Performance In a Leading Role (3/?)
Title: Performance in a Leading Role
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 5800 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: PG for now, may go up to NC-17 later
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is an Oscar winner in the midst of a career slump. John Watson is an Everyman actor trapped in the rom-com ghetto. When they are cast as a gay couple in a new independent drama, will they surprise each other? Will their on-screen romance make its way into the real world?
Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2
Author’s Note: I’d like to just clarify one thing: THIS IS NOT RPF. This story is in no way real-person fic. There are cameos by real people in it, yes, because of the setting of the story and it was easier than making up a whole bunch of fellow actors and directors to populate Hollywood (that’s harder than it sounds). But Sherlock and John are characters. Neither of them are meant to be skins over the actors who play them, whom I hope they do not much resemble except in the physical. Their personalities and backgrounds are meant to reflect their characters, not the personalities of the actors.
The following is important to this chapter so I’m putting it up front.
Quick Primer on Two-Shots
A very common type of shot in films is what is referred to as a “two-shot,” or two characters in the same scene and both visible in the shot. Side by side, or across a table, or what have you. In film and television, a conversation carried out by two characters in a scene will typically be seen from a minimum of three angles: the master shot, which is the two-shot in which both characters are visible, and then single shots on each character as if you’re seeing them from over the other character’s shoulder. Editors will mix up these three shots to create the scene so that you see each character while they’re speaking. The scene in Angelo’s is an example of this; McGuigan mixed things up with some additional master shots through the window and such. It’s so common that we don’t really register it as a set of techniques, but it is.
The way this is typically filmed is as follows. The director will film the master shot, the entire conversation filmed in two-shot. Then they will film each character’s side of the conversation separately, first all of Actor A’s lines, then all of Actor B’s lines. These three shots are collectively referred to as the “coverage,” or the total film for the scene for the editor to select his shots from. If a director is particularly keen and if the set permits it, he may set up multiple cameras so that the coverage on each actor can be shot simultaneously. Actors love this because it decreases the number of times they must repeat a scene and it ensures that they’re always performing the scene with their co-star.
Because here’s the thing: you only need both actors for the master shot. Each actor’s individual coverage features only him, so the other actor need not be present and often he or she is not. The actor being filmed will usually have the other actor’s lines fed to him off-camera by the script supervisor. Sometimes the other actor will stick around when he is not being filmed to deliver his lines to assist his co-star with their performance. This is considered exceptionally nice and going above and beyond expectations, because it is easier to act a scene when you’re acting against lines being performed, as opposed to just read by the script supervisor. Tom Hanks is known for doing this, especially when the scene is emotional or demanding. It’s not exactly expected that actors will feed lines, but if it’s a hard scene, it wouldn’t win you any nice-guy points if you didn’t.
Here endeth the lesson.
Chapter 3
John could never sleep well the night before the first day of shooting. Add to that the fact that he was in a strange place in a strange bed and doubly nervous about this particular film, and it all meant that when his alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. he’d only managed a couple of hours. God, the makeup people are going to hate me. The DP’s going to have to smear Vaseline on the lens to keep me from looking like the Cryptkeeper.
He stared at himself in the mirror, having the usual anxiety battle he always had on his first day of a new job.
Come on. You survived boot camp. You can do this.
Boot camp was all-purpose humiliation. On a film set, it’s personal and directed.
It’s just another script.
Oh no, it isn’t. This is THE script. The one we all wait our whole careers for. The one I became an actor hoping someday to get. The chance to bring something real and meaningful and yeah, maybe even a little world-changing to life on the screen.
You have the chops. You know you do.
Nobody else knows it. Certainly not my co-star.
Give him a few days, he’ll come around. He isn’t stupid, and he values competence.
He heard the door to his apartment open and Harry come in, humming under her breath. “Good morning,” she said, coming into the bedroom and handing him coffee. “Am I in time for the first-day anxiety attack?”
John smiled. “Just getting a good run-up on it now.”
“You know, usually I give you the whole don’t-be-daft speech, but this time you might actually have reason to be nervous.”
“Gosh, thanks ever so.”
Harry slung her arm around his shoulders and met his eyes in the mirror. “You’re going to be brilliant, you know. Seriously.”
“I don’t know, Harry. Will anybody buy it?”
“Buy what?”
“You know. Him, me, a couple.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
John sighed. “Does he have to be so intimidatingly gorgeous all the time?”
“You’re not Quasimodo, luv.”
“I know. But I’m the bloke you take home to Mum and show off to the family. He’s the bloke you drool over from across the room and never get up the stones to actually talk to.”
“I think that’s part of the point. Johnny, this casting wasn’t done on a whim. I think they wanted tension there. They didn’t want two pretty boys, or two boys next door. They wanted you and him.” She patted his shoulder. “Driver’s coming for us in an hour. Better get a shower.”
“It’s the hospital today, right?”
“The waiting room is the first scene up.”
“He wasn’t kidding about shooting in sequence, was he?”
“Nope. It’s right down the line, although some of the outdoor stuff may get shuffled about if the weather doesn’t cooperate.”
“I can’t imagine the weather in Toronto in March being anything other than delightful.”
Harry laughed. “I’ll wait for you in the living room.”
One hour later, John rode in the back of a studio-hired car with Harry, watching the still-dark streets of Toronto flow by. Everything about this film would be a departure from his usual jobs, and not just his part in it. The director had made the somewhat unusual decision to film entirely in practical locations around Toronto. No soundstages. It made logistics more difficult, but it lent a sense of verity to the scenes that couldn’t be replicated. Ang had sat him and Sherlock down after the read-through and explained his vision for the film’s look and mood.
“Stark and minimal,” he’d said. “So that the feeling, it stands out. Desaturated of color. No soft lights, so don’t ask,” he’d said, wagging his finger at them. “Music, very quiet. Maybe no score, no decision there. All things are you, and you,” he’d said, pointing at each of them in turn. “Sherlock, you are like moon. Cold, bright, remote. Far above. Inaccessible. John, you are earth. Steady, warm - accessible. For us we must bring moon to the earth, and raise mountains. The peaks and valleys, like snow caps.”
Sherlock had nodded, as if he understood completely. John had nodded too, even while all he could think was, I have no idea what that means.
The first couple of days he’d be doing double duty. He was playing not only Mark, but Mark’s twin brother James, who was in the hospital having been just diagnosed with cancer. Sherlock’s character was James’ doctor and also his neighbor, and his first meeting with Mark took place while James was in surgery. John eyed the schedule again. Three days until The Scene. This scene at the read-through, even with everyone just marking their lines, not really performing yet, had a lot of the crew exchanging worried looks. He sensed that everybody was dubious about his ability to play this scene, in which Mark came to his brother’s loft and found that he’d killed himself rather than face a slow death from cancer. This was the scene that kicked off the plot. It drove friendly, open Mark to a dark place and forced aloof Benjamin into an unwitting nurturing role. It led to the malpractice suit and Mark’s family drama and Benjamin’s self-destructive behavior and everything that followed.
This scene. This was what he was being paid for. This scene had to have emotional weight, it had to feel real. It couldn’t be overplayed or underplayed. The dialogue was minimal. He’d be doing all the heavy lifting himself, with his face and his body and all the tools he had at his disposal as an actor. Tools he hadn’t had much reason to call upon over the last ten years of commercial films.
This was the scene he’d been waiting for his whole career. And he had to pull it off having been on the shoot for a mere three days.
They pulled up to the hospital where the day’s scenes would be shot. The first scene of the day was the first scene of the film. Mark and Benjamin meeting in the waiting room, strangers, while James, the character who connected them, was in surgery.
John climbed out of his car and was herded over to the makeup trailer by one of the production assistants. Sherlock was already there, reading a Kindle while the makeup artist worked on him. John sat in the other chair, determined to start the day off on the right foot. They’d been cordial at the read-through, but no more than that. And then they both went off for a week of separate rehearsals.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling brightly
Sherlock glanced at him, a quick up-and-down. “You didn’t sleep.”
He didn’t bother to ask how he knew that. “I always have trouble sleeping the night before the first day of shooting.”
“Anxiety is counterproductive to a good performance. It makes an actor indulge his more obvious instincts and reject subtler choices.”
“Well, if you’d be good enough to show me where the ‘off’ switch is on my anxiety, I’ll just shut it down.”
Sherlock gave him a withering look and went back to his book. John sat quietly while his makeup was applied. The woman working on him tutted over his tired-looking eyes but didn’t comment. John watched her work in the mirror, getting that familiar sinking feeling over the sight of his aging face. How long till I’m getting Dad roles? he wondered.
By the time he and Sherlock were in makeup and costume and on the set, the crew had the shot set up and lit. Their stand-ins were sitting on the long couch where they’d play the scene. The cameras were set up to shoot the master.
“Rehearsal!” Which really just meant a run-through to check that everything was ready.
John sat down at his end of the couch, mentally shifting himself to Mark, the character he’d spent most of the past week cementing in his mind. They walked through the scene, marking the dialogue, hitting the marks.
And then it was time. First photography of the film. Ang called ‘action,’ and they were off.
It took three hours to shoot the scene. Ang shot three different master angles. The final angle was a moving dolly shot; they did the entire conversation in one take. Ang called ‘cut,’ and everyone applauded. John took a deep breath, adrenaline surging. He tossed a smile at Sherlock. “That felt great,” he said.
Sherlock gave him a perfunctory nod. “Satisfactory.”
Clara, the first AD, stomped over. “Reset for coverage on Benjamin!” she called. John got up so they could reposition the camera where he’d been sitting. He moved over to the folding chairs set up near the monitors.
“I’ll feed him lines,” he said to Ang. The director turned, regarded him in silence for a moment, then nodded and motioned to Clara.
“I’ll get you a chair,” she said, winking at him.
Sherlock got up and walked around a bit, stretching his legs while the crew reset the lights. Sally, his PA, brought him a cup of tea and they stood off to the side, conferring. The AD called for places and Sherlock walked off-camera. They shot him entering the room a few times, then he took a seat on the couch.
John sat down on a chair next to the camera, in roughly the same relative position he’d been in for the master shot. Sherlock saw him and frowned. “Oh, are you feeding me lines?” he said.
“Yes, of course. It’s an important scene.”
Sherlock seemed a bit surprised by this. “Ah. Well - thank you, that’s good of you.”
“My pleasure.”
They played the scene again over five takes. The cameras were repositioned and they did it again, four takes this time, until Ang was satisfied. “Reset for coverage on Mark!” the AD called, and the crew swung into action again.
John sat down so his makeup artist could touch him up. Harry brought him a coffee and half a sandwich. “He’s staying,” she murmured. John looked past her to where Sherlock was sitting in his director’s chair, talking on his mobile.
“Huh. I guess after I did it, he might look like a wanker if he didn’t.”
Harry shook her head. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t do that. I was just talking to Sally. She said he’s never fed lines for anybody. Not even if they asked him to.”
“Don’t I feel special.” John sighed. “I wonder if he’ll get all sulky after we finish this scene. He won’t be needed much for the next two days. I know plenty of actors who’d whinge that they could have moved this scene later in the schedule so they didn’t have to shoot one scene and then cool their heels.”
“I don’t think he will. Not based on what I’m hearing.”
“What are you hearing?”
“Did you know that he doesn’t insert any stipulations in his contracts? None?”
“Seriously? None?” John thought of himself as fairly easygoing, but even he had a few contractual demands, one of which had to do with Harry being his on-set PA. The others had to do with some baseline requirements he had about accommodations and such. Nothing extraordinary, but they were there in his contracts.
“He has this reputation as a diva, but he’s only demanding about the creative process. He doesn’t care how nice his trailer is or what brand of bottled water they give him. Sally says all he cares about is the work. How did she put it? The rest is transport.”
John sighed. “I admit I thought he’d be a prima donna. You know. Throw a fit if he doesn’t have a particular flavor of organic yoghurt or something.”
“Quite the opposite, it seems.”
“Well, that’s just great. Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more intimidating.”
After lunch was called, Sherlock packed up his script and notes and prepared to head out. “Sherlock!” John called, hurrying over.
Oh good Lord, what now? “Yes?”
“I just wanted to say thanks for sticking around for my coverage.”
Sherlock shifted his shoulders back. He couldn’t say exactly why he’d chosen to do so. John had done so for him, but he was hardly the first actor who’d made the gesture and it had not inspired reciprocity in him. “I hope it was helpful.”
“It was, most definitely. I felt really good about the scene, don’t you?”
God, the man was like a puppy, wanting his belly rubbed. But in fact, Sherlock did feel good about the scene. He felt even the slightest tiny beginnings of optimism that this film might not be sunk by this man’s hamfisted acting after all. But he didn’t wish to get too far ahead of himself. He could only control his own performance. “It was something to build on,” he said.
John deflated slightly. Clearly that wasn’t the ringing endorsement he’d been hoping for. “Well - I guess I won’t be seeing you for a few days.”
“Probably not.” Sherlock would be filming a few scenes that featured only Benjamin in the interim, but by and large he’d be on standby until after James’ suicide.
“I’ll be pulling double duty. Did you see the actor they got to do the body stand-in for James? He’s great, really ripping. Looks just like me. From the back, anyway.”
“I’d expect no less. Good afternoon, John.” He nodded, cutting off the conversation, turned and left. Sally trailed after him, making disgruntled noises under her breath. “do you have a comment you’d like to share, Sally?”
“You could be a little nicer to the man, you know.”
“I’ve never concerned myself with my level of niceness before and this is the first time you’ve remarked on it. Still cultivating your little crush, I see?”
“That isn’t the point. Cut the man some slack.”
“Why should I?”
“That scene was great and you know it. You just can’t bear to admit it.”
“Anyone can do well with a scene like that. Strangers meeting, instant hostility, a point of common concern. It’s like an acting school workshop scene. Nothing he did would cause me to revise my previous assessment of his abilities.”
“Sherlock, I swear…”
“Sally,” he said, tired of the conversation. “Could you bring me that script that Terrence sent over? Thanks. I’ll be in my trailer.” She gave him a this-isn’t-over look and headed off to get a car back to their hotel. Sherlock walked the rest of the way back to his trailer, its calm silence beckoning him.
He sighed, kicked off his shoes and sat down in the thankfully comfortable chair to read until he was needed again.
Sally came in with take-out around ten o’clock. Day Two of the shoot was in the can, and Sherlock was impatient. He was eager to get into the meat of the story, his relationship with Mark, his crisis of confidence, his malpractice case. For now, he was studying his script, walking around his hotel room, looking for the beats, going over the pacing. “I brought you some garlic tofu,” she said, plopping the bags down on the coffee table.
“Not hungry,” he said, distracted. “Where’ve you been all day?”
“I went to the set to watch the shoot.” She put her hands on her hips. “Sherlock, you really ought to be seeing what’s going on there.”
That got his attention. “Why? Is it that bad? Oh god, he’s not doing the evil-twin thing, is he?”
“I just…” She shook her head. “I should get you the dailies. You need to see this. What he’s doing.”
“What’s he doing?”
“I swear, if I didn’t know, I’d think they’d found two different actors who just happen to look incredibly alike to play Mark and James. He’s - he’s amazing. I can’t even. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Of course they’re all impressed. They’re paid to be impressed.”
“No they are not, and you know it. Film crews have seen and heard it all, they are the opposite of easily impressed. It’s like…” Sally searched for words. “When he plays James, he’s almost the same, but not quite. Just different enough to make it hugely obvious. And he’s conveying the love and closeness between the brothers so well, you can really feel it.”
“Sally, I’m surprised at you. It’s not like you to be so - gushy.”
“You’d be gushing too if you were actually watching your co-star act. And I do mean act. This man can act. I don’t know how he’s been doing commercial work for ten years but he’s been hiding his light under a bloody bushel.”
“All right, I get the idea!”
“But you don’t believe me.”
“Sally, I refuse to believe that John Watson has been concealing some spectacular dramatic gift for no apparent reason while seeming content to star in insipid date movies. It defies all logic.”
“He’s doing the big scene tomorrow. Will you come and watch?”
“Why should I? I know how he’ll play it. It’ll be a lot of big, showy emotion and wailing and rending of garments and a very convenient Oscar clip. It’ll be obvious and it’ll be accessible. It’ll impress Middle America and it’ll won’t make anybody feel it too keenly. That’s our job, isn’t it? To communicate the feeling, but not too much? To show the emotions, but not too much? It’s all a caricature and that’s what he’ll be.”
“Come and watch. I want you to watch it. You know I can make your life miserable.”
Sherlock sighed. He’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t. “All right, I’ll come. Are you satisfied?”
“Yes. Very. Now will you eat some of this tofu, please? I’m starting to be able to see your ribs again.”
The Big Scene, as the cast and crew insisted on calling it, was technically being shot on a set. An office building that they were using as Mark’s law firm had an empty suite that they’d redressed to look like James’s flat when the location manager couldn’t find a real one that was suitable. The advantage was one of space. The empty office space didn’t have the confining walls of an actual flat, so the cameras had room to move. The other advantage of extra space was clear as soon as Sherlock walked onto the set. It seemed like everyone in the cast and crew had turned up to watch this scene, whether they were needed that day or not. He slunk into the back of the room, not wanting John to know that he was there.
He carefully maneuvered himself to the monitors, keeping himself out of sight. John and Ang were on the set with the stand-in who was playing James for the moment. Sherlock kept quiet and tried to stay out of the way, not wishing to call attention to himself. Ang was moving away to his chair near the camera. The DP was moving into position and John was clearly preparing himself to play the scene.
Everyone was quieting down, going still. Clara called for more quiet. John positioned himself outside the door to the bedroom. He’d be filmed entering, and then it was all him.
Sherlock found himself holding his breath, a little frisson of nervousness crawling into his belly. Ang called for action. The cameras rolled. John entered the room, and Mark saw his brother’s body, a gaudy spray of blood across the wall, the gun still in the man’s hand.
Sherlock waited. He waited for the wailing, for the exclamations, for the cries unto the heavens. For the tears, for the blubbering, for the exhortations and curses and predictable histrionics.
All he heard was silence. You could have heard a pin drop. It was so silent that he could hear the camera’s machinery. He watched the monitors.
Mark walked forward, more or less calmly, but there was a subtle hitch in his steps that wasn’t obvious. He took the gun from James’s hand. He stepped back and unloaded the magazine with quick, sure movements. He dropped the gun and mag on the floor. He walked. Two steps, pause. Two steps, pause. His eyes were stuttering back and forth to James’ ruined face.
The realization dawned on Sherlock that John was not going to go for the Oscar clip. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t wailing. Sherlock watched the scene unfold and what he saw was something he didn’t have words to describe. It was the cold, blank grip of shock and the unraveling of a man’s world. It was shown to him in small, quick gestures and fleeting glimpses of expressions by an actor who was clearly totally in control, while giving the impression that he was feeling his way through. It was utterly, wrenchingly real, and for a few moments, Sherlock forgot that he was watching a performance. When Mark finally did begin to crumble and the tears came, it was earned, and it was horrible. He heard people behind him sniffling.
It went on for several minutes. There were a few lines of dialogue, very few. John improvised a few more. Sherlock stared at the monitors, excitement growing in his chest.
This movie is going to be like a bomb going off.
Ang finally called cut. The entire assembly broke into spontaneous applause. John straightened up, the cloak of Mark falling away from him, and beamed a wide smile. Sherlock looked around for Sally, caught her eye and beckoned her over. “Well?” she said, eyebrow arched. Sherlock wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.
“I want to see his dailies from the last two days. Can you get your hands on some?”
“Give me a couple of hours.”
“Fine.” He glanced over to where John and Ang were once again deep in conference. “I’m going to slip out before he sees me.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Did you see that?”
“I saw.”
“And?”
Sherlock sighed. “Get me some dailies. Please, Sally.” He walked out and headed for his car. They’d be shooting this scene for awhile longer but he couldn’t watch anymore. He feared that if he did, he might find out what he already suspected: that John Watson might just be a better actor than he was.
Watching the dailies of John’s work over the past few days, as Mark and as James, Sherlock experienced a strange cascading series of emotions. The first was astonishment at what he was seeing, coupled with the sheer exhilaration at seeing the craft to which he’d dedicated his life being practiced with such understated skill. The second was envy that he couldn’t tell how on earth he was doing it. The third was relief, that John’s acting wouldn’t ruin this film.
The fourth was fury.
He’d go. Right now. He didn’t care that it was after ten o’clock and a bit late for a social call. He’d go and see the man and talk to him and ask him how this was possible. He’d demand answers. He would be satisfied. He stood up and stabbed his arms into his coat sleeves, stalked to the door and yanked it open.
John Watson was standing on the threshold, hand raised to knock. His jaw was set and his eyes were blazing. “John!” Sherlock said, for lack of anything better to say.
John pushed past him and walked in. Sherlock retreated back into the flat, a bit adrift now that his mission had been subverted. “I know you think I’m a hack,” John said, without preamble, his hands on his hips. “I know you have nothing but contempt for me and my career. But just where do you get off asking for my dailies? It’s not enough that you clearly have no confidence in me, now you have to check up on my work? You’ve got some nerve, Sherlock Holmes. I’ve looked up to you, you know. My whole career. I thought you were fantastic, bloody brilliant. No one else could do what you could do. The chance to work with you made me want this film even more. I’d heard that you don’t think anyone is as good as you are, but I thought, surely he can’t be that bad. Well, I was wrong. You’re worse!”
“I’ve got some nerve?” Sherlock said. “I’ve got it? What about you, John Watson? You let me prattle on about your films and your career and our performances, and you knew the whole time. You knew what you could do, and you barely spoke up in your own defense. You just let me go on thinking you were a talentless prole when you bloody knew better!”
John took a step back, caught off guard. “Wh…what?”
“That scene you shot today. The scene everyone’s been mad afraid of.”
John’s eyes widened. “You were there? You saw it?”
“I was there. I don’t know what I saw. That’s why I asked for your dailies, because I needed to suss it out. I needed to suss you out.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying to me right now.”
“I’m saying that what I saw you do today was one of the finest pieces of acting I’ve ever seen in my life, and I have seen some damn fine acting over the years, John. So now you tell me how it is possible that you have been capable of that level of performance all this time, and you let the world think - you let me think - that you were just a journeyman working for a paycheck?”
John put up his hands. “You thought I was good today, just so we’re clear on that.”
“Good? Good? Great God, man. You know what you did, you were there.”
“All right, so you thought I was good, and - you’re pissed? I thought you’d be relieved!”
“I am relieved. I’m relieved and impressed and blindingly envious and I am definitely pissed.”
“How does that work, exactly? You’re pissed that I actually can act my way out of a paper sack?”
“I don’t appreciate being made a fool of!”
Watson shook his head. “Oh, of course. Because me and my career are all about you.”
“No, you cracking great idiot, it’s not about me. It’s about what we do. How could you? How could you slum in these bargain-basement movies and let your abilities atrophy, unused and unappreciated? You’ve denied the world the performances that you could have given, you’ve denied the rest of us the chance to share a screen with you, you’ve denied yourself the chance to stretch and explore who you are as an artist! Do you know how many actors work their whole careers to be able to do what you seem to be able to do naturally? You are spitting in the face of every single one of them, including me, when you don’t do everything in your power to use your talents effectively. It’s an insult. It’s offensive.”
“Oh, now I’ve offended you with my career. This just gets better and better.”
“What was it, John? Was it laziness? Taking the easy scripts so you didn’t have to work hard? Acting with lesser performers so you would always be the best actor in the room?”
John rounded on him, his face set in anger. “Shut up, you privileged toff. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it to me.”
He sighed and ran a hand through his already-mussed hair. “All right, yeah. I can act. I know it. I’ve always known it. But you have no idea where I come from, and you can’t know what motivates me. You’re from a posh family, public school, the works. I’m not. My parents were so poor that my brothers and sisters and I sometimes had to rummage in bins to find food. We squatted in half-empty council flats and watched the people around us die from overdoses or a case of the sniffles that turned into pneumonia. The Army was the only way out for me. I’d still be in it if I hadn’t gotten shot. I don’t know what drew me to the drama classes but that was where I found out that I had a marketable skill. And that’s all it was to me, marketable. A meal ticket. A way that I could make sure no one in my family would want for anything, especially my parents, who aren’t well. At first the work was exciting, sure. I wanted to show what I could do. But when that first big paycheck came, and I could buy my parents a house and full-time help and send my nieces and nephews to school and give my sister a job to keep her away from the bottle - well, all that mattered was making sure it all kept going. So I took the first jobs that were offered and the ones with the biggest paychecks. If you think I’ve sold out or betrayed my talent then frankly, I don’t give a fuck. If my family is comfortable and taken care of then I’ll gladly sell out.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I almost didn’t take this film, you know. Soderbergh offered me a part in that Savannah ensemble drama half the town is in. It paid better than this does. For the first time in my career, I chose the material over the paycheck, and it wasn’t easy. It was a close thing. You know what tipped it over for me? You. I knew that you were attached. And I couldn’t turn that down. It scared the living shit out of me to take this risk but I did it because to work with someone like you is something I’d long ago given up on. So don’t tell me that I’m not worthy of this script or your esteemed presence and don’t you dare tell me that you’re offended by the choices I’ve made, which incidentally are none of your fucking business.”
He fell silent. Sherlock just sat there and stared. For an excruciating stretch of quiet they stood in tableau, eyes locked, daring each other to speak first.
“You need for this film to succeed,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question.
“Badly.”
“So do I.” He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “Shall we get to work, then?”
“Oh God, yes.”
Key to Some Filmmaking Terminology
1. AD - Assistant Director. There are usually more than one, ranked in a hierarchy. They do a lot of the day-to-day grunt work of organizing the shoot.
2. DP - Director of Photography, also known as the cinematographer. A close partner to the director, the DP is responsible for the look and feel of the film being shot.
3. Dailies - the raw footage shot over a single day of filming, often runs into ten-plus hours. Dailies are screened by the director and producer and sometimes the actors over the course of the shoot and are sent back to the studio periodically so they can monitor the production.
Only one significant meta reference in this chapter. The bit about Ang’s semi-nonsensical directions about mountains and snow caps to Sherlock and John is drawn from an interview with Jake Gyllenhaal about the filming of “Brokeback Mountain.” He said that at one point Ang told him and Anne Hathaway that “you go together like milk and water,” and that everyone was nodding like they got it and meanwhile he was thinking “I have no idea what that means.”
Next Chapter
Author: MadLori
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Length: 5800 (this chapter)
Genre: AU, romance
Warnings: None
Rating: PG for now, may go up to NC-17 later
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is an Oscar winner in the midst of a career slump. John Watson is an Everyman actor trapped in the rom-com ghetto. When they are cast as a gay couple in a new independent drama, will they surprise each other? Will their on-screen romance make its way into the real world?
Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2
Author’s Note: I’d like to just clarify one thing: THIS IS NOT RPF. This story is in no way real-person fic. There are cameos by real people in it, yes, because of the setting of the story and it was easier than making up a whole bunch of fellow actors and directors to populate Hollywood (that’s harder than it sounds). But Sherlock and John are characters. Neither of them are meant to be skins over the actors who play them, whom I hope they do not much resemble except in the physical. Their personalities and backgrounds are meant to reflect their characters, not the personalities of the actors.
The following is important to this chapter so I’m putting it up front.
Quick Primer on Two-Shots
A very common type of shot in films is what is referred to as a “two-shot,” or two characters in the same scene and both visible in the shot. Side by side, or across a table, or what have you. In film and television, a conversation carried out by two characters in a scene will typically be seen from a minimum of three angles: the master shot, which is the two-shot in which both characters are visible, and then single shots on each character as if you’re seeing them from over the other character’s shoulder. Editors will mix up these three shots to create the scene so that you see each character while they’re speaking. The scene in Angelo’s is an example of this; McGuigan mixed things up with some additional master shots through the window and such. It’s so common that we don’t really register it as a set of techniques, but it is.
The way this is typically filmed is as follows. The director will film the master shot, the entire conversation filmed in two-shot. Then they will film each character’s side of the conversation separately, first all of Actor A’s lines, then all of Actor B’s lines. These three shots are collectively referred to as the “coverage,” or the total film for the scene for the editor to select his shots from. If a director is particularly keen and if the set permits it, he may set up multiple cameras so that the coverage on each actor can be shot simultaneously. Actors love this because it decreases the number of times they must repeat a scene and it ensures that they’re always performing the scene with their co-star.
Because here’s the thing: you only need both actors for the master shot. Each actor’s individual coverage features only him, so the other actor need not be present and often he or she is not. The actor being filmed will usually have the other actor’s lines fed to him off-camera by the script supervisor. Sometimes the other actor will stick around when he is not being filmed to deliver his lines to assist his co-star with their performance. This is considered exceptionally nice and going above and beyond expectations, because it is easier to act a scene when you’re acting against lines being performed, as opposed to just read by the script supervisor. Tom Hanks is known for doing this, especially when the scene is emotional or demanding. It’s not exactly expected that actors will feed lines, but if it’s a hard scene, it wouldn’t win you any nice-guy points if you didn’t.
Here endeth the lesson.
Chapter 3
John could never sleep well the night before the first day of shooting. Add to that the fact that he was in a strange place in a strange bed and doubly nervous about this particular film, and it all meant that when his alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. he’d only managed a couple of hours. God, the makeup people are going to hate me. The DP’s going to have to smear Vaseline on the lens to keep me from looking like the Cryptkeeper.
He stared at himself in the mirror, having the usual anxiety battle he always had on his first day of a new job.
Come on. You survived boot camp. You can do this.
Boot camp was all-purpose humiliation. On a film set, it’s personal and directed.
It’s just another script.
Oh no, it isn’t. This is THE script. The one we all wait our whole careers for. The one I became an actor hoping someday to get. The chance to bring something real and meaningful and yeah, maybe even a little world-changing to life on the screen.
You have the chops. You know you do.
Nobody else knows it. Certainly not my co-star.
Give him a few days, he’ll come around. He isn’t stupid, and he values competence.
He heard the door to his apartment open and Harry come in, humming under her breath. “Good morning,” she said, coming into the bedroom and handing him coffee. “Am I in time for the first-day anxiety attack?”
John smiled. “Just getting a good run-up on it now.”
“You know, usually I give you the whole don’t-be-daft speech, but this time you might actually have reason to be nervous.”
“Gosh, thanks ever so.”
Harry slung her arm around his shoulders and met his eyes in the mirror. “You’re going to be brilliant, you know. Seriously.”
“I don’t know, Harry. Will anybody buy it?”
“Buy what?”
“You know. Him, me, a couple.”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
John sighed. “Does he have to be so intimidatingly gorgeous all the time?”
“You’re not Quasimodo, luv.”
“I know. But I’m the bloke you take home to Mum and show off to the family. He’s the bloke you drool over from across the room and never get up the stones to actually talk to.”
“I think that’s part of the point. Johnny, this casting wasn’t done on a whim. I think they wanted tension there. They didn’t want two pretty boys, or two boys next door. They wanted you and him.” She patted his shoulder. “Driver’s coming for us in an hour. Better get a shower.”
“It’s the hospital today, right?”
“The waiting room is the first scene up.”
“He wasn’t kidding about shooting in sequence, was he?”
“Nope. It’s right down the line, although some of the outdoor stuff may get shuffled about if the weather doesn’t cooperate.”
“I can’t imagine the weather in Toronto in March being anything other than delightful.”
Harry laughed. “I’ll wait for you in the living room.”
One hour later, John rode in the back of a studio-hired car with Harry, watching the still-dark streets of Toronto flow by. Everything about this film would be a departure from his usual jobs, and not just his part in it. The director had made the somewhat unusual decision to film entirely in practical locations around Toronto. No soundstages. It made logistics more difficult, but it lent a sense of verity to the scenes that couldn’t be replicated. Ang had sat him and Sherlock down after the read-through and explained his vision for the film’s look and mood.
“Stark and minimal,” he’d said. “So that the feeling, it stands out. Desaturated of color. No soft lights, so don’t ask,” he’d said, wagging his finger at them. “Music, very quiet. Maybe no score, no decision there. All things are you, and you,” he’d said, pointing at each of them in turn. “Sherlock, you are like moon. Cold, bright, remote. Far above. Inaccessible. John, you are earth. Steady, warm - accessible. For us we must bring moon to the earth, and raise mountains. The peaks and valleys, like snow caps.”
Sherlock had nodded, as if he understood completely. John had nodded too, even while all he could think was, I have no idea what that means.
The first couple of days he’d be doing double duty. He was playing not only Mark, but Mark’s twin brother James, who was in the hospital having been just diagnosed with cancer. Sherlock’s character was James’ doctor and also his neighbor, and his first meeting with Mark took place while James was in surgery. John eyed the schedule again. Three days until The Scene. This scene at the read-through, even with everyone just marking their lines, not really performing yet, had a lot of the crew exchanging worried looks. He sensed that everybody was dubious about his ability to play this scene, in which Mark came to his brother’s loft and found that he’d killed himself rather than face a slow death from cancer. This was the scene that kicked off the plot. It drove friendly, open Mark to a dark place and forced aloof Benjamin into an unwitting nurturing role. It led to the malpractice suit and Mark’s family drama and Benjamin’s self-destructive behavior and everything that followed.
This scene. This was what he was being paid for. This scene had to have emotional weight, it had to feel real. It couldn’t be overplayed or underplayed. The dialogue was minimal. He’d be doing all the heavy lifting himself, with his face and his body and all the tools he had at his disposal as an actor. Tools he hadn’t had much reason to call upon over the last ten years of commercial films.
This was the scene he’d been waiting for his whole career. And he had to pull it off having been on the shoot for a mere three days.
They pulled up to the hospital where the day’s scenes would be shot. The first scene of the day was the first scene of the film. Mark and Benjamin meeting in the waiting room, strangers, while James, the character who connected them, was in surgery.
John climbed out of his car and was herded over to the makeup trailer by one of the production assistants. Sherlock was already there, reading a Kindle while the makeup artist worked on him. John sat in the other chair, determined to start the day off on the right foot. They’d been cordial at the read-through, but no more than that. And then they both went off for a week of separate rehearsals.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling brightly
Sherlock glanced at him, a quick up-and-down. “You didn’t sleep.”
He didn’t bother to ask how he knew that. “I always have trouble sleeping the night before the first day of shooting.”
“Anxiety is counterproductive to a good performance. It makes an actor indulge his more obvious instincts and reject subtler choices.”
“Well, if you’d be good enough to show me where the ‘off’ switch is on my anxiety, I’ll just shut it down.”
Sherlock gave him a withering look and went back to his book. John sat quietly while his makeup was applied. The woman working on him tutted over his tired-looking eyes but didn’t comment. John watched her work in the mirror, getting that familiar sinking feeling over the sight of his aging face. How long till I’m getting Dad roles? he wondered.
By the time he and Sherlock were in makeup and costume and on the set, the crew had the shot set up and lit. Their stand-ins were sitting on the long couch where they’d play the scene. The cameras were set up to shoot the master.
“Rehearsal!” Which really just meant a run-through to check that everything was ready.
John sat down at his end of the couch, mentally shifting himself to Mark, the character he’d spent most of the past week cementing in his mind. They walked through the scene, marking the dialogue, hitting the marks.
And then it was time. First photography of the film. Ang called ‘action,’ and they were off.
It took three hours to shoot the scene. Ang shot three different master angles. The final angle was a moving dolly shot; they did the entire conversation in one take. Ang called ‘cut,’ and everyone applauded. John took a deep breath, adrenaline surging. He tossed a smile at Sherlock. “That felt great,” he said.
Sherlock gave him a perfunctory nod. “Satisfactory.”
Clara, the first AD, stomped over. “Reset for coverage on Benjamin!” she called. John got up so they could reposition the camera where he’d been sitting. He moved over to the folding chairs set up near the monitors.
“I’ll feed him lines,” he said to Ang. The director turned, regarded him in silence for a moment, then nodded and motioned to Clara.
“I’ll get you a chair,” she said, winking at him.
Sherlock got up and walked around a bit, stretching his legs while the crew reset the lights. Sally, his PA, brought him a cup of tea and they stood off to the side, conferring. The AD called for places and Sherlock walked off-camera. They shot him entering the room a few times, then he took a seat on the couch.
John sat down on a chair next to the camera, in roughly the same relative position he’d been in for the master shot. Sherlock saw him and frowned. “Oh, are you feeding me lines?” he said.
“Yes, of course. It’s an important scene.”
Sherlock seemed a bit surprised by this. “Ah. Well - thank you, that’s good of you.”
“My pleasure.”
They played the scene again over five takes. The cameras were repositioned and they did it again, four takes this time, until Ang was satisfied. “Reset for coverage on Mark!” the AD called, and the crew swung into action again.
John sat down so his makeup artist could touch him up. Harry brought him a coffee and half a sandwich. “He’s staying,” she murmured. John looked past her to where Sherlock was sitting in his director’s chair, talking on his mobile.
“Huh. I guess after I did it, he might look like a wanker if he didn’t.”
Harry shook her head. “You don’t understand. He doesn’t do that. I was just talking to Sally. She said he’s never fed lines for anybody. Not even if they asked him to.”
“Don’t I feel special.” John sighed. “I wonder if he’ll get all sulky after we finish this scene. He won’t be needed much for the next two days. I know plenty of actors who’d whinge that they could have moved this scene later in the schedule so they didn’t have to shoot one scene and then cool their heels.”
“I don’t think he will. Not based on what I’m hearing.”
“What are you hearing?”
“Did you know that he doesn’t insert any stipulations in his contracts? None?”
“Seriously? None?” John thought of himself as fairly easygoing, but even he had a few contractual demands, one of which had to do with Harry being his on-set PA. The others had to do with some baseline requirements he had about accommodations and such. Nothing extraordinary, but they were there in his contracts.
“He has this reputation as a diva, but he’s only demanding about the creative process. He doesn’t care how nice his trailer is or what brand of bottled water they give him. Sally says all he cares about is the work. How did she put it? The rest is transport.”
John sighed. “I admit I thought he’d be a prima donna. You know. Throw a fit if he doesn’t have a particular flavor of organic yoghurt or something.”
“Quite the opposite, it seems.”
“Well, that’s just great. Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more intimidating.”
After lunch was called, Sherlock packed up his script and notes and prepared to head out. “Sherlock!” John called, hurrying over.
Oh good Lord, what now? “Yes?”
“I just wanted to say thanks for sticking around for my coverage.”
Sherlock shifted his shoulders back. He couldn’t say exactly why he’d chosen to do so. John had done so for him, but he was hardly the first actor who’d made the gesture and it had not inspired reciprocity in him. “I hope it was helpful.”
“It was, most definitely. I felt really good about the scene, don’t you?”
God, the man was like a puppy, wanting his belly rubbed. But in fact, Sherlock did feel good about the scene. He felt even the slightest tiny beginnings of optimism that this film might not be sunk by this man’s hamfisted acting after all. But he didn’t wish to get too far ahead of himself. He could only control his own performance. “It was something to build on,” he said.
John deflated slightly. Clearly that wasn’t the ringing endorsement he’d been hoping for. “Well - I guess I won’t be seeing you for a few days.”
“Probably not.” Sherlock would be filming a few scenes that featured only Benjamin in the interim, but by and large he’d be on standby until after James’ suicide.
“I’ll be pulling double duty. Did you see the actor they got to do the body stand-in for James? He’s great, really ripping. Looks just like me. From the back, anyway.”
“I’d expect no less. Good afternoon, John.” He nodded, cutting off the conversation, turned and left. Sally trailed after him, making disgruntled noises under her breath. “do you have a comment you’d like to share, Sally?”
“You could be a little nicer to the man, you know.”
“I’ve never concerned myself with my level of niceness before and this is the first time you’ve remarked on it. Still cultivating your little crush, I see?”
“That isn’t the point. Cut the man some slack.”
“Why should I?”
“That scene was great and you know it. You just can’t bear to admit it.”
“Anyone can do well with a scene like that. Strangers meeting, instant hostility, a point of common concern. It’s like an acting school workshop scene. Nothing he did would cause me to revise my previous assessment of his abilities.”
“Sherlock, I swear…”
“Sally,” he said, tired of the conversation. “Could you bring me that script that Terrence sent over? Thanks. I’ll be in my trailer.” She gave him a this-isn’t-over look and headed off to get a car back to their hotel. Sherlock walked the rest of the way back to his trailer, its calm silence beckoning him.
He sighed, kicked off his shoes and sat down in the thankfully comfortable chair to read until he was needed again.
Sally came in with take-out around ten o’clock. Day Two of the shoot was in the can, and Sherlock was impatient. He was eager to get into the meat of the story, his relationship with Mark, his crisis of confidence, his malpractice case. For now, he was studying his script, walking around his hotel room, looking for the beats, going over the pacing. “I brought you some garlic tofu,” she said, plopping the bags down on the coffee table.
“Not hungry,” he said, distracted. “Where’ve you been all day?”
“I went to the set to watch the shoot.” She put her hands on her hips. “Sherlock, you really ought to be seeing what’s going on there.”
That got his attention. “Why? Is it that bad? Oh god, he’s not doing the evil-twin thing, is he?”
“I just…” She shook her head. “I should get you the dailies. You need to see this. What he’s doing.”
“What’s he doing?”
“I swear, if I didn’t know, I’d think they’d found two different actors who just happen to look incredibly alike to play Mark and James. He’s - he’s amazing. I can’t even. Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Of course they’re all impressed. They’re paid to be impressed.”
“No they are not, and you know it. Film crews have seen and heard it all, they are the opposite of easily impressed. It’s like…” Sally searched for words. “When he plays James, he’s almost the same, but not quite. Just different enough to make it hugely obvious. And he’s conveying the love and closeness between the brothers so well, you can really feel it.”
“Sally, I’m surprised at you. It’s not like you to be so - gushy.”
“You’d be gushing too if you were actually watching your co-star act. And I do mean act. This man can act. I don’t know how he’s been doing commercial work for ten years but he’s been hiding his light under a bloody bushel.”
“All right, I get the idea!”
“But you don’t believe me.”
“Sally, I refuse to believe that John Watson has been concealing some spectacular dramatic gift for no apparent reason while seeming content to star in insipid date movies. It defies all logic.”
“He’s doing the big scene tomorrow. Will you come and watch?”
“Why should I? I know how he’ll play it. It’ll be a lot of big, showy emotion and wailing and rending of garments and a very convenient Oscar clip. It’ll be obvious and it’ll be accessible. It’ll impress Middle America and it’ll won’t make anybody feel it too keenly. That’s our job, isn’t it? To communicate the feeling, but not too much? To show the emotions, but not too much? It’s all a caricature and that’s what he’ll be.”
“Come and watch. I want you to watch it. You know I can make your life miserable.”
Sherlock sighed. He’d never hear the end of it if he didn’t. “All right, I’ll come. Are you satisfied?”
“Yes. Very. Now will you eat some of this tofu, please? I’m starting to be able to see your ribs again.”
The Big Scene, as the cast and crew insisted on calling it, was technically being shot on a set. An office building that they were using as Mark’s law firm had an empty suite that they’d redressed to look like James’s flat when the location manager couldn’t find a real one that was suitable. The advantage was one of space. The empty office space didn’t have the confining walls of an actual flat, so the cameras had room to move. The other advantage of extra space was clear as soon as Sherlock walked onto the set. It seemed like everyone in the cast and crew had turned up to watch this scene, whether they were needed that day or not. He slunk into the back of the room, not wanting John to know that he was there.
He carefully maneuvered himself to the monitors, keeping himself out of sight. John and Ang were on the set with the stand-in who was playing James for the moment. Sherlock kept quiet and tried to stay out of the way, not wishing to call attention to himself. Ang was moving away to his chair near the camera. The DP was moving into position and John was clearly preparing himself to play the scene.
Everyone was quieting down, going still. Clara called for more quiet. John positioned himself outside the door to the bedroom. He’d be filmed entering, and then it was all him.
Sherlock found himself holding his breath, a little frisson of nervousness crawling into his belly. Ang called for action. The cameras rolled. John entered the room, and Mark saw his brother’s body, a gaudy spray of blood across the wall, the gun still in the man’s hand.
Sherlock waited. He waited for the wailing, for the exclamations, for the cries unto the heavens. For the tears, for the blubbering, for the exhortations and curses and predictable histrionics.
All he heard was silence. You could have heard a pin drop. It was so silent that he could hear the camera’s machinery. He watched the monitors.
Mark walked forward, more or less calmly, but there was a subtle hitch in his steps that wasn’t obvious. He took the gun from James’s hand. He stepped back and unloaded the magazine with quick, sure movements. He dropped the gun and mag on the floor. He walked. Two steps, pause. Two steps, pause. His eyes were stuttering back and forth to James’ ruined face.
The realization dawned on Sherlock that John was not going to go for the Oscar clip. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t wailing. Sherlock watched the scene unfold and what he saw was something he didn’t have words to describe. It was the cold, blank grip of shock and the unraveling of a man’s world. It was shown to him in small, quick gestures and fleeting glimpses of expressions by an actor who was clearly totally in control, while giving the impression that he was feeling his way through. It was utterly, wrenchingly real, and for a few moments, Sherlock forgot that he was watching a performance. When Mark finally did begin to crumble and the tears came, it was earned, and it was horrible. He heard people behind him sniffling.
It went on for several minutes. There were a few lines of dialogue, very few. John improvised a few more. Sherlock stared at the monitors, excitement growing in his chest.
This movie is going to be like a bomb going off.
Ang finally called cut. The entire assembly broke into spontaneous applause. John straightened up, the cloak of Mark falling away from him, and beamed a wide smile. Sherlock looked around for Sally, caught her eye and beckoned her over. “Well?” she said, eyebrow arched. Sherlock wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction.
“I want to see his dailies from the last two days. Can you get your hands on some?”
“Give me a couple of hours.”
“Fine.” He glanced over to where John and Ang were once again deep in conference. “I’m going to slip out before he sees me.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Did you see that?”
“I saw.”
“And?”
Sherlock sighed. “Get me some dailies. Please, Sally.” He walked out and headed for his car. They’d be shooting this scene for awhile longer but he couldn’t watch anymore. He feared that if he did, he might find out what he already suspected: that John Watson might just be a better actor than he was.
Watching the dailies of John’s work over the past few days, as Mark and as James, Sherlock experienced a strange cascading series of emotions. The first was astonishment at what he was seeing, coupled with the sheer exhilaration at seeing the craft to which he’d dedicated his life being practiced with such understated skill. The second was envy that he couldn’t tell how on earth he was doing it. The third was relief, that John’s acting wouldn’t ruin this film.
The fourth was fury.
He’d go. Right now. He didn’t care that it was after ten o’clock and a bit late for a social call. He’d go and see the man and talk to him and ask him how this was possible. He’d demand answers. He would be satisfied. He stood up and stabbed his arms into his coat sleeves, stalked to the door and yanked it open.
John Watson was standing on the threshold, hand raised to knock. His jaw was set and his eyes were blazing. “John!” Sherlock said, for lack of anything better to say.
John pushed past him and walked in. Sherlock retreated back into the flat, a bit adrift now that his mission had been subverted. “I know you think I’m a hack,” John said, without preamble, his hands on his hips. “I know you have nothing but contempt for me and my career. But just where do you get off asking for my dailies? It’s not enough that you clearly have no confidence in me, now you have to check up on my work? You’ve got some nerve, Sherlock Holmes. I’ve looked up to you, you know. My whole career. I thought you were fantastic, bloody brilliant. No one else could do what you could do. The chance to work with you made me want this film even more. I’d heard that you don’t think anyone is as good as you are, but I thought, surely he can’t be that bad. Well, I was wrong. You’re worse!”
“I’ve got some nerve?” Sherlock said. “I’ve got it? What about you, John Watson? You let me prattle on about your films and your career and our performances, and you knew the whole time. You knew what you could do, and you barely spoke up in your own defense. You just let me go on thinking you were a talentless prole when you bloody knew better!”
John took a step back, caught off guard. “Wh…what?”
“That scene you shot today. The scene everyone’s been mad afraid of.”
John’s eyes widened. “You were there? You saw it?”
“I was there. I don’t know what I saw. That’s why I asked for your dailies, because I needed to suss it out. I needed to suss you out.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying to me right now.”
“I’m saying that what I saw you do today was one of the finest pieces of acting I’ve ever seen in my life, and I have seen some damn fine acting over the years, John. So now you tell me how it is possible that you have been capable of that level of performance all this time, and you let the world think - you let me think - that you were just a journeyman working for a paycheck?”
John put up his hands. “You thought I was good today, just so we’re clear on that.”
“Good? Good? Great God, man. You know what you did, you were there.”
“All right, so you thought I was good, and - you’re pissed? I thought you’d be relieved!”
“I am relieved. I’m relieved and impressed and blindingly envious and I am definitely pissed.”
“How does that work, exactly? You’re pissed that I actually can act my way out of a paper sack?”
“I don’t appreciate being made a fool of!”
Watson shook his head. “Oh, of course. Because me and my career are all about you.”
“No, you cracking great idiot, it’s not about me. It’s about what we do. How could you? How could you slum in these bargain-basement movies and let your abilities atrophy, unused and unappreciated? You’ve denied the world the performances that you could have given, you’ve denied the rest of us the chance to share a screen with you, you’ve denied yourself the chance to stretch and explore who you are as an artist! Do you know how many actors work their whole careers to be able to do what you seem to be able to do naturally? You are spitting in the face of every single one of them, including me, when you don’t do everything in your power to use your talents effectively. It’s an insult. It’s offensive.”
“Oh, now I’ve offended you with my career. This just gets better and better.”
“What was it, John? Was it laziness? Taking the easy scripts so you didn’t have to work hard? Acting with lesser performers so you would always be the best actor in the room?”
John rounded on him, his face set in anger. “Shut up, you privileged toff. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then explain it to me.”
He sighed and ran a hand through his already-mussed hair. “All right, yeah. I can act. I know it. I’ve always known it. But you have no idea where I come from, and you can’t know what motivates me. You’re from a posh family, public school, the works. I’m not. My parents were so poor that my brothers and sisters and I sometimes had to rummage in bins to find food. We squatted in half-empty council flats and watched the people around us die from overdoses or a case of the sniffles that turned into pneumonia. The Army was the only way out for me. I’d still be in it if I hadn’t gotten shot. I don’t know what drew me to the drama classes but that was where I found out that I had a marketable skill. And that’s all it was to me, marketable. A meal ticket. A way that I could make sure no one in my family would want for anything, especially my parents, who aren’t well. At first the work was exciting, sure. I wanted to show what I could do. But when that first big paycheck came, and I could buy my parents a house and full-time help and send my nieces and nephews to school and give my sister a job to keep her away from the bottle - well, all that mattered was making sure it all kept going. So I took the first jobs that were offered and the ones with the biggest paychecks. If you think I’ve sold out or betrayed my talent then frankly, I don’t give a fuck. If my family is comfortable and taken care of then I’ll gladly sell out.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I almost didn’t take this film, you know. Soderbergh offered me a part in that Savannah ensemble drama half the town is in. It paid better than this does. For the first time in my career, I chose the material over the paycheck, and it wasn’t easy. It was a close thing. You know what tipped it over for me? You. I knew that you were attached. And I couldn’t turn that down. It scared the living shit out of me to take this risk but I did it because to work with someone like you is something I’d long ago given up on. So don’t tell me that I’m not worthy of this script or your esteemed presence and don’t you dare tell me that you’re offended by the choices I’ve made, which incidentally are none of your fucking business.”
He fell silent. Sherlock just sat there and stared. For an excruciating stretch of quiet they stood in tableau, eyes locked, daring each other to speak first.
“You need for this film to succeed,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question.
“Badly.”
“So do I.” He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “Shall we get to work, then?”
“Oh God, yes.”
Key to Some Filmmaking Terminology
1. AD - Assistant Director. There are usually more than one, ranked in a hierarchy. They do a lot of the day-to-day grunt work of organizing the shoot.
2. DP - Director of Photography, also known as the cinematographer. A close partner to the director, the DP is responsible for the look and feel of the film being shot.
3. Dailies - the raw footage shot over a single day of filming, often runs into ten-plus hours. Dailies are screened by the director and producer and sometimes the actors over the course of the shoot and are sent back to the studio periodically so they can monitor the production.
Only one significant meta reference in this chapter. The bit about Ang’s semi-nonsensical directions about mountains and snow caps to Sherlock and John is drawn from an interview with Jake Gyllenhaal about the filming of “Brokeback Mountain.” He said that at one point Ang told him and Anne Hathaway that “you go together like milk and water,” and that everyone was nodding like they got it and meanwhile he was thinking “I have no idea what that means.”
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