scene,
the lighting was bad, and Dempsey had allowed no look space for the actor. The dubbed audio track, which included whistling birds and lapping water, also carried the incongruous whapping of a helicopter’s rotors.
But the pitiful production values didn’t matter. This wasn’t about Dempsey’s vision, a screenwriter’s pursuit of an Oscar, or an actor’s desperate aversion to getting a real job. No, the point of the work lay in a single frame.
Royce.
The word flashed in red against a white background, and Dempsey, who’d edited the frame into the movie, was the only one in the room to notice it, but the effect was instantaneous. Willard dropped his Dr. Pepper can, Lacey quit fiddling with her blond curls, and Snake emitted a barking fart.
The scene was already continuing, the actor wading into the water, the story scrolling toward the inevitable end where the Forces of Good kicked the butt of Unspeakable Evil. But the audience members no longer followed the action, because they were suffering their own plot twists.
“Royce,” they said in monotonal unison.
“Royce,” Dempsey echoed, and they looked at him.
“In the name of Royce, we open our hearts,” Dempsey said.
“In the name of Royce,” the members of the coven repeated.
“In the name of Royce, we open our eyes.”
“In the name of Royce.”
“In the name of Royce, we open the Orifice,” Dempsey said. He wasn’t so sure of the meaning of that line, but the agent had insisted, and the agent tended to get what he wanted. Dempsey suspected it had to do with those dark, squishy holes that had appeared in the video store and the coffee shop.
“In the name of Royce,” came the collective response.
Dempsey glanced at the screen, where the hunky, squirrel-eyed actor was emerging from the water, carrying the shivering, scantily clad form of the unconscious lady.
He lifted his voice in triumph. “In the name of Royce, we–”
Bang bang bang.
Dempsey glanced up. A little old lady on a pension lived upstairs, and despite her age, her hearing apparently had not diminished one little bit. She’d introduced herself as Mrs. Vickers. Hair wild as Einstein’s and white as snow, she owned six cats and kept close track on Dempsey’s comings and goings, as well as those of his guests.
Anytime the proceedings got a little too rowdy, or it sounded like somebody might be having a little fun, she tapped on the floor with the tip of her cane.
“In the name of Royce,” the followers echoed.
“I’m not finished yet.”
“I’m not finished yet,” they said.
“Quit acting like a bunch of zombies,” Dempsey said, keeping his voice down. He wanted to shout, but he wasn’t willing to risk the wrath of Mrs. Vickers. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to draw attention at this most important and sacred time, but in truth he feared she’d beat him over the head with one of those hard old-lady shoes.
Snake sniffed, bubbling mucus. “Bunch of zombies,” he droned belatedly, not quite processing Dempsey’s request for them to shut up.
“In the name of Royce, shut your freaking cakehole,” Dempsey said.
“In the name of—”
“Quiet on the set.” Dempsey slashed his open hand like the blade of an ax.
He was messing up the lines the agent had taught him. The whole film deal was dependent on breaking out this new actor, Royce, whom the agent kept raving about. Royce had been an extra in a few of Dempsey’s movies, but apparently Royce’s schedule was tight, because he could never spend more than an hour on set at a time.
Royce certainly couldn’t be any worse than the bartenders, truck drivers, and beauty-school dropouts Dempsey had used in his earlier films. And the agent had explained that having Royce attached made the Hollywood deal a slam dunk.
“It’s so set, it’s
set
set,” the agent had said over the phone. “It’s so golden, it’s yellow
and
orange.”
Which was the weirdest part of the whole thing.
the lighting was bad, and Dempsey had allowed no look space for the actor. The dubbed audio track, which included whistling birds and lapping water, also carried the incongruous whapping of a helicopter’s rotors.
But the pitiful production values didn’t matter. This wasn’t about Dempsey’s vision, a screenwriter’s pursuit of an Oscar, or an actor’s desperate aversion to getting a real job. No, the point of the work lay in a single frame.
Royce.
The word flashed in red against a white background, and Dempsey, who’d edited the frame into the movie, was the only one in the room to notice it, but the effect was instantaneous. Willard dropped his Dr. Pepper can, Lacey quit fiddling with her blond curls, and Snake emitted a barking fart.
The scene was already continuing, the actor wading into the water, the story scrolling toward the inevitable end where the Forces of Good kicked the butt of Unspeakable Evil. But the audience members no longer followed the action, because they were suffering their own plot twists.
“Royce,” they said in monotonal unison.
“Royce,” Dempsey echoed, and they looked at him.
“In the name of Royce, we open our hearts,” Dempsey said.
“In the name of Royce,” the members of the coven repeated.
“In the name of Royce, we open our eyes.”
“In the name of Royce.”
“In the name of Royce, we open the Orifice,” Dempsey said. He wasn’t so sure of the meaning of that line, but the agent had insisted, and the agent tended to get what he wanted. Dempsey suspected it had to do with those dark, squishy holes that had appeared in the video store and the coffee shop.
“In the name of Royce,” came the collective response.
Dempsey glanced at the screen, where the hunky, squirrel-eyed actor was emerging from the water, carrying the shivering, scantily clad form of the unconscious lady.
He lifted his voice in triumph. “In the name of Royce, we–”
Bang bang bang.
Dempsey glanced up. A little old lady on a pension lived upstairs, and despite her age, her hearing apparently had not diminished one little bit. She’d introduced herself as Mrs. Vickers. Hair wild as Einstein’s and white as snow, she owned six cats and kept close track on Dempsey’s comings and goings, as well as those of his guests.
Anytime the proceedings got a little too rowdy, or it sounded like somebody might be having a little fun, she tapped on the floor with the tip of her cane.
“In the name of Royce,” the followers echoed.
“I’m not finished yet.”
“I’m not finished yet,” they said.
“Quit acting like a bunch of zombies,” Dempsey said, keeping his voice down. He wanted to shout, but he wasn’t willing to risk the wrath of Mrs. Vickers. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to draw attention at this most important and sacred time, but in truth he feared she’d beat him over the head with one of those hard old-lady shoes.
Snake sniffed, bubbling mucus. “Bunch of zombies,” he droned belatedly, not quite processing Dempsey’s request for them to shut up.
“In the name of Royce, shut your freaking cakehole,” Dempsey said.
“In the name of—”
“Quiet on the set.” Dempsey slashed his open hand like the blade of an ax.
He was messing up the lines the agent had taught him. The whole film deal was dependent on breaking out this new actor, Royce, whom the agent kept raving about. Royce had been an extra in a few of Dempsey’s movies, but apparently Royce’s schedule was tight, because he could never spend more than an hour on set at a time.
Royce certainly couldn’t be any worse than the bartenders, truck drivers, and beauty-school dropouts Dempsey had used in his earlier films. And the agent had explained that having Royce attached made the Hollywood deal a slam dunk.
“It’s so set, it’s
set
set,” the agent had said over the phone. “It’s so golden, it’s yellow
and
orange.”
Which was the weirdest part of the whole thing.
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