Highlands Fling

I’d been a fan of Harmony Korine’s since his 1997 directorial debut, the disturbingly quirky Gummo. But I had no idea that the fidgety, punky live wire I spent two hours chatting with at a London party was Korine. I never thought to ask him what work he did — we were laughing too much, exchanging ever-more-outrageous stories and comparing near-death experiences. Only when I was leaving the party did we swap phone numbers.

Within a week, as I was about to fly to Los Angeles to play in a 16-week run of The Black Rider, a theatrical collaboration of Tom Waits, Robert Wilson, and William Burroughs, Korine called me and announced: “Hey. I want you to play Abe Lincoln in my new movie. We film in the Highlands of Scotland, June through August. Do the dates work?” I told him they worked. So on a rainy day four months later, I and my fellow passengers — who included the actress-model-designer Anita Pallenberg and a man who looked worryingly like Larry from the Three Stooges — climbed into a minibus at Inverness Airport and rode the increasingly dramatic route across the Highlands. The rain ceased, the skies cleared, and by the time we reached our base at Duncraig Castle, in Ross-shire, the lush hills were suffused in a golden early-evening glow.

En route we had pieced together the bones of the story of Mister Lonely. We were all playing celebrity impersonators, living in an isolated commune for retired professional doppelgangers, a place where everyone is famous and no one gets old. (Sounds like Hollywood!) I was Abe, and Pallenberg was the queen of England. On arrival, we met Michael Jackson (Diego Luna), Marilyn Monroe (Samantha Morton), and Charlie Chaplin (Denis Lavant). Milling around trying on costumes, I could swear I caught glimpses of Sammy Davis Jr., James Dean, and Madonna, too.

The castle, our commune, is a solidly built edifice, constructed in the 1860s by Sir Alexander Matheson, co-founder of the Jardine Matheson banking firm in Asia. While it is, for the most part, a fine example of the Scottish baronial style, it’s more handsome than beautiful. Since Sir Alexander’s death in 1886, Duncraig has been put to a variety of uses. For some years it was rented to fashionable hosts for summer house parties. With the onset of World War II, it became a naval hospital. From 1945 to 1989 it served as a domestic science college for girls. A hideous 1969 extension of the school, more Soviet functional than Scottish baronial, still stands as a grim reminder of this era. The castle is set in 40 acres of woodland with a mile of shoreline, and the view from the tower is breathtaking. Across Loch Carron are the mountains of Applecross. To the west, on the shores of the loch, is the picturesque village of Plockton and, beyond, the distant peaks of the Isle of Skye.

It was an idyllic location to make a film in every respect except one — the midges. In the Highlands these vicious little pests, barely visible individually, swarm in vast clouds throughout the warm summer months, especially near water. In minutes they reduce their poor victim to an approximation of steak tartare. One evening, when they were especially voracious, Korine thought it would be amusing to dress the entire company in mosquito suits to shoot a scene of an outdoor tai chi class.

The director’s humor and his inspired ability to improvise were a continuous source of amusement. He relished the challenges set by the Highlands’ rugged terrain, the spartan resources, and the capricious weather. In this remote part of Scotland, nothing can be taken for granted. One evening, having finished filming early, a dozen of us made our way to the Seafood Restaurant, a small family-owned establishment at the Plockton railway station. Relieved to see a table that would accommodate all of us, we asked to be seated. “Och, nooo!” said the proprietor, aghast. “The kitchen’s closed. Have you seen the time? It’s 20 to 10!” “It’s 20 to 10” became a catchphrase for the rest of the shoot.

Although Mister Lonely is a traditionally scripted movie, co-written by Korine’s brother, Avi, he used the script as a mere sketch. Having spent an hour meticulously rehearsing a scene in which we plan a barbecue for the newly arrived Michael Jackson, Korine leaned toward me just before shooting to whisper, “You are not going to do any of that. I want you to tell them about your experience of acid and napalm in the Vietnam War.” He left the room chuckling.