by May Seah
Lena had ticked all the boxes. But something was missing. And it was even more obvious later on camera.
“I don’t know,” the image stylist mused, scrutinising Keh through narrowed eyes. “Lena’s done a great job, obviously, and I can’t even put my finger on what’s wrong, but somehow, it looks kind of… fake. Especially on the screen.” She turned to the costume director. “What do you think it is?”
“I think…he’s just too…” The costume director threw her hands up in the air. “Good-looking.”
“What?” Keh said.
“Yeah, it’s like his genes are so good, the make-up can’t even cover up his youth and radiance,” the costume director said to the image stylist, talking over him as if he wasn’t there.
“Well, I suppose since most of the scenes are thankfully indoors, they can play with lighting and camera angles,” the image stylist frowned.
“Yes, we have no choice,” the costume director replied. “Filming commences in only a few days.”
As it turned out, their worrying was for naught.
On the first day of production, Keh showed up on set well-prepared. He had studied his script and knew it backwards. He slipped easily into character, confident in his ability to play an actor playing Tan Kah Kee. And as the scenes progressed, from Tan Kah Kee in the prime of his life to Tan Kah Kee in his dotage, he was able to play his role so convincingly that he looked as if he were ageing along with the character.
As he strode in to work each day, thinking of his scenes ahead, his shoulders would take on a frail hunch; his joints would turn stiff and his gait laborious; his face would become increasingly lined; and the skin on his hands became dry and covered in liver spots. His eyelids drooped, his eyebrows got tuftier, his mouth turned gummy, his jowls sagged and even his voice became throaty and phlegmy. The physical transformation was remarkable. “Oh, you don’t even need make-up,” Lena would say. “I’ll just put the hairpiece on for you and you’re good to go. Would you like some murtabak? I bought it on my way in this morning. It’s made fresh.”
Lena was in a good mood because this development saved them both a lot of time and fuss—Keh did not have to spend two hours every morning in hair and make-up, and she did not have to be up to her elbows in liquid latex; instead she could spend the time eating murtabak in a leisurely fashion. Nor did she have to spend the better part of an hour removing latex layers from his face with Q-tips at the end of each day, as she usually had to do every time an actor had special effects make-up done. When he knocked off work each night, he simply got out of character and began to look like himself again.
It also saved time on set, as he didn’t need any touch-ups. And he was so believable as the elderly Tan Kah Kee that all his scenes progressed swiftly and smoothly. “Great job! Good take,” the director called enthusiastically, happy that his production was running ahead of schedule. “I’m glad that sorted itself out,” the costume director said to the image stylist. “Jon Keh has really gotten into character,” the director of photography remarked to the wardrobe assistant he’d been trying to ask out for the longest time. “He must have done his homework and observed old people a lot. It’s always nice to see actors who aren’t just dedicated to their work but also have heaps of talent. It makes our jobs so much easier, you know?”
It all went off without a hitch except for one day during the last week of filming, when Tan Kah Kee was at his oldest and living out his last days in Beijing. At a dignified eighty-five, he was bent and aged and misty-eyed, homesick for Singapore, fretful about his family and battling with self-doubt and the ubiquitous question of whether he could have done more with his life. Keh sat in the middle of the set between takes with the lighting calibrated to just the right tints of sunset orange, arm propped on a table, a faraway wistfulness on his lined face.
And then he caught sight of April, standing just beyond the cameras behind the director’s chair, wearing a visitor’s pass around her neck and taking notes.
It was not unusual to have reporters on set now and then, but she was the last person he had been expecting to see that day. And in that uncertain instant that took him entirely by surprise, a strange sensation rippled over him like a minty chill.
He did not think he had reacted visibly, but the crew, who all had their eyes trained on him, must have seen something, because a concerned murmur went up around the set.
He saw the effect a little while later, when the director showed him the playback. On the screen, in the moment that April had come into his line of vision, the lines and wrinkles on his face, neck and hands flickered off and on for a long moment, as if the image were buffering or distorting itself during a moment of poor connectivity. Beneath the period clothes and the hairpiece, he could be seen glowing once more with almost overwhelming youth, health and physical fitness.
With an equal mix of horror and excitement, it occurred to him right then and there, like a stab of truth, exactly what had happened.
For just one flickering instant, his actor persona had shut down.
Never in all his years on set had he broken with his actor character. But it had happened involuntarily and thoroughly. And he knew that it was because he’d caught sight of April.
“Okay, everyone, let’s take a break,” the director called. “We’ve all been working hard. We’ll give it a rest and come back at eight o’clock. Have some dinner. Grab some coffee. A break will do us all good.”
As the lights were switched off and crew members scattered, Keh got up from the chair and brushed the creases out of his suit, trying to straighten out his composure at the same time.
April smiled when she saw him walking towards her, and his heart pounded a little in his chest. But he was shaken and could not quite conceal his nervousness. “You can’t be here,” he said, gently steering her off the sound stage and towards the dressing rooms.
“Yes, I can,” she said. “What happened back there?” When he didn’t answer, she turned her large, curious eyes onto him. “It has to do with the secret you’re hiding from me, doesn’t it?”
He could not meet her gaze. “What are we—schoolgirls? I’m not hiding anything,” he said lamely, trying to sound flippant while furiously fighting the urge to tell her everything; the entire story, lock, stock and barrel from beginning to end; the whole damning truth of the monstrous matter.
“Did you sacrifice a dozen old men on a flaming pyre in exchange for your elderly good looks? Are you actually seventy-five but somehow hoodwinking everyone into thinking you’re a sprightly twenty-nine? Are you having a hard time staying in character?”
Her steps were buoyant; she had no suspicion of his internal turmoil. He walked grimly on, searching for words that would appease and distract her teasing questions but finding none. What would she do if she knew? How would she react when she realised the truth? Deep down, he realised, he did not really think she would betray him—although he knew he could not afford to trust her just yet; after all, she was a reporter, and he had been trained to have a healthy wariness of reporters all throughout his career. But, he dared to imagine, even as a person, as a friend—would she look at him differently? Would she think less of him? Would she call him, once more but with feeling this time, a charlatan and a fraud?
“Hey.” She stopped him, putting her hand on his arm. “Your hands are shaking. Are you all right?”
He looked down at his hands and tried to breathe evenly.
She looked him in the eye. “I know I’m here in my capacity as a reporter. And I know that in your experience, there have probably been members of the media who have been more interested in the story they were chasing than in civilised behaviour. So you don’t have to trust me. In fact, it’s probably better for you if you don’t.” With that, she turned to leave.
But he took a step after her and grabbed her hand. “Stay for dinner,” he said, leading her over to the craft services table and picking up two sandwiches, an apple and a banana. “Oh, the chocolate chip cookies ar
e pretty good, too—the auntie bakes them herself.”
The craft services table was set up in a quiet corner, in its own little pantry area, with a kettle of hot water for making tea and trays of snacks laid out. Gone were the days when there were lavish spreads of hot food in bain-marie buffet trays, but, at the very least, there were still heaping fruit bowls sitting on the brightly coloured tablecloths for the weight-conscious on-set crowd. Crew members filtered towards the exits on their break, a few of them grabbing food as they went. It wasn’t long before the area was more or less left to itself in a state of sudden calm.
April perched on one of the tables, slowly unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite. “Do you know anything about Tan Kah Kee?” she asked.
“I know all there is to know. He was born in Xiamen and moved over at sixteen. He became a business tycoon. He founded schools and raised funds during the war. He escaped the Japanese invasion. He had four wives.”
She smiled. “Did you know anything about him before you read the script?”
“Sure. He did some stuff. History stuff.” He scratched his chin. “School was never my thing.”
She wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin and looked up. “Does it bother you when your lines sound stilted?” she asked.
“Did they sound stilted earlier?”
“Well, they’re probably meant to sound stilted in historical epics.”
“Doesn’t bother me at all. My job is to follow the script.”
“Haven’t you ever thought of being behind the camera instead? Directing, maybe?”
“No. That’s far too technical,” he said through a mouthful of bread and mayonnaise. “Besides, I can’t look at the screen.”
“What about writing a script instead of following one?”
He laughed. “I’m not smart enough. I wish I could write like you, though.”
“Don’t you have an ideal role to play, or a storyline you’ve always wanted to act out?”
“Sure. I guess there are lots of those.”
“Well, if the role doesn’t come to you, what’s to stop you from creating it? As an actor, everyone thinks the production is all about you. But the writer is the one who holds ultimate power,” she said. “They could even re-write history if they wanted to, or if they were just careless. Those faceless writers drinking bubble tea and YouTubing cat videos in their writers’ room.”
He looked at her. “Is that why you choose to write?”
“Oh, I just have no other skills.”
“You’re smart and funny and talented. You could do anything you wanted and be good at it.”
“And you could be anyone, here on this sound stage, and still turn back into yourself when the clapperboard strikes at midnight.”
He leaned closer to her. “When I read your article about me, I saw myself through your words,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if there was any ‘me’ left to be, after the make-up came off.”
“You must have some sort of personal life,” she insisted. “Don’t you hang out with friends? Take up little projects? Crochet? Macramé? Date?”
“I’m encouraged not to date at this stage of my career. Minnie says it’ll affect my desirability factor. Rumoured dalliances with high-profile co-stars are okay, but she’d hack off my limbs and make me eat them if I actually started seeing someone.”
“And you’re happy to accept that?”
“I was,” he said quietly, leaning in further, “but now I’m not sure.” He lifted a hand and touched her hair.
“Erm,” she said, but before anything else could take place, they both heard a suppressed gasp from a few metres away.
It was the reporter from No Star Too C-List Online. And she had a mobile phone held up to her face that was aimed straight at them.
“Umm, I was just looking for the restrooms,” she quavered in a pitch that was too high, yanking her phone down and trying to hide it in the folds of her T-shirt.
Keh had dealt with this reporter many times before. She was a short girl in perpetual plaid, with circle lenses and pink-streaked hair. Her name was either Brenda or Glenda or maybe Gwenda—he could never remember exactly. On her part, she could never seem to report his quotes exactly, either. Minnie had had to put in countless phone calls to the chief editor, asking for reports to be corrected or edited for accuracy, and in extreme cases, even to be taken down.
He advanced towards the reporter, smiling pleasantly. Visibly nervous, she tried to scuttle away, but he stepped into her path. He effiwas much taller than she was. “Hi, erm—”
“Gwenda,” he heard April whisper.
“Gwenda. Can I see your video?” he said politely.
The girl decided that the best defence was offense. “Are you guys dating?” she blurted, her dull eyes agog.
“Will you delete that, please?” Keh said.
“No.” She turned brazen. “And I’ll take your refusal to answer as a yes. This video is going to get me promoted. ‘Adjonis Keh spotted getting cosy with a reporter backstage’. It’s clickbait central.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good description of what you think you saw,” he said mildly.
“That’s exactly what I saw. You were about to kiss her.”
“Are you sure that’s what it was?” He turned the corners of his mouth down and looked vaguely doubtful.
“Yes! Look!” She whipped her phone out and stabbed at the screen. They both stared down at it in silence.
Then her mouth gaped and her face crumpled.
“It’s gone,” she said. “The video’s gone.” She stared down at her device. “I think my phone ate it.”
“Oh.” Keh shrugged in mock sympathy. “Yeah, I’ve seen that happen a couple of times lately. It’s the Cloud, I think. It seems to be a little bit glitchy.”
8
Keh got out of his car and crossed the pavement in the sweltering heat, wiping off the perspiration that formed instantly on his nose. Just as he’d been wrapping up his scenes for the day, he received a text summoning him to his manager’s office.
There could not have been two worlds more different than the sprawling production backlot and the towering corporate offices of Moving Talkies Pictures.
The offices were housed in a steel-and-glass building all the way across the property, facing the main road. To get there, you had to ride a buggy or risk melting in the daytime heat. But once you got inside, the air conditioning was always set to an arctic temperature and the marble floors and walls gave off echoes of corporate iciness.
He had to go through a few security scans in the lift lobby and then through several imposing glass doors before arriving at Minnie’s door. He knocked and entered.
“Isn’t that the T-shirt you wore at last Saturday’s road show and to the Uniqlo event?” she asked with a frown. “I’ve told you a thousand times: never repeat outfits. Why do you make life so difficult for me? I need an easier job. Like working on an oil rig in the Arctic. Or being the Minister for Transport.”
Minnie was a small but expansive woman whose relentless efficiency often came across as undomesticated brusqueness. She had been his manager since he was a fresh-faced newbie and still looked upon him as her babysitting charge, even though giant posters of him and trophies with his name engraved on them now took pride of place in her office. Her workspace was all leather and steel, with one very garish painting of some underwhelming red flowers in an ugly vase hanging perpetually lopsided on one wall.
Giving the impression of always having less time than she could spare for you, regardless of how big of a shot you thought you were, Minnie functioned as his only link to the faceless suits who ran the production studio. She descended upon him now, wetting her fingers with spittle and smoothing his hair down.
“I’ll burn this shirt tonight,” he promised, dodging her salivary ministrations. “Do you know that my assistant has been missing in action for the past couple of weeks?”
“Didn’t you get my text?” Minnie said.
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“No.”
She frowned and scrolled through her phone. “Ah, it’s that bloody Cloud,” she said. “It ate my entire WhatsApp history! I’ve been trying to retrieve it but I don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe it swallowed my messages to you, too. Anyway, what I texted you was that she was let go.”
“What? Why?”
“Cost-cutting. The company isn’t doing well this year.”
“They’re cutting costs by firing my personal assistant?”
“And all the other actors’ too.”
“Holliday still has a troupe of them.”
“Holliday hires her own assistants.”
“Really? How much more is she getting paid than I am?”
“Never you mind that. But if I were you, I’d enjoy my car, driver and personal stylist before those get taken away too, Mr Keh,” Minnie said sternly, the shoulder pads of her designer blazer quivering. “Advertising dollars are just not coming in like they used to—and you know that’s where the bulk of our revenue comes from. You’re not naïve enough to think that we’re in the business of making art and not money, are you? Speaking of which, I’ve signed you for another television commercial. You’ll be selling washing-up liquid. I’ve blocked your calendar for next week. Don’t worry, I’ve negotiated for a nice little sum.”
“I’m trying to convince people to part with their money again?” He gave her a lopsided smile. But she wasn’t having it. She laid her mobile phone down on the desk and stared at him unblinkingly.
“Selling is what we are all about, Adjonis Keh,” she lectured. “If we’re not selling a product, we’re selling you. And you, whether you asked for it or not, are in the position of being The Nation’s Best Friend. Everybody thinks they know you because they see your face all the time on their screens. Therefore, everybody trusts you. They will buy the products that you, their best friend, recommend. And that is how you and I earn anything beyond our meagre base salary. Today, you’ll sell washing-up liquid. Next month, you’ll sell trips to the moon, or something. Being a glorified salesman on the side is the only way you get to play pretend all day long, okay?”