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Monday, April 20th, 1999 — Helvetia & Bristol, Florence
I awoke later than usual; for two nights in a row I had dinner after eight PM. I had a carefully designed timetable for how I ate, a habit formed from being a performer in a musical theatre. I never ran down to such late hours for a dinner. Turns out that for Italians, dinner time is a social event, and it happened after eight when everyone stopped working, so exceptionally late for any other countries or cultures. These dinners took a lot of time as well; when eight out of ten crew and seven out of ten cast were Italian, it seemed almost inevitable for us to be dragged into such activities. Though, it was hard to complain when I was having dinner hangovers from the tasty meals in Firenze. If your idea of good Italian food was pasta and pizza, you were missing out on so many things. To be frank, I was missing out on a lot too but I had more time in Italy to try out more things.
My phone rang — Italy was an hour ahead of London and I only got calls from London.
"Hello?" I groaned.
"Wilf, my boy. Let's talk some of that good stuff," Adrian said.
"If that's meant to be American, you're doing it badly."
"Well, see if you still think so after you hear this… I've got you auditions, my boy!" Adrian all but sang.
That was enough to drag me out of my groggy haze.
"Auditions? Is it Billy Elliot?"
"No, it's overseas. You and your Billy Elliot… It's called Dancer. Dancer!"
Not if I had any say in it, I thought.
"Right, so if you were doing an American accent — and not some bizarre Kiwi thing — we must be auditioning for American films?" I said.
"My accents are perfectly fine, thank you. But quite right, I've got a few projects here," he laughed evilly, "The Dress Code — something about a genius kid. Works for you and your maths medals, eh? Cactus Kid — boy's got cancer and wants to rob a bank. A horror thing with no title yet, about the Antichrist —"
"I don't think my grandparents will let me do that one," I cut in.
"Then there's Chain of Fools, R-rated comedy… yeah, no, didn't think so." Adrian sighed. "Oh — you might like this. Says here: thirteen-to-eighteen-year-old boy accompanies a band to write a Rolling Stone article. Open casting call. And if you book it, I expect ten percent!" he added in a sing-song voice.
"Fine. We can update our agreement." If he was finding me work across the Atlantic, he deserved it.
"Right, casting call says they prefer actors who can play instruments or sing. Maybe lean into your talents. Brad Pitt and Sarah Paulson dropped out, so it's a bit of a mess."
"What's the film?" I asked. It sounded big, Brad Pitt was Hollywood.
"Almost Famous."
The information flicked straight into place. Adrian was wrong — the lead was definitely older than thirteen. There was a younger version I could play though…
"Sorry, is there no role for a kid? Eight to twelve. Not the lead, maybe a young version."
"No, that's the only one. They start filming soon. Went to open casting because of actors dropping out. But Kate Hudson's in it now."
I knew that. The film was practically about my life — the life I didn't remember. The revelations knew more because I'd been a musician in that past life. I was fairly sure about that; no one had that industry knowledge without being deep into a professional music career. Movie was about rock and roll. The '70s. Zooey Deschanel. Philip Seymour Hoffman — future Oscar winner. Only problem: the roles I could play weren't in the casting call.
"When does it film?"
"Beginning of June, but they want end of May if possible."
There was the problem. Billy Elliot was bigger — but I wouldn't mind featuring if it was a short shoot time.
"Want more? Because I've got more!" Adrian said, slipping back into his awful American accent.
"Fine. Go on."
"The Cell — ah, already cast. Bit late on that one, sorry about that. Angel Doll, Baby Bedlam, Beethoven's Third, Baby Brother Troubles, Brainiacs.com, Unbreakable, Bruno, Bored Silly… God, these all sound like straight-to-DVD material. Why are there so many B's? Anyway — all have roles for a kid."
"Unbreakable?" I said, half stunned at the buzzing in my brain.
"Yes. By some odd-named bloke. But he's a favourite with the big wigs, I reckon. Already got a film coming out this year and one with casting. His name is—"
Night Shyamalan, I thought right as he said it.
The Sixth Sense… I could've been in that. Bigger than Billy Elliot, even. Haley Joel Osment got an Oscar nomination and he was just a kid. And it wasn't even a particularly hard role. Revelations were brilliant, but couldn't tell me things I didn't already know. No point regretting — it was in the past.
Unbreakable though — interesting. I could be Bruce Willis's son. That actor was also in Gladiator, my mind supplied. Another revelation came bounding in.
"Was there anything period or Ancient? Anything like that?"
"No. Nothing."
Gladiator. Another one I'd missed. So many good films I could've been in. It was painfully clear I needed an American agent — or to get big enough that my agent got those calls too. I'd missed Star Wars, Gladiator, Sixth Sense… all career-makers. I'd been stuck in little old England. Star Wars had even come in town for casting but I wasn't interested in acting back then.
"Anything else?"
"Loads more, my boy. Loads more. US is massive compared to London. There's David Copperfield, but we knew about that ages ago — the TNT one."
That brought a bad taste in my mouth. Daniel had taken the role from me in another adaptation of the same film. Doing the American version now felt like acting in a second-rate film. But if we were going to be compared during auditions, it might as well be on the same material, right?
"I'll just list them, will I? You always want them read out, that's odd, you know that? But you go on and tell me what you want, and I'll send you the scripts or sides."
"How?"
"Fax, my boy. You're in a big hotel, right?"
"Oh. Maybe you should stop that 'my boy' thing. I don't get the reference."
"You're no fun in the morning. Right — George Washington — no, says Black kids only. Last I checked, you weren't black. Gepetto, Finding Buck McHenry, Delivering Milo, Flights of Fancy, Escape to Grizzly Mountain, some Brady Bunch documentary, I Dreamed of Africa, Jeremy's Egg, Stepsister From Planet Weird, Spring, Trial of Old Drum, Velveteen Rabbit, You Can Count on Me, Legend of Bagger Vance. Phew — let me breathe…"
"Million Dollar Kid, Mail to the Chief, Miracle in Lane 2, Runaway, Frequency, New Adventures of Spin and Marty, Newcomers, The Next Best Thing, some Christmas film with no title, another Christmas film with a generic Santa title, Pay It Forward, Perfect Game, My Dog Skip. That's all of it. Honestly, I think I need to hire this guy — makes sense to have someone in the States. This is loads."
So many films, but only a few matched my revelations. Pay It Forward — another Haley Joel Osment film. Frequency had Dennis Quaid. Dozens of titles, but I only cared about the ones that mattered. There was no point flying to America to do a cheap straight-to-DVD role; I had plenty of those in England. Child actors weren't paid much — the trip wouldn't be worth it. But some films, I could lose money on and would be glad on it.
"Frequency, Pay It Forward, Almost Famous, Unbreakable, and You Can Count on Me," I said, waiting for him to note them.
"You sure you don't want to audition for all of them? This cost me a big favour — and probably the wages for a new agent doing the legwork. I think I've got to hire that guy. Expand to the States."
"You said it already. But it's a great idea and I will need you to keep doing that. Maybe even expand to Spain. I can speak Spanish, got to lean into that. But, yes. I want to be selective if we're going global."
"Spain? Wilf, you're relentless. Fine, but I'll only do it if you book something from the US, fine?" I agreed, "Selective? I've barely told you anything besides titles and directors. You're a strange one, Wilf. You know that?"
I did know. I just couldn't say why that was.
"Send me the stuff. I need to get ready for the shoot."
"Oi, you still need to send me the hotel's fax num—"
"—Cheers!" I said, hanging up.
I didn't want Adrian to ever linger on my revelations or the movies I picked. My ability never liked leaving crumbs for others to follow and and prickled up like a stray cat at it. I had to work to conceal it even if I came off a bit rude. Though, it was a small price to pay for the knowledge.
Filming in America for all these films… it could really make me recognisable. It was all good films but, except for the Haley Joel Osment films, it was all supporting roles without much lines. Billy Elliot was still the key to the city as Americans said, though it was still called Dancer at the moment. That film would make my career while the others raised my profile. It seemed that I needed to find someone to film me for these self-tapes.
—✦—
Monday, April 20th, 1999 — 97 Via de' Tornabuon, Tuscany
We were outside one of the two oldest pharmacies in Firenze. As it turns out, Florence also had many more oldest or 'first ever' description to fit onto things or places. This was one of the two pharmacies but not the oldest in the world nor Florence itself. That one we would film in the vicinity of later in the summer when I came back from Great Expectations. Florence had the oldest museum, first ever paved streets in the world, first ever opera and even created the piano as we know it. This place was chock full of history and invention, but best of all, it had kept all the old charm without modernising and losing their history.
I kept staring at the numbers of the buildings, the street addresses. Ninety-seven was the plaque on the side of the building, yet the next building over was marked fifteen, while the opposite building had numbers both in the 90s and the 10s. I must have been making a great confused face because I was interrupted.
"You look like a tourist," Elda cut in, eyeing me staring at the street number like a lost puppy.
"I am a tourist," I said.
"You look like one now," she insisted, tapping my arm. "Looking at addresses and making faces. Like fish, yes? English like fish and chips."
"Har-har. Very funny. Now tell me why your addresses are all messed up."
"I would love to know too," Elda replied, tilting her head as though the street were personally offending her. "But the numbers in red are for business — for the mercati. The black ones are for houses, the good folk."
"This is worse than I thought, how do you even go places?" I muttered, squinting at the street numbers.
"You get used to it," she said with a dry little smile. "And if you do not… you go to the wrong address, and then you learn to not make mistake."
"Ehh… thanks," I said, shaking my head.
I hesitated, then cleared my throat. "Actually — could you help me with something?"
She raised a brow. "Sì?"
"I need to film some self-tapes for an audition. Could you find someone who does that? I can pay for their time."
"Oh?" Elda pursed her lips, amused. "Already looking for another job? Is that not rude? This an English thing."
"Fine, I'll do it on my own time—"
"Relax, ragazzo. Yes, yes. I find you someone. Sì."
"Erm… cheers," I said, though the way she looked at me made forming words feel like wading through muddy ground.
One thing I'd learned about studying other languages was that native speakers often preferred to switch into yours. Elda clearly wanted to polish her English. Perhaps she dreamed of going to London and finding some chap who loved fish and chips. Her very own fish and chips man. The thought made me almost gag — it didn't feel right. She seemed better suited to a German fellow, I decided.
I was reading off the sides while Maggie filmed a scene with Mussolini's soldiers — peacekeepers, terrorisers, the blackshirts. The entire shopping street had been closed for the shoot because Franco had an in with the mayor; being both a celebrated director and a senator had its perks. The pharmacy's exterior had been remade into a café for the scene. As it happened, this had once been a spot for Gran Café Donney, a favoured meeting place for the "Scorpini", the English noblewomen who lived in Florence during that era. The street lay just down from the British Consulate, so it made perfect sense that it had become a natural gathering point for the English community.
Have I mentioned how brilliant the revelations were? Before that, Billy Elliot had been the only film I was preparing to audition for where I'd actually seen the finished product. Now there were five, and all I had to do was outdo what I'd already watched. So many scripts came with vague notes, empty stage directions or sides that gave no clear hint of what emotion was meant to carry the lines. I still couldn't get over how incredible it was to have that advantage — a secret map no one else had. Something that even the directors didn't have.
"We're changing locations," Elda said with a tap on my shoulder.
We moved down the street where an actual café was to shoot the interior scenes. Movie magic things. Unfortunately, movie magic meant that I had to sit there for an hour while they set up, and then thirty more minutes while they fixed more stuff and got the background actors and the set ready. I preferred theatre when it came to stuff like this. Just sitting around while on the clock didn't really work for me.
Two cameras shot medium shots of Joan and Cher and another one for Maggie and the British Consul's table. Michael's character name on screen and on credit would be "British Consul" and nothing more. He was a funny Scouser who could put on the most posh English accent. He was just a few years younger than my grandparents and during those years an actor only got anywhere by using the Queen's English as would a proper man. That was where my brain kept coming back to. I needed Sally and I needed her soon. Jamie Bell's accent wasn't even great compared to the actor who played his father. Northern accent wasn't good enough. Geordie wasn't good enough. I wanted West Durham. Was Sally even coming, did Adrian get her contracted out and flying? Many worries and doubts.
"Are those sides? They are not for this film," a voice accused behind me.
I turned to find Luciano, the second AD, eyebrow already raised.
"Sorry. I've got a few self-tapes to send off."
"Uao…" Luciano drew it out, lips pursing. "Busy like a castorino, eh? What you work on?"
Busy as a little beaver? That was kind of rude. Though, I remembered it, to use for myself later.
"A song, and two dialogue scenes," I said with a shrug.
"Bene. Do it when you have free time, sì? Now we go. You're up!"
I folded the pages and forced myself into the zone. Being Luca Innocenti — except today I wasn't using my newly minted method. That would defeat the whole point for today.
"Sì, molto buono!" Franco called from behind his monitor, admiring Cher, Maggie, Joan — or the whole trio.
I took my place, obedient as ever. Franco's gaze slid to me, sharp and measuring. His director face — the one that kept everyone teetering on the edge just enough to perform with efficiency and little dawdling.
"Today, you are not Luca," Franco said. "Today, you are a piccolo ragazzo carino. Little. Cute. Boy. When they see you in the cinema, I want girls swooning and mamme and nonne wanting to pinch your cheeks, eh? The smile from before — you do that. Sì?"
He'd said the same thing in blocking earlier. I knew the assignment. Today, I had to be cute. Double dose of cute.
"Yes," I nodded.
"No, no, no. Already be cute. Be cute when you say sì. Start now!" Franco barked as he hobbled off.
I tried. Which is much harder than it sounds. Harder still when you can't see your own face — though I'd practised the expressions in mirrors and camera lenses plenty of times. Eventually, Franco seemed it good enough and I was relieved to see Luciano.
"Luigi! One Knickerbocker Glory, per favore!" Luciano laughed while I cycled through my expressions.
"I ring you up like a good boy, eh? I put it on Mister Zeffirelli's tab," the man — presumably Luigi — joked as he approached.
He held up an extravagant ice cream.
"One Knickerbocker Glory for the young boy," Luigi announced in an Italian American accent.
"He's Italian," Luciano teased.
"Yes, real Italian, the true blue. Leather is in my shoe, and in my face." Luigi shot back with a laugh.
"Eh, adesso basta," Luciano said, waving him off.
"Fine, fine. I'm American-Italian, if that's what you're wondering, kid," Luigi told me. "And don't eat from this. This one is for looking, not eating."
"Yes. Only from this side — where the white stuff is," Luciano added, turning the dish in his hands. "We put whipped cream. For camera, like this."
Off we went for the scene. In this particular one, I was put in new clothes by Cher and Joan babied over me while feeding me American dessert. Maggie turned her nose up at me and cursed my food choice and the scandalous outfit that Cher's character decided to put on me. All the while cameras shot the scenes and I held a pose until it was my turn to be on camera.
"Tongue out — no. Less out — yes, good out. Okay, smile right after," Franco coached me through it.
On my cue, I walked to my seat with my tongue slightly out in anticipation of a tasty treat. I looked to Joan and Cher before delivering the commercial smile/lady-killer that me and Georgie spent ages perfecting. Looking at Cher was enough for me to bring my charm out, and I hoped that it translated to the tape. At fifty-three years old, Cher looked younger than most women in their thirties. She also had this smile that, when you saw it, you could only smile in return. Perfect scene partner for this specific shot.
I only had to do the scene twice before Franco was happy with it. It was awkward to do my scene and just wait while Maggie and her table delivered their lines. So even if I did my part right, I'd still have to perform it if the others messed up. Extras got a lot of shouting from Franco for not doing things on cue. That was a hard task when there were ten different things happening all at once at any time. But, everyone had come through.
"That's the shot! Very good smile!" Franco declared. He wasn't smiling himself, despite the praise.
Even so, the tension in my shoulders eased.
"That's a wrap for today. Short day, eh? We get ready for Uffizi on Wednesday, sì? And— everyone, give big cheer for our lovely Cher! She has finished her filming. She must away!" Franco announced.
Cheer rose instantly — rapturous, Cher stood elegantly — glamorous.
"Thank you, thank you," she said, hands pressed together. "Y'all have been amazing. I've loved my time on this set. Working with all of you beautiful people has been special. If Franco gives his blessing, I'd like to invite everyone to a little wrap party. Some folks… like me won't be here after today, so why not celebrate now?"
She looked especially regal today; earlier scenes had her in an outfit that wouldn't look out of place now, but today she was every inch a queen — furs, pink jacket, double pearl on each ear, and a crown braid that made her seem as carved as Firenze's statues.
"You are really doing this?" Franco sounded almost offended, though loud enough for all to hear. "I have tight schedule to keep, you understand!"
The crowd froze — nothing halted noise on this set faster than Franco the Director. Production might outrank him on paper, but this was Florence, and Franco ran Florence.
"Because I must say…" he began gruffly, though his tone softened halfway through, "I like this very much. We go to this villa of yours, eh? We celebrate like there is no tomorrow. There is a quote, from Laurence himself…" His eyes drifted toward Joan, misting. "Good company, good wine, good welcome can make good people."
Joan huffed a laugh, lips pinched. "You're mixing your Henrys. That's not from Henry V — and certainly not a quote my late husband said."
"Eh! Non mandare tutto all'aria," Franco sighed. "Still! We celebrate. Who among us can say we have partied with three lions and a Cher?"
Cher laughed like it was the cleverest line she'd ever heard, and everyone else joined in a beat late.
"I thought Franco had a bad hip, not a bad mouth," she teased once the laughter simmered down. "And just to be clear — we planned this together. That's why I moved to a friend's villa! Dinner's on me and Franco. We'll feed you and entertain you."
This time the cheer was deafening.