DVD Commentary on RPF 'Cross-Country', CL/CM
For lissa_bear
Title: Cross-Country
Author: Okay, so it's me. What of it?
Rating: PG-13 (kissing, language)
Characters: Chris Lowell/Chris Marquette
Word Count: ~900 words
Summary: The car breaks down and Chris decides there are worse things than getting dirty.
I find RPF, in some ways, to be incredibly freeing. It's a lot like original fic, in that you're able to give these people personalities and situations of your own making. I didn't do a lot of in depth study of what these guys are REALLY like. I honestly didn't care. I was basically just borrowing their bodies for a little while.
The real plus with RPF vs. original fic is that people already have an idea of what these people look and act and move like. So when I say that CL smiles crookedly, we all know how he's got long eyeteeth that make him crazy sexy, and we know that his eyes crinkle up and it just lights up his whole face. I don't need to say all that, because hopefully that's what you're picturing already.
Okay. Long intro. Onward:
They drive cross country in an old Chrysler, which breaks down at least once every state.
The old Chrysler is in multiple pictures on CL's photography site.
In Michigan, the girls go to get a pedicure. They say they're sick of roughing it.
Chris loves it. He likes the texture of people who have lived a hard life. Hardship, he's decided, builds character. It makes for gorgeous landscapes and people that are full of emotion.
I am bowled over on a whole different and less shallow level by CL's photography. I really get the idea that he feels that way about life and landscapes and that sort of thing. That's the emotion I see when I look at his work.
Marquette has thrown his shirt in the back seat to keep it from getting dirty and is down to a white tank in 60 degree weather. Chris thinks he's crazy. But it doesn't matter, because he's beautiful. Beautiful in a way that is completely non-sexual. In this particular section, I was trying to show that Chris sees everything sort of 'through the camera lens,' so he's not aware of things in an up close and personal way. He sees it all in terms of aesthetics. I wanted to show that he's not really hands on, because that was what I wanted to 'fix' later on. I don't know that any of that came through, but that was the goal.
The kid has the car hood propped open and is staring down, hands splayed on the edge of the car as he leans forward. His hair is spikey and looks slept in, even though he probably took longer to style it than the girls did. A cigarette is dangling, forgotten, from his lower lip as he contemplates the engine block. The light is perfect-it's ten in the morning and there's a halo around him that makes him look like a '50's icon.
Chris takes a few pictures-closeups of the intense concentration on Marquette's face, then wide shots capturing the silhouette of the car and the man, leaning into each other. I do like that phrase.
Marquette finally ducks forward and starts pulling things apart in quick, easy motions.
Chris doesn't know much about cars. He should, he knows, and he pretends like the best of them, but he's always been more concerned about aperture and shutter speed than fanbelts and alternators. There's that distance thing again. Doesn't get his hands dirty, always an observer, never a do-er. But watching his buddy tinkering under the hood makes him suddenly wish he knew something about getting his hands dirty. And just in case I haven't hit you over the head with it enough, I come out right there and say it.
Marquette swears colorfully. "Fuckin' A, Chris. This is a mess." I have no idea where I came up with his personality for this. It's not really his character in any movie I've seen him in, or show, but it worked, so there you go.
Chris moves closer, setting his camera in the back with Marquette's shirt. "Whatcha got?"
"Well, the battery contacts are nasty, which is easy to fix. But come here." He grabs Chris' hand with one of his-filthy with grease and oil-and sets it on one of the pipes that winds around the battery. Their fingers are all tangled and Marquette is standing close, breathing on Chris' neck and guiding his fingers over the metal. I know nothing about cars. Can you tell? Isn't it nice that Chris doesn't have a clue, either?
"Feel that?" Marquette asks, and it takes Chris a moment to realize he's not talking about the breath hot on his neck or the sharp tingling that's making it hard to concentrate. No, Marquette's talking about the roughness under his fingers, and just the tiniest of holes-apparently the latest of mother nature's attempts to sabotage them.
If there is making out in a story, and there's NOT hot breath or tingling…not my story. I don't know what it is, but I always manage to get those things in, somewhere along the way. Honestly, it's starting to bug me. It's getting hard to write anything new.
"Yeah," he manages. "That's bad, huh?"
"Fuck, yeah. It's bad," Marquette says. "We're probably stuck her for two days getting that shit fixed. The girls are gonna pitch a fit."
Chris laughs, and it comes out jagged. Marquette's fingers are still all tangled with his, and he doesn't know quite what to do about it. He doesn't want to pull away but he thinks that would probably be smart.
This is very much from Piz and the interview with KB-that sort of awkward, unsure, but charming thing he's got going on…
"They'll be all right," he says.
"You're probably right. But they're getting their own fucking room tonight. I don't wanna hear about how much better Vegas is than this. Not for another eight fucking hours."
Chris turns and Marquette is so close all he can see are his eyes, deep and dark and God, he wishes he had his camera. Not overly happy with this line anymore. It sort of avoids, or at least lessens, the difference between Chris behind the camera and Chris without it.
Marquette doesn't move back. He raises the hand that's not holding Chris' against the car, and takes his cigarette between index finger and thumb, lowering it to his side. I almost forgot about that cigarette…I hate when that happens.
"Whadya say, man?" Marquette says. He's so nonchalant and Chris' mind is racing so fast his thoughts are tripping over each other. "We bunk together tonight?"
"Umm…yeah. Okay." And then Marquette's eyes are flickering across his face and down, until all Chris can see are long eyelashes, and then back up again. Chris knows this look. He's seen it before, he's done it-it's a test, a question.
He knows what to expect but it's still electric and surprising when Marquette moves in and kisses him. He's gentle at first. Almost uncertain, but Chris knows better. Marquette knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it.
Personality and emotion are the most important things for me when it starts getting 'romantic.' That's when it's easy to go from CL and CM kissing to two random dudes making out. I try to avoid that by staying in someone's head.
Apparently he's dropped the cigarette, 'cause now he's got one greasy hand on Chris' jaw, his thumb digging into the soft flesh underneath, and the kiss deepens and changes and gets desperate.
Yeah. Well, I like it when they get rough. That's why, I think, I like slash so much. Now you know.
Chris can't breathe when Marquette finally steps back, releasing his hand and then looking back at the car like nothing happened. He slams the hood shut and pulls a crushed pack of Marlboro's from his pocket, tapping one out of the pack before shoving it back. He's got grease on his forehead and his cheek, and Chris thinks it's probably because of him even though he doesn't remember reaching up. This last sentence is a little awkward, but I like the paragraph. I like the transition, and the contrast between their reactions. That was what was most important to me to get across there, and I think it came through the way I wanted it to.
He wishes he could capture the moment on film, but his hands are greasy and he's trembling just a little, and he doesn't trust himself not to screw up the body of his old Canon with the grease.
I like details. I feel like it adds something, here. And there's a suggestion here, too, that he would feel less unsure about this whole turn of events if he could just take a picture.
A taxi pulls up and the girls tumble out, giggling. They're in a better mood, now, and Shannon dances over to him. "Chriiiiis," she sing-songs as she gets close, grabbing his hand and laughing. "Look at you! You've got grease all over. Marquette finally got you dirty, huh?" She runs a thumb over his cheek and it comes away dark with oil.
There are pics of her on the CL photog site, too. Here I was sort of modeling her personality on the 'typical' Kirsten Dunst character-footloose and fancy free.
He laughs and pushes her hand away half-heartedly. "Don't worry about it," he tells her.
This kind of dirt he's okay with.
Ta-da! The end. He's gotten out from behind the camera, he's experienced something first hand that he wasn't 100% sure of, and he's not only survived it, he's okay with it.
Wow. I didn't realize how much I liked this story til I commented on it. It is, quite possibly, my favorite story that I never wrote. ;)
Title: Cross-Country
Author: Okay, so it's me. What of it?
Rating: PG-13 (kissing, language)
Characters: Chris Lowell/Chris Marquette
Word Count: ~900 words
Summary: The car breaks down and Chris decides there are worse things than getting dirty.
I find RPF, in some ways, to be incredibly freeing. It's a lot like original fic, in that you're able to give these people personalities and situations of your own making. I didn't do a lot of in depth study of what these guys are REALLY like. I honestly didn't care. I was basically just borrowing their bodies for a little while.
The real plus with RPF vs. original fic is that people already have an idea of what these people look and act and move like. So when I say that CL smiles crookedly, we all know how he's got long eyeteeth that make him crazy sexy, and we know that his eyes crinkle up and it just lights up his whole face. I don't need to say all that, because hopefully that's what you're picturing already.
Okay. Long intro. Onward:
They drive cross country in an old Chrysler, which breaks down at least once every state.
The old Chrysler is in multiple pictures on CL's photography site.
In Michigan, the girls go to get a pedicure. They say they're sick of roughing it.
Chris loves it. He likes the texture of people who have lived a hard life. Hardship, he's decided, builds character. It makes for gorgeous landscapes and people that are full of emotion.
I am bowled over on a whole different and less shallow level by CL's photography. I really get the idea that he feels that way about life and landscapes and that sort of thing. That's the emotion I see when I look at his work.
Marquette has thrown his shirt in the back seat to keep it from getting dirty and is down to a white tank in 60 degree weather. Chris thinks he's crazy. But it doesn't matter, because he's beautiful. Beautiful in a way that is completely non-sexual. In this particular section, I was trying to show that Chris sees everything sort of 'through the camera lens,' so he's not aware of things in an up close and personal way. He sees it all in terms of aesthetics. I wanted to show that he's not really hands on, because that was what I wanted to 'fix' later on. I don't know that any of that came through, but that was the goal.
The kid has the car hood propped open and is staring down, hands splayed on the edge of the car as he leans forward. His hair is spikey and looks slept in, even though he probably took longer to style it than the girls did. A cigarette is dangling, forgotten, from his lower lip as he contemplates the engine block. The light is perfect-it's ten in the morning and there's a halo around him that makes him look like a '50's icon.
Chris takes a few pictures-closeups of the intense concentration on Marquette's face, then wide shots capturing the silhouette of the car and the man, leaning into each other. I do like that phrase.
Marquette finally ducks forward and starts pulling things apart in quick, easy motions.
Chris doesn't know much about cars. He should, he knows, and he pretends like the best of them, but he's always been more concerned about aperture and shutter speed than fanbelts and alternators. There's that distance thing again. Doesn't get his hands dirty, always an observer, never a do-er. But watching his buddy tinkering under the hood makes him suddenly wish he knew something about getting his hands dirty. And just in case I haven't hit you over the head with it enough, I come out right there and say it.
Marquette swears colorfully. "Fuckin' A, Chris. This is a mess." I have no idea where I came up with his personality for this. It's not really his character in any movie I've seen him in, or show, but it worked, so there you go.
Chris moves closer, setting his camera in the back with Marquette's shirt. "Whatcha got?"
"Well, the battery contacts are nasty, which is easy to fix. But come here." He grabs Chris' hand with one of his-filthy with grease and oil-and sets it on one of the pipes that winds around the battery. Their fingers are all tangled and Marquette is standing close, breathing on Chris' neck and guiding his fingers over the metal. I know nothing about cars. Can you tell? Isn't it nice that Chris doesn't have a clue, either?
"Feel that?" Marquette asks, and it takes Chris a moment to realize he's not talking about the breath hot on his neck or the sharp tingling that's making it hard to concentrate. No, Marquette's talking about the roughness under his fingers, and just the tiniest of holes-apparently the latest of mother nature's attempts to sabotage them.
If there is making out in a story, and there's NOT hot breath or tingling…not my story. I don't know what it is, but I always manage to get those things in, somewhere along the way. Honestly, it's starting to bug me. It's getting hard to write anything new.
"Yeah," he manages. "That's bad, huh?"
"Fuck, yeah. It's bad," Marquette says. "We're probably stuck her for two days getting that shit fixed. The girls are gonna pitch a fit."
Chris laughs, and it comes out jagged. Marquette's fingers are still all tangled with his, and he doesn't know quite what to do about it. He doesn't want to pull away but he thinks that would probably be smart.
This is very much from Piz and the interview with KB-that sort of awkward, unsure, but charming thing he's got going on…
"They'll be all right," he says.
"You're probably right. But they're getting their own fucking room tonight. I don't wanna hear about how much better Vegas is than this. Not for another eight fucking hours."
Chris turns and Marquette is so close all he can see are his eyes, deep and dark and God, he wishes he had his camera. Not overly happy with this line anymore. It sort of avoids, or at least lessens, the difference between Chris behind the camera and Chris without it.
Marquette doesn't move back. He raises the hand that's not holding Chris' against the car, and takes his cigarette between index finger and thumb, lowering it to his side. I almost forgot about that cigarette…I hate when that happens.
"Whadya say, man?" Marquette says. He's so nonchalant and Chris' mind is racing so fast his thoughts are tripping over each other. "We bunk together tonight?"
"Umm…yeah. Okay." And then Marquette's eyes are flickering across his face and down, until all Chris can see are long eyelashes, and then back up again. Chris knows this look. He's seen it before, he's done it-it's a test, a question.
He knows what to expect but it's still electric and surprising when Marquette moves in and kisses him. He's gentle at first. Almost uncertain, but Chris knows better. Marquette knows what he wants and isn't afraid to take it.
Personality and emotion are the most important things for me when it starts getting 'romantic.' That's when it's easy to go from CL and CM kissing to two random dudes making out. I try to avoid that by staying in someone's head.
Apparently he's dropped the cigarette, 'cause now he's got one greasy hand on Chris' jaw, his thumb digging into the soft flesh underneath, and the kiss deepens and changes and gets desperate.
Yeah. Well, I like it when they get rough. That's why, I think, I like slash so much. Now you know.
Chris can't breathe when Marquette finally steps back, releasing his hand and then looking back at the car like nothing happened. He slams the hood shut and pulls a crushed pack of Marlboro's from his pocket, tapping one out of the pack before shoving it back. He's got grease on his forehead and his cheek, and Chris thinks it's probably because of him even though he doesn't remember reaching up. This last sentence is a little awkward, but I like the paragraph. I like the transition, and the contrast between their reactions. That was what was most important to me to get across there, and I think it came through the way I wanted it to.
He wishes he could capture the moment on film, but his hands are greasy and he's trembling just a little, and he doesn't trust himself not to screw up the body of his old Canon with the grease.
I like details. I feel like it adds something, here. And there's a suggestion here, too, that he would feel less unsure about this whole turn of events if he could just take a picture.
A taxi pulls up and the girls tumble out, giggling. They're in a better mood, now, and Shannon dances over to him. "Chriiiiis," she sing-songs as she gets close, grabbing his hand and laughing. "Look at you! You've got grease all over. Marquette finally got you dirty, huh?" She runs a thumb over his cheek and it comes away dark with oil.
There are pics of her on the CL photog site, too. Here I was sort of modeling her personality on the 'typical' Kirsten Dunst character-footloose and fancy free.
He laughs and pushes her hand away half-heartedly. "Don't worry about it," he tells her.
This kind of dirt he's okay with.
Ta-da! The end. He's gotten out from behind the camera, he's experienced something first hand that he wasn't 100% sure of, and he's not only survived it, he's okay with it.
Wow. I didn't realize how much I liked this story til I commented on it. It is, quite possibly, my favorite story that I never wrote. ;)