In early November 1984 I got a week’s work on a Paramount picture called Lady Jane
being directed by the biggest name at the time -
Central Casting said I was to turn up at Lee International Studios in Wembley where
I was to be an extra although exactly what type of extra they could not specify.
They just said “It’s a costume drama. Wardrobe will kit you out when you get there.”
Lady Jane was the love story of Lady Jane Grey (played by Helena Bonham Carter in
her first major film) and Cary Elwes as Lord Guilford Dudley. Lady Jane Grey had
been Queen of England for nine days before being beheaded at the Tower of London
in 1554 and it was one of the most dramatic events in the history of the English
monarchy. David Edgar had written a brilliant screenplay from a story by Chris Bryant
and there had already been quite a buzz about the film in the press during the previous
weeks.
When I arrived at the studios I was informed that I was going to be one of
Helena Bonham Carter’s guards at the Tower of London and was immediately sent off
to be fitted for a beard. This development had two great advantages. Firstly, the
wearing of a beard fell into the special tariff of a film extra and brought with
it an additional fee of £25 a day. Other ‘specials’ as they were known were having
your clothes deliberately made wet (a city pavement rainstorm for example) or having
a custard pie thrown in your face (a ruling, I imagine, originating in the silent
movie era or perhaps during some Norman Wisdom films). The only requirement was that
you had to return the beard at the end of the day to get your bonus. No beard, no
twenty-
Secondly, and far more importantly, the beard meant I had to be made-
Trevor Nunn was an extraordinary director to work with and seemed to thrive on dreaming
up bits of ‘business’ for us extras to do. He had me frog-
The journalists were all assembled and Trevor Nunn duly introduced
me. “This man is playing one of Lady Jane Grey’s guards at the Tower of London. He
will answer any questions you may have.” He then beetled off to another sound stage
with his cinematographer Douglas Slocombe and left me to deal with their enquiries.
All I could think of was how I was going to blag my way through this unexpected task.
After all I was just a bearded extra clanking around the set and hardly qualified
to be a spokesman on such a major film.
The group of journos immediately surrounded me with questions galore and one of them
asked me what my armour costume was made of? I replied that it was made of metal,
probably tin, and tapped it with my finger to make the appropriate sound. But the
journalist was not satisfied and insisted it had to be plastic. I repeated that it
was not plastic and was metal. By this time all his colleagues had grouped up behind
him and were all talking to each other nineteen to the dozen in Japanese. There was
much disbelief and shaking of heads as they each tapped away at my costume. I felt
like a tree under siege from a squadron of Woodpeckers. Eventually one of them asked
me if I would let him wear the breastplate and helmet so he could decide for himself
if it was made of plastic or metal. I looked around for unit support but there was
no-