Chapter 71: Read Lines & Redlines

Chapter 71: Read Lines & Redlines

Disney Motion Picture Studios, LA. January 2012.

HOOONK! Fun fact: did you know that the average car horn blares out in the key of F? Tone deaf as I was, I was just as unaware. At least until the string of sharp effs Anita clenched out under breath clued me into the tidbit. 

HO—HON—HONK! From, practically, my dedicated room in Anita’s Calabasas hacienda to studio street here in Burbank, the two of us had been suffering that incessant one-note irritation. 

Loud and annoying enough that instead of savouring the California weather, I’d been forced to put the convertible’s hood up.

As a rule, everyone avoided putting me behind the steering wheel if they can help it—for health, safety, and reasons concerning sanity. For once, though, it was a good thing I was chauffeuring today. Anita’s worsening mood at the typical LA morning commute rush hour symphony was liable to test exactly how metaphorical ‘driving me up the wall’ remained. 

Mercifully, however, I was allowed to flick the indicator on as the Disney lot entrance came into sight. Yet, the sounds—HONK HONK—refused to pump the brakes. 

Anita abandoned the serenity of rubbing her temples and succumbed to road rage. 

Snapping my hand, I snagged the waistband of her trousers right as she attempted to defenestrate herself out of the car. “I know your goddamn ears don’t work with how much you blast that fuckin’ horn, but are you blind, too!? We’re literally turning off the road you, wha—! Fuck me? No! Fuck you!” Still, she managed her upper-half; core strength and fury successfully keeping her upright as she cussed out the offending tail-gater with both middle fingers. “Double fuck!”

As I single-handedly steered inside the gated zone, security rushed to hoist the barricade arm in fear of my raging agent. 

“Get that out of your system?” It was disorienting to my self image being the one to discourage someone from jumping out of a moving vehicle. Usually, that was my schtick. 

“Don’t you start!” Anita swatted my hand away, slammed herself into her seat, and yanked the sun visor open. She fluffed her hair to reacquire some semblance of professionalism, but the throbbing vein on her forehead was rendering her primping less effective. “I wouldn’t be half as mad if it weren’t for this headache. Which, need I remind, is partly your fault for exposing me to that French photographer of yours again!”

“Yes, Migraine does tend to have that effect on people.” Michel Grignon had flogged my face across the pages of his recently released photo book. His Bas-themed muse now graced coffee tables all around the globe. 

We’d met up to commemorate, and he’d used the opportunity as an excuse to regale us exhaustively with his newest creative eureka. To hear him yell it, quote: ‘studying the corporate urban underbelly as un motif inspired him to cast a fresh lens on the extreme opposite. A dichotomous shift in his repertoire to showcase the essence of suburban celebrations!’. 

The unpretentious translation basically meant he’d grown a fascination with capturing block parties. Understanding him netted me an invite to the next one. I accepted; sounded like my kind of fun.

I’d even been graciously allowed a plus-one! “If I never see that guy again, it’ll be too soon.” Though I reckoned Anita shan’t be attending with me. “Now, game face on. We’ve got a deal to negotiate.”

–

After quickly signing-in at reception, and another stop at the legal department to sort out any non-disclosure agreement paperwork for the day’s discussion, Anita and I were ushered into a conference room. 

A giant, spit-shined glass table, ringed with stiff-back office chairs, and a lonely booklet, the only occupant besides us. The harsh fluorescent bulbs pointed a spotlight onto what was undoubtedly the script I’d be reading today, titled Thursday Mourning. “Please have a run through, Mr Rhys. Mr Feige and the director should be with you shortly.” The assistant relayed her instruction and walked out while we settled in. 

“Clever. And supremely paranoid.” Anita cautioned as I Idly thumbed through the red paper pages of the screenplay.

“What d’you mean?”

Anita rapped her nail hard on the table. “Bas, how do I normally bring you new scripts?”

“Is this a trick question?” I carefully slid the script out of her reach. “You’re not planning on rolling it up and bashing my head, yeah?” I was a deeply abused and traumatised boy.

She pinched and twisted my ear, anyway. Now who was paranoid?

“Stop fooling around and think about it. You always get a crisp, white bundle delivered in the mail, with as many copies as you can request. No NDAs, no sequestering in out-of-the-way offices, no black printing on red to make it difficult to copy or leak. Hell, I’ll bet anything the film title’s just a placeholder, too.” The more Anita deduced, the more apparent it got. Wherein it clicked who the exec I’d be meeting was, as well. “This is a Marvel project, Bas.”

Avengers was scheduled to release this summer, which meant I’d formally been tagged for MCU phase two. 

I almost ripped the binding off the spine when I tore through the script. Chanting over and over in my mind to let it please be Captain America: Winter Soldier or Guardians of the Galaxy. Sadly, my desperate prayers were instead answered by the Norse pantheon. 

Shit. Thor: The Dark World. Thursday mourning was right, because this story was as dead tired as the end of the work week.

“Uuurgh…” I flopped back bonelessly in my chair and despondently dropped the script on my face, covering it.

“Your reaction’s obvious, but I still have to ask. Verdict?”

I was thankful the booklet tenting over my face muffled my voice, otherwise I might’ve risked wailing to the high heavens. “I think… I’m about to make my first bad movie.”

“Shame. The distribution deal you struck for Limitless means they get final decision. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing. And that’s precisely the problem. Script’s not good enough to be great, and not awful enough to be hilarious, either. It’s just meh.” I explained remembering the only thing I could recall about this movie was that there was nothing to remember about it in the first place. “Worst part is, I think a lot of the fault for that lies with the character I suspect they’ve chosen for me.” My only consolation was that it was just a one-and-done character, rather than a chain that’s tied me down for a multi-option multi-year commitment.

“Ah, that… I’ll be able to do something about.” Anita comfortingly patted my thigh. “Don’t worry, let me handle this.” 

Right on cue, the doorknob clacked mechanically, granting entry to the two missing members of this gathering. I couldn’t confirm who they were, primarily because I had yet to take off my paper mask to wear my polite plastic one. “Um—I… uh, certainly hope that’s you under there, Bas.” Nobody could see it, but I was totally quirking my eyebrow right now. That voice sounded familiar. “You’re not playing another faceless man prank on us again, are you?”

Wiggling my head, I shimmied the sheaf ‘til it rested just below my nose, letting me pin a name to the friendly face. “Alan?” The movement of my jaw tipped the script, and it fluttered to the floor—where it belonged.

“Oh! Phew, it is you.” Alan Taylor, the same gent who’d directed all of my scenes as Jaqen H’ghar for Game of Thrones, took more confident steps into the room once he identified me. 

He was followed and overtaken by MCU’s head honcho, Kevin Feige. "And what a pleasure it is finally to meet you, Bas!” Rounding the table, Kevin snatched my hand and vigorously shook me until my listless form vibrated back onto my feet. “Apologies for keeping you waiting so long since your dress rehearsal a while back. Our team’s been debating your best placement, and we didn’t have a solid idea until Alan joined us.”

“I’ve nary been involved a fortnight, to be honest. But as soon as I read the script, alongside the recommended reading ala the comics, you immediately became my first choice to play the part, Bas! We’ve all watched Limitless. You seriously brought Pacino in Scarface to mind. Your stint as a fantasy assassin was wonderfully killer, too—especially when you gave those watching a heart attack hopping off that cliff. I genuinely couldn’t think of anyone more insanely villainous to play Malekith!” Alan’s praise was effusive, but with every sentence he uttered, Kevin seemed to get more effing angry. 

I figured it out because of the increasingly crushing vise around my knuckles. Clearly, that little nugget was supposed to be kept under wraps. Likely, for negotiation purposes.

Unfortunately for Kevin, his stilted expression only served as blood in the water for my shark. Anita capitalised instantly. “And here I thought this movie’s been in the works since the first Thor premiered. Trouble in production paradise? I thought shooting would’ve been right around the corner at this late stage.”

“It has been, yes. No alarm bells yet, though. We’re still on track for a twenty-thirteen fall release. Casting’s our last hurdle, so as soon as we can get Bas’ autograph, the set’ll be ready for his arrival come this summer.” Kevin reluctantly reassured as he sat next to me.

Which spurred Anita to take the floor in his stead. Bending down, she scooped the discarded script, then stood. “Optimistic.” She tossed it with an audible thunk onto the glass surface. “Which isn’t how I’d describe the state of the screenplay. Needs serious work.” 

Kevin didn’t bite the bait. Anita wasn’t alone in her element. Feige had his own fins. “You know how it is, Specter. There hasn’t been a script in this city that wasn’t being revised right up until release day. But… if you’re so unsatisfied with it, I’m sure we could easily slot Bas into another of our many projects. Ever heard of Guardians of the Galaxy? Obscure, but I think it’s got potential. Bas in the lead would be a coup; so far, the only actor in the running is Garret Hedlund. Far from my top choice; necessitating a look further afield. Bas could stop that search right now, if you wanted.”

No denying there was a part of me that wanted to jump at it, but the contract lock-ins would impede most of my other plans. 

Plus, it wasn’t as if I was hurting for stardom or cash. So, unlike Alan flinching at seeing his film suddenly getting derailed, I kept my cool. Wish I could assuage the poor bugger’s fears with a conspiratorial wink; I’d still be doing his movie—just with stipulations. 

Anita and I were always each other’s priority, though. “Sure. How many decades does that obligation last?”

“Just the one.” 

“Uh-huh. Thanks for the offer, but we’ll stick with Thor. Pending a few slight alterations, of course.”

Anita made her argument, but given his hard tone, Feige was brokering none of it. “We don’t do that here. I much prefer it when everyone stays in their lane.”

The immediate rejection didn’t bother Anita. Hiding the real request in the shadow of a larger ask was a classic tactic. “I’m not presuming otherwise. We’ve all got our parts to play, including Bas—my only point is that you should let him do so. Why fork out the big bucks if you’re not gonna let my client deliver to the fullest extent of his capabilities?”

Feige pouched his response with a pursed lip, crossed his arms, and glanced off to the side in consideration. “Hmm, guess that’s reasonable… a little improvisation never hurt no-one. Okay, go ahead, provided you add more abs to your list of ad-libs. Should help us save on the superhero costume department, and you don’t come cheap, Bas.” 

–

Inglewood, LA. January 2012.

The dark world of dealmaking carried on between Anita and Feige afterwards for a couple more hours, dotting i’s, crossing t’s, and circling USDs. 

The revelation that I’d inescapably been cuffed to an acting gig I was apathetic about, at best, encouraged me to blow off steam. More importantly, I also itched to secure a role I actually wanted to play.

“And that’s pretty much how my morning went.” Which is why I had the top down on the convertible as I cruised with George Miller in my passenger seat. 

“Preaching to the choir, fella. Casting’s been a right kick to my wickets, too. Still, Tom Hardy’s ditching is far less painful now that Fury Road’s officially off the bench. Thanks again for that.” George was in town to, once and for all, make good on the promise I’d bled out of WB. 

“Twenty-fifteen hasn’t shifted as the target, yeah? Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.” 

“No. Even though this tussle pushed the schedule behind by months, bloody suits refuse to change the release date. You better be ready for this winter, Bas. I’m gonna make you sweat!” George thumped his fist on my shoulder, then grabbed and squeezed my deltoid. “Try to bulk up a bit too, eh? I need my Max rough and rugged!” 

“Oh, no worries there. I’ll prove just how suited to the part I am.” If my chuckle came out sinister, I’d blame it as prep for Malekith.

“Beauty! I can almost hear the engines rumbling.” Funnily enough, so could I. “Where are we going, by the way?” George’s confusion as surveyed the scenery was valid. Drinks near his Marina del Rey hotel would’ve been easier to find than at the suburban streets we were roving. 

“I dunno. Mate of mine was meant to guide us to a private party I’d been invited over for.” That distant roar of churning pistons George and I’d been hearing boomed closer and closer. “Ah! That’ll be him.”

“What the-!?”

The rear and side-view mirrors became obsolete in a hurry when a dirt-bike popped a wheelie and zoomed straight past us. Bouncing again on both tyres inches away from my bonnet, the bike’s exhaust sputtered noise and fumes with the same anger as its rider’s snarling tattoos. 

We’d been surrounded by a motor parade. Riced out racers, bikes in all shapes, sizes, and CCs. Most dangerous of all, an ATV carrying a passenger sat reversed in the rear seat. 

Everyone else had opaque full helmets, but the man balancing on the back of the crash-mobile wore something suited for a sunny day tottering out on a vespa. With a giant lens pointed and shuttering at us, and a bigger pair of bollocks, Migraine bade his driver to get within licking distance to me. He had to shout despite that, owing to the revving racket. “Keep pace, monsieurs. La fete, the festivities, have already begun! Welcome to the street takeover cum cul-de-sac cookout. Refreshments at the finish line!”

The lead biker in front raised his arm, pointed two fingers ahead, and sped off in another wheelie. The rest of the gasoline cavalry galloped in chase. 

I turned to George. He was pale and trembling, probably worried we’d lost our escort. “Hang tight, George. I won’t let us get left in their dust!”

“Bas, no-! Wo—woah—aaah!” Witness! 

Pedal met metal, horses met power, and George met g-forces. My adrenaline spiked. I could tell my heart was beating a mile a minute, but the world around me had slowed to a crawl. I wove through the treacherous traffic, my suspension working overtime to absorb the hard hits from the sun-cracked asphalt and patchwork of cheaply fixed potholes.

The honks had returned—loads more upbeat than earlier. Their volume and loudness kicked up a notch when I ripped the car sideways in a drift. Perfect time to check on George again. “Keep your eyes on the bloody road!” He was looking better than before. He was a sickly shade of green, had a white-knuckled grip on his safety belt, but his bright smile gave him away—or maybe that was just the wind pressure disfiguring his jowls.

I’d rather he didn’t hyperventilate, so I straightened out the car. Now that neither the tyres nor I were squealing in joy anymore, I dispensed some medical advice. “Crack a window, George. Get yourself some fresh air!”

“We’re in a convertible, you cunt! You’re an absolutely lunatic, d’you know that, Bas!? Stark raving mad!” He laughed uproariously.

His acknowledgment meant I didn’t know whether to do the same, or cry. Oh, what a day! What a lovely day!