and less and less Marty the last few days, and Francis was driving him hard, directing with an emotional scalpel that peeled his star like an onion.
Francis told Ion to bring the offending item over so he could show Shiny Suit what was wrong. Grinning cheerfully, Ion squeezed past Marty and reached for the picture, dextrously dropping it onto a bedpost which shattered the glass and speared through the middle of the frame, punching a hole in the Premier’s face.
Ion shrugged in fake apology.
Francis was almost happy. Shiny Suit, stricken in the heart, scurried away in defeat, afraid that his part in the vandalism of the sacred image would be noticed.
A crucifix was found from stock and put up on the wall.
‘Marty,’ Francis said, ‘open yourself up, show us your beating heart, then tear it from your chest, squeeze it in your fist and drop it on the floor.’
Kate wondered if he meant it literally.
Marty Sheen tried to focus his eyes, and saluted in slow motion.
‘Quiet on set, everybody,’ Francis shouted.
17
Kate was crying, silently, uncontrollably. Everyone on set, except Francis and perhaps Ion, was also in tears. She felt as if she was watching the torture of a political prisoner, and just wanted it to stop.
There was no script for this scene.
Francis was pushing Marty into a corner, breaking him down, trying to get to Jonathan Harker.
This would come at the beginning of the picture. The idea was to show the real Jonathan, to get the audience involved with him. Without this scene, the hero would seem just an observer, wandering between other people’s set pieces.
‘You, Reed,’ Francis said, ‘you’re a writer. Scribble me a voice-over. Internal monologue. Stream-of-consciousness. Give me the real Harker.’
Through tear-blurred spectacles, she looked at the pad she was scrawling on. Her first attempt had been at the Jonathan she remembered, who would have been embarrassed to have been thought capable of stream-of-consciousness. Francis had torn that into confetti and poured it over Marty’s head, making the actor cross his eyes and fall backwards, completely drunk, onto the bed.
Marty was hugging his pillow and bawling for Mina.
All for Hecuba, Kate thought. Mina wasn’t even in this movie except as a locket. God knows what Mrs Harker would think when and if she saw Dracula.
Francis told the crew to ignore Marty’s complaints. He was an actor, and just whining.
Ion translated.
She remembered what Francis had said after the storm, What does this cost, people? Was anything worth what this seemed to cost? ‘I don’t just have to make Dracula,’ Francis had told an interviewer, ‘I have to be Dracula.’
Kate tried to write the Harker that was emerging between Marty and Francis. She went into the worst places of her past and realised they still burned in her memory like smouldering coals.
Her pad was spotted with red. There was blood in her tears. That didn’t happen often.
The camera was close to Marty’s face. Francis was intent, bent close over the bed, teeth bared, hands claws. Marty mumbled, trying to wave the lens away.
‘Don’t look at the camera, Jonathan,’ Francis said.
Marty buried his face in the bed and was sick, choking. Kate wanted to protest but couldn’t bring herself to. She was worried Martin Sheen would never forgive her for interrupting his Academy Award scene. He was an actor. He’d go on to other roles, casting off poor Jon like an old coat.
He rolled off his vomit and stared up at where the ceiling should have been but wasn’t.
The camera ran on. And on.
Marty lay still.
Finally, the camera operator reported, ‘I think he’s stopped breathing.’
For an eternal second, Francis let the scene run.
In the end, rather than stop filming, the director elbowed the camera aside and threw himself on his star, putting an ear close to Marty’s sunken bare chest.
Kate dropped her pad and rushed into the set. A wall swayed and fell with a crash.
‘His
Francis told Ion to bring the offending item over so he could show Shiny Suit what was wrong. Grinning cheerfully, Ion squeezed past Marty and reached for the picture, dextrously dropping it onto a bedpost which shattered the glass and speared through the middle of the frame, punching a hole in the Premier’s face.
Ion shrugged in fake apology.
Francis was almost happy. Shiny Suit, stricken in the heart, scurried away in defeat, afraid that his part in the vandalism of the sacred image would be noticed.
A crucifix was found from stock and put up on the wall.
‘Marty,’ Francis said, ‘open yourself up, show us your beating heart, then tear it from your chest, squeeze it in your fist and drop it on the floor.’
Kate wondered if he meant it literally.
Marty Sheen tried to focus his eyes, and saluted in slow motion.
‘Quiet on set, everybody,’ Francis shouted.
17
Kate was crying, silently, uncontrollably. Everyone on set, except Francis and perhaps Ion, was also in tears. She felt as if she was watching the torture of a political prisoner, and just wanted it to stop.
There was no script for this scene.
Francis was pushing Marty into a corner, breaking him down, trying to get to Jonathan Harker.
This would come at the beginning of the picture. The idea was to show the real Jonathan, to get the audience involved with him. Without this scene, the hero would seem just an observer, wandering between other people’s set pieces.
‘You, Reed,’ Francis said, ‘you’re a writer. Scribble me a voice-over. Internal monologue. Stream-of-consciousness. Give me the real Harker.’
Through tear-blurred spectacles, she looked at the pad she was scrawling on. Her first attempt had been at the Jonathan she remembered, who would have been embarrassed to have been thought capable of stream-of-consciousness. Francis had torn that into confetti and poured it over Marty’s head, making the actor cross his eyes and fall backwards, completely drunk, onto the bed.
Marty was hugging his pillow and bawling for Mina.
All for Hecuba, Kate thought. Mina wasn’t even in this movie except as a locket. God knows what Mrs Harker would think when and if she saw Dracula.
Francis told the crew to ignore Marty’s complaints. He was an actor, and just whining.
Ion translated.
She remembered what Francis had said after the storm, What does this cost, people? Was anything worth what this seemed to cost? ‘I don’t just have to make Dracula,’ Francis had told an interviewer, ‘I have to be Dracula.’
Kate tried to write the Harker that was emerging between Marty and Francis. She went into the worst places of her past and realised they still burned in her memory like smouldering coals.
Her pad was spotted with red. There was blood in her tears. That didn’t happen often.
The camera was close to Marty’s face. Francis was intent, bent close over the bed, teeth bared, hands claws. Marty mumbled, trying to wave the lens away.
‘Don’t look at the camera, Jonathan,’ Francis said.
Marty buried his face in the bed and was sick, choking. Kate wanted to protest but couldn’t bring herself to. She was worried Martin Sheen would never forgive her for interrupting his Academy Award scene. He was an actor. He’d go on to other roles, casting off poor Jon like an old coat.
He rolled off his vomit and stared up at where the ceiling should have been but wasn’t.
The camera ran on. And on.
Marty lay still.
Finally, the camera operator reported, ‘I think he’s stopped breathing.’
For an eternal second, Francis let the scene run.
In the end, rather than stop filming, the director elbowed the camera aside and threw himself on his star, putting an ear close to Marty’s sunken bare chest.
Kate dropped her pad and rushed into the set. A wall swayed and fell with a crash.
‘His
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