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

by Cary Elwes

  While Lois was making me up, our equally professional hair stylist, Jan Jamison, who had, incidentally, worked with Mandy on Yentl, started applying a small ponytail to the back of my head—another look that Rob and I had discussed for Westley. This process involved using incredibly painful, tiny rubber bands that had to be placed close to my scalp so she could weave the hair in. It wasn’t her fault they hurt, though. Jan assured me that, given all the stunt work I would have to do, this “backfall,” as it was called, was the only way to apply it to my head.

  After getting made up I headed over to my dressing room on the lot. There, hanging on the wall, greeting me as I walked in, was the full Man in Black costume. Leaning on a chair next to it I noticed my actual movie sword for the first time. As I took it out of its scabbard, it glistened in the morning light. It had been designed by a professional sword maker, as had all of the swords in the movie, to Bob and Peter’s specifications. I practiced a few moves to get the hang of it. It was beautifully crafted and very lightweight.

  Once I finished getting dressed, I checked myself in the mirror in my full outfit one last time. This was it—time to bring the Dread Pirate Roberts to life! I hooked my scabbard to my belt and grabbed my gloves and mask. Before I had a chance for a second thought there was a knock on the door. It was a production assistant, a job I had once held, now there to bring me to the stage. I opened the door and let him in.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied, grabbing my sides.

  Just walking onto the set itself was an incredible experience. I’d never seen such a large crew. All the producers were there, along with the heads of all the departments. Bill Goldman was also there, chatting with one of the producers, Steve Nicolaides. Everything about the setting screamed, “Big-time Hollywood movie.” What I felt could be akin to the thrill that perhaps a minor-league baseball player experiences when he’s called up to the majors and walks into a 50,000-seat stadium for the first time. I felt a palpable sense of awe and excitement.

  In the theater, unlike film you have a sense of the finished product even as you are rehearsing. And you get to tell the entire story every night. Moviemaking is a completely different process. It’s about shepherding actors, craftsmen, and technicians—artists all—in the pursuit of a common goal: trying to catch lightning in a bottle. A goal that can seem painfully elusive at times depending on the circumstances. Films are cobbled together over weeks and months, with scenes captured from multiple angles and points of view, and under a myriad of conditions. A single scene or sequence, depending on how large it is, can sometimes take a couple of days to shoot—in some cases weeks, as was the case for the infamous duel and the Fire Swamp. Adding to the disorientation is the fact that nearly everything is filmed out of sequence (ergo the need for my fake mustache!). There can be no doubt that a certain childlike wonder is required to do the job, but actors also need an abundance of patience and flexibility, as things don’t always turn out as planned. All I know is that I love working in film. And, aside from being with my family, I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in the world than on a movie set. There really is nothing to compare it to.

  Standing across from me, getting wired by the sound department, was Robin, looking radiant as ever in Buttercup’s bright red dress. After sharing some very nice compliments about our respective outfits, I, too, began to get wired. This is where the sound department hides a small microphone on your person, much like you see in the movies when the FBI or the police need to have someone “wear a wire” in order to catch the bad guy incriminating himself. The reason for this is so the sound department can pick up even the faintest dialogue that may be too quiet or soft to be picked up by the boom microphone. While Phyllis and the boom operator tried to figure where the best place to hide the mic would be on my costume, I looked around and noticed Goldman standing off to the side of the set . . . all by himself. As at the table reading, he appeared to be even more nervous and excited than I was. More unduly anxious than usual, I should say. I remembered his words at the read-through, where he stated that he might seem a little so because this was his favorite piece of work. I couldn’t tell if it was that or maybe it was because it was the first day of shooting. I should point out, though, that this was not Goldman’s first time at the rodeo. He had spent some time on the sets of Marathon Man, Butch Cassidy, All the President’s Men, and A Bridge Too Far. However, even though he visited these sets, he never stayed for the whole shoot.

  This was not a rare thing in Hollywood back then, or even nowadays. The norm is that unless rewrites are needed on the fly, the screenwriter is rarely invited to the shoot except for perhaps a customary visit to meet everyone. He often ends up watching the rest of the production from afar as his baby is nurtured by someone else. Some directors feel a little insecure about having the writer on location, perhaps fearful that they might be judging their methods or vision. If changes are needed, these directors usually prefer to have the new scenes or lines delivered by e-mail or fax. For some, having a writer on the set is deemed at best a distraction, at worst a nuisance. Some prefer to work with them at arm’s length (unless, of course, the director is the writer), allowing the script to morph into something else entirely. And to be fair to those directors, this is not necessarily a bad thing. It’s allowing the director to have creative license born of inspiration. I remember a writer who had written big studio movies telling me once: there are three movies when you make a movie—the one you write, the one you guys shoot, and the one the director edits. For some writers this kind of banishment can be considered heresy. For others it’s no big deal. Neither one of them is necessarily right or wrong. It’s just one of those challenging dynamics: whether the director feels comfortable having the writer around or not. It’s really up to their discretion.

  Rob adored Bill and had such admiration for his talent that he invited him on the set not just for a visit but for the duration of the production. Indeed we all felt that way about Bill. To us he was such a giant, not only within the industry but also within the artistic community at large, that we were all in awe of him. He was also then and still is a very genteel, big-hearted guy. You’d have to be to write a fairy-tale love story for your kids. So there was never a question about whether he should be there with us or not. This was, after all, his favorite screenplay. Why wouldn’t he be invited? Although, I got the distinct sense from him that he really didn’t want to be there.

  The first scene on the first day was the one in which Westley leads Buttercup through the Fire Swamp, hacking away at vines while relating to both Buttercup and the audience how he came to be the Man in Black. The Fire Swamp, incidentally, is described as follows in the stage directions of Bill’s script:

  WILLIAM GOLDMAN

  I don’t like being on set. If you’re a screenwriter, it’s boring. The words are all done, and they’re doing the movie, and your work is done. I don’t like being around. I never wanted to direct. I don’t know how to talk to actors; most of them are half phony. So I don’t like being on a movie set. Never have. I mean, I like being there for the reading, because there is work to be done and you can hear it being performed. But I just don’t like being around the shoot. So I wasn’t there much. But overall it was still the best experience of my whole life.

  It really doesn’t look any worse than any other moist, sulfurous, infernal horror you might run across. Great trees block the sun.

  And that is exactly what it looked like. It was now completely covered in creepers and vines and had large toadstools and moss-covered rocks all over the place.

  My first line of dialogue, describing my thoughts about the swamp to make Buttercup feel secure, was, “You know, it’s not that bad. I’m not saying I’d like to build a summer home here, but the trees are actually quite lovely.”

  I recall not getting it quite right. Rob had a very specific idea about how the words “summer home” should be pronounced and thought I was putting too much emphas
is on the second word as opposed to the first.

  “It’s summer home, Cary,” Rob said.

  “Right—summer home.”

  “No, try it again. Summer home.”

  We tried a second take. And then something strange happened. Before I even got to finish the line an odd look came across Rob’s face from behind the monitor. He turned to Andy Scheinman, lifted off his headphones, and said, “What’s that weird noise I can hear?”

  Andy removed his headphones as well and shook his head. “I don’t know, but I can hear it, too.”

  “Cut!” Rob yelled.

  Rob turned to our sound guy, David John.

  “Dave? What’s that weird noise?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but it has stopped now,” came the reply from David.

  We rolled again. And once again, right in the middle of a take, Rob yelled, “Cut!”

  BILLY CRYSTAL

  Rob is incredibly smart about his material, and very freeing for actors to do their best work. He also knows what he wants. He’ll say, “I want it the way I like it.” He wants it the way he hears it. So the dialogue has a rhythm to it, an inflection, a music to it. And if you don’t hit the right notes, you know it. He’ll correct you about where the inflection goes and so on. I remember even on A Few Good Men, Tom Cruise would go up to him and say, “Tell me it again. Just say it.” He’d hear it and go, “I got it.” And then do it perfectly, because there’s a music to it. If you don’t hit the note right, it’s going to be a little flat. It’s about timing, and Rob has excellent timing. And he loves his actors. He’s a very giving director that way.

  “What the heck is that?” Rob asked again, walking over to the sound cart. Our now frustrated sound man rewound the tape and let them all listen to it again to see if they could decipher what it was and thus, hopefully, where it was coming from.

  The tape was played back, and I even got a listen. You could clearly hear what sounded like some sort of strange incantation or chanting of some kind. It was barely audible but it was definitely on the sound track. The ADs spread out and began searching the swamp, listening for the sound. I think it was Rob who eventually discovered Bill standing behind a giant toadstool, rocking back and forth, with his fingers crossed in his mouth, mumbling under his breath.

  “Bill, what are you doing?” Rob asked quizzically.

  Embarrassed, Bill stammered as he removed his hands from his mouth, “Oh, I’m, er . . . I was just praying. Why?”

  “You can’t talk on the set, Bill. Not while we’re filming. The microphones pick up everything.”

  Bill lowered his head.

  “Oh my gosh! I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just a little excited, I guess.”

  Rob threw an arm around him and pulled him close. “It’s okay, Bill. Just relax.”

  Rob then turned to us and calmly said, “Okay. Let’s try it again.”

  The next two takes were printed but apparently I still could not get the delivery of “summer home” exactly right. When a director gives a line reading to an actor—when he demonstrates precisely how the words should be spoken—it can sometimes be a bit awkward. But Rob’s personality is so engaging and his demeanor so unthreatening that he is just naturally able to put an actor at ease. He also knows exactly how it should sound. The next take, I finally got it right.

  Afterward I said to Rob, “You know, in England we don’t really have summer homes given the climate.” He laughed and said, “Yeah, that figures.”

  For the next sequence in the Fire Swamp, there would be no easing into things. This would be a baptism by fire.

  ROB REINER

  Bill was there during the early scenes. I remember he was freaking out the first day he was there. He would get behind the camera and he’d turn his back and he would kind of cross his fingers. And it was kind of a weird thing, almost like a little kid who was hoping everything would go well.

  Although the stunts and special effects in The Princess Bride were certainly modest by today’s standards (and indeed even by the standards of some of the Hollywood blockbusters of the time, e.g., the Star Wars and Indiana Jones trilogies), they nevertheless represented my introduction to the technological possibilities of moviemaking, and the risks and challenges associated with stunt work.

  This was the point in the Fire Swamp sequence where Buttercup’s dress briefly catches on fire before the flame is extinguished by Westley. It’s merely a line in the stage directions and consumes only a few seconds of film, but before we could shoot the scene, several steps had to be taken. First, a fire marshal had to be brought to the set. He would then meet with the stunt coordinator, Peter Diamond, Nick Allder, our FX supervisor, and his special effects crew. This was followed by what is known as a general “safety meeting” with the rest of the crew. Anytime there are firearms, fire, or even a dangerous or semidangerous stunt involved, there is always a safety meeting of this kind. The whole crew gathers around, and usually the first AD explains what the meeting is about. He then introduces everyone to the person in charge of special effects/stunts/firearms, etc., and that person walks everyone through the sequence, detailing both process and all potential safety concerns.

  And that is what happened that day as Nick filled us in. We were all then invited to walk around the set as he pointed out various places on the ground through which flames would periodically spurt. Each point had been marked by a bright orange rubber street cone.

  “Please make sure that you don’t step on any of these gas outlets,” he cautioned. “Always walk around them. That’s why we have put cones next to each one, so you can all familiarize yourself with where the flames are going to come from. There’s another one over there, and there’s another there. There are three of them in all and we’re going to time these to go off a certain way. Just so you guys will know exactly when the flames are going to spurt we have arranged for the sound of air to be blasted through the pipes containing the gas beforehand as a warning. Okay?”

  We all nodded.

  “Okay, the last one, right here,” he said, pointing to a cone, “is going to be the one that sets fire to Robin’s dress.”

  I looked over at Robin. She betrayed not the slightest bit of concern.

  “We’ve had a special dress made for her,” he continued, “that is made out of flame-retardant material.” Rob then turned to Robin and said, “Robin, you’re okay with this, right?”

  I’ve done enough movies in the last twenty-five years to know that this is always a difficult moment for an actor. Actors nearly always want to appear courageous and committed, willing to do anything for the team. So while it is perfectly acceptable to opt out of a stunt and let the professionals handle it, there is some pressure, mostly internal, to push yourself beyond your normal comfort zone. Typically, the director will follow up after the consultation with the stunt coordinator and special effects experts and the actors, just to make sure everyone is at ease with their respective roles when it comes to the stunt. Certainly that was the case on this occasion, as Rob consulted with both Robin and me about our willingness to do the stunt. But more so with her, seeing as she was the one who was actually going to be set on fire.

  “If you don’t want to do it, it’s totally fine,” Rob assured her. “We’ve got the doubles. So it’s okay. We can shoot around you.”

  Robin looked at me.

  I shrugged—if you’re game, so am I.

  She then turned back to Rob.

  “No, I think we can do this.”

  Rob glanced at me.

  “Are you guys sure?”

  “Absolutely,” I chimed in. “I’ll make sure she’s safe. Let’s give it a shot.”

  We carefully watched the scene rehearsed with our stunt doubles—Andy Bradford for me, Sue Crossland for Robin—so we could study in detail what would be required of us. As Nick had warned us, each little burst of flame was preceded by a loud whoosh! sound as a thick blast of oxygen was shot out of the gas pipe; so we always knew precisely when an
d where the actual flame would appear. At the appointed time, we watched as Sue’s flame-retardant dress caught on fire, and Andy put it out. So from what I could gather Robin was essentially going to be set on fire, and my job was to grab her, move her away from the open flame, and then extinguish the fire on her dress without letting her get burned in any way.

  No biggie, right?

  “All you have to do is rub the dress together, and the retardant will put out the fire by itself,” Nick instructed. “However, if it looks like there’s a problem, just step aside immediately and Peter and myself will douse her with the fire extinguisher. We’ll be right here next to the camera. It’s only a small flame, so it shouldn’t spread.”

  Was I apprehensive about shooting a scene that involved an unstable element on another actor? Especially fire? You bet. It occurred to me that even though Robin was wearing a full layer of fireproof clothing beneath her flame-retardant dress, her face and hands would still be exposed. Interestingly, the stunt coordinators and FX team told her that if anything went wrong, she was to immediately cover her face with her hands, which would have been the natural knee-jerk reaction anyway. Did I do my best to hide my anxiety at being the one to put out the fire on Robin? You bet correctly again.

  So we lined up for the shot and Rob yelled, “Action,” and I walked Robin past the last fire pit. There was a “whooshing” sound, and then the flame. And it was a pretty large burst of flame, I can tell you. It caught me by surprise. Obviously Robin’s dress immediately caught fire, but just as I pulled her aside to extinguish it there came a loud yell from behind the camera.

  Rob called for cut.

  What was the commotion this time? It turns out that even though Bill knew exactly what was going to happen, as he had written this sequence into every version of the screenplay, he had apparently forgotten that this particular stunt was being shot that day and had left the set for some reason, missing the safety meeting, and returned right in the middle of the first take. As soon as he saw Robin on fire he naturally thought there had been some sort of an accident. Thus, he yelled out something to the effect of “OH, MY GOD! HER DRESS IS ON FIRE! SHE’S ON FIRE!!!” effectively ruining another take. After yelling “Cut!” Rob calmly turned to Goldman and said, “Bill, it’s supposed to catch on fire, remember?”