think — ”
“I’m sorry,” Susan says and turns to him fully, trying to explain; it is important to her that she make the boy understand why she cannot leave but before she has a chance to find the words or even the way in which she will approach him, the three small technicians fall upon the actor like a net, grab his arms and legs, and begin to drag him off to the side, one of them cunningly using a foot to kick his clothing toward the wall. The actor struggles soundlessly, all arms and legs and stop-motion, and passes out of the line of sight and behind one of the cameras. Susan feels a shudder inside herself; she must admit that she has been somewhat moved. After all, the actor and she have had a kind of relationship. She wonders if the others are staring at her because she did not show loyalty to him. However, when she peeks from the edges of peripheral vision, she sees that all of the actors are standing in frozen positions, staring at the ceiling or floor, many of them with their hands clasped, a few quietly chewing gum. They look like well-behaved prisoners aligned for a public official’s visit. Susan decides to try to stop taking things so personally; it is, after all and as Phil has said, a business and perhaps she had better detach herself.
“You see,” the director says, “the actor is merely a tool. We cannot tolerate any behavior which takes him out of that role and, if necessary, I will take similar action with any of you. This is a serious production.”
Somewhere offstage Susan can hear struggles and remonstrations, but this does not matter to her anymore.
CHAPTER XXV
The first scene goes very quickly and well and Susan decides that this kind of movie is not so difficult after all. She appears in it playing the role of the widow of Warren Gamaliel Harding as she is informed of his rather sudden death while on a vacation trip in 1924. A quick scan of the scene assures her that she will be able to act this role with conviction and, once under the lights, she feels nothing at all except the desire to fulfill its implications as set down on the printed page.
A heavyset, middle-aged actor, also nude, plays the role of the political assistant delegated to give her the news, and one of the technicians hands him a small cigar which he uses as a prop for the first part of the scene. They act on a bare area under heavy lights which cause both of them to sweat heavily, adding veracity to the scene. “Oh Mrs. Harding,” the actor says, “I have terrible, terrible news for you. Your husband has died quite suddenly. I am sorry about this.”
According to the instructions in the script, Susan ducks her head, looks at her breasts, runs her left hand indolently across her stomach. “Oh well,” she says. “I’m not surprised at all. He had no self-discipline and his diet was terrible. I warned him and warned him.”
“Is there anything that I can do for you?”
“Nothing at all,” Susan says. “I’m perfectly all right.”
“I know that this must be a terrible shock to you and stand ready to do anything I can. Should there be any arrangements — ”
“It’s no shock. I saw it coming for a long time. At last I’ll be able to get out of national politics. I never cared for it much at all, being a very quiet woman, and I begged Warren time and again to go back to the statehouse but it was too late.”
“Warren was a very fine man,” the actor says and comes over to Susan, puts a hand on her shoulder, runs his fingers across her back. There is some indication in the script now as to a pause for activity and Susan does not know exactly what this demands; she decides to adapt to it simply by relaxing and feeling the actor’s hands begin to move all over her body. Shortly there is an insistent pressure around her thighs and she closes her eyes, leans back, feels herself being carried down to the hard wood surfaces of the floor. In her next line she is supposed to ask the actor what exactly he
“I’m sorry,” Susan says and turns to him fully, trying to explain; it is important to her that she make the boy understand why she cannot leave but before she has a chance to find the words or even the way in which she will approach him, the three small technicians fall upon the actor like a net, grab his arms and legs, and begin to drag him off to the side, one of them cunningly using a foot to kick his clothing toward the wall. The actor struggles soundlessly, all arms and legs and stop-motion, and passes out of the line of sight and behind one of the cameras. Susan feels a shudder inside herself; she must admit that she has been somewhat moved. After all, the actor and she have had a kind of relationship. She wonders if the others are staring at her because she did not show loyalty to him. However, when she peeks from the edges of peripheral vision, she sees that all of the actors are standing in frozen positions, staring at the ceiling or floor, many of them with their hands clasped, a few quietly chewing gum. They look like well-behaved prisoners aligned for a public official’s visit. Susan decides to try to stop taking things so personally; it is, after all and as Phil has said, a business and perhaps she had better detach herself.
“You see,” the director says, “the actor is merely a tool. We cannot tolerate any behavior which takes him out of that role and, if necessary, I will take similar action with any of you. This is a serious production.”
Somewhere offstage Susan can hear struggles and remonstrations, but this does not matter to her anymore.
CHAPTER XXV
The first scene goes very quickly and well and Susan decides that this kind of movie is not so difficult after all. She appears in it playing the role of the widow of Warren Gamaliel Harding as she is informed of his rather sudden death while on a vacation trip in 1924. A quick scan of the scene assures her that she will be able to act this role with conviction and, once under the lights, she feels nothing at all except the desire to fulfill its implications as set down on the printed page.
A heavyset, middle-aged actor, also nude, plays the role of the political assistant delegated to give her the news, and one of the technicians hands him a small cigar which he uses as a prop for the first part of the scene. They act on a bare area under heavy lights which cause both of them to sweat heavily, adding veracity to the scene. “Oh Mrs. Harding,” the actor says, “I have terrible, terrible news for you. Your husband has died quite suddenly. I am sorry about this.”
According to the instructions in the script, Susan ducks her head, looks at her breasts, runs her left hand indolently across her stomach. “Oh well,” she says. “I’m not surprised at all. He had no self-discipline and his diet was terrible. I warned him and warned him.”
“Is there anything that I can do for you?”
“Nothing at all,” Susan says. “I’m perfectly all right.”
“I know that this must be a terrible shock to you and stand ready to do anything I can. Should there be any arrangements — ”
“It’s no shock. I saw it coming for a long time. At last I’ll be able to get out of national politics. I never cared for it much at all, being a very quiet woman, and I begged Warren time and again to go back to the statehouse but it was too late.”
“Warren was a very fine man,” the actor says and comes over to Susan, puts a hand on her shoulder, runs his fingers across her back. There is some indication in the script now as to a pause for activity and Susan does not know exactly what this demands; she decides to adapt to it simply by relaxing and feeling the actor’s hands begin to move all over her body. Shortly there is an insistent pressure around her thighs and she closes her eyes, leans back, feels herself being carried down to the hard wood surfaces of the floor. In her next line she is supposed to ask the actor what exactly he
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