Passing Through the Flame (50 page)

In addition to the crew, there was today’s mercifully small cast: Velva, Gentry, two bit players, and twelve extras to dress the magazine office set.

And all these people were waiting for him to speak, to begin work, to show what he could do, to turn this chaos into film footage, to take charge—to
direct.
With the exception of Velva, there wasn’t anyone in the sound stage from the assistant producer to the lowliest grip who was less experienced in the making of studio films than he was. He had always been confident in his ability to direct a major film, but he had never before realized that with the money advantages of a major studio came this elephantine filmmaking apparatus which forced you to use it whether you needed it or not. He would have to make this film with a tool not of his own choosing, and he would have to prove his ability to do it to the entire cast and crew.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt that he had to prove his ability to himself.

“All right, everyone, I’m not going to make a speech,” he said. “It’d probably make more sense if you all made speeches to me, but we’re not going to do that either. We’re going to make a movie together, and I hope we’re going to like each other afterward.

“Now today, I hope we can shoot two complete scenes, and two more tomorrow, so that we can break up these sets on Wednesday, and get all the pickups and odds and ends out of the way so we can start shooting the motel stuff next week. It may seem weird to keep everyone around and shoot on alternate sets like this, but I think it’s essential that our actors hang around each other the first few days, and I want to shoot as sequentially as possible.”

A quiver of unease passed across Emmett Francis’ face, a telepathic communication that drew Paul’s attention to the fact that the tiniest tremor of contempt was wafting into the air from the crew. He realized that he had been lapsing into the easy informal creative explanation that made for good vibes in a shoestring operation, but made him seem insecure here.

“Anyway, that’s the way we’re going to do it, so let’s get moving. Rick, we’ll do the master of you walking through the outer office and into Condon’s office first. Let’s set up the shot. Emmett, will you get the extras in place?”

He clapped his hands and was rewarded by the purposeful movement of dozens of bodies. The lighting men went over to the office set and turned on the ready lights. Emmett positioned the extras behind their desks in the outer office. Gentry and David Knox, who was playing the editor, were handed copies of the script. The sound men began fiddling with their equipment and positioning boom mikes to cover Gentry and Knox. Harvey Friedman, the cameraman, sat down on the camera dolly seat, and the two assistant cameramen stood at the ready behind him. Sally Golden chalked numbers on her clapboard. The lighting gaffers began adjusting the big lights. The wardrobe and makeup people cleared the set and went back to wardrobe and makeup.

And all at once, it was Paul’s ball game.

Paul felt as if he were living in a movie inside a movie. This was a moment he had fantasized in a thousand ways for years, a moment that not long ago had seemed forever beyond his grasp. Now here he was, and here
it
was, and all emotion seemed drained from this greatest of all nexuses in his life. He felt as if this were just one more shot on one more film, as if he had been doing this all his life. As if he were playing the part of a film director.

He took one quick breath, stepped inside his own persona, banished everything else, and walked over to the set. “Let’s see the lights,” he said.

The big hot shooting lights came on. The office set consisted of an outer office area filled with desks and cubicles and Condon’s inner office, with a hypersophisticated desk and couch, and walls full of cover photographs done in the style of
Life
. The outer office was rather harshly lit, with no shadows, to emphasize the clattering bustle, while Condon’s inner office was lit more softly, to emphasize its inner-sanctum quality.

“Okay, save ‘em.”

The shooting lights went off, and Paul walked over to the camera dolly. “Okay, Harv, now what I want here is just pan with Rick all the way into the inner office, and I want you to continue the shot on through the partition because I’m not yet sure where I’ll do the cut into the inner office, so I want some covering footage on the dialogue.”

“You want me to hold a full shot or what?” Friedman said. Paul frowned. This was a studio crew from Emmett on down. Friedman certainly didn’t need detailed instructions on a standard shot like this and probably would be insulted if he were given them. Paul realized that he was going to have to walk a very fine line, at least at first, between giving such detailed camera directions that the cameraman became his robot or being so laissez-faire that Friedman burgeoned into a “cinematographer.” Friedman would be testing where he was at.

“Use your own judgment,” Paul said. “Just don’t get any closer than medium, and end with a full shot as he steps through the doorway. A little variety, but don’t get too fancy.”

“Right,” Friedman said firmly, and Paul felt he had passed some minor test.

He walked over to the chairs where Gentry and Knox were sitting side by side, glancing at their scripts. “All right,” he said, “we’ll do a quick run-through. Rick, you’ll just walk through the outer office fairly rapidly, nodding to familiar faces. You know you’re going to be given an assignment, so you’re preoccupied to some extent, but you’ve gone through this a thousand times before, so you’re not excited. David, I want you to give your opening line as Rick comes in through the door even though this shot will be over, because I may use it to cut to the inner office master. Okay, places, please.”

Knox simply nodded unceremoniously, walked onto the office set, and sat down behind the desk. Rick Gentry stood up, fingered his script uncertainly. “I’m not quite sure what’s going through my mind as I walk through the office,” he said. “Do I want an assignment or not?”

Jesus Christ! “You’re just going in to see your boss, is all,” Paul said, suppressing his irritation. “This is just a simple establishing shot.”

“Every shot is important,” Gentry said. “It’s a matter of craftsmanship. Of conveying a seamless illusion of reality.”

“Right,” Paul said. “So you just put yourself in the position of a magazine writer going in to see his boss, okay? I think you have the ability to do that without detailed direction. I trust your judgment. Now shall we walk through it?”

Gentry nodded somewhat sourly and walked to the far right end of the set. Paul took up his position behind and to the left of the camera dolly.

“Okay, this is a walk-through, hold the shooting lights. Quiet on the set. Doug Winter is a fairly important writer, so you extras notice him as he walks through, you notice him, but you don’t make a big fuss. Ready.... Action!”

Typewriters began to clatter, secretaries walked from desk to desk, a man and a woman smiled at each other around the water cooler....

“Rick!”

Gentry walked onto the set from the far right, and as he came into the camera frame, Friedman’s assistants slowly and smoothly pushed the camera dolly along to track with him, with Paul pacing the camera and Gentry with sidewise steps. But Gentry wasn’t simply walking through the office of a magazine that he had worked for for years; he was parading through, practically strutting, dispensing the sunshine of his smile left and right. He wasn’t Doug Winter going to see his boss; he was Rick Gentry making an entrance.

“Speed it up a bit, Rick. A little more casual. Maybe hunch forward a little; remember, you’re a New York writer.”

Gentry quickened his pace somewhat, let his shoulders slope forward a little, but his walk was still not quite right; he was still too much the actor on display. Lord, Paul thought, can he really be this inept? He decided to finish the walk-through for what it was worth; it wouldn’t do to put Gentry down in front of the crew.

Gentry walked to the door of the inner office, opened it, and stepped through, saying, “Hi, Fred, how’s the slave-driving business?”

From inside, Knox said, “Black and white, Doug, black and white.”

“Cut!”

The set relaxed with an almost audible sigh. Paul turned to Friedman. “How was it?” he asked.

Friedman looked up at him, his expression deadpan except for a slight downcurling at the corners of his mouth. He glanced over Paul’s shoulder at Gentry, who was chatting with one of the extras on the set. Paul shrugged back with his mouth alone. “I mean are you ready for a take?”

“
I’m
ready.”

Paul turned to face the set. “Okay, places, everyone, we’re going to do another walk-through. Rick, could I see you first?” He walked over to a couple of folding chairs that were set up just outside the pool of illumination of the ready lights, so that he could meet with Gentry in relative privacy.

“What is it, Paul?” Gentry said softly, walking up to him so that their faces were separated by less than a foot and looking earnestly into his eyes. Paul had an impulse to take a step backward but repressed it.

“You haven’t spent much time in New York, have you?” he said. “Try to imagine yourself tired, hung-over, feeling kind of gray, and not in much of a mood to talk to anyone. You notice the people in the office only because it would be too tiring to be boorish enough to snub them. You think you have that?”

Gentry smiled at him. “Certainly, Paul,” he said. “Now do you see what I mean about the importance of properly motivating even a shot like this?” His voice was so silky, his manner so earnest, that Paul could not quite tell whether he had been given a snide little lesson or whether Gentry really did feel that he had to be led through each damn shot like an idiot. Either way, the only course was to ignore such subtle mind fucks or fall down a rabbit hole.

“Okay, then we’ll do one more walk-through.”

This time, Gentry walked through the outer office like the morning after—slouched, bleery, grumpy. It was a bit overdone for what Paul had in mind, but it would play all right.

“Hi, Fred, how’s the slave-driving business?” Gentry said breezily, as he opened the inner office door.

“Black and white, Doug, black and white.”

“Cut!” Paul said. Not too bad, really, he thought. Considering. “All right, we’ll try a take.”

Paul danced around on the balls of his feet as the camera was rolled back into starting position, and the actors got ready, and the boom mikes were put in place, and the set got expectantly quiet. This was it, the true moment, the first commitment of image to film.

“Sound ready.”

Friedman gave him the high sign.

“Okay,” Paul said, positioning himself by the camera dolly. “Lights!”

The bright, hot shooting lights turned the set into desert midday.

“Roll it.”

Friedman’s camera began to whir inside its blimp. Sally dashed in front of the camera with her clapboard.
“Sunset City
, Scene One-A, take one!” she shrilled, clapping the candy-striped arm of the board down with a sharp crack and ducking out of the frame.

“Speed,” said the chief sound man.

“Action,” said Paul.

Typewriters clacked, extras talked at the water cooler, the magazine office came alive. Paul let it run on for ten seconds or so, letting the background reality establish itself.

“Rick.”

Rick Gentry walked onto the set from the far right, his shoulders slumped forward, his eyes slitted and bleary-looking. The camera panned with him, and Paul sidled along with it. So far, so good. Gentry walked through the office, barely noticing the extras nodding in his direction, overplaying the hangover number a bit, maybe, but doing an acceptable job. Over to the inner office door, down came the boom mike right on cue and safely out of the shot....

Gentry took the doorknob in his hand, the door opened smoothly, Gentry stepped through....

“Hi, Fred,” he said in a bright cheery voice, “how’s the slave-driving business?”

Shit! “Cut!
Cut!”

Gentry looked across the set at Paul ingenuously. “Sorry,” he said. “I slipped.”

“That’s all right, Rick,” Paul said, swallowing his irritation. “We’re all a little nervous.” Can’t this lox get a walk across a room and one lousy line right in one take? “Let’s try it again, shall we?”

“All right, everyone, we’ll try another take,” Paul said, wiping a thin film of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Let’s see if we can get it right this time. Velva, let me talk to you for a second.”

“Sure, Paul,” Velva said, earnestly and brightly, as if this were going to be the first take of the shot, not the fifth. She walked rapidly off the set to where he was standing, a few yards behind the camera without a complaining bone in her body. Paul noticed Rick Gentry, seated in his canvas chair, following her progress with eyes that were wallowing in malicious self-satisfaction. Every time Velva screws up, his face lights up like a Christmas tree, Paul thought. The asshole must think her looking bad makes him look good. As if
anything
could make him look good!

“What did I do wrong this time, Paul?” Velva said, loud enough for the crew and Gentry to hear, but so devoid of anger or sarcasm as to be actually refreshing after half a day’s shooting with Rick Gentry. Paul put his arm around her shoulders, drew her into a private huddle of privacy.

“Look, Velva,” he said quietly, “you love your parents, you’re happy where you are, you’ve got a boyfriend who you don’t want to leave. You’ve never been away from home before. You never took the contest seriously. You’re afraid to leave home. It’s your
mother
who really wants you to go to Sunset City, not you. You’re supposed to be afraid, not eager.”

“I guess I’m just seeing myself in that situation,” Velva said. “Boy, when
I
had a chance to get away from home for the first time, I took it like a bunny. And I had to give a blow job to get it, I didn’t win a free ticket in a contest.”

“I’m afraid Hollywood isn’t ready for your life story yet,” Paul snapped irritably. Velva cringed like a kicked puppy, making him feel like Instant Shit. “I mean, try to remember you’re playing the part of someone who’s a little different from you. Try to react the way the character would react, not the way
you
would react, okay?”