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Friday, April 16th, 1999 — Florence, Italy
It took four days and three nights to get to Florence. But we finally made it to where I'd be spending the next week in. I was a hard travelling companion for both of my grandparents. I was way too hyper about Billy Elliot and way too worried.
Revelations gave me the uncanny ability of being able to see a movie in my mind. Often it lacked any sort of emotions and I couldn't really feel anything because the movie played back in moments. Usually memories were triggered by other senses especially emotions but revelations were uncannily sanitised of any kind of personal memories and that included even things like emotions that were associated with the memory. Because, I wanted to get the role I kept replaying Billy Elliot in my mind, again and again.
To say that I was obsessed with the film didn't fully encompass my feelings for the film. Billy Elliot was a movie that seemed to be about my life, as if a screenwriter had watched me for years then wrote that story.
Well, I wasn't from Durham now was I? But really, Chester is kind of like Durham County, right? Small places with rough folk… Well maybe that was a stretch.
Also my father and brother weren't miners, but Clive, my grandfather, was one. That was close enough wasn't it? Billy attended boxing lessons because his father wanted him to be an uber manly man; once the man had found out Billy had been going to ballet classes he had grown livid and almost beat Billy. Manly men of the past weren't happy with their boys going off to become poofs which was an offensive word to describe a gay person. Billy wasn't gay but ballet dancers were always associated with that crowd more. Never mind that men in Renaissance era could fight better than all these modern megamensch and do all sorts of artistic things.
Georgie had taught me that playing a role first required understanding the role. I had a similar relationship with ballet as Billy did with it. On the other hand, I've had it lot easier than Billy ever did. In fact, as much as I could find similarities between me and Billy's character, there were many differences too.
My mother and father had seen me in Oliver!, heard me sing, and knew I was destined to be on stage in one way or another. If not acting, I would've been a singer. I was gifted and you didn't need to be an expert to know I had a talent in it. Everyone liked music, everyone liked songs. They had offered me their full support and I was grateful for it.
Meanwhile, Billy got it only at the end of the movie after a long and emotional dialogue between father and sons. It portrayed men showing proper emotion which was rare for movies. Billy and I were also people of different cloth. He was the type to hide all his emotions until it came bursting out, I… well, I suppose I was like that too. I had screamed my head off at Mad-Eye Maddie in righteous indignation. I thought of myself as a kind and gentle person but that day was not congruent with my self image. That event at least proved I could swear and curse like the best of us like Billy could.
As different as I thought I was to Billy, it was undeniable that Italians were alien enough to my British sensibilities. They did everything slowly; they walked slowly, no one looked at their watches and they ate with company and late at night. After Turin, we went to Milan, a city where I hadn't found many contrasts between our cultures. It was full of tourists even in April and was more multicultural in the first place. But every step away from the city centre seemed to highlight all our differences and Bologna made it even more apparent.
To start with, Italians did things slowly. A British person walking about would walk quickly and determined — we were more tightly wound creatures while Italians were relaxed and living their la bella vita — which stood for "beautiful life". I observed that that when I arrived in Florence. There was no helping the comparisons I made with the places I'd been to. Human experience was like that, we compared things. Admittedly, I hadn't been to many cities, and most of them, I'd only been in the last three days. We were in and out of cities more than being around to see things but I could admit it freely now that I was at my destination. Florence was a city more beautiful than any I'd been to.
If you've ever wondered why the Renaissance took over Europe, then you just had to visit Florence to know exactly why. The whole city was a work of art. The Duomo de Firenze stood like a monument in the centre of the city — a building so detailed and beautiful that I was speechless even looking at it from far away. There were statues, parks, fountains, and buildings showing age and each of them had more custom work put into them than anywhere in London I'd seen.
If you've ever walked by the embankments of River Thames, you may have seen the lampposts. They were called the Dolphin lamps which actually featured sturgeons and had symbols of all sorts of things. Victorian England was similar too Florence in that we had tried to build something beautiful. Lamppposts with mythical creatures, decorative style and fancy new technology called electricity. There was the end of our similarities, we English did even beauty in fast economical fashion. Time wasted was money lost. So it was all cast iron moulded and produced en masse.
Florence did things differently. It felt like tens of thousands of stonemasons had spent countless years carving everything to perfection. It was handmade and imperfect. Caring and passion had been poured into it along with patience and determination. That was my impression just walking through the city; I couldn't even know what more I'd see when I saw the famous sights.
Our temporary base camp for the production was a fancy hotel called Helvetia and Bristol. Name had nothing to do with Bristol, as far as I could find out from the workers there. Like the movie, I was about to film soon, this hotel was built when Britain was the world leaders. So they had named it something recognisable in hopes of getting aristocrat attention. Seemingly, they had succeeded as they stood here after hundred years.
As soon as we checked in, I needled my Nain about going out to find a ballet teacher while we were in Florence.
"Dear god, Wilf. What's gotten into you? You speak about this audition like it's God's gift to Earth. You're in Florence — have you seen how beautiful it is? Just enjoy it, come on," Nain scolded.
She dragged me around the public areas of the hotel. When we circled the whole place once, I thought her as being thorough. But when she did another lap, my suspicious bones started to tingle.
"Gladys Price," I said sharply,
Nain seemed to shrink in on herself like a cat being told off. But just as a cat would, she remembered she was in command.
"You know, it's rude to call your grandmother by her full name."
"Hmph, right. Pray tell, my lovely grandmother — why are we circling this hotel like some lost puppies?" I asked in the same posh tone she'd been using ever since we walked in the fancy hotel.
"It's good to know where we are. Better to know the amenities available to us. Fire exits and all that, Europe might be different than what we're used to." she said, sounding almost confident in her words.
"And it has nothing to do with you searching for my co-stars?" I asked, wearing a knowing grin.
"What? We'll see them later anyway. No, no — we're just here to see what we can… ahem — would you like to try some gelato? Maybe Florence has better ones," Nain said in attempt to bribe me.
"We can go out for gelato, yes. But I want to find a ballet teacher." I demanded,
"Ohh, I don't know about that," Nain said.
I thought she'd cave to the demand, but something else was behind her hesitation.
"Why not?" I asked.
"We'll only be here for eight days. Will you even have time for ballet lessons?" she asked.
She had a point — eight days of filming, and I wasn't even sure of my exact schedule yet. A production assistant should give me the call sheets in time. So far, there weren't any cast or crew in Florence. They were filming in a nearby town called San Gimignano and would arrive later tonight.
"It's good to get acquainted with the place and put out some feelers," I insisted.
"Fine — but we'll only walk around for an hour or two. We have to be back for your Granddad."
Granddad had trouble with his knees, so he stayed behind at the hotel to hold down the fort.
Streets of Florence — or as proper Italians called it, Firenze — were a work of art. Every building was seemingly built from either sandstone or limestone or some combination of the two; the roads and walkways were all cobblestone. With all the stone, it would've been easy to become a blocky senseless town, but alleys were curved and narrow providing visual differences to break the monotony of cubes and rectangles. Most importantly, the buildings had so much attention to detail that I could find new elements the longer I focused on one. Arches above doors, traditional shutters on windows, gutters with stone trimmings underneath. In many ways that spoke about the Italian way of life. Things were just beautiful here; people dressed well and buildings had bells and whistles for no other reason than it looking good. None of it seemed to come from a place of wanting to show off — rather, it was just the self-respect of the place.
We wound our way through Florence's narrow, twisting lanes, pressed in by crowds and centuries-old walls. Our eyes fell on new sights and our mouths made O's of surprise and wonder. The tiny Vespas darting past suddenly made perfect sense — half these streets could never fit a full-sized car. And if this was only the beginning of the tourist season, I couldn't imagine the chaos when summer truly hit.
"What's that say?" Nain asked.
"Medici Chapel," I translated.
"Medici… that the rich folks?" she asked.
"If by rich you mean rich enough to buy countries — then yes," I said.
"Let's have a look inside," Nain suggested.
"Are you sure? We should wait for Granddad."
"Bah, he'll be moaning about being sore all day."
We bought tickets and queued like the good English and Welsh folk we were. Even from the outside, the details caught my eye — marble-framed windows with lion heads carved into them. It was one of the two Medici chapels next to each other, and inside I saw the work of a true genius. Michelangelo was a Renaissance man in every sense, the type of person that I wanted to be. Cappelle Medicee demonstrated him at the height of his craft. Architect, sculptor, painter — the man could shape mud into statues fit to depict divity.
Inside, there wasn't much to say that hadn't already been said by four centuries' worth of visitors. People in my life liked to tease me about my ego, but the Medicis operated on an entirely different plane to my puffed up feathers. Michelangelo had spent years crafting a ceremonial tomb for just two members of the family — and the rest of his time shoring up the Medici legacy. The greatest artist of his age working at the pleasure of the rich, his genius bound to their gold. Part of me wondered if that limited him, diminished his art… but standing beneath those statues and the painted dome, I wasn't so sure. Only someone with fear of God and devout religion could create something like this.
The Medicis had burrowed their rich fingers into the papacy and built a god complex so immense that it still lingered in the air. Many of these statues were in poses that gods were depicted in. Small wonder Michelangelo approached their monuments with the sincerity of a true artist. Egomania, false sense of divinity, lunacy — and yet, some intrusive part of me admired it. They shaped art and culture for centuries. They rose, they fell, and their bloodline vanished. But in a way, they bought their immortality with their gold; as long as civilisation lasts, their name will be forever spoken.
We went for a gelato at a stand nearby and were served one in a steel cup. Whenever my grandmother tried to talk to Italians in English, they'd be hard vendors with gruff service. When I spoke in Italian to help my Nain along, they were impressed to no end. This applied when I asked for a gelato and got an extra scoop for the both of us. I would later find that it applied to every Italian people I met. Language got you everywhere. There was no bigger respect to a culture and their people than learning their language.
Right at the opposite end of the two chapels was the Mercato Centrale — the central market. We were greeted by leather goods: belts, bags, rucksacks, and hats. Cheap jewellery, beads, and more. Inside were food stands, little restaurants, and shops selling wild parts of animals like beef intestines, kidneys, livers, meat from boars, and other odd animals. Fresh greens, formaggio of every kind, spices, olives — oh so many olives. Life in Tuscany was slow and calm that even the tourism couldn't penetrate it; the temperature was perfect to go with it. Twenty degrees Celsius, which was perfect when the sun shined but cool enough in shaded spots to offer refreshment.
"Non parlo italiano." I coached my Nain for the hundredth time.
"Non farlo Italian-oh." she said, making a complete mess of it.
"Are you mocking me?" I asked, incredulous at how she seemed to get worse with every attempt.
"For what?" Nain pulled a face — the sort of daft expression that told me she was absolutely mimicking me.
"For not learning Welsh," I said through my teeth.
"Ah! Welsh — whyever would I think that you, Wilfred PRICE, a WELSH child, would learn the WELSH language. Are you going to learn French before you tackle Welsh next?" Nain asked, hitting every word like a hammer.
"Nain, I've been busy and this is for a role. It's hard to learn a language," I appealed.
"So hard that you were fluent in less than six months! You're brilliant with languages. You speak three and you're not even ten! Couldn't you try to learn Welsh?"
"Once I have some time, I will," I promised.
"You had time after June, but now you want more auditions. If you book it, you'll just be busy from then on. I want to speak to my grandchild in my mother tongue. Your mother tongue!" Nain pressed.
She was right in so many ways, and yes — I was being kind of an arsehole. No, let's be honest: I was an arsehole, wasn't I? The trouble was, there wasn't much practical benefit in learning Welsh. It would make my Nain happy, and I could do that… but there were other ways of making her happy too.
"You want genuine leather? Very good, buene well!" an Italian merchant said with the oily charm only a salesman could muster.
"No, thank you," I said in Italian, then asked him for a food recommendation.
He rattled off a few places and I slipped him a lira note with a large number. Though around here that was probably worth one quid or less. The currency felt strange in my hand — as did even the euros. Italy was switching to the euro from the start of this year, but plenty of places still gave change in lira whenever they could.
"My god, you sound exactly like the people here. Why can't you do that in Welsh?" She said, exasperated,
"I got us a nice place to try a meal," I said to distract her,
Her mood lifted when we had the best sandwich of my life — it was oily and savoury to the maximum. Every bite demanded we take another.
"This is brilliant, this. What's in it?" she asked,
"I'll tell you once you finish it," I said with a grin,
"What have you done?" she asked, frozen right as she was going for another bite,
I stayed quiet and knowing.
"Out with it," Nain demanded,
"It's called Lampredotto. It has salsa verde and broth on it. It's beef…" I admitted,
Nain visibly relaxed and reached for another bite. Once she had her bite, I finished my sentence.
"It's beef. Beef intestines," I spoke eloquently, grinning brightly,
"Wilfred Ingrid Price!" Nain shouted in cold anger.
That was almost as scary as the drop was.
—✦—
We searched for a ballet school for an hour. In which time, we even crossed one of the many bridges over the Arno river to the south side of Florence. I couldn't wait until internet became widespread enough. For now, I could only ask people on the street for guidance. It took dozens of people before we found a man who was an uncle of a woman who worked for a company that was building for a ballet school that was opening soon.
Rosanna was a lovely lady in her late twenties or early thirties. Apparently, opening soon meant that the place had never been in business yet before. Ballet school was being renovated, so there was no space for us to practise. Regardless, I got some quotes and asked about her credentials. She was born in Genova and had debuted in London as part of a Nutcracker production before moving to France with a jazz company. People and few companies she mentioned, I had no idea about, but they sounded important. She had not much background in contemporary dance, but she knew enough about ballet, tap, and jazz for it all click.
I got the phone number to her actual house and negotiated a fee while my Nain looked more and more consternated by the minute. She didn't like being left out. I noticed that Rosanna hadn't told me about how big the theatres she performed in were, but I was glad to find someone who could help me.
Frankly, I wasn't sure I could pull off being Billy Elliot. As a ballet dancer, I was miles ahead of Jamie Bell — at least technically. Gilles had trained my eye well enough to see that I was more fluid than the Billy on screen. But the physical emotion Jamie carried in his movement, the anger that ran through his body, the way his face flushed when he snapped — that was something I'd never done. He had a face built for expression, and he used every inch of it.
Once my Nain stopped fretting about whether I should sound Welsh or Italian, I tried to analyse the actor I was up against. Jamie Bell had been fourteen, with the boy who played Michael even older at seventeen, yet both made a believable eleven-year-old Billy and Michael. Even revelations had remarked this as noteworthy enough detail to remember, usually it'd be lot more sparse than that. Jamie was also taller than me — maybe 5'2", which put him at least three inches above my own height. He was going through puberty, mine still seemed miles away. That gave him a lankiness perfect for ballet on camera. Ballet is all about lines, and the cleaner the line, the more beautiful the movement.
For my role as Luca Innocenti, I'd been confident. A director with hundreds of productions behind him had taken to my acting without hesitation. But Billy Elliot was the complete opposite of anything I'd ever played. I was always cast as the shy one, the innocent one, the cheerful one. Billy was anger — a river at boiling point, full of passion, pride, shame, and fight inside. Billy's story related to the stiff-upper-lip society that British men participated in with daily ritual.
I understood Billy hiding that he went to ballet. I'd done the same, only telling Henry and a few others until the rumour spread on its own. Kids did tease me — called me girly, even though half of them were dancing in Oliver! with me and didn't realise the irony of making fun of me. It never got unbearable, mostly because I escaped to London before things could boil over.
Billy Elliot was my story, and the story of every boy chasing something labelled "girly" or "queer" by the world around him. That culture insists you must be a man — smoke, drink, box, scream at football matches, and never show weakness of any kind. I felt like I owed something to every boy who wanted to dance, to do something odd but had less support than I did.
Except… that was the problem, wasn't it?
Jamie Bell was extraordinary — iconic enough to carry a film that went on to win three Oscars, iconic enough to win a BAFTA for himself. My revelation-self knew this story almost as well as it knew Harry Potter. It was universal, relatable thing every boy with a dream could recognise some parts of themselves in.
So was I really the right one for it? I felt capable, but not certain. Not certain I could hit the emotional depth and expressive passion Jamie Bell had reached. And if I fell short, I wouldn't just be letting myself down — I'd be letting down every boy who'd been mocked, doubted, or pushed aside for wanting something different.
This story deserved everything I had. I had to promise myself I'd give it that.
So practice it was — every scene I could recall. I had to imagine it, replay it and portray it. There were going to be a lot of hours spent in front of a mirror while I tried to get my facial expressions just right. I had to reflect more on my life too in order to get the correct emotions. I had an expressive eye — that's what my agent Adrian always told me. Jamie did too. But he had an expressive face to go with it — more cartoonish and more rugged. You could believe him as a boy from a rough family. I had to give off the image that I belonged to a traditional coal-mining family.
When we were back in the hotel room, I stared at myself. I was a cute boy, even handsome if I say so myself; I had a rare black hair and green eye combination that only the Black Irish and the Welsh seemed to have. I made faces — angry faces like Billy. Confused faces, then a sudden charming grin like Jamie Bell had pulled off.
He gave off an image that he was more mature than most, but he was so caged up that he couldn't express himself. I could always express myself when I sat in front of a piano, expressed in ways that even movement couldn't. It was hard for me to relate. Billy needed electricity, his mind went blank while dancing. I could do that when I played music or sang in melody.
That was it, wasn't it?
Revelations had kept me in prison while I listened to my Mum cry too. I didn't have to walk a shoe in someone's life to know how some emotions felt and what I needed in order to imagine myself as that character. I just needed a similar emotion that I felt somewhere. Similar enough for me to relate with and replicate endlessly.
"Wilf! Someone's here to see you!" Granddad shouted.
"Hi, I'm Maria Teresa — this is Lamberto," Maria greeted.
She was a lady I suspected was older than my grandparents, though her hair was painted in glossy black.
"Good evening, I'm Wilfred Price. This is my grandfather, Clive Price. That is my grandmother, Gladys Price," I said, introducing everyone in Italian.
Maria visibly relaxed when hearing me speak Italian. Happier to speak in Italian due to poor English?
"Are you also from Canada and moved to Italy for some reason?" Maria asked.
"Oh, no. I've been learning Italian for the last six months, who's the Canadian?" I explained.
"Your older version. You're kidding me, right? Come, speak more. I want to hear," Maria urged.
Lamberto also teased me and cheered me on in equal measure. So we struck a mindless and meaningless conversation.
"You sound very Florentine, but like a news reporter. Stiff and formal. You don't sound casual like we do," Maria concluded.
"Then keep talking and I'll learn that too," I said, eager to learn.
"Yes, but first we must cut your hair. Show me what you're working with."
I took off the hat I was wearing everywhere in my travels. My face was for the camera and I couldn't get a sun tan — actor things, don't ask.
Maria's hand immediately grasped my hair and she rubbed a handful between her fingers.
"Good, good. Good volume, thick strands. Didn't the script say blonde hair?" Maria asked from Lamberto.
"Yes, old one said that. But Franco says there's no need to change colour or use wigs."
"Okay, get your tools out."
"What's happening?" Nain asked, worried at the strangers opening bags of blade and scissors.
"Ah! Sorry — they're here to cut my hair to what the production requires from me. They'll take photos too, I think. That's what they always do," I explained.
Showing off that I was bilingual was frustrating my Nain to no end. I couldn't blame her at all. It was rude to stand in the circle yet be left out of a conversation — especially because these two spoke English. I had to somewhat curb my eagerness to communicate in a new language.
I tried. I really did. But after a couple minutes I was speaking fully in Italian with the two makeup artists who also moonlighted as gossip mongers. Nain was annoyed enough with me switching between languages to have two separate conversations that she declared she wanted to go for a nip.
If you ever enter the acting world, remember this — make friends with the hair and makeup artists. They were the hub of everything. Every actor, every extra, big or small, talked to them. A whisper from the wrong person could reach everyone on set — and not always in your favour. Today, I used those gossip engines to find out what was happening with the film.
Maria Teresa was a marvel — she knew everything. During this trip, I was going to film all my scenes with Cher, who was about to head off on a world tour for her new album, Believe. Apparently, Franco had a fallout with the producers, and production had been halted before resuming, so the movie was behind schedule for many months. A new script had been written with fresh scenes which no one had seen yet because Franco was keeping a tight lid on it. Rumours and more rumours.
It felt strange listening to the mystery about the script — it wasn't as mythical or dramatic as the rumours made it sound. It was just me being cast, Franco liking my work, and me getting a scene or two extra. That explained why no one had read it yet — I simply hadn't been there. Then, as always, there were the side stories: who was dating who, who couldn't stand each other. Apparently, Baird Wallace — my older counterpart in the Luca role — had been shooting since last year, his family already living in Italy for years before the film had ever come about.
"Someone else is at the door. Don't know what he's saying," Granddad grumbled.
"We're done. Don't muss up your hair. We'll need to take photos for continuity," Maria Teresa warned.
Nodding, I made my way to the door.
"Good evening, I'm Sara, production coordinator. I've heard you speak Italian," Sara said, in perfect Italian.
"Yes! Wilfred Price — good evening!" I replied.
"Very good. You and your family must come with me to sign some documents. We also have to provide you a chaperone while you're on set."
"Okay, I'll be down soon," I said.
"Are you sure about going there?" Sara asked, giving me a pitiful look.
"About where?"
"Istituto degli Innocenti." She said seriously,
"Yes! I must see what it's like. For my acting," I explained.
Sara rolled her eyes, probably thinking Actors, am I right? — but probably with more Italian charm than I gave her credit for.
"Okay, your chaperone will accompany you to the institute. Nice haircut, by the way!" she said, leaving.
I glanced at the nearest mirror, forbidden until now. My mid-length waves were gone. In their place—a proper nerd's bowl cut. Straight bangs, longer sides framing my face like some tragic doll. I looked absurd. And yet… this was Franco's vision. I sighed, half exasperated, half intrigued. Somehow, this ridiculous haircut felt like the first step toward becoming Luca Innocenti.
Because the boy in the mirror looked nothing like Wilfred Price.