FilmShaft Set Report: When Ed dropped in on DEAD CERT
You could have heard a body drop when news reached the Filmshaft office that Dagenham was hosting a cauldron of gangster violence, sexual deviance and the supernatural. “What’s the story there? Why don’t we go the whole hog and report on the f—king local buses?” was just one response but when Filmshaft informed Ed Whitfield that there were vampires and free sandwiches involved, his mood changed. “I suppose I could go and take a look…”
It’s a freezing cold November morning in Dagenham, East London and I’m lost in a labyrinthine maze of industrial hangers and silver gilded fences. “Where the f—k am I?” is my question to a stray dog and I reach for the I-phone map app. This technological marvel, coded by a bastard evidently, tells me that my destination is the other side of an imposing 12 foot wall of perforated corrugated sheeting. Only Robert Patrick could successfully follow these directions.
It’s hard to believe that this unremarkable backdrop, that looks imported from Channel Four’s long defunct Crystal Maze is, for one month only, hosting a British movie making revival but it is so. Somewhere amongst these airy, well protected interiors, DEAD CERT, helmed by newcomer Steven Lawson, is lensing. It’s the movie that puts a vampiric spin on that most successful of home grown staples, the cockney gangster movie and if the rumours are to be believed, it’s taking shape nicely. What kind of shape? I’m hoping for something that looks a little like a breast.
After what feels like several centuries submerged in satanically inseminated earth, I’ve negotiated my way to a small opening inside what looks like a light aircraft hanger. Will I have to knock out a lookalike, steal an aircraft, pilot it out, take off, evade a surface to air missile and fly back through as it pursues my plane, cutting through the barely open doors as the place explodes behind me, a la Roger Moore in Octopussy? Probably not, but I’m always prepared. A man who reminds me of Uncle Buck from the movie of the same name, complete with hat and long coat approaches. “You a journalist?” he asks. It’s too early for hard questions.
My host is none other than Ben Shillito, Dead Cert screenwriter and co-producer; the twisted brain who envisioned bringing the British vampire back to our screens after an unwelcome three decade hiatus. I ask him about the role of his leading character Freddy, played by the imposing musculature of domestic shitkicker Craig Fairbrass. “He’s a Jewish homosexual” he tells me “, you should definitely ask him about that.” Grateful for the tip, I make a mental note.
Adjacent to the room that houses “Inferno”, the areola and alcohol hangout that Dead Cert’s protagonists square up over, I’m now waiting for my chance to tour the facilities, seated in a vast waiting area populated with extras and unneeded actors. The refreshment area caters for everyone – tea, coffee and blood. There’s no Assam or Earl Grey, obviously kept back for the talent, so I snap off the toadstool growing out of a rust coloured bag and stew up, enjoying the kind of reading material that’s designed for the very tired, and therefore mentally incompetent – Reveal, Real People Magazine and thank fang, The Sun. But no sooner have I expectantly opened up the rag to enjoy some morning glory than a couple of ladies hone into view that look as if they’re returning to the Murdoch paper after a Marry Poppins type stint in the real world. Could it be? They’re wearing my entry from the 1993 Crown Woods School Design a uniform for the sixth form competition – a Victorian inspired cleavage clasper, replete with blood red accoutrements and plenty of space for the skin to breathe. These ladies must be drinking very well right now.
Sitting at the table behind me, they’re immediately ogled by two teenage erections manning a Macbook – boys I’d later know to be editing together on set footage for the DVD release. How did they get the gig? I suppose it didn’t matter but I already envied the view from the desk. “Would you get your tits out?” one of them asks speculatively, presumably enquiring about their role in the film but you never know. The question is directed to a young blonde, decked out with a ponytail and black rimmed glasses – the kind you see in secretarial porn. To my surprise there’s laughter, not the sustained and violent evisceration of the genitals that I’m expecting. This, in a nutshell, is why movies are better than life – the set has its own social mores.
Enough time has passed for a whole procession of girls to have passed though en route to some hideous fate in the protected set next door. “Rolling, quiet please!” yells a beard with a headset and an ere quiet descends on the floor. Next door we can hear yelling and a commotion. Not for the first time I suspect my editor has lied to me. Leaning across to one of the girls I’m forced to ask the question; “Excuse me, but this IS a romantic comedy isn’t it?” Her shaking head confirms his deception.
An enjoyable promo sets up a series of interviews with Dead Cert’s cast. It’s a polished 90 seconds of ewe cantery and schlock, neatly packaged for our delectation. The footage provides tantalising glimpses of the Friar Tuck (ruck) to come. Billy Murray, a veteran with a career that reads like a huge tattoo on the back of British acting is the 4,000 year old Romanian vampire with a vested interest in Craig Fairbrass’ club. Having made the elementary mistake of building his business on unholy land, the Brass and his achingly beautiful wife Lisa McAllister, are forced to fight a rearguard action. Lock, Stock and Two Bloody Fangs? I’d never use such lazy shorthand. In any event it’s an impressive tease – smashed windscreens, vengeful ladies, butchery and bastardry, all topped off with some trademark wild gesticulation from Steven Berkoff – just for the ticket for a trip to the flick parlour, a few months from now.
Having seen the cast in action I’m ready to meet them and we’re duly escorted to a small ante room with crash mats piled up on one side and a small interview area beyond, glowing with the warmth from a three bar heater. The room is a thoroughfare between the set and the costume area and consequently it’s a little, and I do mean a little, like the Generation Game conveyor, except the only prizes on offer are hardmen and the kind of women Germaine Greer warned you about, though thankfully you ignored those warnings. If Danny Dyer designed purgatory, this is what it would look like.
Pacing, as I tend to do, I’m suddenly colliding up against something that looks like a man but the brain can’t process as such. I’m confronted with a beast so wide that blood vessels burst in each eye as the peripheral vision makes a valiant attempt to cope. Is this thing going to talk to me or eat me? It moves – enough to block out most of the light in the room and extends what appears to be a hairy tree in my direction – a parody of an arm, which contracts to grasp my hand. “Hello mate, how you doing?” it says with a booming Irish brogue. I’m a little taken aback, because it’s as though I’m just been spoken to by a planet but in fact it’s one time boxer “Big” Joe Egan. One imagined that the discussion on nicknames was brief. Joe, one of the few men on Earth who can boast that neither Mike Tyson nor Lennox Lewis could knock him out, and they had a bloody good go, is playing a hood in the film – a revelation that doesn’t floor me like one of his imaginably hard punches. “When you write this up, will you mention my book – Big Joe Egan: The Toughest White Man on the Planet?” he asks. Not many men, you imagine, say no to Joe and as I don’t want my teeth to show up during an endoscopy, I assure him it’ll be done.
We’ve barely finished talking when the red contact lens and fangs artist, Jemma, the most normal looking person on set, is called to the corner to help the young actress who’ll be gyrating topless on the Inferno stage. Joe and I wait to be joined by a couple of gentleman as she’s shorn of garments that officially decommission my imagination. Film Journalism is hard work readers and don’t you forget it.
Finally the roll call of Dead Cert’s heroes and villains begins. Lisa McAlister, the leading lady is now sitting opposite me. The 29 year old British actress, a tempting prospect for any vampire, is just too nice to be besieged by blood sucking lunatics. Wouldn’t she like to come home with me instead? “She’s not a gangster’s moll” she says of Jen, the gangster’s moll who Murray and friends discover is no walking liquid lunch. She’s strong willed, out for revenge after the beasts devour her brother and can more than hold her own in a sea of testosterone. “They’ve fucked with the wrong person” she tells me and I don’t doubt it for a second, but what’s a nice girl like Lisa doing bashing vamps? “I love the British gangster movie” McAllister says with blood thirsty enthusiasm, and she’s also got an eye for the gritty approach the filmmakers have taken to working in the sort of people George Clooney once referred to as ‘satanic cocksuckers.’ “We’ve used the same approach throughout so it’s really grounded” she says. And what of her character? “I can’t tell you what happens to her” she replied with a wry grin. Whatever it is, I’m positive I’m going to enjoy watching it.
In a corner of the Inferno set where a couple of method actors will soon be employing the training they enjoyed at Spearmint Rhino, I’m now talking to McAlister’s screen husband, Craig Fairbrass. I must work in that Jewish homosexual question I remind myself but in the meantime Fairbrass wants to talk Freddy Frankham, the East End gangster who’s poised to do some serious damage to his nocturnal nemeses. The actor’s bulk been seen alongside Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect and fighting Stallone in Cliffhanger but Genre fans will remember the actor’s enjoyable turn in Darklands, an insane tale of Druids and human sacrifice. He laughs as I bring it up and with good reason – it’s hard to imagine anyone could get the actor onto the blood alter. At six foot three and wide enough on top to bridge the gap between two shores, he cuts an imposing figure; undercut by an immediately affable persona. There’s more than a touch of school boy enthusiasm as he talks about his latest role. “I’m a big genre fan” he says, “I bought Wolfman comics growing up”. Ha, useless knowledge against these undead Romanian types. So what can we expect from Freddie? “He’s a fantastic character, a little like Shane” he notes, referring to Alan Ladd’s role in the classic western and you sense that Fairbrass sees something of himself in those stoic hardcases as he’s essentially a walking Wikipedia of screen antiheroes. Like the best of them it’s the intensity that matters, one of the reasons he’s a ‘less is more actor’ when it comes to dialogue. “Freddie’s a thinker – strong, still” he notes, “Whenever possible, particularly with the relationship between him and Jen, we’ve tried to crank it up – make it real.” I make a note of this and take a split second decision to leave the homosexual question out of the interview.
Third up is 19 year old Loretta Basey, the production’s stellar find. It was Basey’s good luck to have been plucked from the netherworld of the unknown to make her movie debut. Wide eyed producers got an eyeful of the fresh faced beauty in the hallway of the building where they were casting and she was starring in a commercial for man scent Lynx. The Lynx effect indeed. “It’s lovely to meet you” she says with an outstretched hand – the voice soft and well spoken. The pleasure is of course, mine. The rationale for Basey’s casting as Stefania, a dancer and temptation for both humans and vampires alike, is the worst kept secret in the world. She’s fang extendingly attractive. As we sit down to talk about how’s she’s getting on in her first stab at screen stardom, my mind drifts back to college and an unwelcome reminder that girls like this were simply out my league. Yes, you had to have a go, of course you did, but in reality they’d always be interested in the beautiful people whereas you fell short – essentially a chimp with a cursory understanding of how to wear clothes by comparison. Perhaps part of the pleasure of these vampire flicks is that depraved old letches like me can enjoy watching someone like Loretta be consumed by a vampiric loonacycle and imagine doing the same. Of course that could just be bollocks. Those expecting to see too much of Loretta however should brace themselves for disappointment – she’ll do anything for the movies but she won’t do that. A no nudity clause ensures that the best parts of Ms Basey are left to the imagination but she can dance with the best of them. Was it intimidating? “A little at first” she says, “but the cast and crew are like a family, they’re there to support you, you soon get over it.” And what of acting for the first time? Any worries there? “I’ve learnt so much from this cast, they really help build up your confidence.” Confidence doesn’t seem to one of Basey’s problems. She’s going to be huge and you wouldn’t bet against the same being true of her new fans when the film hits cinemas.
The sudden clearance of actors for the interviewing area signals that the camera will soon to be turning on another scene. As the press area is just a few steps from Inferno’s blood red interiors, I take a few nervous steps to the set. Loretta Basey has literally taken centre stage with the girl whose disrobing I’d tried to ignore earlier. This time it will be more difficult. The set is a two level satanic Stringfellows. On the upper level a succession of temptritious fems line the alcoves – one swirling an ignited flame. The floor of the club is strewn with curvaceous entertainment for faux business men. The assistant director, a very angry man indeed, cuts through the melee demanding that the ensemble prepare for a rehearsal. With this, my film scribe colleagues disappear back into our holding pen but I struggle to move. The old reluctance to leave an area that looks like an explosion inside the Anne Summers warehouse has felled my motor functions. A brunette with ample qualifications for being on set, has noticed my presence. “Are you in this scene?” she asks. Well, no, I wasn’t but why not me? Sure, with a beige T-Shirt and a black wool cardigan that, in the words of an old friend, made me look like Val Doonican, I looked less like a businessman and more like Barry George on the morning he was arrested for the alleged murder of Jill Dando, but I’m compelled to follow through. “Can I be in it?” I ask the actress and to my relief she considers the question briefly before replying, “Sure. I’ll just clear it with that guy over there. You better zip that up though. I’ll get you a fake drink.” The zipping refers to the cardigan by the way.
My bountiful bargirl is now serving non-alcoholic urine to the patrons that line her bar. As per her instructions I’m seated on a set of comfy seats in a gloomy corner of the set. With me are two punters – a stocky gentleman who I later learn to be Matt from the local area, whose wife is thankfully fine with his current role and a man of Eastern European appearance who I’ll come to know as Oleg, a Russian actor with an eye on UK super stardom. The two of them are suited up and if they’re wondering why I look like someone who’s just been singing Christmas songs to a room full of pensioners, they’re kind enough not to show it. We’re blessed with our very own dancer, a dark skinned actress with tied back hair and breast protection that wouldn’t have been out of place in Mike Hodge’s Flash Gordon. Initially, as all men are trained to do by convention, I look away but it isn’t long before I’ve woken up to the fact that I’m supposed to be looking. I am, after all, an old pervert now, and my job is to look wantonly at this goddess as she works us into on camera frenzy. My God, am I stroking the top of my fake beer glass? Well, that’s my commitment to the method shining through.
We gear up for the take. “Background action!” bellows a disembodied voice, “background music!” The room is flooded with an ear bleeding electro dance massacre – the production’s commitment to authenticity is commendable. Our actress begins to slowly gyrate. She’s terrifyingly convincing; bedroom eyes and effortlessly sways. As a last minute addition to the cast I have no idea what to expect in this scene. Should I just maintain this erection until someone yells cut? I don’t have to wait long to find out. There’s a commotion and Matt, with admirable acting skills, throws a protective arm around our dancer as a wave of tooled up meatsacks bursts onto the set. Drawing upon all my skills from those junior school drama classes of so long ago, I leap to my feet and recoil as Big Joe and numerous other heavies, tear into the men standing next to me and start shadow punching them – presumably to death. To my right, Ricky Glover, known to FilmShaft’s pop culture connoisseurs as Bulla from the 11 O’ Clock Show, takes down another actor who was enjoying the female form just moments earlier. “Go on, have some of THAT you cunt” he offers, beating the man senseless with a cosh. The ladies dance on indifferently. Some men pay hundreds of pounds a night for this kind of experience and here I was getting it for nothing – plus the promise of freeze frame stardom; the kind of extra that will get rung with a laser pointer at postmodern public screenings in years to come. People tell you that being an extra is dull but I now know this to be incorrect. If it’s this much fun just to be on set, I wonder how much I’m going to enjoy the finished product and whether my loins can take it. Yes, I said loins.
In just a few days time this carnival atmosphere will be disrupted when the set becomes a blood soaked orgy of sharp toothed mania and senseless depravity – the movie equivalent to Millwall on match day. I consider the impending carnage and realise it’ll be, in cockney parlance, wall to wall claret. I further consider that I haven’t had a glass of claret in hours and take myself off to the nearest wine bar to rectify the situation. Hanging around with buxom beauties and blood sucking monsters is thirsty work kids. Be grateful I do it so you don’t have to.
Dead Cert is released in 2010. FilmShaft will have further coverage and a full review in the New Year.
Related Stories
