“HEY, MAN, can you play the lute?”
Russell often opens his telephone conversations as if you had been discussing something thirty seconds ago, when in fact you may not have spoken with each other in months. Russell had been a pal of mine for four or five years by the end of 2008, when he asked about my medieval instrument capabilities. I had grown accustomed to his peculiarities—as he had to mine—so I did not even pause to comment on what an odd question he had just posed.
“Yeah, man. I can play bouzoukis and mandocellos and lutes and all that stuff. What do you need?”
I assumed Russell wanted some tracks for a new song we’d written or some background music for a film he was doing, or something along those lines. I did not expect him to say: “Ridley Scott and I are doing a Robin Hood film and there’s a role you’d be great for in the Merry Men. Allan A’Dayle is the musician, and he needs to be an Irish-sounding bloke who can play the lute and write and sing songs on the spot. Could you come to LA with your lute next Wednesday and do a table read for the part?”
An hour later, I left the concert venue in Ottawa where I had been sound checking and took a cab to the Ottawa Folklore Centre to buy a thirteen-string lute.
I was going to Hollywood.
Late in 2003, I had heard a rumour that Russell Crowe was a fan of GBS and my songwriting. A fan from California told me she’d just seen his band, 30 Odd Foot of Grunts, and they’d covered a song of mine called “How Did We Get from Saying I Love You.” I had no way of confirming this but most certainly wanted to believe it because, well, holy frig—how cool would that be if the world-famous Gladiator is singing a song I wrote about a chance meeting with an ex-girlfriend on the bridge in Petty Harbour? I figured I would never get a chance to just stroll up to an Oscar winner and say, “Oh hey, man, I’m Alan. Heard you dig my tunes,” so I more or less put it to rest on my lifelong wish list.
Then in June 2004, I was stoked to be sitting with NHL stars at their awards show in a posh theatre in Toronto. I had been asked to hand out the Rookie of the Year award at the last minute, and every inch of my body believed the organizers did this because fate would want a Newfoundlander like me to hand fellow Newfoundlander and nominee Michael Ryder the trophy. (When I looked at the card at the podium and it said Andrew Raycroft was the winner, I almost said the wrong name, but that’s another story.)
When my award presenting was done, I took my seat and was surprised and delighted to hear Ron MacLean introduce the next presenter as “Academy Award winner Russell Crowe.”
I can’t even remember what trophy he gave out as I was too focused on the single task of creating an opportunity to accidentally bump into Russell backstage and introduce myself as the one who wrote that song he likes. I still owe Edmonton Oilers hero Ryan Smyth an apology for stepping on his foot as I awkwardly pushed my way through the aisle to get backstage. When I got to the hallway where the presenters and winners were gathered together chatting, I positioned myself by the main exit and tried my best to look like I was there by complete coincidence.
I saw Russell making his way through the hall towards me and the nearby exit. Practically everyone wanted to speak with him, and he exchanged pleasantries with each of them as he came closer and closer. I was worried that he’d be sick of chatting by the time he got to me.
I had rehearsed a very unrehearsed-sounding “Oh hey, man, you’re Russell, right? Yeah, congrats on all that Oscar-winning stuff and being an internationally famous movie star and all that, but more importantly, I heard a rumour that you might like one of my songs.” I was preparing to deliver my lines when something unexpected happened. Russell Crowe turned towards me and spoke first.
“Hey, man, you’re Alan Doyle, good to meet you.”
I think I just stood there with my mouth open or something and Russell was forced to speak again. “Love your tunes, man. You guys are playing the Molson Amphitheatre in a couple of weeks, right? Yeah, a bunch of us are coming. See you there.”
Mouth still open, I just nodded. He was just about to make his exit when that part of your brain that screams “SAY SOMETHING!” at times like these kicked in and I came out with some words and then joined those words to some more words and then, well, I’d be lying if I told you I can recall now what exactly I said. But I’m betting it was something like this, in the thickest 1985 Petty Harbour accent I default to when nervous:
“Oh hey, b’y Russell…We are playing in a couple of weeks…certainly happy to put tickets aside for you, but you probably got tickets or people to get tickets for you, whatever…certainly happy to have you and we’ll play that song you likes, or at least I heard you might like from some missus in San Francisco or whatever…and sure we’ll probably have beers after the show backstage and you could come and have one of them or even two or whatever if you wants and meet the fellas ’cause they loves movies too.”
I then realized I hadn’t responded to his original statement and quickly added, “Oh and yeah, I’m Alan.”
“Cool, man,” he said. “See you then.” And with that, Russell Crowe and the largest rugby-player-looking security guard I’d ever seen turned and exited onto the Toronto street.
I figured that was that, and I’d likely never hear from him again. But as I walked offstage before the encore at the Molson Amphitheatre show in Toronto a few weeks later, a pal tugged my arm and whispered, “You’ve got Russell Crowe here, my dear.”
After the show, Russell and his gang—including the big rugby-player-looking fella who I would come to learn was Australian Rugby League legend Mark “Spudd” Carroll—hung with all hands backstage. It was such an incredible feeling of validation that this international star had taken a night out of his life to see us and that he enjoyed what we did as much as we enjoyed what he did. You could feel the excitement and satisfaction up and down the halls. If that had been all there was to it, I would still be smiling to this day about the experience.
But there would be so much more to it. Just as the night was closing, Russell offered: “I’m in Toronto for the next couple of months, with weekends off. Are you ever passing through on a Sunday? Perhaps we could write a song together?”
I was quick to accept the invite, saying, “Man, I pass through Toronto every Sunday in the summer as we usually play festivals Fridays and Saturdays. I could pop in for sure. That would be amazing.”
By the end of the summer, I had spent a dozen nights or more hanging in Russell’s camp as he shot the film Cinderella Man, and we had written and recorded a couple of songs. By January, I was in Australia producing a full CD for him and a newly assembled band called The Ordinary Fear of God. From 2005 to 2008, we had written songs for his projects, my projects and third-party acts like The Ennis Sisters.
So when Russell asked me if I played the lute, I assumed it would be for some song or CD or soundtrack, and my head spun for days after the invite to a table read for Robin Hood. I can’t tell you all the people who sat in on the table read, but I can tell you I was so nervous that a few minutes before we started I called my brother, Bernie. He said, “Jesus, Alan, you are sat at a table with the Gladiator and Batman. I suppose you are nervous.”
As I sat with a guitar propped against one thigh and a lute propped against the other, a tableful of seasoned actors—and me—read through the screenplay. I said my lines as Russell advised—“in your own natural accent, as it is very Irish-sounding to almost anyone”—and I sang the bits that needed singing and did not break a string or have a heart attack. I got the part.
At the end of March 2009, Great Big Sea played the last song at the Juno Awards in Vancouver. I left the stage and went directly to the airport and flew overnight to London, touching down in England before the dawn. At arrivals, I met a gent named Tom who held a sign with my name on it. After a few pleasantries, Tom confessed that he had googled me, which made me feel famous. Then he confessed he’d done so “because you are one of the only people in the principal cast that I’d never heard of,” which made me feel not famous enough. I needed to change the topic.
“Tom, are we headed to the rental house they got for me in Richmond?”
“No, mate.” He reached behind his head with a yellow legal-sized envelope. “Straight to set, they said. I imagine that’s your scenes for the day in there. Ah, who am I kidding. You seem like a gent who likes an honest man. Don’t rat me out, but I read it all when I was waiting for you this morning. You got two scenes. Lotta arrows to shoot and a fight scene but only one line of dialogue. You’ll be grand.”
Right to set? Lines? Fight scenes? All of this sounded fine and dandy when we were training and practising a few weeks back at Russell’s farm, but today, the reality that it was upon me made me queasy.
For the next hour I sat in the back seat as Tom explained in great detail how Arsenal were by far the best football team in the Premiership. But all I could do was read and reread the four words in my one line in the script that I was to deliver in a scene today:
1 Robin
2 They
3 Are
4 French
I had never considered how many ways a four-word sentence could be said. Should my character be surprised?
“Robin, they are FRENCH?!”
Or did Allan A’Dayle know this all along and need to be sure Robin knew too?
“ROBIN, they are French.”
Or did our characters have a bet and Allan was proud to announce that he’d predicted it properly?
“Robin, they ARE French.”
By the time we turned off the motorway just south of Farnham, I was mesmerized. I walked onto the set of Robin Hood in Bourne Woods in the same clothes I wore on national TV in Vancouver less than twelve hours before. I am sure I still had the confetti from the show in my hair.
The scale of it all was overwhelming. Horses and production trucks stretched for a kilometre. Trailers for cast and staff were gathered like a town twice the size of Petty Harbour. A perky and professional lady with wellies on her feet and a headset and mic on her head greeted me with a smile.
“Hello, Alan Doyle. Welcome to your first day. Everyone is excited to meet you.”
The next hour and a half saw me ushered into and out of about five departments, one right after the other, with an efficiency I’d never seen before. Administration had me sign documents and take house keys and a cast cellphone.
“Keep that with you at all times, okay?” Jaysus, was I becoming a secret agent or something?
A lady named Janty ushered me into a wardrobe trailer with fitting rooms and asked me to try on all the stuff I’d need in the film. Soldier’s uniform, chain mail and a few other bits all fit me, to all of our relief, and I had not taken the boots off when I was ushered into a hair and makeup trailer.
“Jesus, you are bloody PERFECT! YOU LOOK LIKE A MEDIEVAL HOBBIT!” I was not sure how to react to this man’s excitement as he pulled my beard and lifted some of my long hair into a ponytail. “Just make him dirty and we are good to go!”
I was led to a trailer that had two doors, one on either side. One had a sign that read “Allan A’Dayle” and the other read “Will Scarlett.” As soon as I rounded the corner, the Will Scarlett door swung open.
“ALN DILE!” Scott Grimes loves to pronounce my name the way it would have been said in Petty Harbour when I was a kid. And to tell the truth, I love when he does that too. There’s more talent packed into Scott’s shorter-than-average, red-haired, freckled frame than anyone could possibly imagine. He is an incredibly versatile actor who’s done everything from playing a teen on Who’s the Boss? in the 1980s, to Party of Five in the 1990s, to Band of Brothers in the 2000s and over a hundred episodes of ER between 2003 and 2009. This is not to mention dozens and dozens of other roles on hit shows like Dexter, Justified, Suits, Shameless and The Orville. He has also been the voice of Stevie Smith and others in over three hundred episodes of American Dad and Family Guy.
Scott hugged me reassuringly as I bet he knew I would be sh—ting myself, and started talking as he walked me down the length of the trailer. He spoke till he opened my door and closed it behind me
“How was the gig in Vancouver, heard you killed it, and you are going to kill it today too, pal, it all must look a bit much, but you were made for this, I’m telling ya, get your stuff on and we’ll walk through the scenes together, oh man, this is gonna be fun, buddy, this is gonna be fun.”
The door closed behind me and I surveyed a fifteen-by-eight-foot room with a couch and a table with dressing room lights surrounding a mirror. A door between them led to a bathroom with a sink, a toilet and a shower. Many might think this a small place to work and live in during the day hours for four months, but you have to remember, I usually sleep on a forty-foot bus with ten other people. This trailer was like the Shangri-La as far as I was concerned.
My calm moment of satisfaction was broken by a knock on the door by a hand so big and strong that it could only belong to the mighty Little John himself. Kevin Durand swung the door open and almost ripped it off the hinges in the process, as his massive Thunder Bay frame bent and squeezed through the door.
“Allons-y!” Kevin’s French-Canadian heritage always comes out when he is excited. He grabbed me around the waist and lifted me to the trailer ceiling as easily as you or I would lift a newspaper to our face. Kevin is a trained musical theatre actor, singer and dancer who defies all expectations constantly. Despite being six foot six and 250 pounds of muscle, he is a ballet dancer who got some of his earliest training at the Charlottetown Festival and in the musical Guys and Dolls. He then kick-started an incredible run as a TV and film actor that would take him to Hollywood and beyond. On the small screen, he had starring roles in Lost and Vikings, and his big-screen credits run the gamut from Smokin’ Aces to 3:10 to Yuma.
“Ah, Alan Doyle, how cool is this?!” Kevin was right. This was super cool and, in many ways, he was responsible for it all.
One of Kevin’s earliest movie roles was in Mystery, Alaska, where he starred with Scott Grimes and, you guessed it, Russell Crowe. At a cast party one night, it was Kev’s turn to spin some tunes. Kev spun some of his faves, which just happened to include a band from Newfoundland called Great Big Sea. When the song “How Did We Get from Saying I Love You” came on, Russell asked Kev to replay it and then wanted to know who was singing and who was the writer. Kev explained both were me, and if he had not done that, none of this would have ever happened.
Kev and Scott and I were in medieval costume as Allan A’Dayle, Little John and Will Scarlett when the same perky and professional lady in her wellies poked her head around the corner.
“Merry Men, Robin Hood is out of hair and makeup and would like to see you in his trailer.”
The boys strode down the plastic walkway laid over the mud and I paused for a moment to check myself. Many of the people I’d played with on the Junos show the previous night would not be out of bed yet, and here I was about to walk in full costume onto a film set with Russell Crowe.
It was hugs all around as Robin Hood and his Merry Men met outside Russell’s trailer on day one of shooting. I paused again to survey the moment. I was not visiting these fine actors on their film set. I was with them on our film set. Their collective histories and resumés washed over me and I actually felt nauseous.
Russell Friggin’ Crowe, Oscar winner with a career on screen and stage for well over three decades—easily one of the top ten, if not top five most successful actors in history—joked with Scott and Kev as I stood uncharacteristically silent. The gap between their skill sets and mine was almost making me sick to my stomach.
Did I mention Scott could very well be the best vocalist I’ve ever met in my life? Did I mention he was on Broadway when he was ten? Did I mention he toured with Bob Hope and Michael Jackson as a feature singer? Oh, did I mention Kevin was in the friggin’ X-Men? Did I mention Ridley Scott was the director? Did I say Cate Blanchett was arriving in a few days?
I’ll stop now. I just want you to know the depth of the talent pool I had waded into before taking the one more step that would find me at the bottom of a learning curve so steep I thought I’d never see the surface and breathe again.
The first scene we shot featured Robin and the Merry Men cresting a hill to discover a band of soldiers stealing from a group they had just ambushed and killed. My job was to trail behind the others, hide behind a log with Russell and, on cue, say my line. Four words:
1 Robin
2 They
3 Are
4 French
“Action!” Max, the assistant director, was waiting for nothing to get the cameras rolling.
We crested the hill quite well. I did not trip or stumble. I made my way to the log and said…
Well, I didn’t say anything.
I opened my mouth and nothing came out but dry, dusty air. I tried to swallow but couldn’t. So I gave the talking thing another go.
Have you ever seen the teenage boy character on The Simpsons who usually works the drive-through at Krusty Burger? The fella whose voice lets you know he’s in the midst of puberty as his voice cracks while asking, “Would you like fries with that?”
Well, that young fella’s voice was cooler-sounding than mine was when I finally managed to speak on the Robin Hood film for the first time.
It went something like: “Raw-BUN, Day ahRR FA-wrench.”
I almost face-palmed myself, I had botched it so badly, but a few seconds later the scene was over and Max yelled, “Cut it. Back to ones, please.” Which I came to learn was first positions.
I walked back in silence, and the guys did not say a word. I was convinced their silence meant they were all reconsidering my ability to do this. Back at ones, it remained silent for what felt like an eternity.
“ALAN DOYLE’S FIRST SCENE EVER!” Russell and the boys shouted. They were putting me on and hugged and congratulated me and the crew joined in. “Your film cherry is busted! Welcome to the motley crew!” someone shouted, and someone else added, “Welcome to the dark side!”
It was the exact icebreaker I needed. They’d told me, without actually saying it, that they had my back. They all did. The most learned people in the biz were going to help me through it. And they did, time and time again. Over the next few months I was given a master class in film, and I needed every bit of that on-the-job training as I found myself making every rookie mistake ever heard of, and a few that no one ever had.
The next day we had a massive fight scene where I was to run down the hill and shoot two arrows. Russell explained before we started, “Be as stealthy as you can and shoot straight like we’ve been practising, and whatever you do, don’t stop. Just keep going. This is a big scene and you are just a small part of it. If you cock up your bit, but keep going, the cameras will capture lots of other stuff, but if you stop, you’ll ruin it for everyone. So keep going, okay?”
“Got it.” And I was sure I had.
I had not.
Max called action and a couple dozen actors and horses and stunt people took flight. I ran down the hill like an assassin. I grabbed my arrow perfectly, but as I went to notch it, it fell to the ground. I lifted my head, turned to Max and said with a voice that sounded not like a medieval Irish soldier but the kid from The Simpsons again, “I dropped it.”
Max shook his head and waved me down the hill.
I figured he did not hear me.
“No, I said I dropped it!”
“Cut!” Max may have added, “For f—k’s sakes,” or that might have been someone else. But I definitely heard it.
Back at ones, Russell just grinned a grin that really did not need to be explained.
“Take 2. Action!” shouted Max, and off we went again down the hill perfectly. I drew the first arrow and notched it like a lethal killer, sending it into the fray below. It was an amazing feeling. We were doing it. I was doing it. I was so excited that I forgot to concentrate on the second arrow. I reached for it and it fell to the ground.
I cannot explain to you why I did what I did next. I wish I knew.
I stood up and looked back up the hill to Max and said, “I dropped it again!”
“CUTTTT. JESUS f—king Christ!” It was definitely Max speaking now.
Back at ones, Russell repeated the instruction from earlier and added, “Look around, man. All these people love you and want you to do well. But now you are keeping them from their lunch.”
One look at the hungry crew, and I never dropped another arrow for the next four months.
The lads helped me tremendously as I constantly made gaffes you would not think possible. In one riding scene, the three Merry Men were to chase after Robin as we peeled out of a goodbye scene with Maid Marian. It had to be done at impressive speed, and Scott was worried his slower horse might not keep up. A lagging Will Scarlett would not be welcome for this shot.
I was encouraging him to lift the reins and lean into the gallop and all would be well. Will and John and Allan would stick together and it would be awesome.
“Action!” After a line and a kiss between the hero and heroine, we blasted down the trail behind Robin Hood. Will and John and Allan were all in stride. It was looking so cool and was definitely going to make the movie cut. And then I shouted across the frame: “Attaway, Scotty!”
“Cut!” Max waved us back. And Scott tried not to laugh as he said, “You are doing good, pal, real good. Let’s just try to call each other by our character names and not our real ones.”
Later, when we finished a scene where I had a line that went something like, “Let’s go over to the tree and get the horses,” Kevin called me over.
“You are doing good, bud. Real good. But when you say ‘tree,’ you don’t need to point to the tree or trace the outline of a tree while saying it. They might cut in a picture of the tree and even if they don’t, I’m pretty sure the folks at home know what a tree looks like.”
“Got it.” And I was sure I had.
I had not.
We shot the scene again and Kev called me over again.
“You are doing good, bud. Real good. But when you say ‘horses,’ you don’t need to hold your hands in front of you and pretend you are holding the reins. They might cut in a picture of the horse and even if they don’t, I’m pretty sure the folks at home know what a horse looks like.”
Russell Crowe, Scott Grimes and Kevin Durand showed me more patience and kindness and guidance than any man deserves in a lifetime. I love them dearly for it.
With the help of Robin Hood and the Merry Men, I made it through the first month, and by the time the midway point of the shoot rolled around, I was becoming more comfortable, learning to focus on bringing all the talents I could to the mix. I had a history of writing sea shanties, so I wrote a few and recorded them in a makeshift studio in my tiny trailer. I wrote “Bully Boys” for a scene where Robin Hood and the Merry Men return from France to England, and the song became a feature in the film and later a big part of one of my CDs and live set.
They also wanted my character to “sing” the news—to respond in song to events in the scenes. I had experience as one half of a live comedy duo and could write funny stuff on the spot. I never thought that skill would be useful on this job, but you never know when you might be just what the doctor ordered.
A curveball came one day when a fight scene was changed at the last minute. Scott came to me nervously on set as we waited for Ridley and Russell to come from the writers’ meeting.
“Hey, have you seen the changes?” I explained I had not. Scott handed me a copy of the new scene, the paper still warm from the printer. “Dude, there is a song in this scene?!”
“What?” I grabbed the sheet and glanced over it quickly. There, at the bottom of the sheet read, “All the while A’Dayle sings a song about a large-breasted woman.”
“Dude, what are you gonna do?” Scott was nervous and a little put off that they would land me in this spot.
“I am gonna sing a song about a large-breasted woman,” I said, hoping I looked as confident on the outside as I was terrified on the inside.
I walked in the woods and considered it all. A few moments later Russell and Ridley arrived on a four-wheeler and approached me with grins on their faces as wide as a cat who’d cornered a mouse.
“You read the new scene?” Russell was almost laughing now.
“Yes, sir.” I turned to Ridley as he was giggling now too.
“Do you have a song for us?”
“Yes, sir. Would you like to hear it?” Ridley turned and waved me over to set, saying, “No, I’m sure you’ve got something, and we’ll learn a bunch if we shoot the rehearsal.”
“Action!” Max looked like he was in on the joke as well.
I sang:
Nancy, you’re me darlin’
I loves you all to bits
I’ll climb up to your chamber
And on your mountainous t—
Then the dialogue interrupts my bawdy song, and the scene continues.
To this day, “Large Breasted Woman” is one of the biggest earners in my song publishing catalogue.