War Horse has had an extraordinary career. It started in 1982, with Michael Morpurgo's novel about a boy called Albert and his horse, Joey, who is sent to fight on the bloody battlefields of France in the first world war. The book was short, accomplished and moving, but barely acknowledged until, in 2007, it was turned into a play.
Marianne Elliott and Tom Morris's National Theatre production – still stabled at the West End – entranced audiences with its uncanny, life-sized horse puppets. The story became today's Black Beauty, a sentimental education, a must-read classic, a global hit. And that might have been glory enough – except that War Horse was also, always, a film waiting to happen. Now, in Steven Spielberg's hands, the story has become epic. Early signs are that War Horse the movie is conquering America and is likely to vanquish British audiences as well. And that must be, at least partly, because Spielberg knew, right from the start, that he held a trump card. He had what neither book nor stage could boast: real horses.
The film has a first-rate British cast – Emily Watson, Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch and newcomer Jeremy Irvine. But it is the horseflesh that does it. It is the horses that are the film's star performers, with their gleaming flanks, flowing manes and hooves thundering through history. More than a million horses were sent to the first world war for use by British and Commonwealth troops; only 62,000 came back. And even if you are not horse-struck, it is impossible to watch the film – with almost 200 horses in its cast – without wondering: how did these creatures of flight face combat? And how, in the film, were they trained to "act" with such dazzling compliance?
Horse trainers are famously elusive (and/or hopelessly tied up with their horses), and Bobby Lovgren, Spielberg's head horseman, is no exception. While waiting for him to put down his schooling whip and get in touch, I catch up with Michael Morpurgo and congratulate him on War Horse's amazing trajectory (the novel has topped the New York Times bestseller list). He says: "I have been on quite a ride," as he settles down in Bafta's bar in Piccadilly, London. And he goes on to tell me the wonderful story without which novel, play and film would never have materialised.
In 1978, a boy from Birmingham visited the Morpurgos' Devon farm as a result of their charity, Farms for City Children. His teachers explained that he was severely withdrawn, with a stutter. During his stay, Morpurgo observed how "adept he was with farm work". Then, one rainy evening, he spotted the boy outside wearing slippers. He was with Hebe, a gentle Haflinger mare: "And he was talking to the horse, one to one, about what he had done on the farm that day. No stutter – words flowing out of him. I summoned his teachers and we hid in the vegetable garden to watch them.
"I was very, very moved. The boy wasn't being judged or mocked. He trusted this creature. The horse wasn't understanding, but was listening. She knew she must not move away. She must stand there – because that is what friends do."
Morpurgo does not pretend to be a horseman himself. He was a rider when at Sandhurst, but "fell off a lot". He took up riding again when his wife and daughter were keen – and "fell off a lot again". But he understands the intensity of the relationship and believes it is historic – to do with the thousands of years men and horses have spent together. And that leads us to talking about history and about the War Horse exhibition at the National Army Museum (where Morpurgo is himself an exhibit).
War was a graveyard for horses as well as for riders; Tennyson's "The Charge of the Light Brigade" sets the tone: "Into the valley of death/Rode the six hundred." It is the scale of the losses that overwhelms. Horses were used in war as early as AD83: Tacitus describes a battle between Roman cavalry and British chariots. In the Crimean war, hundreds of thousands of horses died of cold. In the Boer war, thousands perished in heat. And more horses served in the first world war than in any conflict in history. They were used for pulling heavy artillery, transporting supplies and the wounded – and for riding. Horses with hunting experience had an advantage, as did farm horses, which are trained to endure.
But Morpurgo observes: "Men and horses had to face the same dangers and died in the same way, from mud, wire, shells, exhaustion and disease." I have heard (via a vet) that horses had their vocal cords removed, so as not to give away the army's position. There is only one exhibit in the army museum to charm: a tender, informative letter, dated 29 September 1914, from Tom Morris's great-grandfather giving "hints on horses". It ends with the startling assertion that "a third of a pint of whisky" – diluted – will "often do wonders for a tired working horse".
The exhibition reveals that, contrary to what one might imagine, cavalry charges were rare. But they did happen at the start of the first world war, and Spielberg includes an extraordinary gallop into a German encampment, the filming of which Morpurgo was lucky enough to observe. He describes the scene as "the last charge of the British empire", as modern weaponry was overtaking horsepower. More than 100 horses surge across the Duke of Wellington's estate in Stratfield Saye, Hampshire. Morpurgo loved watching: "It made the heart race."
Rehearsals were endless. Many of the cast – including Jeremy Irvine, who plays Albert – were new to riding (they put in 10-hour days at a Hertfordshire stables). Tom Hiddleston, playing a cavalry officer, was an experienced rider but had to master galloping with one hand waving a sword. The horses crash through tents and tables constructed to collapse – chairs are made of foam. Special effects were used only when safety was at stake. And it is a relief to know that the barbed wire Joey gets caught in is rubber and the horse in that scene is animatronic (although his face is real). And I was thrilled to learn that in no man's land, when Joey races through the night on his own, he is being ridden. "The rider wore a skin-tight suit – like a diver."
Knowing this spoils nothing, it makes the scene even more remarkable. Morpurgo adds that he loved watching Spielberg at work: "He adores stories. He is a kid – I don't mean that disparagingly. He is a terrific enthusiast and communicator. It was wonderful to watch him at the top of his game. He is fantastically organised, like the conductor of an orchestra."
I'm beginning to give up on hearing from the horse experts when vivacious Ali Bannister gets in touch. She paints penetratingly accurate equine portraits and was responsible for Joey's look. She tells me about the mind-blowing attention to detail on the film. There were various horses playing Joey to represent different ages. Bannister designed Joey's markings (white star and socks) and had to make sure they were identical on every horse. She acquired a splendid job description – Head of the Equine Hair and Makeup Department – and when she was not painting the horses, seems mainly to have been working with mud.
"Real mud, when it dries, changes colour. It looks grey and flat on film." So they applied "three shades of artificial mud" and monitored every splash (mud continuity). "We were dunking their tails in sloppy mud." This will amuse riders: they spend their lives trying to get mud off their horses.
Then – finally – I catch him: Bobby Lovgren, renowned South African horse trainer. He tells me War Horse has been the "biggest" challenge of his career. He explains that they chose an "experienced" cast (dressage and show-jumpers) because young horses take too long to train and time was limited (working with foals is hardest of all). He tells me about the other trainers – from Australia and Spain – and how "the Spanish boys" helped with the ploughing scenes. "There is no simple answer to how you train," he says. "It is a gradual progression. I will be evaluating: does the horse have the aptitude? Can I control him enough? He has to learn his ABC before he can read and write. It takes patience."
And if he finds his method hard to put into words, it is because words are beside the point. What he has with his own horse Finder (star of Seabiscuit and one of the Joeys) is trust: "'If I am there, my horse has confidence. We have never betrayed that confidence."
It seems Bobby can ask a horse to do anything: to rear – "that's not difficult" – or limp or appear dangerous, but working on the film could not have been safer. For Lovgren, War Horse is "heart-breaking and an eye-opener". So how does he think horses were persuaded into battle? "They had no option. It was the horse's life."
We agree that "war"' and "horse" are words that were never meant to go together.
