men made their own appreciative sounds. David had a lot of questions, especially explanations for how the final cut would look. Gordon didn't have a studio's editing department, but he'd paused and resumed many times to show us boys what he was talking about. Those shots were shown to the two older boys. David was the sort of person who needed to understand something in its entirety before he could do it, and seemingly Gordon's film explained enough for him to proceed.
A quarter of an hour later, we were ready to shoot.
—✦—
I stood awkwardly as Herbert threw fake punches. Pip just couldn't take the peacock mating dance too seriously, so I looked like how the chickens used to look as they tracked a chick on the move — head on a swivel, looking as dumb as they did. I didn't flinch, but had to dodge a punch mostly because he'd thrown it so badly that it came too close to clipping me.
Herbert paused his psyche-out tactic as an idea came to his mind.
"Hang on, you ought to have a reason." Herbert's hand came up daintily before snapping forward.
We cut and let the camera move before completing the connection frame. The editor of the film would cut the frame halfway and the next shot of Herbert hitting me with a weak slap from a literal inch away would turn into the reaction shot. Human mind and eyes were the best computers on the planet — they were able to make a semantic model of an action and use it to contextualise a new image that they were seeing. The strength of that slap would land even if the actual one I received was more akin to a gentle cupping.
David Odd walked behind me, circling me quickly, wrapping around to capture my reaction.
The snapshot technique helped me recall the emotions from earlier today in the shoot. Pip was shocked. He'd just been slapped. A slap in the face from this boy who was born into wealth, property and respect. This hit came right after my future had been confirmed, after everything had fallen apart. Forever, I was condemned to live in squalor. I'd find a wife just as foul-mouthed as my sister, who'd spend her life cursing my trade and our lot in life.
My mouth hung open, my eyebrows knit together, anger wasn't quite there but it was forming deep down.
All at once, time seemed to move at pace again. The ringing in my ears became louder in the silence between the moments.
"I've given you one." Herbert said casually as he stepped back into a fighter's stance.
♪Hammer boys round — Old Clem! With a thump and a sound — Old Clem!♪
Slow singing rang out throughout the grounds. I had to look up at the sky and imagined Estella Havisham framed by a tiny window, staring down at me. For I am beneath her, forever and always. It was easy to imagine Estella's smug look, knowing smile and cruel eyes. The line was sung as slowly as I'd suggested to Estella.
♪Hammer boys round — Old Clem! With a thump and a sound — Old Clem!♪
My heart beat faster, adrenaline surging. The second line picked up on the pace, as if the girl heard the beat of my heart. Anger poured out of me like brimstone in earth, my feet rejected the ground beneath me, I was propelled ahead. Spring wind rushed through my hair and my ears popped in the sudden pressure as I rushed towards the only thing that could provide me satisfaction.
The boy in front of me suddenly had an ashen face, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Before he could school his face or react to my movements, I was already in touching distance. Punching distance.
A moment later I was spinning away from where Larry stood, only a few steps I might have taken but there was enough momentum for me to bleed off.
"CUT!" Julian called out.
"Whoa, what was that?" Larry exclaimed, looking me over seriously.
"That was actin', lid," Gordon said, laughing.
"I think my ears were plugged from the flying," I said, rubbing at my ear.
"Next action?" Julian called out.
"Yes, la," Gordon said, his accent turning more Scouse the more comfortable he felt.
"Going handheld," David announced.
"Alright, action loops, lads. Jumping punch, the rabbit punch. Stack it well, Larry. Then we go over the shoulder and do the takedown. Let David find the angle," Gordon instructed.
We followed his commands easily — it felt like we'd been performing it a thousand times for a thousand days. Action looping was exactly what it was. We were to repeat our actions, in this case four separate moves, over and over again while David circled us and Julian observed from his monitor. Even with our rehearsed action, the best way to shoot was difficult to find. If we kept repeating the moves over and over, David could pan and tilt with us on every action beat, making the final scene as polished as he could while retaining the shaky element in a more predictable way.
"That's it. Do that one more time!" Julian commanded.
Gordon went over to take some direction and came back with some for us.
"Right, we shoot that for real now. We'll rehearse it one more time, do the full body movements so David really gets it right," Gordon directed.
Nodding, we took our place and repeated it with a pinch more stacking and a handful more acting. David and Julian were happy, Gordon was delighted. We were finally done with most of it.
"Hair and makeup!" Amanda, the first AD, called.
Nicola and Fran ran over with their bags held as respectfully as they would hold a first aid kit. Nicola fussed over Larry as she mussed up his hair, applied products to make it look tousled. Fran got out a bottle marked 'Blood, bright red' and applied it to Larry's nose, making it drip lower down to his lips. Extra portion was even applied to his pristine tweed vest. Larry looked both uncomfortable and happy about getting so much care and attention.
Charlotte came over to take some stills for continuity in case we needed to do more takes.
My experience for shooting the shortest action scene in film history had me developing a lot of respect for action film stars. It was a mind-bogglingly boring job that had way too many stops, adjustments and required a ton more crew than the usual shot needed.
"Action!"
We repeated a few actions in a loop until David and Julian shot it. There were the Steadicam and the main camera was set up on a dolly proper. The action portion was finally over and David was now the happiest person on set. The main camera stayed on me while the Steadicam peered down on Larry.
I looked down at the boy who had the pained expression of a puppy. Herbert's eyes were closed, his nose was bleeding. The red of it made me snap out of my own angry red vision. My snarling teeth went back into a schooled expression and I was confused to look at my right hand in a fist, ready to punch down again.
Shame washed over me. I dismounted from the poor boy's torso quickly.
I'd tried to live like a gentleman and here I was acting like some fell beast, savaging a boy. Life of a gentleman was not my future, for I was as tainted as the commons were spoken to be.
Herbert tried to rise and failed, his pained expression becoming even more pronounced. His hands tried to feel his nose and came back bloody. Looking at the blood with a pale face, Herbert looked up at me with half-lidded eyes.
"That means you've won," Herbert declared.
"Can I help you?" I demanded, my voice thin as I tried to hide my shame.
"No — no, it's quite alright," Herbert said, shaking away my offered hand and rose up on his own strength.
Dusting off his trousers, the boy offered his bloody hand to me.
"Good afternoon," he said politely.
"Same to you," I said awkwardly.
Larry shuffled off with the same awkward, stiff gait he was directed to use, shoulders hunched in defeat. I watched him grab his jacket and disappear stage left. This time I wasn't just confused or feeling pity for the foolish boy — there was a knot of embarrassment there too, and something like respect that had formed.
He may be born to wealth but he'd done it fair and proper like.
"CUT — and print!" Julian called, laughing like he'd been waiting to say it all day.
"Are you finally happy?" David asked.
Julian held up a finger. "Check the gate."
"Gate's good," Amanda and Barney chimed together.
"Then I'm happy," Julian said, grinning.
I stopped paying attention to the two children as soon as Julian called the end. I just couldn't bother to care anymore about their stupid arguments.
"Oh, thank God," I said, dropping straight onto the bare grass where I stood.
"Nice one, Wilf," Larry said, stepping back over and holding up a hand.
I slapped it with a snap. "Good job, yourself."
He sniffed and rubbed at the fake blood smeared under his nose. "Look at us. We look like we'd been through the ringer, don't we?"
I nodded, smiling despite myself. I was shattered. The endless takes were finally done, and my head felt hollowed out. Snapshot had worked perfectly, but it was far more draining than I'd imagined. Dipping back into the same hot, furious headspace again and again took it out of you in a way sore muscles never could.
"Oi," Larry said suddenly, snapping me back. "You want some?"
Before I could answer, he'd scooped the fake blood off his own face and slapped it across both hands. A second later he lunged for me, teeth bared in a feral grin.
"That's for battering me all day," he said.
"Absolutely not — get away from me!" I yelped. "Mum! Mum, help!"
Mum was gone already. I called out for Nain next, but she only laughed at me. Grandad was my next lifeline, he laughed even louder. The traitors, the lot of them.
Larry barrelled into me from the side, trying to smear the blood across my cheek. I twisted and wriggled like a worm, laughing so hard my ribs started to ache, tears streaking down my face. Most of the blood ended up on his sleeves and the floor rather than me — but Larry seemed far more entertained by the chase than the success.
We finally rolled apart, breathless and red-faced — partly from laughter, partly from the gore — staring up at the overcast sky above us, I knew one thing for certain.
Today had been a brilliant day.
"You know," Larry said at last, voice slower now, thoughtful, "I wasn't ever sure about acting. I like it, sure. But Mum — she loved it more than I did. Always thought it was my thing and forced me to go around auditioning…"
He gestured vaguely around us.
The vast exterior stage set around a large manor house with a long history. The cameras and rigging being taken down and moved for the next setup. Crew members finally relaxing, laughing, swapping stories about the day's entertainment. There were good and bad impressions of Julian, David and even Rebecca. Some of the crew could easily be actors. Probably were at some point or another. And, more than anything, the joy of tasting the fruit of our labour.
"But now?" he went on. "I reckon this is it. This is where I'm meant to be."
I reached down, grabbed a fresh smear of fake blood, and dragged a solemn stripe from his forehead straight down his nose.
"Then I dub thee," I declared, "by this sacred blood cooked up by Fran in her trailer. May fortune favour thee upon your future battlefields. Rise, Sir Laurence of Thoresby-ah."
Larry stared at me, wearing the same stunned expression I'd spent most of the day giving his character. He rubbed at the blood on his face, then looked back at me — eyes narrowing, a dangerous glint that was so absent from his face all day returning. His scenes were over, Julian's direction no longer applied.
I gulped.
"If you were that desperate for a beating," he said calmly, "you could've just asked."