kill the artist, technologyartist
I got a call back, said Bobby.
Terrific what’s it for? said Kate.
Kate was Bobby’s fiancée. The two of them had arrived in Hollywood with a plan to make it big in the movies. So far Kate had done a dying scene in a horror flick, a Skittles ad, and three weeks in a small experimental production of Street Car Names Desire. Mostly she waited tables in a small cocktail bar along the strip.
Just says, report to the studio, five fifteen Monday, said Bobby.
Bobby put the letter down and poured himself a Jack Daniels and coke. He’d been out of work for almost six months. Kate arrived in LA in June and Bobby joined her in September. He was twenty-four; a good-looking kid with a tight muscular body. He done some modelling, but lately the work had dried up. He wasn’t tall enough to be a model. He was only five feet ten and three quarters. So he’d decided to trade on his good look in another way. He’d taken some acting classes. There were no height requirements for Actors.
Robert Redford and Paul Newman. Two of the greatest actors of our time, Bobby explained to his mother on the phone.
No mom. You work at your talent and the only size that matters is your audience…Huh huh…well that’s the way I feel about it.
And Bobby felt absolutely certain he was going to make it. Because for as long as he could remember, he’d always wanted to be an actor/ movie star.
Bobby turned up at the building mentioned in the letter he’d got. He pressed the buzzer and a pleasant female voice spoke to him through the intercom telling him to wait for the sound, push the door and come right up. He pushed open the door and walked up two flights of stairs. Then he opened a door and stepped into what appeared to be a small reception area. There was a large sign on the wall, just above the receptionist desk. The sign read: Super Cam Films Inc, in bold italic.
Behind the desk sat a middle age black woman dressed in a colourful blouse and a beige pencil skirt. In front of her were a computer and a speakerphone. Bobby couldn’t exactly see what was on the screen, but he imagined that it was something very important. The woman was holding a small mirror in her hand and was apply some sort of make up to her cheeks. She had nice cheeks too. And nice teeth. Perfectly straight and so white they were blinding.
Over by the wall there was a row of chairs. A black girl and four white girls were sitting in the chairs. All four of the girls were busily reading scripts. Bobby tried to ignore that fact that as they read, all four of their mouths moved as if they were in the process of learning the Japanese alphabet. But they all look keen as hell. Oh, and they all had one thing in common. They all had massive fake tits. Evidently the Directors favourite number was 40.
Bobby walked up to the receptionist’s desk.
Hello I’m here to see Mr Babinani, he said, reading out the name that was printed on the top of the letter he was holding
Mr Babinani. Yeah that’s me, said a gruff voice of an obvious cigar smoker.
A gentleman in his mid-fifties with white hair and a beard stepped through the doorway. He was wearing slacks, a blue shirt and a colour cravat around his name.
Mr Babinani at your service, he offered. Bobby is it?
Yes, said Bobby.
Great. I’m the producer…Would you like to come this way please?
Bobby followed.
Bobby tried to contain his excitement. This gig with Super Cam films could be just what he’d been hoping for. It was the biggest thing that had happened to him since he’d arrived in Los Angles. At last all those acting lesson, and all those hours standing in front of this bathroom mirror pretending to be DeNiro, Paccino and Daniel Day Lewis were paying off. That was the thing about Hollywood. Bobby believed that when an opportunity came calling you grabbed it, and held on for dear life. Even if it didn’t seem like much at the time…‘Cause you never knew where it would take you. True the part he’d been offered wasn’t Dr Xvargo or The Matrix, but it was a start. Stepping-stones. You took one job and then another came along, and if you got lucky. And Bobby felt luck…you grew. People got to know your work. You made friends with the right people and bingo. Show time…And goddamit, the next thing you were delivering some tear-jerker of speech about your parents, the big guy upstairs, and your dying grandmother’s last wishes, at the Oscars. So yeah…you had to have faith…Crazy faith…But that was fine. Coz Bobby had plenty. Some of which he got from the crystals around his neck and the chanting he did every morning. Faith…
Bobby this is Mr Klein, said Mr Bambinani. Mr Klein the director of the movie we’re going to be shooting today.
Mr Bambinani extended his arm towards a fat bald-headed gentleman, who was standing beside him, holding a cigarette in a cigarette holder.
Bobby stepped forward and shook Mr Klein’s hand. Mr Klein grinned and looked Bobby up and down. Then he began to circle Bobby, which to tell the truth made him feel a little uncomfortable. Well he was in Hollywood. He’d heard it could get pretty crazy in this town.
That’s great, said Bobby. But forgive me. I didn’t get a copy of the script, so I don’t know what you want me to do.
Mr Klein and Mr Bambinani were seated on a comfortable looking sofa. Bobby was seated in a chair directly in front of them..
Don’t concern yourself with that right now, said Mr Klein.
For some reason he couldn’t take his eyes off Bobby. And it was fair to say that Bobby was a little nervous. No nervous wasn’t quite the right word. More like, uncomfortable. More like the way you feel when you’re a kid and some older woman looked. Some older drunk woman sitting on the bus, looked at you with lust in her eyes and you sat there shitting you’re pants because in all the fantasies you’d played out in your mind it was supposed to be the other way round. You were supposed to be the one doing all the seducing. And here she was turning you, a 14 year-old kid with braces into a SEX OBJECT.
Yeah Bobby wanted to be an actor more than anything else in the world. But there were limits to how far he was prepare to go to make it happen. He’d heard about the casting couch. And he’d figured, or hoped that it no longer existed. So if Mr Klein expected him to perform any sexual favours. Maybe a tiny hand job or a little ball cupping just to get things rolling…then he guessed he’d reluctantly have to turn down the part.
What we’d like to do is start by asking you some questions, said Mr Klein.
Shoot, said Bobby anxious to divert attention away from his body.
Bobby placed his hands on his hips. Then he worried it made him look too gay, so he moved them down to his thighs. Then he became aware that his legs were two far apart and that Mr Klein was staring at his crotch, like a man looking for his lost lottery ticket; so he began to fidget and ended up laying his ankle across his other knee, which seemed to do the trick.
He felt good. He was wearing a pair of blue-denim jeans with cowboy boots, which he felt gave him the James Dean look he was going for.
Where exactly are you from? said Mr Klein.
From back east, said Bobby.
It was vague but he was deliberately trying not to be specific, in case he decided to change it later. [When he got famous he didn’t want people digging up his past. He’d done some dumb crazy things when he was in high school. Like the time he and his buddy Rich, kidnapped one of his school teachers and then demanded the answers to the SAT’s their ransom note. Of course he’d eventually had to let the teacher go when it was clear the school wouldn’t play ball. And the only reason he’d gotten away with it was because he and his buddy were wearing ski masks. And although the teacher recognised his voice, he couldn’t ID him with absolute certainty.] But Mr Klein didn’t seem to be overly concern about the details. He simply glanced over the sheet he was holding and went to the next question.
Parents? said Mr Klein
Dead, said Bobby.
Brothers, sisters?
Only child.
I see. And you want to be in the movies?
Oh yeah, very much.
Donny.
A black man with a thick moustache, wearing cut off jeans, timberland boots and a white linen shirt, that Bobby hadn’t noticed before walked in to the room in carrying a camera.
We’re gonna try for a few shots, said Mr Klein. Just as a sort of test.
Donny nodded and hefted the camera up onto his shoulder.
Suddenly the room was a hive of activity.
Caitlin. Where the hell’s Caitlin? screamed Mr Klein.
She’s with Debbie the make-up girl. She’ll be out in a sec, said an attractive black teenage girl with shoulder length hair, who had suddenly swept into the room. Bobbie couldn’t figure out if she was an actress, the receptionist daughter or some body’s girlfriend.
Just then probably the sexiest girl Bobby had ever laid eyes on stumbled into the room. Bobby was stunned. She looked exactly like a Playboy centrefold.
Christ, thought Bobby as he felt his Adams apple do a little dance in his throat. I guess nowadays you’ve gotta look like Cindy Crawford just to do a low budget movie.
Caitlin had long dark hair, Eurasian eyes, surgically enhanced breast and a generous arse. It was impossible to say which country she’d originally come from. She looked a mix of black, white, Spanish, Puerterican, Chinese, Russian and any other nationality you cared to throw in. The only thing that bothered Bobby was the fact that Caitlin seemed to be half asleep. She was shepherded into the room by a big guy who looked like an ex hells angle, or possibly a moon lighting linebacker for the LA Raiders. 6 foot 6 and 280 lbs of mean hard flesh. The big guy led Caitlin to a chair, which had been positioned in the centre of the room. Then he pulled some rope from out of his pocket, walked around the chair and tied Caitlin’s hand behind her back.
ignite her by jeff harris
Ok Bobby this is the script we like you to do a reading for. Mr Klein handed Bobby the script. Bobby turned it the right way up so he could read the title. Snuffy.
Catchy title, he thought.
What is this a horror, romance, thriller, what? he asked
Don’t worry about that? said Mr Klein
Bobby opened the script and flicked through the pages. There didn’t seem to be a lot of dialogue. Then again it was a movie and Bobby knew very well that movies were more about movement than dialogue. Though it was always great to have some nice dialogue to jazz up the scene.
We’ll be using a lot of improv, said Mr Klein. You’re and actor I’m sure you know what improv is?
Yeah you want me to make stuff up, said Bobby grinning.
Exactly, said Mr Klien. You’re a natural.
What’s my motivation? asked Bobby.
Just read and it will all become evident, said Mr Klien.
Can I do it over here, said Bobby still unsure why there had to be a naked girl in the middle of the room tied to a chair.
No stand over there in the light, said Mr Klein. Ok Donny roll.
Suddenly the black girl Bobby had seen earlier, raced across the room with a clapperboard in her hand.
Take one, she yelled. And roll.
They began to read. As far as Bobby could tell the plot centred on a male prostitute (the part he was up for), who’s clients were on the whole rich women with strange sexual proclivities.
Ok I leave home and I become a prostitute, thought Bobby.
He still wasn’t sure what sort of performance Mr Klein wanted from him. And he wanted to know why some kid would suddenly decide to leave home and become a male prostitute rather than say, work in construction or became a dentist.
Gee Mr Klein. It really would help my performance if I had a better idea about my motivation for the part, said Bobby.
You want to know what you motivation is? said Mr Klein.
Well I hate to be a pain in the butt, but yeah
It’s to stay alive…hahaha, said Mr Klein
Ha ha ha, said Bobby.
The director face appeared to flush.
The script called for Bobby to take off his clothes and then to begin undressing Caitlin, who was dressed in a red bra and panties. Bobby did what was expected of him, and Caitlin played along.
Come on Bobby improv, the Director shouted.
Mr Klein could I have a second please said Mr Klein. I think I lost my focus
Cut! screamed Mr Klein. Debbie get Mr Klein something to drink. Bobby what do you drink? Something to help you relax. He grinned
I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind, said Bobby. It’s just that this is a little new to me. Not the acting…
It’s ok. Really. Will someone get our friend Bobby here something to drink? Would you like an alcoholic beverage, just to loosen you up a little?
Sure. That’s if you don’t mind Mr Klein
Cause I don’t mind. If you’re happy then I’m happy. In fact why don’t we all have a drink? How’s that?
Ok I’d love a JD and coke, said Bobby
Debbie, get Bobby here a JD and coke. I’ll have my usual. Joseph.
Nothing for me thank you said Mr Bambinani.
What about Caitlin, said the clapperboard girl.
Oh I think Caitlin’s had enough already.
The young clapperboard girl raced off and returned five minutes later with a JD and coke and a glass of what look suspiciously like water for Mr Klein.
Thanks, said Bobby. That was quick
Mr Klein has a mini bar, whispered Debbie.
Bobby took a sip of his drink. It was strong. Really strong.
No No, said Mr Klein drink all of it. It’s like medicine. No?
I guess you’re right, said Bobby shaking his head as he felt the bite in the back of his throat and felt his eyes begin to water.
Ok ready Donny, said Mr Klein
Ready, said Donny
Ready Bobby?
Ready.
Ready Caitlin.
Caitlin mumbled something that could have been a yes, could have been no, or could have been the first line of the Lincoln’s inauguration speech.
Ok let’s take it from the line, ‘This is my third day on the job. How am I doing so far?
Take two, said the clappa girl.
Bobby was a bit slow at first but it didn’t take long for him to get the hang of things. Soon he was performing like a star. Well that’s what Mr Klein kept telling him. And Bobby suspected that maybe the JD and coke had helped somewhat, because he certainly felt loose…Maybe a bit too loose.
Ok now spread her legs, said Mr Klein.
Bobby spread Caitlin’s legs.
The whole time Bobby kept telling himself that it wasn’t real. He was acting. And that his fiancée Kate, would surely understand…He was doing it for both of them. And when he made it, as he doubtless would, he could be more selective with the parts he went up for. He wouldn’t have to do movies like this. Which let’s face it was pretty close to soft-core porn. He lifted her legs and got her to sit on his thighs. Her hands were still tied behind her back and she looked dopey.
Suck her breast, shouted Mr Klein.
Bobby leaned forward and slurped over Caitlin’s right breast.
Ok start fucking, said Mr Klein.
Bobby start moving his hips simulating sex
Come on Bobby you can do better than that. This isn’t high school sex 101.
Bobby made more effort
Cut! shouted Mr Klein.
I’m sorry Mr Klein, said Bobby
That’s ok kid you’re doing fine. But listen there are people out there earning minimum wage. There are people out there with mortgages, college fees, going through divorces and unemployment. They’ve been toiling in the fields all day. When these people pay their ten dollars at the movie theatre or head down to their local Block Buster video store to rent one of my movies, they don’t wanna see you dancing around like you got ants up your arse. They wanna see some fucking. Understand? Or at least they wanna see you doing something that looks like, and reminds them of fucking. Maybe they don’t have a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Maybe they’re wife’s an absolute bitch. Maybe their husband’s a fag. Maybe they just got divorced. Maybe they’re sitting in some godforsaken corner of the globe, fighting a pointless war because the government says it the right thing to do. Maybe they’re scared shitless and a little fucking is the only thing that’s gonna keep them going out of their mind. And ok, so what if there’s a difference between fucking and watching people fuck. But at the end of the day, it still amounts to the same thing. For five minutes, or half and hour, or an hour, those poor bastards are not thinking about death, or taxes, or where their last meals’ coming from, or whether their 16 year-old son is a psychopath or their 14 year daughters’ a whore. They’re thinking about something good. Something beautiful. Holy even. And this is where you come in. Get the picture… Now there are two ways of doing this. You can either fake it. In which case you’ve gotta be good. And I mean real good. Or you stick it in, wiggle it all about and we get to make a classy movie. Do I make myself clear?
Yes Mr Klein, said Bobby.
Take three, yelled the clapperboard girl.
