Snakes were a genuine fear. The terrain was bushy and hilly – perfect to represent future earth – and the perfect habitat for all sorts of wildlife, including adders. One lunchtime Terry Walsh and I were walking to the nearest pub to try and warm up when something came slithering out from under a boulder. For the first time in my life I genuinely screamed in fright. And what did our brave stuntman do?
He leapt about four foot off the ground!
It was like watching Nureyev at Covent Garden. One moment Terry was walking beside me, the next he was yelling, ‘What was that?’ and doing this sort of entrechat up in the air.
The pub was the highlight of the day – the weather on the moors at the start of the week was so bitingly cold you couldn’t stay out during breaks. We were filming at the top of the hill and lunch was right at the bottom. By the time we’d fought our way down in the howling winds there wasn’t actually time to eat and get back up, so on the really cold days we’d traipse over to one of the two pubs. The important thing was to grab something to warm you up. We used to come back full of rum and shrub, or brandy and lovage. Boy are they strong! We would literally weave back. Amazing how the freezing conditions sober you up.
We were staying in a place called Chagford in a charming old hotel, the emphasis being on ‘old’. The main problem with the place was the hot water. I don’t think the hotel was geared up for an army from White City descending upon it out of season. Basically, the first person to run a bath in the evening had the lion’s share of the hot water. I came home shivering and almost cried when I ran an ice-cold bath the first night. The second night I was cleverer. As soon as the closing scenes for the day were set up, my dresser offered to scoot back to Chagford and hit the hot tap. What a treasure! She dived in it first, which was fair, then I leapt in as soon as I made it back. Tom, Kevin and the rest had to make do with boiled kettle water or the icicle option.
Filming had some odd highlights. Back on The Time Warrior I discovered the amazing ability of Who fans to come out of the woodwork, no matter how remote the location. Sure enough, halfway up a rocky crevasse in Dartmoor, Ian and I were leaning against a rock with a flask of tea when a burst of giggles erupted behind us. Suddenly we were surrounded by a dozen schoolkids with autograph books. The difference this time, of course, was that I was the only one they recognised!
Towards the end of the week the weather improved enough for us to hang around the location for our snacks. Base camp was at the foot of the steepest hill so we all huddled for shelter in the makeup tent or behind the largest rocks. It was all a bit much for Kevin, though, whose scenes were shot at the top of the hill. His new suit was still pretty cumbersome to walk in and the head took ages to get on and off. So he said, ‘Look, I’m just going to stay up here during lunch.’
I said, ‘I’d love to stay and join you but I need to go down for a wee.’
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’ve found this cosy little nest in the rock. I’m all covered.’
So that day someone took his lunch up for him on a tray, with a little salt and pepper pot and a drink, and he sat there on his own, bless him! As soon as I’d finished, I started the long crawl back up. As I came round the last corner I saw the empty tray on a rock and Kevin relaxing in full Sontaran head and suit.
‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I am fine, but a woman and her dog who came by will never be the same again!’
Jeez we had fun with Kevin! It was so sad, about six months later, when we heard he’d died of heart trouble – a great loss of a great character and a great friend.
* * *
That woman and her hound weren’t the only ones to get a rude awakening, though. At the end of September we shifted base to Hound Tor, near Manaton, to capture the scenes with Styre’s spaceship. In typically gung-ho fashion, Tom threw himself into recording. While he wasn’t as keen for his Doctor to be the ultimate Fighting Champion that Jon had enjoyed playing, he didn’t want him to be a pushover either. When the script called for a duel between himself and Styre, Terry Walsh offered to take over but Tom insisted on handling his end personally.
Meanwhile I’d been caught with manacles on my wrists that turned into snakes. With so many adders in the undergrowth anyway, it wasn’t hard to fake a reaction. The hardest part was keeping still enough for the overlaying images. As the fight went on, I was sitting on the ground on some sort of plastic sheet. Everything felt so damp it was like sitting in a wet nappy. I had my eyes closed when I heard this ‘crack!’ and a shout.
God, that sounded realistic, that’s good! I thought.
Then I heard fussing and Tom squealing in agony. The whole area was full of rocks, and so slippery and wet and muddy. But he hadn’t fallen – I think he was so cold that a sudden jerking movement had been enough to do some sort of damage. He was carried down the hill and then driven to the nearest hospital. Word soon reached us he’d broken his collarbone. I thought, Well, that’s the end of this serial. We can’t do it without the Doctor. With his new TB wig and coat, Terry stepped in to complete the fight (as I think you can see from the final version!) and took over lots of the other, more physical tasks, but the following day Tom was back, bandaged and sore, to take his place again in front of the cameras. We were grateful for that scarf and oversized coat because they hid his neck brace so well.
A lot of actors would have been quickly irritated by something so impossible as a long multi-coloured scarf but Tom revelled in it. Just having it there, potentially underfoot or wrapped around the wrong prop, gave every scene that sense of danger. He thrived on that, though. I did, too. Playing with uncertainty is one of the strongest things an actor can do – a quality we each admired in the other.
Speaking of costumes, I enjoyed a spot of fun with mine at Tom’s expense. I was trying – and failing – to get the Doctor’s attention while he was inspecting the transmat system. Tom naturally turned into an irascible grump for the scene – as you would in a relationship when one of you is concentrating and the other is messing around. I responded by taking Sarah Jane to an even more childish level. One minute I’m trying to talk to him, the next I’ve pulled my hat down over my eyes. Pure, ridiculous attention-seeking – boy, it felt good!
In that little scene I think we cracked the relationship between the two. It was so much more than master and pupil. Tom’s Doctor allowed me to have fun but there were plausible parameters, just as there would be in real life between two companions. He could be playful or stern and I would respond accordingly. It was so warm, not artificial in the least; instinctive as well. We found a way to read every script that just made perfect sense.
I was watching a scene in preparation for a DVD commentary a year or two ago when Sadie said, ‘Tom handles you so gently, Mum. It’s beautiful to watch.’ And it is. He was just so caring and utterly rounded as an actor and a character. There are no shortcuts with him, everything counts.
Tom hit his stride far quicker than I did. He walked into the Doctor’s role and I think even he was surprised at how well it fitted him. He never had to reach for it, it’s the part he was born to play.
I wasn’t the only one impressed with our star turn. The Sontaran Experiment’s director was Rodney Bennett, a graduate of Z-Cars and Thirty-Minute Theatre. After a run of happy experiences I was back at square one with this guy: it wasn’t that he didn’t like me, he just didn’t seem to notice me. He only had eyes for Tom. It was like working on Some Mothers again – the star was all, the rest could work it out for themselves. I had no empathy with him at all and I’m sure it was mutual.
The Sontaran Experiment was the first serial in five years which didn’t have Barry Letts as producer. His protégé, Philip, was a visible presence in Dartmoor. Without a studio shoot for this one there was little choice. I got on very well with Philip, as did most people, I think. But one comment – a compliment, actually – made me reconsider my entire future.
I was at the top of the hill shooting the scene w
here I’m captured with ropes. There was one camera and a microphone with me. The director and the rest of the team were at the foot of the hill as usual watching on monitors. We captured the scene in the first or second take, then as I was getting ready for my next scene I noticed Philip puffing his way over. He’d climbed all the way up the hill just to have a word.
‘Lis,’ he said, ‘that stuff you did with the ropes really was top drawer. We were all watching below and a shiver went through us. How did you do it?’
I’ve thought about this moment many times over the years, wondering if I overreacted. Whichever way you look at it, Philip was simply paying me a compliment. Not only that, he’d put his body through the agony of hiking up a steep hill to deliver it. Yet, my instinctive response was: I’ve been training for this all my life. I’ve dedicated my career to getting the most out of every line, every look and every physical action. I can struggle with ropes all day, it’s what I do.
It’s called acting.
At the time, of course, I took the compliment in the spirit it was intended and thanked Philip for his kind words. Later that night I pondered further. Do you know what, you’re my new producer and you don’t really know anything about me, do you? It’s one thing having Barry choose your Doctor for you, but soon enough you’re going to want your own girl to accompany him, aren’t you?
In that moment my whole future crystallised. As much fun as I was having with Tom, I began to think about life after Who.
When I go, it’s going to be my decision. It’s going to be when Sarah Jane Smith is still popular – I’m not going to be pushed.
And from that moment on I knew I had to leave.
Chapter Eight
Tom, I Don’t Need A Coat!
MORE THAN thirty years later, I can’t believe how long it took me from deciding to leave to actually going through with it. The important thing, I guess, is having that epiphany; realising you don’t need to do a job for the rest of your life. Once you appreciate that – and it’s the same whether you’re an actress, a bank teller or a waitress – you have the upper hand. You’re free. I always like to know there’s a door to walk through when I’m ready. I’m not saying break a contract, just don’t be afraid to walk away. Too many people stay in jobs because they’re scared to leave. Embrace the freedom – I did.
But not yet …
The Sontaran Experiment was the first two-parter for ten years. I think it worked. Some of the six-episode serials could drag on; you wondered whether the end result justified the airtime. But it was the last one I would do. A week after nearly freezing to death in Devon, we were back at the Acton Hilton working our way through The Ark in Space. The good news: this one was entirely studio-bound. And the bad news: Rodney Bennett sat once again in the director’s chair.
The Ark in Space enjoyed quite a tortuous conception. Eventually Robert Holmes took the writer’s credit, with input from others, including John Lucarotti. As it was part of his master plan to split a single recording period into two separate stories, Robert had a lot riding on it.
The end result is one of Russell T Davies’s favourites. In fact, the second episode would go on to win 13.6 million viewers in February 1975 – a record audience for the programme. I can see why you’d enjoy it. The sets by Roger Murray-Leach were out of this world – literally. Holmes’ script was almost hypnotic in its rhythms, as expected. The costumes for the Wirrn were terrifically convincing as well. In fact, the whole thing was beautifully done.
But I felt invisible.
I blame Rodney for that. He got such a kick out of working with Tom that the rest of us struggled for any recognition whatsoever. I don’t think anyone else was in the frame. Subsequently, I found myself in a really uncomfortable costume on a set where there were so many possibilities to run and crawl and bend and really express myself physically. If Philip had been impressed by my bondage scene he would really like what I could do on this vast spaceship. As a result of feeling hampered by the costume and overlooked by the director, I just found myself standing around a lot. I wasn’t happy with myself in that one at all, so much potential untapped.
There were highlights. I enjoyed the verbal jousting with Harry. All his ‘independent sort of bird, isn’t she?’ talk focused attention on Sarah Jane’s more modern outlook, which was very welcome. Robert and Philip were keen to keep the feminist edge going, so it was important that my character had a life – and sub-plots – of her own and wasn’t just arm candy. It was imperative not to agree with the male characters out of habit. Decisions had to be questioned – even the Doctor’s.
Ian was the opposite of Harry in real life but equally chivalrous. When I had to lie down in a dress in one scene I was suddenly aware of the camera’s position.
‘Ian, can you see my knickers?’
‘’Fraid so, old girl! But don’t worry. When we do it for real, I’ll pull your dress down.’
And, bless him, he did.
Tom showed himself in an equally gallant light in Ark when we had to crawl through a ventilation shaft. I don’t know what exactly went wrong but we were going through this pipe and I got stuck. The script goes out the window for a few moments as Tom attempts to cajole me out, all in character, and I’m desperately trying not to fall flat on my face. Somehow he gave me the shove I needed without breaking stride – and without me landing in a heap. That, for me, was another epiphany moment. It was a genuine, overwhelming emotion of: ‘Oh God, I love you for that.’ That was the point when I thought, Oh, I adore working with you.
It really was an epoch-defining moment. So much so, that nearly forty years later it would come back to haunt me when Matt Smith, the Eleventh Doctor, referred to it when he joined me in The Sarah Jane Adventures.
Tom really was on fire on Ark. I wasn’t the finest authority on all things Whovian, but the word on set was that he was the first Doctor who really ‘got’ the fact that he was an alien. I would read the script and try to predict how Tom would attack certain lines. Nine times out of ten I was wrong. Whatever I predicted, he would find another way. And it would be perfect.
For a Time Lord.
Sometimes, however, I just needed Tom to be Tom. I remember working on the third and fourth episodes at North Acton. We were meant to be looking at a screen and, being a rehearsal, it was just a prop with the name of a character written on it for a guide. I turned to Tom and said, ‘This should be interesting – he died in Episode 2.’
Then Tom turned round and said, ‘Rodney – Lis has raised a very good point, I think.’
I’d like to think the director would have listened to me, but I wouldn’t have bet on it. That became our pattern for future episodes. I’d bring something to Tom’s attention and he’d puff up, summon all his immense gravitas and say, ‘Leave it to me, Elisabeth.’ Then off he’d go to sort it out.
* * *
Robert’s money-saving drive in his first season hit upon the idea of having the same set used twice. I can see why this would be attractive. Somehow, though, he needed to conjure a plot that could make sense of revisiting the same place. By contracting Gerry Davis to reinvigorate his old creations, the Cybermen, he found his answer. More importantly, after a bit of a rummage down the back of the BBC sofa, Philip also found enough money for a location shoot. That’s how, on 18 November, just six days after Ark’s final studio date, I found myself on the bus down to Somerset.
Wookey Hole, in Somerset, is a series of caves supposedly inhabited by primitive man 50,000 years ago. It’s a major tourist attraction now and when you step inside you can certainly picture primaeval Britons scrabbling around. For the purposes of Who, however, the caves were designed to serve as the catacombs of the golden planet Voga in Revenge of the Cybermen.
Whereas Jon used to give me the heads-up on recurring monsters, there was no one around to plug the return of the Cybermen. When I first saw them, I confess, I wasn’t impressed. It was the only serial where I couldn’t pretend. Daleks, Exxilons, Zygons, yes, yes, yes. All p
lausible when you’re sharing the same stage – but Cybermen? You’d see them lurching around, huffing and puffing in their silver Wellington boots, and just think, Not very robotic, are they? I couldn’t see past the costume.
It’s possible I’m not the target audience, of course. Years later, when Sadie was about eight, I took her to my first Blue Box convention. As soon as she saw someone marching around in a proper Cyberman costume she just fell in love. She literally hung on to this poor guy for the whole day. I’ve got pictures of her going up steps clinging to his arm – they’re probably still her favourite.
Worse than the villains – and worse than Rodney Bennett – the director this time was Michael Briant. We hadn’t enjoyed the best relationship on Death to the Daleks, but I tried to be professional and give it a fresh go this time. You never know: maybe it was Jon’s presence that got us off on the wrong foot, as much as they liked each other. It turned out not to be so. Michael just isn’t what I’d call an actor’s director: his focus is on the story, the special effects and the scenery. He’s utterly professional, but those are his priorities. Get those right, he seems to believe, and the cast just slot into place. I don’t think it was that straightforward, but there you go.
Working in Wookey Hole should have been a fun experience. After all, it’s one of the UK’s premier tourist attractions. But no sooner had we arrived than things began to go wrong. It didn’t take long for us to believe the caves themselves had their own agenda.
The guy chaperoning us around the caves confirmed as much. Pointing to a stalagmite resembling a witch’s face, he said, ‘The Witch doesn’t like you – she doesn’t want you here.’ Thanks, mate, a charming welcome! The next thing we knew, on a closed set, Michael saw a guy in full potholing regalia wandering around. Turned out this man had gone missing some years earlier. OK, I thought, this is weird. But we pressed on – we always just pressed on.
Later, Ian and I were sitting under the ‘Witch’ going through our scripts.
Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography Page 18