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Sunday, April 18th, 1999 — Fiesole, Tuscany
First day of shoot started with a relaxed attitude. The cast and crew had done some hard shoots with tanks and other heavy war equipment the week before in San Gimignano, so Franco's idea was to start with a nice picnic. The joke landed well and got some chuckles because there was an actual picnic scene in the script. The one we were off to film.
So at around ten, we all boarded buses, cars and vans to make our way towards Fiesole, a commune only five kilometres away from Florence city centre. It gave me the vibes of first day back to school. More than a year since I had been in a project with any camera on me. My stomach was going from buzzing with excitement to knotting in anxiety and fear in turns.
There was no base camp for today — the plan was not to dawdle and spend more than a day here to film few minutes' worth of footage. I had no idea how Franco worked, but even Mr One Take, Andrew Morgan, had spent a day on set or more — get all the shots necessary and only leave when it was done. Clearly, Franco wasn't planning to come to Fiesole again. When the bus stopped, the theory seemed to catch more credibility. Trailers were there, diminished even compared to what I had on Children of the New Forest — only the props and hair and makeup department, along with one massive tent for shading and the mobile kitchen, was set up.
The crew moved at speeds that just couldn't be compared to what I saw in England. This crew was familiar with each other and worked with marked efficiency. While I went through the costume department and then hair and makeup, the set was already constructed. With this being an outside set, main problems were the dollies, tracks, cameras and blocking. They had even set up lights to be used despite the sun shining brightly overhead.
I was given white socks, leather boots, matching shorts with suspenders and a white polo. It was all period-appropriate stuff, and I couldn't help but gawk at the mirror as I observed myself. I either looked like a child of some rich millionaire doing equestrian training or a kid from the 19th century.
"They're already complaining," one of the makeup artists said.
"Who started it?" Maria Teresa asked.
"Maggie," Giuseppe answered, laughing.
"I expect my five euros soon," Maria Teresa grinned.
There was a whole game on set about whether Cher's team or the three lionesses would start complaining first. You'd think with how many lionesses there were, it'd be Cher who was the underdog. Yet the results were even enough for even odds to emerge.
"One hour until shoot starts — you're needed for blocking rehearsal," Luciano came in to notify me.
Did I forget to tell you that nepotism was how the industry worked? Luciano was Franco's "illegal" adult son and the second AD on Tea with Mussolini's set.
I opened my eyes to a sun-struck road just as a cream-white convertible rolled toward its mark — black trim, chrome bumpers and mirrors gleaming like fresh silver. The thing looked carved from cherry wood, rather than built from parts. One of the prop guys had told me it was at least ten years too modern for our period film, but honestly, who cared when it shone like that?
I shut my eyes again, forcing myself into Luca Innocenti's character. Orphan — bastard — prodigy with a brush, shy as a maid.
"Taglia! Prepare second camera — steadicam on Luca!" Franco barked.
Yesterday he'd been soft-spoken, spent. On set he was electric, like a man possessed. He belonged here. I ran through every note he'd thrown at me during blocking, trying to feel the rhythm of it all. The beat behind it. Today the lens would follow me — every action, every word.
"Ready, kid?" David asked. Same age as Franco, and looking slightly misplaced behind the rig in his age.
"Ready," I said.
When I opened my eyes again, the world slid away. The camera and its operator hung at the edge of my vision inviting me to look, but my mind scrubbed it out. I stood still, pulse steady, waiting for my cue.
"Motore!"
Tape spun up — audio and video, both units running. Familiar sound of tape.
"Partito!"
A thumbs-up from the audio guys.
"Ciak!"
The slate cracked shut, loud enough to slice the air making a sharp sound. Insiders called it a slate; for me, it was the signal. I didn't need the final word but it came anyway.
"Azione!" Franco roared.
I ran over with an open mouth, making sure to run on the invisible line that Franco and his first AD instructed me to follow. When I neared the car, I crashed into the bumper to stop my momentum. Laughing, I looked the car from left to right. My head made movements that weren't in the script nor in Franco's direction. It just felt right and, really, I admired the car. When my eyes reached the chrome Jaguar, I couldn't help but boop its nose with my hand.
"Excuse me!" Cher said from inside the car.
I didn't even hear her words. My eyes were only for the car.
"Ma che bella maccina!" I said in admiration of the craft that had gone to it,
"Cut!" Franco thundered from behind his monitor.
He immediately laid into his first AD, voice echoing across the set. A moment later Pippo was doing a sprint out of a walk towards me.
"Luca, Franco says you say the line wrong," Pippo announced.
Pippo — the elder of Franco's two "sons" in everything but paperwork. I rewound the moment in my head. Somewhere in the take my brain had translated Italian to English, then tried to translate it back, and of course it twisted the word on me.
"Wouldn't it make more sense to say maccina? Nobody calls it automobile in Italy," I said.
"But this is old time," Pippo insisted. "In those days they say automobile."
"Maybe the English did," I shot back — and then immediately saw the reason. My mouth snapped shut so fast my teeth clattered.
I thought I'd done the clever thing — tried to match Luca's instincts. I'd forgotten the simple truth: Luca was being raised by English women. Their speech would bleed into him. He should say automobile. The whole point of the scene was to show that he was becoming anglicised, at least that's what Italians would understand when viewing the film. I was playing Luca Innocenti — but in the moment, I was the one who was innocent of the script's intention.
"Sorry. I was wrong. I'll say it the right way," I said, nodding.
"Bene. We go again from the top," Pippo said in English.
"Yes." My eyes dropped — and that's when I noticed the oily fingerprint smudges I'd left all over the pristine car.
"Can we wipe this first?" I asked, pointing at the mess.
"Yes, yes. Daniele! Come — clean this now!" Pippo barked.
My first take of the entire film was already blown. Some actors swore it was good luck to ruin the first one, some said it was a bad omen. I didn't lean any particular way. Georgie always said you rarely nailed it on take one anyway. Andrew Morgan hated second takes. Franco hated improvisation. And I, apparently, hated understanding the scene before acting it out.
"Ciak!" The slate cracked shut.
"Azione!"
I ran down again — all the nerves from minutes before wiped clean, just as they always were once the scene started from the top. Stage habits die hard. My eyebrows lifted, my mouth eased open, all restrained enough to keep it honest for the screen as I fixed my mind on the car. With a car that beautiful, there was nothing to fake.
"Excuse me!" Cher called from inside the gleaming vehicle and mirror like sunglasses.
"Ma che bella automobile…!" I breathed, full of awe.
"Umm…" Cher said, unsure.
I turned toward her, one hand still fastened to the car like I refused to let it pull away.
"Can you tell me where a Signora Georgina Rockwell is?" Cher asked.
That's when I really took her in — pearls upon pearls, a hat that belonged in a museum from the future, white dress, white silk gloves, sunglasses so glossy I could see my tiny self reflected in them.
The last few days had forced me to learn how to code-switch. So I shifted into the odd in-between accent Sally had coached — English smoothed, Italian colouring the edges. Not how either nationals truly spoke, but it would keep Sally quiet when she saw the final cut. Film industry had built expectations and I needed to match them even if it's a silly accent.
"You mean Georgie?" I asked, squinting in the sun. "She's over there!" I pointed behind me.
Third camera was already planted for the over-the-shoulder shot, framing the new angle just right.
"Thanks a million, kid!" Cher said, smiling as bright as her pearls.
"Taglia, taglia! Move to next scene!" Franco barked, pushing himself up from his chair.
Second take — nailed it. All the worry about hitting marks or pointing off-frame just right for the camera that I couldn't see evaporated in an instant.
"Great job, kid!" Cher said, her voice dipped in the cartoonish American twang she was putting on for the film.
"Thank you. And you look… moltobella today!" I said, adding every bit of boyish charm I could exude.
"Well, aren't you a real charmer?" Cher chuckled, glancing at her driver. "Can we move off now? I hate this seat."
"Wait for second AD," the driver said in rough, heavy English.
Luciano — Franco's second son and second AD — jogged over, with Franco limping behind him.
"Molto bene, mia cara, always you do fantastico work," Franco said, beaming at Cher. "Now we go to the scene with the news reporter. I want that accent—that accent. You bring all the anger for the old husband who doesn't even treat you to a painting of Picasso."
"Sì, Franco, you've got it!" Cher laughed, making finger guns.
Then Franco turned to me. His smile vanished; his eyes narrowed like he was grading me in real time.
"You and me," he said, tapping his chest, "we run the scene again. Come. Bring your chaperone — I need someone for blocking."
Before I could answer, he pivoted and walked off, favouring his good leg with each short, impatient step.
What had I done wrong? Franco looked genuinely annoyed — or worse, disappointed. I watched him hobble to the edge of our marked "set", waving for Elda to come in from her spot by the pile of equipments.
Fiesole was famous for the Roman settlement that used to be here. There was dug up ruin of an Etruscan temple which was converted into a Roman school of priestly learning. Work was completed and dug up to satisfaction, but for the movie's sake, there were tents, workbenches, ladders and sticks hammered into the ground. I even spied a wheelbarrow that didn't seem quite period accurate but who was I to complain?
It physically hurt me to watch the old director walk up the steps of the ruins. Temples were gone now and walls had fallen, yet some of the stairs in lower ground still survived by virtue of being buried away earlier.
"Now — here is the stone you can lean against in the scene," Franco said, patting a sun-warmed block as if blessing it. "Luca! You are very curious about what this new American woman — dressed like a peacock — is saying. You don't understand half, sì?"
"Yes. I understand," I replied in English.
Franco loved switching languages mid-direction.
"No, you don't understand." He said in joke but turned serious again, "Stand there," he said, stabbing a finger toward the broken pillar.
I moved to it, shifting my weight until I found a position that felt natural. Franco rattled off instructions to my chaperone, Elda, then to a crewman I'd never met.
"Sit here, sit there. Tu! Come over. Stand here," Franco said, waving them into place like chess pieces.
There were no marks on the ground — it was an outdoor wide shot — and Franco was eyeballing his angles.
"Now, talk! Gossip about the three lioness or whatever new drama is brewing here," Franco said, shaking his head. "Luca, you are interested, but not too much. Not so eager to be noticeable, yes?"
"Yes." I nodded.
I tested the pillar again. The pillar that was not a pillar was the perfect height for me to rest my head when leaning on it, and a lower ledge gave my raised knee a place to rest on. My hand naturally slid up to cushion my temple; my body fell into a casual, listening pose. I shot a look to Franco, seeking approval.
"Don't look at me, Luca. You listen to the gossip, listen to the scene." Franco snapped.
He circled the space, while the extras made of crew murmured greetings to Elda — who was standing in for Cher. I half-listened, imagining how Cher and Lily would actually play it as opposed to these crew members.
"That's it!" Franco barked at me. "That is the face. Thinking but not deep, listening but not deep. Sì. Now — here."
He pivoted to the little cluster of chaperone and crew.
"I want you to hand over… ah." He grabbed a fist-sized rock off the ground. "This! You imagine it is money. This random boy has done you some service and he is lingering for no reason. You try to give him money so he goes away, yes?"
"Yes—" Elda started.
"Good. Now try. Action!"
She offered it to me stiffly.
"No! Not good. Think of it like a tip. You take it from your purse, then hand it out. Make him reach for it. You are the stronger party, you have something he wants. You are not a nice woman." Franco wagged a finger, pacing to check more angles.
Elda flushed but adjusted, doing it again but with touch more attitude.
"Okay — will do for now," Franco sighed. "Now, Luca — you are not interested in the money, yes? You are only curious about this new woman. Don't accept the money. Money is a poison."
He pointed at Elda. "You — what's your name?"
"Elda."
"You are basically Elsa! How funny. You recognise this boy! He was a toddler last you saw him. He is son of your good friend. 'Luca? Are you Luca?' Say it like you mean it."
Elda obeyed immediately — not overthinking — which made her delivery better than the last time.
"Smile, Luca! She knows you! You don't know her, but you are happy to be recognised. No friends, no family — sì?"
I nodded, fixing that thought into place.
"Now she beckons you closer. You must sit next to her. When I say azione, you all perform like I told you. You two just stand there. You face here — and you, you sit there."
Franco clapped once, sharp as a firecracker, to seal the instructions.
He walked around the place, trying to imagine the angles that the camera would shoot from. I'd seen the plan for this when we were setting up but Franco seemed to want to make sure that he had the best angles possible even to the last minute.
"Azione!" he shouted,
I was ready at once, I was just standing but I leaned to the side in the pose I had decided on in a casual manner. I tried to imagine Cher there, but then thought that when she was actually there it would be hard. So I studied Elda's expression even as I thought about Cher. I'd just use that memory when it was Cher sitting there.
"Luca? Is that you? Luca! Come here!" Elda said, the magic of the moment before was lost. She read it like she was reading lines off a page.
I still gave her my best winning smile that I had perfected with Georgie back in London. She called it the commercial smile. I didn't do commercials but I could call it the lady killer. At her last word, I pushed myself off the pillar and walked like I didn't really want to. Bit of that shyness to sell the character.
"Elda, try and touch his shoulder. Check his strength. And give him a hug — first time in years. Cute kid, one plus one is two, yes? Makes sense? Go!"
She hugged me, and Franco jumped straight to his next instruction. Then it was my turn.
"She is holding your shoulder and speaking about your mama, who has died, sì? You don't want to admit she is dead. You must be sad. You get away from this hug, you don't want this. You walk over there and take a seat. Try to show your sadness. Action!"
We started again. I felt a thrill — this was so much more communicative than the production with Andrew, who only redid takes when multiple people erred or take was unusable.
"No, no! Not good, Luca. Not good! Your legs, they have lead in them! Shoes are wet, ground is swampy. Hard to walk! Walk with weight of sadness, walk with defeat! Again!"
I obeyed. When I finally nailed it, he cut us and delivered the next jab.
"Try to hate the hand — really try to get away! But no push, no push! Sway your shoulders, move your head, sell it! Think of Elda as a smelly old hairy man, sì? Go!"
On and on it went. Five minutes stretched to ten, ten to twenty. The camera crew moved around us as they set up their shot, Franco giving tight commands to them even as he directed — "Più vicino! Angle tighter! Third camera, close-up of reporter now!"
"Sun will be in position in half an hour," Luciano called.
"Si! Everybody off, we need the space!" Franco barked, kicking us out.
I was buzzing, charged by the intensity of his direction. He watched, he honed in on me, directed in ways no one had before. Franco reminded me of Steven Pimlott with clarity and motivation — no constant jokes, no abstruse metaphors. No obscure movie references, no plays or musicals I'd never seen. Short, sharp, exact. Every word aimed straight at emotion he could evoke from his actors and onto the scene.
This was the real acting that I'd been looking forward to. The end result of this scene would probably not be the finest acting I'd be remembered for. I had no lines, it was all physical and it was short. But I already felt a better actor for understanding the process better and being told that some poses or gestures didn't look as good as I thought they did. It was an invaluable lesson with a director who had directed the best Romeo and Juliet adaptation.
"Let's get you some water." Elda said,
"How did you like that, Cher?" I teased Elda,
"It was fine." Elda said deadpan,
"Oh?" I said studying her,
"Oh, indeed. Now, let's walk. I am parched."
She had a mask didn't she?
—✦—
Fifteen minutes later the same scene repeated but with Cher, Lily and Tessa (as a reporter) being given an instruction and some notes. We would only have limited amount of time to get the shot done. Especially the wide-angle one, so Franco kept on and on about how important it was for us to nail the scene unless we wanted to lose an extra day here.
"Azione!"
"Here!" I said, pointing toward our newly workshopped scene.
Franco didn't like that we'd have to record the line in post and match it to the footage, but he loved what he called l'interesse visuale. From the car, the wide-angle shot would pan and tilt upward, keeping us in frame as we moved diagonally from left to right, bottom to top. My pointing hit the precise angle, rehearsed enough to be camera-ready and greenlit. Filming and acting often made no sense, but I couldn't wait to see the dailies — if Franco would let me.
"From the top again. Cher, keep holding Luca's hand," Franco called, eyes sharp.
I noticed something odd — Cher was called Cher, everyone else by their character name. What was that about?
We went again. I pointed, hit my mark perfectly, but as we neared our B point, Franco cut us.
"The timing is not good. No, no — it's not you," he said, striding off to speak with David, the cinematographer.
"Azione!"
The fourth take seemed fine. I suspected it had more to do with the sun — the lights were set to use the stationary sun. Change the angle, and resetting for another take would have been impossible. There were still a whole scene and three camera angles to cover while dialogue happened. One mistake, and everything could unravel.
I sat out as the reunion scene was filmed, the two women bringing in enough cheer, giggles and screaming to draw the eyes of everyone within miles. Americans were really loud, especially when there was at least two of them.
"Print, we're losing daylight. Let's go to the next scene."
I got to my mark, planning to stay in character until I would be on the frame. Which wouldn't happen until Cher and Lily had their dialogue.
Cher and Lily had already run seven takes. At first, the makeup artists dabbed fake sweat onto Lily's face, but now it glistened for real. Agonising, yes, but strangely familiar — like performing the same scene 154 times on the West End. I had done that, how crazy was that?
Lily and Tessa were flawless; their lines were minimal. Cher, though, carried the monologue, punctuated by tiny interjections from the other two. So, if she messed up once it ruined the take. Franco also seemed to want something different. I kept my timing true and my expression correct, just as Franco had instructed — curious, introspective, a flicker of thought and distance in my eyes.
When Cher handed me the money — and the cut wasn't called — I was surprised. I used that energy for my own, I withdrew my hand from my knees, glancing away. My posture screamed refusal: I didn't want the money. My mind offered me the reasons why I didn't want it: useless, outdated, not even legal tender anymore. Small gestures, yes, but Franco seemed to approve. No cut came. We kept rolling.
"Luca! Luca! Luca!" Cher's voice trilled over and over, each time her expression moving from surprise to delight.
"My God! Look at you — you have sprouted like a little bean since the last time I saw you!" Cher mussed my hair, hugging me tight.
Even in character, I could feel her energy — genuine, unforced. The scene wasn't cut; she was truly happy to see me, she couldn't fail the take. I laughed awkwardly, smiling shyly. Cher smelled of perfume and smiled sunshine, radiating warmth.
"Now, you tell your mother that I'm going to need a completely new wardrobe, so I plan to keep her as busy as a little beaver!" Cher continued,
Luca's character was in control. I had seen the orphanage and the story of those who had lost their parents or never had the privilege of knowing them. The words from Cher felt like ashes pouring on me. I jerked away from her hands mussing my hair, my neck tugging away from her warmth that seemed toxic to my new state of mind.
"She's really better than anyone else, better than Schiaparelli and—" She stopped suddenly as I walked away.
"Elsa!" Lily called.
"What?" Cher asked.
"There was no chance to tell you, but Clara's dead."
"My God, Georgie."
"Nothing to be done. Just—"
The words faded from my whirling thoughts. Instead of imagining sad and make-believe memories about a fictional mother for Luca, I used the stories of the orphanage boys — but mostly what the revelations had told me about. Mass graves of babies were dug up in Ireland. An evil beyond what a human should be capable of, committed by those who act the highest and mightiest among us.
I stood atop the ruins of an ancient temple, the fractured stones and scorched walls whispering of wars long forgotten. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, might have perished here, swallowed by the passage of time. Each step I took felt heavy, small against the weight of history. The air smelled of dust and decay in the frame of my mind, a ghostly reminder that death is inevitable — and merciless. Thinking of the orphanage, the Magdalene laundries, the hushed stories of suffering, I felt hollow, a vessel emptied by history. I couldn't even draw up some anger, for that had no place against the past, the unchangeable events. To act, I reminded myself, I needed to feel — true empathy only emerges from real emotion. It applied to the audience, to the viewers, even through the silver screen.
As Luca Innocenti, my mind tangled Wilfred Price's memories with the echoes of this place. Confusion and sorrow pressed in like the walls around me. I sank onto the stone steps. One leg swung down the ruined steps; it refused to move further, strength sapped from it. The other knee rose naturally, an instinctive support for my upper body. My head leaned against it, fighting gravity as though it might fall to the ground, shoulders slumping under the weight of the emptiness. Despite Franco's careful coaching I had strayed off-script, again.
But the emotion was raw, uncontainable.
My eyes lingered on the first green shoots pushing through the dirt. Life, I realised. New and young. Life was but death in transition.
"Cut! Print it." Franco shouted, "Great job, everyone. We've got the shots. All of you here are done for the day."
I had a whiplash from Franco's words. I jerked to look at the cameras, all three of them. Crew members swarmed around us, dozens moving with purpose, while hundreds lingered at the edges of the next set, buzzing with anticipation. The picnic of Lady Hester was on the docket, Cher and Lily embraced as cheers rose from the crew. We were wrapping.
I had tangled Meisner with Method, letting Luca Innocenti and Wilfred Price collide together. My own memories, my future echoes sent back with revelations, all bled into one performance. Dangerous, every acting coach I've had warned me off full method, yet I was buried so deep with my own method that couldn't pull back. Each heartbeat, every pulse of raw emotion, all for a few seconds on screen — seconds where I wasn't even the focus. And still, pride surged through me, radiant in the win.
First wrapped filming day after a whole year spent away from the big cameras. My own method of acting had borne fruit. A proof of concept — an acting system or method forged for me, by me. Then there was the director who actually directed, who spent hours dissecting the character, the scene, the set. Who told stories of the period, of his life, and made us understand his vision. Confidence radiated from the crew here, so different from my BBC days.
When I first arrived in Florence, my excitement had been subdued, smothered by my thoughts of Billy Elliot and the better film waiting around the corner. But now… now it burned again. A fire for the craft, for the people, for everything I could absorb from these talented artists, best actors. Italy, I realized, wasn't just a road for me to pass through — it was the forge, and I was ready to be tempered.