May I Have Your Attention Please?

by James Corden

  OK, that was fine. They told me to go away for an hour, familiarise myself with the new character and come back. So I checked through the script and found the new part they wanted me to read for. Here’s the description of him: ‘The ugliest, vilest man you’ve ever seen. Less than five feet tall, his hair was falling out, he had boils on his face. A disgusting little creature.’ Thanks guys. I guess I could have been offended that they took one look at me and thought I was right for the ‘ugliest, vilest man’ part, but it didn’t cross my mind at the time. I was just concentrating on the script. I wanted to be in this film no matter what, and it didn’t matter that much what part I’d be playing.

  I auditioned three times for the film and I eventually got the part. The offer came through on my twenty-first birthday and I remember thinking that I was going to be in the film that everyone was calling the new Trainspotting, albeit playing the least attractive man in human history. Olivia Williams was already cast and she’d worked on massive Hollywood movies, and Paul Bettany was another of the leads. Paul is an incredible actor and at that moment was right on the cusp of making it huge both here and in America. I was excited about working with them both, and also with the rest of the brilliant cast that had been assembled.

  But here’s the thing. I’ve got to admit right here and now that I didn’t really like the script. I didn’t say anything to anyone and maybe I should have, but I never quite got it. The story was about a group of people spending a weekend in a country house, doing loads of drugs, drinking loads of booze and having lots and lots of sex. A killer is stalking the house at the same time and, one by one, the party-goers are all being killed off. The premise is great, but there was a tone to the script, a harshness, that I didn’t really like. But I’d agreed to be in it, and I was still quite inexperienced at this point, so I didn’t have the nerve to tell anyone what I was thinking.

  We started rehearsing in a disused grammar school. My character wasn’t short of scenes; he was just short. And all he wanted was to be tall. He made himself a pair of shoes with elevated heels and prayed for an Alice in Wonderland-style drug that would give him the extra inches. That was fine, except I’m not that short. In fact, I was taller than a couple of the actors I was sharing scenes with, so the director would get frustrated because I had to be seated all the time. It got pretty tense at times between me and Bill (the writer, director, producer and star of the film), and it all came to a bit of a head when the production team told me of their plans for the character’s (or my) hair.

  The designer took me to one side and told me that what they wanted to do was bleach my hair to the point where my scalp would turn red. And that, in turn, would make parts of my hair snap off so it would look as if it was falling out. Then, after that, they would shave big clumps out of my hair in various places all over my head.

  Wow, I thought, that sounds a little dodgy – and painful. But it was for the film, it was in the script, so it had to be done. It only then occurred to me to think about what might happen when this film was over. I wouldn’t be able to work. I would be unemployable. I mean, how many parts were there going to be for a guy with clumps of hair missing and a bleached scalp? They weren’t paying me much for the film, definitely not enough to live on for the time it took for my hair to grow back.

  You can see the dilemma. I spoke to Jacquie about it, told her I wasn’t refusing to do it or anything, but that I was worried about what was going to happen afterwards. Jacquie had reservations as well, so she called up the producer, Richard, mentioning our concerns and suggesting we come to some sort of arrangement whereby they compensated me in some way for the hair wreckage.

  It was difficult to sort out, though: the phone calls went back and forth between Jacquie and the producer, but the bottom line was they said they couldn’t afford to pay me any more money. They really didn’t have any more, and so suddenly we reached a bit of a stalemate. I’d never been in this situation before: the parts I’d played up until then had never called for anything quite so drastic. Ultimately, we reached a compromise where we agreed to try and achieve the same effects with prosthetics. They’d still dye and thin out my hair, but not to the point where it snapped off, and they could colour my scalp with make-up instead of bleaching it red. So, not total carnage, just a radical new look. I agreed to that happily. My make-up artist was an Australian girl who had just moved to London. I was aware that what they were planning was no easy task and so, a little nervously, I asked her what she’d been working on before she left Australia. Home and Away, she said happily.

  Home and Away? It occurred to me, as I’m sure it does to you, that on a soap there wouldn’t be that much call for crazy red scalp and fally-outy hair. I was a little worried, to say the least. I knew the budget on the film was tight, but this didn’t seem the best place to scrimp on money. She did her best, though, and started by thinning my hair out to the point where you could see my scalp. I sat there watching in the mirror as she cut away, my beautiful locks floating unhappily to the floor, and when she thinned it enough, the make-up artists took over and started slapping on the red stuff. This was the part that needed to look good. Only, it didn’t. It looked very not good. They kept on trying really hard to make it right, but it became pretty clear that the only way it was going to work was by going the whole hog and shaving the clumps out like they’d originally wanted.

  Bill, the writer, director, co-producer and star, entered the room and stood behind me. We were looking at each other in the mirror and we both knew it didn’t look right. He was looking really concerned, upset even.

  ‘Bill,’ I said, ‘I don’t think this is going to work.’

  For a moment he didn’t say anything. Then he turned on his heels as if to leave.

  ‘Shall we just go for it?’ I said quickly, not wanting to disappoint. ‘Just shave and bleach it. It’s OK, honestly. Shall we?’

  ‘I tell you what,’ he said on his way out, ‘I think we should just hold off for a moment. Right now let’s not do anything.’

  A moment later one of the runners came in and told me that Richard the co-producer wanted to see me, so I left make-up and walked over to the makeshift office he was using. I went in, sat down at his desk and looked across the clutter at him.

  ‘So, James,’ he said, ‘how’s it going?’

  ‘Good, I think.’ I’d been smiling when I came in, happy to tell him I’d decided we should go ahead and shave my hair. But there was something about his expression that put me on edge. Coupled with the way Bill had been in make-up and the way the runner had summoned me, I knew something was up. I had the same feeling I used to get when waiting in the staff corridor at school. Pretty quickly, my smile slipped away.

  Richard was looking everywhere except at me. His eyes glanced all around the room – above my head, to my left, then to my right, down to the ground; anywhere but me. Finally he sighed really heavily. ‘Look, James,’ he said, ‘we’re having problems with the way the character is going.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s not really clicking yet, but we’ll get there.’

  ‘We’re quite worried about it actually,’ he went on, ‘what with your hair, all that hassle we had with your agent.’ He pursed his lips. ‘You know, we’re wondering whether you’re completely committed to this film.’

  I didn’t really say anything. I was unsure as to where this was leading. I’m not committed? I thought to myself. I’ve just looked the director, writer, co-producer and, we must never forget, star, in the eyes and told him to go ahead and shave lumps out of my hair.

  Richard was still talking. ‘The thing is, I have to make up my mind whether we’re going to stick with you or look for another actor, and I’ve got to decide that by the end of the day.’

  I just sat there staring at him, completely gobsmacked. He was talking about firing me from what was rumoured to be the next big thing in British film. It had to be a joke, right? Er, no, he was deadly serious.

  I didn’t know what to say. I just sort o
f sat there, squirming. He was talking about chemistry and passion for the project and much else besides – to be honest it’s a bit of a blur and I can’t remember exactly what he was saying. All I remember is how he finished. ‘So that’s why I’m going to have to fire you, James. I’m sorry, you’re off this movie.’

  I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. I took a few moments to try and get my wits together.

  ‘Richard,’ I said, ‘hang on a minute, you just told me you had until the end of the day.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, sitting back. ‘I don’t know why I said that.’

  ‘You don’t know why you said that?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, with a shrug. ‘Sorry, James. I have to let you go.’

  We went back and forth for what seemed like ages. It got pretty heated and, though it never broke out into a full-blown argument, it got pretty close. I was so upset. I told him I thought his decision sucked and that I’d not had any time with the director/writer/star on my own so how could anyone accuse me of not being committed. Then he brought up my height as an issue and I reminded him that I hadn’t actually grown since they’d given me the job. But nothing I said was going to make any difference. No matter how hard I tried, there was nothing I could do to change his mind.

  At the end of it, I left the office and went outside to the car park. I think I sort of stood there for a moment, not quite knowing what do to; then I called Shelley and just burst into tears. I bawled my eyes out. You know how it is when you can’t get your breath? Well, I was exactly like that, shaking as I was talking to her.

  I called Jacquie after and she told me to come straight over to the office, but that first she would speak to the producer. I stood there in the car park, my hair thinned out and tears rolling down my face, waiting for Jacquie to call back. The worst part in all of it was that right at that moment the rest of the cast were having lunch at some picnic tables across the way. It was a glorious hot August day and they were shouting and beckoning me over to them. I waved back, but I knew that if I went over to tell them what had happened, I’d find it impossible not to cry. Then Jacquie called me back and told me what I’d known all along: Richard wasn’t changing his mind. It was over.

  I had no choice but to head for the car they had provided to take me home. I used it to take me into London, and had it wait while I saw Jacquie. (I was getting my money’s worth.) We spoke for a while and she told me I’d still get paid, which was a massive relief, and then she also told me that in all her years as an actors’ agent, no client of hers had ever been fired from a film, which was a massive kick in the nuts. So I was the first, then. That was nice. What a day! As I took the car back to Shelley’s, I felt beaten down; totally and utterly dejected.

  At home that night my family kept trying to cheer me up, but the fact remained that I’d been fired from a film set. And not just any film set either. Remember, this was going to be the new Trainspotting. Ewan McGregor-style careers would be launched with this film, Hollywood would come calling, and meanwhile I’d be left in Wycombe, phoning up Bella Pasta and asking for my old job back.

  I’m not exaggerating. The closest I’d come to being fired was as a teenager in the mini-mart, and I had no idea what it might mean for my career. What if this was it? What if this was the end, the last scene, the final curtain?

  It really worried me because deep down I knew my attitude hadn’t been right. The bottom line was, I had never liked the character and I suppose, eventually, it showed. It was scarily familiar. It reminded me of how I’d been at school: when if something didn’t float my boat, I’d react flippantly; be uninterested to the point of disruption. Was that how I’d come across to the crew? Did I possess some deep-seated personality trait that was hardwired to screw me up? Would it surface to cripple me again?

  I thought about that film every day for a year – the endless, painful possibilities. What if this film is the biggest British film ever? What if every member of the cast is catapulted to stardom? What if it actually is like Trainspotting? It was a horrible feeling that never really went away until the film was released a year or so after I’d left and made next to no impact in the cinema. I’m not gloating, truly. I just felt relieved. I hadn’t missed the boat. For all its efforts, the film just sank without trace. For months I’d been preparing to be the guy who had to admit that he’d been fired from the movie that scooped all the awards and broke all box-office records.

  I learnt a lot from the experience. I decided that I’d never be on the outside of anything again; that if I was lucky enough to be offered a part – any part – and accept it, then I had to go for it hook, line and sinker. Good, bad or somewhere in between, I had to commit to it.

  I was out of work for four months after Dead Babies. I’m not sure it had anything to do with being fired; it may have done, but I think it’s unlikely. Most actors are out of work for long stretches and, actually, when I look back on this particular stretch, it seems like a particularly formative time for me. However down I was about being fired, I was also becoming more and more driven. Despite the disappointment, and the blow to the ego, I wanted to get back on the horse and work again.

  It’s hard when you’re just sitting there waiting for the phone to ring for an opportunity to do things, totally at the mercy of your agent or a casting director. It’s a frustrating, soul-sapping time. However, the next time the phone did ring, it was a big call. You could say it was the call I’d been longing for.

  Jacquie got in touch about a prime-time series called Fat Friends that ITV had commissioned. It had been written by Kay Mellor, who already had Band of Gold under her belt, a ground-breaking piece of TV about prostitution in Yorkshire.

  The series focused on the lives of a group of chubsters who attended the same slimming class in Leeds. There were six hour-long episodes, each driven by a different character. The character I was going for appeared in five of the six, and the fourth episode centred on his story. His name was Jamie; he was an overweight schoolboy with problems at home. I’ve never wanted a part so badly. I vividly remember reading it: lying on the floor in Shelley’s parents’ front room, ripping through the script, not putting it down until I’d finished the last page.

  As soon as I was done with it, I rolled over on my back and stared at the ceiling for what must have been twenty minutes, and let my mind run away. This part was everything I’d waited for. There is no other way I can describe it. I mean, if you’re a big guy, you’re not going to be offered James Bond, are you? If it’s a rom-com or a bittersweet love story, you’re going to be the funny mate of the lead guy who gets the girl rather than the guy who gets the girl. I knew that when I started out. Guys like me were supporting actors, enablers – often with some of the best lines, but never with the real juice.

  And yet, there I was reading this brilliant story that focused on an overweight schoolboy. His mum had been left by his dad and was depressed to the point where she was taking pills, so Jamie had basically assumed the role of a parent. He had a home life from hell, and at the same time he was being bullied at school. His story carried the whole episode – all the attention was on him. And though it might sound depressing, there was fun and laughter to go along with the tears. I’m sure you know that I’m fond of a laugh, but there’s also a side of me that loves serious acting, getting into the meaty roles that really challenge you. Jamie’s character had that rare mix of both.

  I remember talking about it to Shelley and telling her that if I couldn’t get this part, I might as well give up. It could’ve been written for me – I don’t mean that in a big-headed way; I just really felt the part. Travelling up to Leeds to audition, I was totally determined to pull it off.

  I thought the audition went pretty well. It was lovely meeting the production team; they made me feel very comfortable so I really launched myself into the role. But, however good you feel an audition goes, you can never be sure what the guys sitting on the other side of the desk are thinking. Each production has a differ
ent way of doing things, and this time they said they would probably call back the people they wanted for a second reading. Fair enough, I thought, now it’s back home to wait and see. On the way back to the station I shared a cab with Richard Ridings, who had been reading for the part of a guy called Alan. We chatted about the day and my heart plummeted when he told me he’d been offered all six episodes, right then and there in the room.

  What did that mean? Was I out already? Was that it? I didn’t know what to think. They told me they were doing call-backs, but if they’d already offered a role to Richard, then maybe they were just being polite. I must have missed out. I couldn’t believe it. I’d been convinced I could make that part my own. Oh well, there must’ve been someone out there who was better than me, that was all. What can you do but accept it and move on? It was a long, lonely journey back to London.

  The next week went by slowly and, just as I’d got to the point where I’d abandoned all hope, I got a call from Jacquie. Kay had been in touch. She wanted me to meet her at the Groucho Club in Soho. I was still in with a shot.

  I was really excited now: it had to be positive. I got into Soho an hour and a half before the meeting. The Groucho Club is just round the corner from the Prince Edward Theatre, where Martin Guerre had been on, so I knew the area quite well. During the year I’d been there I’d always enjoyed aimlessly wandering around. I love Soho. It’s a fascinating place where the rich and poor rub shoulders like in no other part of London. From the exclusive members’ bars hidden away behind nondescript doors to the seedy underworld of strip clubs and sex shops, it’s got it all.