As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of The Princess Bride (15 page)

The next morning I woke up early and went straight to the studio, eager to get to my first day at work, on time and well-prepared. I was ushered by the first AD into the hair and makeup department, where I met with Lois Burwell, our incredibly talented makeup artist who had worked on a couple of my favorite films,
The Draughtsman’s Contract
and
Mona Lisa,
and has since become a personal favorite of Mr. Spielberg’s. Lois was going to be applying not only my makeup but also a little fake mustache on me a few weeks into filming. This was something Rob and I had agreed on for the look of Westley—a pencil-thin one, which I told Rob would give him a very Flynn/Fairbanks flair if I could grow it in time. I was able to grow one, but I would have to shave it off, as we were filming the farm boy scenes with Buttercup out of sequence, which called for me to be clean-shaven—thus the need for the fake one.

While Lois was making me up, our equally professional hair stylist, Jan Jamison, who had, incidentally, worked with Mandy on
Yentl,
started applying a small ponytail to the back of my head—another look that Rob and I had discussed for Westley. This process involved using incredibly painful, tiny rubber bands that had to be placed close to my scalp so she could weave the hair in. It wasn’t her fault they hurt, though. Jan assured me that, given all the stunt work I would have to
do, this “backfall,” as it was called, was the only way to apply it to my head.

After getting made up I headed over to my dressing room on the lot. There, hanging on the wall, greeting me as I walked in, was the full Man in Black costume. Leaning on a chair next to it I noticed my actual movie sword for the first time. As I took it out of its scabbard, it glistened in the morning light. It had been designed by a professional sword maker, as had all of the swords in the movie, to Bob and Peter’s specifications. I practiced a few moves to get the hang of it. It was beautifully crafted and very lightweight.

Once I finished getting dressed, I checked myself in the mirror in my full outfit one last time. This was it—time to bring the Dread Pirate Roberts to life! I hooked my scabbard to my belt and grabbed my gloves and mask. Before I had a chance for a second thought there was a knock on the door. It was a production assistant, a job I had once held, now there to bring me to the stage. I opened the door and let him in.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied, grabbing my sides.

Just walking onto the set itself was an incredible experience. I’d never seen such a large crew. All the producers were there, along with the heads of all the departments. Bill Goldman was also there, chatting with one of the producers, Steve Nicolaides. Everything about the setting screamed, “Big-time Hollywood movie.” What I felt could be akin to the thrill that perhaps a minor-league baseball player experiences when he’s called up to the majors and walks into a 50,000-seat stadium for the first time. I felt a palpable sense of awe and excitement.

In the theater, unlike film you have a sense of the finished product even as you are rehearsing. And you get to tell the entire story every night. Moviemaking is a completely different process. It’s about shepherding actors, craftsmen, and technicians—artists all—in the pursuit
of a common goal: trying to catch lightning in a bottle. A goal that can seem painfully elusive at times depending on the circumstances. Films are cobbled together over weeks and months, with scenes captured from multiple angles and points of view, and under a myriad of conditions. A single scene or sequence, depending on how large it is, can sometimes take a couple of days to shoot—in some cases weeks, as was the case for the infamous duel and the Fire Swamp. Adding to the disorientation is the fact that nearly everything is filmed out of sequence (ergo the need for my fake mustache!). There can be no doubt that a certain childlike wonder is required to do the job, but actors also need an abundance of patience and flexibility, as things don’t always turn out as planned. All I know is that I love working in film. And, aside from being with my family, I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in the world than on a movie set. There really is nothing to compare it to.

Standing across from me, getting wired by the sound department, was Robin, looking radiant as ever in Buttercup’s bright red dress. After sharing some very nice compliments about our respective outfits, I, too, began to get wired. This is where the sound department hides a small microphone on your person, much like you see in the movies when the FBI or the police need to have someone “wear a wire” in order to catch the bad guy incriminating himself. The reason for this is so the sound department can pick up even the faintest dialogue that may be too quiet or soft to be picked up by the boom microphone. While Phyllis and the boom operator tried to figure where the best place to hide the mic would be on my costume, I looked around and noticed Goldman standing off to the side of the set . . . all by himself. As at the table reading, he appeared to be even more nervous and excited than I was. More unduly anxious than usual, I should say. I remembered his words at the read-through, where he stated that he might seem a little so because this was his favorite piece of work. I couldn’t tell if it was that or maybe it
was because it was the first day of shooting. I should point out, though, that this was not Goldman’s first time at the rodeo. He had spent some time on the sets of
Marathon Man, Butch Cassidy, All the President’s Men,
and
A Bridge Too Far
. However, even though he visited these sets, he never stayed for the whole shoot.

This was not a rare thing in Hollywood back then, or even nowadays. The norm is that unless rewrites are needed on the fly, the screenwriter is rarely invited to the shoot except for perhaps a customary visit to meet everyone. He often ends up watching the rest of the production from afar as his baby is nurtured by someone else. Some directors feel a little insecure about having the writer on location, perhaps fearful that they might be judging their methods or vision. If changes are needed, these directors usually prefer to have the new scenes or lines delivered by e-mail or fax. For some, having a writer on the set is deemed at best a distraction, at worst a nuisance. Some prefer to work with them at arm’s length (unless, of course, the director is the writer), allowing the script to morph into something else entirely. And to be fair to those directors, this is not necessarily a bad thing. It’s allowing the director to have creative license born of inspiration. I remember a writer who had written big studio movies telling me once: there are three movies when you make a movie—the one you write, the one you guys shoot, and the one the director edits. For some writers this kind of banishment can be considered heresy. For others it’s no big deal. Neither one of them is necessarily right or wrong. It’s just one of those challenging dynamics: whether the director feels comfortable having the writer around or not. It’s really up to their discretion.

Rob adored Bill and had such admiration for his talent that he invited him on the set not just for a visit but for the duration of the production. Indeed we all felt that way about Bill. To us he was such a giant, not only within the industry but also within the artistic community at
large, that we were all in awe of him. He was also then and still is a very genteel, big-hearted guy. You’d have to be to write a fairy-tale love story for your kids. So there was never a question about whether he should be there with us or not. This was, after all, his favorite screenplay. Why wouldn’t he be invited? Although, I got the distinct sense from him that he really didn’t want to be there.

The first scene on the first day was the one in which Westley leads Buttercup through the Fire Swamp, hacking away at vines while relating to both Buttercup and the audience how he came to be the Man in Black. The Fire Swamp, incidentally, is described as follows in the stage directions of Bill’s script:

It really doesn’t look any worse than any other moist, sulfurous, infernal horror you might run across. Great trees block the sun.

And that is exactly what it looked like. It was now completely covered in creepers and vines and had large toadstools and moss-covered rocks all over the place.

My first line of dialogue, describing my thoughts about the swamp to make Buttercup feel secure, was, “You know, it’s not that bad. I’m not saying I’d like to build a summer home here, but the trees are actually quite lovely.”

I recall not getting it quite right. Rob had a very specific idea about
how the words “summer home” should be pronounced and thought I was putting too much emphasis on the second word as opposed to the first.

“It’s
summer
home, Cary,” Rob said.

“Right—summer
home
.”

“No, try it again.
Summer
home.”

We tried a second take. And then something strange happened. Before I even got to finish the line an odd look came across Rob’s face from behind the monitor. He turned to Andy Scheinman, lifted off his headphones, and said, “What’s that weird noise I can hear?”

Andy removed his headphones as well and shook his head. “I don’t know, but I can hear it, too.”

“Cut!” Rob yelled.

Rob turned to our sound guy, David John.

“Dave? What’s that weird noise?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but it has stopped now,” came the reply from David.

We rolled again. And once again, right in the middle of a take, Rob yelled, “Cut!”

“What the heck
is
that?” Rob asked again, walking over to the sound cart. Our now frustrated sound man rewound the tape and let them all listen to it again to see if they could decipher what it was and thus, hopefully, where it was coming from.

The tape was played back, and I even got a listen. You could clearly hear what sounded like some sort of strange incantation or chanting of some kind. It was barely audible but it was definitely on the sound track. The ADs spread out and began searching the swamp, listening for the sound. I think it was Rob who eventually discovered Bill standing behind a giant toadstool, rocking back and forth, with his fingers crossed in his mouth, mumbling under his breath.

“Bill, what are you doing?” Rob asked quizzically.

Embarrassed, Bill stammered as he removed his hands from his mouth, “Oh, I’m, er . . . I was just praying. Why?”

“You can’t talk on the set, Bill. Not while we’re filming. The microphones pick up everything.”

Bill lowered his head.

“Oh my gosh! I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just a little excited, I guess.”

Rob threw an arm around him and pulled him close. “It’s okay, Bill. Just relax.”

Rob then turned to us and calmly said, “Okay. Let’s try it again.”

The next two takes were printed but apparently I still could not get the delivery of “summer home” exactly right. When a director gives a line reading to an actor—when he demonstrates precisely how the words should be spoken—it can sometimes be a bit awkward. But Rob’s personality is so engaging and his demeanor so unthreatening that he is just naturally able to put an actor at ease. He also knows exactly how it should sound. The next take, I finally got it right.

Afterward I said to Rob, “You know, in England we don’t really have
summer homes given the climate.” He laughed and said, “Yeah, that figures.”

For the next sequence in the Fire Swamp, there would be no easing into things. This would be a baptism by fire.

Although the stunts and special effects in
The Princess Bride
were certainly modest by today’s standards (and indeed even by the standards of some of the Hollywood blockbusters of the time, e.g., the Star Wars and Indiana Jones trilogies), they nevertheless represented my introduction to the technological possibilities of moviemaking, and the risks and challenges associated with stunt work.

This was the point in the Fire Swamp sequence where Buttercup’s dress briefly catches on fire before the flame is extinguished by Westley. It’s merely a line in the stage directions and consumes only a few seconds of film, but before we could shoot the scene, several steps had to be taken. First, a fire marshal had to be brought to the set. He would then meet with the stunt coordinator, Peter Diamond, Nick Allder, our FX supervisor, and his special effects crew. This was followed by what is known as a general “safety meeting” with the rest of the crew. Anytime there are firearms, fire, or even a dangerous or semidangerous stunt involved, there is always a safety meeting of this kind. The whole crew gathers around, and usually the first AD explains what the meeting is about. He then introduces everyone to the person in charge of special
effects/stunts/firearms, etc., and that person walks everyone through the sequence, detailing both process and all potential safety concerns.