Chapter 16
Up and running
Half an hour later, I’ve completed my errand and I return to collect Logan. I’m not generally into guys wearing make-up, but he looks fabulous — the subtle make-up enhances his eyes like nobody’s business. If Zeb was here, he’d change his crush, no question. With my inexpertly applied eyeshadow and blusher, I feel like a clown beside Logan. Maybe I can get the miracle workers to give me a few lessons sometime?
My star’s next stop is the wardrobe department. Hanging on the rail marked with his name are five of every single item of clothing — duplicates, in case the costumes get damaged while filming, I guess.
After his fitting, I try to hurry Logan to the soundstage, but he never moves faster than an unhurried stroll. All his movements — and I am very aware of all his movements — are leisurely, almost lazy, yet somehow we make it to the set with thirty seconds to spare before his official call time. Britney’s already waiting with Becka beside her.
Cilla, who’s inspecting the fake boat, checks her watch as Logan and I arrive, and nods at me. Logan grabs a canvas chair and drops his long frame into it. It’s eight o’clock — any second now they’ll start filming his scene and I’ll finally get to see Logan in action. I stand a little behind his chair, fidgety with anticipation.
For the next forty-five minutes, nothing happens.
I mean, Cilla barks orders at her minions: the cameramen fiddle with different positions and angles; lighting specialists adjust the illumination of the body doubles who stand on set in place of Logan and Britney; sound technicians rig up a microphone on a boom; and the set artist makes touch-ups to the boat. But not a frame is filmed.
Trying to make good use of the down time, I perch on a stool next to Logan, run through a list of questions to check all his preferences, and ask whether he has any special requests.
“Just some chipotle-smoked barbeque ribs, a little N’Orleans jazz for my iPod, a Dr Pepper and a couple of Moon Pies, the Atlanta Daily Mail every morning, and a big tub of Ben and Jerry’s Caramel Walnut Fudge — but you’ll need to remove the bits of nut. I like the taste they give the ice cream, but not the feel of them in my mouth. You can just pick ’em out by hand.”
I can feel my eyes growing wide — I have no idea what half those things are, let alone where to get them.
Then Logan winks at me, slowly and deliberately. “Only kidding. Though I wouldn’t say no to a bottle of water.”
It takes me only half an hour to realise that I’ve landed on easy street. Apart from the joy to be had from simply staring at Logan — how his lips move when he says “Dr Pepper” and “bottle,” the way his fingers run through his raven hair and his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs — I also discover he’s friendly, polite, and completely reasonable in his requests.
Cilla, on the other hand, keeps her assistant, Phillip, hopping. As soon as I see him, I understand why the crew calls him Polyp — he’s short and slight, peculiarly colourless, and has an elongated, stalk-like neck above which his pale face seems to float. He scampers about fetching and carrying for Cilla, screening phone calls, and plying her with vitamins. At least, I think they’re vitamins.
While Cilla and the chief cameraman debate whether to use a pan or a tilt in the opening shot, Polyp sidles up to me so silently that I jump when he speaks into my ear.
“You’re the local girl?” he whispers, standing too close.
“Yes.”
“Do you know where I can source baby crickets?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Or fly larvae, or butter-worms?” His breath is unpleasantly hot in my ear.
I only hope my face shows confusion rather than revulsion. “I’m sorry, I don’t …”
“For the chickabiddies. They need protein!”
“Ohhh. No, I’m sorry, I’ve never needed to buy goggas.”
Now he’s confused.
“Sorry, goggas are insects. Perhaps you could try a pet shop in town?”
When he creeps away, I resist the urge to wipe my ear on my shoulder.
Poor Becka doesn’t have a moment’s peace from Britney.
“Becka, where’s my Chinese weight-loss antioxidant herbal green tea?”
“Becka, Charlie hasn’t called yet. Make it happen, will ya?”
“Becka, fetch someone from wardrobe. They’ve taped my boobs up too tight again.”
They tape up boobs?
“Becka, fetch my bag from my star room, will you?”
“No, I meant the other bag.”
There’s an awkward moment before filming starts when Britney tries to rope me into running errands for her, too.
“Ronnie,” she says, looking at me, “just run along to the writing department and get my new pages for tomorrow, will you? Becka’s gone AWOL again. I swear I don’t know how I put up with her!”
“Um …”
I don’t know what to say. I have a feeling that if I do this one thing, it’ll be the start of me running for her, too. But Becka’s instructions had been clear: no saying ‘no.’ And Cilla had told me to keep my mouth shut and not talk back. I’m about to cave when Logan rescues me.
“’Fraid I can’t let you have my PA, Britney. I need her by my side all the time.”
My heart goes warm and fuzzy at this, but then he adds, “For my exclusive use, at my beck and call, twenty-four seven.”
I open my mouth to protest — though, to be honest, being at Logan’s side 24/7 sounds like something I’d like. A lot. But Logan tips his head back at me and, with the eye that Britney can’t see, winks again.
This time, I wink back. I do. I wink at Logan Rush! I want to run around giggling and squeeing, but I play it cool. Perhaps there might be a future for me in acting after all.
“Right, clear the doubles. Places, please,” somebody calls.
The technicians and operators take up positions behind their equipment, Lindy gives Logan’s face a final dusting of powder, and Mindy reapplies Britney’s lipstick. Cilla settles herself in a chair behind a small video monitor streaming the feed from the cameras.
Logan and Britney walk to the trawler and stand on the small crosses of masking tape stuck to its deck. The lights dim, and suddenly it’s as if the two are standing on a real boat in the middle of a moonlit ocean. Apart from the bright green screen behind them, that is.
“Picture up!” the assistant director yells.
Logan cricks his neck one last time, and Britney practises pouting and smiling.
“Quiet, please!”
It’s as though a spell is cast over everyone. Front of camera or behind, cast or crew, everyone goes still and silent. A thrill of excitement ripples through me. In this dark space of make-believe, anything is possible. Anything could happen. In the next moment, a story will be brought to life, something enchanting will be crafted — not analysed or researched, or bought or sold — but created. I lean forward, holding my breath
The roll call of mysterious signals sounds across the stage.
“Roll sound!”
“… sound speed.”
“Roll camera!”
“… speed.”
An assistant holds an electronic clapper board with Scene 27, Take 1 on its red display in front of Logan and Britney. She snaps the clapper shut and ducks out of the shot.
“Action — background!”
A few extras, playing sailors on the boat, start moving about, silently pulling in a net and cranking a winch handle. The boat rocks gently. Looking down, I see that the hull is cradled in a complicated piece of machinery designed to simulate wave action. A gentle breeze from the wind machine ruffles the actors’ hair. Britney adjusts herself so that her hair blows back from her face, rather than onto her lipstick.
“And … action!” Cilla calls.
And it begins.
Logan’s unhurried chill has totally evaporated — he’s now the tense, terse, primed-for-action man that is Chase Falconer. He grabs Britney by the arm and says urgently, “We have to do it, you know that. We can’t let them get away!” There’s no trace of his Southern accent in his voice.
“But, Chase, you could be killed!” Britney’s face is softer, kinder, more animated than it is in real life, and her voice is huskier.
“That’s a risk I’ll have to take. If I don’t stop them, it’ll be a massacre.”
“Oh, Chase, don’t go!”
Britney throws herself into his arms and hugs him tightly.
It’s magical. I forget that I’m in a largely empty warehouse; that the boat, the wind, and the moonlight are all fake; that the two people in front of me are actors rather than lovers in mortal peril. It’s gripping and intense — more vital, in some crazy way, than my real life back at home. I’m utterly absorbed and enthralled.
“Cut!” Cilla yells harshly, breaking the spell.
Logan (all at once Logan again), and Britney (“Becka, water!”) turn expectantly towards her.
“Not bad, let’s do it again. But on the embrace, push your hips together for more intimacy,” Cilla says, smacking her hands together and pressing hard to demonstrate the intense level of pelvic smooshiness required.
“Places, please,” the assistant director yells, and the whole process starts over.
They film several takes of the scene. Each time I learn a little more of the craft and science behind the illusion. And each time it’s a little less captivating for me. I have no idea how the actors can say the same lines over and over again and still keep it fresh, but they do. Even Britney — credit where it’s due — never sounds rehearsed or forced or bored.
After the twelfth take, Cilla calls a break. I’m sure they’ve finally captured the scene, but it’s only to reset the lights, and change the camera and mike setups. Logan dozes in his chair, and Britney orders Becka to give her a neck massage while they wait. And then they film the scene all over again, first from over Logan’s shoulder, with the camera focused in close-up on Britney, and then the other way around. It takes over three hours to shoot a scene which lasts, in real time, maybe two minutes.
“Well, now that you’ve seen your first scene, what do you think of moviemaking?” Logan asks me when they finish.
“I think it’s one-part action and three-quarters hurry-up-and-wait.”