Heath Ledger\'s final cut: An exculsive, on-set diary

Tag : Mock Suede


I'm breathless and Heath Ledger is downright furious. He rips offhis frilly clown hat and hurls it to the floor. It's a minute pastmidnight and the cameramen are looking at their watches andmumbling stuff about "the union". The director Terry Gilliam isbeside himself too, as he scrambles around the set of TheImaginarium of Doctor Parnassus to persuade his mutinous crew toagree to one more take; but it's too late – the permit tofilm ran out at midnight, and pieces of equipment are already beinghastily stashed into their silver flight-boxes, ready for the nextjob.
In a final attempt to salvage the situation, Heath joins Terry inpetitioning them: "C'mon guys... Please! Just one more take... Justone more. I mean, c'mon, what difference is another 10 minutesgoing make?" But it's all in vain as they continue packing.
As it will transpire, the scene that's just been shot – avile mob giving chase to Heath Ledger through the windingbackstreets of London's East End – will be the last he'llever shoot. I was a member of that mob; and in roughly 72 hours,Ledger's dead body will be found by his personal masseur in hisloft apartment in New York City.
Nearly six months after his death, as the PR machine for The DarkKnight swings into gear, the actor will unavoidably be in thespotlight again; there's also a suggestion that he'll be nominated,posthumously, for the Best Supporting Actor Oscar, for his role asthe Joker in that film.
The first time I saw a publicity still from the Batman film, it wasa disconcerting experience: a live man, looking like a dead manalready. Heath Ledger as the Joker, with lax, yellow hair, caved-inface, and smudged, blood-red lipstick, bright and colourful andterrible, like a Japanese water-demon, or something from a Cormanhorror. This image, loaded with ghostly resonances, speaks solelyof death; and this is what I find strange, because in those lastthree days I worked with Heath, I encountered a man who was so fullof life.
This was my first job as an extra, and on the first day, before I'deven had the chance to sit down and quaff a quick coffee, we weregiven our call and escorted down to the set: a tatty and forgottenpub in the heart of Clerkenwell – The Ring O Bells. TerryGilliam was dashing about, a hand on his battered, suede cowboyhat, to stop it flying of his head; in his wake, a small retinue ofproduction minions struggling to keep up with him. The willowy andstrangely beautiful Lily Cole was making her way across the set,and as if from nowhere, a tall, thin figure appeared and prancedand jigged his way towards us – it was Heath and he wasdressed up like some daft and dishevelled Pierrot doll.
"Jesus! Heath, you look crazier than a clown's cock!" I offered. Hecreased up with laughter.
"And.... CUT," shouted a distant voice; then "Good... Good... We'llgo again in five..."
"That's hilarious," said Heath. "Where'd you get it from?"
"A film called Kenny," I told him. "A mockumentary about this guywho's got a Portaloo business in Melbourne".
"Oh, Jeez... I know the one you're talking about, it's gotwhat-his-name in it? Shane Jacobson – that's it! Shit, Ireally must get to see it..."
And with that, Gilliam beckoned him over to the monitors. It wassoon apparent that Heath was utterly immersed in this role and inthis whole project. After each scene had been shot, he'd be runningoff to watch it played back, regardless of whether he had starredin it or not. He was so active on set that if he wasn't wearingsuch an outlandish costume, it would have been impossible todistinguish him from the any of the production team's top brass.
All the talk on the set of was of his performance as the Joker. Thebuzz was that once it was released, Heath would to be seen in awhole new light – as a "proper" actor, a "brilliant" actor,possibly. He would be massive – absolutely massive; and afterwhat I'd seen of his work ethic on that first day, absolutelywasted too. '
The following day, I happened to arrive at the unit base at thesame time that Heath and his PA pulled up in some outrageoussuper-car a certain German manufacturer had loaned him while he wasstaying in London. The roar of the engine drowned out my quick"Hello", so I nodded casually and walked straight past, headed forthe catering truck.
I popped back after lunch to have another look at the car. As Iinspected it, I noticed Heath sat on the steps of his trailer, ablack hoodie pulled tight over his head, skinny black jeans and apair of sneakers, and sucking on a fag as usual. After a minute orso, he wandered over, his PA lurking behind him carrying hisStarbucks bucket and Camel fags. "So what d'you think of the car,mate?" he asked.
"I'm not too sure, cars aren't really my thing, but I know whatFreud would say..." I replied.
"It's ridiculous isn't it? Talk about a cock-extension... Ha! It'sfun, but not really my style," said Ledger. But he seemed a bituneasy and broke off the chat, saying something to his PA. Theywandered back to his trailer together.
Back on set, Terry and Heath were soon having another of theirprivate conversations. It was hard to tell who was directing who. Ishimmied closer, only to overhear some scurrilous gossip about TomCruise. Heath eventually broke off and came over to ask if any ofus had seen the new film about Joy Division – Anton Corbijn'sControl: "Their music's amazing!"
On the final day of filming, Saturday 19 January, there were gunsand explosions and violence on set. There were arguments, and a badvibe descended on the pub. Heath himself no longer looked like aclown. He was dirty, wired and manic: he hadn't stopped for threedays – kicking about the set whether or not he was due toshoot a scene. He'd be there when I arrived and after I'd gone. AndI was doing a 10-hour shift. When he wasn't on set he was back inhis hotel room reading or watching some of the Oscar-nominatedmovies that, as a member of the Academy, he'd be asked to vote on.
He'd been throwing himself around a lot, doing his own stunts, takeafter take – attempting to lob himself on to the"Imaginarium", a horse-drawn, travelling sideshow, decorated with aseries of Gilliam's own hallucinogenic graphic confections –sometimes succeeding, sometimes failing.
It was common knowledge on set that he had a spinal injury and thathe was on some hefty medication for it. Late in the day, withshooting behind schedule, Heath's back was playing up. He layprostrate on the cobbles between the pub and the Imaginarium doinghis Alexander Technique exercises, motionless, his eyes shut tight.As I walked past I nearly tripped over one of his elongated clownshoes.
"You all right, Heath?" I asked.
"Yeah. I will be in few minutes..."
"I thought you'd snuffed it there," I said, trying to raise alaugh. Heath just closed his eyes. Once he had recovered, thefilming resumed; Ledger pursued by an angry, drunken mob, allbaying for his blood. Incendiary devices were popping everywhere,fired from a blunderbuss by Verne Troyer, the 2'8" actor who playedMini Me in the Austin Powers films. And this is the last sceneHeath Ledger ever shot; it reached midnight and the union curfewkicked in.
By the time Heath and Terry calmed down, the set had thinned outdramatically. Heath walked around, thanking and hugging people,then came over to us few extras who were still left and thanked usand began walking off. I walked after him to ask if he was going tostay and have a few drinks.
"Sorry, but I'm on the wagon... have been for about 17 months now,"he said, mock-triumphantly
"Oh... nice one!" I replied, somewhat tongue-tied.
"Cheers, mate" he said before turning and sloping off despondentlyup the narrow lane back towards unit base and his warm trailer."Bye Heath..."
The following Tuesday, at about 8pm, I received a text-message frommy sister, who I'd been keeping in the loop regarding my adventureson Doctor Parnassus. In that dull and toneless medium, and in thetruncated vernacular of text-speak, it read: "Wot sort of effect dou have on people? U no that actor u were workin with... they foundhim dead!"
It took a while to register, then I turned on the radio and, withinseconds of finding a news station, her message was legitimised:"Heath Ledger... found dead... being treated as a possiblesuicide... slumped on the floor of his loft-apartment in NewYork..." I called a couple of other extras to find out if they knewwhat was going on. All they knew was what I knew: Heath was dead– the circumstances open to speculation. They all expressed asense of shock and loss. Some wept.
As I sit here, looking at his picture, I still really don't knowwhat to say about Heath Ledger. All I can add to what's alreadybeen said is my imperfect but valid little story: the story of aman whom I met, but whom I never really knew; the story of a manwho I worked with for just three days but left one of thoseindefinable imprints that make you feel you've known someone a lotlonger.
My image of Heath is of a man envisioning a life rather than adeath; of an actor deeply committed to his art – perhaps tosuch a degree that it contributed to his undoing. But looking backat my time on set, I also see strange portents of his demise: therewas even a moment when one of the extras, a devout Christian, beganreading aloud from The Revelation of St John. And after ourconversation about Joy Division, whenever I think of Heath, I'mreminded of the band's lead singer, Ian Curtis – anotheryoung man with immense energy stubbed out in his prime. Heath wouldhave liked such a comparison, I think.
This wasn't how the movie was supposed to end; I was shocked, Istill am; but then, what do I know? I was just an extra.
The writer's name has been changed for the sake of anonymity. 'TheDark Knight' (12A) goes on release in the UK on 25 July
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