21. Will #2
A nervous energy filled the room as Michelle called action for the first time. I could feel everyone leaning in, anticipating greatness, especially after Dad’s rousing speech. But not Mom. She expected a disaster.
There was no reason the movie shouldn’t be amazing.
Everyone involved was the best in their field, especially Michelle.
She’d won the DGA last year but had been snubbed at the Oscars, so she was owed an apology nomination, if nothing else.
And while Derek wasn’t a great actor, he was at least consistent.
Plus, he was de-glamming for the role, becoming a mere mortal like the rest of us.
By the third take, though, I started wondering if Mom knew something I didn’t. This was worse than a soap opera read-through.
My father and Derek had absolutely no chemistry, and it wasn’t entirely Derek’s fault.
Sure, his Southern accent was out of place, but that was nothing compared to Dad’s amateur theatrics.
He was performing to the back of the theater, every gesture huge, every line a booming proclamation.
He was making Nicolas Cage look like an understated Helen Mirren.
Michelle kept yelling cut and whispering suggestions, but take after take, Dad kept repeating the same histrionic performance.
After what must have been the twentieth cut, he leaned over to Derek and said, “You should definitely remember that accent in case they ever remake Gone with the Wind. You sound exactly like Rhett Butler.”
Derek’s face turned beet red, and I half-expected him to Kool-Aid Man through the wall.
Before he could bolt, Tony stepped onto the stage and draped an arm over Derek’s shoulder. “Derek will be in his trailer. Let us know when Robert remembers how to act.”
Michelle ripped off her headset. “Take twenty,” she said, looking like she’d aged ten years in the last hour.
The room cleared, and Ryan slid in beside me. “Is your dad okay?”
“I don’t know.” I’d never seen him perform so poorly before.
Ryan slid closer, and for a horrifying moment, I thought he was going to put his arm around me and start a fresh batch of rumors. But he merely leaned in and whispered, “Robert told me about the cancer. I’m so sorry, Will.”
“Thanks.”
“I know he doesn’t want Andy to find out yet, but do you think maybe we should tell him anyway? I hate keeping this from him.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. I understood why Dad hadn’t told Andy yet, and it had nothing to do with the wedding. Andy was like Mom in many ways, beautiful and statuesque, but he didn’t have her mettle. His heart was as porcelain as his skin, and this was going to crush him.
“Yeah, me neither.” Ryan ran a hand over his stubbled scalp, as if expecting his golden locks to magically reappear. “Maybe Robert’s all in his head because this is his last chance to win an Oscar.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Dad was no stranger to overthinking, but never on set.
He used to say, “If you do your homework, you never have to feel nervous in front of the cameras, because you’re not even there.
You’re just the character now.” Maybe that was it.
Maybe he’d rushed into this so fast he never got a chance to work through his process, to leave the second-guessing at home.
When I was a kid, the months leading up to a shoot were pure misery for everyone around.
Well, everyone except me. I loved being Dad’s constant companion.
He’d pull me into the library at all hours to run scenes, convinced he was about to ruin his career.
Every time, it would turn out fine, or better than fine, and he would gush to interviewers about how terrified he’d been and how glad he was to still feel that way because it meant he was giving himself fully to his characters.
He said the day he stopped feeling terrified would be the day he retired.
Well, he didn’t look terrified now. He lounged in his chair, sipping herbal tea with a bemused smile. Maybe he was on too many meds.
“William”—Mom waved from across the room—“a quick word, please.”
“Shit, I better go. Your mother scares me.” With vampire-like speed, Ryan vanished.
I crossed to Mom. “What do you want?”
“Theo tells me you and James have been rehearsing. According to him, you’re way better than Derek, and I should replace him this instant.”
“Theo said that?”
She shrugged. “What can I say? The boy has taste.”
Hold the presses. Was that a compliment?
“And just so we’re clear, I’m keeping him. Even after you fuck everything up with James, I’m keeping Theo.”
“Sounds about right,” I said.
“Anyway, I need you to run the scene a few times with your father. See if you can get him to dial it back a few million notches.”
“He’s not going to listen to me.” Across the room, Dad accepted another cup of tea from a PA.
“Well, don’t tell him directly, for fuck’s sake. Lead by example. And hurry up before Derek comes back. The last thing I need is another ego to stroke.”
“What, afraid I’ll make him look bad?”
“Frankly, yes.”
Jesus. Was that another compliment?
“Fine.”
The barn was mostly empty now, except for some of the crew and Roger, the cinematographer, watching playback. I went over and stood beside Dad, who smiled up at me.
“Want to run the scene a few times with me?” I asked. “I’m curious what you think of my Vermont accent. I got a few pointers from an actual Vermonter.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He stood and extended his arm like we were about to dance.
Panic jabbed my gut. “Maybe we should go back to your trailer. Looks like it might be a minute before they start up again.”
“No, this will be better. Let’s have Carl and the boys roll cameras for a sec, too. I want to see what it looks like if I stumble coming out of my room, almost like I’m blind without my sunglasses.”
Multiple cameras on a movie set felt sitcom-ish to me, but it’d been ten years since I’d been in this world, and things change.
“Need a script?” Dad asked.
I shook my head. “No, I should be fine.” I’d already rehearsed the scene a dozen times.
It took him three tries to nail the stumble, and in that time I realized it didn’t feel all that strange to be in front of the camera again. It wasn’t like riding a bike or pulling on an old sweater, but it was familiar in a way that was only mildly unsettling, like a hug from your grandmother.
Running the scene with Dad felt nothing like doing it with Derek.
In fact, it didn’t feel like doing a scene at all.
Maybe it was because Dad really was dying, or because acting was the only way we could share authentic emotion.
Maybe it was because we’d done this a million times before, or because we really were father and son with our own complicated history.
Whatever the reason, the scene felt charged in a way it hadn’t with James and Derek, like it existed on two levels at once: the things we said and the things we didn’t.
I couldn’t say if it was any good or if I just wanted it to be, but either way, I couldn’t deny the pang in my chest when Mom called me off the stage. I missed acting.
“William”—her high heels clicked rapidly on the barn floor—“pull the car around. Theo just called. Atticus had another seizure.”
And that was that. End scene