by James Runcie
‘That’s what’s in the script.’
‘But Nigel said . . .’
‘I wouldn’t take any notice of him,’ Daisy interrupted as she set out the necessary make-up. ‘He’ll say anything to get his way. Now let me powder you down. At least your hair’s quite thin. It shouldn’t take too long to grey that up. There’s quite a bit of fade in there already.’
Sidney felt ten years older and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Was it too late to back out? he wondered.
Daisy chatted away. She had seen everything in the business, she said, even though she was only twenty-five. Actors came in to make-up and started confessing all sorts of things. It was a bit like being a clergyman, she imagined, people coming out with stuff whether she asked for it or not.
‘Yes, I can imagine people wanting to tell you all about themselves.’
Daisy picked up a brush and enquired if Sidney had used foundation before. He remembered the hymn, ‘The Church’s One Foundation’ and thought he would try and make a joke about it. He could use it the next time he saw the local doctor, a man who was always pleased with a pun. (As it was, the title of the novel on which the film was based, The Nine Tailors, was also a play on words. The largest bell in the story was ‘Tailor Paul’, a letter crucial to the plot was addressed to ‘Paul Taylor’, and Dorothy L. Sayers had used a man called ‘Taylor’ as her ecclesiastical adviser during her research.)
Daisy’s ministrations were completed all too soon. ‘There, that’s you done.’
‘I could stay here for ever,’ Sidney replied, surprising her and indeed himself by saying this out loud, when he had intended only to think it.
‘No, no, no, Vicar. No chance of that! We’ve all got work to do. You get on that set. And remember your lines!’
Despite the vast number of people around when Sidney emerged from the consoling reverie of Daisy Playfair’s attentions, nothing much seemed to be happening. He asked what everyone was holding out for and was told that it was ‘the light’. Nigel Binns explained that most of his life was spent waiting: for transport, crew, actors, design, costume, make-up, but mainly for good light.
‘You know it’s called “waiting for God?”’ he remarked. ‘However, in this case it’s a bit different. Now we want bad weather. I’m after dark brooding clouds.’ He held an eclipse glass up to the sun to look at the movement of the greying skies. ‘So it’s the opposite of cricket,’ he joked. ‘Rain starts play.’
It was just as well that Sidney had brought his copy of The Times. He settled down to read near the catering truck but found that he could not relax. He was worried about his performance and why he had agreed to all this. He should really be doing something less frivolous and more consistent with the needs of the Church and he felt guilty that he had not joined the Aldermaston march his brother had asked him to go on. Plenty of clergy were taking part, Matt had told him.
Sidney had not been sure. After the terrors of war, he now believed in deterrence. He was not at all convinced that the clergy on such a march, despite their good intentions, really knew about the horrors of conflict and in any case, he had told his brother, there were the duties of Easter to attend to. The clergy should be in church not marching up and down the country in duffel coats trying to be ‘relevant’.
As he leafed through the pages of the newspaper he became increasingly disenchanted by the members of his profession. There was a murder trial in London, for example, at which the evidence of Father Keogh at the Court of Criminal Appeal had been deemed ‘wholly inadmissible’. The Reverend Edward Ronald Broadbent, age thirty-nine, vicar of St Mark’s, Bradbury, Cheshire had been sentenced to six months’ imprisonment for several charges of indecent assault on three boys, aged eleven to thirteen; and the Archbishop of York was proposing the removal of the word ‘hell’ from the prayer book psalter; presumably because it scared people.
That was, of course, the point, Sidney thought irritably.
There was also a review of the Bishop of Woolwich’s new book Honest to God. According to the anonymous critic, John A.T. Robinson had undermined the very idea of an omniscient and benevolent creator. Instead of being a supernatural Being or Person with whom men can nevertheless be in relationship, God had become, for the Bishop, something he referred to as ‘ultimate reality’ which was only revealed in the life of Christ. He had then argued that the doctrine of the Incarnation was mythological rather than literal; and he had dismissed the traditional understanding of the divine presence, fatally, Sidney thought, as ‘God dressed up like Father Christmas’. According to the Bishop and his critic, it appeared that Our Father was not in heaven, there were no angels or archangels, and eternity was empty of inhabitants.
Sidney’s personal theology was dependent on the promises of Christ and it certainly included the idea of life after death. Otherwise, surely, there was no meaning in the resurrection. This was the foundation of faith and it didn’t help matters that a bishop, no less, appeared to be playing for the opposing team.
‘Blimey, blimey, blimey,’ he muttered to himself as he read more of Robinson’s credo. ‘“Ultimate reality.” This is all we need.’
He was reminded of Benjamin Jowett’s remark to Margot Asquith: ‘My dear child, you must believe in God in spite of what the clergy tell you.’
He was interrupted from his reading and his reverie by the first assistant director who came over and told Sidney that he would be required in fifteen minutes’ time. He needed a ‘final check’ in make-up and should make sure he knew his lines. ‘Nigel hates actors fluffing,’ he was warned.
Perhaps he could do some good after all, Sidney thought. He would play the part of the Reverend Theodore Venables seriously and with decency, as a steady and reliable man of God, not foolish or soft but holy, principled and well-intentioned.
He decided that, in taking on the role, he was, in effect, going in to bat for nothing less than the reputation of the Church of England.
Sidney’s first sustained piece of acting was to show Peter Wimsey round the fictional church of Fenchurch St Peter and take him up to the bell tower.
He had already explained that this scene might be compromised since Grantchester had only three bells: one of which was medieval, the others dated 1610 and 1677; but Nigel explained that they would find other bells for the close-ups and the important thing was to make use, of Grantchester’s ‘atmosphere’. The fact that they had fewer than the eight bells called for in the script did not seem to worry him.
‘I thought the novel was set in Upwell, Norfolk, at the church of St. Peter and St. Paul?’
‘It’s all made up, Sidney. Besides, the vicar there wanted too much money and you can’t get back to London so easily in a day. I like getting home to see Anne whenever I can and that’s not so easy when you’re with a film crew in the middle of nowhere.’
‘I’m sure the people of Norfolk don’t see it like that. There’s a vicar in Emwell who would have been of service. He’s obsessed with railways.’
‘I met him, but I thought it would be much more congenial to work with you, Sidney. You’ve always liked a bit of drama.’
‘Rather too much, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, now your moment has come.’
Sidney had been asked to learn a complex speech that explained the point of the story; how Dorothy Sayers took her title from the number of times a bell will toll to mark the passing of a man: nine strokes (‘ringing the nine tailors’), followed by a pause, then the slow tolling of single strokes at half-minute intervals to match the age of the deceased.
The ringing scene was filmed at dusk with Peter Wimsey joining a motley collection of Grantchester’s ‘authentic’ bell-ringers led by Stan Headley, the local blacksmith. Although the interior of the church was lit, the exteriors were to be shot in the ‘magic hour’, when everyone needed to work at speed before the darkness fell. Nigel told Sidney that he was relying on him to bring out his ‘inner clergyman’ and that he was going to need to act with complete convic
tion. They only had time for a maximum of two, possibly three, takes to get the scene in the can.
It was straightforward enough. All Sidney had to do was to walk into the church, but the breeze blew his clerical cloak up high and obscured Wimsey’s face so that a dresser was asked to secure it. ‘The costume’s getting in the way,’ Nigel complained. ‘Keep it down. And look up at the tower when you go in, Roger. I want to anticipate the sound of the bells.’
In the end, it took four takes to film a simple shot of the two men walking into the church and a further three hours to cover the first bell-ringing scene. Sidney could not understand how anything could take so long but was assured that what they were doing was fast. Some directors spent a day on a single sequence; others were ‘no good after lunch’. It was always a drawn-out process, he was told. Now the electricians began to talk about overtime and a properly union-negotiated break that would mean a late start the following morning. Sidney noticed that the first assistant was deep in conversation with the director and thought he heard the word ‘re-cast’. He hoped they were not referring to him.
That night he confided his fears to his wife, telling Hildegard once they were in bed that he was worried that, when it came to acting, he had made an unconvincing clergyman.
‘I’m sure you’ve done very well. You always convince me.’
‘And yet, when I am on the set, no one seems to behave as if they believe me.’
‘But they do in real life.’
‘I hope so. You know, Hildegard, it’s sometimes hard to keep cheerful in the midst of things. I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit down.’
‘It’s been a long winter. But the spring is coming. And we can go on holiday with the money from this film work. Fifty pounds! You’ve earned it.’
‘I should pay back Amanda the twenty she gave me to go to France.’
‘As you wish. That still leaves thirty. Perhaps we could go to New York?’
‘Good heavens, that’s miles away.’
‘Which makes it all the more exciting. I’ve always wanted to go there.’
‘We can’t count our chickens, Hildegard. I haven’t finished my scenes yet. I might even be sacked.’
‘I’m sure they wouldn’t do that.’
‘Or re-voiced. I’ve heard it done. They say you can’t tell how the whole thing’s gone until you see the final film. What you feel and what comes out can be very different things. That’s why actors can never be sure. They are not in control of the script, the direction, or the edit. Their performance can be changed again and again; made better, made worse.’
‘I would not want to give up so much of my life to the decisions of others,’ Hildegard answered.
‘Well, acting seems a very parlous profession, I must say,’ her husband continued. ‘I was also thinking that I am spreading myself rather too thin. Three jobs are far too many. I am a professional priest, an amateur detective and now an actor. Some people might think that was greedy.’
Hildegard nudged her husband and he spilt his cocoa. ‘What was that for?’ he asked.
‘There is also your employment as a husband,’ she said.
‘That is not a job, my darling.’ Sidney was surprised that his wife could doubt him. ‘That’s my life.’
Hildegard turned out the light and held on to her husband’s hand.
Still, he worried. ‘I don’t know,’ he mused. ‘I hope Dickens makes a better fist of being a dog then I have done as a clergyman.’
The rushes were sent down to London at the end of each day, processed overnight and viewed before filming began the next morning, just in case any pick-ups were needed. Sidney was invited to the screening room so Nigel could show his friend how a scene was constructed, and he introduced him to Warwick Lyons, the film editor who was working at a Steenbeck on a first assembly. It was seven in the morning. Warwick told Sidney about the importance of pace, mood and atmosphere, how the real art was in letting the audience imagine more than was shown. This was Hitchcock’s great technique, the editor explained. If you looked at the shower scene in Psycho frame by frame, you realise that the knife never touches the woman’s body.
Nigel agreed. ‘We’re constantly playing with a gap in the imagination. The actors don’t know what’s going to happen to them. They have to be unaware; or they have to expect one thing and get something else. You have to put the audience in the same position as the protagonist. If he wants something then the audience will too. You can’t give the direction of the scene away. There has to be a space between what is happening and what is understood: a sense of mystery. That’s why you mustn’t overact, Sidney.’
‘I wasn’t aware that I was.’
‘Less is more. Look at Veronica Manners. She knows where the light is and lets the camera find her. She hardly does anything at all. It’s all in the turn, the eyes and the cheekbones. She doesn’t hurry. She doesn’t try too hard. She knows the audience will watch her. You’re doing too much bustling about, just like her husband does. He thinks he’s still in the theatre. He’s not.’
‘Does this mean I’ll have to do it again?’
‘No, we’ll play it on the reverse.’
‘So you won’t see me?’
‘Not at the beginning of this scene. It’ll be from behind and over your shoulder.’
‘So my performance is going to end up on the cutting-room floor?’
‘You’d better get used to that, Sidney. There’s no place for sentiment in this business.’
‘You could have got anyone to play this part.’
Warwick could see that Sidney was put out. ‘That’s not true. The audience will wonder who you are. We’ll create mystery around your character. Then we’ll see the wind in the trees, the rooks alighting, the church tower in silhouette (this cameraman always under-exposes) and add some music. It’s all in the cutting. People often find the rushes disappointing, but there’s so much you can do, provided you’ve got the coverage. Nigel’s an old pro so he gives me what I need: establishing shots (most of which I cut, by the way), long takes and plenty of angles. It means we overshoot and go over on cost but no one ever went to see a movie because they heard it was under-budget.’
‘I imagine it is rather like being a magician,’ Sidney mused.
‘I certainly show people where to look. Then the idea is to surprise them. They have to know enough of what is going on so that they are not confused, but not so much that they can be sure what will come next. They may have ideas, but our job is to give them what they could not have anticipated or imagined. Then, when we have made them think of every possibility, I finally show them what really happened and how we did it.’
‘It’s like a detective story . . .’
‘In many ways.’
‘The same rules apply.’
‘It’s not only about suspending disbelief. It’s about tension. If the audience can anticipate the story then there’s no point in them coming to the cinema. The narrative sets off and something has to go wrong. Then there are obstacles, unpredictabilities, unforeseen circumstances, random moments of chance until, at last, it’s resolved; either happily in a romantic comedy or tragically in a thriller. My job is to keep the audience there for the ride.’
‘And do you think this film will have enough suspense?’
‘Do you mean on or off the set?’ Warwick asked with a smile and a sardonic glance at Nigel.
‘I meant the finished article that you create here in the cutting room.’
‘I’m sure our director hopes that any shocks or surprises will be confined to the screen, Canon Chambers.’
Sidney took his morning communion and was called shortly afterwards. He was involved in a short scene with an actor called Andy Balfour, a man known for his good looks, strong jawline, high cheekbones and thick dark hair. Sidney’s first glimpse of him was when he was lying down and in a bedroom, playing the part of a farmer with flu. Daisy Playfair was already applying false sweat to his forehead. The scene was crucial, Nigel said, b
ecause it established the character’s alibi, while his brother went about his business. On rereading the novel Sidney did think it a bit obvious to have two brothers, each believing the other was responsible for the murder and then involving themselves in a mutual cover-up, but then, he mused, perhaps these stories weren’t so much about the intricacies of plot but atmosphere, character and morality.
Once the scene had been set up Sidney was asked to step outside and take advantage of a new shower of rain and involve himself in a quick exterior shot. This meant him doing nothing more than walking along the street, a straightforward course of action made unusually complex by the demands of the director.
‘Scuttle, Sidney,’ Nigel Binns had advised. ‘I want it to look like the rain is getting the better of you.’
‘I don’t scuttle.’
‘Put your hand to your hat. Then, just after you have checked it’s on safely, let it blow off in the wind and chase after it. It will be a little moment of colour.’
‘I don’t want to look like a comedy clergyman.’
‘You won’t. It’ll make the audience fond of you.’
‘You told me yesterday I was doing too much bustling about. Now you want me to “scuttle” and lose my hat.’
‘It’s raining. You are in a hurry. You need shelter. I don’t think I can explain it more clearly.’
‘I’m not sure it’s me.’
‘You are playing a part, Sidney. It’s not you. Theodore Venables is the man we need to understand.’
‘But I don’t want him to look like he’s frightened of a bit of rain. He’d be used to it. I don’t want him to be weedy. It doesn’t ring true.’
‘Cinema is all lies, Sidney. You have to lie if you want to tell the truth.’
‘Even when you’re trying to be real?’
‘Especially then. Once you know how to fake sincerity then you’ve made it. Now get on with it. Stand by, everyone.’
The first assistant called for final checks, Daisy Playfair came in to adjust Sidney’s hair under his hat and Nigel Binns gave his last-minute instructions.