by Julie Wright
He’d only known about those delays in exterior shots because I’d told him.
Danny laughed, his brown hair spiked up in a way that was both stylish and whimsical, which matched his personality. He was a director who was easy to get along with as long as your vision for his movie matched his vision.
Dean had a knack for making it seem like his vision was in perfect alignment.
The problem was he had no idea what Danny envisioned because he’d never worked on any part of this project so far. Not one part of this film had Dean’s stamp of approval on it. Not one scene had any mark of Dean Thomas and his editorial work. I doubted he had even read the script.
I realized Dean wasn’t going to step aside and allow me to take part in the conversation, so I stuck my hand out and said hello.
“Hello, Silvia, nice to see you,” Danny said. He then turned to Dean and said, “You trust this girl with a whole lot of responsibility. She’s been meeting with us regularly and seems to have a good handle on what she’s doing. Girl’s got a sharp head on her shoulders. It’s a pity she’s an editor. She’d have made a great actress with eyes like that. She’s got Audrey’s eyes.”
I started at the reference. It was something my grandmother said often. My mom and dad said it on occasion. Every now and again, even strangers mentioned my eyes. But in the movie business, the place where Audrey Hepburn would be most recognizable, few people ever mentioned my dark, slightly olive-shaped eyes, and even fewer made the comparison. It made me laugh when people told me I had Audrey’s eyes since one of my eyes was named Audrey. If they only knew.
“Thank you, Danny, but I realized a long time ago that my acting skills were nonexistent,” I said. “I do my best work after the filming has been handled by the professionals.”
He waved away what he looked at as false modesty. “Anyone can be taught to act, but you can’t teach someone to have eyes like yours. You’re either born with it or you’re not. You, Silvia, were born with it.”
I didn’t bother telling him that I might have been born with it, but I didn’t get to keep it for very long since one of those eyes he admired so much went missing two and a half decades earlier. If he couldn’t tell a glass one from a fake one, who was I to correct him?
“Have you seen her movies?” Danny asked. “You should do some research on her. You really do look like her.”
I had seen her movies—or several of the major ones, anyway. When I was a film student, they were homework, but my relationship with Audrey had become complicated over the years. Yes, I had named my eye after her, but when I thought of her, I could still remember the fear of the phantom cancer lurking in my hospital room, a fear that had never quite gone away.
“I hear she was great,” Danny continued. “You know, they say she used to bring chocolate for the entire cast and crew while on set, paid for with her own money.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.” I gave a laugh. “Sounds like someone I could be friends with.”
“Or sisters, with eyes like that.”
Dean shook his head and stepped forward enough to put himself between Danny and me. “Now don’t go giving the new girl a big head,” Dean said. “The last thing I need is a starlet hoping for a big break. I need someone who can work seriously.”
“You’ve definitely found that. All Silvia does is work. You guys are keeping up with the dailies nearly as fast as we’re sending them. Between your team and Bronson’s team, things are going well. You cannot know how much I appreciate that.”
Dean smiled, but he didn’t make any sign of agreement regarding my work habits. He also didn’t comment that his team was a one-woman show.
Danny continued, “I really need you guys to keep up the pace.”
Dean made a joke about taking away my breaks and lunches, which irritated me enough to need a distraction, so I turned to the sound mixer and gave him my most apologetic smile. “I hate to ask this, but could you do me a favor? The walkie-talkies are getting too close to the mics during filming and creating pops in the sound. They aren’t too bad, and I was able to scrub them out of the raw footage for the last two days, but it’s a lot of detail work. I’m worried I might not be able to clean them out in the future. Could you tell the crew to keep their distance from the set during filming? I know they need their walkies, but it could be a real issue if we don’t take care of it now.”
The sound mixer nodded and said he’d talk to the crew.
“Cheese thirty!” A woman from craft services brought over a tray filled with fruits, cheeses, and crackers, and left it on a stand near Danny’s director chair.
Danny and Dean, deep in conversation, didn’t seem to notice the food.
I edged closer. I wanted to hear whatever they deemed important enough to discuss in such hushed tones.
Danny’s creased brow and firm jaw let me know he was giving Dean a stern talking-to. “I’m bringing this up because of what Silvia mentioned about the walkie pops. I know you’re working hard. Silvia keeps in good contact with us as we’re doing the dailies, but Christopher has made this clear: we can have no more interruptions. Karl-Erik’s skimboarding accident was a delay we couldn’t afford. The first cut pretty much needs to be a final cut. The studio won’t allow any further delays.”
“A final cut on the first round is ridiculous,” Dean said. “Nobody expects that. Postproduction is just as important as filming. You gotta ask yourself, do you want it fast, or do you want it right?”
Danny’s hands splayed out in helplessness. “I hear what you’re saying, but Christopher is adamant. He expects it both fast and right if you want a job.”
Dean stiffened. He didn’t like being threatened. I didn’t like it either. My job was on the line, too.
Danny shook his head, making his crazy hair wave back and forth. “It’s not my place to say this to you, but it’s better to know what Christopher is thinking. I like knowing where I stand. I figured you would want the same.”
“Sure. Sure,” Dean said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
Danny clapped his hands together and said, “Well, now that that’s settled, let’s enjoy cheese thirty! Then we can look at today’s footage.”
Christopher showed up soon after and confirmed everything Danny had said. Only Christopher was far less friendly in the message delivery.
On the way back to the studio, Dean ground his teeth together and stayed relatively quiet. Relief flooded me. If Christopher and Danny expected final-cut quality on the first pass, Dean would have to involve himself in the process. He’d step up and take some of the work off my shoulders.
We passed through the guardhouse and parked the car, and Dean exited the vehicle without a word.
“Mr. Thomas?” I said, hurrying to catch up with him. I mentally rolled my eyes at myself calling him “Mr. Thomas” and “sir” as if he was someone to respect. But in my short time working with him, I knew this man—or at least I understood his type. He clung to the old Hollywood ways where women were to be looked at, not looked up to. It was past time for that to change, in my opinion.
He opened the glass doors leading into the studio. I barely squeezed through before the doors swung closed; Dean hadn’t bothered holding them open, even knowing I was right behind him.
When he made a right turn to his office instead of left to the editing studio, I called out to him. “We have a lot of work to do if they want a final cut in a first-cut time frame.”
He didn’t even glance back to me. “Yes, you do.”
“Mr. Thomas!”
Realizing I’d pretty much yelled at him, he stopped and turned in my direction. “Do you have something you need to say to me?”
I had lots of things I needed to say to him. I wanted to say that he was a misogynistic monster. I wanted to tell him his lazy behavior disgusted me. I wanted to explain that stealing the hard work and ideas of others and
passing them off as his own made him a vulture.
Instead, I said, “Do you intend on taking part in this film at all?”
He stepped closer, close enough I could see the bloodshot eyes of a man who’d hit the bottle too hard for too long. “I did my part. I hired you.”
I lifted my chin, my chest tightening with the anger that burned through my entire midsection. “And you believe that’s enough to earn your name in the credits when they roll?”
His chin came up as well. He stretched his neck and squared his shoulders. With a breath that looked like he was about to unleash a torrent of anger in my direction, he turned left in the direction of the editing studio.
I closed my eyes and balled my shaking hands into fists before following him. Round one to me.
The sad thing about rounds was that winning one didn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things.
A couple weeks later, with Dean still being hit-and-miss on coming into the editing studio, and me finding I actually hated working with him on the days he did show up, we had a blowup because I needed him to sign off on some of my scene choices, but I was insisting he actually see the footage first. He was hungover and angry.
“You know . . .” His gravelly voice had lowered to a tone that sounded dangerous. “I’ve often found that those who are dependent on the opinions of others are fairly weak. Show me any assistant film editor, and I will show you a man who would jump at the chance to work without someone breathing down his neck.”
I caught the insinuation. A man wouldn’t be bothering him with the trivialities of the job.
But I wasn’t bothering him with trivialities. This job belonged to him. My job was to assist him.
I lowered my voice to match his tone. “So you’re fine with me doing my job and yours?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I resent you saying that.”
“I resent doing it. So I guess that makes us even.” Holding my ground with him looming over me in my personal space took all my effort. I thought about the shooters and stabbers he drew when he should have been taking notes, and wondered why he was so angry all the time. “I’m actually surprised you don’t want to do your job.” The statement alone would have definitely earned me a sharp reprimand had I let him respond. “At some point, you had to have cared. You wouldn’t have moved into this position if you hadn’t been good at your work. So what’s the problem here? What happened to you?”
His nostrils flared, and his eyes widened at my unmistakable belligerence. “You don’t know anything about my life or my work. Just do what you’re told if you want to still have a job!”
With that, he fled the office.
I sank into my chair, wishing I’d become a carpenter or maybe a private detective or even a lion tamer, because working in Hollywood was a nightmare.
The problem with my particular nightmare was that there was no leaving. I would never be able to wake up to a more pleasant reality. No one ever told me that Hollywood came with no exits. They never mentioned that I could drown in Hollywood dreams. For me, making movies was an addiction stronger than any other known substance. All I had ever wanted was to be a part of making films that were like Audrey’s My Fair Lady.
Which was why this was all her fault. I slammed my fist on the table, took a deep breath, and got back to work.
Because hate it or love it, I had a deadline to meet. I was a strong, independent woman who’d somehow managed to be put into a cage with bars forged of ambition and fear.
Thanks for nothing, Audrey Hepburn.
“I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more.”
—Eliza Doolittle, played by Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady
Over the course of the next couple of months, nothing improved with Dean. I did his bidding while he brooded all red-eyed and sullen in the background like the Emperor in Return of the Jedi.
I really missed working with my old boss, Ben. The original Star Wars trilogy was one of Ben’s favorites, and whenever I heard the words, “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,” I never thought of the Mos Eisley spaceport; I thought of the iconic white Hollywood sign situated near the top of Mount Lee overlooking Los Angeles.
No one working in Hollywood would argue the point. Instead, they would likely nod and smile that indulgent smile of an uncle watching his favorite niece and nephew claw at each other in some scathing brawl where one of them would likely get shanked by a shard of whatever family heirloom had been shattered during the course of the fight.
Then the uncle would shrug and say, “We are what we are.”
As I stood at the entrance to the hipster club Burnout, stared into the harem-styled décor, and felt the music pounding from the floor, through my feet, and into my bones, I thought of the Hollywood sign.
I wanted to punch that imaginary, indulgent uncle.
The woman of My Fair Lady wouldn’t recognize the Hollywood of today. Or maybe she would, which would be sadder still.
“Silvia!” Adam yelled in my ear over what sounded like K-pop with a Hindustani vibe pulsing from the sound system. “Where do you think he’ll be?”
I shrugged. The task of finding Dean Thomas shouldn’t have been too hard. Adam and I had already made it past the bouncer, who’d been pretty chill about letting us in, all things considered. The problem was that there were so many bodies writhing on the bitty little dance floor and between the tables that finding any one individual would be all but impossible.
From my vantage point at the top of the stairs, I could see the crowd pretty well, but I’d have to enter that crowd to find Dean. Having only one eye meant that I was completely blind on my right side. Any kind of surprise, good or bad, could come from that side, and I would never see it coming. This meant that all surprises were bad surprises. A horde of humans guaranteed surprises.
But we couldn’t leave without our boss. Dean had to approve the end credits and make the final cuts, but he had skipped out of his responsibility to his job, to the studio, and to me. Again.
For months, I had been the one forced to make lame excuses as to why Dean had become the serial no-show.
I was the one who scoured through the footage dozens of times to be clear on what would work best for pacing and what needed to be trimmed away. I was the one who met with the sound editors and music directors and made decisions Dean had to be strong-armed to sign off on.
But this first cut?
A full week had gone by where he’d promised every day to show up and finish the film.
Today was the last day, his last chance before we presented the cut to the director and producer in the morning. And yeah, I didn’t love that the review was being held on a Saturday morning either, but I wasn’t the one hiding out in a club on a Friday night, ditching my responsibilities. In four months, Dean had managed to avoid any semblance of real work. He’d dumped everything on me.
And I was sick of it.
“We should split up to find him,” I yelled, but Adam shook his head.
“I’m not going anywhere in this place alone. What if someone spikes my drink?”
I grunted at him and rolled my eyes. “You’re a guy. No one is going to roofie you.”
“It’s a new world. Everyone gets roofied now.”
I stared at him in disbelief. Was he serious? I mean, yeah, the guy was on the smaller side and probably wouldn’t win in even a minor scuffle, but was he really worried about such a thing? “Then don’t drink anything,” I finally said. “It’s not like we’re here for fun.”
Adam stayed glued to my side, making it difficult for me to pick through the people and tables. I felt like shoving at him to give me some space, but if the guy was worried about laced liquids, he would definitely be a run-to-HR kind of person.
I wished Adam hadn’t been the one I’d been stuck with
while finishing edits all night. Adam spent a lot of time complaining that Dean had yet to get him an audition in Portal Pictures’ most famous TV series: Gray Skies. Dean Thomas apparently didn’t keep promises to anyone.
Which was why we were scouring Hollywood’s club scene for him.
“There!” I shouted and pointed to where Dean sat at a table. His salt-and-pepper roots were starting to show, which meant he was late with his salon appointment. None of the other older men in my personal circle were salon-going kinds of guys. They accepted their gray hairs and face wrinkles with grace and dignity. From all of our personal interactions together, I’d learned Dean didn’t do anything without a fight—not even grow old.
Dean drummed his fingers on the table as if he waited for someone or something. He sat alone, so now was the best time to approach him and get him out of the club and back to the studio so we could all go home and get some sleep.
I stepped on more than a few feet as I rushed to reach Dean before whoever he was waiting for could return and act as interference.
“Mr. Thomas!” I nearly fell onto the table since Adam didn’t stop when I did, and he ran right into me. “Thank heavens we found you!”
He turned red-rimmed eyes on me. For several seconds, he just stared as if unable to reason why a woman was knocking into his table and shouting at him. Then some light of familiarity dawned in those burned eyes. “Sara?”
I ground my teeth together, took a few breaths that weren’t actually very cleansing considering the smoky atmosphere, and said, “It’s Silvia, sir.” How many times would we replay this conversation before he decided my name was worth remembering?
A slow smile crawled over his lips. “Right. Silvia. The new girl.”
“That’s right.” Agreeable behavior would win the day. At least that was the lie I told myself as I smiled back at him and nodded as if talking to a child. When did a person no longer qualify as the new employee? I’d been with Portal Pictures for four months. It felt like long enough to simply be Silvia Bradshaw: assistant film editor.
