As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of The Princess Bride (13 page)

The next day I arrived promptly at 9:00 a.m., as requested, at a dance studio the production had rented for us off Oxford Street in Soho. As I walked through the door, I immediately noticed that Mandy was already there, sword in hand, his breathing labored and his face glistening with sweat; it was obvious he’d been there for some time.

Damn you, Inigo!

I introduced myself to Peter and Bob. In all candor, my first thought was, Wow! They really picked some old-timers to work with us. But boy, was I wrong. At five foot six, Peter may have been a short, barrel-chested man with thick arms, big hands, rosy cheeks, and an easy, jovial smile; but at fifty-seven he was still in peak physical condition and tough as nails, too. He had an air of athleticism and physicality. You just knew that he could take care of himself in almost any situation and could easily disarm anybody within a nanosecond, with or without a weapon in his hand. I once saw him demonstrate it in a bar, all the while holding a beer in one hand without spilling a drop.

By contrast physically, Bob was tall and lithe, perhaps six feet, and equally impressive, but in a different sort of way. He had the stature that you’d expect in a fencer. And, even at the age of sixty-four, he was just as light on his feet as Peter and as insanely flexible and proficient with a blade. Both were fitter than most men less than half their ages. Which was precisely my demographic.

Nervous much?

Bob proceeded to explain to Mandy and me that the most efficient use of his and Peter’s time would be to split their tutorial efforts: I would be working with Peter, while Mandy would be working with him. He then asked me a few basic questions about fencing and swordsmanship,
none of which I could answer. Mandy, it turns out, could, having already started his training in the US.

Damn you again, Inigo!

“Okay,” Peter said. “Both of you, pick up a sword. First things first. You need to know how to hold it properly.”

We did as instructed. I looked out of the corner of my eye at Mandy, who clearly appeared far more comfortable than I did.

“Like this,” Peter said, demonstrating to both of us, but looking at me. “ ‘Not too tightly, not too lightly’ is the phrase to remember.”

He adjusted my grip. The sword, a light rapier, felt foreign in my hand, and surprisingly awkward.

“Think of it like you’re holding a bird in your hand,” Peter said. “If you hold it too tightly, you’ll strangle it. Too loosely, and it’ll fly away.” Then, as if to prove his point, Peter tapped my sword faster than lightning with his blade—so fast I barely saw it move—causing it to fall out of my hand and land with a clatter on the floor.

“See?” he said with a smile.

“Yes.”

The answer, of course, was really “No.” I hadn’t even seen it coming.
I was instantly transfixed by the skill and expertise of these guys. I only hoped that I could live up to their expectations.

Peter then adjusted Mandy’s grip, ever so slightly.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “You’ve done a little of this, I see.”

Mandy sort of shrugged. No big deal for him. The novice in the room had already been spotted.

And then we went to work. The first day was devoted to the most basic body mechanics, starting with the proper stance. Mastery wasn’t really the goal—there wasn’t enough time for that. Rather, it would have to be the illusion of mastery, and that could only be achieved by adhering to the fundamentals of fencing: how to stand, where to place your arms and feet. How to hold your free hand, not clenched but relaxed (something I had a hard time perfecting). A professional fencer, they explained, could watch a sword-fighting sequence on film and tell immediately if the actors involved were complete amateurs. The easiest to spot were when the actors or stuntmen could be seen just hitting the swords back and forth, over and over in the same manner, the way kids do with sticks.

They explained that they had requested that the fighting sequences be filmed late in the production, allowing us a few weeks of intense daily training in prep, followed by a few months of training while on location. Bob then pointed out that although it wasn’t possible for either of us to become an Olympic-caliber fencer in that amount of time, maybe with the help and guidance of both himself and Peter, we might just be capable of fooling all but the most discerning of viewers. Their reputations were at stake as well, after all, he pointed out.

Learning the posture of fencing is rather like calisthenics, they explained. You have to have very strong legs, and in particular thighs, as it’s your thighs you have to train to get the stance correctly. If you
don’t, then all of it just turns to mush, Peter said. You have to rest on your haunches, with your knees slightly bent at all times but with your back straight and your legs spread apart—one foot facing one way and the other foot facing the other—so that you’re able to go backward and forward at any given time. Almost like a crab. And it’s far more stiff and uncomfortable than you might imagine.

By noon on the first day I was silently screaming in my head for a lunch break, and not because I was particularly hungry but because the muscles in my very core, ones I didn’t even know I possessed, throbbed in agony. I was covered in sweat in no time; Mandy only slightly less so.

“Keep your left hand up in the air,” Peter said, referring to my free hand. “Your right wrist has to be relaxed and free. You should never be tense. If you feel tense, you will look tense.”

I listened carefully and tried to follow every direction, but as any athlete can tell you, things begin to break down when the mind is willing but the body unable. My abdominal muscles cried out in pain, as if I’d done a thousand sit-ups. My calves and thighs burned as if I had climbed a hundred stairs. “Back and forth, back and forth,” Peter instructed. I scurried across the room, shuffling awkwardly from one wall to the other. The idea was simply to become acquainted with the motion. I was told not to worry about the sword so much at this point, to just hold it aloft and not even think about doing anything with it for now—all of that would come later. The weapon, they explained, would eventually become an extension of my arm. Of course, merely holding the sword for that amount of time was exhausting. Every couple minutes Peter would tell me to stop and adjust my grip or stance. Then we’d do it some more.

Later that afternoon, we were treated to a rather extraordinary little show.

“We’re going to show you what fencing really looks like,” Bob said.
Mandy and I were ordered to the side of the studio while he and Peter took positions opposite one another and began to duel. It was an incredible sight to behold! They moved at lightning speed. And the fact that they waited until we were both tired and feeling utterly inept was a stroke of professorial genius, as it greatly enhanced our appreciation for the skill and dexterity on display. Had their demonstration come at the beginning of the day, before I’d had an opportunity to fumble around a bit with the weaponry, I might not have fully appreciated what I was seeing. But now, while my muscles were aching and my frustration building, I could not possibly have been more impressed.

I looked at Mandy. He looked back and smiled. Very quietly, I mouthed, “Wow!” He nodded in agreement.

I think we may have even applauded when they finished. Bob then explained that what we had just witnessed was a finely tuned version of the first of many sequences they hoped to teach us.

The first of many? How many?

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Bob said, looking at me. “After we train you for a while, we’re going to flip it around and I’ll teach you Mandy’s moves.”

Hmmmmmmm. Okay . . .

“Then Peter is going to go teach Mandy all of your moves. You are basically going to learn each other’s moves, as well, so there can be no room for error.”

Another pause. A hard look in the eye, teacher to student.

“All clear?”

Again I looked at Mandy. We nodded in unison.

The amount of creative freedom that had been given to Bob and Peter was both remarkable and logical. Apart from the statement by Goldman that this was to be the Greatest Swordfight in Modern Times, and the references to the period techniques, there was in fact limited
stage direction in his script while Westley and Inigo clamber up and down rocks and engage in witty repartee.

With those six words as their guiding principle (and keeping in mind the twist at the middle where both combatants reveal that they had been dueling with their weaker hands), Peter and Bob had virtually free rein to choreograph a fight that would hopefully be remembered as one of the best ever put on the silver screen.

Fortunately, they were more than up to the task.

Over lunch that day we chatted about movies and the role of stuntmen and stunt coordinators. That was when Mandy and I began to learn of their past work on film and TV. As Bob and Peter related tales of working with Errol Flynn, Burt Lancaster, Sean Connery, Alec Guinness, and Harrison Ford, our enthusiasm and respect grew immeasurably.

Bob then explained that in order for us to succeed in pulling off the sequence, the duel had to be convincing from both an aesthetic and athletic standpoint. In short, it had to look like the real deal. He further pointed out that Rob’s goal from the very beginning was to film a scene in which the actors themselves appeared in every frame of the fight, as opposed to using stunt doubles. This was ambitious; after all, as Peter pointed out, even Lancaster, Flynn, and Fairbanks on occasion let the real fencing masters do the most challenging work.

Gulp again!

They both suggested we do homework by watching some of the best swashbuckling movies Hollywood had produced, such as
The Black Pirate, The Adventures of Robin Hood, The Sea Hawk,
etc., so that we could study them and absorb the artistry and athleticism.

“And all the while, remember, we’re going to do it even better. We’re going to create the swordfight to end all swordfights,” Bob stated confidently.

“And as we teach you how to fight, as we go through the training,
you’ll begin to see how they broke down their sequences in those films,” Peter explained.

And he was absolutely right. Watching one of these movies prior to training was a completely different experience from watching after we’d begun working with Peter and Bob. I could actually see how and what they had practiced. I could see where they made mistakes and where they sort of flubbed part of the fight. Our assignment was to find these mistakes and point them out to our instructors.

After lunch we went into separate studios, as we would do for the next few weeks before going on location. I practiced with Peter and Mandy with Bob. It was trial and error, starting and stopping each time I made a mistake (which was frequently). It was rather like doing a movie scene: if you make a mistake, you stop and go back to the beginning. And Peter made me do it over and over, until I got it right. It was a matter of repetition, like studying lines in a script. There were no shortcuts. One just had to keep working at it until it became second nature.

Scripted fighting is very much like the choreography of a dance: two partners working with each other in an attempt to create something perfectly synchronized. In a scripted fight, though, there is the added element of competition. The audience is supposed to believe that the two combatants are really trying to hurt each other. To that end, the actors must legitimately “fight,” all the while knowing how the battle will end.

There are a few very basic, universal moves, and Mandy and I had to learn these first before doing anything else. The first of these was essentially how to defend yourself. For example, to deflect a hit, we had to think of our swords as an extension of our hands. So if I’m looking at my “opponent,” and I’ve got my fist holding the sword directly in front of my face, and my opponent tries to strike the right side of my head as a swipe, as if to cut my neck sideways, my deflective maneuver is to move my arm to the right as the swipe approaches. My sword is then up and
effectively blocks my opponent’s blade. It looks rather dramatic and potentially lethal, but really all I’ve done is move my sword a few inches to one side, in anticipation of what I know is coming, much as you would move your arm or hand if someone was trying to hit you from that angle. On the other hand, if my opponent tries to cut my thigh or stomach, instead of moving my fist straight up and to the right, I just flip the sword downward and do the same thing. If he tries to cut my left flank, I move to the left, and so on. Obviously, this takes some coordination to avoid accident or injury, but with time and practice, they assured us, it would become routine. Economy of movement is paramount, they said. It should all look more dangerous and difficult than it really is.

And so we practiced each one of these maneuvers maybe hundreds of times that very first day.

“Start working your wrist,” Peter said after a while. “Remember: be fluid.”

“There is something Zen-like about fencing,” he said. “Kind of like letting the sword almost guide you.”

“You mean, like ‘using the Force’?” I asked, making a reference to his work on that film.