The Stand-In 4/8

Recap: Being a stand-in allowed me to perform in front of the camera - as long as I remembered where to go. Now I just needed the legendary First on my side.

“Owen to Will, over.”

If I heard Owen, the First Assistant director, on the walkie, the clock was ticking. Putting the sausage and egg bap down, I fumbled for the button.

“Will to Owen, over.”

“Take Ray’s French teacher to his trailer and ask her if she wants something to drink, copy?”

“Copy, Owen.”

“I think we’re out of Perrier.. “

Among my many duties as a runner on ITV’s biggest costume drama of the year was to keep the walkie talkies charged. Every morning I would take the radios out of their charging docks and pass them out to each department like a paper boy doing his rounds. Even today, if I see one of my family’s screens lacking a cable, I instinctively plug it in.

Being a visitor on set might give you some sense of how a drama production operates, but to get a true understanding, you need to pop an earpiece on and listen in. On Henry VIII it was like entering a hidden aural realm where you would finally hear the true voice of God.

As I discovered, it’s not the director that’s really in charge of the actual mechanics of filming. It’s the First who literally calls the shots, makes sure no one dies, and keeps the production on time and within budget. Owen was clearly at the top of his game, and he had to be. We had large crowd scenes including a jousting tournament and two public executions; we had battles and burning monks and charging horses. And since Henry, he’s worked on some of the biggest telly and film in the last twenty years, but not their final seasons. Any big budget shoot based in the British Isles with a King, Queen, Dame or a small talking bear has his fingerprints on the walkie.

What Owen wasn’t, and no good First should be, was a frustrated director. I learnt pretty quickly that my career path as a runner was not going to end in that sacred chair. If I played my cards right, a couple of decades of handing out walkies might just see me become a First like Owen. Some achievement, of course, but remember that I was incredibly ambitious, entitled and arrogant, and it just wouldn’t be good enough.

Did Owen mark my card early on in this production? Quite possibly. I truly believe I did my best but something behind my eyes gave me away. I think he saw me as something of a tourist, a dilettante not totally committed to his craft.

But there were moments where we got close to a rapport, and there’s one memory of him I hold dear.

One boy’s raging horn for a girl would literally change the English and Welsh religion, so our Anne Boleyn had to be special. Casting someone of the star power of Helena Bonham Carter lent huge gravitas to the production, at a time when film actors rarely crossed over to the small screen.

It was her first scene, and this Tudor meet-cute between Anne and Henry in this production was very public. She was presented to the king at court, with her betrothed, Henry Percy.

All the departments were working full tilt. We had around forty extras who all needed period clothing, feeding and wrangling into position. We already had a dim view of extras and that day our attitude would only worsen.

While they were all filling their boots with sausage and egg baps, I was enjoying the private rehearsals between the lead actors that also included David Suchet as Cardinal Wolsey.

Only it wasn’t going well.

“Well come on, let’s see your face woman, or do you hide it for good reason?”

Anne lifts her head. Henry is gobsmacked by her beauty.

“So Anne- you join us from France?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Speak French Percy?”

“Not a word, my lord.”

“Of course not, why would you? You’re a sheep farmer from Northumberland.”

So far, so good, writer Peter Morgan cheekily nodding to the 16th century version of the north/south divide.

But at this point Henry, who is now obviously smitten, is about to flex that he can speak French.

In the script it’s a few lines, all typed out and ready to learn. To help Ray he had several lessons with a French teacher in the weeks leading up to the scene.

But he can’t do it. The French just won’t fall out of his mouth properly. Helena and Suchet, who probably speak ten languages between them, are sympathetic as repeated attempts to finish the scene fail.

Owen had already prepared for this eventuality. A reason, perhaps, why he’s the best in the business. He ushered me out of rehearsals for a top secret mission: to write in thick black Sharpie giant cue cards or ‘idiot boards’ with the French words in large block capitals.

The hordes of extras were herded into position and we were ready for a take. I had delivered the boards just moments before, and Owen and I crouched behind Helena Bonham Carter, in all her Tudor finery, waiting for our moment.

“You’re a sheep farmer from Northumberland…”

Up we popped, like Eric and Ernie, giving Ray the boards at Helena’s eyeline so it looked like he was talking to her. But it still didn’t work. Ray looked physically ill. He stumbled and mumbled, and it was all “mange tout Rodney, mange tout.”

Bonham Carter couldn’t help herself.

She burst into laughter. Taking her cue, the entire cast exploded, wave upon wave of belly laughing extras taking much more pleasure than their due.

Owen and I looked at each other, then at the throne.

How would Ray Winstone take this very public humiliation?