Bryce grimaced as he lifted himself up and hobbled a few steps. Stan watched and waited as his male lead wiggled his foot and jogged a few times in place like was warming up for an Olympic one-hundred-meter dash qualifying heat.
“Good to go?” The inflection in Stan’s voice made it clear that “no” was not the correct answer.
No response. Bryce was completely absorbed with the rehab and continued to test his foot with a series of jumping jacks, squats, and stretches. Finally, after he’d indulged Bryce for another full minute, Stan had seen quite enough.
“Now, Bryce. This isn’t the YMCA!” he exploded.
Stan’s no-nonsense bark did the trick, and Bryce snapped out of it. He shot Stan a feeble thumbs-up sign and swallowed several rapid breaths, as though he was a coal miner who had just been extracted from a cave-in and was gulping oxygen for the first time in a month.
Stan shook his head. What a piece of work. Not only was Bryce annoying, more importantly, his petty, self-indulgent behavior frittered away precious minutes that Stan couldn’t afford to lose if he was to stay on schedule. The ticking clock, Stan realized, was every director’s worst enemy—with the possible exception of pompous actors. “Places everyone!” Stan yelled, as he checked some settings on his camera, raised it to his eyes, and began to adjust the lens.
Dana lined up a few feet behind him alongside Irv. Her camera was smaller than Stan’s and had a microphone attached on top.
“Bryce, same as before. You’ll start beside me and then run into frame,” Stan explained.
“I could use some water.” Bryce then tacked on a “please” to his request.
Stan’s reply was instant and non-negotiable. “Too late. Give me a good take, and you’ll get all you can drink.”
Keisha moved ahead several yards as a miffed Bryce took his position next to Stan. “Wait about ten seconds before you start your dialogue, Keisha,” Stan instructed. She nodded and began to limber up.
Bryce edged closer to Stan and lowered his voice, as though he was passing on a state secret to the Russians. “And tell her to slow down.”
Stan dismissed him without as much as a glance. “How about you running faster?
“Well, maybe if Captain Bly gave me some water, I could.” To Bryce’s dismay, his dig failed to even dent Stan’s attention. His concentration was elsewhere. He peered at the camera monitor and, once he had Keisha in focus, pressed the record button.
“Rolling!” Stan’s camera was fully digital and utilized memory cards to capture the footage, which meant that nothing was actually “rolling” inside. It was simply a traditional expression that survived from the earliest days of moviemaking, when actual spools of film where being pulled—“rolled”—through the camera.
“Speed.” Irv’s response let Stan know that his equipment was ready to record audio from the tiny wireless microphones hidden under Bryce and Keisha’s clothing, as well as the backup mic at the end of his ten-foot “fish pole,” which he aimed outward in the direction of the actors.
Stan paused a couple of seconds before bellowing his command. “And…ACTION!”
They raced across the broad field in a kind of controlled chaos. Keisha sprinted out in front of the group, while the others followed several yards behind. As per Stan’s direction, Bryce soon broke ahead of the crew, but struggled to gain ground on Keisha. She looked back at him with as much fright and desperation as she could conjure up, a bravura performance considering the underwhelming physical specimen who hunted her down.
“Nooooo! Somebody help me!” She tossed in her best woman-in-jeopardy shriek for good measure.
It was apparent, though, that the athletically challenged Bryce couldn’t catch up even if he sprouted wings, so Keisha was forced to adjust her pace. Once she reduced her speed and faked a couple of near falls, he closed in. As before, Bryce pulled within an arm’s length and even managed to latch on to her shirt. But, once again, that’s as far as he got.
“AAAAAAAAAA!!!!”