He paused, his brow furrowing. “You have a dozen saved interactive versions of Dark Waters?” He looked at her sideways.
“It’s my favorite of yours.” She donned a vacant, nostalgic smile. “That scene in the broken-down rover’s a killer.”
“Thanks, I think. I can’t help but wonder how the real thing measures up.”
She pulled her knees up to her chin and watched him. He was in full-force casual mode, which never showed up in the tabloid photos: sweatpants, faded university t-shirt, barely combed hair. When he knew, or even suspected cameras were going to be around, he dressed up, not a hair out of place. Right now, she wanted to grab him and roll around on the floor with him. He was Nick—she hadn’t superimposed Patton Walsh on him in weeks.
“You’re asking if I prefer the Nick May who played Patton Walsh, or the Nick May who’s in sweatpants in my living room.”
He looked away; his smile was humorless.
She ruffled his hair. “I haven’t watched that movie since we started dating. I know every line by heart, but I never know what you’re going to say, and that makes me smile. The rest of the world can have Patton Walsh. I’ll take the guy in the sweatpants.”
He took hold of her hand, kissed it, and that ended another afternoon of coaching.
Nathan gave them a week, then ran another screen test. He filmed in the alley behind the RealCity offices, with a full crew on hand to make it seem more like a real set. Cass came along to watch, and felt a buzz in the air at the sight of the camera on the dolly, the boom mike, the cables, the lights, the chairs. For a hundred years, Hollywood had been filled with sets that looked like this, before the blue screens, then the three-dimensional blueboxes took over. It wasn’t just a piece of history coming to life; it was a different medium being revived. Films done on location felt different, and she wondered if this hum of energy, the excitement that jumped from person to person with a glance or a word, was why.
Cass found Nick leaning in a doorway, out of sight, while final preparations continued. He was rubbing sweaty hands on his jeans and looked pale.
Cass’s heart sank. They’d worked so hard on this. They’d read scenes from dozens of scripts, watched dozens of classic films. He’d studied Brando, Hoffman, Washington, Damon. He’d been getting it.
“I don’t think I can do this,” he said.
She took his hand and leaned her forehead on his shoulder. “You can.”
She didn’t understand why this was so hard for him. It was like he faced the psychological hurdle and simply refused to leap over it. She supposed it happened like that sometimes.
Maybe there’d be a miracle.
The production wasn’t just for Nick. Nathan was training his entire crew. Hollywood hadn’t seen a full-scale on-location shoot in thirty years, before a lot of these people were born. They’d probably never seen most of this equipment, except maybe in museums. The boom operator was practicing, moving the mike up, down, up, down. The cameraman yelled whenever it showed up in the shot.
It was all part of the atmosphere. DeMille or Kubrick might walk by any minute.
Cass stayed well in the back, out of everyone’s way, and leaned on the wall to watch.
Nathan took Nick aside for a conference, probably telling him what to do, what the scene was about. Then came the magic. Cass held her breath, ready for it.
“Quiet on the set!” Nathan called. The production assistant ran up with the slate. “Nick May outdoor screen test, take one.”
Then, “Ready? And . . . Action!”
Nick, who had moved some ways off, ran up the alley, toward the camera. He stopped, looked around for a split second, hesitating. Cass’s stomach flip-flopped. She doubted that was part of the scene he was supposed to be playing. He seemed to recall himself, which gave her hope. He just needed to warm up was all.
He looked at the roof, put his hands to his mouth, preparing to shout—a scene perhaps meant to recall Marlon Brando.
“Jenny!”
It came out flat. Not that it was the most forceful name in the world, not like STELLA! or ADRIAN! But he conveyed no feeling. He invited no belief that he was desperate for anything. Not even the job.
“Jenny!”
It wasn’t acting, he wasn’t emoting. He was simply following directions.
She closed her eyes. She’d failed as a coach as much as he had as an actor. She didn’t know what else she could have done. She was an accountant and didn’t know anything about acting, so it seemed. So Nick proved. She knew how hard he’d been trying, how much he wanted it. Maybe Nathan was right. He had his niche in bluebox, and that was that.
They endured this for an hour and a half before Nathan finally announced, “Let’s break for lunch.”
No one had moved much except for Nick, but the crew heaved a collective sigh of exhaustion.