"Goddesses in wool?" Felix asked. "Won't that make them look fat?" There was bad taste lurking somewhere in the vicinity, but not the kind of bad taste he favored.
"You'll be surprised," said Anne-Marie. "They won't look fat, though. Promise."
"The thing is," he said, "my best speech in the entire play comes right after these goddesses do their thing. 'Our revels now are ended,' " he can't resist declaiming.
"These our actors
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air,
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a wrack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep."
"Damn, you can still do it," said Anne-Marie when he'd finished. "That's why I always wanted to work with you. You're the maestro. You almost made me cry."
"Thank you," said Felix, making a small bow. "It is rather good, isn't it?"
"Rather? Fuck," said Anne-Marie. She wiped at an eye.
"All right, skip the rather," said Felix. "But don't you think these wool-covered Disney Princesses might be somehow..." What was the word he wanted? "Might be somehow undercutting? To the speech? Don't they risk the merely ridiculous?"
"I've searched online, plus I've seen three productions, and the goddess thing always risks the ridiculous even when they're people," said Anne-Marie. "They've used backscreen projections, they've used inflatables, they did it on stilts a few years ago. But ours won't look like Disney Princesses once we get there. I'm face-painting them. Glo in the Dark, I thought, and some glitter. Give them a mask look. And since they're sort of Ariel's puppets anyway, why don't we use that Japanese Bunraku technique, or black light--have them moved around by some of the guys in ski masks and black gloves? You've got those anyway. Do the voices with a voice-changer; sort of a weird spirit type of thing."
"It's worth a try," said Felix.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013.
Two weeks to go before the day the planets converge and the tempest is unleashed. They've now recorded the initial tempest scene, with the sinking boat and 8Handz in the bathing cap and goggles: it filmed surprisingly well. Felix will do his own first scene with Ariel next week. 8Handz has been so busy with the tech that he needs more time on the lines.
Today they're shooting Caliban. They'll do the closeups of his speeches, add the far shots later. This is the first day Leggs has been in full costume: the scaly Godzilla headgear, its eyes and teeth obliterated, its edges altered to hang in tatters around his face; his face itself mudded with makeup; lizard-skin patterns on his legs, temporary tattoos of spiders and scorpions covering his arms. It's no worse than some other Caliban outfits Felix has seen, and better than some.
"Ready?" says Felix.
"Yeah," says Leggs. "Um, we added something. Anne-Marie helped us with it."
Felix turns to Anne-Marie. "Is this any good? We can't fool around, we're running out of time, we need to get on with it." He did encourage them to write their own extra material, so he's not entitled to be grumpy.
"Three and a half minutes," she says. "I timed it. And yes, it's terrific! Would I lie to you?"
"I won't answer that," says Felix.
"Take One," says TimEEz. "Hag-Seed. By Caliban and the Hag-Seeds. First there's an Announcer bit, we can shoot that later. 'Here comes Caliban, From his prison in a stone, Kept in slavery, Made to groan, But come what may, He got to have his own say!' Like that."
Felix nods. "Fine," he says.
"Don't forget to breathe," Anne-Marie says to Leggs. "From the diaphragm. Remember what I said about anger. It's like fuel--find it, use it! This is your chance to roar! Take off like a rocket! One, two, go!"
Leggs rears up, crouches, shakes a fist. TimEEz, PPod, VaMoose, and Red Coyote stand off to the side, clapping out the beat, adding a soft Uh-oh, Uh-oh in syncopation, while Leggs does his chant, his rant.
My name's Caliban, got scales and long nails, I smell like a fish and not like a man--
But my other name's Hag-Seed, or that's what he call me; He call me a lotta names, he play me a lotta games: He call me a poison, a filth, a slave,
He prison me up to make me behave,
But I'm Hag-Seed!
My mom's name was Sycorax, they call her a witch, A blue-eyed hag and real bad bitch;
My daddy was the devil, or that's their story, So I'm two times evil and I ain't never sorry, 'Cause I'm Hag-Seed!
They dump her on an island, 'cause she was up the spout, They leave her there to croak, wasn't no joke, I get born, she gets dead, so the island is my land, This place was my kingdom! And I was the king!
I was the king of everything:
King Hag-Seed!
Then along come Prospero, his little baby bitch, He think he something 'cause he once was rich; At first it was good,
I showed him all the food,
He made me a pet, now this is what I get, 'Cause I tried to jump that girl, no other man to do it, Would'a done her a favor, made a whole population, An island nation, all Hag-Seeds!
So he pinch me black and he pinch me blue, I got to do the work while he lies around snorin', Or talkin' his magic, he is so borin',
I curse him back but he pinch me more,
I one big cramp, I am so sore,
But I'm Hag-Seed!
So if I get the chance I'll rip up his book, Break his magic staff, that would be a laugh, Bash in his brains, pay him back for my pains, Make that girl be my Hag-Seed queen,
No matter how she scream,
The more she scream, she askin' for it,
Down on her knees, I'll make her adore it, No matter how she whine, I'll hump her blind, 'Cause I'm Hag-Seed!
Just keep it in mind:
I'm Hag-Seed!
He's done. He's breathing heavily.
"Wow, you killed it!" says Anne-Marie. She claps, and so do the backups; and then so does Felix.
"Yeah, I remembered it all," says Leggs modestly.
"More than that! Best runthrough yet," says Anne-Marie. "We'll put it up on the screen so you can see it, and then let's do a final, next shooting day! We need costumes for the backups, they should be in those lizard hats, matching." To Felix she says, "Bet you've never seen it done like that before!"
"Correct," says Felix. "I haven't." He feels a little choked: Leggs has come through for him. No, not for him: Leggs has come through for Anne-Marie. And the play, of course. Leggs has come through for the play. " 'O brave new world, that has such people in it!' " he says.
" ' 'Tis new to thee,' " she laughs. "Poor old Felix! Are we crapping up your play?"
"It's not my play," says Felix. "It's our play." Does he believe this? Yes. No. Not really.
Yes.
When Felix wakes up on Saturday at noon he's got a bad hangover, which is strange because he hasn't been drinking. It's the brain drain, it's the energy drain. Too much thinking, too much coaching, too much watching. Too much output, too much uttering, too much outering. He's slept for fourteen hours, but that hasn't begun to recharge him.
In his disgraceful nightshirt, worn thin by the years, he stumbles into the front room. Light is pouring through the window, doubled by its reflection from the snow outside. He blinks, recoils like a vampire: why are there no curtains? He's never bothered with curtains, because who would want to look in?
Apart from Miranda when she's outside, peeping through the glass to make sure he's all right. Where is she? Mornings are not her time, and especially not twelve o'clock noon when the sun's at its highest. The brightness fades her; she needs the twilight to glow.
Idiot, he tells himself. How long will you keep yourself on this intravenous drip? Just enough illusion to keep you alive. Pull the plug, why don't you? Give up your tinsel stickers, your paper cutouts, your colored crayons. Face the plain, unvarnished
grime of real life.
But real life is brilliantly colored, says another part of his brain. It's made up of every possible hue, including those we can't see. All nature is a fire: everything forms, everything blossoms, everything fades. We are slow clouds...
He shakes himself, scratches his head. Blood flow, blood flow, to revive the shriveling walnut inside his skull. Coffee is what he needs. He boils water in his electric kettle, steeps the ground-up beans, filters the potion, then gulps it down like an alky gulping rum. Neurons begin to spark.
Clothes on, jeans and a sweatshirt. He makes himself a gruel of mushed-up breakfast cereals, the dregs of what's left at the bottoms of three boxes. It's time to go shopping for food, replenish the cupboard. He can't let himself turn into one of those desiccated recluses discovered months after they've died of starvation because they forgot to eat, so compelling were their visions.
Right. Now he's restored. Now he's prepared.
--
He turns on his computer, does a search for Tony and Sal. There they are, them and their sound bites, three hundred miles away. They've got another of their ilk in tow: Sebert Stanley, Minister of Veterans Affairs, a weak-spined yes-man from way back, though his voters trust him because they knew his uncle and they've always elected a Stanley.
They'll be here in a twink, and how delicious that will be for Felix! Will they recognize him? Not at first, because he'll stay out of sight while the Goblins are doing their work. How will they react when they think their lives are dangling by a thread? Will there be anguish? Yes, there will be anguish. Double-twisted anguish. No doubt about that.
On the calendar he previews the week ahead: his own scenes in the play, upcoming. There's time for only one take on the video camera, two at the most: he'll have to be as good as possible the first time through. He's been cocksure about his lines--surely they're engraved on his bones by now--but is that wise? What about the stances, the gestures, the rubberizing of the face? The force, the precision. He should rehearse. Tip of the tongue, top of the teeth. She sells seashells by the seashore.
He opens the large armoire. There's his magic garment, its many eyes catching the light. He takes it out, brushes off the dust and a few filmy cobwebs. For the first time in twelve years, he slips it on.
It's like stepping back into a shed skin; as if the cloak is wearing him and not the other way around. In the small mirror, he preens. Shoulders back, lift the diaphragm, expand the lower belly, make room for the lungs. Mi-mi-mi, mo-mo-mo, mu-mu-mu. Sagacious. Preposterous. Tempestuous.
Malicious sprite. Don't spit.
Next for his staff. The cane with its silver fox head leaps into his hand. He raises it into the air: his wrist's electric.
"Approach, my Ariel. Come," he intones.
His voice sounds fraudulent. Where is the authentic pitch, the true note? Why did he ever think he could play this impossible part? So many contradictions to Prospero! Entitled aristocrat, modest hermit? Wise old mage, revengeful old poop? Irritable and unreasonable, kindly and caring? Sadistic, forgiving? Too suspicious, too trusting? How to convey each delicate shade of meaning and intention? It can't be done.
They cheated for centuries when presenting this play. They cut speeches, they edited sentences, trying to confine Prospero within their calculated perimeters. Trying to make him one thing or the other. Trying to make him fit.
Don't quit now, he tells himself. There's too much at stake.
He'll try the line again. Should it be more like an order or more like an invitation? How far away does he think Ariel is when he's saying this? Or calling it? A sibillant or a shout? He's imagined himself in the scene so often he hardly knows how to play it. He can never match his own exalted conception of it.
"Approach, my Ariel." He leans forward, as if listening. "Come!"
Right next to his ear he hears his Miranda's voice. It's barely a whisper, but he hears it.
All hail, great master, grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure, be't to fly,
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curled clouds; to thy strong bidding, task
Ariel and all his quality.
Felix drops his staff as if it's burning him. Did that really happen? Yes, it did! He heard it!
Miranda's made a decision: she'll be understudying Ariel--surely he can't raise any objections to that.
How clever of her, how perfect! She's found the one part that will let her blend in seamlessly at rehearsals. Only he will be able to see her, from time to time. Only he will hear her. She'll be invisible to every eyeball else.
"My brave spirit!" he cries. He'd like to give her a hug, but that's not possible. Prospero and Ariel never touch: how can you touch a spirit? Right now he can't even see her. He'll have to be content with the voice.
On Monday morning Felix wakes early, his dream still haunting him. What was it? There was music in it, and someone moving away from him into the trees. He wanted to call out, ask them to wait, but he couldn't speak or move.
DREAMS, he should have written on his whiteboard. It's surely a main keynote. My spirits as in a dream are all bound up. How many people in the play fall asleep suddenly or talk about dreaming? We are such stuff as dreams are made of. But what are dreams made of? Rounded with a sleep. Rounded. It chimes so exactly with the great globe itself. Did Shakespeare always know what he was doing, or was he sleepwalking part of the time? In the flow? Writing in a trance? Enacting an enchantment he himself was under? Is Ariel a Muse figure? Felix can picture a whole different Tempest, one in which...
Shut up, he tells himself. Don't add anything more to the mix. The guys have got their hands full as it is.
--
Drinking his first coffee, he peers out the window. It's overcast and freezing cold: the pane is scrolled with his gelid breath. A front must be moving through. There's been sleet during the night; maybe there will be power lines down. There will also be black ice, treacherous because invisible. The sanders must have been along the road, though, so he should be fine if he drives slowly.
Today they'll be shooting his first Act I scene with Ariel, in full costume. He stuffs his animal cloak into a green garbage bag, adds the fox-head cane. Then he inserts himself into his outerwear: quilted coat, fleece-lined boots, heavy gloves, red and white faux-wool tuque with a bobble on top, two bucks at the Value Village in Makeshiweg, said Anne-Marie, who presented it to him because she didn't want his head to get cold. "We need the junk in your skull," she said, which was her gruff way of putting it. She claims to disdain sentiment.
"Have you made peace with WonderBoy?" he asked her, keeping his voice neutral. "Is he still bothering you?"
"He wants to be my pen pal," she said. "Write me letters, once we've done the play."
"That's a terrible idea!" he said too vigorously. "Then he'll know your address, and when he gets out, he'll try to--I trust you said no."
"Just let me get through this," she said.
"You're leading him on," said Felix. "Is that fair?"
"We haven't shot the big love scene yet," she said. "You're the director. You want an Ooo scene or a Meh scene? Because if I say a definite no, it'll be Meh."
"You're ruthless! That's unethical," he said.
"Don't preach, I learned from the best. Everything for the play, right? That's how you put it twelve years ago. As I recall."
That was then, Felix thought. Would I say it today? "I'll talk to him," said Felix. "Straighten things out."
"You're not my real dad," she said. "I can deal with this. It'll be all right. Trust me."
Dressing for the shot, she'd taken her hair out of its bun, given it a windblown look, and stuck in a few paper flowers. She'd made the dress herself: white, but raggedy at the hems, with a sash of knitted twine. One sleeve was off the shoulder. Bare feet, of course. A little bronzer, a little blusher, not too much. Altogether dewy.
The scene was everything Felix could have wished: wide-eyed innocence on h
er part, rapt enchantment. WonderBoy was impeccable: respectful but imploring, the embodiment of yearning desire. When he said, "Oh you wonder!" and reached out as if to touch her, then let his hand hover as if restrained by glass, he would have melted steel. He was more than convincing.
I hope she won't destroy him, thought Felix. But he's a con man, don't forget. A con man playing an actor. A double unreality.
--
He does one last check in the mirror. He's lost weight over the past weeks, he's slightly gaunt. His eyes have the intent stare of a caged hawk, but he can make that work for him during his scenes: the stare, the glare. Bent on his prey, but also agitated, distracted. He turns his head sideways, eyes his profile. Add a pinch of scariness, a dollop of Dracula? No, better not.
He winds his scarf around his neck, then follows the white plume of his breath out to his car. The car, miraculously, starts. This is a good omen. He is fond of good omens right now.
--
Miranda hasn't forgotten her decision: she's determined to be in the play. She accompanies him to the car--he can feel her there, behind his left shoulder--but at first she won't get into it. Is she afraid of it? Is she remembering the last time she was in a car, on that trip to the hospital when she was three, wrapped in blankets and running a high fever? He hopes not.
Too late, too late. Why hadn't he noticed, earlier, the flushed cheeks, the quick breathing, the drowsiness? Because he wasn't there, or else he was there but immersed in some arcane scheme or other. Cymbeline--was that the project that had triggered his absence? That he'd found more precious than his loved darling? His fault, his most grievous fault.
--
He explains the car to her, slowly and carefully. It's a magic flying machine, he tells her, something like a ship except that it runs along the ground on wheels. He shows her the wheels. The smoke coming out of it doesn't mean it's on fire, it's from the engine. The engine is what makes it go. He will be in charge of the car, so there's nothing to fear. She can ride in the back, right behind him. If she wants to be in the play that's how they have to get there. It will be almost like flying through the air.
Luckily there's no one around watching him talk out loud, or to see him opening the back door of the car for a person who isn't there.