Unity (8 page)

She even tried it on with me – not in so many words, I admit, but, hey, I’m a writer; my middle name is Subtext. I was explaining how I’d been going out with Fliss for nearly four years. ‘I know,’ she said. Though I can’t imagine how, since I’m sure Fliss didn’t tell her. What’s more, she made me promise not to tell any of the Germans in case they regarded us as freaks. ‘But as a distinguished conductor once asked me,’ Dora said, ‘“are you mono or stereo?”’ ‘Mono, I’m afraid,’ I mumbled. ‘I’m an
old-fashioned
guy.’

After that diversion, I had better take you back to the set, although I’m not quite sure to which part. I’d like to say
something
about Wolfram’s techniques, but I must stress (as should you) that they are highly idiosyncratic. He never plans his shots in advance. Indeed, he rarely visits the location at all before the shoot. He storyboards (in lay terms, sketches the camera angles) the previous night or early in the morning or, sometimes even, while they are setting up (it’s not just in private that he likes to live on the edge). But – and this is crucial – he has spent weeks prior to the filming talking to Heike and Gerhard and the rest of the team about how he intends everything to look. He trusts them enough to leave them to take care of the details. Which is one of the reasons that they work for him time and again. The other is their absolute respect for his vision. They insist that, appearances to the contrary, ‘he knows exactly what he wants’. To them, that is the pinnacle of praise.

He grants similar licence to his actors but it is not always so welcome. He encourages them to rehearse for far longer than most directors – and directs them far less. Then, barring accidents (see above), he likes to shoot in a single take, which, as you can imagine, places the entire unit under tremendous strain. He claims to be less interested in technical perfection (‘Fuck
perfection
. Life isn’t perfect.’) than in spontaneity. His watchwords are the three ‘a’s:
ablauf; aktion; athmosphare
(or, in English, the two
‘a’s and a ‘p’: action, atmosphere and pace). His critics allege – not without some justification – that he has made an aesthetic out of his own impatience. But even the harshest of them cannot deny its success.

While his regular actors are accustomed to his methods,
outsiders
can find them daunting. On set, this creates a gulf between the English and German factions that would be more appropriate to a war film than a story of international friendship. With the notable exception of Ralf Heyn, whom Wolfram cast after seeing him play Hitler in a
Berlin Schaubuhne
piece about the 20th July plot,
39
the Germans have all been working for him since the
Bettlertheater
days. Indeed, some critics might allege – not, of course, that I would be among them – that he has made an aesthetic out of their inadequacy. They are a tight-knit group who exude the same hostility towards newcomers that I encountered when I started school in Hastings. For all their show of
friendliness
, they are permanently on their guard against any potential prize-winner or Teacher’s Pet.

Meanwhile, in the English camp … sorry, trailer, discontent is rumbling. I speak on the authority of Luke the actor, who has access to areas from which Luke the writer would be barred. So far, I’ve been spared any conflict of interest. Although, from the way that Wolfram quizzed me yesterday, I began to suspect that he had cast me primarily for my abilities as a spy (that’s one element that you mustn’t omit from your location report: paranoia). I exempt Fliss from the ranks of the dissenters since spontaneity is her strongest suit. For all her exceptional qualities, she lacks the
experience
to reproduce an emotion over a succession of takes. What she does have is an extraordinary vitality and freshness, which, from the footage I’ve watched, Wolfram has perfectly caught. I
know that you’ll think me partial but wait till you see for yourself (at a private screening, of course). You won’t believe that it’s the same girl with whom you acted at the ADC. What’s more, she has made a quantum leap in confidence. Having read that some famous actress (is it Glenda Jackson?) considers it the root of
self-consciousness
, she refuses to look at herself in the rushes. She has, however, received enough positive feedback, especially from Wolfram, to feel happy with what she has done. Her entire outlook has lightened. I realise now that the hiccup in our
relationship
last spring (hiccup – I felt as though I were choking!) sprang directly from her fears about the film. Part of her was convinced that it would never happen (a latter-day Lana Turner would be trapped in the drug-store for life) and the other part that, if it did, she would make herself a laughing-stock. I feel such a heel for having been so heartless: for focusing so intently on the script that I was blind to her needs. After all, it’s only my words on the screen (and, in some cases, not many of those!), it’s her soul.

Of all our compatriots, the two who find it hardest to adapt to Wolfram’s approach are Geraldine and Gerald. When we finally shot the office scene on Monday afternoon, she inquired
plaintively
about a second take. Having grown up in a city where nips and tucks are as commonplace on-screen as off, she expected her performance to be spliced together in the cutting-room. When Wolfram told her that they would be printing the first, she looked desolate. But, in a rare show of sensitivity, he took her aside and soothed her nerves (I wasn’t snooping; the interpreter’s voice was deliberately pitched at a wider audience). He explained that the most important person on any film was the casting director and, on his films, that was him. She could be absolutely sure that she was the best actress for the part with a unique quality that would bring Diana alive.

I think that, of everyone involved in the film, I find her the most intimidating. It’s the usual actor/fan thing coupled with a return to childhood (at six, I even had a copy of
The Swiss Family Robinson
with her picture on the front). In her company, I feel as if my teddy bears had come alive and taken me on their picnic. Besides which, I am awe-struck by her beauty. While her politics make her the least likely casting for Diana, her looks are the perfect match. And yet she seems to disparage them, making a determined effort to appear as plain as possible. The paradox is that it works in reverse, the way that Dora’s fondness for trousers emphasises her femininity. Moreover, she is so cold – the polar opposite of her on-screen persona. Do you suppose that some people have a warmth that is only captured on camera the way that others have an attraction? There again, it may be armour. It can’t be easy to have been a star at eight, a has-been at eighteen and, now, to be making her first film in over ten years – to say nothing of having been relentlessly pilloried in the press. I’d like to ask her about her opinions but such is the strength of the
caricature
that it’s hard to sound sincere. The jury is still out on whether she’s a genuine idealist or a disingenuous fanatic. But then confusion is only to be expected when Alice walks into Wonderland and comes back as Madame Mao.

Having Gerald Mortimer for her father muddies the waters still further. And, by the way, what egoism … I’m surprised that the vicar didn’t raise a protest at the font. Given that his fights for King and Country, not to mention Queen and Empire, have made him a true blue hero wherever the celluloid flag is flown, her
politics
can be read as a direct attack on him. That’s certainly the impression he has fostered in a series of ever more caustic
interviews
in which he blames her for his waning career. In the latest, he expressed the hope that she would marry and change her name or else he might have to change his by deed poll (playing all those
hidebound Victorians must have addled his brain!). There was, however, no sign of acrimony when Geraldine (and what seemed like half of Germany’s press corps) drove out to the airport to welcome him. There was something strangely poignant about seeing a man who had fought his way so memorably through the Malay jungle, standing arm in arm thirty years later with a Japanese wife. At least there was for me. I can’t speak for his daughter. As she hugged her father and pecked her new
stepmother
on the cheek, Geraldine’s face was a blank.

Unlike his daughter, Gerald seems to have stepped – or rather jumped – straight out of one of his movies. Indeed, he bounded from the plane as if he were about to lead his troops into battle. There can be no doubt that he has worn well. In contrast to Sir Hallam, he has retained a full head of hair, although the white is tinged with the yellow of a smoker’s moustache. As with so many small men (think Jim and that actor at Pembroke
40
), he seems to be constantly seeking the advantage. Even the way he stands, leaning forward with the weight on the balls of his feet, feels like a threat. His press conference showed that he may be in civvies, but he remains as combative as ever. One journalist (from a British paper, natch) asked him if he felt comfortable playing an aristocrat, given that he was one of Nature’s NCOs. ‘Listen lad,’ he bellowed across the airport, ‘I was cocking my little finger when you were fingering your little cock.’ Somehow, I don’t see that featuring prominently in the
Daily Mail
. So far, he has addressed barely a word to me – no more than he did in England. Whether he is keeping in character as Lord Redesdale and views all writers as ‘sewers’ or whether he is being true to his Hollywood training and regards us as expendable, I can’t say. Either way, I expect I’ll survive. Ho hum!

I am intrigued by his relationship with Sir Hallam. They clearly have some kind of history … no, don’t get excited: not that kind of history! We’re talking Hollywood Bath Spa not
Hollywood Babylon
. When Sir Hallam arrived on Wednesday, Gerald was waiting for him in the lobby and insisted on accompanying him to his suite. ‘What’s the betting,’ Dora asked, ‘that Gerald will have moved before the morning’s out?’ Later, when I asked her how she’d known, she said that it was easy. ‘No estate agent has a keener eye for the measure of rooms than a veteran actor.’ It’s a joy to listen to them spar. First, Gerald treats Sir Hallam to an exaggerated show of deference: ‘A chair for the premier knight of the British theatre! A drink for our eminent Shakespearean!’ Then, Sir Hallam betters him without even raising his voice. ‘These begging letters are very tiresome, Gerald. Ever since I won the Oscar, people think I must be dreadfully rich. But then I don’t need to tell you. You must have gone through exactly the same.’ What he knows full well is that, for all his seventy-odd credits, Gerald has never once been nominated.

That Sir Hallam should have beaten him at his own game is particularly galling to Gerald, whose natural tendency to turn the whole of life into a virility contest is accentuated when it comes to the contrast between cinema and theatre. And yet, the more I see of filming, the more I am persuaded that, in spite of the
widespread
conviction that real men don’t wear tights, it’s on stage that actors live up to their name. On screen, they are merely
fragments
of a director’s vision. Sir Hallam expressed it with his customary discernment when he said ‘On stage, I am a person; on screen, I am a prop.’ Then he walked on set, chanting ‘prop, prop, prop,’ as if it were a mantra. When I challenged him, he replied ‘Oh yes. Something beautifully polished and highly prized, like a Sheraton chair, but a prop all the same.’

Sir Hallam (Hallam …? Hal …?) has already become a firm favourite with the crew. He joins them for breakfast at seven even
when he’s not called, although Gerald, with predictable malice, claims that it’s simply a way to save on his per diems. He refuses to stand on his dignity – sometimes literally. Yesterday, when the rest of the cast were driven to the set, he rode pillion with one of the grips. Gerald excepted, the one person whom he has failed to win over is yours truly, ever since he sent in some amendments to his dialogue, along with a covering note pointing out phrases that ‘an English gentleman would not use’. Wolfram handed it to me with the exultant look of someone sniffing out an impostor. But I’ve never pretended to be anything other than Tradesman’s Entrance. I come from a world of people who circle their ‘i’s and loop their ‘t’s. Besides, he is hardly a scion of the ancient family of Von Meiers.

By the way, do you know how you pronounce ‘scion’? It’s a word that I’ve only ever seen on the page. I shall make it my mission to revive it. From now on, you won’t hear the sons for the scions.

Even Wolfram is in awe of Sir Hallam, which he manifests by refusing to speak to him except via the interpreter. This plunges the knight into agonies of self-doubt. He yearns for firm direction. At the first rehearsal, he confided that ‘All my little tricks, you must knock them out of me, Wolfram, dear fellow. Just beat them out as hard as you like.’ Which, to my surprise, was rendered as ‘
Prügeln Sie das aus mir heraus
’, making it sound as though he wanted to be whipped. Having been criticised throughout his career for being too theatrical for the camera, he was particularly perturbed when Wolfram told him to play the scene ‘Exactly as in the theatre.’ Thinking that something must have been lost in translation, he appealed to me to intercede. The reply, however, was the same. I explained that, from my understanding, Wolfram’s principal demand of an actor was that he make no attempt to disguise the person that he was off-screen. His brief was to adapt the character to his personality rather than the other way round.

The rationale for this is that we all spend our lives acting. We have no authentic selves. I am not a friend writing this letter; I’m playing the part of a friend writing this letter. And so forth. It’s a depressingly cynical view of humanity, but it makes for
undeniably
powerful movies. Wolfram’s one general note at the
read-through
made a similar point (I’m translating freely). ‘You are not to play the characters but the characters’ idea of themselves. I don’t want any of that Stanislavski shit. I don’t want
identification
and angst. But I don’t want the Berliner Ensemble
41
either. I don’t want Ralf’s comment on Hitler or Felicity’s on Unity; I want Hitler’s comment on Hitler and Unity’s on Unity.’ Suddenly, the whole basis of his casting made sense. It didn’t matter that he had one of the greatest actors in the world alongside a girl who’d just left Cambridge Their own talents were simply a reflection of their characters’ abilities across a range of roles.