by Martin Sheen
This time, I like the idea right away. By losing his backpack—which holds the box of his son’s ashes—Tom risks losing Daniel again. The theft allows him to discover that the items in his backpack have no real value to him, while Daniel’s ashes do. Also, we have a chance here to address the public image of gypsies. The gypsy minority is discriminated against all over Europe, and Burgos is no exception. But Julia’s mother Milagros has a close friend, María José Lastra, who lives in Burgos, has taught many gypsy students and has observed how close-knit and joyous their families are. My father’s idea for this sequence would let us play both into and against political stereotypes of gypsies, which appeals to us both.
Burgos is a special place for our family. It was here that Taylor, traveling with my father in 2003, met Julia. At nineteen, Taylor was working as my father’s personal assistant on The West Wing. During a six-week hiatus from the series they traveled together to Ireland for a family reunion organized by my brother Ramon on what would have been my grandmother’s hundredth birthday.
My father invited Matt Clark, whom he regards as a brother, and after the three-day Irish reunion, the two of them plus Taylor flew to Spain to explore the Camino, which my father had always wanted to do. But with only a few weeks before The West Wing resumed production, the three of them didn’t have enough time to walk the Camino, so they rented a red Mercedes with the intention of driving along the Camino Frances. From Madrid they headed north toward the nearest major stop along the Way of Saint James: the city of Burgos.
That first night, they arrived at Hornillos del Camino, a small town on the outskirts of Burgos. The local refugio for pilgrims was full for the night, with rows of pilgrims’ hiking boots lined up along the walls to air out after hours of walking. While my dad visited the local church, Taylor and Matt visited a pub to inquire about a place to spend the night. Matt saw a sign on the wall for thermal baths that caught his interest, and he and Taylor emerged from the pub with directions to a nearby town.
That’s how they stumbled upon El Molino.
El Molino (“the Mill”) is what Spaniards call a casa rural, or rural house, sort of a cross between an upscale hostel and a bed and breakfast. It’s a three-floor, six-bedroom stone inn with red tiled roofs and a canal running straight through its center. The canal was El Molino’s power source, keeping the inn off the grid, and greatly added to its appeal.
They booked rooms for two nights. On the second night, the host, Max and Milagros, invited them to the pilgrims’ supper.
As Taylor remembers it, a beautiful girl walked into the room and joined them. It was the hosts’ daughter, Julia, a student at the university in Burgos, who was visiting her parents for the evening. Taylor couldn’t take his eyes off her.
After dinner, she asked, “Do you want to go outside for a cigarette?”
“Of course,” he said. His Spanish was good, but limited, and she didn’t speak any English, but sitting on the steps outside they managed to share the broad strokes of their life stories. After Taylor left to continue his travels they spoke by phone every day, and on the way back he convinced my father and Matt to pass through Burgos again, where he stayed with Julia for a few days. By the time Taylor met up with my father in Madrid and boarded the plane for the States, he knew what he wanted to do.
“I think I’m in love with Julia,” he told my father during the flight, “and I want to go back. What do you think?”
“Follow your heart,” my dad told him. “Don’t ever leave it behind. You can always say you made the wrong choice afterward, but you should have the experience rather than risk the regret of never knowing. If you love this woman, find out if it’s for real and if it’s reciprocal.”
Back in the States, Taylor applied for a visa and was back in Burgos within a few months.
My son moved to Spain because he fell in love, but as he came into adulthood he also needed to strike out on his own. It’s one thing to grow up in the shadow of a famous father, and another to grow up in the shadow of a famous father, uncle, and grandfather. Expectations for his success in the United States, real or perceived, must have weighed on him heavily. In Los Angeles people in the film industry often greet one another with “What are you working on now? What have you done lately?” immediately trying to gauge their own successes relative to another’s. In Spain, Taylor would be more likely to hear “How’s your family?” Or “How are you feeling today?” Or “What are you doing this weekend?” It’s easy to see why that kind of environment would appeal to anyone.
Taylor had been living in Burgos with Julia for two years when I paid him a surprise visit for his twenty-first birthday. I coordinated the details with Julia and my aunt Carmen, who lives in Madrid. I called Taylor from Carmen’s house on my U.S. cell phone so that the number would come up as a stateside call.
“What time is it over there?” he asked. “It must be really late for you.”
Oh, no, I thought. I’d forgotten about the time change. “I can’t sleep tonight,” I fibbed.“I’m up late doing some writing.”
The next day, I took a train from Madrid to Burgos. Julia had spun a tale for Taylor that involved an urgent visit to the post office, which is connected to the Burgos train station, and as Taylor walked out of the post office he saw me on the train platform. His face registered an expression of absolute shock and joy.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be in Los Angeles! I just talked to you on . . .”
We threw our arms around each other. Taylor remembers this day as one of the best birthdays he’s ever had.
In central Burgos, clusters of pilgrims continually passed by Julia and Taylor’s house, and I began inquiring about them and their journey along the Camino. But I was deep into work on Bobby at the time, so my interest in the Camino did not fully develop until 2007 after Bobby had been released and I could turn my attention to a new project.
Six years after my surprise visit to Burgos, in the summer of 2009, with pre-production for The Way in full swing, I flew to Spain for Taylor and Julia’s wedding. My plan was to firm up the locations and coordinate the filming, go home to California, and then return to Europe in September to start production. But once I got to Spain and realized how much film prep and location scouting work there was to be done I never went home. A benefit of having grown up with a seminomadic childhood, moving from place to place as my father’s career required, is that I can adapt to whatever situation presents itself. Okay, I thought in Spain. I’m already here. I might as well stay. I can just buy more clothes if I need them.
And now here we are in the autumn of 2009, standing outside the walls of the famous cathedral early in the morning. My father spots a Catholic priest from Mexico, whom we met in the small town of Torres del Rio about 90 miles back, walking with two other pilgrims.
“Padre!” My dad waves him down. “Would you please give us a blessing to begin our day of filming?”
“It would be my honor,” the padre says.
The cast and crew fall silent as the pilgrim priest offers prayers and intentions in Spanish for us all. We cross ourselves when he finishes and offer him much thanks all around.
“¡Buen Camino!” we call out, a traditional farewell to pilgrims, as he and his companions begin their daily trek to the next town.
One of the great ironies of this production will be that this day of filming in Burgos, begun with that priestly blessing, becomes the worst day of the entire shoot. We’ve been looking forward to Burgos because we’ll be among family, and also because the local government is excited to have us here, yet somehow almost everything that can possibly go wrong this day does. I don’t know what causes it. All I know is that I’ll never ask for a mortal blessing on this production again.
Today’s sequence in Burgos calls for Tom, Joost, Sarah, and Jack to enter the Old City and head toward the Burgos Cathedral, where they’re reunited with pilgrims they met earlier on the Camino. They gather inside a nearby restaurant, where my
dad finally gets to order a “Café con leche, por favor.” While Tom talks with a priest, played by Matt Clark, he sees the gypsy boy grab his backpack and take off. Tom and his friends chase the boy through the city, dead-ending in an isolated courtyard where the boy has disappeared.
What should be a rigorous yet straightforward sequence is first complicated by the restaurant set. When I scouted the location back in February, the owner agreed to let us film inside. Coincidentally, a real pilgrim’s backpack had been stolen outside his restaurant just the week before, he said, and he was agreeable about giving us the place for the day. We believed that by paying him we’d rented the whole restaurant, but he clearly has other plans. In the middle of filming, a busload of fifty Japanese tourists starts streaming through the restaurant en route to a private room in the back. We have to work to keep them quiet, and then to get them back onto the street when they’re finished without disrupting our shots.
Outside the restaurant, crowd control has become a major problem. Our reputation as filmmakers has preceded us into Burgos, and people knew we were coming. Production assistants are dispatched to find police officers and obtain yellow tape to cordon off portions of the street.
Then the protesters arrive.
A large group of striking union workers, armed with a bullhorn, colorful banners, and a petition with a list of grievances, march in unison onto the film set. Our first assistant director, Manu, rushes toward them to quell their minor yet very noisy demonstration. The loud shouts can’t be kept off our soundtrack and we can’t film unless they tone it down.
When the strikers see the film crew they see the opportunity for media attention as well, and they position themselves in the middle of the plaza where we need to shoot our next scene. Turns out it’s a good strategy. Local news crews that arrive to report on our production begin to shoot street scenes that include the protesters, getting a twofer for their filming efforts. I start pulling my beard out, literally, one hair at a time.
Taylor, who’s out on the street directing traffic, tries to reason with the protesters, but his pitch-perfect Spanish is drowned out by the incessant chants demanding “fairness,” “higher wages,” and “respect.”
“This is a public street,” they shout at Taylor. “And we have every right to demonstrate here!” Taylor remains calm and genteel, as is his nature. “Guys,” he tells them. “I’m very sympathetic to you for losing your jobs, but if you don’t quiet down, I’m going to lose mine.”
This disarms them a little
Suddenly, to my complete horror, my father, “Martin Sheen, Man of the People,” breaks ranks from our crew, tosses off his backpack, and jumps into the protest. He starts shaking hands, and—I don’t think I’m imagining this—takes their bullhorn to speak on behalf of the demonstrators, though he speaks very limited Spanish. Bulbs flash, video rolls, and production on our film halts while Sheen saves the day.
I turn to David. Words completely escape me. He’s speechless, too. My dad takes photos with each striking worker and then with the entire group as they wave their banners and flags. He smiles for every person who points a mobile phone camera in his direction, even allowing for seconds to make sure no one is left out.
Finally, I find my voice. It has all the strength of a leaky helium balloon. “It’s like he’s running for president of Spain,” I say.
David puts his arm around my shoulder, calming me down. “He could probably win,” he agrees. “But look at it this way: People love him. And he loves them. Would you prefer it any other way? He’s in his element and he’s enjoying it.”
“Let’s see how much he’s enjoying it ten hours from now when we’re in overtime and we haven’t completed today’s work.”
Eventually, the demonstration moves to another location, after my father’s intervention, which includes signing the petition.
Our next sequence, set close to the University of Burgos, involves Tom, Joost, Sarah, and Jack chasing down the gypsy boy, played by Omar Muñoz. We’ll have to film all four of them running at full tilt through alleyways, around corners, and down long flights of stairs. Each shot requires multiple takes. Pounding the stones for hours is physically taxing work for them all. Even Jimmy Nesbitt, who runs every day, isn’t used to this level of intensity. It’s incredible that my father, at sixty-nine, manages to keep up. His strength and dedication continually surprise me, stun the crew, and inspire the other cast members. My mother, who’s been on hand for the whole production and serves as an executive producer, had confided in me several times about how badly my father wants to please me with his performance and work ethic. She said she hasn’t seen him work so diligently since he was a struggling starving actor in New York.
But even the most committed actors can only pound stone streets for so long. After several hours of filming, Yorick van Wageningen is in pain, Jimmy has twisted his ankle, and my dad has a pulled groin muscle on top of a pulled hamstring. Finally, we arrive at the scene where Tom and his fellow travelers land in a courtyard of a gypsy compound. Laundry lines crisscross overhead and firewood is arranged in neat stacks against the interior walls. The boy is nowhere to be seen but Tom calls out to him, hoping he can hear.
“Come out here, you little thief! Give me that bag, you little rotten . . .!” my dad shouts. His voice reverberates loudly off the stone walls. He’s yelling and cursing, carrying on. It’s too over the top for this scene.
“Cut!” I shout.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I respond, “You’re chewing up the scene. You’re making it too big.”
“It can’t be small,” he argues. “The boy stole the bag with the ashes . . . It’s my son . . . I’m outraged!”
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s try it again.”
More yelling and cursing.
“Cut!”
My dad wants this to be a big emotional moment, but for a scene like this less is often more. He needs to let us see Tom’s private pain rather than hear his public pain.
“It’s your job to inhabit the character,” I tell him. “Be subtle. Trust me and the camera to do the rest.”
After a few more takes, he gets the scene down to the perfect balance of emotion and restraint. In the final version he kicks at the air in frustration and calls out into the empty courtyard, his voice thick with emotion, “Can you hear me, son? I know you’re here. Just give me the box! Just give me the little box. You can keep the pack! Just give me the box!” His performance is spot on, small and centered and direct yet powerful and moving at the same time. “Just give me the box!” he calls out. Then as Joost gently leads him away, the boy’s father steps silently into the scene and watches Tom leave.
When David and I were casting in Madrid I had an idea of what the gypsy father should look like, and several Spanish actors who fit the bill came in to read. Then Antonio Gil, an accomplished Spanish actor, walked into the room. He was tall, thin, and intense, not at all what I’d had in mind for the character, but his reading was perfect.
“Straight to wardrobe,” David whispered to me, which means, “Look no further. He’s our guy.”
It’s rumored that the director John Huston was once asked, “Why don’t you just be honest about it? Ninety percent of your directing is in the casting.”
“Wrong, sonny,” Huston responded. “Ninety-five.”
It’s true. If a director casts well and hires actors he or she can trust, the job is mainly to jump into scenes as an acting intervention only when necessary. The rest of the time, the actors do the work. One of our luckiest casting breaks in The Way is with the gypsy community in Burgos. Julia’s family friend has arranged for about fifty of her former students to perform their traditional music and dancing for a scene in which Tom and his friends join a party in their courtyard compound around a blazing bonfire.
We’re not carrying enough equipment in our truck to light night scenes, so Taylor helped us find this enclosed location. In the courtyard we can light the scene with a single larg
e bonfire and three smaller fires in oil drums, using firelight that bounces off the walls.
Two hombres de respeto (“men of respect”), elders in the Gitano community, arrive with the group of young people. As we prepare the set they sit quietly by the bonfire and observe the action. I sense there’s something they want to say, so I walk over and ask, “Are we doing this right?”
“No,” they admit. “We wouldn’t have the fire there. We’d put it over here. And you wouldn’t have the dancers there. They’d be over here.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.” Then we rearrange the set to make it accurate.
The Spanish crew has warned us about hiring gypsies. “They’re not going to show up,” we heard. “If they do, they’ll steal from you and they’ll leave early,” but this group of Gitanos is magnificent. They arrive on time and play their instruments and dance beautifully in the bone-chilling cold of an October night until the very last shot is completed at 2:00 a.m. They do it all for free and the only thing they take with them is the leftover food, which they ask for in advance.
As we pack up the last of our equipment and start heading back to our hotel, my dad and I blow on our hands for warmth. We’ve put in a long, hard day. At the end of it, we shake our heads in wonder. From sunup to sundown we witnessed an impossible day of filming. Then we lit the fires and the music and dancing began, and a joyous camaraderie developed between the local Gitanos and our cast and crew. The whole spirit of the day changed after the sun went down. Leave it to the Gitano community to have reversed our fortunes. They were the true Burgos blessing.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MARTIN
1981
While Emilio and I were still in India I’d received a phone call from my manager about a part in a film called Enigma. The role was to play an East German defector recruited by the CIA to return to East Berlin to steal a computer scrambler from the KGB.
“They’re going to film in Paris,” she said. “Are you interested?”