‘There’s a scene here, Ian, which I just don’t understand,’ I said.
Ian nodded. ‘I know which one you mean.’
We both turned to this funny little half page. It was just dialogue between him and me but, stare as hard as I might, I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Without doubt it was the most unfathomable text I’d ever been asked to learn. It wasn’t the first time I couldn’t follow some scriptwriter’s logic, but even so …
I always flag anything in the script I don’t understand, so I put an asterisk next to the preceding passage to jog my memory. Slowly but surely we worked through the day’s pages. Then Michael announced, ‘It’s a wrap’ and people started packing up. It was then I remembered the confusing lines.
Ian was looking puzzled as well. ‘We’d better check with the boss,’ I said, and so we went up to Michael.
‘What about the scene between Ian and me?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t we going to do that one today?’
Michael stared. ‘What scene? There is no other scene – we’re finished.’
‘Look here,’ said Ian and rifled through his script. I watched him flick forwards then back; he couldn’t find the scene. Impatiently I pulled my own copy out and thumbed through until I found the margin marks. There they were: an arrow and star reminding me to check with Michael. But where was the text?
The bottom of the page was blank. I swear to you, it had been covered in text. Now, though, it was completely white.
Ian was shaking his script upside down, as if he was trying to tip the missing words out. We both stood there, dumbstruck. Where was that passage? We’d both seen it. Hell, we’d both learned it!
If there really was a curse, we still had more to witness.
Rosemary Hestler, our assistant floor manager, suffered an unexpected bout of claustrophobia so she had to be escorted out. Jack Wells, our munitions expert, also took a turn for the worse and had no choice but to abandon ship. Tony Harding, our visual effects assistant, really struggled to get even basic pyrotechnics to work as they should and an electrician broke a leg after a ladder inexplicably collapsed under him. All in all, it was a jinxed set.
But the worst was yet to come. On 20 November I nearly died.
The Vogans used these little skimming boards to zoom across the rivers that run through the caves. It looks quite impressive – but only if you know what you’re doing. At one point I escape from the troglodytes and try to get back to the Doctor. In doing so it was decided I should commandeer one of these boards and jet across to the other side.
‘Do you think you can do that?’ Michael asked.
‘I don’t see why not.’
And so it was agreed. I was taken across to the far bank in a little rowing boat. There I was introduced to this motorised surfboard contraption. The guy who made it talked me through the controls. Basically they wanted me to jump on, lie flat on my stomach and pilot it across to the other side where the cameras were waiting to capture everything.
It’s only when I was standing at the side that I noticed just how rapidly the water was running by. It wasn’t a lake, it was a river – gushing down through the earth towards a waterfall leading God knows where.
‘It’s OK, you can do this,’ the guy said. ‘Remember, just jump on, drive straight across and up on to the muddy bank, leap off and run.’
But I didn’t move – I just stared, listening to the whooshing water disappearing into infinity. Terry Walsh came over and put an arm around me for moral support. At that point even Michael sensed all was not well.
‘Would you like Terry to do this for you, Lis?’ he called over.
At this I scoffed. I was wearing a tight jumper and combat boots – not exactly Terry’s sizes …
So I said, ‘No, no it’s fine, it’s fine.’
Anyway I did it. I don’t know how, I barely remember, it happened so fast. I clambered on, knocked the single control from ‘off’ to ‘on’ and it whizzed straight across. I got to the other side, turned it off as instructed and scrambled away. Perfect, no messing about – all captured in one take.
That was at the start of the day. Despite the various inexplicable mishaps that befell the crew, and the tour guide wandering around saying, ‘The Witch doesn’t like you, the Witch doesn’t like you,’ somehow we finished the day ahead of schedule.
It’s fatal to give a director extra time because they always want to use it. In this case ‘fatal’ was the key word.
Michael sauntered over.
‘Do you know what, Lis – we could really do with a shot of you running towards the board. We’ve got a bit of time to play with so we’d love to see you getting on it.’
I wasn’t happy and obviously it showed in my face. The board owner said, ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to bother with the controls, I’ll leave it pointing in the right direction. You just jump on and push yourself out – you’ll soon reach the other side.’
‘I’ve been told the current on that river is about 30 miles an hour. Are you sure I don’t need the engine?’ I asked.
‘No, no. The boat will only go the way it’s pointing.’
Now, as I sit here recalling that day, it’s apparent that statement was purely nonsensical, but not as nonsensical as believing it. It was a light piece of wood. Of course it would bloody turn with the drift!
But you’re on a TV shoot, it’s such a world of make believe and you’re just programmed to do what other people say. Everyone is an expert on something: makeup, lights, stunts … I handle acting. And this guy handled the boat. That’s my defence. They must know what they’re talking about, I thought.
For some reason the Aggedor jump had clean left my mind.
We went for the take and I realised the bank had become really slippery since the morning’s scene. You can see in the final version how I struggle to get on the damn thing; I could see the cameras and everyone on the other bank, so far away they looked tiny. I do remember noticing Terry had taken off his Vogan costume (because of course he had a part in this serial, as usual). I thought he must have a stunt coming up – I didn’t even question why he seemed to be strapping underwater breathing apparatus to his back.
So I managed to scramble onto this board and gave it a shove off. And what happened? It turned, just like it was always going to do.
Suddenly I wasn’t going forwards anymore. I was veering to the left, carried along by the fierce current. Ahead all I could see was darkness. The sound, booming around that black cavern, was louder than in the cable car over Niagara Falls.
Your responses are unpredictable when you’re scared. Obviously I should have turned the engine on and powered my way out of it, but I was clinging onto this board for dear life and staring paralysed into the abyss. Everything happened in slow motion. I could see the crew on the other bank, frozen like a tableau, but then I saw movement. Terry was sprinting, faster and faster. By now he was wearing full frogman’s rubber – and now I knew why. But I was convinced it would be too late: the end of the line was approaching. I’m no swimmer – I can’t stand water on my face, I don’t even like a shower. Being underwater is my biggest fear in life, bigger than snakes. If I jumped off I’d be dragged under before I could paddle to safety. I truly thought, This is it. It’s over.
Then I spotted a rock between the waterfall and me. There was a chance, if I angled my body, of throwing myself onto it. I had no idea if this would work, or whether I would be able to grip onto it, but it was either that or plunging over the edge.
I had to go for it. The boat rammed against the rock and I leapt for it. Stupid things go through your head at times like this. I remember thinking, I must keep my head up – I need these false eyelashes for the close-ups! Self-preservation kicked in. I found myself treading water, something I’d never been able to do before. A second later I felt Terry’s arms again. Before I knew it he’d pulled me to safety. The boat, on the other hand, was never seen again.
We were both whisked to hospital for jabs. I was OK, a b
it shaken. Terry, I think, was quite ill later. Back at the hotel I had a bath, still pretty comatose, then made my way down to the bar. After an experience like that I just wanted company, to feel alive. I was sitting at a table, chatting, when I saw Michael enter. He was standing at the bar and I heard him say, ‘Oh, Lis is back. I should really go over and apologise.’
Yes, you bloody should! I thought.
By the time he did mosey over, after everyone else, I could barely speak to him. I was so angry. By contrast, Terry hunted me out as soon as he arrived.
‘Hello, Sladen. That was bloody stupid!’
He was right – I only had myself to blame. Always trust your instincts …
* * *
Although Tom never billed himself as the show’s number one, that’s obviously what he was. Ian and I were definitely in the silver and bronze positions as far as the production team was concerned. If Tom had an idea on set, of course he would be listened to more than we would. It might be the craziest, most useless brainwave ever, but because it was him, the director and team would consider it. Obviously Tom did have good ideas and they were always fun, but he wasn’t always right. Ian and I knew the score and, because we lived near each other in Ealing, we used to laugh about it on the Tube home.
Really, Tom was such a blast to work with. So many of the stresses of toeing the line of the old regime just peeled away. I may have been the Doctor’s ‘assistant’, as he describes me to the Duke in Terror of the Zygons, but in Tom’s eyes we were equal. There was no proprietorial hand around the neck, no subtext to any of his suggestions, no accusations of ‘women’s problems’ if we disagreed, just good, honest collaboration – we were in this together.
That’s not to say we were the best of friends. I never saw Tom outside work. We don’t actually have that much in common. When we were rehearsing, Tom would quite often go to the pub at lunchtime. He wasn’t the only one. You’d go in there and bump into all sorts of faces, people from The Onedin Line, whatever the BBC had in production at the time. There are only so many days in a row you can bear going to the canteen, so people would nip out for a cheese sandwich and a pint. That wasn’t me, though – I never got that claustrophobic sense of being cooped up all day in Acton. I liked having a decent lunch, whether it was on my own or not.
After filming was another matter. Then you’d have a struggle to keep me away from the bar. It was such a release after a day’s stresses and I think the camaraderie was helped with everyone piling into the pub together. And it was exactly the same as up at Tommy Duck’s in Manchester – you’d shoot the breeze, unwind, relive the highlights and get things off your chest. I think if you didn’t take part you’d feel like you were missing out.
We were so unused to seeing each other outside of the BBC’s walls that on the rare occasions when we did bump into each other it got quite awkward. I remember running into Tom and his partner Marianne on Regent Street once.
‘Ah, Lis,’ he gushed, unusually flustered. ‘Would you care for a Guinness?’
Before I could answer he’d changed his mind.
‘No, no – a coat! Let’s go to Harrod’s, I must buy you a fur coat!’
‘It’s OK, Tom, I don’t need a coat.’
‘But he really wants to buy you one,’ Marianne insisted. ‘You must let him.’
What a hysterical pair! They were obviously well suited. But I didn’t get that coat – or a Guinness.
Tom could drink, no question about that, and over the years he won a well-earned reputation as an old-fashioned carouser. He showed glimpses of this after a serial wrapped, when he always insisted on sharing a pint or two with the director and his team. But was work ever affected? Not one per cent; he never brought it onto the set. The only thing he did bring was the occasional bottle of lemonade on the bus in the morning; that was the only clue he’d had a good night. But I’ve never met anyone who was better at holding his drink – Tom never let you down.
Ian was a terrific friend to me but there was an innate connection between him and Tom. You just get this between some people. They hadn’t known each other too long when they concocted the idea of writing a film – Doctor Who Meets Scratchman. And they had it all worked out. Vincent Price would play the villain and it would concern scarecrows that came to life. David Maloney, one of Tom’s favourite directors, was slated to direct.
I don’t know how far down the line they actually got because I wasn’t that involved in it. They’d grab spare moments in rehearsal, put their heads together walking back to set, or, occasionally, go for dinner. You’d hear these animated discussions: ‘Yes, that’s good.’ I’d toddle over to them, uninvited, and witter a few things. Then, bored, I’d wander off to talk to someone else. I wasn’t terribly interested in being involved, nor was I asked, although Tom said I definitely would be when it was filmed.
‘What about this? He’ll be a scarecrow and he’ll have a basket, and I could ride in it and you could pedal me down the hill.’
‘No, I’ll ride down the hill with Elisabeth in the basket!’
‘What about if …’
And so it went on.
At some point they even went away for a week abroad where Maloney had a place. I wasn’t there but I did hear that things didn’t go quite to plan. For a start, Tom nearly drowned in the pool. Ian and Maloney saw him splashing around and just laughed. ‘There’s Tom clowning around as usual.’
Eventually Maloney’s small daughter dragged him out!
‘Without her, Lis, I’d be a goner,’ Tom confessed.
* * *
David Maloney may not have been hired for Scratchman in the end – sadly the whole project never got off the ground – but he was the director of our next serial. Genesis of the Daleks was again written by Terry Nation and this time dealt with the origins of the Doctor’s deadliest foes. It was actually drawn out into a six-parter, which could be a little wearing on momentum. How many cliffhangers can you squeeze out of one story? But I think this one was a classic – some really great writing expertly dealt with.
Maloney has to take a large slice of the credit. I would have been happy to work with him every time because he made it such fun. It wasn’t just another commission for him: he had such a handle on how things should be, on the camaraderie at the heart of a programme like this. I just remember him and Tom, Ian and me having a laugh and really going for it.
The talent on Genesis was extraordinary. David Spode’s sets were incredible, Sylvia and Barbara achieved wonders with makeup and costume – and then there were the actors. We had Peter Miles as Nyder, Richard Reeves and Dennis Chinnery – all excellent. But the star of the show, I have to say, was Michael Wisher. It was the third time I’d worked with him – and the third time he’d performed in almost total disguise. On Death to the Daleks he’d just supplied the voices. As a Vogan in Revenge of the Cybermen he’d been covered in prosthetics. Now, as Davros, the creator of the Daleks, he was stuck under a mask made by John Friedlander, who had also worked on Death to the Daleks.
But what a performance …
Oh, it’s just someone in a horror mask sitting down pressing buttons, you think. Then you watch the hand, study the finger. Michael’s timing is impeccable: with the slightest of gestures, he managed to be threatening. It could have been grotesque,over-the-top, cartoon-like. On the contrary, this was a masterclass in restrained, less-is-more, physical acting.
Michael deserved to be a success – he really put the hours in. He used to wear a kilt and kneepads because the Dalek shell was threading his trousers bare. To achieve the feel of Davros being a loner, excluded from his own society, he got a paper bag and pulled it over his head. It wasn’t quite the BBC’s finest makeup but it did the trick. When you’re rehearsing with someone who looks so different, you act differently – we fed off each other.
I didn’t see his actual mask until we were about to shoot (I think, as usual, they’d been adding bits and bobs over the day). I suppose, too, I was wrapped up in my own thou
ghts – going over line changes, rehearsing my own performance, cocooned in my private little world. Either way, it completely passed me by in run-throughs. Then it came to the actual take and I can still feel the shiver up my back. I looked through this wall, in full character now, and there was Davros in all his deformed glory. That’s genuine shock you see onscreen. Such a powerful, hideous image!
Those moments are exquisite for an actor, and quite rare, especially when you’re on a show as complicated as Who. There’s smoke all around, I’m concentrating on putting the props in the right place, a hundred things to remember. It’s all very mechanical, extremely calculated. And then you get a thunderbolt like that where your whole body just responds to what’s in front of you. Seeing Davros that first time genuinely terrified me as much as if I were an eight-year-old watching at home. All my senses responded. The smell of the smoke and the machines was so evocative. He sounded horrible, too. And that mask!
* * *
When I read in the script for Genesis that Sarah was to be chased up a large wall as she tries to escape from a missile silo I didn’t bat an eyelid. The ceilings at BBC Television Centre are so low that you can’t go too high without lights or microphones or even the director’s gallery creeping into shot. To get any real height at all, the climb would have to be faked – I wouldn’t be called upon to risk life or limb in any death-defying stunt.
There was just one problem with that logic: the scene wasn’t going to be filmed at Television Centre at all.
So, on 13–14 January, while everyone else enjoyed a few days’ rehearsal at Acton, I found myself at Ealing Studios. Any love I had for the place and its history was temporarily suspended as I looked up at this seemingly never-ending scaffolded wall. I wasn’t mad on heights, but back then I had the arrogance of youth – you think you’re untouchable at that age. And maybe there was a hint of being a woman and trying just that bit harder not to let the side down. You don’t want to give anyone any excuses to have a go.
There’s something in an actor’s psyche that says, ‘If they want you to do this, it must be safe.’ That’s a hell of an assumption, especially after Wookey Hole, but you plod through life trusting you won’t be asked to do things that aren’t safe. Oh God, when I look back at some of the places I ended up! My friend in California, Amy Krell, has a photograph of me where I’m leaning over the edge of a skyscraper with Ian hanging onto me. No hidden ropes, no safety net, just us two clowning a mile above the traffic. Afterwards Ian confessed, ‘Lis, I could never have done that.’
Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography Page 19