Three Mornings in Alberta: Clint Eastwood, Discipline, and the Day Hollywood Learned a Lesson

Prologue: The Golden Light

October, 1992. The Alberta Badlands stretched out beneath a cold sunrise, painted in gold and shadow. On the set of Unforgiven, Clint Eastwood was directing and starring in what would become one of the most acclaimed westerns in history. The production was running tight, professional, and a little ahead of schedule—just how Clint liked it. He’d built his reputation not only on his iconic performances, but on his respect for budgets, crew time, and the craft of filmmaking. His sets were known for being focused, drama-free, and disciplined.

But on this particular shoot, a new kind of drama was about to unfold—one that would become legendary in Hollywood for all the right reasons.

Chapter 1: The Arrival of Derek Matthews

Derek Matthews arrived on set with a reputation. He was a respected stage actor from New York, known for an intense off-Broadway performance and method training at prestigious programs. His agent had pushed hard to get him a supporting role in Clint’s film—a key character with several important scenes.

Clint’s casting director had reservations. “He’s talented,” she told Clint, “but he’s difficult. Very method. Very particular about his process.”

“How difficult?” Clint asked.

“He spent three months living homeless for a role once. Refused to break character between takes. That kind of thing.”

Clint nodded. He appreciated dedication, but he knew the difference between commitment and self-indulgence. “Give him the part,” Clint said. “But make sure he understands how we work here.”

Matthews signed the contract, arrived in Alberta, and attended the first production meeting. Clint laid out his expectations: 6:00 a.m. call times, professionalism, efficiency, and respect. The crew worked hard. Clint expected actors to match that energy.

Matthews nodded, but seemed distracted—like logistics were beneath him. He was here to create art, not punch a time clock.

Chapter 2: Day One – The First Delay

Monday morning. The location was a remote ranch, an hour from base camp. Morning light was crucial for the scene. At 6:00 a.m., the crew was ready. Cameras were positioned perfectly, lights set to capture the golden glow. Other actors were in costume and makeup, having been in the chair since 5:00 a.m. Clint sat in his director’s chair, reviewing the shot list, mentally rehearsing the day’s work.

But Derek Matthews’ trailer door remained closed, dark, silent.

At 6:30, the first assistant director knocked politely. No answer.

At 6:45, he knocked again, louder. Still nothing.

The crew began shifting uncomfortably, checking watches, whispering. This wasn’t how Clint Eastwood sets worked.

At 7:00 a.m., after multiple attempts, Matthews finally opened the door, still in street clothes, hair uncombed, looking annoyed at being disturbed.

“I’m preparing,” Matthews said, as if the AD was interrupting something sacred. “My process requires deep internal work before I can inhabit the character. This can’t be rushed. This isn’t some sitcom where you just put on a costume and say lines. This is serious acting.”

The AD explained they were losing morning light, that the entire crew was waiting.

“Art doesn’t work on a schedule,” Matthews replied, closing the door.

Clint, informed of the situation, made a decision. “We’ll shoot around him. Move to scene 14.” The crew scrambled to reposition for a different scene, losing valuable time and the perfect light they’d scheduled for Matthews’ scene.

By the time Matthews emerged at 8:30 a.m., ready to work, they’d lost two and a half hours. Clint said nothing. He adjusted the schedule, got Matthews through his scenes efficiently, and moved on. But he was watching.

Chapter 3: Day Two – The Pattern Emerges

The second day, Matthews was scheduled again—6:00 a.m. call time, same remote location, different scene but equally dependent on morning light. Seventy-five crew members had woken up at 4:30 a.m. to be ready.

At 6:00 a.m., Matthews’ trailer was dark and silent.

At 6:30, still dark.

The crew was getting visibly frustrated. Yesterday had been bad enough, but now a pattern was emerging.

At 7:00 a.m., the AD knocked with less patience. Matthews answered, wearing a bathrobe, sipping coffee as if he were on vacation.

“I told you yesterday,” Matthews said, irritation clear. “My artistic process requires time. I need to meditate, to center myself, to find the character’s emotional truth. This isn’t television. This is cinema. This is art.”

“We have 75 people waiting,” the AD said carefully.

“Then they’ll learn patience,” Matthews replied. “Great performances can’t be manufactured on an assembly line.”

He finally emerged at 8:45, over two and a half hours late again. When the AD explained they’d have to skip his scene and shoot it later, losing another perfect lighting window, Matthews shrugged. “If the light isn’t right, the light isn’t right,” he said, as if this vindicated his lateness.

Clint watched from his director’s chair. He said nothing to Matthews, just adjusted the schedule and noted the pattern.

That evening, Clint’s producer approached him. “We need to talk about Matthews. Two days, two major delays. We’re losing budget and schedule.”

“I’m aware,” Clint said.

“Should we warn him? Threaten to fire him?”

“No threats,” Clint said. “One more day. Let’s see if this is who he is.”

Chapter 4: Day Three – The Confrontation

The third day was critical. Matthews’ biggest scene—a dramatic confrontation requiring precise timing, complex camera movement, and specific natural light available for maybe 90 minutes. Extra crew, additional equipment, multiple departments coordinated around this shoot.

Call time: 6:00 a.m. sharp.

At 5:45 a.m., the entire crew was ready. Actors in position, cameras prepped, lights set, sound rolling. Everyone waiting for Derek Matthews.

At 6:00 a.m., his trailer was closed.

At 6:15, still closed.

At 6:30, the AD knocked. No answer.

At 6:45, louder knocking. Nothing.

Clint stood up from his director’s chair and walked over to Matthews’ trailer himself. The entire crew watched. This was unprecedented. Clint was usually invisible from his chair, quietly efficient. Him walking across set to personally address an actor meant something significant was happening.

Clint knocked on the trailer door. Three sharp wraps that echoed across the quiet set.

After a long moment, Matthews opened the door. Bathrobe again, cup of tea, annoyed at the interruption.

“We’re ready for you,” Clint said quietly.

“I’m preparing,” Matthews replied, as if this was obvious. “My artistic process can’t be rushed. I need to access deep emotional memories for this scene. It takes time.”

“What time was your call?” Clint interrupted, his voice quiet but edged.

“Call times are administrative convenience,” Matthews said, launching into a speech about art. “Real acting requires going to places that can’t be scheduled. I’m not some television actor who hits marks and delivers lines. I’m creating a character from the inside out. That process—”

“What time?” Clint repeated, not asking now, but stating, his quiet voice somehow carrying more authority than shouting ever could. “Was your call?”

Matthews blinked, thrown off. “Six, but that’s just—”

“It’s seven a.m.,” Clint said, each word deliberate and final. “You’re an hour late. Third day in a row. Seventy-five people have been waiting for you. People who got here on time despite having the same early call you did.”

“Great art requires sacrifice,” Matthews said, recovering his confidence. “Those people are being paid to wait. That’s literally their job. My job is to create something transcendent, something that will last beyond this production schedule. You, of all people, should understand that real artistry can’t be confined to—”

“Pack your things,” Clint said, cutting through the speech like a knife.

Matthews stopped mid-sentence, mouth open. “Excuse me?”

“Pack your things,” Clint repeated, his voice still that quiet rasp that had become famous in westerns. “You’re fired. There’s a car waiting to take you back to Los Angeles. You have 30 minutes to be out.”

The entire crew had gone silent. Seventy-five people frozen, watching this unfold.

Matthews laughed nervously. “You can’t fire me. We’re in the middle of production. You need me for—”

“No,” Clint said simply. “We need someone professional. Someone who respects other people’s time. Someone who understands that film is collaborative. That’s not you. Pack your things.”

“This is insane,” Matthews said, voice rising. “I’m creating art here. I’m giving you the performance of a lifetime. You can’t fire someone for taking their craft seriously.”

“I’m not firing you for taking craft seriously,” Clint said. “I’m firing you for being late three days in a row and showing no respect for the 75 professionals who’ve been waiting for you while you drank tea in your bathrobe.”

“My process—”

“Your process,” Clint interrupted, “involves being on set when you’re supposed to be on set. If you can’t do that, you can’t work here. Pack your things.”

Matthews looked around at the crew, perhaps expecting support or sympathy. He found none. Seventy-five people who’d been up since 4:30 a.m., who’d driven an hour to this location, who’d been standing ready for over an hour, just stared back with zero sympathy.

“You’re making a huge mistake,” Matthews said. “I’m the best actor you’ll ever work with. You’re letting ego destroy what could have been—”

“Thirty minutes,” Clint said, cutting him off. Then he turned and walked back to his director’s chair.

Matthews stood in his trailer doorway for another moment, apparently waiting for Clint to change his mind or for someone to intervene. Neither happened. Finally, he went back inside and slammed the door.

Clint turned to his first AD. “Call the actor we screen tested who came in second. See if he can be here tomorrow. Reschedule Matthews’ scenes for next week.” Then he addressed the crew. “We’re moving to scene 22. Let’s not waste the morning.”

The crew erupted into activity, reorganizing for a different scene, grateful to be working instead of waiting. Several crew members were smiling. A few were trying not to laugh.

Within 25 minutes, Derek Matthews emerged from his trailer with his bags, looking furious. A production van was waiting to take him back to Los Angeles. He climbed in without speaking to anyone and left.

Clint didn’t watch him go. He was already focused on the next shot.

Chapter 5: The Fallout

The story spread through Hollywood before Matthews’ van reached the airport. Clint Eastwood fired an actor for being late and citing artistic process became the talk of the industry within hours. By the next day, it was in the trades. Matthews’ agent tried to spin it as creative differences or scheduling conflicts, but too many crew members had witnessed what happened. The truth came out: Matthews had been fired for being unprofessional and hiding behind artistic process as an excuse.

The impact on Matthews’ career was immediate and devastating. Other directors who’d been considering him suddenly weren’t interested. Producers asked pointed questions about his reliability. Studios put him on unofficial “difficult actor” lists. Within a year, Matthews was doing regional theater again. The promising film career his agent had worked so hard to build was destroyed by three late arrivals and one conversation with Clint Eastwood.

The actor Clint hired to replace Matthews showed up 15 minutes early every day, knew his lines perfectly, and delivered an excellent performance that contributed to the film’s eventual success.

Unforgiven went on to win four Academy Awards. Clint won Best Director and Best Picture. The film is now considered one of the greatest westerns ever made.

Derek Matthews is remembered—when he’s remembered at all—as the actor who was fired from Unforgiven for showing up late and lecturing Clint Eastwood about artistic process.

Chapter 6: The Lesson

Years later, in an interview about directing, Clint was asked about the incident. His response was characteristically brief.

“Film sets require discipline. Not because of some authoritarian philosophy, but because hundreds of people are coordinating complex work. When one person decides their process is more important than everyone else’s time, they’re not an artist. They’re just selfish.”

But the crew members who were there tell a more detailed story. They talk about how 75 people had been standing ready at 6:00 a.m. How they’d lost the perfect morning light three days in a row. How Matthews had dismissed their time as unimportant while he meditated in his bathrobe. And they talk about how Clint’s firing of Matthews wasn’t angry or dramatic. It was matter-of-fact, delivered in that quiet voice with the same calm he brought to every directing decision.

“Pack your things. Car’s waiting. Thirty minutes.”

The incident became legendary not because it was loud or theatrical, but because it was the opposite. It was Clint simply drawing a line. Professionalism matters. Your time doesn’t count more than 75 other people’s time. Art doesn’t excuse disrespect.

To this day, “artistic process can’t be rushed” is a phrase you don’t want to use on a Clint Eastwood set. And showing up late while everyone else is ready is a career mistake you only get to make once.

Epilogue: Respect and Accountability

If this story of accountability and respect moved you, share it with someone who needs to remember that talent doesn’t excuse unprofessionalism, and real artists respect the people they work with.

On the set of Unforgiven, Clint Eastwood didn’t just make a great film—he taught Hollywood a lesson about respect, discipline, and the quiet power of professionalism.