Muscle Memory Or More?

It was cold. Very cold. Our clothes were piled on top of the only radiator and in between shots, the wardrobe mistress - or whatever you call the woman responsible for costumes on set - ran round thrusting heated jackets and scarves and hats onto our shoulders and other body parts, until a few minutes later she scurried round to take them off again, leaving us trying not to shiver.

My First Film Shoot had started at 7.20 am, when I turned up at the make-up studio off Hackney Road. Next to arrive was Gary, who had only slept for two hours out of the last forty-eight and whose previous twenty hours had been spent on another film. His sunken eyes and manic expression told the toll; luckily sunken eyes and manic expression were integral to his part in the upcoming recording.

Over the next half hour, the make-up artist, costume designer and other players turned up and the five of us were transformed into the characters in this unusual game. My bald head was deshined, foundation softened the bags under my eyes and the redness of my cheeks and nose, and the stylish purple shirt and tie I was wearing gave way to pale lilac. Once in character, we all squashed into an old small Ford or Honda and were driven a mile or so away to the basement set. The cold basement set. The very cold basement set.

From then on it was shoot, position, rest, reshoot, reposition, rest, reshoot, resposition and so on hour after hour until 11 at night. At times the whole game was filmed - an event that lasted anywhere from two to three minutes; at times merely reaction shots. The longer the shot, the more I fell into character, but even then I did not connect with Spike in the same way as I did our first rehearsal, when improvisation allowed us each to explore our adopted personalities in some depth. The problem was that Spike is a naturally fidgety, talkative individual and in this game of poker he has to sit as still and as silent as he can.

I wondered if it was the same for all actors when filming. When the scene lasts only a few seconds, for an over-the-shoulder or other reaction shot, can any player fully inhabit their character? Surely the best that can be hoped for is muscle memory to screw up one's face to the appropriate expression, while one's mind stays behind in reality rather than the character they are creating? Or are we always expected to fully become the person we represent, if only for five seconds?

If the director was unhappy with my performance, he did not say so, offering only a couple of notes as the day went on. Everyone else fulfilled their task in a similar, quiet fashion, no matter how late in the day or how tired we were getting. At least we were quiet when filming, but when the camera was off, the mood was light. We were all from very different backgrounds - one a Scandinavian, one a young heart-throb, one a reformed ladies' man, one a sharp businessman, and me, the oldest in age but youngest in experience - but we stayed together most of the time, talking and joking. Meanwhile, behind the lights the crew of ten moved quietly and efficiently, with only the occasional hint of tension when Producer did not always agree with Director's decision. 

As the characters came together, one set of doubts I had had last week evaporated, but another set remained. When off set as other characters were filmed, I watched the monitor but could not see the vision that the script and rehearsals had suggested. Everything was in place - the challenging faces, the surrounding darkness, the table bare of everything but cards and chips - yet they did not come together with the intensity that I had thought would be the hallmark of the film. I knew that weeks of editing lay ahead and the quality of the screen might be much poorer than the quality of the recording, but I was disappointed that it was not immediately obvious to me that a masterpiece was being filmed. Of course I said nothing. I had been proved wrong once already and hope to be proved wrong again.

Finally we went home, a merry band of players, peeling off at the Angel, Islington, as we each headed in our different directions. I came home exhausted and exhilirated, texted the Other Half, who was in a nightclub bonding with a new friend from his homeland, and collapsed into bed. I fell asleep, The Players already forgotten as I mumbled the Cardinal's seduction to his mistress for the Duchess of Malfi audition - but that's a story waiting for tomorrow.