A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale #2.75)

Two: The Devil Is in the Details

After wardrobe and makeup are done with me, I report to the set with the usual queasiness as the butterflies in my stomach fly in loopty-loops. This is normal. Right now, I’m outside the safe space, and I’m not the kind of person who asks the crew to treat me as separate and apart from the world at all times. Some actors do, but I exchange smiles with them and we nod greetings. In my eyes, we’re equals, all doing our jobs to make this show happen. I can’t help but crack a smile when I see that they’ve delineated my marks on the floor of the set with pink duct tape. 

“What?” I say. “No glitter?”

“We’ve got pink camo,” says the production assistant, who wears rolls of tape like bangle bracelets. “You want that?”

“But then I won’t be able to see it if it’s camo,” I joke. 

I’m well aware that a lot of crew look down on actors as mindless airheads who have an easy job. The thing about screen acting is that everything is controlled. We actors walk along defined paths, stop on marks on a specific cue, turn on command, and have to stay within a confined space. I think this makes it harder. When you only have control over tiny details, like when and how much to smile, it’s a challenge to stand out in any way.

I imagine a shimmering force field around the set, which is of the living room of my character, Jess. As I step across the imaginary barrier, my survival habits kick in. I’m in my safe space now, where I am in control. As everyone else on set gets ready to film, I shut my eyes. The crew starts the process:

“Rolling.”

“Speed.”

“Marker.”

“Clues, scene fourteen, take one.” Click, goes the marker.

“Set.”

“And…action,” says the director.

I open my eyes. Kevin stands in the front doorway of the set, glaring at me. “It’s Garrett, isn’t it?” I say. I turn on my mark. “They think I need an editor?” 

My delivery is shaky. I’m not all the way in the zone. It’s as if I can feel the gazes of all the producers and network execs even though they aren’t here on set. They’re watching this on the monitors. Forget about them, I tell myself.

“They won’t let you turn in your next book unless I sign off on it,” says Kevin. 

He strides into the room and seats himself on the couch. His body language is all challenge and bravado. It’s like he’s staking out territory. This set may be my character’s home, but he’s the one truly comfortable here.

Which is the character interaction, I remind myself. Forget the set and studio politics. My heart rate speeds up a notch though. These aren’t thoughts I should have while filming a scene. Focus, I order myself. 

“I’ve written five bestsellers—”

“That’s the deal.” He puts his arms behind his head and smiles. “How much have you written on this next book?”

Confidence, I think. Speak the next lines with confidence. 

“Nothing,” I say.

“What do you mean, nothing?” He leans forward, and his gaze is pure murder. 

It’s like he sees right through me. I’m not prepared. I’m just a little girl in way over her head. He’s going to have to work overtime to pick up the slack.

Which is in the story, I remind myself. Still, that force field I imagine around the set is fading. I’m keenly aware that here in this little space, we’re making countless tiny decisions, from how we tilt our heads to when we utter our lines, that determine whether or not the millions invested in us will ever pay back. I know how to keep my face blank and hide my real emotions, but I need to do better than blank. Try as I might, though, the next line comes out defensive.