by Sam Heughan
SAM
Do you remember Duncan’s horse? At the first arrival at Leoch it had severe flatulence. Every time they called ‘Action’ it would let rip! You can almost see Caitriona covering her face in the scene as she couldn’t control her giggles. It would have to be Duncan with the farting stallion!
And the lovely ‘Sleepy’ – my black Friesian on Outlander. Ah Sleepy, I miss you. Slender and elegant, he looked after me in Season One. Luckily, the stunt team saw through my ‘bull’ regarding my ability to ride – I’d lied about being raised on a farm and riding horses since I was a bairn to land the parts in Alexander the Great and Billy the Kid, having previously only stroked a donkey! But this time I was going to learn how to ride properly, or at least trust Sleepy and let him do the work. I now feel confident on a horse (Sleepy in particular). The horses are so well trained and generally make us look better than we are. Sleepy likes to look around a lot; he’s a curious horse but guns don’t bother him, nor do loud noises, blustering actors, lighting rigs, mud, cobbles or rain. He loves a mint and a scratch under his mane, particularly on his withers (the ridge between the shoulder blades of an animal). He loves that. The only thing he really doesn’t like is goats. (Graham’s a Capricorn ‘goat’ – I don’t think he liked him.) Sleepy and I parted ways when Jamie set sail for the New World (Season Three) and I had a new companion, Pinocchio. Occasionally dyed a different colour to make him double for various equine friends, he’s beautiful and he knows it. We are similar in personality: slow in the morning, overly enthusiastic at times. His only failing is he will always trip up on his own feet or a tree root. Even though we may pass the same tree each take, he really doesn’t get it. Either that or he’s testing me, which may be closer to the truth.
But back to fighting, before Charlie knocks my block off . . . As he’s been in Rambo with Sly Stallone, I have to admit Graham is a good fighter. I like to think I’m pretty good at stage-fighting too, having performed many action scenes on Outlander, as well as other stage, film and TV shows. God knows what Charlie Allen really thinks of our poncy fighting, but I’m not asking his opinion anytime soon. Anyway, Graham and I share a unique skill – we’re not masters of the choreography, we are masters of the sound effects. Jedi warriors in vocal fighting. During a fight scene, vocalising can help the other actor by indicating you’re hitting them, so that they can react in time. The vocalisation also helps to add power and strength; it looks and feels stronger. However, we always take it too far . . . groaning, blustering, seething, panting and shouting, Dougal MacKenzie is particularly ferocious and you can definitely hear it! But it’s short-lived, the magic lasting for only a take or two before Old Graham needs another sit-down. And another latte and a protein bar.
I wonder if he’s the same in the bedroom department. ‘Er, Beryl, angel, we’ve done it twice now – and it was spectacular, darling, earth-moving – but let me have a little sit in the armchair. I don’t want to get injured – it’s not really worth the risk, is it?’ However, two hours later, after food and caffeine, I guarantee Beryl will be cooing like a pigeon in the strong arms of the Silver McFox.
GRAHAM
I was making action movies and television whilst Sam was still potty training so it’s not surprising that I’ve developed a degree of caution as a result. Sam is quite correct. Two takes and I’m thinking, We’re all pushing our luck now. Generally if you haven’t got it in two takes, someone isn’t doing their job properly. I’ve learned that directors will ask you to do things that they would never dream of doing themselves. (Sam’s romantic sodomy scene with Tobias Menzies in Season One proves that.) And sadly I know too many actors (and stuntmen) who have been seriously injured or killed because they were too afraid to say no. If I have any doubt about the safety of something, I stop.
[Sam: Er, safety is of paramount importance, Beryl, we could slip in the shower . . .]
Strangely enough, Sam is a safe fighter. I always feel he knows what he’s doing (unlike on this trip where he’s embracing a cavalier approach to driving and drinking, but thankfully never the twain together). The red mist doesn’t envelop him on the word: ‘Action!’ But there was one fight on Outlander where the rulebook went flying out of the window. Sam wasn’t in this particular scene. It was in a bar scene with Stephen Walters (Angus), Duncan Lacroix (Murtagh), Grant O’Rourke (Rupert) and several stuntmen. Some of the locals were watching us and basically, it kicked off. We’d rehearsed the action and everyone seemed to know what they were doing, but just before the take, Dominic (our stunt coordinator) utters the immortal line, ‘Just go for it! The stuntmen will be fine.’ Big mistake when you’re addressing Walters and Lacroix. On ‘Action’ it was mayhem. Duncan grabbed a guy and threw him against a wooden post. I started throwing him back and forth screaming, ‘Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!’ (not in the script) and Stephen Walters actually bites the stuntman’s nose. When we cut, Stephen apologised to the stuntman who said, ‘No mate, it’s great, do it again!’ And that’s all you need to know about stuntmen. [Sam: It must be mentioned that my character Jamie wasn’t allowed to be in this scene as he’d easily have beaten everyone. Fact.]
And Charlie Allen is from the exact same mould of nutters. He’s a lovely guy but having seen him fighting . . . I stay well clear. We first worked together on Jeremy Freeston’s film of Macbeth in 1997. At the beginning we recreated the battle against the Norwegian king and were given weapons such as axes and maces, which had solid cores with a thin rubber outer layer. Charlie insisted we use them at full force during this sequence.
My most action-packed experience was Rambo 4 with Sylvester Stallone, the godfather of action heroes. Working with him I realised how hard it is to make everything seem as effortless as he does. He is a true master. I suppose I’ve always enjoyed pretending to fight; I find it strangely therapeutic. However, I have rarely been in punch-ups in real life. Possibly only three. Which, given my role as a World Peace Tartan Ambassador, might be three more fisticuffs than Desmond Tutu or Susan Boyle have been in. They, along with Malala and the Dalai Lama, are recipients of the blue peace tartan (I even have my own peace kilt). And yes, considering the roles I play, the irony is indeed heavy.
Sam: World Peace Ambassador? Can I have some of what you’re smoking?
Graham: You’re plainly jealous and I forgive you.
SAM
Seeing as we are name-dropping here, let me tell you about working with Vin Diesel, spending a week or so in a swimming pool in South Africa, trying not to punch him in the face. In Sony’s Bloodshot from the Valiant Comic series, Vin plays the title character, an ex-soldier killed in action but given new nano-technology that regenerates him. I play an ex-Navy Seal called Jimmy Dalton who has suffered extreme trauma in an IED explosion. He lost his legs (and much of his humanity) and is pissed off that Vin gets all the new technology. Jimmy is angry at the military, his boss and most of all, ‘Bloodshot’ (Vin), who gets new toys to play with. I actually did most of the fight scenes, with great help from my amazing stunt double. The stunt crew were from the Fast and Furious films, and we really wanted to impress Vin’s fans. We trained for weeks and I was happy to do some aerial stuff, too (similar to the ‘Batman Live’ Cirque-style show I performed in, all around the world, a couple of years earlier). Vin does occasionally message me or send a video, usually when he has downtime and is with his gorgeous family. His kids performed a traditional tribal dance they had learned especially for the whole crew on Bloodshot, whilst shooting in South Africa. His last name is actually Sinclair and he has some Scottish heritage. I last saw him online, in Edinburgh on the Royal Mile, whilst filming Fast and Furious 15.5 or whichever one it is, singing ‘Oh Flower of Scotland’ at full volume – he knew all of the words too!
I had barely dried off from the South African swimming pool before I started on SAS: Red Notice in Budapest, based on Andy McNab’s series of books. Andy is one of the most decorated UK special forces operators, having famously been captured in Iraq during the Gulf Wa
r. He was our military advisor and I spent many days with him training. Two things to understand about Andy: 1) he is genuinely one of the most charming people you’ll meet; 2) he is a certified psychopath. Really. He has written a book about it and conducted multiple studies with Oxford University on the subject. Luckily for me he’s a ‘good one’. I had to spend a lot of time with him alone, with various military weaponry, and at first I found this rather unsettling. I have countless stories about him but one sticks in my mind: whilst showing me how to dominate and control a civilian, he made me hold a porcelain mannequin and pretend to be a neutral. Then, at the top of his voice, with controlled aggression, he smashed the mannequin into my nose, almost knocking me over. My eyes started to water and I thought, ‘Shit, I better not cry, he’s a bloody psychopath, might think me weak, maybe kill me, or eat me . . . fuck, that hurt.’ I mean, I was alone with him, what if he just decided to break my neck? He had just shown me how to kill someone with a mobile phone . . . (old flip phones are the best). Fortunately, I survived the experience somewhat intact and at the time of writing, the movie is due to be released soon, in all its psychopathic glory.
Ahem.
Charlie Allen is looking right at me as his men unfurl an enormous amount of plaid (checked or tartan twilled woollen cloth). As I said, Charlie taught me how to wear a kilt and now two of his Clan Ranald assistants – already in plaid – have brought me a four-metre ‘Feileadh Mor’ (meaning ‘great plaid’) to climb into.
Charlie tells us there is no set length or width for plaid. ‘I guess if you were portly you would have fewer pleats, thinner, more pleats and richer, more material.’ The Highland warriors wore their plaid as a kilt with the extra material tucked in at the sides and back or pinned above the left shoulder to a jacket. It’s a really adaptable piece of clothing – by folding it in various ways it can also be used to carry food, children, hidden weapons and it can be pulled up over the head for shelter or warmth. Being traditionally dyed using local berries and plants, it would act as a natural camouflage from enemy soldiers. And these kilts kept us surprisingly warm during winter shoots, my body and legs never getting cold whilst wearing them.
It’s been a while since I have worn a belted kilt; after Culloden in 1746 (and Season Three, Episode One in Outlander), the wearing of plaid and tartan, along with all weapons and other symbols of Highland culture, were banned by the British until 1782. Folding the pleats is hard to do in the heather. Charlie tells me, ‘You can actually gather it on your arm.’ He can probably do this in his sleep . . . if he does sleep.
I sit down on the plaid, which has been pleated by Charlie’s helpers. ‘Put your bum in the middle with your ankles facing me,’ he says as I begin to fumble with the folds of my kilt, trying to show him I know how to dress myself. I fear his silence is a mixture of annoyance and disappointment and am ready for him to just punch me in the face for being rubbish, or not being naked while I dress.
My plaid became my daily ritual every day on set in Outlander. I’d lay out the cloth in my tiny trailer, then meticulously fold the material into pleats. Despite it being extremely early in the morning, it was a form of meditation and preparation. Once maybe a third of the material was pleated, I’d lie down in the middle so the material was just above the knee, and fold the right-hand section across my naked body, then the left, and then I’d line them up at the front. A belt placed underneath the plaid is done up to secure it around the waist. Standing up it looks like a large dress but then I would fold both sides up into the back of my belt to give the traditional Jamie Fraser look.
Generally speaking belted kilts were worn well above the knee, much shorter than how we wear them today. And, according to the Highland dress historian, Graham McTavish, everyone in Outlander wore their kilts ‘way too long, with the honourable exception of Stephen Walters [Angus] who wore his kilt like a Mary Quant miniskirt.’ But then he has got the legs for it. His new book Men in Skirts is out in 2021.
[Graham: Another little gem is that tartan actually developed during the Roman occupation, with various patterns denoting certain districts and ranks.]
In battle, many Highlanders tied their plaid between their legs to allow them to move more freely as they stormed the enemy lines in a Highland Charge, which must have felt like a big nappy. In the Battle of the Field of Shirts (Blàr na Léine, Kinloch-Lochy) in 1544 they removed their plaid altogether and tied their shirts between their legs before running into battle because it was an unusually hot day! Fought by Clan MacDonald of Clanranald, assisted by their cousins the Camerons, against the Frasers and Clan Grant, there were 800 men at the start of the battle. By the end, only thirteen men were left standing.
‘They’d almost committed genocide on each other’s clans,’ says Charlie. ‘There were lots of bloody feuds and oath feuds that went back generations, which made that battle exceptionally nasty,’ he explains.
‘A lot of people wonder how they identified each other at the Battle of the Field of Shirts without their plaid but they never looked at the cloth but the badge they wore on their hat, such as an oak leaf for Clan Cameron. You’re not gonna look at another man’s kilt as you’re trying to take his heid off!’
Sam: Especially if he’s not wearing one.
Charlie: Exactly.
GRAHAM
WHAT’S UNDER YOUR KILT . . . ?!
If I had a pound for every time someone has asked me that I’d . . . well, I’d have a few quid more than I do. I love wearing a kilt. I’ve worn them since I was a teenager. I now own five: the McTavish, the Campbell of Argyll (from when I thought we were connected), the MacDonald (from my mother’s side, a modern-style grey tweed) and, of course, the kilt for my role as a World Peace Ambassador, with my mate the Dalai Lama.
Sam: We had a friend of the family that helped Tibetan monks escape Tibet and come to Scotland. Now, get on with it!
Plaid is a contentious issue amongst Scots. Some embrace tartan and are proud to wear a kilt; others regard it as a lot of nonsense made up by nineteenth-century gentry. What is undeniably true is that the tartan, or ‘breacan’ as it was known in Gaelic, was indeed a true Highland look. In Skye there is a rock named ‘Creag an Fheile’, the ‘Rock of the Kilt’, dating from the seventh century, showing a kilted Highlander with a sporran. I can’t help wondering if this was sculpted from life – some budding artist getting his mate to stand still while he carved it into the rock. ‘Stop moving, Angus, you’re going to love it when I’m finished.’
And plaid is referred to throughout history. In 1512, John Major, (not the ex-British prime minister who famously wore his shirt tucked into his underpants) described the Highland Scots as, ‘having their body clothed with a linen garment manifoldly sew’d and painted or daubed with pitch.’ There were three classes of tartan: clan, dress, and hunting. The hunting tartan was, as George Buchanan says in 1612, ‘For the most part . . . brown, near to the colour of the hadder [heather], to the effect that when they lie down amongst the hadder, the bright colours of their plaids shall not betray them.’
In 1703 in the book Description of the Western Isles of Scotland, the author Donald Munro told how, ‘Every Isle differs from each other in their fancy of making plaids as to the stripes, breadth and colours. This humour is as different thro the mainlands of the Highlands, in so far as that they who have seen the plaids are able, at the first view of a man’s plaid, to guess the place of his residence.’
In other words, depending where you lived the tartan looked the same or very similar. It was a form of identity and I love the idea of moving from the Isle of Lewis to Harris to the mainland and roughly knowing where you were based on what people were wearing. However, it’s safe to say it wasn’t rigidly uniform. I think there would have been room for individualism within a generalised look for each clan. Perhaps some wore it long, others short like Stephen Walters, and maybe his mates would wear it short to show they were part of his gang. I have images in my head of me, Stephen, Duncan Lacroix and Sam all in tartan
minis prancing around like Scottish Harajuku boys.
It was only after the repeal of the Act of Proscription in 1782, and particularly after George IV’s visit to Scotland where his corpulent frame was bedecked in tartan, that the rigid clan tartans of today came into being. And now I have five kilts in different tartans and I wear them all in the traditional way. That’s right. No pants. And landing the part of War Chief of the MacKenzie clan I looked forward more than anything to sporting a kilt, charging through heather, the wind blowing free and generally having a rare old time in the Highlands. However, our costume designer, Terry Dresbach, had other ideas. Apparently, as a man of status, Dougal would not have worn a kilt. Trews (trousers) was the verdict and so it was that I spent two and a half years (with the exception of the Prestonpans bare-chested episode) wearing trousers with a kilt wrapped around me like a cloak, denied the opportunity of wearing the outfit that I loved.
[Sam: And he always wore his little woollen hand warmers and thermal long johns. FACT.]
Still, at least I had no trouble in the bathroom. You’d think it would be more straightforward. It’s not.
Kilts exert a strange power over people. Despite the resemblance to a skirt, they are to my mind the most masculine thing a man can wear and the reactions of some women seem to confirm this.