Carrie Fisher - Postcards from the Edge

“NutraSweets for the sweet,” he said, handing it to her.

“You know what I think?” she said. “Actors are the lowest of the low. Unless they have box office, in which case they’re treated with respect without being respected.” She took a swig of soda. “At least with me, there’s an honest level of contempt. They don’t respect me and they don’t treat me with respect.”

Ted nodded sympathetically. “You ought to be an assistant director if you want to sample the mother lode of contempt. And preferably a second assistant director,” he said, taking her arm. “We need to get you touched up. You’re in the next shot.”

After the scene, Suzanne went over to the prop truck to check on the cookie and candy possibilities. The truck was on the far end of the location, and she normally wouldn’t have gone, but it was a cool fall day and everything looked crisp to her. She had heard somewhere that the light in the desert changed all the time, so she decided to walk to the prop truck and see it change.

She moved through the warm hum of the crew as they checked lights, changed lenses, positioned extras. Suzanne loved crews. There was something reassuring about a crew, something that said maybe it was all worth it after all. She loved the different baseball caps they wore, and their jackets and shirts from films and shows they’d worked on before. And their little stories about things that happened on other sets, the anecdotes about bad food, hangovers, and girlfriends. All the stuff of real life. Suzanne felt good when she thought of being a part of it.

She was humming “There’s No Business Like Show Business” as she arrived at the truck. She headed for the metal steps at the back, and as she rounded the corner she almost collided with Neil Bleene, the younger of the executive producers. “Well,” said Neil, stepping aside, “fancy meeting you here.”

Suzanne smiled a startled smile and went up the steps. Neil Bleene held a maroon leather-bound script under his arm. He wore beige leather pants and a plain white shirt open at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up. He had dark hair, a beard, dark eyes, pale skin, and he never seemed entirely to close his mouth. He looked as if he were pleasantly dumbfounded. Or dumb.

Finding no doughnuts or other treats, Suzanne got a Diet Coke and peered down at Neil from the truck. “I understand my enjoyment levels are down.”

Neil looked down at his crocodile shoes and cleared his throat. “Well, no,” he began in an amused tone. “We felt the performance was fine, but… ” He scanned the horizon for the right phrase. “You’re holding something back.”

Suzanne realized she was older than Neil Bleene, who couldn’t be much more than twenty-six. “Holding something back,” she repeated solemnly.

“It felt like you weren’t… that you didn’t really make a choice. You made a nonchoice. Like you were concentrating more on not doing something than on doing something.”

“I see,” Suzanne said.

“I’ve acted in theater,” Neil explained. “I’ve also directed theater. I’m doing this to make money, but basically I’m a theater director. From what I was told, you spontaneously hit Bobby during a rehearsal and Simon stopped you. Well, I don’t think he should stop your impulses.”

Neil was really wailing now. “The other thing is that sometimes certain line readings are appropriate. Like in comedy, it’s a rule that inflections go up at the end.”

Suzanne knelt down to look in his eyes, without giving up the separation and protection of the truck. “There’s a comedy rule ?” she asked.

Neil ran his hands through his hair. “Well, there’s not necessarily rules so much as guidelines. Comedy guidelines.” He paused for a moment, then came at her from another angle. “You were very good in Public Domain . What did you do there?” he asked patiently.

“I had Magna Valnepov as my acting coach and Benjamin Keller as my director,” she almost shouted. “I didn’t have fun with it. We had a month of rehearsals. We worked very hard. We hardly ever relaxed.”

Suzanne noticed that Neil was watching her steadily now, holding his leather script to his chest like a shield. She realized she was getting pretty defensive. “Look,” she said, “I may not take criticism well, but that doesn’t mean I’m not hearing it. I’ll hear it later. Right now I’m storing it in my delayed response area, because it’s hard for me. I wish I was someone who welcomed criticism and immediately understood its value, but I’m not, and if I look unhappy about this, I am. I’ve had one day of work on this thing, and this is my second conversation about what’s missing in my performance.”

Neil shook his head benignly. “We’re talking about two minutes of film. Two minutes of screen time out of ninety.”

“Is it correctable?” she asked.

Neil laughed. “Come on,” he said reassuringly. “It’s not as though you farted during all your dialogue and we all sat in rushes and said, ‘What’s that noise all over her lines?’”

“I’m so relieved,” Suzanne said. “That analogy has bathed me in relief.” She jumped off the prop truck, careful not to spill her soda. “Thanks for the acting tips and pep talk,” she said over her shoulder as she headed back to the set. “I’m feeling much more relaxed now.”

On the ride home, Suzanne asked her driver, Les, if he liked show business.

“Sometimes, sometimes not,” Les said. “It’s a sissy job. Never steady.” He shrugged. “Seems all right on the outside, then there’s nothing behind it.”

“Why did you go into it in the first place?”

Les grinned sheepishly. “Wanted to meet Jean Arthur,” he admitted.

“Did you?”

“Sure did,” Les replied proudly. “Drove her for three pictures she did at Columbia. She asked for me special the last time.”

She hadn’t been at her grandparents’ house for ten minutes when the phone rang. “It’s for you, of course,” her grandmother said to her. “George something.”

“George Lazan,” Suzanne whispered, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. “One of my producers.”

“Oh,” said her grandmother, “Miss Snooty Britches.” She went into the kitchen to open a can of something for dinner. “Miss Snooty Britches,” she repeated. “Isn’t she, Howdie?”

Suzanne put the receiver to her ear. “Hello,” she said.

“Have I caught you at a bad time?” asked George Lazan.

“No, not at all,” she said politely. “How are you?”

“Well, look,” George said. “I saw the rushes and, frankly, you’re holding back. See, I think of this piece as a light, fluffy piece, a kind of What’s Up, Doc? for cops. So you gotta relax. You gotta just enjoy yourself and trust the process.”

Suzanne watched her grandfather’s incredibly long cigarette ash grow while he stared at the ball game on the living room TV. “Well,” she said, “I can’t really promise you I’m going to turn in a Barbra Streisand performance.”

“No, no, no, no,” George said. “You see, I think of Bob Munch as a kind of Ryan O’Neal type. He’s a reactive actor. What we need is for you to be the one who governs the pace of the piece. If you dictate the pace, then Bob will follow you.”

Suzanne sat down and pulled Jigger into her lap, and said nothing.

“So, we need you to establish the pace, and Bob will follow you,” he restated brusquely.

Suzanne stroked Jigger. “I hardly think I’m responsible for the pace of the piece.”

“Well, look,” said George impatiently, “it’s a Happened One Night kind of thing. You know what I mean.” He cleared his throat. “Look, do you think you can do this part?”