So just as Nick was running through his lines, we took position next to the camera, both still in our blue makeup capes and Jon with a mop on his head. The crew were falling about. Nick just carried on as normal.
‘What’s everyone laughing at?’
It wasn’t Nick’s fault that we weren’t close at the time. When I was looking to chat to someone I instinctively gravitated towards wardrobe and makeup. If ever I went missing, that’s where you could usually find me, tea in hand, gossiping, and away from the spotlight.
For the last couple of scheduled days at North Acton, we had an audience. All the technicians, the producers, the effects guys and cameramen came in for a technical rehearsal. These were the people who had to transfer what we were doing in the Hilton onto the screen. They needed to see how much we were leaping about, where we were standing, who was doing what in the background, and work out the best angles and whether it fitted in with the space restrictions and the sets that had been built. After a full run-through of Episodes 1 and 2 we were all packed off to the canteen while Barry, Terry Dicks the script editor and co. had a pow-wow with Bromly. Everyone else was completely at ease but I couldn’t bear the suspense – it felt like waiting for a jury to return its verdict.
In a sense that’s exactly what was going on. By the time we trotted back downstairs decisions would have been made on which scenes worked, which ones didn’t, which lines needed to go and, worst of all, who had new dialogue to learn. As we filed back in, everyone was handed notes. ‘Emphasise this’, ‘hold back here’, ‘scream louder’ – all pointers that the consensus felt would improve the show.
Generally I enjoy getting notes on my performances. Producers and directors are the ones you have to please, after all. Unfortunately I was also getting pointers from another quarter.
‘Lissie, how about saying that line like this?’
I counted to ten.
‘I think it works as it is, Jon.’
I know he was only trying to be helpful but that rubbed me up the wrong way, I’ll admit.
My first studio day finally arrived on Monday, 28 May. I was up at six, hair washed and then at BBC Centre in White City by seven. As I was led along the labyrinthine corridors to my dressing room, I wondered whom I’d be sharing with. We stopped outside a door and I noticed the tag on the front: ‘Elisabeth Sladen’.
I had my own room!
When I told Jon how surprised I was, he just grinned. ‘Number two on the call sheet, Lis,’ he said. ‘It does have its perks, you know.’
Sandra and her team managed to get on as much makeup as they could, but the priority was putting the rollers in my hair. By the time the camera rehearsal started at ten, I looked a complete state. Over the course of the day we went through all of that first episode, going over everything again and again so the lighting chaps had us where they wanted us, the sound man had the right places miked up and the cameras were ready to follow the action. Tape went down on the floor to mark out everyone’s spots. Stray too far from the spot and you could end up out of shot.
One more thing to remember.
Every time there was a lull in shooting or I wasn’t required for a particular scene I’d disappear to the sanctuary of the dressing room. It was such a thrill having my own private bolt-hole – with its own bathroom! But I’d only snatch a couple of minutes before a knock on the door and I’d be summoned to see Sandra again for a bit more makeup. That way, by the time shooting started in the evening, we’d all be ready.
The first casualty on filming days was lunch. Only once rehearsals finished about six o’clock did the food trolleys come out, but I couldn’t eat by then. Now the nerves really started. Costumes had to go on, touch-ups to makeup happened, then at half-past seven we did it all again – for real.
BBC studios in those days had extremely hard, flat surfaces to enable the cameras to whizz around. My feet were killing me before the cameras were even turned on. But the biggest difference back then was that the director sat above the action in the producer’s gantry with all the other technical staff, whereas these days he’s virtually by your side crouched behind a monitor. Instead we had a floor manager with headphones permanently fixed to his ears, whose job it was to relay commands from on high. The thing I liked most about the studio – and which you don’t get now – was the camera screens hanging from the gantry. These were monitors showing exactly what the director was seeing. There was no downside to having them, as far as I could tell – I could be just about to start a scene and realise that I was too far over for the scenery. They’d really come into their own, however, in the later story Invasion of the Dinosaurs when the monster models were shown on those screens and I could see where I was in relation to them.
As break time came to an end the tension in the room built up. The cameras that had been hovering around all day were about to be switched on. Rehearsal time was over, now we were doing it for real.
I like to get into the zone before going on stage, as I mentioned. Script rolled tightly in my hand, like a relay baton (although more for comfort at that stage), I went through my first scene. OK, I thought, let’s go. I’m ready to be Sarah Jane.
Suddenly there was a holler from the other side of the studio.
‘We’re over here, Lissie!’
What now, Jon?
I trotted over to where Jon, Nick and the others from the episode were all huddled.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
Jon winked, beaming like the Cheshire Cat. ‘After three, everyone!’
And then on three, everyone who’d gravitated around a hanging mic bellowed out the name ‘Harry Roy!’
‘It’s just our little tradition,’ Jon explained afterwards. Apparently it got the mouth loosened up and was a good team-building exercise.
It might be your tradition, I thought, but it’s not mine.
A lot of actors have superstitions. Mine on The Sarah Jane Adventures is always having to pull my left boot on first – don’t ask me why, it’s just something I follow. In my defence, it’s a minor thing. No one knows (until now!), and no one else is impinged upon.
Bloody ‘Harry Roy’ was different. I’d just spent ten minutes getting into the mindset of Sarah Jane – I didn’t want to be thinking of some old actor. And more importantly, I didn’t want to be made to do things just because the last girl did them, but I went along with it.
Anything for a quiet life, Sladen …
* * *
Recording on Episode 1 finished at half ten on the nose (the unions were very powerful in those days so the knock-off time was fixed in stone). Then on Tuesday we did it all again for Episode 2. It was hard work, but God I had fun.
I was very happy with the way Sarah Jane was set up. You could see a genuine twinkle in Jon’s eye when the Doctor first meets her – especially when he rumbles her lie about being Lavinia Smith, her aunt. There was also the indignant feminist tease, ‘If you think I’m going to spend my time making cups of coffee’ from me before Jon disappeared inside the TARDIS to boil his own.
What I adored most of all about filming, of course, was the feeling of being part of a company. Yes, the ‘Harry Roy’ thing annoyed me intensely (we had to do it again on Tuesday and again the following week) but Jon was right: it did make the supporting cast feel part of ‘us’. I was hired for twenty-six episodes while some of them were only with us for one or two, but for that night they were made to feel as essential to proceedings as the Doctor himself.
I was still finding my feet, of course. The Time Warrior was the first thing I’d worked on where I had to perform in front of a blue screen to film scenes to which special effects would be added later (in those days the effect was known as CSO – colour separation overlay). The camera guys were very patient with me while I got to grips acting against imaginary explosions. Watching the raised monitors I could just about follow proceedings.
I was pretty pleased with my first attempts on the blue screen. On stage you’re regularly expected
to act with imaginary sets, props or even people. This was no different. Once I’d mastered the mechanics of it, I had a blast. As I came away from the screen I noticed the studio had cleared, though. There was just me and the cameraman – and he was looking a bit awkward.
‘Was that all right?’ I asked him.
‘Really good, Lis,’ he said. ‘But, um …’
‘Is there a problem?’
I’ve never seen a man look so shy.
‘Lis, did no one tell you what you’re supposed to wear for CSO?’
‘No, they didn’t. What am I supposed to wear?’
He looked nervously at his shoes again.
‘Come on, out with it,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry, Lis. You should have been told to wear the special CSO underwear. We could see everything you’ve got, that’s why everyone left,’ he added. ‘We’re going to have to go again.’
‘Why didn’t bloody Jim tell me?’
I flew round to the costume room just off-set and tugged on the handle. It was locked – from the inside.
‘Open up, you buggers,’ I said, hammering on the door. ‘I need the special underwear!’
Eventually the door was unlocked to peals of laughter. Finally the penny dropped.
‘You bastards!’
There was no special underwear at all. It had all been an elaborate wind-up. I felt a bit of a fool but I had to admit, they’d got me.
On the Tube home that night I remembered Jim’s face, pink from laughing at my initiation test, and I had to smile. I think I’m going to enjoy my time on Doctor Who.
Chapter Five
O.O.B., Sladen?
WE FINISHED recording The Time Warrior in the second week of June 1973. It wouldn’t be broadcast until the December. Working so far ahead to meet TV broadcast schedules throws up its own little quirks in time. I remember gossip in the press (denied, of course) saying Freema Agyeman had been dropped from Series Four of the new Doctor Who even before the third season had started! And when Chris Eccleston was doing promotional interviews for his landmark relaunch season, everyone in Cardiff already knew he had quit – but luckily none of the journalists thought to ask.
It was just as confusing back in 1973. Literally as we were recording Time Warrior, the final serial of Season Ten – The Green Death – was being aired. There I was replacing Jo Grant before anyone had even seen her leave. No wonder those fans at the motorway services had stared at me so blankly.
The Green Death’s final episode had further significance for me. That was the day when the BBC publicity department decided I should be unveiled to the press. I can see the logic. Old series ends, viewers disappointed to see Jo Grant swan off into the sunset with Cliff Jones. What better time to introduce her delightful new replacement?
And so it was on a sunny June day that I was persuaded to put on a ridiculous pair of denim shorts and T-shirt in a look that predated Daisy Duke by a few years and pushed out the front door of BBC Television Centre to the main entrance area – where they shoot all the Strictly Come Dancing intros – and where the national press’s snappers were assembled.
I’ll never forget the sight of all those lenses. Thirty-odd photographers all calling my name was something I hadn’t expected. ‘Lis, do this’, ‘Lis, over here’, ‘Give us a smile, Lis’. I was pulled from pillar to post, made to turn this way, perch on this thing, lean against that. And then there were all the questions to answer. Going back to Freema, I know she was given a course at the BBC on how to handle the media. I had no such training – we were thrown to the lions in those days completely unprepared. So I struggled gamely, all the while my rictus grin beaming unlovingly outwards.
Fortunately I wasn’t alone out there. Jon was on call as well and as soon as he saw I’d had enough, he very gallantly swept over to join me. That was my cue to hide behind him. I’d never been so glad to see that great flowing cloak of his. This, I felt, was where I belonged all along: by the Doctor’s side, not in the limelight.
I was glad to have the ordeal over and quickly forgot all about it. The next day, though, reminders came in their droves. A few lines appeared in one or two of the papers, and at home the phone rang off the hook. My parents were proud as punch, of course, and Dad promised the Doctor Who snaps would replace my Anita Reynolds stills in pride of place on the lounge wall. Every other call came from family and friends in Liverpool. Everyone was so pleased for me. It was flattering, if awkward. Brian was just as chuffed for me, of course, but he was the only person who understood. I’m just doing my job …
The script for my second story, Invasion of the Dinosaurs, came through in mid-August. This one was written by seasoned Who scribe Malcolm Hulke. A couple of things leapt out. First, not only was the Doctor still Earth-bound but the action took place entirely in London – I wouldn’t be getting a jolly away-day with the cast this time. Secondly, the UNIT boys were back in numbers. Nick Courtney’s regular assistants Mike Yates and Sergeant Benton were both in this one. Once more, I felt the challenge to impose myself on the set in the face of some very established relationships. I need to let them all know I deserve to be here.
It wasn’t just a fresh cast I had to master, though. On The Time Warrior Jim Acheson, Sandra Exelby and their teams had been my support network, my comfort blanket whenever I needed to get away from the glare. On Dinosaurs I’d be working with new costume and makeup people. It really was like starting all over again.
I met Jim and Sandra’s replacements soon enough. After a call from Jean McMillan, the new makeup supervisor, I was whisked away to an upmarket hair salon and given a neat, bouncy bob cut. That was a treat. Then our new costume designer Barbara Kidd and I had to pick out Sarah Jane’s look for the serial: a smart brown trouser suit and a white, wide-collared shirt. I think it’s a look that would still work today. More importantly it reflected the character – the strong feminist journalist. No dolly-bird outfits for Sarah Jane. Not yet, anyway.
I was a bit apprehensive as September arrived but nerves gave way to excitement as I pitched up at North Acton for the table read-through. Obviously I’d missed out on the last one so this was something of an eye-opener to see how things worked. As I made my way in everyone was chatting about what they’d been up to – it was like the first day back at school. New faces mingled with familiar ones – everyone seemed to know someone. I was delighted to see George Gallaccio, whom I’d met on Z-Cars. By the time I’d said a few hellos all my nerves had gone. I saw Jon regaling a couple of chaps with some tale – he was a natural raconteur – and went over, determined to get off on a better footing than the first time we’d met on location.
‘Lissie!’ he boomed, breaking off from his story. That was good of him, rather than leave me hanging. We hugged and then he looked me up and down.
‘What have you done to your hair? No, I don’t like that!’
Oh, Jon. It’s going to be a long series …
I always like table read-throughs and they’re exactly how they sound. Everyone sits at a table – all the cast, someone from makeup, someone from costume, someone from camera, Barry, Terry, sometimes the writer, and the director – and we literally read through the script. The technical team would make notes about what they could achieve and how we might have to amend things. For Dinosaurs I’d prepared inside out. Later I realised this was the time to suggest changes, especially if I felt a writer hadn’t quite nailed Sarah Jane as well as they might. (It made sense that the writers wouldn’t necessarily be as au fait with my character as I was. Some of the scripts might have been written before I was even cast.) I began to alter the odd word, then sentences, then whole exchanges. I’d never ask, I’d just do it. Afterwards I’d look up at Barry and he would simply nod. You’ve no idea how satisfying that is, as a newbie, getting the blessing from the highest authority in the room. Well, the highest authority on paper …
Mostly we had a very collaborative working arrangement where everyone contributed. Jon probably contributed more than anyo
ne else. Whether he was in a scene or not, he loved to have input. ‘Why don’t you try this?’ ‘I don’t think that’s working.’ He had so much experience after all. Unfortunately he didn’t always agree with my interpretations and he really didn’t like it when I stood my ground.
‘Oh, I think the moon’s in the wrong position for someone today, isn’t it?’
His heart was in the right place but I could have throttled him sometimes. We got on better with every passing day. I just had to remember, now and then, not to stoke the fire.
As with The Time Warrior, Barry was still too snowed under with Moonbase 3 to direct. His replacement, I was pleased to see, was a woman. Paddy Russell had previously held the reins for the First Doctor some seven years earlier, on The Massacre of St Bartholomew’s Eve.
If anyone is going to go softly on us, it’s her, I thought.
Well, I got that one wrong.
I don’t know if it was because she was trying to overcompensate for being a woman in a man’s world – and we all have those moments – but Paddy was not an easy person to work with. She didn’t set out to make friends, not even with Jon, so there was friction right from the off. Her way was to treat everyone like children. It was the job of the assistant director – known as the ‘First’ – to keep us all in order, like naughty schoolkids. Ridiculous, but that’s how Paddy wanted things.
We’d get to a location and normally you’d walk around, mull over the logistics of what we needed to do. Not with Paddy.
‘Silence!’
For me, joining the show was all about fitting in, how you could meld and interact and find the best way of being part of something that had been going a long while. Not so Paddy. At one point she completely lost it with Barbara Kidd and bawled her out in front of everyone over some minor costume detail. I’m sorry, but you don’t do that. We all lost respect for our director that day but I don’t think she cared.
Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography Page 12