“Take the suitcase,” he says, “put it on the bed, and then grab the towels.”
“I’m on it,” I tell him. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve got this—”
“Take the suitcase,” he says a little less patiently, “put it on the bed, and then grab the towels.”
“Fine,” I tell him. “Take the suitcase, put it on the bed, and then grab the towels.”
“Good,” he says. “I want you to take about half a minute and just play that like a broken record in your head, all right? Then, we’re going to try this again and we’re going to
get it right.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, Dutch, I—” I start.
“What’s the only thing I want going through your mind right now?” he asks.
This is humiliating. They haven’t spent this much time on any single group of extras.
“Take the suitcase,” I tell him, “put it on the bed, and then grab the towels.”
“That’s right,” he says, and the whole set is silent for 30 seconds.
The whole set. Quiet. For 30 seconds.
If this is doing anything to my confidence, it’s not doing anything good.
“All right,” Dutch says. “Now you know what you’re doing?”
“Take the suitcase,” I tell him, “put it on the bed, and then grab the towels.”
“That’s right,” he says. “And, action!”
I just stand here for a second, trying to remember what the fuck it is I’m supposed to be doing. The fact that it’s so simple is making it harder for me to get it.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Dutch says.
I take a step.
“Cut!”
I want to kill myself.
“What happened that time?” Dutch asks. He patronizingly adds, “You were saying the right words, it looked like you knew what you had to do, and then poof! You fuck it up again.”
“Does it really matter if I put the towels on the bed before the suitcase?” I ask.
“Of course it matters,” he says. “It’s all about the punchline. If you get the towels on the bed from the beginning of the shot, you’re going to know what’s going to happen. If you’re under the impression that he’s going to quickly throw some clothes into his suitcase, but he just comes back with a big stack of towels, that’s comedy. You know the fucking drill,” he says. “Now get it right.”
“I got it,” I tell him. “I’m on it.”
“And, action!” he calls.
I walk toward the suitcase.
“And, cut!” Dutch yells. “Okay Jones, what the fuck? Are you trying to bury me? Are you trying to send my stress levels so far through the roof that I start bleeding from my eyeballs and strangling my assistant? I haven’t strangled an assistant in a very long time, Jones, and there’s a reason for that. It’s not a pleasant thing to do to another person. Forget about how unpleasant it is for the person being choked, I have to look into those eyes, screaming for life, and find an answer to the question, ‘Oh great, dear God, Why?’ and I have to let go because I’m starting to feel like an asshole. Is that what you want?” he shouts.
“Not even remotely,” I tell him.
“Okay, then why the hell are you lazily sauntering to the suitcase?” he yells. “You’re in a hurry, the love of your life—though you’ve only just realized it—is leaving, and if you don’t find her now, you’re never going to see her again. You’re running. You’re rushing. This isn’t a slow process, you want to get that suitcase on the bed, get the towels in it so you and she can start your happily ever after. Is that so fucking impossible to understand, or are we going to have to do this again in 30 seconds?”