The Fourth Wall

by Williams, Walter Jon

  INT. SOUND STUDIO—DAY

  The morning is taken up with a chase scene on foot through the winding alleys of New Delhi. This is done on a green screen set, the whole structure completely covered in material of a uniform shade of green. When the film is edited, scenes of New Delhi will be keyed in to replace the green material, and we’ll appear to be in the middle of the Indian capital.

  Some of the New Delhi shots are taken by Delhi cameramen hired for the purpose, but most of the New Delhi neighborhoods were built entirely of zeroes and ones. Dagmar has crowdsourced all the CGI—there are little special effects studios all over the world, many underemployed, many of which are capable of coming up with a New Delhi street, alley, pakora stand, or neighborhood. Dagmar and Helmuth weeded through their offerings and offered payment for the stuff they liked, the actual fee depending on the length, the complexity of the programming, and the willingness of the programmers to accept a percentage of the gross instead of payment up front.

  Dagmar is on the set for the morning shoot, though for once everything proceeds in a businesslike manner, and she doesn’t have a chance to witness any battles between Carter-Ann and Joey. Maybe her presence calms things down, or maybe it is the fact that Carter-Ann has no suggestions to offer.

  After lunch in the trailer, I get my makeup touched up and report to the set just as Clarke is calling out, “Waiting on talent!”

  “Talent is here,” I say.

  Clarke doesn’t change expression. “Waiting on gaffers!” he calls.

  After the gaffers finish shifting the lights around, we start the exposition scene with Amir, after we’ve just escaped the Steene. It’s the same scene I used in my audition, when I had to pretend the chair was Amir.

  Instead of the chair we have Samendra, who has a harder time than the chair getting into his character. The kid’s just too mellow for someone who’s just escaped a gang of otherworldly assassins. Joey takes him aside and talks to him about how he’s got to be more nervous, and I stand and wait and try to keep my own edge.

  Carter-Ann walks up. “Mr. Makin,” she chirps, “may I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “When you’re talking to Samendra, could you make this gesture?”

  She raises her hand with the forefinger and thumb forming a circle, the rest of the fingers straight.

  “Chest-height,” she says, demonstrating. “Palm out. Just hold it a second or two.”

  I try this. Carter-Ann seems to approve.

  “Why am I doing this?” I ask.

  “It’s a Buddhist teaching mudra,” Carter-Ann says. “Use it when you’re giving Amir important information.”

  I know about mudras from my mother’s spiritual investigations. “You’re trying to give me credence with Buddhists,” I say.

  She looks up at me with a white-toothed smile. “Exactly,” she says.

  “Okay,” I say. It’s a little daffy, but I don’t mind. The more Buddhist fans I have, the better.

  We start the scene. I’m down on one knee, talking with Samendra on his level. He isn’t keyed up enough, so Joey rushes in from his blind side and gives a yell to startle him. Samendra jumps and from that point he’s okay.

  “Cut,” Joey says at the end of the shot, and then he looks at me. “One more take, and this time without the jack-off sign.”

  I’m blank. “The what?”

  Joey forms a ring with his finger and thumb. “The jack-off sign.”

  “Mr. da Nova,” Carter-Ann says, “it’s a Buddhist teaching mudra.”

  “It’s like he’s making a sign for mutual masturbation!” Joey says. “You don’t want your hero showing that to a juvenile!” He sneers. “Jesus, we’ll all go to jail!”

  And they’re off. While the argument snarls back and forth, I get to my feet and walk off the set to look for a water bottle I’ve set on a ledge. I uncap and drink, and then I see Dagmar talking with Ismet and Sawicki the line producer. They have their heads together and look serious, and I figure it’s got to be damned important if they’re ignoring the fight that’s going on a few feet away.

  They break, and Sawicki goes hustling past me. I grab his arm.

  “What’s happening?” I ask.

  “I’ve got to replace the wardrobe mistress,” he says, and then pulls away. I grab him again.

  “What’s happened to Jaydee?” I ask. A whole series of possibilities goes through my mind, most of them having to do with alcohol: a drunken auto accident; drunk and passed out on the job; in the hospital with the d.t.’s.

  “She’s been killed,” Sawicki says.

  I’m too surprised to stop him when he pulls away again. I turn to Dagmar, and walk to her.

  “Jaydee’s been killed?”

  “Hit and run,” Dagmar says. “A car jumped the curb in front of her house and ran her down.”

  “Cripes!” I stare at her. “When?”

  “Last night, apparently. She didn’t turn up in Wardrobe this morning, and Sawicki called and couldn’t reach her, so I sent one of her assistants to her house to see if she needed waking up. There was crime scene tape over the lawn and some evidence techs taking pictures of tire prints, and they told her what happened, and she went to the morgue and identified her.”

  I can see the morgue, cold tiles and refrigerated cabinets, reflected in Dagmar’s eyes. Maybe, with her history, she’s been in a lot of morgues.

  “Did they catch the guy?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” Dagmar looks up at me. “Do you know her next of kin?”

  “She’s got an ex-husband somewhere. Also three grown children, but I don’t know how to reach them.”

  Dagmar looks up, and for the first time she seems to become aware of Joey striding about the set growling, while Carter-Ann watches him from her balanced stance, her hands folded in front of her.

  “Jesus,” Dagmar mutters. “What’s this about?”

  “The Buddhist mudra of teaching,” I say.

  She gives me an incredulous look, then steps onto the set.

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  Both try to explain, but Joey has a louder voice. “It’s the freakin’ Buddhist wanking sign!” he says.

  “How long is the shot?” Dagmar asks.

  “Thirty-five seconds,” Jean-Marc says from the sidelines.

  “Thirty-five seconds?” Dagmar asks. “Why are you wasting time? Shoot it both ways, and if we look at the mudra in dailies and it looks weird or suggestive, we just won’t use that take.”

  “Fuck yeah!” Joey says. Apparently he thinks Dagmar’s agreeing with him.

  Dagmar gives him a cold look.

  “If I have to mediate a dispute, I want it to be about something bigger than a thirty-second shot. You’re wasting everyone’s time.”

  “That’s what I keep saying,” Joey said. “I just want to get on with it, with no interference!”

  Apparently Dagmar decides there’s no reasoning with Joey when he’s secreting testosterone at this rate. “Just take the damn shot,” she says, and walks off the set.

  I’m only paying partial attention to the dispute, because I’m still trying to process Jaydee’s being killed. Some useless bastard in a car, drunk probably or high, jumped his car over the curb and killed her.

  I hope she didn’t suffer. I hope she didn’t linger, like Timmi, for hours, unable to call for help.

  I feel Joey’s hand on my arm. “Hey, champ. We’re getting ready for the shot.”

  “Jaydee’s been killed,” I tell him, and while he stares at me I walk past him onto the set and kneel next to Samendra.

  I’m thinking about hit-and-run. I’m thinking about Timmi’s getting killed, about the black SUV that’s tried to run me down.

  Jaydee’s getting run down on her own lawn doesn’t make any sense. She lived in a quiet part of Studio City, in the hilly country backed up against the park: people don’t drive madly through those quiet residential streets. It would be impossible, for one thing�
��the roads are too twisty.

  Clarke calls for quiet and the camera moves in close. I try to summon Roheen. Joey calls for action. I hesitate.

  “Line,” I say.

  “‘Are you all right?’” reads the script supervisor.

  “Are you all right?” I say.

  “I’m not hurt,” Samendra responds.

  I wonder whether the person who tried to kill me is now trying to kill my friends. I wonder if Jaydee got killed because the guy in the SUV missed twice.

  I hesitate too long before giving my next line.

  “That’s okay,” says Joey. “Start again.”

  “Are you all right?” I say.

  “I’m not hurt,” Samendra says.

  Again I hesitate. My mind is blank. “Line,” I say.

  “Cut!” Joey’s call interrupts the script supervisor before she can begin. There’s a silence, and then Joey comes onto the set. He puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Do you need a moment?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes I do.”

  I stand up and walk off the set and leave the soundstage. Joey probably didn’t intend for me to leave the building, but he doesn’t stop me. I go to the Wanderlodge that I use as a dressing room and sit in the chair where I have my makeup done in the morning, and I look at myself in the mirror.

  My face is covered again with fake blood and dirt, because in the movie it will only have been a few minutes since I escaped from the wrecked warehouse. I look like death. I look as if the killer hit me instead of Jaydee.

  It occurs to me that Jaydee was probably my oldest friend. I’ve known her since I was eight. I met her before I met Joey, before I met Timmi. Anyone I knew before then, I’ve long since forgotten.

  I try to remember that first wardrobe fitting, but it blurs with all the others. I remember Jaydee efficiently adjusting my clothes, a laugh in her voice and the smell of sweet vermouth on her breath.

  My mind whirls. I try to work out if I’m the one responsible for Jaydee’s death. I don’t know.

  I can’t see how. Even if the guy in the black SUV is crazy, I can’t imagine him crazy enough to aim at Jaydee. Of all the people leaving the set at night, why her?

  And then the ice-cold finger of paranoia touches my heart. Jaydee was hiding my beer. Dagmar saw me leaving Wardrobe on the previous day in a state of intoxication. Dagmar hated alcoholics on account of her father.

  What if Dagmar had Jaydee clipped in order to keep me sober?

  It’s an insane thought, but then terrorists aren’t supposed to be exactly the most levelheaded people in the room.

  I decide that the safest thing is to quit drinking for real.

  INT. ALDRIDGE FUNERAL HOME—DAY

  Jaydee was reported dead on the first Friday in June, and the weekend is lost waiting for the next of kin to make arrangements. In the end the funeral is postponed to the following weekend so that everyone from the production can attend.

  The funeral home is built along the lines of a Spanish mission church, with white plaster, open beams, and high windows with Romanesque arches. Jaydee’s daughter and two sons are there, with their families. There is a minister I doubt Jaydee ever met in life, who discourses on her general goodness and her achievement as a loving parent. He informs us that we are celebrating her life rather than mourning her death.

  Speak for yourself, I think. The light that was Jaydee is out. I’ve been depressed all week.

  I’m too young to be as accustomed to funerals as I am.

  The minister assures us that there is a Plan at work. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid that whoever killed Jaydee has plans to take out more of my friends.

  Eventually the minister opens a prayer book and gets around to the ritual. Flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, neither doth corruption inherit uncorruption. Behold, I show you a mystery.

  Yeah, sounds like a mystery all right. I make the Buddhist sign of wanking and stop listening.

  After the service we troop off to another room in the funeral home, a beige barnlike place with stained glass windows set high in the walls. A line of trestle tables holds a buffet. The air is heavy with the scent of coffee. I express my condolences to Jaydee’s children, who are all ten to fifteen years older than me, and then take a plate of cookies and a plastic glass of fruit punch off into the gloomiest corner I can find.

  Jean-Marc is already there, along with Jane Haskill, who scores all of Joey’s films. I never see her around the production, since she works from home, writing and performing the scores on a synthesizer. She’s around fifty, with graying hair, prominent teeth, and glasses on a beaded string around her neck. Her dress sense usually runs to ragged cardigans and worn denim, but now she’s in a long-sleeved black Ralph Lauren dress that looks good on her.

  Normally she really doesn’t start her work until the film has been edited into something like its final form, but since the deadlines on this production are so tight, I presume she’s been in a writing frenzy all this time.

  I ask her about this, and she confirms my premise. “I’m doing a fairly minimalist score, fortunately,” she says. “A lot of subdued percussion, and then I’ve given leitmotifs to the major characters and situations, so I can just throw variations of these onto the soundtrack when I’m out of ideas.”

  “What motif am I?” I ask.

  “Da-da-da-daaa ta-ta-ta-ta,” she vocalizes. “But when Amir first gets a look at you we move into a minor key, da-da-da-daaa ta-ta-ta-ta.”

  “Gee,” I say, impressed. “I must be scary.”

  “You sure as hell are.” Jane grins. “Haven’t you seen the dailies?”

  “I don’t watch dailies,” I say. They make me too self-conscious, too aware of my own limitations and flaws.

  Jane picks a vanilla cream cookie off my plate. “I get them as soon as Joey and Allison finish their edits—next morning usually.”

  “It must help that we’re shooting more or less in sequence.”

  Most films are shot in whatever order is convenient—for example all shots at one location, or on a particular set, are done at the same time, no matter where they are placed in the film; the editor stitches them in the right order afterward. But because Escape to Earth is going to be serialized, it’s being shot more or less in chronological order. It’s easier on everyone, the actors particularly, because we don’t have to jump around inside our characters’ arcs, and try to remember how our character is different from the character of the previous scene.

  Shooting in sequence also allows Joey to rehearse us all thoroughly, which we’re all finding very helpful.

  Jane looks at me narrowly.

  “I last saw you at Mac’s funeral, didn’t I?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I say. “We should try to meet on a more cheerful occasion.”

  “Let’s have dinner or something,” Jane says, “next weekend.”

  Jean-Marc seems gloomy even for a funeral. He’s dressed in a coat and tie, but he hasn’t shaved in several days, and his eyes are beginning to sag with weariness. By the end of production he’ll look like something hit by a truck.

  “That’s three suspicious deaths in a row,” he says.

  I give him a startled look. It’s a reaction fueled by pure guilt: for a half-second, I’m convinced he’s accusing me of all three.

  But no. He’s not being a detective, he’s just melancholy.

  “Timmi, Mac, and now Jaydee,” Jane says.

  Jean-Marc gestures with one hand. “Suffering and death is of course the human condition,” he says. “That is natural, that is the case of the universe. But my friends don’t seem to die of cancer or heart disease—only these strange accidents.”

  “In Jaydee’s case it wasn’t an accident,” I point out.

  Jean-Marc looks at me. “No?” he says.

  “Well—” I hesitate, and put my thoughts in order. “Have you been to Jaydee’s house?”

  They both shake their heads.

  “It�
��s a little house on a cul-de-sac in Studio City. It’s a hilly residential neighborhood. Those streets south of Ventura follow the curve and slope of the hills. They’re twisty and quiet—people don’t go drag racing there.” I look at Jean-Marc. “What was the hit-and-run driver doing on that little street? He had to have been waiting there.”

  They look at me with blank fascination. Jean-Marc recovers first.

  “What of the motive?” he asks. “Why would someone kill her?”

  I raise my hands. “No idea.”

  “Did she have a lot of money?” Jean-Marc’s first thought is to blame the heirs.

  “That house was worth quite a lot, I suppose,” Jane says, “but not a fortune. Not split three ways.”

  “People kill each other for two dollars,” says Jean-Marc.

  Jane takes another cookie from my plate. “If this were a mystery novel,” she says, “they’d all be connected.”

  I happen to know that they’re not, because I was responsible for the first death myself, but I’m not going to offer that bit of information.

  Jane nibbles my cookie. Jean-Marc shakes his head. “Too many years have gone by,” he says. “It’s what—five or six years since Timmi’s death? And three since Mac went off the cliff.”

  Not a cliff, actually—the balcony. In the wake of his latest divorce, Mac was renting a house on Cliffside Drive in Malibu, and one rainy winter day he was found washed up on the rocks below the house. There was no sign of foul play, though of course the sea and the rocks had given his body such a battering that there was no way to know if he’d been whacked on the head before being dumped in the ocean. In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, it was assumed he was on a balcony slippery with drizzle, leaned out too far, and tumbled over, aided perhaps by his blood-alcohol content of 0.09. His death began the legal scrapping between his partners and his survivors over Mister Baby Head, the film in which he’d directed me.

  “If you want to kill someone,” Jean-Marc says, “you don’t wait so many years. Sooner or later, you’re going to stop being angry.”

  “Besides,” Jane says, “what do they all have in common? A writer, a director, a costume designer—colleagues, yes, but they can’t all be sharing some great secret that has to be suppressed.”