by Cary Elwes
After studying them carefully I turned to her and said, “Wow, Phyllis! These are really beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you. You know, it’s funny . . . I don’t really like doing sketches,” came the unexpected response.
“Really? But you are so good at it,” I blurted out, trying to steer the conversation toward one of my favorite films of all time. “What about Lawrence? You must’ve done a few for that, surely?”
“Oh, that!” she said. “Well, on that one I had to do more sketches than I have ever done before.”
“Why?” I inquired.
“Because a lot of the costumes had to be made in Damascus and it was hard to get the tailors over there to do exactly what we wanted.”
She then told me she had already put together some rough costumes for Westley and that she’d like to have me try them on so that the seamstress could make any necessary adjustments. Her assistant then showed me to a dressing room, where hanging on a rack was the costume that would come to be iconic: a pair of black suede pants, black leather boots, a thin black belt, a pair of black lace ruffled shirts, black gloves, and a black mask. It was all very elegant and surprisingly comfortable. I tried on the great, billowing shirt, with its huge sleeves. I had already worn one much like it for Lady Jane, so it felt a little familiar. Then the tight-fitting suede pants. And finally the boots.
Once fully dressed, I looked in the mirror. Even without the mask, I knew what it must have felt like for Douglas Fairbanks or Errol Flynn trying on their costumes for the first time on any one of their classic pirate movies. A knock at the door took me out of my reverie.
“Are you decent?” came Phyllis’s voice from behind it.
“Yes.”
She opened the door, looked at me, and said, “Ahhh . . . that’s not bad at all.” She stopped to ponder. “But . . . there’s something missing.”
She then called over her assistant and asked her to go and fetch some black satin. When the assistant returned with the material, Phyllis tied one piece around my head and another around my waist like a sash.
“There,” she said, “that’s better!”
She then had me try on some temporary masks that she had designed, which were in fact not unlike the one worn by Fairbanks in Zorro. But none of them fit properly. Phyllis explained that since I would be wearing it throughout much of the film, not only did it have to fit perfectly but, most of all, it had to be comfortable and that the only way to do that was to take a plaster mold of my head. This is a fairly standard procedure on movie productions that involve action or special effects or superheroes that wear masks, although I hadn’t experienced it before.
A seamstress then appeared and began to pin the pants so that they would be even more skintight. I asked Phyllis whether I would be able to put them on without difficulty once they had been sewn. She replied that she would prefer to sew them on each day, but that wouldn’t be practical given that I would be doing a lot of stunts in them. And, being suede, they would start to give a little anyway with time, she explained. I joked about knowing how Jim Morrison must’ve felt wearing his signature skintight leather pants.
I then tried on an outfit made mostly of burlap and thick cotton, which would be Westley’s clothes as the infamous Farm Boy. Phyllis told me she had been inspired by paintings by N. C. Wyeth and Bruegel, and they felt very authentic to me, but she wasn’t entirely happy.
“No, let’s come back to these. You need a hood of some kind.”
She said she needed a little more time to figure that out and told me we would have more fittings soon. After a few Polaroid photographs were taken to show Rob, I changed back into my boring old jeans and T-shirt, thanked Phyllis, her assistant, and the seamstress, and headed home. The Man in Black was starting to take shape.
* * *
The next day I got another call from the production office and was given instructions about where to get a mold taken of my face. I had to travel to Shepperton Studios, where our production offices were set up, and visit the folks in the special effects (known as “FX”) department. Shepperton is located in the countryside in Surrey, about a half hour or so outside of London, and is generally regarded as one of the great European film studios. From a historical perspective, it’s the sort of place that has an almost reverential appeal to most people in the business. Among the movies that have been filmed there are Lawrence of Arabia, Dr. Strangelove, 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Elephant Man, Star Wars, Alien, Gandhi . . . to name but a few.
Having worked as a production assistant in my teens, I knew my way around film lots a little bit, but to be here, at the famed Shepperton Studios, as the lead in a major Hollywood movie was a different experience altogether. Map in hand, I walked to one of the “shops” assigned to our FX department on the lot and met with Nick Allder, our special effects supervisor. Nick had a great body of work behind him, having already worked on Alien (yes, that was his nasty creature escaping from John Hurt’s chest), The Empire Strikes Back (for you Jedis reading this, there is a strong Star Wars connection to Princess Bride, which I will get to later on), Conan the Barbarian, and The Jewel of the Nile. Nick, a very affable fellow, introduced me to his team, one of whom was already in the process of working on an unfinished animatronic Rodent of Unusual Size (R.O.U.S.)—the one that would end up biting me during our fight in the Fire Swamp. It was made of white foam rubber and had no hair, which made it even more grotesque-looking. You could see all the wires and pulleys attached to electronic servos that allowed the “puppeteer” to move the mouth. Even at this stage it looked very effective and they were proud to show it off to me. As I stared at the giant rat with its dead eyes, I wondered if Bill Goldman had ever experienced the same giant rats I had encountered while living in Manhattan—the ones the size of cats, that make you freeze in your tracks. The kind that are not afraid of human beings and carry themselves with that swagger and give you that look that seems to imply, “Yeah, what are you gonna do about it?”
Nick explained that while the procedure of covering my face with wet plaster of Paris was relatively painless, it could be very tedious, as I would be spending a long time, perhaps an hour, sitting in a chair with my face covered in said plaster. He asked if I was claustrophobic, which was kind of unnerving in and of itself, to which I replied, “No, not really,” not having any idea just how claustrophobic this whole process would be. He then said, “We’re gonna be covering your whole head but we will provide you with a couple of straws to put up your nose so you can breathe.”
Thank God for that!
He continued, “If at any time you feel uncomfortable, can’t breathe, or if you are having some kind of panic attack, just make a slashing sign with your hand across your throat and we will begin taking off the plaster.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering just how many actors had had panic attacks before me.
“Just so you know,” Nick went on, “if we do that we will have to repeat the process all over again to get it done.”
I replied that I understood.
“Great!” said Nick. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
He and his colleagues then proceeded to completely cover my head with Vaseline and then plaster of Paris, and provided me with the aforementioned straws to put in my nostrils for breathing. Claustrophobic would be an understatement, folks. It felt like having your head encased in a suffocating, heavy, oversize pumpkin/helmet made of clay. After an hour or so they were done and the plaster eventually dried. It was then cracked neatly open and removed from my head, and the resulting product was used as a mold.
I was meant to look like a pirate. And not just any pirate, but the Dread Pirate Roberts (loosely based on notorious privateer Bartholomew Roberts), the scourge of the Seven Seas. His identity was supposed to be a secret. And while a leap of faith would be required to presume that the other characters in the film (most notably Buttercup) would not immediately spot the resemblance between Westley and the Man in Black, the audience was free to make the conne
ction (which, of course, they did). Still, it had to look right. Despite going to great lengths to create dozens of perfect masks, the makeup department still wound up having to use dark makeup around my eyes in some scenes to create a seamless transition between mask and skin, much like what I understand they do with all the folks who play Batman.
After I cleaned my face, I was met by a production assistant who told me that Rob wanted to see me in his office. We headed over to the production office following signs reading BUTTERCUP FILMS, LTD and went upstairs. As I walked in, Rob got to his feet from behind his desk and greeted me with that warm smile of his.
“Hey, Cary. How ya doin’?” A usual Rob singsongy refrain.
“Great, thanks.”
“Good to see ya.” He gave me a bear hug.
It should be noted that all hugs from Rob are bear hugs.
“So . . . how did the face mold go?”
“Weird,” I responded.
“I know, right?” He laughed. “Did they stick the straws up your nose?”
“Yes. And I almost threw up through them.”
Rob chuckled. “Come on, I wanna show you around.”
“We have a great crew,” he said. “And I want you to meet them.”
It was extremely thoughtful of Rob to extend the invitation; not many directors do that with their actors during preproduction. But Rob was different. I would learn later that he had handpicked nearly every member.
I ended up meeting quite a lot of them that day, from the bookkeepers to the folks in the props department and almost everyone in between. Every time we ran into someone, Rob would stop and introduce us, and, with unfailing enthusiasm, say to them, “And this is Cary. He’s playing Westley.”
In the art department I met our production designer, Norman Garwood, with whom I would end up working on two more movies. Norman is an ebullient, sweet guy and obviously very talented. He had worked on two magnificent Terry Gilliam movies, Time Bandits and Brazil, and on The Missionary, all of them containing one of my favorite comedians, Michael Palin (more about him later). Clearly Norman was a Monty Python favorite, which made him perfect for our production in my book, being a Python fan myself. Every inch of the walls was covered in magnificent drawings and paintings of all the sets, from Miracle Max’s cabin to Buttercup’s suite in Florin castle and from Fred Savage’s bedroom to the Pit of Despair. They were simply magical. One could really see the mythology of the film starting to take shape. As I expressed my excitement at the visual imagery surrounding me, Norman suggested to Rob that he take me for a tour of the sets they were already starting to build.
CHRIS SARANDON
The crew was fantastic. The crews I’ve worked with in England, generally speaking, are just great fun. A lot of them are working-class guys, men and women, and they’re just loose. They’re fabulous.
“Oh, yeah. You gotta see ’em!” Rob said enthusiastically. “They’re really something.”
Rob took me back outside and we walked over to H Stage, where carpenters, plasterers, and painters were deep into the process of constructing the set for the Fire Swamp, which was starting to get filled with fake trees, creepers, vines, and giant mushrooms. The detail was extraordinary. I remember turning to Rob and saying, “Wow! It’s like The Wizard of Oz!”
“Pretty cool, huh?” he replied.
He then took me over to C Stage, and as we walked onto the set I stood and marveled at the sight of the massive clifftop where the famous duel between Westley and Inigo Montoya would take place. Standing on that soundstage, with its cloudy blue sky backdrop, I felt a palpable sense of . . . not relief, but more like joy. I didn’t doubt that Rob could pull this off; I just hadn’t envisioned how he would do it. Now it was becoming real. I could tell that this was clearly the most expensive production either of us had ever been involved with, and a lot of its success was riding on whoever was playing Buttercup and that fellow playing Westley.
Gulp!
As we walked back to the production offices, I asked Rob about the rest of the cast. He mentioned that he’d already recruited his friends Billy Crystal and Chris Guest, which was very cool. And that Mandy Patinkin would play Inigo Montoya, the avenging Spaniard. I didn’t recall Mandy’s body of work at that point but I assumed, given Rob’s meticulous casting, that he would be a perfect choice. He then ran through a stellar lineup of talent that they were apparently in negotiations with, including Wally Shawn to play Vizzini.
“Oh, I love him!” I said. “How great is My Dinner with Andre?”
“Amazing,” Rob said. “And I think we also got Chris Sarandon for Humperdinck and Carol Kane for Miracle Max’s wife.”
“No way,” I responded incredulously.
“How about that for casting?” He was almost as excited as I was.
This was turning out to be a much bigger production than I had initially imagined.
“And we’re so lucky. We also found our Buttercup,” Rob added. “It took a while, but we found her.” I became intrigued by Rob’s fascination with his discovery of the “perfect” Buttercup.
“How did you find her?” I asked.
“Turns out the casting director had her picture on the wall the whole time. But for some reason we never called her in because we were so busy looking for Brits!”
CHRIS SARANDON
My ex-wife, Susan Sarandon, had done a movie with Robert Redford and Redford at the time owned the film rights to the book. He wanted to make the movie, and he gave a copy of it to her to read. I read it as well, and I just flipped over it. There was such a wonderful combination of adventure, romance, satire, and parody; having fun with different genres. And I just thought, This is amazing. I hope this movie gets made. But of course, years went by and nothing happened. So jump-cut to many years later and suddenly I get a call from one of my agents saying, “Rob Reiner and Bill Goldman want you to read for The Princess Bride for the role of Prince Humperdinck,” and I went, “Oh, my God. This is a dream come true! I love this book.”
CAROL KANE
I was beyond lucky to be a part of this. I got a call from Rob about being in it, and to play Billy’s wife. At the time I was doing a play in Williamstown. I don’t think I even thought about it much. I just said yes. The idea of being Billy’s wife in a big old fairy tale just sort of . . . well, it’s not something to think about. You just do it. Then I read the screenplay and I loved it. And then Billy and I got together in my apartment later in LA, and we kind of built ourselves a life, a little backstory for our characters.
“Who is she?” I asked curiously.
“Her name is Robin Wright. Have you heard of her?”
I had not, and admitted as much.
Rob nodded. “She’s on this TV show Santa Barbara—it’s a daytime soap. But don’t let that fool you, she’s amazing. She came in and read for us and just blew us away!” Rob went on. “Wait till you meet her. Oh, my God! You’re going to love her.”
With that we continued walking down the hall. And just as we turned a corner, less than a minute later, there she was, walking up the stairs.
“Hey, there she is!” Rob called out to her. “Hiya, Robin! I want you to meet someone.”
She was tall and willowy, with long blond hair and large, blue, expressive eyes. In a word: gorgeous. She was also very young, as I’d soon discover, barely twenty, and I felt a small sense of relief that I wouldn’t be the youngest person on the movie (not counting Fred Savage).
ROB REINER
I saw hundreds of girls, but they had to be as described in the script: the most beautiful girl in all the land. And she had to have an English accent. And Robin, even though she’s American, has an English stepfather, so she came by that very naturally. And she was stunningly beautiful and the right age. She was literally the only one I saw who could play the role.
WILLIAM GOLDMAN
I went out to California because we were trying to find Buttercup. She had to be the most beautiful girl in the world, and all these beautiful g
irls came in, and they were gorgeous, but they weren’t Buttercup. Finally, Rob called and said, “I think I found her,” and then Robin came in the room and we talked for a minute and I immediately called Rob and said, “Grab her!” Because she was, as you know, just unbelievable. And she still is.
ANDY SCHEINMAN
Robin was perfect. But you know what? They made her do an extra year on Santa Barbara in exchange for giving her time off to do the movie, which I thought was kind of rotten. But she didn’t complain. Robin was . . . well . . . I mean she’s such a beautiful girl. And the part called for that. But there was a sweetness, too. There are a lot of beautiful women, a lot of beautiful actors, but there aren’t a lot of beautiful women who are also really funny. Not that she has to be hysterically funny to play Buttercup, but she has to be able to understand what’s funny about the script and the role, and have a great sense of humor.
I’ll never forget the first time Rob introduced us. “Cary,” he said. “This is Robin. She’s playing Buttercup! The girl you’re going to fall in love with.”
A huge smile formed on her face as she turned to him and said, “Oh, Rob!” as if to say, “Please!” and then she extended her hand to shake mine. “Hi,” she said in a very sweet tone. What I said besides “Hi” back I cannot recall. I probably didn’t say a great deal, since I felt like I had been poleaxed. I remembered Goldman’s description of Buttercup in the book:
She was the most beautiful woman in a hundred years. She didn’t seem to care.
ROBIN WRIGHT
My theory is that they were so completely tired of meeting girls—I think I was the five-hundredth girl they saw—at that point they were like, “Just cast her! Make her the princess!” They were so stunned, after meeting all the ingénues of Hollywood. That was my lucky fate—they were exhausted.
