“Loud, aren’t they?” Marilyn said.
“Deafening,” Suzanne agreed.
“Well,” Marilyn said, placing Kleenex in Suzanne’s collar to protect it from the makeup. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about preferences or allergies or pet peeves? We might as well cover it before we get in too deep.” She sipped her coffee, watching Suzanne over the rim of her cup.
“Just make me look like my face is thinner than it is and my lips aren’t as thin as they are, and I can survive anything,” Suzanne said. “Also, I have a particular horror of blemishes.”
“Thin lips, fat face, and zits,” Marilyn mused, as she examined the source of Suzanne’s complaints. “Well, that won’t be too much of a problem. We’ll use lip line, shadow, and concealer. I frankly don’t quite see what you’re talking about, but if you ask me, most actresses look at their faces for too long and find too much wrong with themselves.”
As she talked, she began applying base to Suzanne’s face and throat. “I’ll have you know that I’m famous for my zit cover,” she went on. “I have a special little pencil I use, with almost a yellow tint to it, and over that I apply base and powder, and then, if more is necessary, I use a cover stick. Medium. You don’t seem to have any spots at the moment. Were you referring to something specific, or were you just warning me for the future?” She stood with her sponge suspended over Suzanne’s jawline, waiting for a reply, but Suzanne—lulled by the music, the makeup, and Marilyn—was asleep.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Your prince has arrived.”
Ted shook Suzanne gently by the shoulders. “My mother thinks I’m a prince,” he explained.
Marilyn watched Suzanne carefully as she surveyed her face in the mirror. “Pretty good for six thirty in the morning, huh?”
Suzanne smiled. “This has to be one of my favorite things. Going to sleep plain and waking up pretty.” She eased out of the chair and walked with Ted to the door.
“I’ll slick you down on the set,” shouted Roger, who was blow-drying the pin curls on a wig.
“She’s on her way to wardrobe,” said Ted gravely into his walkie-talkie. “We’re literally out the door,” he continued, as they stepped out into the cool desert morning. “The producer is coming to see you,” he said to her. “I mean, one of the producers.”
“How many producers are there?”
“Three,” he said. “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” He opened her trailer door for her.
“And which am I endearing myself to this morning?” she asked, climbing into her hamster cage.
“The Holy Ghost. Joe Pierce, our alleged line producer. Can I get you anything before he comes?”
“Coca-Cola,” she said, as a red-haired woman appeared behind Ted with an armful of clothes.
“Rita, my darling,” Ted said, “this is our artiste, Suzanne. Suzanne, our wardrobe mistress, Rita. Ladies, I leave you temporarily to yourselves.” He bowed and wandered off, soothing someone on the other end of his walkie-talkie.
“I brought your clothes,” said Rita, a voluptuous woman verging on heavy, with the kindest watery blue eyes Suzanne had seen on a movie set. “We should probably get them on you.” Suzanne saw that Rita also had dimples and freckles—all the friendly features. Rita helped Suzanne get into her undercover cop outfit, which consisted of jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. Just as she was tying her last sneaker, Ted came in brandishing a Diet Coke.
“Your caffeine ration,” he said, handing Suzanne the cold can.
“Thanks,” she said. “Where can I get more of these, should the need arise?”
“Prop truck,” said Ted. “Ask Raider, the prop guy. Or I can get you one, if you’re nice to me.”
“Oh, I’m nice,” she said. “I think these will be remembered as my nice years, quickly to be followed by the sullen months, and then, of course, the obscure decades. I only recently finished those wacky fuckup years, so you’re the first to benefit from my reform.”
Rita was about to say something when there was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” called Suzanne.
“Joe Pierce. Just came to welcome you aboard.”
Suzanne opened the door and Ted went out, squeezing past Joe Pierce. “Morning, sir,” he said to Joe, then, to Suzanne, “So, can I tell them you’re ready?”
“I guess,” she said.
Joe Pierce walked into the trailer, a nondescript man wearing a white polo shirt and jeans that, on him, looked like slacks. He looked like somebody’s stepfather. “Any more people in here,” he said, “and we’d need a lubricant.”
Suzanne laughed uneasily, and Rita excused herself. “See you later, Rita,” Joe called jovially, then fixed what passed for his attention on Suzanne. “I just came by to say hello and make sure everything was up to snuff,” he said.
“Everything’s great,” Suzanne assured him, forcing a smile.
“I want you to know we really appreciate your doing a drug screen,” said Joe, who, with his tiny dark eyes in his big white head, reminded Suzanne of a sand dab.
She put her soda can down. “Sure,” she said. “Did I pass?”
“Did you pass?” Joe echoed, laughing. “Of course you passed. We knew you would. It was the insurance company that was worried, not us. You apparently had some problems on your last film, but . . .” Joe slapped his knee and stood up. “I just want you to know we’re right behind you one hundred percent. Well, I’ll leave you to get ready.” He opened the door. “See you out there,” he said, disappearing with a wave.
For the first time since she’d arrived at the set, Suzanne was alone. She sat nursing her soda and thinking about her visit with Joe. She hadn’t minded taking the drug screen. She understood that these truly had to be the nice, cooperative years for her. She didn’t think of it as a punishment, not even the part about her salary being held in escrow until she finished the picture, just in case she got loaded and cost the producers money. She just figured she had to do all this until she didn’t have to anymore. It was a repair process that could go on for as long as it liked. She only wished it was for a better film—a big-budget picture, for example, or even a small, interesting art film. A high-action, low-budget film, though, was harder to reconcile.
Suzanne heard the static of a walkie-talkie transmission outside. She swallowed the last of her Diet Coke, opened the door, and followed Ted to the set.
The director, Simon Markham, was English. A nice guy. She’d met him the week before, when they’d interviewed her for the job. For all her desperation, she hadn’t cared that much if she got the part or not. She simply assumed she would never work again. Whenever she wasn’t working, Suzanne knew she’d never work again, and when, inevitably, she did work, she knew it was the last time. It was a relationship with her profession that was based on trust.
Simon was standing near the camera. He was wearing a big straw hat, linen pants, a white T-shirt, and a jacket tossed cavalierly over his shoulders. “You look like you’re dressed for a yacht,” Suzanne said.
“Oh, good morning, darling,” Simon said, almost kissing her on both cheeks. “You’re looking well.” The cinematographer asked him to look through the lens at the shot they were lining up: the scene where Suzanne and her co-star Robert Munch have been tied to a cactus by a bunch of pimps and left to die. It was a long scene with a lot of dialogue, especially Suzanne’s speech about her fear of the dark.
She watched Simon Markham deal with the crew. It was his first feature film and he was nervous, although he seemed to be assimilating his nervousness into his naturally high spirits. Now he was listening to the director of photography explain why the shot wasn’t going to work the way he wanted.
Suddenly Ted appeared at her elbow. “We’re ready for a line-up,” he said. Suzanne nodded and followed him to the cactus, where she was introduced to Robert Munch, was tied up with him, and talked to him about her fear of the dark, all before nine A.M.
Suzanne smiled as she rode back to her grandparents�
�� house that evening. It had been a good day, she thought. She’d met at least five people who were in AA, including Bobby Munch and his wife, who was down here with him. She had found someone who would give her some water pills before her bathing suit scene. She’d remembered most of her dialogue, and Simon had seemed pleased with her work. She’d met the two executive producers—the Father and the Son—toward the end of the day, and even though they’d been nicer to Bobby than to her, she chalked it up to the overall sexism prevailing in show business and let it go at that.
Suzanne felt that her acceptance of her reality verged on the adult, and was almost proud of herself. Yes, all in all, a pretty good first day.
The next morning, while the cameras were being repositioned for close-ups, Simon came over and sat down next to Suzanne. He was friendly, but there was something else. He seemed almost embarrassed.
“What’s happening?” said Suzanne cheerfully. “Did you have to take a drug test, too?”
Simon looked confused. “Oh, no, no,” he said. “It’s nothing, really. They just . . . The producers saw rushes last night and had some rather interesting notes.”
Suzanne instantly tensed up. She began wringing out her hair, which had been soaked for the chase-in-the-rain sequence they were filming. “Well, what?” she said, as calmly as she could manage it.
“Now, don’t take it the wrong way,” Simon said. “I saw them this morning and you were fine.”
“It was my first day,” Suzanne said, staring at the ground.
“It was your first day, absolutely,” he said emphatically. “I couldn’t agree with you more. The producers simply felt you should have fun with it.” He stopped and smiled at her. “Just,” he shrugged, “have more fun with it, that’s all.”
Suzanne stared at him. “Simon, if I knew how to have fun with stuff, I wouldn’t be in therapy. I wouldn’t need to have drug tests.”
“Now, now,” Simon said, tilting his head and looking at her as if she wouldn’t finish her vegetables. “I think they had some very interesting comments. Maybe I’m not saying it properly. What I think they mean is that you could own your performance. Make it more your own. Just sort of have fun.”
Suzanne stared at an anthill at her feet. “Really?” she said sarcastically to the ants. “And here I thought everything I did had to be fraught with torment. This is incredible. Why didn’t one of my shrinks tell me this?”
“Now, Suzanne,” Simon said patiently. “You shouldn’t be in this business if you can’t take criticism.”
It was true that Suzanne couldn’t take criticism. Even when directors gave her direction, she often took it as criticism. “But Simon, please,” she said, not looking at him. “ ‘Have fun with it.’ Don’t you think I would do that with everything I did, if it was at all possible?”
Simon put his arm around her. “I know you can do this part. Just relax into it. Be yourself and you’ll be wonderful.” He kissed the top of her head and went off to talk to his D.P., as Ted walked up to her with a can of Diet Coke.
“NutraSweets for the sweet,” he said, handing it to her.
“You know what I think?” she said. “Actors are the lowest of the low. Unless they have box office, in which case they’re treated with respect without being respected.” She took a swig of soda. “At least with me, there’s an honest level of contempt. They don’t respect me and they don’t treat me with respect.”
Ted nodded sympathetically. “You ought to be an assistant director if you want to sample the mother lode of contempt. And preferably a second assistant director,” he said, taking her arm. “We need to get you touched up. You’re in the next shot.”
After the scene, Suzanne went over to the prop truck to check on the cookie and candy possibilities. The truck was on the far end of the location, and she normally wouldn’t have gone, but it was a cool fall day and everything looked crisp to her. She had heard somewhere that the light in the desert changed all the time, so she decided to walk to the prop truck and see it change.
She moved through the warm hum of the crew as they checked lights, changed lenses, positioned extras. Suzanne loved crews. There was something reassuring about a crew, something that said maybe it was all worth it after all. She loved the different baseball caps they wore, and their jackets and shirts from films and shows they’d worked on before. And their little stories about things that happened on other sets, the anecdotes about bad food, hangovers, and girlfriends. All the stuff of real life. Suzanne felt good when she thought of being a part of it.
She was humming “There’s No Business Like Show Business” as she arrived at the truck. She headed for the metal steps at the back, and as she rounded the corner she almost collided with Neil Bleene, the younger of the executive producers. “Well,” said Neil, stepping aside, “fancy meeting you here.”
Suzanne smiled a startled smile and went up the steps. Neil Bleene held a maroon leather-bound script under his arm. He wore beige leather pants and a plain white shirt open at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up. He had dark hair, a beard, dark eyes, pale skin, and he never seemed entirely to close his mouth. He looked as if he were pleasantly dumbfounded. Or dumb.
Finding no doughnuts or other treats, Suzanne got a Diet Coke and peered down at Neil from the truck. “I understand my enjoyment levels are down.”
Neil looked down at his crocodile shoes and cleared his throat. “Well, no,” he began in an amused tone. “We felt the performance was fine, but . . . ” He scanned the horizon for the right phrase. “You’re holding something back.”
Suzanne realized she was older than Neil Bleene, who couldn’t be much more than twenty-six. “Holding something back,” she repeated solemnly.
“It felt like you weren’t . . . that you didn’t really make a choice. You made a nonchoice. Like you were concentrating more on not doing something than on doing something.”
“I see,” Suzanne said.
“I’ve acted in theater,” Neil explained. “I’ve also directed theater. I’m doing this to make money, but basically I’m a theater director. From what I was told, you spontaneously hit Bobby during a rehearsal and Simon stopped you. Well, I don’t think he should stop your impulses.”
Neil was really wailing now. “The other thing is that sometimes certain line readings are appropriate. Like in comedy, it’s a rule that inflections go up at the end.”
Suzanne knelt down to look in his eyes, without giving up the separation and protection of the truck. “There’s a comedy rule?” she asked.
Neil ran his hands through his hair. “Well, there’s not necessarily rules so much as guidelines. Comedy guidelines.” He paused for a moment, then came at her from another angle. “You were very good in Public Domain. What did you do there?” he asked patiently.
“I had Magna Valnepov as my acting coach and Benjamin Keller as my director,” she almost shouted. “I didn’t have fun with it. We had a month of rehearsals. We worked very hard. We hardly ever relaxed.”
Suzanne noticed that Neil was watching her steadily now, holding his leather script to his chest like a shield. She realized she was getting pretty defensive. “Look,” she said, “I may not take criticism well, but that doesn’t mean I’m not hearing it. I’ll hear it later. Right now I’m storing it in my delayed response area, because it’s hard for me. I wish I was someone who welcomed criticism and immediately understood its value, but I’m not, and if I look unhappy about this, I am. I’ve had one day of work on this thing, and this is my second conversation about what’s missing in my performance.”
Neil shook his head benignly. “We’re talking about two minutes of film. Two minutes of screen time out of ninety.”
“Is it correctable?” she asked.
Neil laughed. “Come on,” he said reassuringly. “It’s not as though you farted during all your dialogue and we all sat in rushes and said, ‘What’s that noise all over her lines?’ ”
“I’m so relieved,” Suzanne said. “That analogy has bathe
d me in relief.” She jumped off the prop truck, careful not to spill her soda. “Thanks for the acting tips and pep talk,” she said over her shoulder as she headed back to the set. “I’m feeling much more relaxed now.”
On the ride home, Suzanne asked her driver, Les, if he liked show business.
“Sometimes, sometimes not,” Les said. “It’s a sissy job. Never steady.” He shrugged. “Seems all right on the outside, then there’s nothing behind it.”
“Why did you go into it in the first place?”
Les grinned sheepishly. “Wanted to meet Jean Arthur,” he admitted.
“Did you?”
“Sure did,” Les replied proudly. “Drove her for three pictures she did at Columbia. She asked for me special the last time.”
She hadn’t been at her grandparents’ house for ten minutes when the phone rang. “It’s for you, of course,” her grandmother said to her. “George something.”
“George Lazan,” Suzanne whispered, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. “One of my producers.”
“Oh,” said her grandmother, “Miss Snooty Britches.” She went into the kitchen to open a can of something for dinner. “Miss Snooty Britches,” she repeated. “Isn’t she, Howdie?”
Suzanne put the receiver to her ear. “Hello,” she said.
“Have I caught you at a bad time?” asked George Lazan.
“No, not at all,” she said politely. “How are you?”
“Well, look,” George said. “I saw the rushes and, frankly, you’re holding back. See, I think of this piece as a light, fluffy piece, a kind of What’s Up, Doc? for cops. So you gotta relax. You gotta just enjoy yourself and trust the process.”
Suzanne watched her grandfather’s incredibly long cigarette ash grow while he stared at the ball game on the living room TV. “Well,” she said, “I can’t really promise you I’m going to turn in a Barbra Streisand performance.”
“No, no, no, no,” George said. “You see, I think of Bob Munch as a kind of Ryan O’Neal type. He’s a reactive actor. What we need is for you to be the one who governs the pace of the piece. If you dictate the pace, then Bob will follow you.”
Postcards From the Edge Page 12