“Well,” he says, “we’ve never worked together before, and I thought maybe I could give you a couple of ideas on motions and tones you can take to get the best response out of me.”
“Acting tips?” I ask. “Are you seriously trying to make your performance my responsibility?”
“Well,” he says, “at the end of the day, it’s everyone’s responsibility, including mine. If there’s anything I can do to help get the best out of you,” he winks, “you just let me know.”
I’m pretty certain he just propositioned me.
Twelve-hours-ago-me would have ripped her top off, shoved it (the top) into her own mouth—for reasons which are unclear to me still—and leapt spread-eagle through the air at such a suggestion.
Twelve-hour-ago-me was an idiot.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask him.
“Well, I was thinking that if you say this first line with a kind of restrained anger, something just boiling to the surface rather than going straight explosive on it, that’d really be the way to go with the scene. We’d have somewhere to go, you know,” he says.
“What did you think I was going to do?” I ask. “Did you think I was going to come into the room screaming and throwing stuff?”
“A lot of people would,” he says. “But you’ve got to remember, this is Glen on the screenplay, so you’ve got to realize that there’s more to the page than the sum total of the words on it.”
“And you’ve got the only correct interpretation of it?” I ask. “You sound like you’re trying to start a religion.”
“How were you going to play the scene?” he asks.
“I was thinking that I would come into the room, see him sitting in the chair by the dresser and start soft, but deliberate so that I could build into the climax of the dialog,” I tell him. It’s exactly what he was saying I should do, and I know that he knows it. “By the time you get into the room, I’ll be yelling—otherwise your character would never hear me well enough to know what’s going on—but I wasn’t just going to go in their guns blazing.”
“I think that sounds like a brilliant plan,” he says.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I’m happy enough that he doesn’t know I was absolutely planning on coming into the room at the beginning of the next scene breaking a few things while I screamed at Mack, the guy playing my husband in the first twenty minutes of the film. I had the whole scene played through in my head. That blue lamp was going to be the first to go.
I was going to try and show Damian that I’m just as worthy of being here as he is by playing strong right from our first scene together. Instead, I’m going to be doing exactly what he tells me to do because there’s a reasonable chance he’d ridicule me otherwise.
“You’re pretty,” he says. “You haven’t done any porn, have you?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“You’d be surprised how many people in our business have dabbled,” he says. “Most people who start out that way don’t really make it past the occasional cameo or early morning talk show, but there is a more substantial population than you’d think who owe very successful careers to the fact that at one point in their life, they fucked for money. I’m not saying everyone does it. I’m just saying that I’ve been around it enough to have some wisdom on the subject if that’s something you’d like to talk about.”
“I haven’t done any porn,” I tell him, “but thanks for asking. It wasn’t presumptuous or asinine at all.”
“You’re sarcastic,” he says. “I wonder if that’s because you’re seeing the humor in the moment or if you’re hiding behind a smile, hoping that nobody sees what’s really going on inside you.”
“We’re ready,” the prop guy calls out to the director who makes a few last minute adjustments before we’re anywhere near action.
“You think you know everything about people,” I tell him, “but you don’t.”
“I never said I know everything about people,” he answers. “I just know what it’s like to show up on set and feel like, at any moment, everyone’s going to realize just how far from good enough you really are and they’re going to send you back to the Midwest or wherever you came from. The ones that end up doing porn are usually from the Midwest,” he continues, “that’s why I’m asking.”
“I’ve never done porn,” I tell him.
He was right on the verge of saying something helpful. I’d thought he actually did say something helpful, but he just kept talking until I was cured of that opinion.
“I was right about the rest of it, though,” he says, “wasn’t I?”
“No,” I tell him. “I know that you’d love to see me as some shriveling neophyte who’s so overwhelmed by the big lights that she feels helpless without your guidance, but I’m here because I earned it, you smug son of a bitch.”
“Calm down. I’m not saying you didn’t earn it,” he says. “I’m just saying that I know the feeling.”
“Let me guess,” I start, “this is the part where you tell me how you used to feel that way when you were first starting out, right? It might be thoughtful if it weren’t so incredibly condescending.”
“You’re not quite right,” he says. “I still feel that way.” He leans toward me and whispers, “Do you really think that I would get as belligerent as I just did because I looked the wrong way and got light in my eyes? I did that because I’m terrified of everything that comes after he says action. Every second those cameras are going is a separate opportunity for me to fuck it all up and bring an end to my career, just to prove how not good enough I really am. I’m not saying you feel that way because it’s a weakness or some obstacle you’re just going to get past. I’m saying you feel that way because it would be inhuman not to.”
“All right, and Emma, you’re out of the room, coming in to confront your husband about the affair,” Dutch, the director, calls out.
I walk to my place off camera and wait for my cue.
This is the part of the movie where Charlotte, that’s me, comes home to find a half-naked woman climbing down the drainpipe from the bedroom window on the second floor and confronts her husband about it.
As this is a comedy, my husband is a well-known, septuagenarian standup comic and Damian comes into play here, as he’s my husband’s granddaughter’s English tutor who overhears the argument and quits his job in solidarity with my character leaving her husband—it’s kind of a reverse Jerry Maguire moment.
This isn’t my first scene of the day, but it will be the first one with Damian. I’m not entirely sure how he did it, but with his confession, I’ve forgotten myself to the point that, if I’m not careful, I’m going to end up liking Damian Jones.
Chapter Two
Managing Expectations
Damian
“I’m thrilled to be working with her,” I tell Kandice from KNTV-LA. “I think she’s a promising, up-and-coming actress and I think you’re going to be amazed when you see what she can do.”
Honestly, I didn’t think she was that great today. Maybe it’s just nerves, but she’s stretching to make a B-list showing.
Still, the PR thing to do is to be nice and appear excited about my costar.
“So,” Kandice from KNTV-LA says, “you’d say that working with Emma Roxy has been an overall positive experience?”
I’ve never known why people are interested in shit like this.
Why does anyone care what we’re like in real life? The truth is that if you’re a person who cares that much about something so inconsequential as what someone you’ve never met thinks about another person you’ve never met, you’re probably not the kind of person I want to meet.
Still, the only projects that see a boost from conflict on the set are the occasional horror flick where the studio’s really trying to bump up the film’s “You wouldn’t believe the crazy shit that happens on this set” cred.
“Well, we just met,” I tell Kandice from KNTV-LA, “filming just started, you know, but so far, y
eah, I’d say it’s been a positive experience.”
“You never know where these things can go,” Kandice from stupid, misguided KNTV-LA says, somehow managing to be the first to publicly speculate on the possibility of an off-screen love affair between me and Emma.
That sort of thing happens a lot, people tell me, but I’ve never seen it work out without some kind of scandal at the end of it. This is a job.
It felt good, getting that out. It really did.
“This is a great project,” I tell Kandice from KNTV-LA, “and I’m thrilled to be working on it with some of the best people in the business. It’s always an honor to be a part of something with so much heart.”
When you don’t have anything genuine and positive to say about a film you’re working on, you say that the project “has heart.” It doesn’t mean anything, but people who hear you say it still get that warm and fuzzy feeling.
The script is nothing you haven’t seen in every other summer romantic comedy that’s come out in the last thirty or forty years, but that’s another one of those things they tell you not to say in a live television interview.
They’d prefer you don’t mention how this will be the fourth movie of the year that features a woman who is overworked and hating her life, who then finds a man and, through his charm and carefree lifestyle, he teaches her a new way of living: one that includes making time for herself and his penis.
It’s touching, really.
“If you were to hook up with your new costar, would she be the first leggy redhead you’ve had in your life?” Kandice from KNTV-LA asks, and even in the somewhat pixelated view of her expression that I can make out, I can see that she feels just as stupid asking that question as I do having to answer it.
“I think women are beautiful, no matter their hair color,” I deflect.
“Well, we are all looking forward to the new film when it comes out. Thank you for talking to us today. Damian Jones, everybody,” Kandice from KNTV-LA says and turns to a different camera. “After the break, we’ve got the Chief of the Green Bean Council, Rick Murphy, to tell us why this longtime side dish might be better as the main course. Stick around.”
I warmed up the viewing audience for a guy from the Green Bean Council?
“And, we’re out,” someone whose name I couldn’t possibly remember says and comes in front of the camera, removing my microphone.
On the little screen, Kandice from KNTV-LA looks up and says, “So, off the record, real first impressions of Emma Roxy?”
There’s off the record and there’s off the record. With one, the reporter would rather go to jail for contempt of court than to mention your name in connection with a story. That’s how good reporters get the inside track: They need to have that kind of credibility, to have built that trust. If they start burning their sources, they’re not going to stay competitive because nobody will talk to them.
Kandice from KNTV-LA, on the other hand, has that hungry look in her eyes that always signifies a person ready to do whatever it takes to get bump up a few spots in her world.
Ambition is not a motivator that I generally trust in another person.
“Off the record,” I tell her, “I really just met her. She seems to be a competent actor and a pleasant person.”
Kandice from KNTV-LA, who had hoped to somehow leverage her leaking my (assumedly juicy) response into providing her the opportunity to transform herself out of being Kandice from KNTV-LA into Kandice from CNN or Kandice from Good Morning America, clenches her teeth and says a quick “thanks” before the feed goes dark.
The little studio I’m in is quickly traversable, and I’m back to my dressing room in no time at all, minus the time it takes to do a couple of pictures and sign a few autographs.
“What’s next, Kieran?” I ask my pretentiously-named assistant.
“All right,” he says, his feet on my couch, “it looks like you’re back on set at five and then you’re done after that. Did you want me to give Meg a call to see if she’s still interested in doing a benefit with you, or do you still want me to wait until the rest of—”
“Yeah, we’re just going to wait a bit on that,” I tell him. “I still need to hear back from a couple of the organizers. There are some location concerns, so I’d like to get all that figured out before I start dropping in headliners.”
“Where were they planning to do it?” he asks.
“I don’t even remember,” I tell him.
“What are the concerns?” he asks.
He’s always trying to be more involved than I want him to be. Really, I just like having someone make my phone calls and otherwise do all the leg work. The fact that he has a ridiculous name may have factored into my hiring him, but the cruel joy I get out of that isn’t enough to convince me to open up a spot in the inner circle.
The inner circle, well, that’s been closed to new applicants for a long time now.
“Book me a dinner,” I tell Kieran, “for tonight. Make it for two at La Rodolfo’s at eight o’clock.”
“May I ask who will be joining you?” he asks.
“I don’t like your chances,” I tell him.
“They may want to know,” he says.
“I’m sure my name will be sufficient to secure a reservation,” I tell him. “Now, call.”
He goes off and does his thing while I sit in my chair for a few minutes.
I’ve been spoiled by movie-set trailers and lavish green rooms. It’s been a while since I’ve done an interview somewhere this low budget. Sure, it was just a remote, but I’m finding myself frustrated they didn’t think fit to provide me with a better chair.
Oh well.
I pull out my phone and find the new number, leaning forward to check my teeth in the mirror.
“Hello?” the voice answers.
“Hey, is this Emma?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she responds. “Who’s this?”
“It’s your favorite movie star,” I tell her. All right, I’ve enjoyed fucking with her, but that one was just corny.
She sighs and says, “What do you need, Damian?”
“I was just calling to invite you out for a ‘welcome to the set’ dinner,” I tell her. “I was thinking La Rodolfo’s at eight o’clock.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t have anything,” she says. “They’re booked out months in advance.”
I give a slight chuckle. Not enough to come off as over-the-top conceited, but just enough to help her to the realization.
“Oh,” she says. “Famous movie star and all; right.”
“Yeah, so what do you say?” I ask. “They’ve got some of the best Italian cuisine in the city.”
“Who else is going?” she asks.
“It’d be just you and me,” I tell her.
Right about now, you might be asking yourself why I would invite a woman like Emma out to dinner. She’s not very well connected and I haven’t really seen anything in her performance that would make me want to get closer to her on a professional level.
On a personal level, she’s attractive. She’s a leggy redhead, like Kandice from KNTV-LA said. She’s also pretty well endowed and her bright blue eyes provide a welcome contrast to her dark red hair. Yeah, she’s attractive, but so are a lot of other women and other women would bring a lot less paparazzi.
Besides, she’s a bit judgmental for my tastes.
The real reason is my cousin’s a big fan of hers. I guess he was up late one night and caught one of her movies on cable.
Normally, that in itself wouldn’t lead me to extend a dinner invite to someone, but I do owe Nick a favor after I introduced him to Liam Neeson as “the guy who flashed Céline Dion after the Grammys.” While it’s true that Nick wasn’t at the Grammy’s, and I’ve never heard any reports of Céline Dion being flashed at all, Nick’s been more vocal about the whole thing than I think is really necessary.
I hate dealing with my family when I don’t have to—especially extended family. You know, I never knew
I had so much extended family until I started making movies. Isn’t it funny how that works out?
I don’t like the guy nearly enough to invite him to dinner with Emma and me, but I figure I can probably get her to sign a few things without compromising my godlike, unapproachable air on the set.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I didn’t really get the impression that we were going to hit it off.”
“Oh, I make a terrible first impression,” I tell her. “Give me a chance to make a better one.”
She’s taking a long time to answer.
I wasn’t that big of an ass in her trailer or on the set, was I?
“Rodolfo’s?” she asks.
“Rodolfo’s at eight,” I tell her, “tonight.”
“I’m on set at four, though,” she says.
“Yeah, I’m on set at five,” I tell her. “I’ll talk to Dutch and let him know that you and I have a benefit or something tonight. He won’t mind.”
“He won’t mind that two of the major actors in the film are playing hooky with hardly any notice?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her. “Benefits like this can bring a lot of attention to a movie in production.
“You say ‘benefits like this’ as if there’s actually a benefit,” she says.
“I’m sure there’s one somewhere in the city tonight,” I tell her.
“And he won’t mind that you’re going to a benefit and he wasn’t invited to it?” she asks.
That’s a fair point.
“I’ll tell him it’s an actor thing,” I tell her. “It’ll be fine. So, what do you say?”
She sighs again. “All right,” she says. “Should I meet you there, or—”
“I’ll send a car for you,” I tell her.
Normally in this scenario, the car I would send would be some rotten, beat up piece of shit, barely staying on the road (when you tell someone you’re sending a car for them, they always think limo or upscale town car. Spoiling that impression is a rewarding past time,) but I owe Nick no less than three pieces of autographed Emma Roxy swag.
I’m really getting sick of the phone calls.
It’s not that I’m really so indifferent to Emma. She seems nice enough. She’s just not the sex-crazed, degenerate a-list wannabe that has been my type for so long.
Costars (A Standalone Romance Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) Page 2
