The set was empty apart from some people scattering some giant plastic pumpkins.
‘The grass is plastic and pretty fragile, the kind of stuff you used to get in butchers’ windows. The hills and bridges are made of polystyrene and scaffolding, but the gobstoppers are real.’
We stood and gawped.
‘Erm, I’m happy for the work,’ I said, ‘But what do they need us for?’ Beyond getting diabetes from eating a gobstopper the size of a football, what was the problem?
Nick explained how there were lots of dangers on the set, beyond simply drowning in a river of chocolate. There were lots of unprotected drops, as well as the bridges. The stunt coordinator had worked on the Bond film with Nick, and on seeing the dangers on set called Nick, thinking that if he could manage safety on a frozen sea with cars skidding around, he could handle a mock chocolate factory.
‘They start filming tomorrow, so we just need to check out belay points and come up with a plan. It should be more of a case of handholding and corralling the crew away from danger, as well as making sure no one drowns in the chocolate.’
‘When’s Johnny Depp arriving?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he’ll be here tomorrow I think, I’ve met him and he’s pretty normal.’
We spent the rest of the day wandering around the set, seeing what we could tie ropes to in case we had to haul someone out of the chocolate, not that easy when everything you think will be solid – candy cane trees, sugar lumps and marshmallow bushes – is in fact made from polystyrene.
Nick explained that the film had a budget of a hundred and fifty million, and that Johnny Depp was getting twenty five million of that, and so we’d better do a good job of keeping him alive, having only one million pounds each of insurance. I also fancied this sort of work, and knew that it would be both professionally amiss and also a poor start if I allowed Johnny Depp to fall off a candy bridge and break his neck.
In the evening we drove to our digs. On an overseas film, these would have been in a plush hotel, but being in Britain we had to pay for ourselves. So we just camped outside of London.
I’d bought a huge cheap tent that could fit about twenty people in it, so felt like a Bedouin sheikh as I sat drinking beer with the rest of the team. The campsite was filled either with elderly couples in caravans and loud football-playing barbecuing southerners, or people too poor to stay in London on their visit. The latter, which included us, were put in a big field out of sight of the former.
Sat there under canvas I felt as if I was on an expedition. I couldn’t wait for the following morning for filming to start. I was a big fan of Tim Burton, who was directing, having seen all his films, and wondered what the man himself would be like. Paul seemed fairly unimpressed, but he’d worked on quite a few films already and knew what to expect. Being a Yorkshireman I’d expect if he met God one day he’d just say, ‘Thought you’d be taller,’ or something like.
‘Andy, JD’s coming,’ Paul whispered, elbowing me. The two of us stood wearing harnesses, ropes tied to our backs, outside our gear cupboard beside the set.
‘Who?’ I said, as I fiddled with the radio earpiece that would be stuffed in my ear for the next two months, allowing the safety team to remain in contact, primarily to order cups of tea and sandwiches.
‘Johnny Depp,’ he said, pointing down the corridor to the main door, where a gaggle of important people were gathering.
Through the door a group of people entered. You could tell they were important because their arse cracks weren’t showing over the top of their jeans, and they weren’t drinking tea or reading The Sun.
‘Bloody hell, he’s tiny,’ said Paul.
‘I think that’s actually the guy playing the Oompa Loompa,’ I said, unsure if he was pulling my leg.
Johnny Depp appeared through the door, dressed as Willy Wonka, all in black, with a big top hat balanced on a smart looking bob haircut, a long walking cane in his purple rubber-gloved hands. He was shorter than I’d imagined he’d be, and also very skinny.
‘God, he’s got teeth like a Bee Gee,’ whispered Paul, Depp’s gnashers shining brightly even from our distant vantage point.
‘I think they must be false ones,’ I said, trying to sound like I knew about film dentistry.
He began walking down the corridor towards us.
We both tried to look busy and uninterested in one of the biggest film stars in the world. I started coiling a rope and whistling, a sure sign I was bluffing my indifference, while Paul fiddled with his radio.
As he passed I looked up and gave him a smile.
He smiled back.
He seemed normal enough.
‘I’d give him one,’ I said, under my breath.
‘He’s out of your league,’ said Paul.
The crew assembled for the first scene, which would involve Willy Wonka, Charlie, Grandpa and the rest walking over one of the bridges. As we stood setting up, making sure no one toppled into the chocolate, Nick announced over my radio’s earpiece that Tim Burton was on his way up to the set, and for us to ‘stand by.’ So far I’d been on my best behavior in front of Nick and not put a foot wrong – no jokes or daft remarks – and I stood to attention when I heard his warning.
I’d become fascinated by Tim Burton after seeing a photo of him, when his movie Beetlejuice came out in the 1990s, all crazy hair and long jumpers, looking just like one of the characters from one of his films. He’d left Hollywood and had settled in Britain, and although not all his films are great, they have all been visually thrilling. He appeared from behind a snozzberry tree looking a bit like Phil Spector, dressed in a big jumper and wearing dark glasses, his hair as crazy as the set he’d helped design.
A hush went through the crew as he approached, director, overseer, dictator and God all rolled into one. I soon learned the director is at the top of a rigid hierarchy that requires no one talk to the director apart from the cinematographer, assistant director and producer. The director’s word is final, and woe betide anyone who does anything to stem their creative flow. Like the general of an army, the director is the tip of the spear and the shaft is the mass of tradespeople waiting for his orders.
As he walked down a line of steps, made to look like seaside rock, he tripped and took a tumble, rolling down a grass slope.
If it had been Johnny Depp who’d fallen I expect he’d have turned it into a flamboyant entrance, turning his tumble into an athletic flip back onto his feet, everyone applauding. Unfortunately Tim Burton just rolled down the hill like a barrel, in a loud and undignified manner.
Everyone tried not to laugh.
‘Looks like he’s gone for a Burton,’ I whispered over the radio.
I couldn’t help myself.
On location, I discovered, breakfast and lunch is supplied, and usually it’s very good quality. We weren’t on location, but did start early, so we got breakfast. We made the most of it.
Morning routine was to roll out of bed at six-thirty, get straight in the car, and arrive at Pinewood with enough time to have a leisurely and vast breakfast, involving several bowls of cereal and a big fry-up, followed by lots of tea and toast.
Being climbers – and so scroungers at heart – we overindulged with the free breakfast. Every morning I would sit opposite Paul as he stuffed his face, his new motto being: ‘Eat your way to profit.’
Paul, being a no-nonsense northerner, always had a good motto or two. When, for example, we felt our day’s work had not been up to scratch, he would just say, ‘Well, we may not be good, but at least we’re cheap.’
By the end of breakfast we’d be fit to burst, but seeing as all we were going to do for the next twelve hours was stand around it didn’t really matter.
As I expected, filming was very boring, and although most takes were done in one, very often it would require half the day to get set up for that one take. The days were also very long, always twelve hours or longer. Work tended to revolve around either standing while waiting for something to happen, or
sitting while waiting for something to happen.
The actual levels of danger seemed low, but with kids on the set it was good to play it safe. If they were my kids I’d want someone looking out for them. By and large the child actors seemed to take being stars in their stride, and never seemed to live up to the adage about children or animals. Plus, there was the bonus that legally they could only work four hours a day, so filming took twice as long as usual. It was all money in the bank.
A lot of time was spent just standing around next to the actors, meaning I had a window into their world. Everyone seemed very professional, never fluffing lines, while the job of direction seemed quite organic.
Grandpa Joe was played by David Kelly, who I remembered as the one-armed Irish dishwasher from the television programme Robin’s Nest in the 1970s. When I heard it was him, my first thought was, ‘Bloody hell, is he still alive?’ I’d thought him pretty old when I was six watching him on television. It turned out that he was alive but very old and frail. We decided always to have a stool on set, so we could pull it out between takes and give him a rest. Beyond this being a nice thing to do, I also thought that being able to say ‘I used to handle David Kelly’s stool on set,’ might be a useful gag.
Sat waiting for the next take, he turned to me and out of the blue started telling a story.
‘I was in the pub with Pierce Brosnan, when a man came over and stuck his hand out, saying: “Put it there Pierce.” Now, not wanting to offend the man, who was obviously drunk, Pierce shook his hand, at which point the man said: “That’s the nearest my hand will ever get to Halle Berry’s arse.”’
Watching this old actor, looking like he’d sprung straight from one of Quentin Blake’s illustrations, he always seemed very relaxed, as if there was no light between the character and the man, out-acting everyone by simply being there.
‘Andy, I’ve been performing since I was eight years old,’ he said one day, looking up at me as we waited for the next take. ‘I’m nearly eighty now. It’s a hard life, full of ups and down, champagne and ashes, but when you find something that feels right, you can never turn your back on it, no matter how hard the road.’
One of the worst jobs on set was grass planting. Paul named those responsible the ‘grass fluffers.’ There was plastic grass worth a million quid covering the stage, glued and stapled into place during a month of backbreaking work. The problem was as soon as anyone walked on it, the grass would break up, a real issue when you have a whole film crew camping on your handy work.
Every day there would be a call for the grass fluffers to mend an area that could be seen in the camera, a job that entailed the sort of care employed by minesweepers, as down on their knees they would patch and repair each strand of grass at a time. It was a thankless task. As soon as the shot was finished, some careless crewmember would walk across the same patch and ruin it.
One scene that stayed with me was Mike Teavee, played by young American actor Jordan Fry, having to smash open a giant candy pumpkin by stamping on it. The pumpkin was made of fibreglass and filled with KY jelly and sweets.
Each time the scene was set up, the pumpkin would break apart before he had chance to kick it, meaning the grass fluffers would have to come and clean up all the KY jelly and sweets, replace the grass, and stick another pumpkin in its place. They only had three pumpkins built for the scene, and on the third take, with the last pumpkin, he finally managed to break it himself.
‘Jump up and down really hard,’ shouted Tim Burton as Mike Teavee went crazy, his feet covered in KY jelly.
‘I’m just imagining it’s my sister’s head,’ the kid shouted.
‘That’s what I like,’ laughed Burton. ‘A method actor.’
It was great working with the other members of the safety crew, as most had very interesting stories to tell, and plenty of time to tell them.
Dave Rootes looked like a very ordinary middle-aged guy, sort of a cross between a dad and a school teacher, and was the public face of Poles Apart, giving the impression you were in a safe pair of hands. One day, stood at the edge of the set while the grass fluffers worked, I asked Dave what he’d done before this, always curious in how people became who they were.
‘Well I worked for the British Antarctic Survey for many years as a base commander,’ he said. Managing a team in the most hostile environment on earth was a very impressive job to have on your resumé.
‘Did you ever winter over?’ I asked, knowing that most bases were evacuated during the blackness of winter, when temperatures drop off the scale.
‘Oh a few times,’ he replied, as if describing how often he’d been to the Costa Brava.
‘What was it like?’ I asked, wondering what it was like waiting for months to see the sun reappear.
‘Dark,’ he said.
‘What did you do before that?’ I said, continuing to probe.
‘Well, I managed a band, but I left before they got big,’ he said. This was an unexpected answer.
‘Really?’ I found it hard imgaining Dave even being into music, let alone looking after a band. ‘What were they called?’
‘Genesis.’
I almost fell into the chocolate.
Beyond the film crew – camera operators, grips and sound engineers – there were Pinewood crew – painters, riggers, scaffolders, electricians and carpenters. All were being very well paid, and yet I’d never met such a bunch of miseries in my life. Everyone seemed grumpy about something, or someone, always backbiting and bitching, quick to put down or slag off any other trade, or any fellow tradesman. I guess it’s the same on any factory floor, but I was naive enough to think that movie making was above all that.
We shared a little shed built into the wall of the set with the wire riggers, who told us that ‘wire work’ was one of the oldest trades in cinema, the pioneers being seaman looking for work between voyages in the days of the tall ships. Their skills with ropes, pulleys and knots were ideal for moving things around the stage. Back then they used to communicate up in the rigging by whistling, the reason why it is bad luck to whistle in a theatre, as tooting a little tune could easily lead to a beanstalk landing on your head.
The oldest wire rigger had worked on just about every big film in the last thirty years. He looked like he’d walked off the set of an East End gangster movie. He was obviously not a fan of cinema though, or actors, as every actor you asked about was described as ‘a feckin’ cant.’
One day I asked him what the biggest film he’d worked on was, and he’d told me it was Superman.
‘What was Christopher Reeve like?’ I asked.
‘He was a cant,’ was the reply.
A few days later I tried another tack. ‘Who’s the best actor you’ve worked with?’ I asked, hoping that even this curmudgeon might have a little nugget of movie magic deep inside.
‘Richard fackin’ Burton,’ he said.
‘Why was that?’ I asked, impressed, imagining that the great actor’s talent had been so powerful it had reached even into the heart of this philistine.
‘He was always fackin’ drunk so we got loads of over-fackin’-time.’
It was bad form to speak to actors unless they wanted to talk, so autographs were out of the question, and the only time I talked to Johnny Depp was when he had to walk over one of the bridges.
I said, ‘Mind that step. It’s loose.’
I doubt I made it into his memoirs.
A lot of time was spent hanging around with Neil Bentley, another climber from Sheffield. Only a few years before Neil had been one of the best rock climbers in the country, having put up the first ‘E10’, a route called ‘Equilibrium.’ He was an intimidating character, both because he looked like he could crush bricks in his hands, and also because, being a Yorkshireman, he more often than not looked unhappy.
His hard climbing had been cut short by an accident on a climb well within his ability in the Dolomites. He’d pulled off a huge flake and been crushed, receiving terrible head injuries.
It had only been the actions of his partner lowering him down the rock face and running for rescue that saved his life. Any normal man would have died.
The accident had left him with both a limp and a huge scar across his face, the accident putting an end to his hard climbing, physically and mentally. He’d done other film work before, including acting as Matt Damon’s stunt double on The Bourne Identity.
‘What was he like?’ I asked, agog.
‘Alright,’ said Neil, his usual answer to most things, being a man of few words.
As the filming went on, people kept asking me how Neil had got his scar, not wanting to ask him themselves, perhaps because he looked intimidating.
I told the first couple of people the truth about the accident, but as time went on I started to embellish the story a bit, saying that his face had been ripped off by a rock and then sewn back on, which wasn’t remotely true.
One day a timid camera assistant plucked up the courage to ask Neil if the story he’d heard was true.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, looking up at this scarred colossus, ‘is it true that you once had a really bad climbing accident?’
Neil nodded, amazed that someone had finally got part of the story right.
‘And did your mate lower you off the mountain?’
Neil nodded again, looking at me to check I wasn’t feeding the guy the correct line via sign language.
‘And then…’ the man continued, speeding up now, as though sure he wasn’t being wound up by his mates, ‘… he lowered you into a crevasse and had to cut the rope with a pen knife?’
Neil looked at me, but instead of the scowl I expected, I saw his stony face begin to crack and he burst out laughing.
The movie made progress, and we all settled into a humdrum routine of breakfast, standing around until the snack wagon, which was also free, opened, then taking it in turns to go for tea and smoothies and cheese toasties. In fact, life became one long round of cheese toasties. Time lost all meaning, as on the set the light was always the same, and very often I’d suddenly find I had no idea if I’d just arrived at work, or was just about to go home.
Cold Wars Page 26
