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Saturday, April 17th, 1999 — Istituto degli Innocenti, Florence
Walk through the museum had been a bitter pill to swallow and even made me tear up at times. Istituto degli Innocenti was now a museum and charity in operation for children. This place wasn't just an ordinary orphanage in Florence. This was the very first orphanage in the entire world. Ospedale degli Innocenti had been founded back in 1444 and operated until the end of the 19th century. Over three hundred thousand children abandoned by mothers, fathers and family had found a new home here.
At some point they had even installed a wheel in which the parents could insert infant children in while remaining anonymous. Thereby, retaining some dignity. That practice hadn't lasted because reading between the lines seemed to reveal that a child was left in the wheel overnight and had died. Otherwise, it seemed odd to stop a long tradition suddenly for the worry of a child being left without the nuns being alerted. All the texts here were sanitised stuff but revelations worked overtime to provide me extra details. Revelation knew nothing of Italy. But it knew about orphjanages around the world. Specifically in the context of Catholic Churches having terrible reputation for it. My life had been influenced so much by the revelations but today I hated these memories and knowledge. I felt my innocence had been taken by the stories of washerwomen in Catholic laundries. Magdelene laundries had operated until only a few years back. It was modern slavery and child murdering machine. My tears were dry when I was done.
How ironic for me to lose my innocence in the so called House of the Innocents? There was a name for those who passed these halls. Innocenti or the Noncentini.
Catholic Church thought the children born out of wedlock were innocent of the crimes of their parents and had provided care for them. Babies were swaddled in strips of cloth like the one we now associated with mummies. It was a catholic superstition that a child would be healthier when swaddled like that and often the parents left identifying items in the swaddling clothes. One story remained with me — one end of a coin split in two was left in the swaddling clothes the baby was left with. Eventually, that had helped the parents to come back for the child. Parents were meant to parent and missed their baby.
But that wasn't the fate of every child who passed through these walls. Many had never known a parent at all — only the orphanage that fed them, worked them, and sent them out into the wide world. I felt for the girls most of all. The boys were apprenticed and taught trades, stepping toward a decent life. Hard but fair life. The girls were expected to marry, a task made nearly impossible when a dowry was required and the orphanage could spare so little. A meagre dowry meant a meagre husband — and often a small, unfulfilled life. Often it led back to the orphanage, only they carried their own swaddled babes.
I spent hours in a quiet room lined with metal lockers, each holding the tiny belongings of children who had once lived here, along with fragments of their stories compiled for those who wished to read them. They were little rascals, truly. Their notes complained about wet nurses, nuns, priests — but mostly about chores. Scrubbing floors, sewing, learning a trade, endless prayer and services. Life had been unrelenting for the "foundlings," and they had worked twice as hard for a future that had already been denied them.
Even with all the bad things, the place had given life to three hundred thousand people that would've been abandoned and left behind. There were even unmarried pregnant women they had taken in, many childless women or milk bearing women had done their share to help turn babies into toddlers. I had come here for inspiration and some information regarding the role I was to play. But instead I had seen the darkest shadow of humans along with the brightest flame that survived within it.
I stood in the cloister of the men's quarter, sun shone brightly in the central courtyard where some potted plants and growing saplings were placed in an aesthetic formation. Italians seemed to have thought of appearances of all things.
"Are you done with this visit?" Elda asked.
Shaking myself from my deep thoughts, I nodded at my chaperone for Italy.
"Did you get what you wanted?" she said as she took in the serene environment of the courtyard.
"That and some more," I said with a sigh.
"So you can play Luca Innocenti now?"
"I can play him, but my teacher said it's better to be the person rather than play the character," I said as we started toward the exit.
"So you're one of those method actors?" Elda said in understanding.
"Not in the way you think. People assume you have to be the role on and off the set. I only want to be them when the camera's rolling. But even then, I won't delude myself into believing I am the character. That way lies madness," I said seriously.
"Perfectly put," Elda nodded, though her eyes didn't quite agree.
"My teacher is also a student of acting — she says all actors are students. We have to develop our own 'method'. I'm trying to combine Meisner with Method. Some already do that, but I want it in a way my mind understands. Becoming the character and improvising as them. I just need to learn the relevant information and build that character until I'm informed enough to be them when needed," I explained.
"Of course, that is admirable," Elda agreed.
I couldn't tell whether she cared to keep the conversation going or whether she even considered what I was saying. But she had been respectful and silent for hours while I read, observed, and internalised new information, so I couldn't give her any lip even if I wanted to.
The wheel stood in a corner by the pillars that held nothing but the sky up. It was fully decked in beautifully trimmed stone — a frame that architects called an aedicule. It was the sort of thing you'd see around the grand doors and windows of Florence's historical buildings, copied the world over. The wheel where abandoned babies would be placed was barred with iron now — this place no longer accepted orphans. Above it was a painting of two babies in swaddling clothes. A framed text rested on a decorative scroll held in their hands.
Pater et mater dereliquerunt nos, Dominus autem assumpsit — Psalm XXVI.
"Father and Mother have abandoned us, but the Lord has welcomed us in," I intoned.
A few silent moments passed as I said prayers I hadn't spoken in ages. This was a holy place, its purpose righteous. It had done good things — visibly, tangibly — unlike most churches. Perhaps I'd do my share one day when I had the means.
"You're an odd kid, you know that?" Elda said.
I could only shake my head.
#
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Saturday, April 17th, 1999 — Istituto degli Innocenti, Florence
Hotel Helvetia & Bristol was a five-star hotel situated smack dab in the middle of the city centre and where the tourist attractions were situated within walking distance. When I walked in that afternoon, I wasn't expecting the drama that was brewing in the lobby.
"Hey, you're back!" Sara Rossi, a production coordinator, welcomed me.
"What's going on here?" I asked. There were many more people in the hotel lobby than the night before or even this morning.
"Trio di leonesse," Sara said, as if that explained everything.
"Sorry, what? The trio of lionesses?" I asked dumbly.
"Yes. It is what Franco calls your English ladies. Three lions — you have this?" Sara asked, pointing above her chest where a badge would be.
"Like in football? Yeah, our national team." I admitted.
"Yes, yes. Three English ladies, all famous and great actresses. England's three lions are here, but they are all lionesses and eager for a bite," Sara laughed.
It wasn't that funny once she explained it, but my eyes couldn't help wandering, trying to catch glimpses of the so-called lionesses. As it happened, they were behind an arch in a more private area, drinking Italian wine and gossiping like any old English women.
"That's them, isn't it?" I said almost subconsciously.
"That's them, yes. They are very happy now. You have no idea how many complaints I've had about them wanting to move hotels," Sara said in annoyance.
"Oh?" My ears pricked up, sensing some tea about to spill.
"Cher was staying here while the lionesses stayed in a four-star hotel. They did not care that Cher was paying for this hotel from her own pocket. We had to spend production budget for hotels for the ladies and some other cast and crew members, directors and everyone else who wanted to move up. You were included — you may thank me," Sara said, clearly expecting to be rained in adulation.
"Thank you?" I replied, unsure.
"No problem, Luca. At least the ladies will not complain anymore," Sara said, getting ready to leave me behind to do her coordination job.
Elevator dinged and Cher strode out. I knew celebrities travelled with an entourage, but Cher truly had one — seven people in tow, all hauling luggage marked with designer logos or the kind of leather that smelled expensive even from across the lobby.
"What's happening?" I asked, worried — Cher was clearly leaving.
"Not sure…" Sara murmured. "Those two are her assistants, Suzanne and Jennifer. Three bodyguards. And her makeup artists." She pointed discreetly as they passed the reception.
"What's the meaning of this?" Maggie Smith swept out of the lounge, voice crisp as winter frost, making to intercept Cher.
"Maggie! Great to see you," Cher called, in that unmistakably loud, warm American way. "This place is fabulous. I hope you love your stay."
All the production bigwigs lucky enough to have five-star rooms had formed a loose circle around the lobby. Even they seemed worried about collateral damage, better leave some distance between the lion fighting a jaguar? Drama was brewing — and no one wanted to miss it.
"Indeed. And where are you off to, my dear? I thought you were on book for another week," Maggie said, her tone so proper it could have worn its pearls.
"We're finally escaping that dreadful little town," Cher said, smiling wide enough to dazzle the crowd. "There's nothing to do here. Elsa's an American, sinful or not — she needs life! I've got an invitation from a friend with a villa in Florence. He's putting me up."
I saw Maggie stiffen ever so slightly, then smooth it away like the professional actor she was.
"I see. Well then — see you on set," she said, clipped and cool, before turning on her heel and sauntered back toward the lounge.
Cher beamed, dimples flashing, before signalling her battalion of beefy men and graceful women to march onward.
"She is so bad-ass," Sara whispered, her voice suddenly twice as Italian and word said in English.
"Do they hate each other?" I asked, anxiety creeping in.
Toxic work environment wasn't really my plan of fun.
"Hate is a strong word. Between the three lionesses and Cher, they have four Academy Awards." Sara gave me a wicked grin. "Call it… friendly competition. With claws. If they don't get scratched, they at least sharpen theirs."
"Is there a tally for who's winning?" I asked, matching her grin.
"You and I might get along," she said. "If the budget survives, I'll put you in a five-star again when you're back in Firenze."
"You've just become my favourite Italian person."
"You're channelling your Franco very well. Now — time to meet him. You have a run-through in two hours," Sara said, slipping back into professional mode.
"Ah! I forgot you're the taskmaster," I said with a solemn nod.
"That's right — now off you go. Pip-pip!" she chirped, in mock English accent.
Did she know I was cast as Pip? She had to, surely. Sara was nothing like the drab professional I'd assumed last night — she was a gossip powerhouse with razor wit, and I liked her all the more for it.
My chaperone, Elda, handed me off to my grandparents for a well-earned break on her part. I enjoyed a late lunch, cleaned myself up, and headed down to the hotel's meeting room. Granddad came along — Nain very sweetly offered, then insisted, but her starstruck eyes weren't exactly ideal for a first work meeting. Granddad, who couldn't care less about famous people or even the Queen of Commonwealth, was the perfect choice.
The meeting room was huge, with only a handful of people scattered among the dozens of chairs around the long table. After five months of knowing the casting, it wasn't a surprise to see the women already there. Still, it felt surreal to walk in as the only person — besides Granddad — who didn't have an Oscar nomination to their name. Cher was opposite the three lionesses, the aura of competition seemed to be perfectly even at the moment.
"This is the boy you've been fussing over?" Maggie asked, giving me a brisk once-over.
"Yes, my lioness. Here he is." Franco said with a flourish,
"Don't call me that," she snapped back. "What's your name, boy?"
"Wilfred. Wilfred Price. Hello, everyone."
"Hmm. Highly irregular — an actor joining midway through production, a child at that," Maggie said, arching a brow.
"Baird was a special boy," Franco began, "I plucked him straight out of school in Florence when he was leaving for home. American lad, fluent in Italian and English. Perfect look — exactly like me in my youth. But the fool producer whom I wont name cast an Italian boy for younger version. Boy's parents he lied about speaking English, so we had to let him go. And now — this one. Baird reminded me of myself. This boy not at all. But when he acts? He is me. In the flesh."
My face burned. Praise from teachers was one thing — they handed it out like sweets. Praise from Franco was like Gilles saying you weren't that terrible. Practically sacred.
"His screen test with me was marvellous," Joan said.
"Indeed. Now we make introductions," Franco declared.
"Oh, do sod off," Judi said, waving him away. "Look at him — bright eyes, cheeks on fire. He knows everyone here, doesn't he?"
I nodded, wishing my cheeks would cool down.
"Good. Then we can start. And perhaps tonight I'll finally sleep somewhere without engine noises. A proper rest at last, oh…" Judi said her hands stuck to her forehead in dramatic annoyance.
The two English ladies beside her hummed in agreement. Cher just smiled — the kind of smile you wear when you've already won. It seemed the tally was going up for Cher.
"Right," Franco clapped his hands. "You missed the table read and you're arriving halfway through. So — we run scenes. Fifty-three to fifty-five, then sixty-seven through sixty-nine."
I knew them by rote. Twenty scenes total. Fifty-three to fifty-five were the ones guiding Cher's character through a ruin in Florence and then over to Lily Tomlin's mark, plus Cher swearing about her husband and finally recognising the young Luca. The others were the Uffizi scenes.
"We only have permission to shoot in the Uffizi and in Fiesole for thirteen days combined. Wilfred is here for eight. So — we talk, read, then do light run-through."
I was officially working again. Experience was so much different than what I'd had before. It was one thing to do a table read where the most famous person was Phillip Schofield. But in this room, these were people recognised everywhere — not just in England. Not to mention Phillip had been an amateur actor, these three were at the top of their field and with Oscar wins or nominations. Franco had collected the holy grail of actresses for a movie with a relatively low budget. It had confused me to no end that Daniel Radcliffe was to be in a TV movie with more budget than Franco's more international project.
That cast had Sir Ian McKellen in it. Of course it also had Maggie Smith as the mean aunt. Lady Hester Random, that she was to play in this film, was in the same grain as David Copperfield. Maggie was typecast as an aristocrat, sophisticated women all her life. I had to leave an impression on her — she would be a person who the casting directors of Harry Potter would ask for advice. Why not? She would be the common denominator between us two.
Doubt still clouded my mind. Tens of thousands of kids had auditioned for the film. Nothing should change except for me joining in to that massive number of kids. To even get a callback would be impossible with that many entries. But the stakes were there — importance of me impressing this crowd was beyond simply proving that I could act. I had to do more. I wasn't stupid to think I could charm Maggie with my cute looks and boyish charm. These were famous people and probably had bootlickers coming up to them every other day.
Cool and collected Wilfred it was then that would rehearse with his fellow cast members.
The table read slash rehearsal and run-through had lasted until eight p.m. It had run so long that I had no choice but to cancel my scheduled ballet class. As much as I wanted to start doing my due diligence for Billy Elliot, I just couldn't bail on something I'd accepted. Having a new shiny toy didn't diminish that I was overjoyed to get this role half a year back. I had a responsibility to give it the proper respect.
My family was invited to a dinner afterwards by Franco, along with the English ladies, Cher, Lily, and Franco's "family." Everyone who had ever been related to him was long gone — years and years had taken them one by one. Even his recent life had been unkind. He'd undergone a hip operation and picked up some kind of hospital-acquired virus in America. Age and frailty didn't help, yet he still smiled and carried himself with the same brave face he'd worn his whole life. When he'd had no parents or guardian, it was his aunt who had taken him in — and now Franco had spent years paying that forward, trying to make Luciano and Pippo his legal sons. The process was slow and messy, mostly because both "boys" were grown men.
Artists were strange folk, I'd learned. The three Lionesses, dignified as they were on screen, cursed and bantered like sailors without a care for who overheard. Joan and Cher tried to chat with me, and I did my best in return. On-screen chemistry began long before the camera rolled, and I knew these moments mattered. Nain, of course, enjoyed the night more than everyone else combined. She made friends faster than I could form sentences — so typical!
I kept stealing glances at Maggie throughout the dinner. For all my determination to impress her, we weren't going to share a single scene together in the entire film. No chance to play off each other, no chance for that actor's dynamics and bond to form. I'd been given the script to David Copperfield; I knew her character would share plenty of scenes with Daniel.
Shared. Past tense. That production was already done and dusted and in post.
I wondered how those scenes had gone, whether I could ask Maggie about them — whether she'd start drawing comparisons. Whether that would even be smart when we'd not share a scene.
It hit me then, suddenly and painfully.
I was already losing to Daniel without realising it.