scenes. Each scene was laboriously set up, cameras arranged and Gibson looked through the viewfinder at actors who would never appear on film. When he was satisfied, the real actors would arrive and the stand-ins would step aside, their moment in the spotlight over until the next set-up. They would film and film and film again. Roy wondered what Wallace would have thought. Wallace was finally going to be an international star 700 years after his death, like Ben-Hur and Robin Hood and Spartacus. Children might play at being Wallace when they tired of Power Rangers.
Roy watched mechanical horses accelerate from zero to 30 miles an hour on a 20-foot track and finish off with a somersault. He watched Gibson sitting alone, thinking about his next scene. Gibson nodded distractedly to him once as he passed, but they never spoke. Gibson ate with his men, stood in line for his meals with his men and his children played football with his men. Once or twice he joined a knot of actors as if keen to hear the story unfolding, but the storyteller would fall silent. It was the loneliness of command, for they did not know if he was coming to listen or to issue his orders. Or maybe it was the loneliness of being, not an actor, but a film star.
Gibson worked and worried. Roy watched and waited. Each day the army rose at four, dressed in plaid or armour, donned their war paint, brushed and ruffled their hair, collected their weapons and waited. Roy concluded there was a lot of waiting in both movies and war. And, as in a war, nobody seemed very sure what was going on. Except maybe Gibson the general. Lieutenants assembled their own little bodies of men. The army was assembled for a charge and they whispered to each other, 'Shouldn't Mel be in this scene?'
'Mel's no' here,' piped up one Scots voice. They had to send for him.
'Mel, Mel, the battle's about to start without you. Come quick or you'll miss it.'
The novelty of being in a film quickly wore off for the Irish soldiers. They had never been to war, so they did not appreciate the need for so much waiting nor were they good at it. They drank heavily at night. One passed out in the heat of the next day. The can of beer, which constituted his hair of the dog, leapt in the air, hit another soldier and knocked him cold too, with blood spouting from his head, at the sight of which a third soldier fainted. That was an unusually exciting day.
It was rumoured the film was running out of money. Men in suits and dark glasses arrived. Like FBI agents or people who might investigate UFO s, they looked more deadly than anyone on the battlefield, and the army speculated on what might happen. Some crew were paid off and toilet rolls became more difficult to get. But still they filmed the same scenes over and over again. Roy wanted to go home now. He had been in a film. He had done his tour of duty.
Five months earlier Roy had stood on a hillock in the rain, overlooking the glen beneath Ben Nevis, a surprisingly flat river valley, with alder, rowan and birch dotted along its length, and watched the cast and crew below. The cast in rough medieval plaid and sackcloth, the crew in baseball caps and jeans and thick waterproof jackets. Roy pointed through the rain at a figure in a bush hat with a megaphone, an assistant with an umbrella failing to keep up with him.
'That's the director Mel Gibson,' he said. 'He's in charge. He tells everyone what to do. He's the man that's actually making the film.'
'Like Walt Disney?' said the little girl who stood beside him on the hillock, holding his hand.
He looked down at her face, the colour of coffee, her lively blue eyes and he smiled.
'Yes, a bit like Walt Disney.'
A voice shouted 'action' and the glen fell silent, but for the indistinct whisper of actors' voices carried on the wind, muffled by the rain. Roy and the little girl stood and watched the strange, unreal characters in the field of dreams that was a film in the making. Her hand was small and cold
Roy watched mechanical horses accelerate from zero to 30 miles an hour on a 20-foot track and finish off with a somersault. He watched Gibson sitting alone, thinking about his next scene. Gibson nodded distractedly to him once as he passed, but they never spoke. Gibson ate with his men, stood in line for his meals with his men and his children played football with his men. Once or twice he joined a knot of actors as if keen to hear the story unfolding, but the storyteller would fall silent. It was the loneliness of command, for they did not know if he was coming to listen or to issue his orders. Or maybe it was the loneliness of being, not an actor, but a film star.
Gibson worked and worried. Roy watched and waited. Each day the army rose at four, dressed in plaid or armour, donned their war paint, brushed and ruffled their hair, collected their weapons and waited. Roy concluded there was a lot of waiting in both movies and war. And, as in a war, nobody seemed very sure what was going on. Except maybe Gibson the general. Lieutenants assembled their own little bodies of men. The army was assembled for a charge and they whispered to each other, 'Shouldn't Mel be in this scene?'
'Mel's no' here,' piped up one Scots voice. They had to send for him.
'Mel, Mel, the battle's about to start without you. Come quick or you'll miss it.'
The novelty of being in a film quickly wore off for the Irish soldiers. They had never been to war, so they did not appreciate the need for so much waiting nor were they good at it. They drank heavily at night. One passed out in the heat of the next day. The can of beer, which constituted his hair of the dog, leapt in the air, hit another soldier and knocked him cold too, with blood spouting from his head, at the sight of which a third soldier fainted. That was an unusually exciting day.
It was rumoured the film was running out of money. Men in suits and dark glasses arrived. Like FBI agents or people who might investigate UFO s, they looked more deadly than anyone on the battlefield, and the army speculated on what might happen. Some crew were paid off and toilet rolls became more difficult to get. But still they filmed the same scenes over and over again. Roy wanted to go home now. He had been in a film. He had done his tour of duty.
Five months earlier Roy had stood on a hillock in the rain, overlooking the glen beneath Ben Nevis, a surprisingly flat river valley, with alder, rowan and birch dotted along its length, and watched the cast and crew below. The cast in rough medieval plaid and sackcloth, the crew in baseball caps and jeans and thick waterproof jackets. Roy pointed through the rain at a figure in a bush hat with a megaphone, an assistant with an umbrella failing to keep up with him.
'That's the director Mel Gibson,' he said. 'He's in charge. He tells everyone what to do. He's the man that's actually making the film.'
'Like Walt Disney?' said the little girl who stood beside him on the hillock, holding his hand.
He looked down at her face, the colour of coffee, her lively blue eyes and he smiled.
'Yes, a bit like Walt Disney.'
A voice shouted 'action' and the glen fell silent, but for the indistinct whisper of actors' voices carried on the wind, muffled by the rain. Roy and the little girl stood and watched the strange, unreal characters in the field of dreams that was a film in the making. Her hand was small and cold
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