Shooting Star (Beautiful Chaos)

by Arianne Richmonde

  “No. Brian, you’re really pushing your luck. I have limits. I don’t want some wayward teenager telling me to fuck off in my own house. I’m not her father. I’m a film director. I have work to do. Storyboards to prepare, scenes to plan out. I have to stay on top of the shooting schedule, liaise with my assistant director, my lighting cameraman—Jesus, what the fuck? I don’t have time to deal with some drug-addicted, attention-seeking, Cristal-drinking brat!”

  I felt trapped in his car, listening to his bullshit. But what could I do? It was my driver’s day off. Half of Hollywood were acting as my chauffeurs since I’d had my license taken away from me six months before. I’d been over the limit (barely) but it had been 3 a.m., when there were hardly any cars on the road, so being hauled over by the LAPD was the last thing I’d been expecting. Brian was right: my reputation for being a bad boy was on par with Star’s wild-child antics. We had indeed each met our match. Only, I really had turned over a new leaf, but Star Davis? That would be the day. I started ruminating on what actress we could hire when it all went—because I knew it would—badly pear-shaped. We’d need to have a Plan B. An understudy, the way they do with theatre productions. Someone who looked like her and could act—maybe we could use some of the same footage—back view shots anyway. . . . . .

  “We’re here.” Brian shook me from my reverie as we drew up in front of my house. We’ll talk later. Think about what I said.”

  “Right,” I said sarcastically, and slammed the passenger door harder than I’d intended.

  My 1920s mansion stood there, its white façade blanched to a glare in the harsh May sunlight. The lawn stretched before me like a smooth carpet. The gardener must have come because it was neat and smelled freshly mown. As beautiful as my home was, I intended to sell it and buy something more discreet in the Hills. I was becoming too well known to have a villa smack on Sunset Boulevard. I sniggered to myself, imagining the fiasco if Star came to live with me for the duration of the shoot. The paparazzi would have a fucking hay day. Impossible, Brian needed his head examined! What kind of crazy-fool idea was he hatching? To get me arrested along with her? For aiding and abetting an underage alcoholic? The USA’s ridiculous age limit for drinking was twenty-one. Being British, I found this absurd. I’d been going to pubs since I was fifteen. Star was still only nineteen. “Illegal.” A nineteen-year-old edging her way into my life when she was the last thing I needed. Fuck! Who was I fooling, believing I had things under control? Yes, I was a pretty powerful man in Hollywood, with the extra clout of my grandfather, dad and uncle behind me. And with more money than was sane. I owned two vacation homes, a luxury flat in London, a fleet of cars (which presently, I wasn’t even bloody well able to drive) and artwork that belonged in museums. But I still had to answer to people. They had assured me—and I had it in my contract—I’d have creative control. But at that point I had no idea quite how damn “creative” things were about to get.

  I SPOTTED JAKE WILD from across the room. Good looking. Very good looking. Messy dark blond hair that hung down over his brow and a busyness that I found appealing—a man on the move, confident, in control. A director who didn’t flinch at fame and fortune because he wasn’t treating his star cast like they were porcelain, like some directors do—the sycophantic approach which always ends up a disaster because the director has too much reverence for his actors to get on and direct. Jake was a pro and knew what he was doing; it was obvious by the way he felt so at ease with his cast. I smiled at him as I walked into the room but all he could say was, “You’re late, Star.”

  I guessed what was going through his mind; that he didn’t want me to play Skye. Well too bad. The part was mine and I was determined in that moment to show him what I was made of.

  The read-through was nerve-wracking. All the heavyweights were there. Meryl, Bobby de Niro, and Ian McKellen, with his deep British drawl that made me regret instantly that I hadn’t trained at drama school, and that I didn’t know my trade to save my life. The Breathe From The Diaphragm Darling school of acting—when my kind of training was self-taught and ‘on the job’—observing other actors at their craft, or watching old black and white movies past midnight, while eating pizza and drinking vodka, reading about Stanislavsky and the Method, high on another kind of method—Meth—or whatever I’d been able to lay my hands on. That was after I’d turned “bad,” at the age of fourteen, a few years after Mom died. Before that I was a straight-A student, high IQ and all, and scarily precocious. I studied like crazy and even read Brecht and Pinter plays and wrote reams of pretentious poetry and learned chunks of Sylvia Plath off by heart.

  But the cast was all so sweet to me. Nobody was playing king or queen, the way some actors do, like they have a rod up their ass or a lemon in their mouth. Nobody looked down on me. No, they were joking and laughing, making me feel like I was one of them. That we were a team—a family.

  I sat at the table, the script in my hands, hoping that nobody could see how badly I was trembling. The whole reading was like a surreal dream. All I could think of was being perfect and not disappointing anyone; least of all, my director. By the time it came to the scene when I’m reunited by with my father I was a wreck.

  I thought of my own dad, let the anger build inside me—the memory of rehab, him being such a hopeless non-parent, for leaning on me—his own daughter—for financial support. I could see the other actors—legends all of them—and I felt overwhelmed: a plug being pulled in a bathtub and all the dirty water gushing down the hole, spiraling into a vacuum. That was me. I let it all out.

  I glanced at my script and hissed out my line: “Dad,” I said. “Should I even call you that?” A lump knotted in my dry throat and I blinked hard, letting the tears that had been welling up fall down my face. But then I stoically sat up straight—to show Skye’s pride—and added in a whisper, “No, you chicken-shit excuse for a father, you don’t deserve that word.”

  I could feel Jake’s eyes on me but I didn’t look at him.

  After we’d finished I could tell that Jake was astounded. Yes, astounded—I can’t think of a better word to describe how his jaw hit the ground. Figuratively speaking. Before the read-through he’d hardly looked at me, like I was less important than, I don’t know, the person sweeping the floor. But after the reading he came up to me. Laid his hand on my shoulder, but then quickly took it away as if he was afraid he might catch something, like I was contagious.

  His eyes seemed to sparkle as he spoke. “That was good, Star. Really good. Can you bring that level of emotion to the set? I’d like to catch that intensity on the first take.”

  I’d heard that about him—that he was a director who liked to rehearse off camera and then get the perfect shot within the first few takes. He’d done a lot of theatre and indie movies—he wasn’t used to wasting celluloid on big budget films the way I was. His question was loaded. My last film was a fiasco. Between a director who had no control of his project, and me being high half the time, we were getting the shot on take thirty-two. Once, take eighty-one. That’s expensive. And exhausting. But getting it perfect on the first take? That was a very tall order.

  “Sure,” I said casually. “Why not?” Although my heart was pounding—the pressure was on.

  Jake narrowed his eyes and added, “Or was that a one-off?”

  I felt heat rise in my stomach—a compliment followed by a stab to the gut. “I’m an actor, Jake. Don’t worry, I’ll do my job.”

  “You really held your own in there. They were impressed.” But then he backtracked again and said, “Well not impressed, exactly. But, you know, relieved that . . . well, you’re one of them. You’re not just a movie star, not just a pretty face, put it that way.”

  “Right,” I muttered. I couldn’t think what else to reply. He was a jerk but a sexy one, and it infuriated me that I wanted to hate him but couldn’t, because for some crazy reason my heart was beating faster than normal, my breath uneven. His gray-green eyes pierced me with a look that I couldn’t q
uite read. Challenging me, daring me, but also admonishing me as if he were some sort of father figure—and I the naughty child. His jaw strong, his cheekbones defined like a character from an old novel; Jane Austen maybe—a face that was as beautiful as it was masculine. Not modern but from another era. But the way he was dressed made him look like any other Hollywood type; buffed up muscles toned from exercise, and a twenty-first century stance, with his legs firmly astride. Cocky, self-assured. Sexy as hell. His T–shirt loose and faded, and the edge of a beautifully crafted lion tattoo peaked out from beneath his hard bicep. I forced my gaze away. I didn’t need him to feel any better about himself than he already did.

  Jake’s eyes suddenly frosted into an unexpected, chilling glare; he leaned forward and whispered in my ear—shivers ran up my spine—“So how did you get the part, Star?” he said conspiratorially, as if there was no way I deserved it, as if I had tricked them into hiring me. Fucked a producer, maybe.

  I looked up at the ceiling in exasperation and tapped my foot, irritated at his gall, his disbelief in me as an actor. “I won an Oscar once upon a time, you know,” I snapped back.

  “You can’t wear that crown of laurels forever, Star.” His English accent punched out the word forever. “You’ll need to work twice as hard as anyone else on this film to prove yourself. I’m not going to lie; I’ll be tough on you. I don’t intend to mollycoddle you and tell you how great you are every five minutes, okay? I know you’re used to kid-glove treatment but you won’t get that from me. Is that clear? It’s not because I’m being unfair, it’s because this part is a golden opportunity for you—maybe the last chance you’ll ever get, roles like these don’t grow on trees—a golden opportunity to show the world what you can do. And you’d better come up with the goods when the camera’s rolling and not be off glugging down Absolut somewhere, disguised in a Perrier bottle, sprawled out in your trailer, or worse—on set—as you’ve been known to do.”

  Wow, this guy could hit below the belt. “Oh ye of little faith,” I said with a shrug as if his words meant nothing. And I must have rolled my eyes again because he replied:

  “Stop with the teenage behavior, Star. You’re better than that.”

  I was trying to remain cool but his harsh words made me snap, “Oh, like you’re such a grown-up, model citizen yourself, Mr. Drink and Drive.”

  A muscle in Jake’s jaw twitched like I’d struck a nerve. “Look, I wasn’t even drunk,” he said in a very low voice so nobody could hear, “I was avoiding a coyote running across the road. I was practically sober and the only reason I got stopped was because there was this cop crawling up my arse who had a bee in his bonnet about me and was determined to give me a hard time. He was following me like a bloodhound—knew who I was and wanted to teach me a lesson. Waiting for his moment—for his fifteen minutes of fame so his buddies back at the station would slap him on the back.”

  I laughed. “Welcome to the club! I get followed twenty-four-seven. I have to say I do like your line, ‘practically sober.’ That’s a really good one. And the coyote? The kind of story I might invent. You should try a spot of rehab yourself, Jake. It might make you get off your high horse and see yourself for what you really are.”

  “And what am I, Star?”

  “An arrogant asshole,” I said, and walked off, my heels clicking as I went, my long blond hair swinging as I tossed my head and lifted my chin into the air. I’d show that conceited jerk that I could act. He’d be eating out of my hand in no time.

  WHEN SHE WALKED into the read-through and I set eyes on her for the first time ever in the flesh, a bolt of electricity shot through me like I had been struck by lightning. I wasn’t expecting that. Not. One. Bit. I’ve seen enough stunning women in my life that usually I’m non-plussed. Of all the people in the world I was—and still am—the last person to be affected by movie star delirium. I’ve met hundreds of them over the years. Angelina and Brad, Al Pacino, Bob Redford. I sat on Cary Grant’s knee when I was a baby, played chess with Dustin, hung out at the Grand Prix in Monaco with Tom, lunch with Leonardo in Cannes—you name it, I’ve done it. Fame doesn’t faze me in the slightest because I grew up on movie sets and these people have been part of my everyday life.

  But when Star Davis slipped quietly into the room, wearing skinny jeans and a baggy sweater—not even any make-up—my heart literally missed a beat. She looked at me and smiled and in that smile I saw such vulnerability and such wickedness rolled into one that I knew we were soul mates. The look in her gaze said I’ve got your number, buddy, don’t fuck with me and, We’re the same, you and I, and fate has brought us together. Her long blond hair hung around her shoulders and her Robin’s Egg Blue eyes penetrated right through me. Stunning. None of the photos I’d seen of her, nor even any of her films portrayed her sheer magnetism. I was charged with anticipation and excitement. It was like some visceral force was pulling us together. Blood rushed through my veins, awakening every cell in my body, my heart hammered in my chest. She was born to play Skye and I knew right then that Star was my responsibility. It was up to me to get an Oscar-worthy performance out of her and if I didn’t it would be my failing, not hers.

  But all I could come up with was, “You’re late, Skye.” I had a habit of calling actors by their character’s name. It sometimes helped them identify more with the part. Or maybe I didn’t call her Skye but just Star. “Sit down with the others at the table—they’re waiting for you. Have you been over your script?”

  “You’ll see,” she answered enigmatically, and then strutted in her high heels with great confidence to where all the other actors were, and instead of going around to introduce herself to everyone individually, she blew them a Marilyn kiss and then said, “I’m Star, by the way, and none of you need to tell me your names because you’ve all been hanging out with me my whole life. In my living room.”

  Everybody laughed and I breathed a sigh of relief. I could tell they already liked her and my only problem now? Was keeping temptation of every kind well away from her.

  Myself included.

  “SO WHAT’S HE LIKE?” Janice asked as she arranged a huge bouquet of white lilies in a vase, picking off leaves here and there and inhaling the overpowering aroma that was floating about my upstairs living room. Flowers arrived all the time from fans, or actor friends just wanting to say hi, or agents trying to poach me, or producers trying to woo me with a project. Janice was clucking about organizing my day—she was my assistant—my right arm as well as one of my most trusted friends, although she was older than me by eight years—used to be my babysitter, when Mom was too out of it to deal with me. Janice was womanly; always had been, even when she was just thirteen. Tall and confident, high cheekbones and feline-shaped eyes that glinted flinty-dark and made people respect her. I felt handicapped without Janice. She did everything for me. I’d once even had a car accident and both my wrists ended up in plaster. I won’t get into the nitty-gritty details but you can imagine how much she helped me out.

  “He’s an arrogant prick,” I said, as I lay stretched out on the sofa, with the script of Skye’s The Limit held up above my head. We were listening to Will Pharrell’s “Happy.” And I did feel happy. Finally my life seemed to be coming together. “Okay, tell me which sounds better: ‘I told you I was no good,’ or like this: ‘I told you I was no good!’ ”

  “Who are you talking to at that point?”

  “The guy I corrupt, the sixteen-year-old. He’s kind of like the Leonardo character in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, you know? Mentally handicapped? And I make him run away with me and he’s in love with me so does anything I say.”

  “You have sex with him in the movie?”

  “No way! He’s, you know, like drooling and stuff. But he’s sweet.”

  “Who’s playing him?”

  “This new actor that nobody’s heard of yet. This is going to be big for him—it’s an amazing part.”

  “So he was at the read-through the other day?”

  �
�No, he’s still in London. He’s finishing up a play in the West End. I mean, when I say ‘nobody’s heard of him’ he’s huge in England, in the theatre world. Everybody’s talking about how talented he is—I forget his name though.”

  “Cute talented, or like, just talented?”

  “He’s a baby. Only seventeen. Maybe one day he’ll be cute but for now he’s just plain talented.”

  “So who’s Meryl playing?”

  “The psycho prison warden.”

  “And Ian McKellen?—he’s the Lord of the Rings guy, isn’t he?”

  “My grandfather.”

  “De Niro?”

  “A cameo role: a peeping Tom pervert who I murder in the first scene.”

  “So your character is pretty fucked up?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, she’s a serial killer so I guess you’d say that’s pretty fucked up. Although in a weird way I identify with her, you know?”

  “You say that about all the parts you play—that’s what makes you a good actress. This is so going to be the perfect role for you, Star.”

  I squinted my eyes at her. Sun was pouring through the huge picture window, lighting up her thick red hair like a halo. “Yup, that’s why I moved mountains to get the role,” I said.

  I’d gotten my hands on the script via my agent’s sister’s assistant, who, in turn, had sneakily scanned a few pages when the script was fresh but hadn’t been sent out yet. I prepared the shoot. Hired a studio for the day and got an actor friend to do the scene with me. I paid the best make-up artist in Hollywood to bruise me up (as was required at that point in the script), an amazing lighting cameraman I’d once worked with on an Oliver Stone movie, and we shot the scene. I knew that there was no way Jake Wild was even going to consider me so I pitched it to the moneymen behind Jake’s back, managing to seal the deal with my “will-work-for-peanuts” offer. It worked. I’d once read that was how Nicole Kidman won the role in To Die For. She made a home movie to convince them—after they’d told her she was wrong for the part. Sometimes directors don’t have faith in you and you have to prove yourself. Even if you’re already a big star like me. In fact, sometimes even more so. Being a star (no pun intended) does have its problems—people think you’re all celebrity and no talent. I had to show them they were wrong.