The director (whom will be referred to as, Mr. X) squirmed uncomfortably in
his canvass chair. After absentmindedly glancing at the playback on camera
three's monitor, he wearily raised his megaphone to his face.
"Okay, that's a wrap, folks---see you Monday." He barely suppresses a shudder as the cast noisily exited the sound stage and retired to their respective trailers.
"Sir," said a voice at his shoulder.
"What?" he snapped, annoyed that some studio non-entity might have seen his unprofessional breach of stoicism.
"Do we send this to post-production now?" said the inept assistant director of photography.
"Yes, yes damnit! What---did you think we were going to let this age in the film vault? Of course we send it to those bastards in post-production. Don't bother me with your intern-level idiocy."
The assistant director mumbled sheepish apologies, which Mr. X ignored with a dismissive hand gesture. Mr. X was the director of the popular Slayers television series, as he had been since its low-budget beginnings. He should have been enjoying the perks that came with success: the go-ahead for a big-budget fourth season, massive public appeal, excellent reviews, critical acclaim, positive media-generated hype, several big-screen adaptations (one currently in the early stages of pre-production), a gigantic merchandising franchise, international licensing and distribution, and the extraordinary revenues collected from those network, box-office, and merchandise venues. However, the newly employed high-tech crew had no concept of his troubles that were multiplying as a result of this ever- expanding project.
"Sir," interrupted a new and decidedly edgy voice.
"What now," he squinted at the air-headed looking intern now nervously approaching him.
"Lina has locked herself into her trailer, and her assistant claims she has several prescription barbiturates with her. I think she's in one of her moods. She refuses to come out until she has spoken with her psychic."
"Christ---who's the idiot doctor that gives her this stuff? This better not be billed to the studio---it's one thing if the studio execs catch wind of this new incident. It's quite another if those vultures with the press get a hold of this one. . ."
"Sir, I think she's gone directly to a drug-dealer this time. None of the city's medical specialists want their licenses revoked on account of aiding her violation of probation."
"Get security to muscle out the journalists---I don't want to see one of the sum'bitches three hundred feet from here, understand? Then get both her lawyer and manager on the line. Fuck---this will probably cost us advertisers. . ."
"But sir---"
"What?"
"What should I tell the producers?" The intern was shaking now. Mr. X was livid.
"Tell them anything, damnit, as long as it isn't the truth. I'm ON this one, got it?" he barked. He looked at his watch, nervously, and cursed the immunity clauses built in to his cast's contracts. He did not feel like making the effort of leaving his seat, but did so anyway to avoid the gross number of staff with similar incidents to report. He soon found himself at a brisk jog to out-pace their incessant grievances. He wouldn't be safe until he was in his own studio office.
Once there, he barricaded himself inside and disconnected the phone, which was blinking madly with other unanswered messages from various studio representatives. He opened his desk drawer, which he no longer bothered to lock, and pushed the lumbering stack of files containing numerous legal documents onto the floor to make room for a fifth of Jack Daniels, a loaded .45, and an un-signed suicide letter stapled to a copy of his divorce settlement, estate holdings, and a newly drafted version of his last will and testament. Rabidly chain-smoking, he thought better of this and reached back into the open drawer to produce a vial of Paxil. The televised version adored by countless fans was no comparison to the off- screen melodrama.
The situation was fast becoming an abysmal car-wreck.
The cast was the problem, albeit the only problem---but it was problem enough to make him apoplectic with terminal anxiety. Lina, the top-billed headliner of the slayers enterprise, was an elite Hollywood darling, much- sought after, and considered hot property by the ignorant public. What fans and those who considered themselves industry-insiders alike did not know was that she was a manic-depressive, egotistical prescription pill junky, notorious for causing those truly in-the-know at the studios indescribable troubles. Her increasing paranoia made her even more insular and suspicious of the media's capricious favor, and she had been slipping even further into her own dangerous habits. Director X had hoped that her latest involvement with a presumably non-threatening photographer might ease her bizarre behavior. But the opposite happened instead. The alleged wife of her new love interest's refusal to grant him a divorce had lead to embarrassing public scenes and even more bizarre behavior. The studio was so entangled in the Slayer's project, that it was now impossible to fire her. . . .
The remaining cast was no better. Mr. X quaffed a dangerously large portion of JD to wash down the four Paxil had had just taken.
. . .Gallory, who in fact boasted a Mensa-level I.Q., held several Yale doctorates in literary and classical fields, and who's thesis on Elizabethan theatre was lauded by his intellectual contemporaries, was frequently distracted by his own thespian pursuits. Mr. X suspected he resented the vacuous, stoner-boy image he was forced to maintain for his on- screen persona. Gallory had also recently come out of the closet. The director had had to scramble to suppress this development and reports of Gallory's. . .alternative. . .personal tastes for fear of alienating his teen-based demographic. X suspected he resented this as well. . . .
. . .Both the actress who played Siphiel, and her later replacement who played Fillia, recently acquired for this latest season, had made names for themselves playing the frat-boy's wet-dream ingénue in several pictures of the teen-movie genre. They both had a penchant for naked Internet pictures and indiscretion when it came to the press. Fillia had been recently indicated in connection with her mob associations and her questionable liaisons with a prominent political figure. . . .
X banged his head against his desk, nearly compromising the safety settings of his gun. The circumstances only worsened.
. . .The well-known, versatile character actor who landed the role of Xellios was highly volatile. Bloated by his own fame, his salary demands were exponentially approaching impossible (as well as the studio-footed bill for a notorious escort service he frequently employed. . .) which, to the director's horror, had come to the attention of Lina who in turn demanded even higher payment as compensation for being the top-billed star of this debacle. . . .
His cellular phone rang, and X grimaced. It was the ex-porn star turned wife of a recently deceased elderly oil tycoon (this in itself a media catastrophe) who played Naga. She had been constantly badgering him in regards to the upcoming Slayers movie. However, her indulgent widow's lifestyle had created an unsightly weight problem well documented on her current reality series. . . .
X programmed his phone to vibrate and slid it deep into his pocket. After fifteen minutes of failed sexual stimulus, he removed it and speed-dialed his psychoanalyst. However, the doctor was with another client who probably paid more per hour-long session than he did. X hung up; the dope- smoking new age hack was over-charging him anyway.
Disgusted, X called his massage-therapist. She arrived (a blonde, Camden drop-out) with her cocoa butter and aromatherapy forty-five minutes, two packs of Dunhill cigarettes, and a half a bottle of Jack later. She then proceeded to work him over right there in his office, but X couldn't relax: he was still thinking about his cast. . . .
. . .The failed child-actor overcoming multiple institutional commitances, now, at twenty-something, was attempting to revive her career with her re- emergence as Amelia. This had been achieved with varying degrees of success. On the one hand, both fans and critics have applauded the reappearance of this particularly emphatic screen personality. Unfortunately, the backlash resulting from a much-publicized shoplifting indictment proved irrevocably damaging to her reputation, as well as that of the studio. . .the ex-professional wrestler turned governor of Wisconsin who moonlighted as the actor portraying her father was also a tabloid favorite. . . .
. . .Zelgadis was an actor with delusions of street-credibility. He fronted a terrible band, which he slavishly promoted, owned several nightclubs, and snorted coke off the various creases of naked super-models. Since the screenplay had been heading in new directions, this fourth season, that the actor felt marginalized his character's narrative significance, he daily demand script re-writes which would refocus the importance of his role to the plot. This had been compounded since Valgaav's character, of a similar bad-boy nature and tragic influences, had been a recent seasonal addition. The two were constantly at odds as Zelgadis felt Valgaav's role would re-direct the popularity he earned earlier in the series. Between the two of them and Xellios, while it made for credible on-screen friction, it became an off-screen competition over who could put the most drugs up his nose, trash the most clubs and expensive hotel suites, fuck the most groupies, and be acquitted of the most civil misconduct charges. . . .
The massage had done nothing for Mr. X, so he irritably told his massage therapist to quit what she was doing and finish him off. After achieving a disappointing climax, he directed her to tidy the dislocated files littering his floor and return them to his Ikea desktop. He tipped her, dismissed her, and replaced the other items back into their respective nooks of his desk drawer. This was only after realizing that his insurance policy was spectacularly deficient when it came to suicide (his estate had been paid off for the most part, and he couldn't off himself without first leaving his ex-wife with a satisfactory outstanding debt to pay off in the event of his untimely demise).
He plugged in his office phone and buzzed a random intern.
"Yessir?"
"Cancel all appointments for the rest of the day, except for my lunch with what's-her-name---that jail-bait sailor girl---yeah, that one. Have the paramedics stand by outside Lina's trailer with a stomach pump---of course bill it to the studio! Someone has to pay for discretion. . ."
"Anything else, sir?"
"Yeah, call my lawyer and tell him to purchase a cabaña in Belize. Spare no expense, understand? Write that down: NO EXPENSE SPARED, got it? That will be all."
This latest extravagance should amass an acceptable pile of delinquent billiage. He smiled to himself as he stepped out of his office to meet his waiting car, a Zaggat's tucked under his arm. That new Dalinian bistro sounded adequately tolerable. Yes, it should do quite nicely. Let the cast jeopardize their own lives; at the moment, he was on his way to have lunch with another star who's career was flagging. Aging-actresses were a bitch, but this one was having a directorial fall-out and comebacks were the next-big-thing, if one was ambitious enough to exploit a well-timed mental break. All that really mattered was his own career, after all, and he had things to do. Besides, he had a television program to film.
"Okay, that's a wrap, folks---see you Monday." He barely suppresses a shudder as the cast noisily exited the sound stage and retired to their respective trailers.
"Sir," said a voice at his shoulder.
"What?" he snapped, annoyed that some studio non-entity might have seen his unprofessional breach of stoicism.
"Do we send this to post-production now?" said the inept assistant director of photography.
"Yes, yes damnit! What---did you think we were going to let this age in the film vault? Of course we send it to those bastards in post-production. Don't bother me with your intern-level idiocy."
The assistant director mumbled sheepish apologies, which Mr. X ignored with a dismissive hand gesture. Mr. X was the director of the popular Slayers television series, as he had been since its low-budget beginnings. He should have been enjoying the perks that came with success: the go-ahead for a big-budget fourth season, massive public appeal, excellent reviews, critical acclaim, positive media-generated hype, several big-screen adaptations (one currently in the early stages of pre-production), a gigantic merchandising franchise, international licensing and distribution, and the extraordinary revenues collected from those network, box-office, and merchandise venues. However, the newly employed high-tech crew had no concept of his troubles that were multiplying as a result of this ever- expanding project.
"Sir," interrupted a new and decidedly edgy voice.
"What now," he squinted at the air-headed looking intern now nervously approaching him.
"Lina has locked herself into her trailer, and her assistant claims she has several prescription barbiturates with her. I think she's in one of her moods. She refuses to come out until she has spoken with her psychic."
"Christ---who's the idiot doctor that gives her this stuff? This better not be billed to the studio---it's one thing if the studio execs catch wind of this new incident. It's quite another if those vultures with the press get a hold of this one. . ."
"Sir, I think she's gone directly to a drug-dealer this time. None of the city's medical specialists want their licenses revoked on account of aiding her violation of probation."
"Get security to muscle out the journalists---I don't want to see one of the sum'bitches three hundred feet from here, understand? Then get both her lawyer and manager on the line. Fuck---this will probably cost us advertisers. . ."
"But sir---"
"What?"
"What should I tell the producers?" The intern was shaking now. Mr. X was livid.
"Tell them anything, damnit, as long as it isn't the truth. I'm ON this one, got it?" he barked. He looked at his watch, nervously, and cursed the immunity clauses built in to his cast's contracts. He did not feel like making the effort of leaving his seat, but did so anyway to avoid the gross number of staff with similar incidents to report. He soon found himself at a brisk jog to out-pace their incessant grievances. He wouldn't be safe until he was in his own studio office.
Once there, he barricaded himself inside and disconnected the phone, which was blinking madly with other unanswered messages from various studio representatives. He opened his desk drawer, which he no longer bothered to lock, and pushed the lumbering stack of files containing numerous legal documents onto the floor to make room for a fifth of Jack Daniels, a loaded .45, and an un-signed suicide letter stapled to a copy of his divorce settlement, estate holdings, and a newly drafted version of his last will and testament. Rabidly chain-smoking, he thought better of this and reached back into the open drawer to produce a vial of Paxil. The televised version adored by countless fans was no comparison to the off- screen melodrama.
The situation was fast becoming an abysmal car-wreck.
The cast was the problem, albeit the only problem---but it was problem enough to make him apoplectic with terminal anxiety. Lina, the top-billed headliner of the slayers enterprise, was an elite Hollywood darling, much- sought after, and considered hot property by the ignorant public. What fans and those who considered themselves industry-insiders alike did not know was that she was a manic-depressive, egotistical prescription pill junky, notorious for causing those truly in-the-know at the studios indescribable troubles. Her increasing paranoia made her even more insular and suspicious of the media's capricious favor, and she had been slipping even further into her own dangerous habits. Director X had hoped that her latest involvement with a presumably non-threatening photographer might ease her bizarre behavior. But the opposite happened instead. The alleged wife of her new love interest's refusal to grant him a divorce had lead to embarrassing public scenes and even more bizarre behavior. The studio was so entangled in the Slayer's project, that it was now impossible to fire her. . . .
The remaining cast was no better. Mr. X quaffed a dangerously large portion of JD to wash down the four Paxil had had just taken.
. . .Gallory, who in fact boasted a Mensa-level I.Q., held several Yale doctorates in literary and classical fields, and who's thesis on Elizabethan theatre was lauded by his intellectual contemporaries, was frequently distracted by his own thespian pursuits. Mr. X suspected he resented the vacuous, stoner-boy image he was forced to maintain for his on- screen persona. Gallory had also recently come out of the closet. The director had had to scramble to suppress this development and reports of Gallory's. . .alternative. . .personal tastes for fear of alienating his teen-based demographic. X suspected he resented this as well. . . .
. . .Both the actress who played Siphiel, and her later replacement who played Fillia, recently acquired for this latest season, had made names for themselves playing the frat-boy's wet-dream ingénue in several pictures of the teen-movie genre. They both had a penchant for naked Internet pictures and indiscretion when it came to the press. Fillia had been recently indicated in connection with her mob associations and her questionable liaisons with a prominent political figure. . . .
X banged his head against his desk, nearly compromising the safety settings of his gun. The circumstances only worsened.
. . .The well-known, versatile character actor who landed the role of Xellios was highly volatile. Bloated by his own fame, his salary demands were exponentially approaching impossible (as well as the studio-footed bill for a notorious escort service he frequently employed. . .) which, to the director's horror, had come to the attention of Lina who in turn demanded even higher payment as compensation for being the top-billed star of this debacle. . . .
His cellular phone rang, and X grimaced. It was the ex-porn star turned wife of a recently deceased elderly oil tycoon (this in itself a media catastrophe) who played Naga. She had been constantly badgering him in regards to the upcoming Slayers movie. However, her indulgent widow's lifestyle had created an unsightly weight problem well documented on her current reality series. . . .
X programmed his phone to vibrate and slid it deep into his pocket. After fifteen minutes of failed sexual stimulus, he removed it and speed-dialed his psychoanalyst. However, the doctor was with another client who probably paid more per hour-long session than he did. X hung up; the dope- smoking new age hack was over-charging him anyway.
Disgusted, X called his massage-therapist. She arrived (a blonde, Camden drop-out) with her cocoa butter and aromatherapy forty-five minutes, two packs of Dunhill cigarettes, and a half a bottle of Jack later. She then proceeded to work him over right there in his office, but X couldn't relax: he was still thinking about his cast. . . .
. . .The failed child-actor overcoming multiple institutional commitances, now, at twenty-something, was attempting to revive her career with her re- emergence as Amelia. This had been achieved with varying degrees of success. On the one hand, both fans and critics have applauded the reappearance of this particularly emphatic screen personality. Unfortunately, the backlash resulting from a much-publicized shoplifting indictment proved irrevocably damaging to her reputation, as well as that of the studio. . .the ex-professional wrestler turned governor of Wisconsin who moonlighted as the actor portraying her father was also a tabloid favorite. . . .
. . .Zelgadis was an actor with delusions of street-credibility. He fronted a terrible band, which he slavishly promoted, owned several nightclubs, and snorted coke off the various creases of naked super-models. Since the screenplay had been heading in new directions, this fourth season, that the actor felt marginalized his character's narrative significance, he daily demand script re-writes which would refocus the importance of his role to the plot. This had been compounded since Valgaav's character, of a similar bad-boy nature and tragic influences, had been a recent seasonal addition. The two were constantly at odds as Zelgadis felt Valgaav's role would re-direct the popularity he earned earlier in the series. Between the two of them and Xellios, while it made for credible on-screen friction, it became an off-screen competition over who could put the most drugs up his nose, trash the most clubs and expensive hotel suites, fuck the most groupies, and be acquitted of the most civil misconduct charges. . . .
The massage had done nothing for Mr. X, so he irritably told his massage therapist to quit what she was doing and finish him off. After achieving a disappointing climax, he directed her to tidy the dislocated files littering his floor and return them to his Ikea desktop. He tipped her, dismissed her, and replaced the other items back into their respective nooks of his desk drawer. This was only after realizing that his insurance policy was spectacularly deficient when it came to suicide (his estate had been paid off for the most part, and he couldn't off himself without first leaving his ex-wife with a satisfactory outstanding debt to pay off in the event of his untimely demise).
He plugged in his office phone and buzzed a random intern.
"Yessir?"
"Cancel all appointments for the rest of the day, except for my lunch with what's-her-name---that jail-bait sailor girl---yeah, that one. Have the paramedics stand by outside Lina's trailer with a stomach pump---of course bill it to the studio! Someone has to pay for discretion. . ."
"Anything else, sir?"
"Yeah, call my lawyer and tell him to purchase a cabaña in Belize. Spare no expense, understand? Write that down: NO EXPENSE SPARED, got it? That will be all."
This latest extravagance should amass an acceptable pile of delinquent billiage. He smiled to himself as he stepped out of his office to meet his waiting car, a Zaggat's tucked under his arm. That new Dalinian bistro sounded adequately tolerable. Yes, it should do quite nicely. Let the cast jeopardize their own lives; at the moment, he was on his way to have lunch with another star who's career was flagging. Aging-actresses were a bitch, but this one was having a directorial fall-out and comebacks were the next-big-thing, if one was ambitious enough to exploit a well-timed mental break. All that really mattered was his own career, after all, and he had things to do. Besides, he had a television program to film.