by J M Gregson
‘Jason and I will be perfectly all right in here,’ Sandra purred contentedly. ‘You can safely leave us to our own devices.’ Jason grinned weakly at Ernie. He was out of his depth here and he might sink without trace. But he had solved a problem for the harassed Clark: Sandra Rokeby appeared to be quite content with her lot on this difficult day.
Things, he reflected, were probably as good as they could be on this depressing and largely wasted Monday. They might at least be able to do a couple of shots with the extras filing dutifully into the village church in the late afternoon; he would leave it to the director to explain to them that it was supposed to be a bright day outside the walls of the church and persuade the women to appear in summer dresses and the men in open-necked shirts, however much they might shiver off-camera.
It was three o’clock when Sam Jackson arrived.
The aroma of his cigar went before him, exciting the extras and the bit-part players, filling Ernie Clark with foreboding. Sam’s neo-Hollywood voice boomed out as soon as he sighted his assistant producer. ‘Time’s money! I’m feeding and watering this fucking army! And what’s it doing for me?’
All heads turned towards Ernie Clark, who was suddenly centre-stage in this real-life drama. ‘The weather is against us, Mr Jackson, as you can see. We hope to be able to shoot a couple of minor scenes before we up sticks for the day. Given reasonable weather during the rest of the week, we hope to be back on schedule by—’
‘Hope! I don’t finance this expensive bloody circus so that buggers like you can hope! I pay for results, Mr Clark. You know my methods, or you should fucking know them, by now. I pay for results and if I don’t get them heads will fucking roll! Is that clear?’
‘Eminently clear, Mr Jackson. It’s just that you must understand that—’
‘Must? Must? Watch your step right there, Mr Clark! No bastard tells me I must do anything. Do you understand that?’
‘Yes I do, Mr Jackson. I was merely trying to explain the realities of the situation. There are problems with—’
‘Problems! Don’t come moaning to me about fucking problems! Problems are there to be solved, man! First rule of filming! First rule of any bastard who is fortunate enough to work for me!’
‘Yes, sir. That’s understood, but I have to point out that there are difficulties.’
Jackson didn’t believe in doing things in private. You focussed on someone and gave him the full and public blast of your disapproval, pour encourager les autres as well as to get things moving. He now waved his smoking cigar at the considerable audience of actors, extras and technical staff who had gathered around his forceful entry and shouted, ‘That goes for everyone in this ramshackle fucking enterprise! I want results. I’m not interested in fucking excuses! All of you buggers should remember that!’
They filed dutifully away. Sam Jackson watched them go, then muttered more quietly to Ernie Clark, who had felt himself to be a routine straight man in a familiar performance, ‘That shook the bastards up, Ernie. That should get things moving!’
Clark didn’t see how it would make the slightest difference to what happened today, except that some of the minor figures would feel so apprehensive that they would be unable to perform effectively; that would land him with cuts and re-shoots. At that moment, he would cheerfully have dispatched Samuel Jackson to the furthest and most painful regions of Dante’s inferno.
On that wet and depressing Monday, he had as yet no idea what would happen upon the morrow.
THREE
Tuesday dawned bright and clear. There was a God after all for television producers and directors.
The bright spring morning seemed to imbue cast, extras and technical staff alike with a new energy and optimism. No one liked days like the previous one. People had been paid for doing nothing, which in the popular imagination is supposed to be paradise. A day like that wet Monday must be, in the old army parlance, ‘a good skive’. Money for old rope, or in this case for histrionic inactivity.
In fact, people in general and actors in particular would rather achieve than skive, at whatever level they happen to be operating. In an overcrowded profession, there is already far too much ‘resting’. There had been frustration and the irritability which it inevitably provokes at all levels on that damp Monday, from the unemployed make-up and continuity girls to the principals who were unable to ply their strange and exacting trade. Now there was anticipation, optimism and a desire to put something worthwhile in the can.
By nine o’clock, they were ready to film the single location scene of Harry Green, a reliable bit-part actor who was playing a greengrocer destined to be the first murder victim in the Herefordshire Horrors episode. His murder, which took place in near-darkness late at night, had already been shot in the studio. After today, Harry Green would be on his way to other things, or ‘resting’ if his agent had failed to secure him other employment. This led to problems which seasoned practitioners like Sir Bradley Morton claimed to have foreseen.
Harry’s duty in this three-minute scene was to conduct a routine, even dull, conversation with a customer whose face the audience never saw. The grocer was to serve him with Jersey Royal new potatoes and half a kilogram of tomatoes. He was to be non-committal and businesslike through this routine transaction; his dialogue involved no more than the routine British exchanges upon the weather. His only taxing duty was to show a final flash of apprehension as he looked upon the departing back of the customer the television audience never saw, so as to heighten their interest in who this might be and increase their concern for the cheerful and innocent grocer.
The scene had to be shot twice because Harry, impeccable through his conversational duties, overdid the apprehension of the final seconds. Perhaps he wanted to stretch his part with a view to future employment, or had in mind the repeat fees from the overseas showings which everyone had been talking about through the wet Monday. Whatever the reason, Harry Green showed naked fear rather than the merest suggestion of foreboding which the script directed, which gave far too much of a clue to the villainy of his customer.
Sir Bradley Morton, copiously breakfasted and waiting impatiently for a scene of his own, commented wryly and too audibly that Green was supposed to show a flicker of alarm rather than to shit himself three times over. There was a discussion between producer and director as to whether Green’s over-acting could be edited out, then a reluctant decision to waste more of this perfect location morning by re-shooting the scene.
Sam Jackson was putting himself about and keeping everyone on their toes; you didn’t become a big-time producer without a massive cigar and a mastery of the cliché. He addressed a varied collection of extras, who had gathered to observe him, partly curious and partly awestruck. ‘Time’s money when you’re on location, and I don’t want none of you to forget that. You’re getting your five minutes of fame and I’m the mug who’s paying for it.’ He waved his cigar in a vaguely threatening arc which embraced all of them. ‘So I want value for money from you lot and no buggering about.’
His pep talks to the more senior members of his cast were no less direct. He told Martin Buttivant, who was only four years his junior, to ‘get bloody detecting while the sun shines, lad.’ He instructed David Deeney, who was playing an old-school Anglican clergyman of impeccable morals and even more impeccable diction, to ‘roll yer “rs” as well as your arse and make the buggers below your pulpit look as though they’re interested in this claptrap you’re throwing at them.’ He even instructed Sir Bradley Morton, knight of the realm and theatrical institution, to ‘move about the place as if you care and don’t rely on that foghorn of a voice to do everything for you.’ He gave Sandra Rokeby an ugly leer as he told her to ‘get your finger out and give it the full orgasm today, girl!’
He didn’t have much effect upon any of these seasoned pros. They realized that Sam Jackson was operating in the age of the ‘celebrity’ and that he would do everything he could to foster his image of movie mogul turning his attention
to television. It might not be a very attractive image to them, but it seemed to be a permanently beguiling one to the public, who read about it and saw it acted out in public places rather than suffered it at first hand.
Owing to the efficiency of director, cast and back-up staff rather than to Jackson’s exhortations, they made good progress through the morning. Sir Bradley, static but sonorous in spite of Jackson’s instructions, was excellently cast as the long-term owner of the local manor, who had fallen upon hard times but refused to recognize it. The ageing but well-loved actress who played his wife was a little stiff and occasionally slow in her reactions, because she was in truth now very deaf. But she lip-read well and Sir Bradley enunciated well, so that she was for the most part able to disguise her deficiency. This would probably be her last role of any size or import and there was sympathy for her, even in a profession which depended upon the survival of the fittest. John Watts was an able director, and he saw that he could build in her occasional faltering by simply making the character of the lady of the manor a little more doddery.
They made good progress through the morning, assisted by the fact that Sam Jackson did not emerge from his caravan after his initial motivational outbursts. Sandra Rokeby completed the scene where she met the young man and invited him back to her place. John Watts found her excellent on set, relaxed and able to take direction, secure in her lines, completely professional. She was half sinister femme fatale, half a humorous send-up of herself in that very role. It was almost a microcosm of the whole Inspector Loxton series, which attempted to provide intriguing puzzles without taking itself too seriously or taxing its audience too much.
Watts congratulated Sandra on her performance after they had it in the can and the cameras had cut. ‘Just ask me to play myself and I’ll do it,’ she said with a grin. ‘All day and all night, if necessary.’
It wasn’t as simple as that, and both of them knew it. You couldn’t just put yourself, or even what the public had come to accept was yourself, unthinkingly on screen and be successful. That would emerge as stale and second-hand. You had to give some thought to it, to decide exactly how you would tease and attract the young, good-looking actor who’d been given the role of the naïve young man whom she was beguiling and leading he knew not where. Every seduction, or implied seduction, must have its own dialogue, its own gestures, and its own charms.
John wondered exactly what Sandra Rokeby was like beneath the make-up and that carefully developed carapace of the middle-aged voluptuary. She was certainly intelligent, despite the image of herself she chose to project. She had been imported to liven up this single episode in the series, but she knew what went on around the Inspector Loxton set-up better than most. He’d find a part for her in future episodes, if the decision were left to him.
The ancient village church they had hired for the week photographed well on this cloudless day. There was something timeless about the mellow stone and the arched windows which could only add to the gravity of what was essentially a lightweight series. John Watts doubled the time allotted to the opening shot of the scene and allowed the cameras to dwell appreciatively upon the elevations which had not changed in centuries. You could afford to set the scene without the distractions of human presence when the setting was as agreeable as this. Even viewers anxious for plot development would welcome the build-up of atmosphere.
David Deeney did him proud when he eventually shot the scene inside the church. He presented a vicar who was thoroughly modern in his views, but with a touch of old-style formality in his manner. The extras who were his congregation – or that small part of it which the cameras were positioned to show – had been warned that their role was to pay rapt attention. They had little difficulty in following this injunction, because David as the vicar addressed them directly and compelled their attention. A series of rhetorical questions was asked of them, fully scripted but expertly delivered by the actor behind the dog collar.
Watts was impressed by Peg Reynolds, the young actress who’s role was to stay on in the church in the next scene to ask for the vicar’s advice and guidance. Her lines were standard and uninspiring, but she had that mixture of vulnerability and independence that the part demanded. Her manner said that although she genuinely wanted to have this experienced man’s advice, she would weigh it objectively before she decided whether or not to follow it. The plot demanded that she should be more than a young ingénue, because she would emerge as a suspect in the later stages of the story. She sat in the pew with her head a little on one side, weighing the merits of her mentor and what he said as well as being grateful for his advice.
Peg Reynolds was pretty, with dark eyes and dark hair which dropped neatly to her neck. She had large brown eyes and a wide mouth, with the regular white teeth which were nowadays almost standard issue for young actors of either sex. A smile lit up her face whenever she chose to use it. John Watts was well aware that male judgements could well be swayed by female beauty: he had fallen into the trap himself as a young director; he had even seen some of the more obvious male homosexuals in the profession make bad calls when swayed by an appealing young female face. But Peg was a woman to note and appreciate, he decided, a name to store away for future and weightier roles than this one.
She spoke to David Deeney as the vicar, nodding in the face of his earnest injunctions towards caution, faltering just enough with embarrassment as she revealed her more private thoughts. Then she watched his back thoughtfully as he left, so that the audience knew that she was thinking hard but were left uncertain as to the nature of those thoughts. Her director was presented with the enigma all good actresses leave behind. How much was she simply being herself and how far was she dropping expertly into a role which was in fact quite different from her own personality?
It was an agreeable question and a cheering note on which to end a busy and successful morning. John Watts was still an enthusiast for his profession, despite the multiple instances of human weakness which were volunteered to him each week. He then had an enjoyable lunch and the opportunity for rest and recuperation in the privacy of his own small caravan.
Watts realized suddenly that there was another reason why he was feeling more cheerful and relaxed. He had not seen or heard Sam Jackson for several hours now. That was unusual, probably unique. Was he still on the site? If he was, he would surely be making his presence felt in one way or another. Yet the decibel level at which the producer operated meant that if he was active anywhere on the acreage hired for this location work, John should surely be able to hear him and follow the disturbance he was creating.
Why wasn’t he hammering at his director’s door at this very moment, complaining that he was wasting precious minutes of this perfect location day when he and the ‘idle bastards’ he directed should be hard at work? He would have a point, in this case. They might be ahead of schedule for the day, but you needed to use every available moment when you didn’t know what the weather would be like for the rest of the week. Sam Jackson might be an obnoxious bully, but it was he who put up the money for all this. He might be showing a good profit on his investment in the Loxton series, but none of them would be here and working without his money.
Watts decided that he would report to his producer before he began the afternoon’s shooting. He told his assistant director to assemble the cast members required for a scene with distant views of the River Wye in the background and a herd of Herefordshire cattle with their appealing, vulnerable eyes in the foreground. A minor episode, but a ‘scene setter’ for which this perfect day offered the ideal opportunity. Meanwhile, he would report on an excellent morning’s progress to their formidable producer.
He rapped hard on the door of Jackson’s caravan. Perhaps Sam had a woman in there with him. That would explain why he had not been making his presence felt forcibly around the site. John wondered just how welcome he would be, even as the bearer of good news.
He certainly wasn’t going to interrupt anything; it took Jackson longer
both to conduct and to desist from any sexual activity as his girth grew larger each year. Watts wondered what he would find within the narrow wooden confines of the caravan. Jackson’s money meant that he could still have women, but they had lately been coarse and strictly temporary, what Martin Buttivant had described as ‘tramp steamers which pass in the night’.
John regretted his impulse to come here now, but he could hardly just go away, having hammered twice upon the door. He turned the handle and opened the door a quarter of an inch. ‘Sam, are you in there?’ he called tentatively. Silence.
The noisy bugger must have gone off without telling anyone. Uncharacteristic behaviour, but very welcome. They’d get much more done without him, and the bit players would be much less inhibited without his presence. He widened the gap to half an inch and called again and more loudly, ‘Sam, are you there?’
He was feeling a little ridiculous now, particularly since some of the extras had noticed his presence at the great man’s door. John Watts mustn’t look tentative or uncertain to members of his cast. Any hesitation might detract from the absolute and unquestioned authority which a director must carry with him on to the set. He stood upright, called the simple word ‘Sam?’ imperiously into the space beyond the door, and climbed the steps into the darkened interior of the caravan.
It wasn’t until he drew the curtains back that he saw Jackson. He lay slumped on the floor, looking in the moment of discovery like a stricken rhino. John Watts spoke his name again, but he knew now that there was going to be no response. The blackness in the face and the eyeballs which were almost out of the head told him that.
