Pacific

by Judy Nunn

  The montage depicting Sarah’s transformation had been filmed before his arrival and Brett was looking at the Sarah Blackston who had become Mamma Black, saviour to the local people and valuable ally to the American forces. He was most impressed.

  ‘You’re looking better than good, you’re looking fan-bloody-tastic!’ he said, with an attempt at an Australian accent that was so awful Sam laughed.

  ‘Action,’ Simon called five minutes later.

  ‘So you’re Mamma Black.’

  Sarah was in the boathouse. Having lifted up the second of the large shutters, she was wedging the rod into the window ledge when she heard the voice in the street, and turned to see the lieutenant watching her.

  ‘Yes.’

  Wily Halliday looked the young Englishwoman up and down. ‘You’re not what I expected.’

  Sarah found the man’s manner impudent. ‘Really?’ she replied archly. ‘And what exactly did you expect?’

  ‘Well, someone older, for a start.’ Again he looked her up and down, taking in the lithe brown arms and slim body, his eyes resting momentarily upon the pert breasts evident beneath the light, sleeveless shirt. ‘Someone … I don’t know … bigger, I guess.’ He grinned suggestively. ‘Hell, Mamma Black, what was I supposed to expect?’

  ‘Cut!’ Simon called. He took Brett aside. ‘Less lascivious, mate,’ he said quietly.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Brett was on the defensive in an instant. He hadn’t been playing it lasciviously at all, he thought.

  ‘I mean that he’s not on the make. He’s not undressing her with his eyes, he’s simply surprised and he’s honest about it.’

  ‘But he lusts after her,’ Brett countered. ‘Shit, man, look at her! What guy wouldn’t?’

  Simon heaved an inward sigh. Brett Marsdon was going to be trouble, but he always placated his actors. ‘Yeah, I’m sure he does, but let’s keep that hidden for a while, shall we? Let’s just play it simple for starters. Genuine surprise, genuine admiration.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘Okay?’

  Brett shrugged. ‘Okay.’ But he wasn’t very happy. This was the scene where the stars of the movie first met. Surely there should be sparks. Instant chemistry, that’s what it was all about.

  They started again and the scene progressed.

  ‘No offence intended, ma’am, I assure you.’ Wily apologised in earnest, realising that she’d found him too forthright.

  ‘None taken, Lieutenant …?’ She waited for him to introduce himself.

  ‘Lieutenant Wily Halliday, at your service, ma’am.’

  His smile was disarming as he saluted, and Sarah smiled back, realising that she’d overreacted. The young lieutenant might be brash but he meant no harm. She started levering up the next shutter.

  ‘Let me give you a hand.’ He took the rod from her.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. Wily … that’s short for William, is it?’ she asked, keen to make up for her brusqueness.

  ‘Nope. I was named after Wily Post.’ It was a proud announcement, and when he’d wedged the rod into the window ledge he stood waiting for her to be impressed. But there was no reaction at all. ‘You’ve never heard of Wily Post?’ he asked incredulously.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘One of America’s great heroes. Pioneer aviator. Created airmail routes from Alaska to Florida.’

  ‘Ah.’ She nodded.

  ‘First man to fly solo around the world, seven days, eighteen hours and forty-nine minutes. He was my dad’s best friend at school.’ He grinned with inordinate pride. ‘Wily Post was the reason I became a pilot.’

  ‘Cut!’ Simon called. Once again he took Brett aside. ‘You’re laying it on a bit thick, mate,’ he said.

  ‘Laying what on thick?’ Brett was bewildered.

  ‘The charm,’ Simon said as gently as he could, although he wanted to throttle the man. Marsdon wasn’t relating to Sam at all, he was simply pulling out every trick in the book. From the sparkling eyes to the million-dollar smile, he looked like a toothpaste commercial. ‘Like I said, mate, he’s not trying to score, he’s genuinely proud of being named after Wily Post.’

  This time Brett was more than defensive, he was rebellious. ‘I wasn’t playing him like he’s trying to score, Simon! I was playing the character for what he is. He’s a hero, man! And what the fuck’s wrong with a bit of charm anyway?’ And why the fuck was Simon Scanlon considered such a crash-hot director? he thought. Jesus, what does he want from me? I’m a number one box-office star, I’ve been hired for my onscreen charisma, and he’s asking me to act like a wimp.

  But Brett could feel the beads of sweat forming at his temples. He remembered how impressed he’d been as he’d watched the other actors at Undine Bay. He’d told himself not to rely on the old charm. Was Scanlon right? Was that what he was doing, just playing the star? He hadn’t intended to, he’d been giving it his best shot. He was getting jumpy. Careful, he told himself, don’t let the paranoia set in.

  It was just as he’d feared, Simon thought, Marsdon could no longer act without his tricks. It was why he’d fought against the man’s casting from the outset. Brett Marsdon was basically a good actor, Simon knew it. Indeed in his early films, when he’d been little more than a teenager, he’d displayed an extraordinary natural talent. But for the past several years his box-office successes had been realised on the strength of his good looks and personality. So much so that his tricks had now become second nature, the man wasn’t even aware of his mannerisms. Or was he? Simon wondered. Beneath the actor’s belligerence, he had recognised a strong sense of insecurity. Brett Marsdon was afraid. Was he doubting himself?

  Very patiently, Simon started to spell out the character of Wily Halliday as he saw him.

  ‘Wily’s not a hero, Brett. Not yet. And even when he does become a hero, it’s only through his actions, there’s nothing inherently heroic about him as a man. And he certainly doesn’t see himself as hero.’ Brett was sulking, it wasn’t getting through. ‘Look, mate, you’re right,’ Simon said trying to bolster the actor’s confidence. ‘You’re dead bloody right, he’s charming. But it’s the sort of charm that comes from within. Wily’s not trying to sell himself.’

  It wasn’t working at all. Brett’s sulky pout had now become a baleful glare. He hadn’t been trying to sell himself, for God’s sake. Fuck you, Scanlon, he thought.

  The man had closed off completely, Simon realised. He switched to another tack.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he suggested, ‘let’s try a bit of improvisation. No cameras, just you and Sam.’ Perhaps Sam could get through to him, he thought. Marsdon obviously couldn’t, or wouldn’t, take direction. Not from him anyway. An instinctive approach might prove more productive.

  Brett continued to glare, so Simon slung an arm around his shoulder. ‘Come on, mate,’ he said, ‘relax and give it a burl,’ and Brett reluctantly allowed himself to be led back to the boathouse. ‘You blokes take a break for a while,’ Simon said to Kevin, ‘we’re going to do a bit of impro,’ and the director of photography and his team disappeared for a coffee.

  ‘Right,’ Simon instructed, ‘a different scenario. We’ll take it from where you introduce yourself, Brett. Sam, you take the piss out of him about being called Wily, and Brett you convince her it’s your real name.’

  Sam nodded, she enjoyed improvisation, but Brett didn’t look too sure. He wasn’t accustomed to working without a script.

  ‘I don’t want you to stay in character,’ Simon told them. ‘I want you to go whichever way you want, do whatever you like, say whatever comes into your head, I’m just after interaction.’ He gave Sam a meaningful look, which she instantly understood. Simon wanted her to push Brett, perhaps even to unnerve him, anything to elicit an instinctive response.

  Brett looked at Sam. Did she approve of this bullshit? But she smiled encouragingly. ‘Come on, Brett, have a go,’ she said, ‘it’s fun.’

  ‘In your own time,’ Simon called.

  ‘Lieutenant Wily Halliday, at yo
ur service, ma’am.’ Brett wasn’t sure how to start the ball rolling, so he stuck to the script.

  Sam looked him up and down, then raised a scornful eyebrow. ‘Wily?’ she said. ‘That’s apt.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ He was confused. Sam didn’t look like Sarah Blackston any more. She didn’t look like Sam either. She was brassy and brazen and provocative.

  ‘It suits you,’ she said. ‘Wily, as in cunning. Wily, as in crafty.’ Her smile was wicked. ‘It’s a very good nickname.’

  ‘It’s not a nickname,’ he protested. He was more than confused, he was well and truly out of his depth.

  ‘Really? Pity. I found it attractive.’

  ‘In what way?’ He couldn’t think of what to say.

  ‘Well, you’re trying to chat me up, aren’t you?’ She grinned seductively and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. ‘You’re trying to get into my knickers, Wily Halliday.’ She put her hand on his shoulder and gently trailed her fingers down his chest. ‘I’d say that makes you one wily bastard, wouldn’t you?’ And the tip of her tongue slid lazily across her upper lip.

  Christ, she was coming on strong, he thought, and the memory of the previous night returned. He recalled the excitement he’d felt when they’d been on the verge of making love. Jesus, but she’d turned him on. Then she’d had that bad trip and he’d gone back to his bungalow. He’d felt pretty jumpy so he’d smoked a joint to calm down and then he’d hit the wall.

  Brett hadn’t thought about last night’s events all morning, apart from a vague sense of relief that Sam was fine. So, she’d had a bad trip, so what? Everyone had a bad trip now and then. But here she was, coming on to him so strong, and it all flooded back.

  He tried to concentrate on the improvisation. ‘Wily’s not a nickname,’ he said. Her other hand was on his chest now. Her mouth, lips parted, was coming closer, and he couldn’t drag his eyes from hers. ‘Wily’s who I am.’

  ‘Wily is who you are?’ she whispered, and she started to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘Wily Post,’ he said, mesmerised.

  ‘Wily what?’ She stopped and drew back, surprised.

  ‘I was named after Wily Post.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s Wily Post?’

  The vulgarity shocked him. And her eyes were cold. No longer bent on seduction, she was mocking him now.

  ‘Wily Post was one of America’s great heroes.’ Brett had no option but to return to the script, he was completely rattled. ‘First man to fly solo around the world. And my father went to school with him.’

  ‘Cut!’ Simon called. ‘Well done, you two. Thanks, Sam.’ He kissed her cheek, but the gentle pressure of his fingers on her shoulder was a far greater expression of his gratitude. ‘Good on you, Brett,’ he said giving him a hearty pat on the back, ‘that was great.’

  What was? Brett wondered. He hadn’t done anything. But Simon’s praise had a profound effect on him and, his belligerence now forgotten, he beamed like a child being congratulated by a favourite teacher.

  ‘We’ll do a dry run,’ Simon said. ‘No cameras. Go from the top of the scene. And take it from Sam, Brett. Relate to her, she’ll give you everything.’ Another look, which Sam acknowledged with an imperceptible nod, assured Simon that she would.

  They ran the scene twice and Brett was starting to relax. Without the pressure of the cameras he was happy to concentrate on reacting purely to Sam’s performance.

  ‘We’re ready to roll,’ Simon announced and, whilst makeup was called in for touch-ups, he took Kevin aside for a quiet discussion which no-one heard. Then as Kevin left, he called Sam over to him.

  Brett watched Simon Scanlon, his arm around Sam, the two of them in intense conversation. Thank God for that, he thought, his paranoia no longer a threat, Sam was getting notes from the director too, he wasn’t the only one.

  ‘It’s not working,’ Sam said.

  ‘It is, believe me, he’s relaxing by the minute.’

  He’s relaxing, Sam thought, what about me? ‘But he can’t keep taking the lead from me, it’s unbalancing the scene.’ Surely Simon could see that, she thought. She wished that Nick Parslow was there; Nick certainly wouldn’t allow his script to be so wrongly interpreted, she thought. But Nick had gone to Brisbane to meet some obscure research person who had flown out from England. Today of all days! Damn it, Sam thought, it wasn’t a researcher she needed, it was an ally.

  Sam’s survival instincts had come into play. Her own performance was being undermined. She was bolstering Brett’s inadequacies at Simon’s request, and it wasn’t fair of him to ask it of her. ‘I’m trying to give him too much when I should be holding back. I keep coming out of character.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Simon said quite happily.

  ‘Well, bugger that.’ Sam was irritated. She felt suddenly exhausted and fed up, and she wanted to hit Simon Scanlon.

  ‘Sam, listen to me.’ His arm was around her, his fingers gripping her shoulder. ‘We’re not rolling film, we’re doing a dry run, I just want to see how he reacts to the camera.’

  She stared at him. So the whole thing was a setup? In her tiredness, she was confused. But the old Svengali gleam was in Simon’s eyes and she found herself, as always, intrigued. When Simon Scanlon was fired up there was a madness about him that was mesmeric.

  ‘No-one’s going to ruin your performance, Sam,’ he said. ‘No-one! But if we can’t find a truthful balance with Brett we’re in deep shit, and you’re the only one who can get it out of him.’

  ‘And after the dry run?’ She was still bewildered by his tactics. Was she supposed to alter her performance in the instant he decided to roll film?

  ‘Relax, we’re not shooting this scene at all today.’ He gave a casual shrug in response to her surprise. ‘We’ve lost the early light anyway. We’ll reschedule it for first up tomorrow.’

  The pressure suddenly off, Sam felt a mixture of relief and fatigue, but she still wasn’t sure about Simon’s overall plan.

  ‘I’m going to call a break after this run and we’ll set up for the scene with you and Brett and Mickey.’ He could see she was tired and confused. ‘Everything’ll be fine, trust me, Sam,’ he assured her, and she had no option to do otherwise.

  Maz had completed touching up Brett’s makeup and was standing by to do Sam’s, but she made an announcement instead.

  ‘I want Sam in the van,’ she said to Simon, ‘we need more than touch-ups.’ Sam needed the full overhaul, Maz thought, she looked buggered.

  ‘Touch-ups’ll be fine,’ Simon said.

  Maz, who never feared fronting directors, was about to argue, but Simon muttered in her ear. ‘We won’t be using any of these takes.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ She shrugged, but she was puzzled. Why were they rolling film if they weren’t going to use it? Sheer bloody waste, in her opinion. Still, it wasn’t her place to say anything.

  ‘Action!’

  It was as Simon had suspected. Once they were rolling, or once Brett assumed they were rolling, he again couldn’t resist acting for the camera. His performance was certainly more truthful than it had been at the outset, but he was still trying to make an impact. Marsdon was fixated upon the fact that this was his first appearance in the film, Simon realised, and more importantly that it was the scene where he first met Sarah Blackston. How could he make the man realise that his own charisma and the chemistry between the two of them was already there, that there was no need to work at it?

  ‘Cut!’ he called. ‘That’s it for Mamma Black’s,’ he announced. ‘Take a break everyone whilst we set up for the scene at Reid’s.’

  Maz was at his side in a second. ‘I’ll need a good hour and a half for Sam,’ she said.

  ‘No worries.’

  Whilst Sam was whisked away to the principals’ makeup van, Simon and Kevin walked towards the nearby set of Reid’s Hotel.

  ‘But Simon …’ Brett followed them.

  Simon stopped. ‘What’s up, Brett?’

  ‘We haven’t
finished the scene.’ How could they call a halt after only a few takes? he thought. ‘What about the reverse shots?’ he asked. ‘What about the closeups? When are we going to …?’

  ‘Oh I’m not using any of this morning’s stuff, mate.’ Brett’s jaw gaped. Why on earth not? he wondered. ‘We’ve lost the early light,’ Simon explained, ‘and it’s such an important scene, I want you both looking good. Not to worry,’ he smiled, ‘we’ll shoot the whole thing first up tomorrow. Damn good rehearsal though, Brett, well done.’ Another pat on the back, and Brett was left standing there, bewildered. Was Simon mad at him, he wondered briefly. But no, the director seemed quite happy. Strange guy, Brett thought.

  As they walked to the Reid’s set, Simon told Kevin his plans. Tomorrow they would reverse the tactic, he said. They would tell Brett they were not rolling film, that they were using the cameras simply to set up angles and shots. Then they would roll without Marsdon knowing it.

  ‘Any trick we can use, Kev.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  Kevin Hodgman was a man of few words who lived his life through a camera lens. Everything that caught his attention – a face in a crowd, a bird in flight, a reflection on water – constituted ‘a great shot’. Over their respective twenty-year careers, he and Simon Scanlon had worked together many times, and he’d often seen Simon resort to tricks when he couldn’t get a performance out of an actor through the force of his own inspiration. Somehow he always managed to make it work, and Kevin had no reason to believe that this time would be any different. But he could tell that Simon was worried.

  ‘She’ll be jake, Simon,’ he said comfortingly.

  Ralph had just finished Mickey Robertson’s makeup when Maz and Sam arrived back at the van.

  ‘G’day, Sammy, how’s it going?’ Mickey leaned lazily back in the chair.

  ‘Fine. Hello, Elizabeth, I didn’t know you were called today.’