Blowing the Bloody Doors Off

by Michael Caine

  Elizabeth Taylor was delightful and utterly professional, but she had been a star since childhood and the behaviour of her retinue when we were shooting Zee and Company together in 1970 almost gave me a nervous breakdown. Every morning we were given a running commentary on her Royal Progress. “She’s just left the hotel…The car’s pulling up outside…She’s in Makeup…She’s in Hair…She’s on her way!”

  I make a point of treating everyone on set or on location equally—the stars, the unknowns, the crew, the tea boy. On the first day, I introduce myself to everyone as Michael. I don’t want people to think I’m swanning about, assuming they all know who I am. And I don’t want people worrying: “Bloody hell, what do I call him? Mr. Caine? Sir Michael?” It’s “Hello, my name is Michael” to everyone. I don’t pull rank. I much prefer to make friends with everyone and create a happy, relaxed atmosphere, to put everyone at their ease. I want everyone to feel “I’m fabulous, we’re all fabulous.” I want the feeling in the whole unit to be one of excitement at our common endeavour. It’s the right thing to do and it’s also the best thing to do. I know that how I behave on set will make a difference to everyone’s day, and everyone’s performance.

  If there is a young or inexperienced actor on set who is clearly nervous, I immediately go to work on them, like some kind of nanny. I think back to what I would have wanted to hear, back when I was screwing up my lines and knocking over the furniture, and say and do whatever I can to put them at ease: tell silly jokes, distract them with my acting tips, describe how I always used to mess up my lines, reassure them that it doesn’t matter if they do—“We’ll just do it again.” I have even occasionally made deliberate mistakes so they don’t feel like they’re the only ones.

  Encouraging young actors is not just altruism on my part. It’s a two-way street and the honour is often mine. At a dinner for the premiere of Educating Rita in Hollywood, back in the 1980s, my wife Shakira left the seat beside me to talk to a friend and I found that a young man I didn’t recognise had sat himself down next to me. “Excuse me, Michael,” he said, “I wonder if you could give me some advice.” I don’t remember what I said, but we talked for about ten minutes and then Shakira reappeared. He jumped out of the chair immediately and started to walk away.

  “What’s your name?” I called after him.

  “Tom Cruise,” he said, opening his face into his trademark smile. That was the year that a twenty-one-year-old Tom broke out in The Outsiders and Risky Business, so whatever it was I said to him, I’m sure he needed no advice from me.

  Still on the topic of extraordinary young talent, a few years ago I was playing the part of Austin Powers’s father, Nigel Powers, in Austin Powers in Goldmember. At the first production cast meeting I met our leading lady, a very beautiful, very self-possessed, unknown-to-me African American woman who, I later discovered, was just nineteen years old. I started to talk to her and she told me that she was in a singing group I had never heard of, and that this was her first movie but her ambition was to be an actress and win an Oscar. “Good for you, darling,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “Beyoncé Knowles,” she said. Beyoncé was quiet, observant and completely professional, with a sensitive regard for the feelings of everyone else on set. It was a pleasure and a privilege to work with this young star and, though I know her trophy cabinet is already heaving, I wouldn’t rule out that Academy Award just yet.

  I have only once had anyone fired and it was early in my career before I knew better. I was being driven to Pinewood Studios the first day of filming on The Ipcress File. The chauffeur, who must have been spoiling for a fight, opened up with “Are you the star of this film?” I said I was. “Have you read the book?” I said I had. “Biggest piece of shit I’ve ever read,” he said. I was furious. I indicated that I would prefer to drive the rest of the journey in silence, and as soon as we arrived at the studio, I fired him. I recognise now that that came from a mixture of uncontrolled anger and insecurity. I’m not proud of it, it didn’t make me feel better and I’ve never done it again.

  I would never have anyone fired but I am careful about who I choose to work with.

  Once when I was visiting New York I went to the hotel suite of a well-known and very successful comedy actor to discuss a movie we were thinking of making together. He was going to be the star, and I was going to be the second star. I hadn’t especially liked this guy on screen, but it was a good part for lots of money and his hotel was next door to mine, right by Central Park, so I thought I’d at least meet him. I went into his suite and he said, “Hello, Michael, have a seat.” I sat down and we looked at each other. There was a silence, which seemed to go on for a long time although it probably didn’t. Finally the actor said, “It’s not going to work, is it, Michael?”

  I shook my head. “No.” I said. “I don’t think you like me, and I’m afraid I don’t like you either.” He nodded. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” I lied, and I got up and walked out.

  For the most part, successful actors are not temperamental. The industry requires too much discipline: six thirty makeup calls and a lot of standing around while the cameras, the lights and the sound get happy. And sticking your nose in the air and insisting on special treatment is the kind of thing that leads to hammers and lamps falling perilously close to your head.

  But I do know one huge star who insists nobody can look her in the eye when she is working, or start a conversation with her. Imagine the eggshells everyone is walking on all day. I can’t think they’re doing their best work, even if she is.

  I’ve known another who has deliberately kept a whole cast and crew waiting all morning to make a point. I was working on a movie with a male star who was very jealous of his time while he was shooting. One day he was called to the set and kept waiting around. I forget why: the light was wrong, or the weather changed or something. One of those things that happen a lot. The following morning he sent a message to say, “Because you kept me waiting for four hours yesterday, I’m going to be four hours late today.” There was nothing we could shoot without him so we, the entire cast and crew, sat twiddling our thumbs for four hours. When he finally turned up, everyone looked at me to see what I would do. I think they were hoping I’d have a big row with him, and it’s true, I was absolutely furious. But instead I pointedly took him into a corner, put my hand on his shoulder and said, “I just want to say thank you. I was out all night last night and I hadn’t learnt my dialogue. Now I’ve had a fabulous nap, I’ve learnt my lines and I’m feeling great. In fact, it just occurs to me: I’m going to a party tonight so can you be late again tomorrow? That way I won’t be the one getting into trouble.” He wasn’t late the next day, or any other day.

  I don’t like working with temperamental actors and I try to protect my colleagues from them too. If an actor is having a tantrum and throwing their weight around on set, I go home until everything has calmed down. That is a big, expensive drag. It usually means that either they leave the movie or I do. And I have never left a movie. When you become a star, you enter a world where you can pretty much say what you want and usually get it. Stamping and screaming becomes, in fact, much less necessary. Some see it as a signal of their stardom. I see it as a signal of not-quite-stardom and insecurity, often followed by complete anonymity.

  Who are the nicest people working in Hollywood today? I’d have to include Sandra Bullock, Woody Harrelson, Scarlett Johansson, Charlize Theron, Jack Nicholson, Steve Martin and Jude Law. They’re all actors of huge talent, but beyond that, they’re people you want to work with. They work hard, they have a laugh, they learn their lines, they don’t upset anybody. Basically, they don’t take themselves too seriously.

  Keep your temper

  The irony of all this is that I have a terrible temper myself. But these days I never lose it and I never allow anyone else to lose theirs either.

  The last time I blew my top on a movie set was in 1970 when I was making The Last Valley, directed by James Clavell and c
o-starring Omar Sharif. The Last Valley was, like many others of that era, a war movie, but with a difference: it was set in the seventeenth century, during the Thirty Years War. I was playing the captain of a mercenary force and, unfortunately for me, that meant horses.

  My daughter Dominique was by now an expert horsewoman and, knowing my unhappy history with and sheer terror of horses after my Zulu debacle, had given me some advice: I should ask for a docile mount and stipulate that it should be a mare. Imagine my surprise and delight when I was shown to my horse—the biggest I had ever seen and very obviously a stallion. His name was something Germanic that was translated for me to “Fury.” “No, no,” I was assured, when I raised a query. “He’s as quiet as can be and was chosen with you in mind.” I had a few practice rides and Fury did indeed seem to be a gentle soul. Until the first day of shooting, that was. I had got into my costume and thought Fury and I would go for a little trot. The trot quickly became a canter, and the canter became a gallop. Hanging on to Fury’s mane for dear life, I really thought I was going to die. Eventually we were brought to a screaming halt (it was me doing the screaming) by a jeep from the unit, about two miles from the set.

  As soon as I got back to the set I went ape shit at everybody, yelling and screaming until my voice was hoarse. Jimmy Clavell waited until I had shouted myself out, then dismissed the crew for two hours, sat me down and gave me one of the most useful lessons of my life. “I was a prisoner of the Japanese during the war,” he said to me, very quietly and calmly, “and the reason I survived and others did not is that I never lost face. If you lose your temper in front of people you do not know, you are displaying a most intimate emotion in front of strangers. You look a fool and you feel a fool. You lose their respect and it is almost impossible to win it back. You must keep control. If you cannot control yourself, you look weak, and you have no chance of controlling others. And, by the way, the reason your horse ran away was that your sword was slapping against his side. Every time he felt that sword on his side he thought you were urging him to go faster. Now, you are going to have to apologise to everyone on set.”

  He was right. I did apologise and from that time on I have never lost my temper on a set, no matter what happens. I have also never got back on a horse and nothing and no one could tempt me to do so.

  Actually, I did lose it just once recently. Daniel Radcliffe was doing an interview a couple of years ago about Now You See Me 2, a very fun heist movie where the robbers are brilliant magicians. When he was asked what it was like working with me, he said I still seemed to love my job despite my advanced age, and that “the only time he got remotely irate was when a camera smacked him in the head.” Even then I only got angry with an inanimate object. I would never, ever shout at anyone less powerful than me. It is not just about losing face: it would be hideously unfair.

  If you anger me, or cross me, you will never see me lose my temper. James Clavell taught me that. In fact, you will never see anything, because you would just disappear from my life. My parents taught me that. My dad taught me never to let anyone have two goes at me. And my mum taught me that the worst thing you can do to an enemy is to ignore him. To be angry is to be a victim. To move on is the only victory.

  Staying the right side of the line

  For actors there is one kind of scene above all others where it is most important to behave properly and treat colleagues with respect: the love scene.

  This is a fraught area for almost every actor and actress, and rich pickings for anyone intent on behaving badly, but in my experience it is straightforward to behave like a decent human being. My approach was always to stay as professional as possible. I abandoned my usual mantras of “be prepared” and “be real” and I just kept things very respectful and very proper.

  I do not recommend getting together and “breaking the ice” before shooting. Rehearse, yes, if you must. But no one thinks that if you have a fight scene in a movie you should go out and beat each other up the night before, and love scenes are no different.

  When I was making Alfie my co-star Shelley Winters, with whom I had a lot of pretty racy scenes, appeared to take a different approach. I was a relative unknown at that point while Shelley was already a big Hollywood name. The first time I set eyes on her, she was thundering down a corridor of the Dorchester Hotel in London where we were due to shoot a location scene. It was eight o’clock on a Monday morning and I was just heading into Makeup when I caught sight (and sound) of her and thought I’d introduce myself. “Well, hello, Michael,” boomed Shelley, grinning widely. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Let’s do it before we go into Makeup, shall we? Otherwise we’ll have to get made-up all over again.”

  “Do what?” I asked, in genuine puzzlement.

  “Screw, of course,” she said, eyes a-twinkle. “I always like to screw the leading man on the first day. It gets it out of the way. Otherwise all that sexual tension can interfere with the performance. Don’t you think?”

  I was frozen to the spot and speechless for a moment, then turned on my heels and fled. As I did, I heard her laughter echoing down the corridor. She was just messing.

  I don’t mess, but I do tend to make jokes at my own expense, to keep the atmosphere light and to avoid the actress getting the impression that I’m enjoying myself too much. As soon as the director says, “Cut!” I’m out of character and making a joke to make it clear to my co-star that the passion is all an act. Elizabeth Taylor and I found an alternative approach: we compared our old scars. I had two and she had six.

  One other little thing, born of experience: I carry mouth spray and have a quick squirt just before a kissing scene. The actress will usually say, “What’s that?” and I say, “Here you go,” and give her a squirt. That way we’re both covered.

  Most actors and most actresses find love scenes, especially bedroom scenes, embarrassing. Most people I know get nervous. Julie Walters had a novel approach to dealing with the nerves. She once managed to con the entire shooting unit into taking their own clothes off, by telling them it was a new ruling from the actors’ union, Equity. On Blue Ice, Sean Young had to do a short nude scene and made the (all-male) crew strip down to their underpants. Don’t try this in the office.

  There are exceptions, though. Glenda Jackson, who was my co-star in the 1975 British film The Romantic Englishwoman and an extraordinary actress, not only always seemed in complete command of the situation, she actually seemed to enjoy it. She walked around the set naked all the time, even when we weren’t shooting the nude scenes. Didn’t give a toss.

  There must have been something in the air on that movie because actually Glenda wasn’t the only one. On the first morning on set, another member of the cast, a young actress, came into my dressing room naked and asked me for a cigarette. I was married, and scared. I said nothing. I just gave her the cigarette and lent her a towel for her walk back down the corridor.

  I have done love scenes with some of the great beauties and great actresses of my time: Elizabeth Taylor, Jane Fonda, Jane Asher, Shelley Winters, Glenda Jackson, Maggie Smith. I cherished these moments, but I never became confused. I remembered that these women were not beautiful women who happened to be in bed with me—or not only that—but primarily brilliant actors who had a job of work to do, just as I did. And if I can stay professional in these situations, if I can see a clear line between what is and what is not acceptable, if I can behave when my office is also a bedroom, then everyone else can too. It is not that difficult. Those who claim it is are just not trying hard enough.

  I have to say, though, that the best love scene I’ve ever performed was as Alfred Pennyworth saying goodbye to Batman in The Dark Knight Rises. And I got to keep all my clothes on.

  14.

  Don’t Look Back (with a Few Exceptions)

  Daniel Dravot: “Peachy, I’m heartily ashamed for gettin’ you killed instead of going home rich like you deserved to, on account of me bein’ so bleedin’ high and bloody mighty. Can you forgive me?”
/>   Peachy Carnehan: “That I can and that I do, Danny, free and full and without let or hindrance.”

  Daniel Dravot: “Everything’s all right then.”

  The Man Who Would Be King, 1975

  WRITING A BOOK LIKE this inevitably involves some reflection. But until this point in my life a principle that has served me well is to avoid “looking back on my little life,” and keep facing forwards. I don’t like to mull over what’s behind me: it’s a waste of time, because there’s nothing I can do about it. I like to plan ahead. I’m always making plans for the future: reading new scripts, planting new trees. As I say to my grandchildren, “Don’t look back, you’ll trip over.”

  Don’t watch the rushes

  When I’m shooting a scene, my concentration is absolute. I don’t think about the last shot and what I could have done better. I don’t think about the next shot and fiddle about with it in my mind. I give myself entirely to what I need to be doing in this moment. And then, when the shot is done, it’s done. I don’t worry about how I looked or how I did. Once the director is happy, I wipe it from my mind and move on.

  It’s a great approach except when it comes to what’s known as post-synching. This is where, sometimes months after a shoot, an actor is called back in to redo the voice for a particular scene. Maybe a dog barked or maybe the director has decided he wants a different inflection. I’ve usually done another film or two by this point and it takes a lot of work to remember my character, my accent, what I’m supposed to be feeling in that particular scene. I much prefer to get it right the first time. Leaving it for later can seem tempting when things aren’t going well on the day, but almost invariably it is a mistake: in the end it is harder work for a slightly diminished performance.