The Oldie - April 2001

Cue, action ... cut!

Eleanor Berry fixed Herbert Lom with her glittering eye

I don't think the actor, Mr Herbert Lom, enjoyed his short encounter with me, one late summer

afternoon in 1972. What happened was not his fault.

     Between June 1967 and July 1972, I was ill. I made a vow to myself, that in the unlikely event

of my being cured, and knowing for certain that the illness was over, I would approach the first man

I saw, provided that he was standing still, and not speaking. I would tell him every detail about my

illness, as well as the glorious news that it had gone.

     I was invited to watch the film Fengriffen being made. Herbert Lom played the part of a sadistic

Eighteenth Century aristocrat.

     Mr Lom was standing in the middle of the set among a few drunks sitting round a table. The

drunks were singing and drinking from long, strange-looking glass tubes.

     The only line Mr Lom had to utter was simple and short. Its delivery was thwarted by

interruptions, not only from me, but from noises and inappropriate gestures made by bored, poorly-

paid, incompetent extras.

     Mr Lom was told to bend over a helpless drunk, lying on a table on his back, and say, "What

will it take to put you on your feet?"

     I was definitely not responsible for the failure of the first of a myriad of takes, when Mr Lom

was asked to utter these straightforward words.

     "Fengriffen, scene whatever, take 1   Action!" said the Director, as the clapper-board operator

made a loud cracking noise.

     "Cut!" the Director suddenly shouted, irritably, and glared at one of the extras who was supposed

to be drinking out of a glass tube.

     "Who the hell's the f***ing idiot over there, reading the bloody Daily Express?"

     The filming was halted for ten minutes, while the extra was asked to leave and more powder was

applied to Mr Lom who was sweating in the suffocating heat.

     A great deal of time was being wasted. The heat was overpowering and things were moving

unnecessarily slowly. Mr Lom was looking tired and frustrated by the distance between takes.

     He was partly in isolation. He was also standing still. I remembered my vow and knew that this

was the moment to stick to it.

     I went over to Mr Lom, and went into Ancient Mariner mode. I spoke to him rapidly and without

preamble. I said, "I would like you to know that I have just recovered from an unpleasant illness. I

feel compelled to tell you what my initial symptoms were, how the illness progressed, and how it

disappeared."

     Mr Lom failed to acknowledge my words and did not comment. I continued, "My illness started

in June 1967 and ended in July 1972..."

     "It's your cue Herbert  Fengriffen, scene whatever, take 2   Action!" shouted the Director.

     "Can I help you to get to your feet," said Mr Lom.

     "Cut!" shouted the Director. "It's, `What will it take to put you on your feet?'"

     Another ten minutes followed between the takes.

     I continued to speak to Mr Lom, and failed to take into account that he had no wish whatever to

have a conversation with me.

     "I'd like to tell you how my illness started," I said. "I did not know that I was too young to

embark on what I was doing, but no-one told me to desist. I will tell you what I did."

     Further beads of sweat appeared on Mr Lom's forehead but I ignored this. I continued, "I took

up the study of Russian Literature which I enjoyed at first, but later became morbidly

immersed in its moribund tones. Contrary to prevailing attitudes towards Russian Literature among

doctors, I was more traumatised by the works of Max Gorki than Dostoievsky. On the whole, I found

writers who specialized in `Steppe glorification' more disturbing than urban writers.

     "No doubt you wish to know why this is so. The Steppe glorification lads were preoccupied with

themes of endlessness and bleakness, and reminded me even more poignantly of my symptoms."

     A make-up artist came over to dust down Mr Lom and apply fresh powder to his face. He stood

rigidly and stared into space, mesmerised and embarrassed by the number of takes that were needed

for him to utter such a short line.

     "Ready, Herbert? Fengriffen, scene whatever, take 15   Action!" shouted the Director, who did

not realize that I was slowing Mr Lom down. "What will it take to get you off this table?" said Mr

Lom.

     "No! `What will it take to put you on your feet?'" shouted the Director. "You're doing fine,

Herbert. It's the heat that's troubling you."

     A break lasting for about twenty minutes ensued. A tray of plastic brimming beakers of tea was

passed around the cast. They looked strange in the Eighteenth Century background.

     I realize now that I should have had more consideration for Mr Lom.

     "All right, Herbert, let's try again. There isn't anything troubling you, is there?" Mr Lom even

failed to reply to his Director.

     "OK, Fengriffen, scene whatever, take 28   Action!"

     "What will it take to put you on your feet?" said the inordinately professional Mr Lom.

     "Very good, Herbert! This is going to be a print," said the Director.

     I overheard a woman's voice. She was speaking to the Director. "It's been going on like this, all

the time..."

     "What has?" asked the Director.

     "Have you noticed that woman in leopard skin, the one who's been talking to Herbert, between

takes?"

     "Yes. What about her?"

     "She just won't leave him alone. She's been talking to him about Russian Literature, the whole

bloody time."

     "Russian Literature? Why would he be interested in that?"

     "I've no idea. If it hadn't been for her, he'd have got that line right on the second take."

     "Tell her to get the hell out of here, then! Don't bother me with it."

     The woman came up to me. She said,

     "It's absolutely outrageous of you to harass Mr Lom, talking to him about Russian Literature. Did

he ask you to speak to him about it?"

     "No, he didn't."

     "In that case, would you please go away."

     "I walked straight onto another film set, where The Last Days of Hitler, was being filmed. Like

the characters in Eighteenth Century clothing, laid-back men in Nazi uniforms, were sitting on plastic

chairs, smoking and drinking brimming beakers of tea. Alec Guinness, who played Hitler, was

leaning against a wall, looking bored stiff.

     I did not want to make the same mistake I had made earlier, so I said absolutely nothing, unless

spoken to.

     The actor, Simon Ward, came up to me. He struck me as being rather a busybody. He asked,

     "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

     "I will only answer questions addressed to me, by the Director of this motion picture," I said,

pompously.

     It would seem as if I had had a lot of trouble, making friends in the film industry, at that time

of my life. Perhaps this was caused by my thoughtlessness towards others. However, a film of one

of my books will be made in the not-too-distant future.

No sweat: Herbert Lom at his suave best, not being pestered by Eleanor Berry