consternation at a giant white pig. I tried to keep from goggling. As we walked past, the man holding the pig on its leash was saying,
“You don’t have to worry. She’s just as friendly as all get-out.”
Once we were out of earshot I gripped Jeff’s arm. “Was that really…?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, wow,” I breathed. “Why is he meeting a pig?”
“I couldn’t say. But I’m sure we can find out.”
The restaurant on the lot was an elegant affair with brushed-glass doors, blue carpeting, and subdued lighting. The hostess started to lead us to a secluded table, but Jeff whispered something to her, and she changed direction, steering us to a table that offered a view of the entire restaurant and the front door. For a moment I felt embarrassed, then I decided to hell with it. This was all totally new and very exciting for me, and I wasn’t going to pretend bored sophistication. It was just too cool.
I settled on a seafood salad and a glass of white wine, and people-watched and eavesdropped on conversations. They ranged from “The second act just doesn’t work” to “Yeah, she’s an idiot, but if we keep her shirt off no one will notice.” A beautiful English actress whose work I’d admired came in with a pair of men in expensive suits and open collars. I saw a couple of people whose faces I recognized from movie posters, if not from the films themselves.
Then, surprisingly, Qwendar entered. He was with a tall, broad-shouldered man with curling black hair liberally streaked with gray. Conversations stuttered and died. Everyone was looking at the Alfar and his companion.
“They act like they’ve never seen an Alfar, but—”
Jeff interrupted me. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s who he’s
“It’s skirting the edge, but Qwendar isn’t actually a party to the dispute; he’s an observer. But I will tell David.” I had an uncomfortable moment sensing that I was skirting the edge too, but like Qwendar, Jeff wasn’t actually a party to the arbitration. And I did so want to go on a movie set. Also, I had a feeling that David’s order to stay away from the actor had less to do with the case and more with marking territory
“So answer another question for me. Why so many recesses or half-days of testimony? On TV, trials just move right along,” Jeff said.
“That’s because TV lawyers only seem to have one case at a time. It’s not that way in real life. The parties to this arbitration have other court dates, hearings, depositions, appointments. We’re working around a lot of schedules. Also, this is a civil case and an arbitration to boot. The Sixth Amendment guarantees the right to a speedy trial but that applies to criminal cases. Bottom line, the law grinds slowly, but it grinds exceedingly fine.”
“Okay, that makes sense,” Jeff said,
Our lunches arrived. After a few bites I set aside my fork. “Okay, I’ve got to ask. Why in
Jeff threw back his head and laughed. He had a good laugh, full-throated and uninhibited. “Oh, God love you, you’re a romantic.”
“No, I’m not. It was all set up in the scene where you … they were trapped in the ship that was about to burn up in the atmosphere.”
“Why do you think?
“I don’t know, which is why I’m asking you.”
“Because we thought there was going to be a sequel, and the producers thought a staid and married Commander Belmanor wasn’t going to pull in the female audience. It also didn’t help that Miranda got pregnant. That, together with somewhat disappointing overseas box office, meant the commander’s adventures were over. There is going to be a video game set in that universe.”
“Okay, I said, that makes it a little better. Can I play Tabitha if I buy the game?” I asked.
“I think they’re going with new characters, since I haven’t been asked in to voice the commander.”
“Well, now I’m less interested.”
“Looking to romance me?” Jeff teased.
“I’ve got a crush on the commander, not on you.”
“Ouch.”
We finished and walked outside into bright California sun. I threw my head back and let it beat on my face.
“More like what you were expecting?” he asked and his usual smile was back.
“It is a nice change after February in New York and all the rain since I got here.”
Jeff led me down one of the narrow streets between soundstages. Many of the streets had large white travel trailers with blue and pink piping parked against the walls and the words STAR WAGGON in bold blue letters emblazoned across the outside. I pointed mutely.
“Private trailers for the actors. Also makeup, wardrobe, some are even set up as schoolrooms when you’re shooting with kids. You’ve arrived as an actor when you get a private one. And trust me, size matters. Your costar’s better not be bigger than yours.”
“Wow, is everything out here about perception?” I asked.
“Pretty much, yeah.”
Outside several of the buildings were whirling red lights mounted on tripods. There would be the harsh ring of a bell, and the light would start spinning. “I’m guessing that’s some kind of warning?” I suggested.
“Yeah, it tells people that they’re shooting so no one blunders in from outside.” Jeff was whispering, and I guiltily put a hand over my mouth. “You’re fine. You weren’t exactly shouting.”
We reached a building, and Jeff led me up the steps and through a heavy metal door. I took a step and stumbled. Jeff caught me under the arm. “You have to look down on a stage,” he said. I followed his advice, and saw massive cables snaking across the wood floor. There were voices calling from overhead. I stood still so I could look up. Men were on catwalks probably thirty feet above the floor, adjusting lights and placing gels.
Three men began pushing a flat across the floor with a howl of wood on wood. Set dressers scurried through setting up a vase of flowers on an end table, plumping up pillows on a sofa. In another area a man was pushing squibs into holes in a flat, and covering them with wood putty. In the center of it all was the director with a device hanging around his neck that looked like a light meter. As the light changed he would pick it up on its lanyard and look through it.
You didn’t have to be a movie geek to have heard of Boucher. Though young, the director had burst onto the scene three years before with a celluloid ghost story that had terrified audiences around the world. Now his name was heard in conjunction with Spielberg, Scorsese, and Nolan. He was the new face of movies.
Standing on his right was a young woman with a walkie-talkie; on his left was a big man with a shock of curly black hair and his own light meter. He and Boucher would occasionally lean in close and exchange a few words.
“Okay, who are the two people with Boucher?” I asked.
“The girl is Debbie, his assistant. She’s taking notes on everything that’s discussed. The other man is Christian Alter, the DP.”
“What’s a DP?” I asked
“Director of photography. It’s his job to light each scene. He does that in consultation with the director, but he brings a lot of his own ideas to the table. If you’re an actor you want to be very, very nice to the DP. They’re the ones who make you look good.”
“I thought makeup did that,” I said.
Jeff flashed me a grin. “That helps too, but in a pinch I can do my own makeup. I can’t go reset all the lights, and the DP and the gaffers can do something subtle. Light you from below so you look like you’ve got a double chin. Little tricks, and you, as the actor, won’t know until the movie’s released. And then you’re wishing you’d been nicer.”
“Be nice to people on the way up because you’ll meet them on your way down,” I said, quoting my human father.
