As You Wish: Inconceivable Tales from the Making of The Princess Bride (14 page)

“If you like, yes,” came the quick response.

“And always watch your opponent’s eyes,” he said. “Don’t look at his sword. If you watch his sword, you’ll make a mistake. If you watch
his eyes, however, you will know what his next maneuver is going to be, as he will telegraph it.” All I could think of was Bruce Lee’s line from
Enter the Dragon
when he slaps his student on the head with the warning, “Never take your eyes off your opponent.”

I found it interesting that we did not wear protective gear of any sort while we were training: no gloves or chest protectors or face masks. Yes, the tips of our blades were covered, but they were still quite capable of gouging an eye from its socket or injuring you in some fashion if wielded recklessly. To drive that point home, Peter at one point whipped me across the rib cage with his rapier.

I winced, stifling a little whimper.

“Did you feel that?” he asked, although I think he knew the answer.

“A little,” I lied.

“Good,” he said. “Remember that. That’s what can happen if you are not paying attention.”

I felt like Grasshopper in the TV series
Kung Fu
. He was right, this
was
very Zen-like training. All joking aside, Peter and Bob were intense and serious about their work. It was clear they weren’t messing around. They wanted to make sure that we got the point, so to speak.

As the first day came to a close, with Mandy and I both thoroughly exhausted by this point, our trainers then offered what amounted to an honest assessment.

“Obviously the key moment in the sequence,” Bob said, “is when you have to change from being right-handed to left-handed. To be perfectly honest, we’re not sure that we can teach you to be left-hand-proficient in time. We just wanted you to know that. We’ve told that to the producers and to Rob. You can’t teach someone to fight left-handed in this short a space of time and have them be totally professional.”

He stopped, looked over at Peter.

“So we will probably have to have stunt doubles standing by if need be. Just in case.”

In retrospect, I wonder if this was the complete truth, or merely a motivational ploy on their part. Certainly it had the latter effect, particularly on Mandy, who said, almost without hesitation, “Don’t worry. We’ll get it.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Mandy looked at me. What was I going to do? Did I think a stunt double might be necessary to stage “the Greatest Swordfight in Modern Times”? Of course it occurred to me that it might not be a bad idea after Bob had suggested it. Was I going to admit that now, seconds after Mandy had promised no such assistance was necessary?

No frigging way.

“Sure,” I said. “We can do it.”

That night, as I shuffled around my room on my aching joints and muscles, I wondered what I’d gotten myself into. I could barely fight with my right hand! How the heck was I ever going to learn how to do all this with my left? I could barely walk or lift anything.

The second day of training, less than twelve hours later, was even worse. I spent the whole morning resting on my haunches, trying to ignore the burning in my legs.

“Told you you might be a bit stiff,” Peter said with a smile.

About an hour into training, I had stopped focusing on the stiffness and had moved on to severe doubt and dread. Not dread as in Dread Pirate Roberts—but real dread! Fear was creeping in.

Could I really do this?

Even though I had the finest teachers in the world, and a costar whose unwavering commitment pushed me to a level I thought unattainable, I began to realize that the art of fencing is exponentially more difficult to master than it appears to be. And if you are completely new
to this, even if you’re training several hours a day to achieve at least the appearance of proficiency, it’s almost impossible. I don’t care if you are the fittest guy on the planet with the dexterity of Yoda.

I may be many things but I am certainly not a quitter. So I kept going to the studio, day after day, and, thankfully, after a while things began to get a little easier. Slowly but surely, my muscles adjusted to the tasks expected of them. Inadequacy began to give way to competency. Peter and Bob broke everything down into minutiae. We’d train and train, learning one sequence at a time. They’d teach us the first five moves, then add another five moves, and then another set . . . and so on and so forth, until we finally had the basic outline of the whole fight.

After a while I started to gain more confidence, perhaps even becoming a little cocky. It’s a natural thing, I suppose, in any sporty endeavor, especially one that involves combat. I wanted to show off for my mentors, maybe even prove myself worthy of their respect.

“Come on, show me what you’ve got,” I’d say to Peter. Inevitably, shortly after that brazen comment, there would then be a quick flash of silver, the sound of metal clinking against metal, and I’d be suddenly standing there unarmed, my sword having been swept from my hand and deposited on the floor in what felt like less time than it takes to draw a single breath. As if I needed reminding, this was humbling proof that either one of these men, despite being three decades older, could kick my butt at a moment’s notice.

And so it went, for two and a half weeks. Mandy and I could not develop much camaraderie during this time because, for the most part, they kept us separated. Every so often they would bring Mandy into the studio where I was training with Peter and say, “Okay, let’s see you try it with each other. Just the first sequence.” Then we’d practice a couple times, make a few mistakes, and they’d separate us again.

At the end of each day I would drive home, bathe my aching
muscles in a hot bath, have a bite to eat, and work on the script. I’d devoured it cover to cover a few times already, and loved it more and more with each successive reading, but I hadn’t really begun memorizing all my lines. I tried a few times, but the day’s fencing efforts proved too draining. As soon as I’d curl up on the sofa and begin looking at the words, even with the best intentions, I’d crash having learned only a couple of scenes.

In the last few days before the start of principal photography, Bob and Peter explained that we had only skimmed the surface. The training would go on every day during the shoot. Unlike the other actors, we would not have the luxury of any downtime.

“If you have a single free moment, we’re putting a sword in your hand,” they promised.

And they weren’t kidding. They were on the set every day, lurking in the shadows, waiting for any opportunity to grab Mandy or me. They figured logically that if the fight training was put off until the end of the day’s shoot, we’d be too tired to give it much of an effort. So instead, they would stand behind the camera and wait like hawks. As soon as a new setup was called for—which opened a ten-minute window in the schedule—Peter would appear out of nowhere, rapiers in hand.

“C’mon. Let’s go. No time to waste.”

As a result, Mandy and I hardly ever sat down during the entire production. While the other actors were hanging out and generally having a good time, we were working on our fight sequence—day in and day out. For me, it was the equivalent of a graduate-level course in professional fencing from two masters. I will never forget it, and I am forever grateful.

5

M
y first day of filming on
The Princess Bride
was also the first day of shooting: August 18, 1986. Mandy and I had finished training at five o’clock the previous evening and a call sheet was delivered to the dance studio. I remember both of us getting words of encouragement from Bob and Peter as we left that afternoon, as well as assurances that they would be with us both every step of the way over the next few months. On the way back to my hotel I looked over the call sheet and saw there was a 5:45 a.m. pickup to go to the studio. I then looked over the filming schedule. For the first few weeks, Robin and I would be filming the scenes in the Fire Swamp on H Stage at Shepperton, the same set I had already visited with Rob while it was still under construction.

I recall sitting in my hotel room later, going over my scenes for the next day, and feeling just a tad anxious. Even though this wasn’t my first
studio movie, it was certainly the biggest. A lot was riding on my being able to pull this character off. Yes, I had studied the book ad nauseam, which was now crammed full of my notes. I had also gone over the script and done my usual notations in that, too. Nevertheless, I started feeling a little self-doubt. After all, aren’t all actors a bit insecure, as Bill and Rob have stated? So was I suffering from a case of good pregame butterflies? Sure, I’ll admit it. And to be fair, it was perfectly understandable given the circumstances. This was probably the most important role of my career. If I screwed it up, it would be a while before I would be offered another.

To quote Mr. Goldman from his book
Which Lie Did I Tell?
, “This is not a book about my neuroses—well, maybe it is—but anyway, I will cut to the chase.” I decided to call Rob over at the Dorchester. I knew that chatting with him would put me at ease. Of course, I didn’t come right out and admit that I was in any way nervous. Instead, I called under the guise of curiosity.

“Hiya, Cary . . . how’re you doin’?”

“Great. Thanks,” I said, trying to sound confident even though I don’t think he bought it. “How about you?”

“Great. How’s the fencing coming along?”

“Good,” I said. “Peter and Bob are incredible teachers.”

“They’re pretty great, aren’t they?” Rob said. “We’re all very excited to see what you guys have done.”

He went on to say that the plan was for Mandy and I to rehearse a version of the duel for him on the actual set once it was completed so we could get a feel for the terrain. That didn’t really concern me, though; there were other things on my mind.

“So what can we expect tomorrow?” I asked, getting straight to the point.

“We’re starting out with a fairly simple scene,” Rob said, his voice
brimming with excitement, just like a little kid. “You know, the one where you reveal how you became the Dread Pirate Roberts to Buttercup while you carry her through the swamp. Then all you gotta do is save Robin from the fire.”

Hmmmm. Saving Robin from a fire didn’t sound all that simple.

“Does that involve stunt work?” I asked.

“There are a couple stunts,” Rob went on. “But the stunt guys told me it’s all pretty basic stuff.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, like I said, one of them involves some fire, but they’ve assured me it’s no big deal.”

“Okay, cool.” Which is precisely how I was trying to sound.

“Yeah, and the only other thing is you guys are going to be sinking into some quicksand.”

Fire . . . quicksand . . . This was Rob’s idea of basic stuff?

“All right. That sounds like fun,” I replied, trying to sound as upbeat as possible.

I took a second, then finally let out what was on my mind.

“I just want to make sure I get him right. You know?”

Rob had been down this road enough times himself to recognize the tone of a restless actor when he heard one. I remember he replied in a very compassionate way.

“Cary, you don’t have to worry. You’re him. You got him, without even knowing it. It’s all there inside of you.”

Then he said something else I’ll never forget about the tone he wanted to strike with the characters.

“The important thing to remember, and this is what I have been telling everybody, is that even though I want you guys to have fun, I don’t want you to play it for the laughs, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. You want us to play it straight.”

“Exactly. Because Bill’s writing is so brilliant you don’t have to tip anything. The words alone will make people laugh. It’s all right there on the page. So like I said, you don’t have to worry about a thing. Okay? You’re gonna be fine. Trust me.”

I then thanked him and bid him good night before hanging up. Despite Rob’s very honest reassurances, I couldn’t help staying up late, poring over the next day’s scenes over and over again, making sure that I didn’t miss anything. That is, until I finally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.