| Subject: Chapter 277 - Part 1 (16 and above) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Thursday, March 22, 10:54:21pm
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark continued (273>)" on Monday, March 05, 07:03:06am
Extra warning: I'm rating this part 16 and above due to some very mild bad language.
Dreams in the Dark (277/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
It had been another of those long, tedious days, the experience of filming even less interesting than he had originally been led to believe. Before he had been signed by Premier, he had been warned that movie acting was much more of a "hurry up and wait" procedure than being on the stage, but he had had no frame of reference with which to understand. Now, just two months into the work of his new career, he more than believed the warnings; there was a subtle smile. If only he had listened before.
Andrew Shears hadn't, of course, or he wouldn't have been here--wouldn't have been so absolutely bone tired. Much of his current state was due to the facts of his new life, the almost inexplicable exhaustion filming caused. While the extensive hours of work could probably make sense of his current torpor, it wasn't this which really caused the sensation. It was more the fact that so much of the day consisted of simply sitting there, waiting--for lights to be put in their proper places, for sets to be arranged and rearranged, for costumes or makeup to be adjusted, or, more than occasionally, for Petrosian to have a screaming fit or two; it was the last part which was by far the most annoying. While most of these outbursts were not directed at himself, the sheer frustration of having to listen to them was starting to seriously wear on the actor. There were only so many times he could stand to hear his poor co-star attacked.
This particular drawback of filming, as infuriating as it was, might be limited to his current set--he had no real experience to compare it to--but it wasn't the only reason for the exhaustion which was making it difficult to drag himself as far as his own dressing room. There was just something unbelievably wearing about having to sit around in boredom for so very long, waiting tediously, before you then had to throw yourself wholly into a scene. Even in the basic task of acting, it was different from what he was used to. On stage, you needed to put *everything* into the role every time you performed, not caring if it left you almost too drained to walk later. Here, if you did that, you would be utterly spent before lunch. Retake followed retake, until you almost didn't care whether the damn film ever got finished. It was certainly taking its time. But he suspected that this one might well be lasting far longer than was normal.
It was their current director's little fits which saw to this, although--from the rumors--that was nothing new with the man. Why he was even allowed to helm a movie, Andrew had no idea. Apparently, his results weren't phenomenally better than anyone else's; the actor's sigh lingered. But it was clear that Petrosian was a favorite of his bosses. Such friendship could always fill in many a stain in character.
This fact wasn't a new one, in any part of the world, but he found it particularly galling here. Part of the reason for his annoyance was his sheer unfamiliarity with studio life. He was used to a world where it was necessary to throw himself, almost fanatically, into a part for several hours at a time, not one where he had to slowly pace himself over an entire day, often repeating the same scene for dozens of retakes. He had no idea of what the film would even look like--assuming they ever finished it, at this rate--many of his early takes, especially, so drained as to probably be all but unwatchable. Certainly, he had nearly forgotten, by the time he had been redoing the same scene for the 25th time after lunch that first day, what any of the point of the scene was; hell, he had barely been able to remember his own name, much less the character's. In fact, there had had to be a 26th take entirely because of him, because he had been so dazed by exhaustion that he had thoroughly missed his cue, when Nikita's character had whispered it; he almost smiled. Now, he was becoming a little better at this new existence, but it was still quite wearing. He could only wonder whether he had done the right thing by coming here at all.
This wasn't the first time that he had wondered whether he had taken the correct path, whether he might not have been far better off staying in New York. Still, for the financial considerations alone, this *had* been the right choice, Broadway even more fickle than the movies. Here, at least, you had a contract, *would* be paid for its duration. There, once your play ended, nothing was certain; an actor whose name was the toast of Broadway one day could bring only quizzical looks the next. The Ethel Barrymores of the world were rare. And there did need to be at least a little money to see his mother through her later days.
It wasn't that Daisy Williams--beloved as she was by many in the theatre community--was immediately reaching retirement. It was more that Andrew simply worried for her, always the good son. True, there were many who would always try to find a place for her in their new plays, however small they might be. But these same shining lights wouldn't be around forever. What if a new group took over who didn't remember her? That was the terror which woke him up many a night.
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