T.R. Lansing (darkertides) wrote in horror_story, @ 2013-07-18 14:30:00 |
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"Can I get quiet on the set, please?" Rob barked, unwilling to acknowledge that most of the sound distortion was being caused by the ocean's waves. He probably shouldn't have given in to his brother's insistence that they film on location, but Stephen was the visionary. Rob's job was to keep things on schedule, make sure the equipment functioned, iron out details... he honestly preferred not not to have to step into the director's role, but this certainly wasn't the first time he'd been forced to. Stephen was the visionary, but Stephen was also prone to wandering off to play "talent scout," regardless of what their production schedule looked like.
Their directing styles were very different. Stephen was better at communicating with the actors, when he was around, but Rob had a keener eye for details. His mind was always towards the finished product, more interested in the equipment than the people on set, but there was something to be said for his meticulous nature. Nothing slipped past him, and he'd insist on as many takes as was necessary to get things just right. That made him notoriously difficult to work with, but few could find fault with the result. Not that they ever won awards. There was art to be found in the way he'd frame a shot, or put together a set... but it tended to be overshadowed by trite storylines and predictable formatting.
No matter how much pride the York brothers took in their work, they still had to subscribe to a formula, or it simply wouldn't sell. Still, Rob peered into his screen with the same intensity that might be used towards something that could potentially warrant a red carpet premiere. Working with real a-list actors, instead of the likes of Marcus Caravahlo, who was walking along the surf towards the camera, the sun catching in brilliant sparkles off caramel-colored skin. Rob frowned, and looked up to see if the effect was just sunlight playing off water droplets in a strange way.
It wasn't. The man was sparkling. Rob sighed, audibly, before raising his voice in annoyance. "Cut! Why is there glitter on the actor? Who did your makeup, Caravahlo? The script calls for baby oil or glycerin... not glitter. This isn't a club scene!" Honestly, just because it was an adult film didn't mean everything had to be as pornographic as possible.
"It's from her fucking tail," Marcus yelled back, gesturing at the mermaid he was carrying over his shoulder with his free hand. The actress wasn't wearing much other than the tail, truth be told, but the tail was definitely the culprit; shedding diamond dust glitter all over her scene partner's oiled chest. The look of shimmering scales was actually quite ethereal and lovely. Props and design had really outdone themselves with the overall look of the mermaid... but practically speaking, the glitter had been a terrible idea. "Dunno what to tell you, cabrĂ³n. Shit don't come off easy."
Rob scowled, considering his options. This was turning out to be just like the head-to-toe body paint fiasco back in February. All well and good to make the girl a literal wood nymph, at least until the paint had to be constantly reapplied, and left her partner stained several shades of oak. That's it. No more fantasy pieces, Rob decided. No matter what Stephen pitches, I'm putting my foot down. The next movie will be set in a library, with librarians, and that's final. He didn't know why his brother was so invested in fantastical scenes, anyway. Wood nymphs, centaurs, mermaids... Stephen York clearly had a fairy tale fetish. He'd argue against all of Rob's suggestions, claiming that classrooms, libraries, and bedrooms were either unsexy or overdone, but then they'd be out in the woods battling mosquitoes, or on some godforsaken beach with the sand gnats. Rob failed to see the sexiness in a location that was infested with pests. This one even smelled like fetid kelp. It was a wonder the actors could even feign romantic interest.
"Can we get another layer of clearcoat on the tail?" Rob asked a member of the production crew, ignoring his actors entirely. "Before we lose the light..."
The girl over his shoulder was light enough, but the costume added a solid twenty pounds of weight, and Marcus wasn't sure how long he was going to be expected to keep holding her. Who gave a shit if there was some glitter on his chest, anyway? Nobody would fucking notice. It was softcore trash, meant to be aired on the wee hours of the morning on Cinemax. All anyone would care about would be the tits on the actress and that their angles looked convincing. Marcus was fairly certain this particular skin flick was aimed towards women, given the subject matter (seriously, what guy was into chicks who were all mouth and no pussy?), so his body probably wouldn't go ignored... but he still doubted anyone would care one way or another. Realizing that he hadn't actually looked at his scene partner's face in a while, he decided to ask, "Want me to put you down, chica? Knowing York, this might take some fucking time to sort out."
It was about then that a scream shot out from down the beach, carried by the breeze. It didn't sound like the playful squeal of a beach bunny whose boyfriend had decided to drench her top with ice cold beer, but rather the bloodcurdling shriek of a woman in true distress. A ragged scream, the kind that tore out of the throat and valued volume over tonal integrity. A scream that forced attention to itself, causing heads to snap in its direction. A scream that paused only to gulp down enough air to continue itself... pain, perpetuated, slaughtering the other ambient sounds around it, the waves and the wind and the gulls... at least until it was abruptly choked off. Then the ocean sounds rushed in to reestablish themselves.