Compared to someone like Helen Herman, who was only half-professional at best, Ridley Scott was without a doubt the real deal.
"He knows how to use his voice and body," Ridley Scott said, staying pretty objective. "But he's overdoing it. The acting is too surface-level. He's still far from getting it."
Helen Herman nodded slightly.
Ridley Scott added, "You can't tell much from just one scene. There aren't many actors in Hollywood who really get it."
Unlike the extras who had to find their own corner to rest in, Matthew got to sit in a nice, high-backed chair—after all, he was the lead in these next few scenes. A makeup artist and assistant director stood in front of him, carefully checking the fresh scars on his face to make sure everything looked right.
This was easily the most comfortable Matthew had been on set since joining.
In the temporary actor rest area, there were snacks for him to keep up his energy, electrolyte drinks to stay hydrated, and even a personal assistant the crew assigned just for these few scenes to help him out with anything non-filming related.
Of course, this treatment would vanish as soon as the scenes were done.
"I wonder what kind of perks Russell Crowe gets?"
Matthew had some downtime and found himself idly wondering, like a farmer daydreaming about the emperor's golden shovel.
After a while, the assistant came over to tell him it was time to get ready for the next scene.
This one was an action shot, but Matthew would be the only actor in the frame. The camera would be focused on close-ups of him swinging his warhammer—one reason the crew dared to use a newcomer like him for it.
If it had been a fight scene with others, they'd either have needed stunt doubles or time for real fight training.
Matthew stepped onto the set. Around him, extras in Roman soldier armor or barbarian costumes were already lying on the ground, playing dead bodies for background.
"You'll stand right here!" said the stunt coordinator who had talked to Matthew before, giving final instructions. "Don't move more than a meter left or right!"
"And hey, didn't you say you've swung a sledgehammer before?" he added. "However you used to do it—give it everything you've got!"
"Got it," Matthew nodded.
He'd already been told the action style in Gladiator leaned toward realistic and powerful—not like the flashy, over-the-top stuff popular in Hollywood lately.
He didn't know a thing about fancy kung fu or theatrical fight styles. But he had been in street fights and used to swing a hammer for real work. That was more his speed.
The stunt guy left, the makeup artist gave him one last check, and then the scene was ready.
Matthew looked around. They were only using one camera, set directly in front of him.
The shoot started quickly. As soon as the scene marker called it, Matthew swung his hammer—like he was smashing through cement pillars. Left, right. The warhammer, made of resin and only about five or six pounds, whooshed through the air in his hands like it was made of solid iron.
With no one actually fighting him, Matthew had to strike at empty space—swinging the hammer four or five times. His tense expression eased up a little.
It really was different when you had no one to react to. Plus, he lacked experience…
"Cut!" Ridley Scott's voice rang out again. He shouted at Matthew, "You're hitting Roman soldiers, not balloons!"
Matthew stopped, breathing hard.
"Back to one! Again!" Ridley called.
Things started getting rough. This scene seemed simple, but solo scenes—especially close-ups—were surprisingly hard to nail.
They had to shoot it six more times. Only one was a camera zoom issue—the rest were Matthew's fault.
"Ten-minute break!"
Luckily, Ridley Scott was only a little annoyed. He didn't blow up.
But the extras lying on the damp ground weren't thrilled. Especially the ones dressed as barbarians—they were already jealous that an extra like Matthew got a role like this. Now that his mistakes had them lying on the cold, wet ground for even longer, they looked like they wanted to punch him.
Matthew ignored them. He went back to his chair, sat down, and tried to figure out how to adjust.
"Want some water?" the assistant asked.
"No, thanks," Matthew said politely. He wasn't arrogant—he treated people with respect.
The makeup artist came over. "Touch-up time."
Matthew nodded, letting her work. The artist had a flashy look and definitely didn't seem like a regular guy.
He didn't like overly flamboyant men—actually, he kind of hated them.
Hated…
Suddenly, that word sparked something in his mind.
"Hate…" That gave him an idea.
In the takes they'd done, the biggest problem was his expression in the close-ups—he didn't look like someone fighting for his life. He didn't have that raw edge, that intensity.
It was a subtle thing—more of a feeling than something easy to explain.
But now he thought: What if he imagined the air around him wasn't empty? What if he pictured all the people who had wronged him—the boss who didn't pay him, the ones who framed him and threw him in jail?
That would give him a real emotional target. That would give him a reason to feel rage.
He thought it over. It seemed like the best shot he had. He couldn't think of a better way.
Ten minutes flew by. The assistant came to get him, and Matthew walked back to the middle of the extras playing dead.
This time, everything changed.
He drew on all the anger and resentment he'd bottled up over the years. He glared straight ahead like the crooked boss who skipped town was standing right there.
"Action!"
The second he heard it, Matthew swung the hammer with all his strength—his face twisted like he wanted to smash someone into a pulp.
Then another swing to the left. In his mind, the police officer who had dragged him off in handcuffs was watching him with a smug smirk.
Whoosh—whoosh—
The hammer cut through the air. His expression got fiercer and more unhinged, like he wanted to crush the earth beneath him.
"Hmm…"
Behind the camera, Ridley Scott's white eyebrows lifted. The close-up on the monitor showed a totally different performance—like he was watching a different person from earlier.
It still wasn't some amazing performance—but for a minor role in a commercial film, it was more than good enough.
He'd improved that much in such a short time? Ridley had seen a lot, but he had to admit, he was a little curious.
Still, curiosity passed quickly. This was just a small-time actor. Not worth much attention.
Farther away, Helen Herman stood watching with her arms crossed. Her assistant Amanda stood nearby.
"Scott hasn't called cut yet," Amanda suddenly said.
Helen's eyes narrowed. "I asked you to check his background yesterday. Did he have any professional training?"
She couldn't remember.
Amanda answered confidently, "No, nothing in his file."
"This guy…" Helen raised a hand to her mouth, coughed lightly, and said, "He might actually have some talent."
She made a decision. "Amanda, when we get back to L.A., draw up a long-term contract."
Elsewhere, in the woods just off-set, the bald guy, the tall guy, and Michael Sheen were all watching the shoot too.
"No wonder he landed this part," said the bald guy, shaking his head. "He's got something! Look at that crazy energy—most people can't fake that."
The tall guy tapped his head and said, "He's done well in both scenes so far. If he got this chance, he must have earned it somehow."
He looked at Michael Sheen. "You're his friend. Is he really like this?"
"Heh… yeah, I guess so," Michael chuckled awkwardly. He liked to act like he was close with Matthew, so he went along with it.
The bald guy slapped his leg and stood up. "That kid might really be leaving the extra crowd behind. With today's performance, he could land a regular supporting role, no problem."
Michael forced another chuckle—just in time to hear Ridley Scott's voice blast from the loudspeaker.
"Cut!"
"He stopped the take?" Michael mumbled. "Thank God—he must've screwed up again!"
Then came the next words:
"That one's a wrap!"
Michael stood there, frozen.
Elsewhere, a guy holding a round shield was staring daggers at Matthew—burning with rage.
"That bastard stole my role! I'm gonna make him pay," he muttered.
Matthew had three scenes total. The first two were the hardest, with close-ups and tight shots. The last one was just a distant shot of him being killed by Roman soldiers—much easier.
After a fifteen-minute break, they filmed the last scene. It only took four takes to get it right.
"You can go take off your makeup," the assistant director told him.
Matthew grabbed some water and spotted Helen Herman walking toward him.
"Go get cleaned up," she said. "I'll come talk to you at the makeup trailer."
Matthew first went to wardrobe to change back into his own clothes, then headed to the makeup trailer. A bunch of extras were headed the same way, but unlike them, he didn't need to wait in line—he had his own trailer and makeup artist.
When he got inside, the usual flamboyant male makeup artist wasn't there.
The female assistant asked, "Want me to go get him?"
"No need," Matthew said quickly.
He'd heard stories about how common same-sex stuff was in this industry, and just thinking about that weird note he'd gotten made his skin crawl.
"You help me," he told the female assistant.
This kind of makeup was a pain to remove—it took a while. Eventually, he looked like himself again, and the clean, fresh feeling on his face made him stretch out with a long sigh.
"Thanks," he told the assistant politely and stepped out of the trailer.
He'd taken so long that things had quieted down around the makeup area. As he walked ahead, he suddenly saw someone in a barbarian costume step into his path—clearly waiting for him.
Matthew squinted. He didn't recognize the guy.