I probably shouldn’t, but I try for a joke. “I use Lever 2000, so I’m clean and also moisturized.”
She doesn’t seem to know that brand of soap, so I try a different style of humor. “Does The Get Up Gang get a group discount at rehab?”
She kind of laughs (thank you) and says, “We should.”
“Yeah, you guys are a mess.”
She tries to explain. “Every one of us has been working since we were little, supporting our families. You know, my dad is a theater actor, and he’s great at it, but he doesn’t make enough money to live in New York. My mom is my manager. I’m making all this money that I know I’ll never see. I live in a fishbowl. If this movie flops, it’ll probably be your fault because you don’t have enough box office pull to sell tickets, but I’ll get blamed. I won’t get any more serious acting work. You only get a few chances before you’re stuck on the reality TV circuit and VH1 produces What Happened to Hilary? My last album sucked. I eat 1200 calories a day. No more, no less. I take voice, dance, diction, and movement lessons every day. And I can’t complain about any of it because it’s supposed to be fun. But it’s not, when you have to do it. Everyone thinks my life is so great, and I’m a bitch for not appreciating it. So I used to drink or take pills or whatever because people offered them to me, and they made me forget about all of it for a little while. I think that’s why the others do it, too. I’ve been clean for two months, and I feel good, but I’ve been on lockdown and haven’t been working. And working is the hardest part for me. If I really was a regular kid and this was my life and I went to a real school, I know I could stay clean.”
I toss a pebble into the water and ask, “Acting in a movie is going to be harder than I think, isn’t it?”
She replies, “No, I just make it hard. I feel like, when those cameras roll, I have to be perfect. I need to look perfect and feel perfect, and if I have to take a shortcut to get there, then so be it. I’m a professional and that means doing whatever it takes. Zac-Michael is the opposite. He has to be employed at all times, or he turns into a junkie. Phil Coates knows that, too, and he still didn’t hire him.”
I’d like to avoid the subject of why Zac-Michael didn’t get the part in Down Gets Out, so I ask, “Does Phil know that working is hard for you?”
She nods, so I ask, “Do your parents know?”
She doesn’t answer that one, so I inquire, “Do you know who Dickens is?”
She lifts her head and looks over at me like she doesn’t, so I explain, “He’s this old-time writer who told stories about kids working in factories, and sometimes they’d get crushed by a machine or get their little hands caught in the gears or something horrible like that. . . . I think your life might be considered, in a Hollywood sort of way, very Dickens.”
She smiles and puts her head back into the water. She softly sighs, “Do you know, I didn’t even go swimming in Hawaii?”
I break the somber mood by quietly grabbing the rope and swinging out over her. I yell, “You’re swimmin’ with the locals now!” and bust a cannonball right next to her, BOOOM!!! We get into a playful splash fight, but stop when we hear a crashing sound in the bushes.
Matilda busts through like a linebacker on safari. “Goddamn it, Hilary, you know the rules! You’re never to leave my side. What the hell have you two been doing?”
I know we haven’t done anything wrong, but I feel sooo guilty. Hilary swims to the bank and climbs out screeching, “Nothing, we’re just talking!”
Matilda sarcastically pants, “Yeah right . . . This’ll go on my report, and you’re submitting a urine sample!”
I interrupt, “W-w-we’ve just been swimming.”
She looks down at me with daggers coming out of her eyeballs when she sneers, “Nobody asked you a question! You’re in big trouble, young man.”
What the hell? I don’t think she can get me fired from the movie, but I’m terrified of her tracking skills. Hilary angrily puts on her shirt and stomps up the path to the waiting Escalades. Matilda growls at me as I slip my shoes on and grab the bike.
As I get to the road, the three SUVs speed away and leave me in the dust. I wave to them and say, “No, I’m good! I don’t need a ride . . . because I’ve got this bike here, and I’m really into the environment . . . and your trucks aren’t responsible enough for me.” The paparazzi motorcycle blows past. The guy on back is smiling. He’s covered in leaves and clutches his cameras in one hand while giving me a thumbs-up with the other.
I start to ride back to C. B.’s but am almost killed by my parents’ Accord barreling around a curve, followed by twenty other cars running from the police cruisers that are now parked in front of the Dwell house. Ms. McDougle’s Corrolla is sitting next to the Ferrari, and I think I know who called the cops. I don’t stop to find out what’s going on, because I hear a golfer yelling in the distance and turn around to see my boys riding across the ninth hole. I take off to catch up with them and ask how they got their bikes out of the Escalades, who got busted by the cops, and maybe talk about whose boobs we’ve touched this afternoon.
13. IN CHARACTER
Sport Coat Phil calls the next day to bitch me out for taking Hilary off the reservation. “You’re on thin ice, Carter. I wanted to fire you, but Hilary and C. B. threw a fit, so you’ve got one more chance. But if you screw up, even a little bit, or if you compromise Ms. Idaho’s safety or jeopardize her career, you’ll never work again.”
I know he means that he’ll try to keep me from acting in any more movies. But I give him the smart-ass treatment. “Not even, like, a lifeguarding job?” (C. B. is always a dick to Phil; I think it’s rubbing off on me.) I’m hoping he’ll think that his threats don’t bother me, but they do. I really want to be in this movie, and I want to be great, so I apologize for being a prick and assure him that I won’t screw up.
Phil explains the shooting schedule, and I furiously write down everything he says on my arm and hand. But just before he hangs up, he tells me, “This could all change in a moment’s notice, so you should be prepared for anything, just in case.”
Dang it, I just made a mess of myself for nothing. I’ve come to realize that if someone tells you something and then follows it with, “This may change,” they’re pretty sure that’s what’s going to happen.
I’m not allowed to hang out with Hilary for a few days, so I hit the library and check out a bunch of books on acting, as well as Daniel Day-Lewis’s and Marlon Brando’s biographies. My boys call to go to the gym and to the pool, but I decline their invitations and keep reading. Stanislavsky and Uta Hagen may be great teachers, but they’re terrible writers. McDougle says that these are the principles she uses to teach all of her classes, but they don’t make much sense to me. I thought it would be a step-by-step “how to” guide to becoming another person, but these books get all lost in “psychophysical” and “psychological realism,” and they use all of these big words. The books even stink a bit like poop, as if the writers were just pulling this information straight out of their asses. I know exactly why these books were never turned into movies, and I decide that this crap is for theater actors. And since I’m trying to be a film actor now, I take them back to the library and start in on the two biographies.
They’re so good, and so much more helpful. It’s fun to see how these great actors grew up and what makes them tick. A few pages into each guys’ life, and I realize what it’s going to take to be a brilliant film actor . . . total insanity! I need to get crazy, and quick! Daniel Day-Lewis would truly become this homeless kid. He would walk in the character’s shoes (that’s done) and try to trick his mind into believing that this was his life. In his biography he’s quoted as saying, “It’s about really trying to imagine, discover, and attempting to create a world, an illusion of a world that other people might believe in because you believe in it yourself. It’s a form of self-delusion.” What did I tell you? Self-delusion=Crazy!
Marlon Brando’s first movie part was playing this soldier who get
s his legs blown off, so he checked himself into a veterans hospital and stayed in bed for a month! I need to find my character’s loneliness and isolation. I have to stop hanging out with my family and friends and go live on the streets. I need to eat garbage and talk to myself more. I need to get dirty! When I tell C. B. my plan, he loves it; when I tell my parents, they’re not as thrilled. They don’t really understand this whole acting thing, either, but they don’t want to get in my way, so they say it’s okay to try one night at the Saur mansion.
I meet up with C. B. at the front gates, and he gives me a tour of the creepy old property. The red brick house is three stories with an observation tower on top. It’s got five bedrooms, but C. B. used to sleep in the basement when he lived here. The whole yard is surrounded by tall cypress trees that don’t allow anyone to see the grounds from the outside. Set decorators and construction guys are running around fixing up the house to get it ready for shooting. C. B. talks to one of the lighting guys, and I watch a crew build scaffolding around the sides of the house. They’re probably trying to make sure that the wall doesn’t fall down, but they may be preparing for the scene where my character is supposed to hang from the roof. I’m sure they’ll have a stuntman do it, but I might be hanging/acting from that scaffolding. The thought freaks me out but excites me as well.
I get tired of waiting for C. B., and I walk into the scary basement by myself. My character lived in this damp, dark cave for almost two years. A chill goes down my spine as I pull the old lightbulb chain and it illuminates the crumbling stone foundation and rusted water pump. You can’t see very far into the dark corners of the cellar, which is a relief because there has got to be some scary stuff back there. I know that I couldn’t have done what C. B. did for real. There is a mattress on the ground, and I’m not sure if it’s the same ratty-ass thing he used to sleep on or if it’s a new one made up to look shabby. Either way, I’m not looking forward to sleeping on it. I try to suck it up and find courage. I close my eyes and try to channel my inner Daniel Day-Lewis. I breathe in the mildew and promptly cough. Come on! I imagine that I’ve been forced to live down here. I didn’t choose it, but I bet I could live like a dirtbag, if I had to.
A scratching noise comes from under the stairs, so I step toward it but run into a spiderweb, scream like a bitch, and run the hell out of there, fast. I’m checking my hair for tarantulas, and shaking out the creeps, when I notice C. B. watching me. I try to spin my trembling into “actor preparation moves.” He gives me an approving nod, and I walk around the property to explore the outbuildings (from a safe distance). I’m saying the lines out loud like a crazy person, but no one gives me a second look because I am an ACTOR! And we have permission, at all times, to be weird.
I find a half-eaten sandwich sitting on a tree stump and realize how hungry I am. If I’m getting into character, I can’t just go down to Taco Bell; I have to eat trash to survive, and this sandwich is just sitting there, so I wolf it down. As I’m wiping my mouth with my shirt, wishing I had a drink, an art department guy with a bunch of tattoos comes out of the mansion and looks at the tree stump, before glaring at me as I swallow the last bite.
He asks, “Did you eat my lunch, you little—?”
I tell him I’m sorry, and C. B. sends some dude to a BBQ place to buy him another sandwich. I should tell the guy how the crew of My Left Foot had to carry Daniel Day-Lewis all around the set of that movie because his character couldn’t walk, but I don’t. Most people would be disappointed in me for eating a stranger’s half-eaten food, but C. B. couldn’t be more proud.
He wishes me luck with my research and says that he’s got to go try and smooth things over with Ms. McDougle. She’s still mad at him for throwing that party. I remind him to ask her plenty of questions: “Just because you drive a Ferrari doesn’t mean you can skip the basics.” It’s weird giving a man advice to hook up with your teacher, but he’s helping me out so much that I feel like I owe him. He offers up a high five before jumping into his car and barreling down the long driveway.
I’ve procrastinated long enough. It’s time to try and walk around the upstairs part of the creepy, creaky, old mansion. It’s ratty now, but you can see how nice it used to be, back in the day. I slowly make my way up into the third-floor turret to watch the sunset. I should be thinking about my character and how scary it must have been to live here, always worrying about someone finding you, and all of that drama, but I’m stuck on Abby and the stupid rocket-ship slide. What a dumbass! I watch the production crew unplug the generators at about nine thirty. All the lights go out, and they drive their trucks away. Here we go. It’s time to dive into the research. I’m all alone . . . totally, completely, and utterly alone . . . I hope! The wind starts to blow the cypress trees around menacingly, and a wolf howls in the distance (may have been a border collie)! Why is it so dark in here all the sudden? I slowly fumble my way down the creaky stairs. I hear a door slam in one of the bedrooms, and I quicken my pace. Something exhales on my neck, and I scream, “HAAAAHHH!”
Come on, man, it’s just the wind. Quit bein’ a puss! I shuffle into the kitchen and kick something soft. It’s a dead body! No, it’s a bag of sand with a handle. Friggin’ crew guys! Keep moving! I slowly open the door to the basement, and a cold blast of musty wind hits me in the face. I turn to shut the door when a moaning sound bellows from behind me. Keep moving! I race down the rickety steps and jump on the old mattress. A cloud of dust flies into the air and makes me start coughing again. Good God! Something scurries out from under the box springs and heads toward the scratching noise coming from under the stairs. I imagine thousands of diseased rats tumbling on top of one another as a popping sound booms from upstairs. The only logical explanation: a monster has heard me and has emerged from his hiding place to come down and kill me.
I know I’m being a pussy, but I can’t handle this. I rip open the basement door and fly out of the cellar. I grab my bike and race down the driveway at 9:35 p.m. I only made it five minutes, but research isn’t always about quantity. And if my goal was to feel Chris’s fear, then I’m good. And I’m not going directly home. There’s a lot more to learn about being homeless than just sleeping in abandoned mansions, so I cruise around Merrian and pretend to be down and out for a couple more hours. I look for food in trash cans, but I don’t eat any of it. I ride past Abby’s house and see a police car up the road, so I ride away from it real fast. I’m kind of able to pretend that I’m on the run for real. I try not to have fun. I go back home and everyone is asleep, so I eat some leftover spaghetti. It’s three days old, and I don’t even heat it up (S’up, Brando?)! I head down to our basement to sleep on the couch. It isn’t nearly as scary, unless you’re frightened of eighties décor.
I’ve tried to avoid my family the past few days so I could feel what it would be like to lose them, but they’re so annoying that they won’t allow it. My dad comes down to the basement around two a.m. He sees I’m still awake and says, “I can’t tell you how to be an actor, but I know you’ll do a better job if you’re rested.”
“We start shooting in two days, and I just don’t feel ready.”
“Well, that’s something I know about. You’ll never feel completely ready for anything. Just do your best. You’ve worked hard, and that’s all you can do. Sometimes you’ve just got to put up your sail and hope for wind.”
“What the hell’re you talkin’ about, old man? We don’t even have a boat.”
He laughs and says, “You think I know how to build a deck?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugs. “I don’t. I got that book from Home Depot, but I’ve never really built anything. I’m just wingin’ it.”
“Remind me never to use the deck.”
“You’ll find that most people are just stumbling through. It’s terrifying, but should be kind of inspiring for you to know that engineers, doctors, politicians . . . everybody is just using trial and error most of the time. We just keep moving forward until it becomes obvious tha
t we should stop or turn around or whatever.”
Eventually he goes up to bed, and I stop freaking out about the movie and start worrying about bridges collapsing, surgeries going bad, and international relations with China!
I only get two hours of sleep, but it doesn’t matter that I’ll be tired at rehearsal today, because part of the Saur mansion collapsed. I knew it! Goddamn freestylin’ engineers! So Hilary and I get to rehearse for an extra week, and it takes some of the stress off of me. The problem is, Phil’s anxiety has gone up and he’s driving everyone nuts. His job is to keep everything on schedule, and I guess seven days is a big deal. Lynn is excited because she thinks she might get to do something besides steam clothes, but they just make her fetch coffee and food all day. . . . I love it.
We’re rehearsing in an empty ballroom at the President Hotel. I guess Ms. McDougle has forgiven C. B., because she is at every rehearsal now, taking notes and asking us questions about our characters and figuring out if we know what we want from each moment. The ballroom is nice, but I wish we could work at the Saur mansion or one of the real locations. Matilda asked C. B. if we could do it here so it wouldn’t disrupt Hilary’s schedule too much. Usually he wouldn’t listen to a bodyguard’s suggestions, but he too is getting more stressed and therefore a bit more unpredictable. Hilary and I are having trouble acting the way he wants us to. I can tell he’s frustrated, but I’m not sure how to make him happy. We just keep doing the scenes over and over, and McDougle grills us with question after question. Just last week C. B. asked me not to overwork the script and to just use “my instincts,” so I’m a little confused but trying to roll with it. Hilary forgets the lines a lot, and C. B. gives her the note “Less Kidz Channel, please!” when she does a goofy double take or opens her mouth really wide with shock. You can tell she’s pissed at him for dogging her, but she doesn’t go off on him like she does Matilda or the assistants. She was raised doing that fake, overacting stuff, so it’s hard for her to stop, but she’s also a pro and makes the adjustment pretty well.
Carter's Big Break Page 10
