The Italian Lover

by Robert Hellenga

  When Miranda and Zanni arrived from Makeup, he went over the shot with them. The choreography for the two-shot sequence was simple enough for the actors, and he didn’t want to put them through another rehearsal. He did remind them, though, that they’ve been looking at the Aretino pictures together and have been carried away, like Paolo and Francesca in The Divine Comedy. Now they’re in Sandro’s bedroom. He didn’t want them to carry around too much information or to think more than two or three shots ahead. Zanni was never a problem, but Michael didn’t need Esther to tell him that Miranda seemed a little shaky. Twitchy. But she told him anyway.

  By nine thirty the scene was falling into place, and Michael was anxious to expose some film. The lighting stand-ins came on. The DP, still worrying about the sight lines, kept repositioning the cheval glass and the stand-ins and telling the grips to rebalance the flags and the lights. The continuity girl was trying to make herself invisible. The set was closed, but Gordon Talbot, a suit from Leviathan, had bullied his way in. Michael didn’t need Gordon on the set, telling the grips what to do, giving advice to the DP on how to tweak the cheval glass, but there he was.

  Michael ran through a camera rehearsal with stand-ins. The sequence was simple enough for the actors, but the camera moves were tricky. The dolly grip and the camera operator would have to tie several complex moves together. What Michael had in mind looked like this:

  144. INT. SANDRO’S BEDROOM—AFTERNOON

  CU. SANDRO is looking over MARGOT’s shoulder

  CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal beveled edge of cheval glass, then the back of SANDRO’s head (BODY DOUBLE’s head) as he looks over MARGOT’s (BODY DOUBLE’s) shoulder. Behind the cheval glass is a double bed and a wardrobe with the door partway open, revealing clothes inside. CAMERA looks over the shoulders of the BODY DOUBLES at the reflection of MARGOT and SANDRO in the cheval glass. Margot is wearing jeans and a man’s white shirt. Sandro is elegant in a camel hair sport coat, a white shirt, and a yellow tie.

  SANDRO

  The mousy librarian. (laughs)

  MARGOT

  It’s book conservator, not librarian.

  Sandro takes off his coat, rolls up his sleeves, reaches around Margot and unbuttons her blouse. He tosses her blouse on the floor and unhooks her bra. He drops the bra on the floor and begins to remove his tie. Margot leans forward and points at the three goddesses on the frame of the cheval glass.

  MARGOT

  Which one would you choose?

  SANDRO

  I would choose you.

  Sandro pulls down her underpants slowly.

  CUT TO:

  145. INT. SANDRO’S BEDROOM—MOMENTS LATER

  PROFILE TWO-SHOT. SANDRO and MARGOT face each other in front of the cheval glass, which is to their left. (No reflection.) The body doubles are gone. Margot steps out of her underpants and walks out of the frame. THE DOLLY CRABS LEFT 5 FEET, AND THE CAMERA PANS RIGHT TO THE BED. Margot walks back into the frame, crosses the room, and sits down on the edge of the bed and then lies down. THE CAMERA WATCHES MARGOT, as if Sandro were watching her, THEN DOLLIES FORWARD, TILTS, AND BOOMS DOWN FOR AN ECU OF MARGOT’S FACE. Margot looks up at the camera and smiles.

  For the U.S. release, Michael will cut away, when Sandro pulls down Margot’s underpants, to the three goddesses on the cheval glass. And he’ll cut away again, this time to the bed, when she walks out of the frame. European audiences will get seven seconds of Margot as naked as Eve before the Fall. U.S. audiences will get about one second.

  Michael won’t need much coverage—medium profile two-shots of Margot and Sandro standing in front of the mirror, a cutaway to the three goddesses on the frame of the cheval glass, a cutaway of the bed. Basta.

  When an actress is in love with her costar, her most honest, truest, deepest self emerges, especially after they start shooting. Miranda could feel this happening, could feel her Margot-self emerging. Zanni brought out the best in her. He always seemed to be improvising, acting without a script, and at the same time he always hit his marks, he was always in his light, he always knew his lines, and he always looked her in the eye. And she responded in kind, staying in the moment, leaving herself open, turning herself inside out.

  But it wasn’t till the café scene that she felt she’d been properly seduced, seduced at least a dozen times in a single scene, acknowledged by her costar not simply as a character but as her real self. Michael got his master shot in four takes and Zanni’s close-ups in four, but he made Miranda do take after take. On each take Zanni—off camera—would look deep into her eyes and smile and surprise her as they talked nonsense about the Anglo-Saxon love of Italy, and every time he looked at her and smiled her insides turned to jelly.

  She didn’t sleep the night before the cheval glass scene, but she wasn’t tired. She was very excited and trying not to show it.

  “What is it about librarians?” Zanni asked, coming up behind her.

  “Book conservators,” Miranda said.

  “They’re so easily transformed into radiant beauties.”

  She wished that he would touch her. Put his hand on her shoulder.

  “All they have to do,” Zanni went on, “is take off their glasses and let down their hair.”

  “I’m not wearing glasses,” she said, but she could feel what he meant. Her hairdo—up in a bun—couldn’t hide her beauty. Makeup, continuing to fuss with her face as the DP waved his light meter around, couldn’t tone it down, couldn’t stop her eyes from shining, her lips from swelling, as if for a kiss. But at the same time, she wasn’t thinking about her beauty, wasn’t worrying about which was her good side, or about keeping her chin up, or moving two inches to the right or to the left.

  “You look very handsome yourself,” she said. “I hope Michael knows what he’s doing.” Michael and the DP were fussing with the cheval glass.

  Zanni laughed, elegant in his camel hair jacket and a bright yellow tie with tiny ivory dots in it that shimmered. “I see we have company,” he said.

  The set was closed. They were down to essential crew, but there were still a dozen people milling around—the camera operator and the focus puller, and the assistant director, and one of the Italian grips, who’d had his head shaved for the mirror shot, so that from the back his new bald spot matched Zanni’s. And there was a studio exec on the set, making a lot of noise.

  “Let him look,” Miranda said. “You can tell he’s a pain by the way he keeps getting in everyone’s way.”

  The DP was positioning the stand-ins and the body doubles, and the studio exec kept looking over their shoulders and making suggestions.

  When the DP was finally satisfied, Michael called the actors to their marks and Miranda, still clutching her robe, took her position facing the cheval glass, but off to one side. Zanni stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. The body doubles—an American PA and the Italian macchinista—stood to their left, the macchinista behind the PA. Behind the macchinista, Miranda could see the eye of the camera, which would catch the body doubles from behind as it looked into the cheval glass, where it would see the reflections of Miranda and Zanni.

  When Makeup was finally satisfied with her face, Miranda took off her robe and handed it to Wardrobe. She was down to bra and sensible white underpants. A lot of thought had gone into those underpants: bikini versus “sensible.” Michael thought that in this case “sensible” was actually sexier than bikini. More down-to-earth.

  The last thing she heard before the AD called for quiet on the set was the voice of Gordon Talbot, the studio exec: “Nice heinie.”

  “Motor. Roll ’em.”

  The camera assistant held up the slate.

  Behind her Miranda could hear the camera running. In the mirror she saw not her own reflection but the reflection of the American PA and, looking over her shoulder, the face of the macchinista who was doubling for Zanni, and over the shoulder of the macchinista, the camera itself.

  Zanni, standing behind Miranda, removed his jacket and droppe
d it on the floor. The macchinista mirrored him, removing an identical jacket and dropping it on the floor. Zanni rolled up his sleeves. The macchinista did the same. In rehearsal he’d had trouble figuring out which arm to start with.

  Miranda felt rigid, but that was okay.

  Zanni and the macchinista rolled up their sleeves. Zanni bent to kiss her neck. The macchinista bent to kiss the PA’s neck. As Zanni unhooked her bra, the macchinista pretended to unhook the PA’s bra. Miranda’s bra fell to the floor.

  Miranda was supposed to point at the three naked goddesses on the cheval glass and say, which one would you choose?, but she couldn’t move her arm. She was buried up to her neck in wet sand. She couldn’t speak. Finally she managed to croak: “I can’t move my arm.”

  Before Michael yelled “Cut” she’d broken free, started to run, out into the corridor, down the long hallway, past boxes and cables and lighting equipment, past a row of Chinese lamps, past the soundman, past Wardrobe, past the production office, out into the cloister, and then back into the convent through a different door and down another corridor till she came to the bathroom opposite the door to the refectory. WC it said on the door. She took her pants down and sat on the bidet and waited three or four minutes for a knock on the door and the sound of the door opening.

  “Are you all right?” It was Michael.

  She didn’t answer him.

  “We’re waiting.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you remember our discussion about being temperamental?”

  “I’m not being temperamental.”

  “You’re holding everything up. We’ve got to get this shot this morning before we break for lunch.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “May I come in?”

  “I don’t care.”

  Michael’s face appeared around the corner. “That’s a bidet,” he said when he saw her, “not a toilet.”

  “I know what a bidet is.”

  “Then—never mind. This is a romantic comedy. We’re supposed to be having fun.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve got to figure out a better objective, so you’ll have something to work with.”

  “My objective is that I don’t want to be there.”

  “Not wanting to be there is never a good choice for an actor. It’s not very interesting. Just think a minute. Relax. Why are you there? In this man’s bedroom?”

  “Because it’s in the script.”

  “Miranda, you know that’s an even worse choice. You’re there because you’re attracted to this man. You’re there because you don’t want to be afraid of sex all your life.”

  “I’m not afraid of sex.”

  “I’m talking about Margot, not you personally, okay? I’m talking about the choices you need to make to play this scene. Okay? Which choices give you more to work with? You’re disgusted and just want to be somewhere else, or you’re afraid because you’ve never been to this place before, but you’re also attracted because you’ve never been to this place before.”

  “I’m not disgusted. That’s not it. I have been to this place before. You don’t understand. I just freaked out, that’s all.”

  “I do understand,” Michael said. “It’s an ordeal, taking your clothes off in front of the cast and the crew. And knowing you’ll have to do it again and again. You don’t have the exhibitionist tendency that some actresses have that gets them through it. You need a strong director to look out for you. I’m sorry if I haven’t been that director. But at least I got Gordon off the set. I told him I wouldn’t expose another inch of film till he was gone. He had no business talking like that.”

  “Michael, it’s not your fault.”

  “What I want you to do,” Michael said, “is dig down and discover something about yourself and reveal that something to the audience, something strong and sexy and life affirming that you’ve never revealed to anyone before because you didn’t know about it yourself.”

  The door opened. It was Esther. “Get your butt out there. Goddamn it, Miranda, you’re not fucking Sigourney Weaver or Melanie Griffith. You can’t get away with this. I want you to deliver the scene. Do you want me to get your contract out and read it to you? If you’re not out there and on your mark in two minutes, this will be your last film. Here, I’ve brought your robe.”

  Miranda knew that she meant it. “Okay,” she said. “I’m all right now.”

  They did a dozen takes, and the first three or four times Zanni pulled down her underpants she started to panic again, but after another couple of takes she started to feel comfortable. Her head started to spin, as if she’d drunk just a little too much wine. She could feel the male energy in the room focused on her, like sunlight brought into a smoldering focus by a magnifying glass. She started digging deeper on each take, deeper and deeper, till finally she discovered what she’d been looking for all along, something strong and sexy and life affirming that she hadn’t even known was there. She could feel it coming up from deep within her, like an orgasm, rising to her face like a blush as the camera dollied in, tilted, and boomed down for an ECU.

  Cut. Print.

  Before leaving the set, she picked up Zanni’s tie, which was still lying on the floor in front of the cheval glass. Always alert for instances of synchronicity, she saw the tie as a sign. She was too churned up for lunch, but she drank a glass of wine. Back in her room, she threaded the tie through her underpants and pulled it back and forth between her legs.

  Zanni always took a little nap after lunch when he didn’t have to be on the set. She gave him a few minutes to get settled, but not enough time to go to sleep, and then she took the tie to his room on the fourth floor—the third floor, the way the Italians counted. They were both free that afternoon.

  She had done everything she was supposed to do. She had visualized Zanni opening the door and smiling at her; she’d banished all negativity and opened herself to the unexpected. Even so, she was a little nervous.

  He didn’t answer the door at first. She knocked again. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be there. She kept knocking and knocking, not knowing what else to do, till he opened the door, and she smelled a woman’s perfume, and she wondered why Zanni would be wearing perfume and suddenly everything became clear.

  “Sorry,” she said, handing him his tie. “You left this on the set.”

  “Mille grazie,” he said. “You were terrific this morning.” He closed the door.

  She went down to the lobby and sat in an armchair and waited. She couldn’t find a clock and had to keep asking the desk clerk for the time. What did it all mean? What about her smile at the end, looking straight into the lens of the camera? And she still had the cunnilingus scene to go through, and fourteen other “pleasures.” She didn’t know how she could do it. She did not know.

  She’d done the right thing when she’d run away. She was proud of herself for running because it showed she was sensitive and vulnerable, not one of those actresses with an exhibitionist streak. Nice heinie. It was so disgusting.

  How could she have been so wrong about Zanni? How could she have misread all the signs? Probably everyone else knew he was involved with another woman, so she’d made a fool of herself. That’s what hurt.

  She went back to her room, got Woody’s copy of Anna Karenina, took it down to the lobby and settled into a wingback chair to read. Who was she now? All along she’d been thinking of herself as Anna, but in fact she was poor little Kitty, jilted by Vronsky.

  What was she trying to accomplish right now by waiting in the lobby? Did she really want to know who would come down? Who could it be? Alessandra Martelli, the woman who played the abbess? But then Alessandra entered the lobby from Via Porta Rossa and stopped to chat for a minute. What was she going to do or say when the woman emerged? Would she be alone or with Zanni? Miranda couldn’t imagine what she’d say, but she knew she’d say something.

  About an hour and a half later, Beryl Gardiner emerg
ed from the door to the stairs, a black winter coat over her arm, her hair pulled back tight on her head, like a French woman’s. She was wearing a simple black sheath, with pearls and classy pumps that gave her a well-balanced, put-together look. They didn’t have women like Beryl in Mount Pleasant, but Miranda recognized the type. Beryl was a Smithie, the kind of woman her mother had wanted her to become.

  Miranda didn’t put two and two together—Beryl had to be in her fifties, maybe even sixty—till she caught a whiff of the perfume.

  “Why, hello, Miranda,” Beryl said, slipping on her winter coat as if nothing had happened. “Do you want a caffè?”

  Miranda nodded. Didn’t Beryl realize that it had been Miranda knocking on the door?

  “There’s a nice bar behind the post office,” Beryl said. “It’s just around the corner. You won’t need a coat.”

  Miranda nodded again and followed Beryl out of the hotel onto Via Porta Rossa.

  In the bar, Beryl motioned Miranda to a table and stood chatting a bit in Italian with the barista while he pulled two espressos. Miranda would have preferred a glass of wine, but it was too late. Or a whiskey. There were whiskey bottles in all the bars, but she never saw anyone drinking whiskey.

  Beryl brought the coffees to the table. “Do they still do those nude posture pictures at Smith?” she asked.

  “How did you know I went to Smith?”

  “It’s in your bio.”

  “Oh,” Miranda said.

  “I’m class of fifty-eight,” Beryl said. “The posture photos were the high point of orientation when I was there. All right, Banks, drop the sheet. Banks was my maiden name. I don’t think anyone had ever seen me naked before, not since I was a baby. Things were different then. I wound up with a C- for posture and had to take Basic Motor Skills—how to walk gracefully, how to sit down properly, how to lift a suitcase up to an overhead rack on a train without losing your balance, how to put on your coat without twisting around too much. And how to gallop. And I don’t mean on a horse. That was the worst. I don’t suppose they teach that anymore.”