As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of The Princess Bride

by Cary Elwes

  I should take a moment before continuing to explain to those of you who have not seen the movie or read the book what this extraordinary tale of The Princess Bride is about. For those of you who have at least a passing acquaintance with the story or maybe even know it by heart, you may skip ahead if you wish. But for those who haven’t, I hereby offer some background. If you don’t want a SPOILER ALERT, then perhaps you should watch the movie first before continuing, or skip this section.

  So, with sincere apologies to Mr. Goldman, let’s begin. In the movie version of The Princess Bride, the fairy tale is told within the framework of an elderly grandfather reading a book to his sick grandson. The book the grandfather is reading is entitled The Princess Bride, and the grandfather promises him it is filled with action and adventure. But the boy, recoiling at the first “kissing part,” thinks he has been hoodwinked into listening to a love story. Eventually he becomes enthralled by the tale and can’t wait to find out what happens to Westley and his beloved Buttercup. Westley’s first words to her are “As you wish” (which really means “I love you”), and he devotes the entire film, and several years of his life, to the pursuit of making good on that promise.

  Fearing that a simple farm boy will never be able to provide adequately for his love, Westley sets off in search of his fortune, intending to return one day and wed Buttercup. Alas, his plans are derailed when his ship is attacked by the Dread Pirate Roberts, who, as legend has it, never takes prisoners alive. Several years pass and Buttercup, although still in love and in mourning for Westley, agrees to marry Prince Humperdinck, the rich and duplicitous heir to the throne of Florin. And here the story becomes thick with plot twists—double crosses and triple crosses that make Goldman’s byzantine Marathon Man seem almost simplistic by comparison. Prior to the wedding, Buttercup is kidnapped by an unlikely trio of men: Spanish sword master Inigo Montoya, the Sicilian Vizzini, and a giant named Fezzik. Buttercup does not realize that her captors have been hired by Humperdinck, who hopes to blame the kidnapping and eventual killing of Buttercup on his rival country of Guilder, thereby instigating a war between the two. Humperdinck feigns love for Buttercup by setting off with several of his soldiers in pursuit of the captors. At the same time, a mysterious Man in Black also gives chase.

  Confusing? It gets better.

  The Man in Black pursues the kidnappers as they scale the Cliffs of Insanity. He bests Inigo Montoya in a duel (aka “The Greatest Swordfight in Modern Times”), but chooses only to knock him out, rather than to kill him. Even more improbably, he emerges victorious in an epic display of hand-to-hand combat with Fezzik, and then outwits Vizzini in a deadly battle of “dizzying” intellect, tricking the arrogant Sicilian into poisoning himself. All of this happens in the first half of the movie and sets the stage for the reunion of Westley and Buttercup. You see, the Man in Black is actually Westley, who was in fact taken prisoner by the Dread Pirate Roberts. When Roberts reached retirement age, Westley, figuring that Buttercup had moved on with her life, took his place. This epic plot twist is revealed as Westley tumbles down the world’s longest, steepest hillside, having been shoved by an angry Buttercup.

  From that point on, The Princess Bride becomes more or less a chase film. A very funny, unusual chase film. Westley and Buttercup endure the Fire Swamp, battling its mini fire volcanoes, quicksand, and a battle with R.O.U.S. They are, however, eventually captured by Humperdinck and the evil six-fingered Count Rugen (who, as it happens, was also responsible for the death of Inigo’s father many years earlier; a death Inigo has vowed to avenge). Buttercup barters for Westley’s life by agreeing to marry Humperdinck, but the prince breaks his promise and instead of freeing Westley, turns him over to Rugen, who imprisons him in the Pit of Despair and apparently tortures him to death. (By the way, this was the moment in the writing of the book when Bill Goldman told me later he actually broke down and cried, he was so sad about Westley’s death. He said he loved the character so much and knew it worked but he was also concerned that he couldn’t figure out a way to bring him back. So he shelved the book for a while until he could come up with a solution.)

  I say “apparently tortures him to death” because, of course, as any Princess Bride fan will tell you, Westley is not really dead. (Note: This was Bill’s brilliant solution and what he calls one of “the high points” of his creative life.) His supposedly lifeless body is taken to Miracle Max and his wife, Valerie, by his new allies, Fezzik and Inigo (who believe the Man in Black is just the man they need in order to successfully storm Humperdinck’s castle and confront Count Rugen). Max explains to them that Westley is only “mostly dead.” Westley is revived, the castle wall is breached, and Inigo duels and slays Count Rugen, but not before uttering, once again, his character’s most famous line—“Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!” As Rugen pleads for his life and says he will give Inigo whatever he wants if only he will let the Count live, Inigo kills him with the line “I want my father back, you son of a bitch!”

  Meanwhile, Westley, still suffering temporary partial paralysis—a side effect of the giant chocolate-covered miracle pill prescribed by Miracle Max—avoids a duel with Humperdinck and succeeds in tying him to a chair. While Humperdinck wallows in cowardice, Westley and Buttercup leave the castle and ride off triumphantly with Fezzik and Inigo. There is a passing of the torch (or the black mask, as it were, as Inigo weighs an offer to become the new Dread Pirate Roberts), a glorious kiss between Buttercup and Westley, and the presumption of a Happily Ever After ending.

  So that, in an egregiously truncated form (again, please forgive me, Bill), is the story of The Princess Bride. A story we would spend the better part of four months trying to put on film.

  Finally we came to the end of the reading of the script, and the whole room burst into applause. I wasn’t sure that applause was a common response following a reading but it seemed appropriate under the circumstances. By any reasonable standard, the event felt like a success. It had been peppered with genuine laughter. Even Buck Henry had chuckled in all the right places (Buck didn’t strike me as a real laugh-out-loud kinda guy). Reiner was beaming. Bill was clapping, too, and there was a faint smile on his face. For the rest of us in that room, I think we all knew that we were part of something special. Did we think the movie would become an enduring pop-culture phenomenon? Of course not. But did we feel involved in something truly unique? Definitely. For myself I just felt enormously grateful to be there. To be involved in a project with so many gifted people, not to mention getting to be in a film written by the legendary William Goldman and directed by the remarkable Rob Reiner. Life is good, I thought.

  CHRIS GUEST

  Having read dozens and dozens of scripts, or more, I know there are only a handful of people that I can literally put in a class of great screenwriters. And Bill Goldman is certainly one of them. It’s brilliant writing. The dialogue is brilliant, the descriptions are brilliant. It’s funny on every level. And there are a lot of really well-drawn characters. From an actor’s standpoint, you couldn’t possibly ask for more. It’s a dream to read a great script and you’re lucky if that happens once in your life. This was a rare thing where you trusted the words that you had to say.

  MANDY PATINKIN

  You know, I was never a great movie connoisseur. I certainly saw Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but I didn’t know who Bill Goldman was really. I just read the script and thought, This is great. So I had no outside influences. I just knew I had read something wonderful. Knowing Goldman now, of course, I’d think, Well, obviously it’s going to be great.

  Afterward we made our way to a nearby restaurant where they had set up lunch outside on a back patio. I remember finding myself sitting next to Robin again. What quickly became apparent about her, besides her sense of humor, was how cool she was. She could hang with the guys. She told me about growing up in San Diego. How she had always wanted to be a dancer, then done some modeling and kind of fell into acting. She’d been
a leading player on Santa Barbara for a couple of years, and she had only one previous movie role, playing a homeless drug addict in Hollywood Vice Squad.

  I had not yet done any television and remember being fascinated by what it was like for her working on a soap. She explained that she had to learn anywhere from ten to twenty pages of dialogue a day, working with up to three cameras simultaneously, with a different director each episode. That it moved very fast, which forced her to think on her feet as an actor. I also remember her telling me how lucky she felt that the show let her out of her contract to do the movie, as normally they didn’t do that. I asked her how she knew how to do a British accent so well. She then proceeded to tell me about her British stepfather who had introduced her to Monty Python at an early age.

  An intelligent and beautiful young woman who loves Monty Python playing opposite me as Buttercup? Does it get much better than that? And looking around the table at the talent I was about to work with, I felt blessed to have been given this incredible opportunity.

  For most of us the day ended relatively early. Most of us except for André, that is, who, we discovered later, ended up spending the night at the hotel even though he wasn’t staying there. André, as I stated earlier, was not at his physical peak. He was in fact suffering. All those years of toting around so much weight had left him with this very painful condition, which had only been exacerbated in the ring. I remember him telling me his opponents rarely held back when jumping up and down on his back or smashing metal chairs on his head, thinking that since he was a giant he could take it. I found out from his friends much later on that his classic one-piece black wrestling outfit was specifically designed to hide a back brace.

  André was due to have an operation after he wrapped the movie. But until then the only medication he could take to deal with the pain was alcohol. Now, if you think André could eat, you should have seen him drink. It was legendary. Word had it that even before he developed the injury he could drink a hundred beers in one sitting. According to some estimates his average daily consumption of alcohol was a case of beer, three bottles of wine, and a couple of bottles of brandy. But what I witnessed was something quite different. At meal times, besides the incredible amount of food he ate, I noticed that rather than using a regular glass, André drank from a beer pitcher, which looked a lot like a regular glass in his hands anyway. In reality it was forty ounces of alcohol, which he nicknamed “The American”—usually some combination of hard and soft liquor and whatever else he felt like mixing it with that day. I should point out that not once did I notice any sign of the alcohol affecting him, which made sense given his size. So, kids, don’t try this at home or you’ll most likely end up in the hospital!

  André with our producer, Andy Scheinman

  ANDY SCHEINMAN

  One day he came to work and I said, “How are you doing today, André?” He goes, “Oh, not too good, boss.” I say, “What’s the matter?” He says, “I had a tough night last night.” So I ask him what happened, and he says, “I drank three bottles of cognac and twelve bottles of wine.” And I don’t even know how to respond, so I just repeat the numbers back to him: “Excuse me? Twelve bottles of wine? Three bottles of cognac? My goodness, André! Didn’t you get sick?” He just smiles and says, “No, no . . . I got a little tipsy, though.” Tipsy . . . on fifteen bottles of alcohol. I couldn’t believe it!

  ROBIN WRIGHT

  I remember going to dinner the first time with him and he ordered four or five entrees. I’m not kidding. Three or four appetizers, a couple baskets of bread, and then he’s like, I’m ready for seconds. And then dessert. He was a bottomless pit. I think he went through a case of wine, and he wasn’t even tipsy.

  It turns out that same night after the read-through André decided he would sample some of the finest vintage aperitifs and liqueurs from the cellars of the prestigious hotel and ended up closing the bar. When it came to last call he got up to leave but never made it to the front door, instead passing out cold in the lobby. The night porter was called, who in turn summoned security, who in turn rang engineering. Manpower was apparently needed. Yet, despite their valiant efforts, there was simply no waking or even slightly budging what could only be described as an unconscious 500-pound Gulliver spread out on their very ornate carpet. A meeting was held and the wise decision was made to leave him there. It was either that or call the police, but somehow I don’t think management wanted the publicity.

  For safety purposes, both to protect him and any passersby, they decided to place a small velvet rope barrier around André, who was by now snoring loudly enough to shake the lobby walls. The hope was that he would wake up on his own soon enough. But it was not to be as soon as they had hoped.

  The housekeepers who arrived the next morning to vacuum had no idea what to do with the massive, sleeping giant blocking their path and were literally terrified to touch him. Then, sometime around 10:00 a.m., André began to stir and eventually awoke to the sounds of vacuum cleaners and the horrified looks of staff and guests alike. He was unfazed by all this. He got to his feet, straightened his clothes and hair a little, and headed straight for the front door—his original objective. A cab was called by the startled doorman but the driver took one look at André and refused to take him. Finally a minivan was sent for and André made it home safely. Needless to say, he is now part of the establishment’s lore.

  4

  “EN GARDE!”

  I was not a particularly noteworthy athlete growing up. Like most other schoolboys in the UK, I played soccer, rugby, and cricket, but not well. The only sport I excelled in was long-distance running. And even though I generally tried to stay active physically, my interests from an early age focused more on the arts than athletics. So it was with some trepidation that I began to fully consider the requirements of the part I had been assigned to play.

  It wasn’t just about having the right “look” or even the proper sense of comic timing. There was a specific physicality to the role as well. And while I was young enough, fairly fit enough, and perhaps even foolish enough to think I could handle almost anything thrown my way, the reality of the situation was something quite different.

  I knew I could run through Fire Swamps, wrestle Rodents of Unusual Size, and maybe even fight a giant. But when it came to sword fighting? I have to admit that I simply had no idea of the complexity of the preparation that would be required to perform it adequately. And to be honest, simply “adequate” was not going to cut it. Not for a scene that was described by Goldman himself in the screenplay as the Greatest Swordfight in Modern Times. Goldman had apparently spent months researching sword fighting, and all those references to certain defenses and styles were all based on completely accurate sixteenth- and seventeenth-century techniques by legendary swordsmen. You can still purchase some of the fencing manuals written by them online. Books like The Academy of the Sword (1630) by the Flemish master Gerard Thibault d’Anvers. Or Great Representation of the Art and Use of Fencing, written by the Italian maestro Ridolfo Capo Ferro and dating back to 1610. And even Treatise on the Science of Arms with Philosophical Dialogue by his fellow compatriot—the noted fencer, engineer, mathematician, and architect of the Renaissance—Camillo Agrippa, published in 1553.

  Back then I knew who none of these people were or indeed very much about sword fighting at all. I had confessed as much to both Rob and Andy early in the process. And I told them that even though I had taken some minor fencing lessons at acting school, it had been determined by my tutors that this was not something they thought I would ever be able to master. I wasn’t just a novice; I was clueless.

  “Don’t worry,” Rob insisted. “You’ll be training with the best. It’ll be fun!”

  Training, with the best!

  It always sounds fun in conversation. But the practical reality is something quite different. More like, “Don’t worry, you’ll be training with the best Sherpa to help you climb Everest!” or “Don’t worry, you’ll be training with the gre
atest human cannonball before we fire you out of the cannon.” I’d long admired serious athletes, and I always try to treat a challenge as an opportunity. And then I began to think, Wait a minute! How hard could it really be? I’d seen plenty of Errol Flynn and Douglas Fairbanks movies. My developing, inane theory was that if they could do it, so could I. It didn’t seem all that difficult. A few quick thrusts, some fancy footwork. More like dancing than combat.

  I could handle it, I thought. No problem.

  I was, of course, somewhat deluded.

  ROB REINER

  Because the swordfight is described as the greatest swordfight in modern history, I wanted to make good on that. I wanted it to be great and I wanted Cary and Mandy to be able to do it. I knew that in all the old Errol Flynn movies, Captain Blood and Robin Hood and stuff, he only did his sword fighting in the close-ups; for the wide shots they would always get stunt people to do it, and great swordsmen. As a matter of fact, one of the swordsmen that we used, Bob Anderson, doubled for Flynn. He was an Olympic fencer, and he and Peter Diamond were the two guys who constructed this fencing sequence.

  On the same day that I first visited the production offices at Shepperton Studios, I was told I would be contacted by one of the two gentlemen who would be in charge of the fight training and coordinating stunts for the film. Their names were Peter Diamond and Bob Anderson. It shames me somewhat to admit this now, but I had never heard of either of these two men when I received the message that day. I reasoned correctly that Rob knew what he was doing and would only assign such an important task to seriously qualified people.