Unknown Source – 1997

By Richard E Grant.

I have a recurring dream: I am filming a sure-to-be-blockbuster, and have a moment to relax. I am all alone in my trailer the size of a pantechnicon, with enough rooms and compartments to satisfy Howard Hughes. No sooner have I luxuriated in the acres of space, fruit, flowers and complimentary knick-knacks, courtesy of my astute agent, when there is a knock on the door and a nubile cherub peeks inside. “Who are you sharing with?” she asks. “Why, no one,” says I, to which she replies: “You look so lonely – why not come over to ours?” I dutifully follow and find myself ensconced, squeezed, hugged and embraced by her four trusty friends, all of whom are dressed top-to-toe in gleaming bonhomie. “I’m Posh, and she’s Scary, I’m Ginger and she’s Sporty. I’m Baby and you’re 40,” they chant – at which moment I wake up, blissful smile on my face, ready to face the day. Think it’s a weird fantasy? Let me tell you a very glamour-filled story of a day in the life of a film………

Once upon a time, in December 1995 to be precise, I was working on a Portrait of a Lady, a medium-sized American budget picture, directed by Jane Campion. Mine was a supporting role; black-bearded and stiffly serious, with unreciprocated love for Nicole Kidman. First day’s shoot and it’s not unlike the first day at school. Excitement and apprehension jockey for first place. No one looks more taken aback than the elderly owners whose “stately pile” we have borrowed.

A couple of hours later and the once-swarming lawn is neatly divided by camera track. To the left, the short-sleeved crew are clumped; to the right, Sir John Gielgud presides over a 19th-century tea set. The scripted action involves Nicole returning from my thwarted marriage proposal (due to be filmed in a month’s time) and bolting past Sir John into the house, followed by her yapping dog. All morning the dog handler and a load of biscuits have been rehearsing their Pavlovian ritual of “go boy, stop, good boy”, replete with lots of mutual licking in preparation for the actual event. Come the moment, Nicole is pocketed up with dog bickies. The words “silence, sound rolling, camera and action,” are belted out. The pooch races in every direction, except where it is supposed to go. Take two, the pooch refuses to budge. Take 20, the rest of us start twiddling our thumbs. Take 25, Nicole is exhausted from the effort of maintaining a state of high emotion, as everyone else tries to outguess the four-legged fluffball. Take 26, and the laird of the manor appears and asks, “Is filming always like this?”

Absolutely. And people wonder why actors get obsessed with their trailers. On-set, off-camera, trailers are all. Given the hours you spend waiting – for the weather, lighting and camera set-ups, or a thesp having problems getting a scene “right” – and given the need for mobility necessitated by different locations, the amount of time passed in a Winnebago or caravan can seem endless. Besides your own, there’s the lunch truck, the Portakabin, wardrobe, offices, dressing rooms and so on. Environment matters. Once, I did a film in the Czech Republic and was promised the usual Ritz-of-the-East accommodation, only to discover that a flat-tyred, at-a-tilt, leaking two-wheeler was what the producer deemed fulfillment of his contract. When I stupidly tried to stand upright, he finally conceded that “perhaps we’d better find something with a little more height”.

Hence the fact that the size of an actor’s trailer is supposed to be pre-negotiated between the film’s producer (who would be more than happy to house everyone in the nearest mulberry tree) and the actor’s agent (who is hellbent on securing a Savory suite on wheels to keep the client happy and feeling super-stellar at all times).

Personally, I like Robert Altman’s approach: on Pret-a-Porter, we were all housed in a large communal tent or – location depending – conference room, with the merest flap of a curtain to cordon off girls from boys for costume changes, creating the kind of no-frills atmosphere that directly forms his ensemble signature style. The norm on that set was to turn up in the morning, bleary-eyed, only to find Sophia Loren sitting in curlers to your left, exchanging Roman news with Marcello Mastroianni, while Lauren Bacall and Rupert Everett await their turns in the make-up chair currently occupied by Kim Basinger. As for the norm on the set of Altman’s about-to-be-released Gosford Park – well, I would tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.

In any case, on any set, make-up is always the first port of call after getting breakfast from the catering bus before the sun has come up. It’s a pretty egalitarian zone, which mutually agreed-upon music played according to the general mood. However, “dignity be damned” is the motto when your ear, nose and eyebrow hair is being plucked, which your pimples are nuked at dawn. Occasionally, this normally buoyant atmosphere is eroded by the entrada of a morose star who requires monastic silence and high-voltage coffee, provoking an eyeball-rolling chorus to silently scream, “Get down, diva, and back to your personal trailer. Pronto!”

It is in your trailer that you get to read a newspaper and rustle the pages, break wind as loudly as you want, stuff your face and, most importantly, yell loudly into the phone (the moment there is any kind of hiatus in filming, there is a veritable stampede to find a corner to phone, or have a fag, or both). Another favourite trailer past-time: playing Boggle – Scrabble in two minutes – a firm favourite of every hurry-up-and-wait thesp, and a great ice-breaker, in that it always has zero to do with the movie currently being made, and requires total concentration, thus distracting everyone from obsessing over the salary gaps between themselves and the star. Or the trailer gaps, as it may be.

Which brings me to the question I know you are dying to ask. Does size really matter? Don’t be daft! Of course it does.