Sleeping Beauty (5 page)

This is a sore point between them, and I lob it at my brother like a shot over the bow. West wants Wib (as he and everyone else in their crew call Davin, besides me; I hate the nicknames as much as the slang) to move into his apartment, but he can’t pry him out of his closet-sized place in Marina Del Rey where he has easy-access to his boat and all the best surfing spots.

Works like a charm. West is sullen and silent the rest of the way. We pass one strip mall after another until we get to a gated entry. He turns in and comes to a stop. I hand West my ID to pass to the guard, leaning across him at the same time so the guard can see my face. “Claire Beau,” I say. “
Vampire Diaries
.”

He pushes a button and the gate lifts. “Sound stage five-oh-six, door A-three.”

West drives as close to the sound stage as he can get, which in my case is the “non-stars” lot about three hundred miles away, and stops. “You think it’ll be more than an hour?” he says.

I snort. “It’s going to take me an hour just to walk there from here.”

“More than an hour to
shoot
?”

“Not a chance,” I say, gathering my stuff and opening the door. “I’m playing a sixteen-year-old girl from a flashback. I don’t even have any lines, I just have to walk across the set”–I look down at the sheet of paper in my hands–“‘with a look of deep confusion, as if in a trance or awakening from a dream.’”

I’m still studying the paper when West starts laughing. I look up. “What?” And then I get it. “Oh, very funny, West.” I slam the car door and stomp away.

“Just think about all the time you’ll save on rehearsing!” he yells after me, still howling with laughter.

I’m in a foul mood as the heavy metal sound stage door shuts behind me. I stand there for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Studio sound stages are like huge airplane hangars, but dark as a cave. The only place that’s lit is the actual spot where they’re filming or taping, and there’s no worker’s comp for background actors–extras–stupid enough to trip over cables or run into walls, and definitely no other jobs coming your way if you knock over million dollar equipment.

I edge my way to the beige plastic bleachers, joining the group of extras bunched together at the end, their bodies turned towards the set. None of them even look my way as I gingerly step over the rows of seats and make my way to the top. Once I have a bird’s-eye view of the set, I see why my appearance failed to elicit even one ‘hello.’

Two actors–“the talent,” or actors with speaking parts–writhe on the shag carpet of a shabby-looking apartment, the one ripping at the clothes of the other. I look away, not because I’m a prude, but because there’s no way these two will get naked. Nudie scenes are always done with a small crew, and out of the sight of lowly background actors. Watching the beginning of unbridled passion without getting to see the end–especially if they do more than a few takes–is like fast forwarding through all the sex scenes in a porno so you can watch the boring acting.

I pull out a biography of Queen Victoria–I’m really on a kick with this lately–and start reading. I only get a few pages in before a woman calls my name.

“Claire Bee-you? Bowie?”

There was a time when I would have corrected someone who mispronounced my name on a job. It doesn’t take you long to realize that they don’t care. You’re lucky they’re calling you by a name and not a number. So I just stand up. “Right here.”

“Great. Go to wardrobe, they’ll give you the nightgown to wear.” She examines my face. “And thank you for not wearing makeup. Alex will put a little on you but you’re going to look as natural as possible for the shot.” She points. “That way.”

“Thanks.”

Based on the pseudo-sex scene I just witnessed, I’m getting a little nervous about the “nightgown.”
This better not be some weird lingerie get-up
, I think,
or I’m going home.
Turns out my fears are unfounded. In fact, once I’m inside the big, shapeless, white whale of a nightgown, I start wishing for some fishnet stockings, anything to peek out under the calf-length hem.

“Is this supposed to be, um, a little more fitted?” Normally it’s best not to question anything or anyone on a shoot, but I’ve worked with Alex before, and I just want to confirm that I’m supposed be wearing a man-repelling, virginal sack.

Alex shakes her head. “Nineteenth century nightgown. Real sexy, huh?” She grabs my chin, turning my head this way and that. “God, you’ve got great skin. I’m just going to do a little foundation.” She gestures to a chair. “Sit over here and I’ll curl your hair.”

Once she starts with the curling iron, she realizes my hair isn’t long enough. Cue the hair extensions. Thirty minutes later my now-long hair is suitably arranged in blonde, loopy curls. She declares me “perfect” and sends me on my way. I pull my socks on as I walk, not so much to keep my feet warm as to muffle the sound. Making any noise on or off the set while they’re filming will definitely get you bounced. Most extras duct tape the bottom of their shoes to dampen their offensive footfalls.

The assistant director–the AD–grabs me by the elbow. “Okay,” she says, without any preamble. “They’re going to fire up the smoker.” I follow her to a set covered in black. She points to a piece of green tape on the floor. “Once the fog gets thick enough you’ll start here and walk–very slowly–to here.” She crosses the set and points at another piece of tape on the floor. “Walk very slowly. I can’t stress that enough. Do you want to practice?”

So that’s what I’m doing, practicing walking very slowly, toe-heel, toe-heel, while the crew finishes setting up the shot. One of the lighting crew asks me to stand still while he fiddles with a few of the overhead lights. “Okay, we’re ready.”

“We’re ready!” the AD shouts.

I’m standing there in my silly curls and my repulsive nightgown when someone shouts at me. “Hey! That’s her!”

I jump. A fifty-something guy with a gray beard and a baseball cap stands next to the AD. He’s looking in my direction. I instinctively turn around, but there’s nothing behind me but the black wall of the set. I don’t say, “Who, me?” or anything ridiculous like that because he’s not talking to me; that much I’m sure about. Background actors are like props, there to be seen and not heard. The more you blend into the wallpaper, the more you’ll actually work.

“What’s her name? What’s your name?” he says, walking towards me.

Here comes the panic. “Uh…Claire?” I throw the question mark on the end, because even at this point I’m not sure if he’s asking my real name or the name of my character in the script.

“Claire? Claire what?”

“Beau. Claire Beau. I’m background,” I add, figuring he’s mistaking me for someone else. “I’m just doing this one scene.”

“Who’s your agent?”

“Charley Coney.”

He leans towards the AD. “Get Charley Coney on the phone for me.” The AD scurries off, cell phone in hand.

“Did I…do something wrong?” I say. I run through everything that’s happened since I got here, and nothing springs to mind. I turned off my cell phone, I was on time. I muffled my feet, didn’t make eye contact with or try to talk to any of the stars.
What the hell
?

He laughs and shoots out his hand. “Andy Gordon, good to meet you.”

I shake his hand, mute, fully aware now of
who
he is: just one of the biggest directors in Hollywood.

He takes off his baseball cap and scratches his head. “You wouldn’t believe the trouble we’ve been having trying to find you.”

“Me?”

He smoothes his hair back with his hand and throws the hat back on. “I saw you in something, a drama or a sit-com. Amy, didn’t I tell you that I thought it was a drama I saw her in?” he yells over his shoulder before remembering that Amy has run away to call my agent. “I can’t remember. Anyway, I saw you in something else you did. I loved your face.”

I touch my cheek. “My face?”

He laughs. “Your face. You have a nineteenth century face. I took one look at you and told myself: ‘That’s who I want for
Evensong
.’ Then I couldn’t remember what the hell I saw you in! Me and Amy must’ve watched half a dozen TV dramas before we gave up. I sent out a request through my casting director, and we got flooded with photos of every blonde actress in the city.”

It’s not every day that someone tells me I have a nineteenth century face. How the hell do you respond to that? “Thanks…most days I feel like I’m looking real ‘eighteen seventy-two,’ but last night was rough. I took one look in the mirror this morning and thought: Ugh! Totally ‘eighteen thirteen.’”

“Well…great!” I say, trying to sound upbeat.

“Are you interested?”

“In what?”
Perfect,
I think,
now he’ll tell me I have the mind of a nineteenth century imbecile.

He crosses his arms, chuckling. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t explain. We’re in pre-production for my next movie,
Evensong
. It’s a historical drama. Takes place in the eighteen fifties, centers on one woman in Boston and the anti-Catholic sentiment at the time.”

“Wow.”

“I think you’d be good as one of the upper-crust society friends of the main character. Not a lot of lines, but you definitely won’t get cut. Their friendship is instrumental to the story.”

“That sounds great, thank you. I’d definitely be interested in auditioning.”

He shakes his head. “No audition. We’ll set you up for a screen test. I’ll talk to Charley and work out the details.”

“I have Charley Coney on the line!” yells the AD from off the set.

“On my way.” He turns to me. “Very glad to have found you, Claire,” he says, pumping my hand again. “Looking forward to working with you.”

Fifteen minutes later we film the actual scene I showed up for. “Walking slowly as if in a daze” turns out to be as easy as breathing today. I’m so stunned by what has transpired that we only have to do two takes.

“Check the gate,” says Andy. He and the AD huddle around a monitor and watch the scene replay. “Perfect,” he says. “Print that.”

“Thank you, Claire,” says the AD. “You’re clear for the day.”

“Look at that,” he murmurs to the AD, pointing to the screen. “She’s perfect.”

“Perfect” has a more complimentary ring to it than “nineteenth century face,” so I’m floating as I walk back to wardrobe. I change into my street clothes and return the white parachute to Alex. “I can take those out,” she says, pointing to the extensions, “or you can just take this home and wash them out yourself.” She holds up a plastic bottle.

“I’ll just wash them out at home.” I take the bottle and head for the exit.

“Claire!”

I look up. A woman on the bleachers is waving at me. She works her way down the risers, thumping and banging every step like a drunken sports fan.

I recognize her, but I can’t remember her name. I’m always shocked to see her. She manages to break half a dozen rules on every set I’ve seen her on. One time I even saw her trying to chat up Robert Sean Leonard while the latter was prepping for a scene on
House
. Every extra on the set collectively cringed for her, but she somehow always comes out on the other side.

I’ve since decided it’s her “look” that keeps her employed. My “nineteenth century face” might be a rare commodity, but people with the “twenty-first century, freckled, trailer park, gap-tooth” look are apparently a little scarce as well.

“Did Andy Gordon just talk to you?” she hisses at me, much too loud.

I look to see if the set assistant is looking our way. “Yeah, he did,” I say, and keep walking.

She follows me. “Did he give you a part?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“Can you talk to him for me?”

“Uh…I don’t even know him. I only met him just now.” I’m nearing the exit, eager to shake this lady.

She stops. “What, you’re too good for the rest of us now?”

I turn around when I get to the door, and push against it with my back. “Yeah, that’s it. Hey, I’ve gotta go, but if you’re looking for me I’ll be playing my breakout role of ‘Teenager Shopping with Her Friends’ at CBS tomorrow. See you later.”

I hike across the lot, looking over my shoulder every thirty seconds until West spots me and pulls the car up to meet me. He laughs when he sees me. “You look like Goldilocks.”

“I know. I’ll wash them out when I get home.”

“How’d it go?”

“Good. Well, better than good.”

He pulls away from the curb and heads towards the studio lot exit. “What’s ‘better than good’ mean?”

“I think I just got discovered.”

He looks over at me. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. Andy Gordon wants me to do a screen test for a part in his new movie. He just asked me, just now. He’s going to set it up with Charley.”

He glances at me a few times, trying to decide if I’m messing with him. “We need to start drinking.
Now
.” He pulls out his phone. “I’m calling Davin.

“I know, right?” My phone rings. I pull it out of my bag and look at the screen. “It’s Charley…hello?”

“
Claire bella Beau
,” says my agent, Charley Coney, sounding highly amused. “
Out wowing the Hollywood cheese today
.”

I laugh. “Not exactly. I couldn’t believe it.”

“
I got the email from his casting director a couple of weeks ago when they were looking for you. What the hell is a ‘nineteenth century face’ anyway? I didn’t have a clue whose picture to send to them
.”

“I have no idea, I’m just glad I have it.”

West jabs me in the arm. “Davin’s meeting us at Casa Vega in thirty minutes.”

“
Call me tomorrow
,” says Charley. “
I’ll find out the where and the when
.”

I cover the phone with my hand. “Wait, what about my hair?” I say to West. “I look stupid.”

“It’s perfect,” says West. “Instead of Goldilocks and the Three Bears we’ll be Goldilocks and the Two Gays.”

Charlie continues, “
Then we’ll work out the details and you can sign on the dotted line
.”

“That’s crazy!” I whisper to my brother.