by Shane Briant
I noticed that Peter had a trick to make sure he never stumbled over his words. Exercise. It's vital. Start off by being in decent physical shape – can't look relaxed if your body is as stiff as a board. Then, the brain. Can't do your best work if you are pissed or suffering a hangover. Then the voice – make sure you exercise that properly so it's in the best possible shape and you're capable of giving whatever 'colour' to your voice you think is appropriate. Peter's trick was to thoroughly exercise his facial muscles before every take. I noticed it on the first day. Before every take he would silently go through his dialogue for the scene hugely exaggerating the words as they came out of his lips – it was as if he were screaming the words silently. When it came to the take, his lips had been nicely stretched and were ready for work. He rarely stumbled over a word.
The Baron's hands were useless, so he used his teeth.
I am often asked about the 'hose scene' by Hammer devotees. In this scene the guards punish me by hosing me down with a fire hose. Yes, another time I offered to do my own stunt work! But I had no idea how strong the force of a fire hose was. I thought it might be just a bit stronger than a garden hose.
There were no rehearsals, I just stood there and did it. When the hose was tuned on it hit me like… a fire hose. It took both Philip Voss and Chris Cummingham, the jailers, to hold the hose steady. I was supposed to dance about, slip and fall down, get up, be knocked down again, gasp for breath – the whole box and dice. It was easy! I actually was knocked flying, got up, was knocked flat again, time after time. If you ever see the film, look for the red welts on my back; you can see the bruising appear during the thirty second take. It was painful.
The hose sequence in 'Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell.' It HURT!
In those days a Hammer film normally took eight weeks to shoot. This hasn't changed much. Of course major motion pictures can take months, even years, but modern day pictures with budgets under thirty million dollars are shot quite quickly.
In 'Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell' there were naturally quite few scenes where I performed the surgery while Peter watched me (in the film his hands were crippled). The hands of a violinist were grafted on to an arm, the best and sharpest eyes transplanted, the brain of a genius inserted, and so on.
On the second week we were to extract the brain of the monster and put in the perfect brain of the 'Professor.' It was Friday afternoon and the art department had made up a wonderful head for me to work on. Inside the cranium they had placed a fresh sheep's brain. They had then sealed it but forgotten to put it in the
fridge. However, things didn't go as planned. We took far too long on another scene and never got around to the brain transplant. So we went home for the weekend and returned on Monday to start off with this scene at eight in the morning. With scenes such as this you really only have one shot at it because it's so difficult and painstaking to make up a second head.
Moments before the stench hit the air!
We rehearsed the dialogue and Peter, as usual, made his exaggerated lip movements. Then we started shooting and I began to saw through the cranium.
As I lifted off the top of the skull, a bubble of the most incredibly fetid air burst upwards into our faces. I have a strong stomach but I thought I might vomit it was so bad. However, I knew I had to continue for the reasons I gave before – one shot! So we grinned and bore it and I lifted the ghastly brain from the head and placed it in a dish. If you look at the footage of this scene you'll see not one single sign from Peter that he has just inhaled 'The Stench from Hell.' He just watches, as if fascinated by the surgery. Then when Maddy brings in our breakfast moments later, in the same shot, he looks at the food she's presented and says, "Kidneys! How delicious!" I was hard pressed not to laugh aloud, as his delivery was so perfect. I did smile – that was all right, it worked. That was to be the last time I saw Peter. As actor's do, we kept in touch for a short while, then didn't. He went on to make a further twenty-nine films, 'Star Wars' amongst them. There was no one quite like Peter Cushing, and his fan club is testament to that. I don't remember Peter receiving any honours in the Queens Birthday list. He should have, and probably has.
Doctor Helder in 'Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell.'
'Frankenstein and the Monster from Hell' was my fourth film for Hammer and it proved to be my last. So far, anyway! Sadly Hammer went into a decline from 1975 onwards. They produced just one film in '76, 'To the Devil a Daughter,' and from '79, when
they made again just one film, they produced no more features until their renaissance in 2010 with the very chilling 'Let Me In,' 'The Resident' and 'Wake Wood.' During these lean years Hammer concentrated on television series productions such as 'Hammer House of Horror,' 'Hammer House of Mystery and Suspense,' and 'The World of Hammer.' I was hugely sad that this iconic company should have ceased to make feature films, so I shouted aloud when I heard that Hammer were back with 'Let Me In,' especially when it received such great reviews. Vive le Hammer!
Peter sent me a lovely card a week after the shoot ended. He was NEVER a 'nuisance.'
Peter was the most thoughtful man imaginable.
Early U.K. Television work.
CASTING DIRECTORS OF THE OLD SCHOOL.
While I was waiting to begin work on my second Hammer film, I went back to television. Adza was the most wonderful agent, someone who could sell ice cubes to polar bears, probably vodka too, so there was always work to be had.
In the early seventies there were about seven famous casting people. Four of them were women, the most respected being Maude Spector and Miriam Brickman. There were also two or three men, the most famous being Budge Drury, his son, Weston, and Dyson Lovell, who always seemed a bit terse. For instance, I had just returned from filming 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' in America and had been waiting for thirty minutes in the corridor outside Dyson's office when I heard him call out for me through the closed door. I entered and sat down opposite him. He was busy shuffling papers. Several minutes passed – he didn't look at me but simply continued to shuffle the damned papers. Finally he looked up, studied me closely, and said, "You look terrible. Are you ill?"
I told him I felt fine. That was that. Oddly enough, I never much cared for him from that moment on.
Miriam Brickman cast such wonderful movies as 'Oh, What a Lovely War,' 'Far from the Madding Crowd,' 'Straw Dogs,' 'Oh, Lucky Man,' and 'A Bridge too Far' to name but a few huge movies.
The fabulously warm and friendly Maude Spector always had a soft spot for me – we got on famously. In fact if I had to wait in her office for more than five minutes before being sent in to meet a director, she would invariably pop a bottle of Moët and share a glass with me.
Maude's career began in 1946 and her films were always cast impeccably. 'Lawrence of Arabia,' '55 Days at Peking,' 'For Your Eyes only, 'and 'The Big Sleep.' Casting a film in those days was handled very differently to today. Casting directors then were highly respected by all directors and producers. If Maude said you were a capable actor, everyone took her word for it. Instead of being obliged, as Australian actors have been since the invention of the video camera, to prove you have talent to speak, open doors and chew gum while smiling, Maude, Budge, and Miriam would simply study the list of characters that were to be cast and then make suggestions to the director in question. Of course very often producers and directors had already made up their minds about leads such as Sean Connery and Katherine Hepburn.
However, during my time in London I was called to meet many celebrated directors, and not one of them asked me to prove that I could act. I chatted with the very engaging and highly intelligent Lindsay Anderson, the sometimes testy Michael Winner, the very easy going John Boorman. Of course, if such directors were searching for a young man to play a major role such as the lead in 'Young Winston,' a film with a massive budget, a whole selection of actors would usually be asked to screen test at Pinewood; on 35 mm film. That was fair enough.
On my arrival in Sydney in 19
82, I found myself having to 'put down on tape' everything I was up for – my past body of work was of no relevance to anyone, nor who I had worked with. But more of that later.
'NOTORIOUS WOMAN'. THE BALZACS!
One of my most favourite television performances was as Alfred de Musset in 'Notorious Woman,' a 'Play of the Month' for the BBC.
Rosemary Harris played the lead, Georges Sand, and the support cast was stellar. I was delighted to be amongst such fine actors.
George Chakiris played Chopin – when I met him at rehearsals I couldn't stop seeing him leaping around as Bernardo in 'West Side Story.' Alan Howard was Prosper Merimée, Sinead Cusack was Marie Dorval, Brian Blessed was Albert Gryzmala, Joyce Redman was Sophie Dupin de Fancueil and Jeremy Irons played Franz Liszt.
I felt a million quid at the read-through, although at the time my friend Jeremy was yet to become a star, so I was much more impressed by the other cast. Working with Rosemary Harris was divine.
The divine Rosemary Harris in 'Notorious Woman.' BBC.
I've been incredibly lucky to work with some of the best actresses of the past fifty years; Rosemary, Olivia de Havilland and Yvonne Mitchell to name just a few. I can only say that when you work with such gifted people it's like being caught up in a kind of transcendental state of grace where can give your all to the other actor. Cuddling up to Rosemary in those bedroom scenes and sharing a laugh between takes is something I shall remember to my dying day – she was the most beautiful woman.
There were two incidents during the filming of 'Notorious Woman,' that I remember, and both were hilarious.
The first was a moment in rehearsal. Jeremy Irons as Franz Liszt was supposedly sitting at a piano (in fact a bench in the rehearsal room) with one hand on a dummy keyboard, the other was supporting his head in an extremely serious fashion. Liszt was supposedly composing his famous Concerto in E flat, idly tapping fingers on the keys. When he got to the fifth note he'd shake his head and start over again. He did this maybe four times, stopping each time at the same note – one everyone by then had screaming in their heads. There was a long pause, then Liszt smiles knowingly and plonks the fifth note. Here, the script was, I thought, too obvious. Yet it made me laugh.
Having a laugh between takes!
The second clanger was a line of Rosemary's dialogue. In the script I was in the throes of some kind of epileptic fit. Georges Sand was unaware of this since she was in an adjoining room, unaware of my state. As I writhed on the floor she called out: "Hurry up, darling. The Balzacs are due at eight-thirty!" Too good, huh?
Warris Hussein was our wonderful director. I've been directed by many very talented people, as well as less than talented people. My personal ratio has been till now probably eight percent superb, sixty-two per cent very talented and the rest average.
I wish I had the original script of 'Notorious Woman' but I don't. So forgive me if I try to recollect one passage. It was the stage direction, cum writer's note, in parenthesis at the top of a scene that begins with Alfred de Musset falling to the floor screaming that he has demons in his head. Georges Sand scoops him up and hugs him as he rants and raves.
This is what I remember being in brackets – 'Alfred de Musset suffered from terrible epileptic seizures, madness and brain syphilis – the playing of the following scene is left to the discretion of the director and actor.'
So what the hell was I going to do in the first read through, I wondered, as I read the script for the first time at home? I knew I would have to go for it, rather than wimp out - I wasn't one of those actors of the opinion that you didn't take readthroughs too seriously. As far as I was concerned you put your heart into it.
On the day, the other cast members were somewhat unprepared for my tirade. "I HAVE DEMONS IN MY HEAD! MY BRAIN IS ON FIRE!" I screamed so loudly that I could be heard in the BBC canteen several miles away. I then deliberately fell off my chair to the ground.
As I paused for breath, silence reigned. No one said anything. Then Warris muttered, "Very interesting Shane. Let's move on, eh? This is just a reading. Give us the gist from now on, what do you say?" I was embarrassed, clearly I had a lot to learn about read-throughs.
From the English T.V Times.
As a footnote to this episode, I might add that when I told my mother I was to play de Musset, she recalled an Ogdon Nash poem about him – 'Alfred de Musset, called his cat 'pusset', it was somewhat affected, but only to be expected.' Here I was, about to star in a BBC mini series with a lot of luminaries, and all she could think of was this poem. It was both apt and very funny, but I was concentrating on more serious matters. But that was my wonderfully eccentric mother to a T – she would always ask if I would be wearing 'nice clothes.' If I'd told her I was to play 'Fool' in 'King Lear', or the tramp in Egon Wolf's wonderful play 'Paper Flowers,' she'd have said the same thing.
My one final memory of that month at the 'Beeb' was visiting the club every evening after work. It was usually packed with actors, journalists, directors, and producers. One of my acting friends had this great idea of paging himself at least three times every Friday evening so that everyone would hear his name mentioned loudly. "A call for *****! Will ***** please pick up the nearest red telephone?"
The night we finished recording I was in the BBC club and on my third gin and tonic when I heard someone behind me mutter. "I say, who the hell is *****? Well, they were soon to find out! Even more so when he won an Oscar! He was a dedicated actor with heaps of chutzpah, and that idea of announcing himself was pure genius. I believe it became very popular in later years. Wish I'd thought of it.
ARMCHAIR THEATRE AND COSSACK HORSES.
In 1972 I starred in my first television play in the UK. It was a play in the Armchair Theatre series for ITV called 'Franklin's Farm.' Written by the very talented Guy Slater, and directed by a man who became a great friend, Peter Hammond.
It was a very sensitive and lovely play that focused on a young man and his aged grandmother played by Maureen Prior. The third major character, granny's gardener Rienhardt, was played by the comic legend Max Wall. It was Max's first foray into acting from stand up comedy, and I have to say he was wonderful. He brought tears of laughter to my eyes when he was kind enough to do a routine or two from the fifties and brought tears to my eyes again
with his heartbreaking performance in 'Franklin's Farm.'
Peter always brought out the best in people, certainly the best I had to offer. He'd say to me just before we started filming, "Shane, you can be magic…but only if you want to." This always made me try like hell!
I believe the play was a big success – the notices were great.
With iconic comedian Max Wall in 'Franklin's Farm.' Thames Television.
Incidentally, it must have been around that time that Adza called me and asked me if I'd do my bit for the National Film and Television School. This is a funny story – I hope!
Equity members are often asked to help out students in their final year NFTS production. As a favour. No money. And it's always the young poverty stricken actors who are approached, never the rich ones.
Being the generous philanthropic woman that she was, Adza told me I had no choice in the matter – I'd take part in John Lind's short film, 'The Reprieve,' the following Thursday. She told me she'd informed Lind that I was 'a very fine horse rider.'
"Why," I countered.
"Because you will be playing a Cossack. The lead!" she replied quickly.
"But I hate riding horses," I said. "I've had nightmares about being crushed by horses ever since that time in Dublin where a horse lost it's footing and crash landed on my leg."
"Well, you're going to enjoy riding on Thursday. Good free practice. Only a matter of time before you are asked to play Ghengis Khan's son in some film."
On the day, I was helped up on a horse at eight o'clock in the morning and rode the highly excitable young filly (one that galloped like the wind at the slightest touch of the heels) till the sun set. As if that wasn't enough, all
the riding was done through wheat fields so mature and high that I couldn't see the horses' legs, nor the lie of the ground. It was a miracle none of us fell and was killed.