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Part 9

As mentioned in my last dispatch, I had settled into a routine during the shooting: Show up, check in, eat dinner, change into my tuxedo, and wait to be called. Play cards, flirt with the ubiquitous beautiful Czech girls, stand outside and smoke while watching the crew set up. Go back in, play another game of hearts, maybe read some of my book. Get called for a scene, brush the lint off my lapel, check my tie in the mirror, and feel my pulse race as the director yells, “Background!”

Then that routine changed.

I once helped crew a 36-foot sailboat from Acapulco to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Extra work and sailing have something in common—long stretches of nothing to do, punctuated by periods of high excitement. To further torture the sailing analogy, the other Gangsters and I had now entered the doldrums—there was no hint of a breeze, and our boat wallowed listlessly in the glassy sea, going nowhere.

For three shooting days in a row, my four friends and I were never called for a scene. The shot here is Jarda (the Gangster who is really a police chief). Marek is showing off for the camera, threatening to bash him with a water bottle. What can I say? When you’re bored, anything is amusing.

We began to make jokes about re-writing the script, or going on strike. As far as I know, they were shooting scenes requiring only “Casino Guests.” But despite the slowdown, I found several ways to occupy my time—my favorite of which was wandering around, meeting people and asking how they came to be on the set of a James Bond film.

One of them was a black guy in his late twenties. We were standing in line for dinner when I asked him, in English, where he was from. Turns out he hailed from Congo, and was finishing his medical studies in Prague.

“Really?” I asked. “I’m from Arizona. Do you miss the heat as much as I do?”
He smiled, displaying brilliant white teeth. “Yes,” he said. “I am going to return as soon as I have my degree.”
“How does a guy from Congo end up in Prague?”
“My uncle was the ambassador to the Czech republic,” he said. “I came here five years ago to study. Right now I have a holiday from school, so I decided to make a little pocket money.”
“Cool. I assume you speak Czech?”
Another smile. “Yes, I’ve found that speaking Czech helps when your classes are in Czech.”

As it happened, Philip was fluent in four languages: His native dialect (of course), Czech, French, and English. I shook my head in admiration. I have a little French, and can get by in Spanish, but I am something of an exception in America, where multilingualism is a rarity. Living in Europe, I was constantly impressed by people who could speak four or five languages.

“Why do you want to return to Congo?” I asked. “As a doctor, can’t you make a lot more money in Europe, or other more developed countries?”
“Of course.” He looked serious. “But I want to help my country. We need doctors, businesspeople, agricultural experts…” his voice trailed off.

We talked for a while about Congo, and as he spoke of conditions in his country I was made aware of the huge disparity between our lives’ experiences. I can wake up in my city and go to the store to buy anything I can imagine, or see a film, or simply have a picnic in the park without worrying about violence. But since 1998, over 3 million people have died in Congo as a result of conflict. How do you get your mind around that?

Yet he was not embittered; far from it. He was optimistic and hopeful, and eager to make a difference. I wished him luck, and still do.

I’d also chatted for a while with one of the Girlfriends, a model from Prague. She was 21, and an absolute stunner—a young Charlize Theron, with long blonde hair and green eyes. Her costume was a pale green halter-style evening gown, cut extremely low in the front. Apparently the fit wasn’t perfect, because while we talked she was constantly shifting things around.

Maintaining eye contact was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done in my life.

She was also a student in university, and was modeling as a way to make extra money. Like most of the Girlfriends I spoke with, she was very friendly and direct, and completely unimpressed with her own beauty. Rather than being starstruck and dreaming of a modeling career, she was looking forward to finishing school and working, and then “meeting a nice man and having a family.”

“How do you feel about older men?” I said.
She smiled. “I think a man should be about ten years older than the woman,” she said.
“How about 24 years older?”
Her smile became a grin. “That is too old, I think.”
Sigh. Then a thought struck me. “Do you have an older sister?”

There was another interesting foursome that I occasionally joined for a game of Uno. They too were black, the two women dressed in traditional dashikis with turbans, the men in elegant evening dress. One was bald, and wore an eye-catching cream-colored tuxedo, while the other was dressed in a more conservative suit. The bald guy was supposedly an African potentate, and his associate was his accountant, whose job it was to keep a running tally of his ruler’s gambling profits—or losses. The ladies, of course, were window dressing.

George, the bald guy, was an artist from America who lived in Prague. His “accountant” was named Jeff, who had also emigrated from the U.S. to Prague, married a Czech woman, and had lived there for 15 years making his living as a jazz musician. Oddly, Jeff’s Czech was almost non-existent.

“How can you live here for 15 years and not speak Czech?” I asked.
His lips curled down in a wry expression. “My wife asks the same thing,” he said. “I can’t explain it. All I can say is I have no talent for languages.”
An understatement if I’d ever heard one!

The two ladies were from the Caribbean, and had that beautiful lilting accent that immediately makes me want to lie in a hammock and listen to the waves for the rest of my life. I never got the story of how they ended up in Czech—they were a bit coy about it—but I’ll bet it’s fascinating…

One of the most interesting times I had was hanging out with the assistant prop guy. I mentioned Mike before—he was the guy who gave me the briefcase on the first day. Since then, I’d seen him around quite a bit, and we’d struck up a friendship. Quiet and somewhat reserved, he was everywhere on the set, taking care of everything that wasn’t nailed down. Earlier in the shoot, he’d seen me admiring 007’s Aston Martin.

“Come here, mate,” he said quietly.
I walked over, and he said, “Stand just there, next to the car.”
He produced a small digital camera and snapped a quick photo. “I’ll print one up for you later. You’ll be around, yeah?”
“Count on it,” I said. I was grinning like an idiot the rest of the day, and the next day, he saw me and waved me over to the table where he was working. He plugged his camera into a small printer, fed in a sheet of photo paper, and in about a minute he handed the photo he’d taken before. “There you go,” he said.

I was speechless for a second, then began thanking him enthusiastically. He brushed off my thanks and said, “Just don’t show it around the set, mate. We’re not supposed to take photos.”

He’s that kind of guy.

On one of my strolls around the set one evening at about 11 p.m., I noticed him hunched over a writing desk in one of the hotel’s anterooms. A desk lamp threw a pool of light in front of him, and he was mumbling in frustration. I sat down across from him.

“What’s up?”
“Oh, hello mate. Nothing, I’m just trying to get these bloody things to work.”

I won’t tell you what he was working on, as it would constitute a spoiler—truly, the only one I really know. Suffice it to say there were several of these things, and he patiently explained what they were, what they were supposed to do, and why they weren’t performing as advertised. They’d been built back in England during pre-production, but a key feature of their performance had been overlooked, and he was doing what we used to call in the Marines a “field modification.”

We talked about it for a few minutes, kicking the problem around for a while. Next thing I knew, I had my jacket off and was fiddling around with them, trying to demonstrate the idea I’d had. An hour later, he sat back and lit a cigarette.

“Thanks, mate. We’ll see if they work now.”
We tried one, and it seemed okay.
“Christ,” he said. “Thanks again. I’d have been up all night working on these. Just don’t tell anyone—probably a violation of union rules.” I laughed. “Don’t thank me yet,” I said. “Let’s wait to see if they work on camera.”

Just then, a PA came by and slipped him a sealed envelope, then walked off. Mike tore it open and grunted, and I raised an eyebrow. He handed me the small card inside. Later, I found one that had been discarded. You can see it here.

“Wow,” I said. “That should be cool.”
“I’ll make sure you get one, mate,” he said casually.
I was stunned for a second. “Really? How? It’s just for crew, it says.”
He looked at me pityingly. “No, that’s just to keep the wankers out. I’ll get you one.”
“Wow,” I said again. “That’s…I mean…that’s,…well…thanks.” I was overwhelmed.

Then I saw the date, and I shook my head. “Damn,” I said. “I can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“My friends in Sokolov are throwing me a goodbye party that night,” I said.
He nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, well, can’t let your friends down, can you?”
“No,” I said, handing the invitation back to him. “I can’t.”
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted, though. I knew it’d be the best party I ever missed…

(Note: Even though the invite said it was a “wrap party,” the actual shooting would continue through the following Wednesday. The party was being held on Sunday night because everyone had been given that day off, and we wouldn’t be shooting until Monday night.)

Sunday evening I did in fact go to my going-away party, and had a wonderful time. I’d made a lot of friends in Sokolov in the past ten months, and I was eager to see them. I’d rescheduled my airline ticket to June 1st, and I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to see them before I left—and lately, due to the movie schedule, I hadn’t been available much at all. At any rate, I was glad I went, and had a great time.

Later I heard from the “African ruler” that he’d managed to get into the wrap party, and had had a fantastic time—they’d even screened about 20 minutes of the film for the audience. He said it was awesome, and that Craig was dynamite. I was happy for him, but still glad I’d hung out with my buddies.

So there you have it—between chatting with various folks and stuffing myself with food, there wasn’t much happening for those few days. But fate had still another twist in store, and all that changed when we started again on Monday night.

The last three days of the shoot exceeded all my expectations, made me forget any previous disappointments, and left me shaken and stirred.

Continue to page 10…

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