As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of The Princess Bride

by Cary Elwes

  Meanwhile my toe was sending my brain messages saying, Scratch that—a lot, dummy!

  “Well, it’s definitely broken,” she said. “You should probably go to the hospital and get it X-rayed.”

  “Oh, no. I can’t do that,” I said, sounding more fearful than courageous. “Not right now. We have a scene to shoot. It’ll be okay. We can do it after we wrap.”

  She looked at me as if I were crazy. Maybe this guy hit his head as well?

  Fear had definitely clouded my judgment; I wasn’t thinking rationally. I knew exactly what the shooting schedule entailed. I knew the way Rob liked to work. By now I had hit my stride with him, on most occasions printing my first takes and moving on to the next setup. I knew that we would be in this location only for this one day, and that if I were unable to shoot what we needed to get, we’d have to come back at a later date to complete it. Meaning, they would have to postpone my scenes and basically change the whole schedule while I got checked out and treated. I also knew that the doctors would most likely suggest that I shouldn’t walk on it for a few days, perhaps even a few weeks, while my toe was put in a cast or a splint and allowed to heal properly. The whole thing would cost time and money, and that would all be on me. All these thoughts and more were running through my head at that moment.

  I knew actors had been fired for less egregious lapses in wisdom. Even though he is not the freaking-out type, I envisioned Rob questioning whether I was worth the trouble I had caused. I’d be done. That would be it, I thought. They’d have to find another Westley. It would then hit the press and my career would be over. After all, who could blame them? It was all my fault. I was the cretin who didn’t have the sense to stay off an ATV in the middle of production. Why waste any more time on me?

  You see, it’s one thing to get hurt while shooting a scene. If you get injured while filming, then everyone understands and feels bad for you. “Tough break, man. Don’t sweat it. Go home and rest, and then come back when you’re all better.” Bond companies have insurance policies that cover these kinds of things so the producers don’t have to worry.

  But . . . if, on the other hand, you injure yourself fooling around off the set, that’s a whole other kettle of fish. Sure, accidents happen. But this was an accident that totally could have been avoided. I had brought it on myself by messing around with a toy that, in hindsight, I realize wasn’t really a toy. It is a dangerous machine. A machine I obviously did not know how to operate and had no business even trying to operate. There was a lot at stake here: jobs, money, insurance issues. It was a potential disaster.

  Foolishly, rather than coming clean, I chose to hide it. In other words, I tried to get away with it.

  “Please,” I said to the medic and the genuinely concerned crew members standing around. “Don’t tell Rob. I’m gonna be okay.”

  I remember Terry saying, “I think he’s gonna find out, mate. I mean, your toe is broken!”

  I turned to the medic. I was desperate at this point and starting to sweat profusely.

  “Is there anything you can do?” I pleaded.

  She gently cupped my foot in the palm of her hand.

  “I suppose I could do a temporary splint.”

  “Really? Will it work?” I asked hopefully.

  She explained that there isn’t much else you can do for a busted toe. It was probably what the doctors would end up doing anyway, since toes are too small to put in a cast. She said they would most likely also recommend a lot of rest and ice. But, if movement is necessary, a small splint could possibly be utilized, even though not highly recommended.

  “Do they have to do that at a hospital, or can you do it right here?” I asked, trying to mask the panic in my voice.

  She nodded. “I think I can do it here. But it’s still going to hurt. I mean, in other words, it’s still going to feel like you have a broken toe,” she said, trying to reason with an unreasonable person.

  “Great,” I said. “Can you please try?”

  Naïve as I was at the time, I didn’t realize that by asking her to do this for me, I was probably putting this poor woman’s job on the line as well as all those present by asking them not to say anything. I didn’t even realize that she would have to make out a medical report that would have to go to production anyway.

  But I wasn’t thinking properly. I was willing to try anything at this point. Like most Brits, I came from that stoic background of the whole “The show must go on!” thing. In other words, I was willing to do whatever was necessary to get the show back on the road. The medic opened her large first aid bag and began crafting a makeshift splint. Meanwhile, one of the ADs had shown up with a walkie-talkie to find out what all the fuss was about and, more important, to bring me to the set. I tried to enlist him not to say anything as well. As if that was going to work with a man with a walkie-talkie whose job I knew very well was to report any reason for delays to the first AD. I was so blinded by fear, I was involving all these poor people in my half-witted conspiracy to keep the very person who needed to know the truth from knowing it.

  Now we had another issue. My foot wouldn’t fit back in the boot! Great!

  So we summoned a wardrobe assistant and asked for her help.

  “I need a favor,” I said. “Can you cut a hole in the back of the boot in such a way that it won’t show on camera?”

  By now an even larger crowd had begun to gather around. Had I been thinking properly, I would have known, obviously, that with this many people watching, word would eventually get back to Rob. But, like a soccer player trying to hide an injury, I was focused on only one thing: getting back onto the field.

  I even began trying to fool myself that it was going to work. Here was my insane logic: With the splint anchoring my damaged toe and my sock covering the splint, it would be fine. The sock was also black; that way, if the camera were to pick up the hole in the boot, the glaring white bandage holding the splint in place wouldn’t show up.

  It might just work!

  What a buffoon!

  My toe, however, wasn’t having any of it. It was still sending my brain more messages. Nagging things like, Really, dude? and Are you serious?

  Eventually I was able to stuff my poor swollen mess of a foot into the modified boot. The maneuver itself was insanely painful. But, I had deluded myself that once it was on, and I was back on my feet, everything would be okay.

  Clearly I figured wrong.

  As soon as I tried to take a step, it was apparent that even through my toughest grit, I wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all myself. I wasn’t going to be able to walk without a limp, let alone run or fight a swordfight.

  I’ll just have to fake my way through it, I thought. The AD helped me limp over to the transpo van and I was then driven up the long ravine to the set. It was perhaps the longest drive I have ever taken. Everyone in the van was silent. They were probably thinking, This deluded actor is out of his mind, poor sod!

  As soon as we arrived, I put on the bravest face I could muster, hopped as best I could out of the van, and walked right over to Rob like nothing was wrong. Just eating the pain the whole way.

  “Heya, Cary! How are you doing, buddy?” he said with a big smile.

  I froze for a nanosecond.

  Had someone already told him? Could this possibly be my last day on the movie? Oh, please, don’t let it be so . . .

  “Good. Thanks,” I replied, praying that my face, which I was unaware was already sweating, didn’t betray the strain.

  “Everything okay? No problems? You’re feeling good?”

  “Yeah. Absolutely.”

  My brain received another “toe message”: Hello? Anybody home?

  He smiled in that way that only Rob could smile. It was a big, close-mouthed one.

  “So . . . when were you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?” I stammered, giving possibly the single worst performance of my career.

  He just kept on smiling. I could tell he wasn’t buying it. I
think he even nodded a bit. The kind of nod that says, Uh-huh.

  Finally, I couldn’t keep up the pretense any longer.

  “I am so sorry, Rob. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  He looked deep into my eyes and then spoke.

  “Don’t worry about it, Cary,” he replied. “But you gotta know you can tell me these things, all right? We’re all in this together.”

  He seemed hurt that I would try to lie to him. And he was right to. I felt like such a numbnut. I tried to explain the reason behind my secrecy. That I was embarrassed, but also worried that he’d be forced to shut down production. Or, perhaps worse . . .

  “I thought you might actually let me go.”

  He seemed almost more hurt by that remark.

  “Are you crazy? Why would I do that? You’re perfect for this role.”

  “I dunno. I feel like a complete twit. Please forgive me.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” He then looked down at my hopelessly and obviously makeshift boot.

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you run?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t really tried yet. But I’ll certainly give it my best shot.”

  “Okay, well, we’ll just have to film around it if need be. Just don’t be afraid to tell me anything. I’d be more upset if you didn’t, okay?”

  I nodded sheepishly. “Okay.”

  ROB REINER

  I only found out Cary broke his toe because somebody had told me, “You’re going to see Cary can’t walk too good.” He was limping around, obviously in pain, but it didn’t bother his performance. I mean, he didn’t have to do anything physical at that time, but if you look closely at the film, when he’s on the top of the mountain with Robin, before she pushes him down the hill, they have this scene and he sits down, and he’s leaning up against this log. And you can see the way he sits down, with his leg extended, he didn’t want to put any weight on it. And when he did it, I thought, Wow! What an elegant way to sit down. I didn’t realize that he just couldn’t put any weight on his foot.

  ANDY SCHEINMAN

  It’s so funny because now every time I see that scene, it’s hysterical. Because all Cary is doing is basically trying to protect a broken toe. And the first time I saw it I just thought, What a cool move. You know? Those are the kinds of things you remember. When I watch it today, all I can think about is Cary having a sore toe, not anything about the scene.

  He hugged me, and I felt his genuine love and support. What a mensch. I couldn’t believe I had been so dumb as to try to hide it from him. But when you’re young, sometimes you do dumb things. Like trying to show off your lack of skill on an all-terrain vehicle to a slightly bemused crew.

  I learned a couple of valuable lessons that day, ones I’ve carried with me throughout my life and career. First of all, never try out a new sport on a film set unless the part calls for it and you are properly supervised. (I will certainly never set foot on an ATV again, that’s for sure!) Second, always be open and honest, not only with your director but with everyone. The truth is always easier.

  The fact is, not every director might have been as cool as Rob was about it. When we finished shooting for the day, we had another talk. One in which Rob made it clear that while he wasn’t angry with me, he wanted to make sure that I understood the ramifications of my actions.

  It was a fatherly pep talk about responsibility and prudence. I was in practically every scene of the movie, he explained. We still had extensive and complicated sword-fighting sequences to shoot. There was a lot riding on my health and viability.

  Looking back, I think that was justifiably his biggest concern: that my foot wouldn’t heal in time to film the duel. Don’t forget, we had committed to staging it without doubles. In many cases you can work around an injured actor. But when it came time for Westley to square off against Inigo, it had to be just Mandy and me. And we both were expected to be at our best.

  “I appreciate it, Rob,” I said. “I’ll be ready by then. I promise.”

  “Okay, good. Your health is always more important than a movie—always!” Rob said. “You should know that. But we need to know what’s going on at all times.”

  The truth was somewhat murkier, however. I really had no idea whether my toe would heal in time or not. All I knew was that at that instant I was filled with enormous regret and embarrassment. And that my toe hurt really bad.

  Immediately after wrap I was taken straight to the local hospital to get a proper X-ray done and a full examination, the results of which echoed the medic’s preliminary assessment. I had indeed broken my left big toe, which had been bent completely downward when it was sandwiched between the clutch pedal and the rock. The doctor at the hospital removed the makeshift splint and applied a newer, smaller one. It would smart for a while, he said, but there wasn’t much that could be done to accelerate the healing process. The best course of treatment was to stay off my feet. Here was a doctor telling a grown man dressed as Zorro to stay off his feet!

  Oh, boy!

  Best-case scenario was that even though it would still hurt, I might be able to at least move about relatively free of limping in approximately two to three weeks. I knew the schedule pretty well by this point. The swordfight wasn’t scheduled until November, so I figured I had time to heal and get ready for the most physical part of the film. Up until that point, I’d just have to fake any scenes involving running or jumping. And rely on the magic of cinema to mask the severity of my injury.

  But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still completely racked with guilt and anxiety over the whole thing. We were six weeks into production. Deep but not so deep that I felt like I couldn’t or wouldn’t still be replaced, Rob’s declaration to the contrary notwithstanding.

  Over the next couple days we had to figure out how to execute the reveal scene between Westley and Buttercup, despite the fact that I was hobbled by a broken toe. Not quite Misery-style hobbled, thank goodness, but hobbled enough. In true Hollywood fashion, much of this was accomplished with smoke and mirrors, as they say. We shot our scene on top of the hill with the Man in Black taunting Buttercup about her love for Westley, then the sequence of them both rolling down the hill with Westley yelling, “As . . . you . . . wish,” which I did in post. A shot that thankfully had always been planned with our stunt doubles, Andy and Sue. Robin and I then took our places at the bottom of the ravine, where Buttercup and Westley are reunited, apparently no worse for the wear after careening several hundred meters down a steep hillside packed with rocks and other obstacles. It should be pointed out that by this point the Man in Black is no longer the Man in Black, as his mask has fallen off. He is once again Westley.

  “Can you move?” asks Westley. An interesting question since I could barely move myself.

  “Move? You’re alive—if you want I can fly,” replies Buttercup.

  During this sequence, if you look closely, you can see that my leg is positioned oddly just prior to the moment when Westley crawls toward Buttercup. That’s no accident. That is me trying to find a comfortable position for my poor, very swollen foot.

  Moments later, Westley and Buttercup scramble to their feet and race toward the Fire Swamp, in the apparently suicidal hope of eluding Prince Humperdinck’s soldiers.

  Again if you look closely, you can clearly see that my character has a noticeable hop in his step. My apologies for that. I did the best I could to hide it, but a strange skip was all I could manage. Fortunately, since Robin and I were supposed to run together while holding hands, I convinced myself it looked appropriately awkward.

  Fleeing, after all, is rarely a graceful exercise.

  And neither is fencing, unfortunately, when you can barely walk. Nevertheless, I was allowed only a small reprieve from training. Peter and Bob came to see me the morning after my injury, asked how I was feeling, but expressed only a little bit of sympathy (which, to be honest, was about all I deserved). They then suggested we get back to train
ing the very next day. Which we did. There was absolutely no messing around with these guys. They were concerned enough as it was about not having enough time to train Mandy and me adequately to meet the demands of the screenplay and the schedule. If we couldn’t convincingly portray two men capable of staging an epic swordfight, then they would bear some of the responsibility. Failure was not a word in their vocabulary. Neither was excuse.

  “Can you move your arms?” Bob asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then you can train. Don’t worry about your footwork,” he said. “We’ll just rehearse from the waist up. The arm movements are the key anyway. In the end, that’s what the audience is going to be watching.”

  So for the next couple weeks, I trained while standing in place, going through the entire fight sequence without moving my feet, or by moving very slowly and carefully. It actually proved to be an effective method, almost like cross-training: by focusing only on the arm movements, I developed a deeper understanding of the sword choreography involved in the fight. I guess you could say it was an unplanned benefit.

  A lesser injury occurred about a month later in Burnham Beeches forest in Buckinghamshire, not long after the pain in my foot had finally begun to subside a little. We were filming the scene in which Buttercup and Westley, having survived the Fire Swamp, find themselves exhausted, filthy, and ambushed by Humperdinck, Rugen, and a bunch of crossbow-toting Florinese soldiers. When it becomes apparent that there is no chance of escape, Buttercup barters for Westley’s freedom by agreeing to return with Humperdinck and become his bride, an acquiescence that surprises both the Prince and Westley. Humperdinck agrees, albeit duplicitously, as he has no intention of following through on his end of the bargain. Before riding off with Buttercup, he says quietly to Count Rugen, “Once we’re out of sight, take him back to Florin and throw him into the Pit of Despair.”

  As drawn by Goldman and played marvelously by Chris Guest, Rugen is a deliciously malevolent character, with an evil glint in his eye and an Inquisition-style zest for doling out pain and punishment. A menacing figure indeed, and the glee with which he accepts Humperdinck’s orders is both humorous and hateful as he repeats the Prince’s fake oath to Buttercup to return Westley to his ship, back to him.