I'm like a nervous schoolgirl with my stuntman
Steven Berkoff on the relationship between an actor and his stunt double — and the trouble he got into when filming a scene that forced him to face his own fear of heights The stunt double does all the hard stuff that you the actor either cannot do or should not do lest you injure yourself, and are out of the movie. I have a very pleasant stunt double, a 'Berliner', he confides to me proudly, a real one, he adds. I am running from my tormentor and leap from the balcony on to some scaffolding but there is a gap of about four feet and a drop of about 20 feet, so real injury should he slip, and I sweat just at the thought of it. I ask him how he will leap off the narrow ledge since he has to leap up to the ledge and then a further leap to the scaffold. He says he's not sure yet, in a nonchalant way and with no sense of the slightest danger. He is used to this. He is a stuntman. The stuntman faces danger and does not blink. In fact, he is challenged by the danger, challenged by what makes actors tremble in their socks.
He makes it all right, and when he lands the film cuts to find me 'landing' or rather crouching as he did when he landed on the wooden planks. The planks on the scaffolding are not much more than three feet wide but they are 20 feet up and I must look as if I've landed, then turn and step on to a ledge leading to an alcove. The director has been looking forward to this scene since he is enamoured of hair-raising events. However, I have somewhat dashed his enthusiasm by revealing that I can't bear heights. I become ashamed of my puny fears when I see electricians clambering all over the scaffolding preparing it for the next scene. My stuntman Steve, the 'Berliner', however seems aware of my dilemma and offers to acclimatise me to it slowly. I climb the metal ladder but when I get to the top my body suddenly turns to lead and I seem unable to swing my leg around to get to the bloody board. I start to panic somewhat and descend a couple of rungs, take a breather and then climb again. This time two pairs of strong stuntman's arms haul me to the platform. I'm up and standing on the boards which rest on the scaffolding but I'm gripping the arms of Steve. His strength seems to calm me somewhat and I trust him In my whole weak nervous being, I draw strength from this man.
My courage has wilted, and the acid of fear slowly drips on to my ego. I try to send messages to reassure myself . . . I have, and can face, a thousand from a stage... I can be fearless. This work is for brute beasts without physical fear. Fear comes from a surfeit of imagination, but then I see the director leap on to the scaffolding and he not only does it but does it with bravura.
I feel all their eyes on me now. I have just to walk on to the scaffolding planks, crouch down and then swiftly move into the alcove where I am safe. Meanwhile, everyone is carrying on with their work. I think the plank walkway is too narrow and there's room, I say, for one more plank. Then, without a second's hesitation, the stuntmen are crawling up and down, lifting long planks, shunting them in. Like ants, they are crawling all over it and feeling not the faintest wisp of discomfort. These are tough, virile, young Germans.
Now they have widened the plank path and Steve says, 'Just step out, I'm here, try not to look down.' I step out and it feels perfectly normal, except as I step out I grip on to his arm like a nervous schoolgirl. I have become ancient, feminised, clinging to the powerful arm of a man. Oh, how we depend on the strength of men! And what a comforting strength it is. He says again, 'Just walk out and you'll get used to it, then when they shoot, I'll leave you in the crouch position, then take the step into the alcove and turn.' I do it and it seems ridiculously easy. 'Don't look down,' he keeps admonishing, but I can't help it — my eyes are being drawn out of my skull almost daring the floor to come up to me. We're getting near the shoot. Now, as if to shame me even more, I see the make-up lady climb over the balcony and walk without the slightest hesitation across the wooden planks — and she is carrying her large make-up box!
We're getting close to a 'take' and it's as if all the fears in the world that have gathered in my head are ready now to explode and humiliate me. . . what kind of man is this? I test the plank a few more times . . . I beg forgiveness from Steve, my understanding double, for my pathetic angst. 'Don't worry,' he says and comfortingly adds, 'There are skilled stuntmen who won't do anything on heights.' Sounds a bit unlikely but am somewhat appeased by his story. What a gulf of fear, and whence does it come? And on the set, exposed, undressed in front of my colleagues.
But the director is satisfied that at least I can stand on the thing, although no doubt he had a more ambitious scenario worked out. But he is a cultivated man and makes allowances.
As the magic moment of the 'take' grows nearer, there seems to be an almighty bustle and everyone appears to be inspired by my fear to leap on to the scaffolding as if in some crude display of mockery; lights, carpenters, focus pullers! Suddenly, it's like the Cirque du Soleil! We do the take. It's OK and I can't look down because I'm facing the actor, one of Austria's most celebrated, Tobias Moretti. It's over, but this time I won't climb laboriously down the ladder. I walk across the scaffolding and climb over the balcony just like everyone else. But not quite. I still seize the arm of my protector, but I get through it. And I suppose that is the main thing.
Steven Berkoff 2007
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