Straying From the Path
Nathan’s vision for RealCity’s first film was simple—simple story, simple setting, minimal sets and characters. That was part of the point, with bluebox it was so easy to create complex, baroque worlds, pour on the detail without bounds of location or expense. All Nathan’s shoots would happen in L.A.—the real L.A., not the stock footage digital creations that had become the norm over the last generation. The story was one main character’s journey across the city as he followed clues to find a woman he’d fallen in love with at first sight. The weight that one actor would carry was enormous. He had to show that a man interacting with his genuine environment was as interesting as a bluebox extravaganza.
The simple task of buying something at a convenience store, something he’d probably done a hundred times himself, Nick made look like an exercise in torture.
“I can’t use him,” Nathan said.
Of course he couldn’t, but Cass’s heart broke for Nick anyway.
“Can you—” Nathan said, tapping his finger on the desk and looking away. “Can you tell him?”
She stood. “No. You’re the director—that’s your job.”
“I thought he might take it better coming from you. I know how much he wanted to do this—”
“That’s why I can’t tell him. I don’t want him getting pissed off at me.”
“But he wouldn’t—”
“No. No way. I have no connection to him professionally.”
“Can you at least be here when I break the news to him? Just in the room.”
“Then he’ll know that I knew and he’ll be mad that I didn’t tell him.”
Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay. You’re right. That isn’t fair. I’m sorry.”
Nathan let her off the hook, but her stomach churned the rest of the morning. Nick arrived, and the churning got worse. Nathan called him to his office just as he was saying good morning to her, saving her from trying to act like nothing was wrong.
They’d been seeing each other for six weeks. If he had just been after her for the job, he wouldn’t have stuck around. And if she’d just been seeing him because he was famous, she wouldn’t have stuck around. Right?
When Nathan was finished with Nick, she’d take the afternoon off. She’d get sandwiches and take him to the park.
“Cass? Could you come here please?” Nathan called from his office.
He closed the door behind her and put his hands in his pockets. Nick was leaning against a cabinet, arms crossed, shoulders hunched sullenly.
“What’s up?” she said
warily.
“Here’s the situation: I’ve been considering whether or not to keep Nick on the film.” Graciously, he saved her from being in on a conspiracy. No explaining to Nick how much she did or didn’t know. Still out of the loop, like a good accountant. She tried to look shocked.
Nick shook his head. “You can’t can me. The press is already talking about this. ‘Nick May Does Real Film,’ on the Variety feed. If it gets out that I was kicked off the film—it’ll look bad. Like I couldn’t hack it, you know?”
“We’re trying to work out a compromise,” Nathan said. “You might be able to help.”
They played tag with their gazes: Cass looked at Nick, Nick looked at Nathan, then at Cass, Nathan looked at Cass.
“What can I do?”
Nathan pursed his lips. “Help Nick learn how to act.”
Nick looked wounded, hunched in on himself like a bear. But his eyes were hopeful, pleading with her.
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because you’re smart. Because you genuinely like film. Because then Variety won’t report that Nick May has hired an acting coach, who’d probably be some wizened professor from UCLA who doesn’t know the first thing about film anyway.”
She didn’t know anything about acting, much less teaching acting. But Nathan was right; she loved film. She’d spent hours of her childhood watching old video disks when she should have been out playing with the other children or cultivating a sports habit. Movies were windows into other times and places. She liked peering through them. She liked modern bluebox as well as the old stuff, which had a visceral solidity.