This week's #fridayflash almost didn't happen. It's pure genre hokum, and I almost gave up on it at the last minute. But maybe it's not completely hopeless. I'm sure you'll read it anyway. If only because of the title.
At Last, The Sex Scene!At last – the sex scene! This was the only reason Simon had taken this stupid part in the first place. It was one of the worst scripts he’d ever read, but the chance of a little bump and grind – even softcore pretend – with Annalisa Beaujolais, that was too good to pass up. Particularly if the rumours were true. While most actors hated taking their clothes off on a freezing soundstage and simulating passion with strips of flesh coloured tape strapped over their modesty and a full crew looking on, picking their noses and scratching their balls, legend had it that Annalisa Beaujolais reacted quite differently. That she became both aroused and frustrated in equal measure, and would often require the scene to re-enacted soon after, in either her trailer or hotel room, without the interference of directors and soundmen. This was exactly why he'd become an actor in the first place - how else would a thick lad from Stockport, even a prettyboy like him, ever get to sleep with someone as gorgeous as Annalisa Beaujolais? This was the best job in the world.
Today Simon was playing Dr. Gregory Chappaquiddick, a criminal profiler brought in by the San Francisco PD to help crack a series of bizarre ritual murders. Paired with tough, no-nonsense homicide detective Kate Connors, the unlikely duo struggled to deny the undeniable magnetism that developed between them and concentrate instead on the case at hand... but passion soon got the better of them. All of which led to the scene they were about to film wherein Det. Kate revealed what policewomen really wore under their plain clothes (nothing plain about it) and Dr. Greg took great pleasure in examining her, in forensic detail.
“So,” said Annalisa with a wink, when she finally emerged from her trailer ten minutes after the call, “you ready for this, Britpop?”
It was her cute little nickname for him. Annalisa Beaujolais had a cute little nickname… for him! Oh, this was going to be so good.
“Right, guys,” said the director, “I don’t think I really need to tell you what to do in this scene.” The truth was, he hadn’t actually told them what to do in any scene thus far. He’d obviously been given clear “don’t forget who the star is” instructions by the studio. Annalisa was calling the shots here. Everyone else just did what they told. Not that Simon had any problem with that.
And so he followed one of Hollywood’s Top Three actresses onto the hotel room set and stood before her in front of a window showing a fake San Francisco skyline. They were actually in a warehouse in Burbank. Where else?
“How do you like it?” Simon said, giving her a look he’d pre-loaded with suggestion.
“Rough,” Annalisa smiled back. “Hard. Nasty.”
“Should I tear?” he asked, tugging her blouse forward to grant himself a brief glimpse of the treats to come.
“Rip. Tear. Bite. Scratch,” she replied, but without the tease. Businesslike. You had to admire that. “The way I see it, these characters... they’re obsessed with their jobs. They don’t do this sort of thing very often. They’re repressed. Pent up. Ready to just… explode. Plus, they’re surrounded by violence in their working lives. That’s got to bleed through into their… I think what we should be going for here is Jack and Jessica in Postman. It’s not full-on Basic Instinct, but... well, you’ve read the script.”
Oh. Yeah, Simon thought. The characters. The script. He knew there was something…
And so the effete director called ‘action’ and Simon did his best to recall the lines that took him where he wanted to be. “I’ve seen too much, Kate… it makes me sick inside… sometimes I just want to feel something… some emotion beyond the horror… the repulsion… I just need to…”
That’s when she kissed him. Just like it said in the script. Hard and clumsy and like a pan of milk boiling over on the stove. The kiss went all the way through him, he shuddered with it, and when he looked into Annalisa's eyes he saw something there, something he’d dreamed about: he saw what she wanted. She was in charge here, not him, certainly not the director, and she didn’t want to wait till later. She wanted to do this now. To create one of those scenes that went down in celluloid history, one of those scenes that got everyone talking. How did they make it look so real? Could it be because they were actually doing it? Like Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie, audiences would be wondering about this scene for years to come, and only the people in this room would ever know for sure. Think what that could do for his career… though it wasn’t his career he was thinking about as he tore off her blouse. And it certainly wasn’t the script. It was just this moment. This moment where one of the most beautiful women in the world was unbuckling his belt. This moment where he was kissing her stunning, only slightly augmented breasts. This moment where the acting stopped and everything became real.
He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was Annalisa's hair on the pillow beside him. He sat up with a start. Had he really fallen asleep - on set? He looked around, expecting to see the crew laughing or giving him the thumbs up, but no one else was there. They’d taken their gear with them too. And the rest of the soundstage. No. No, they hadn’t taken anything… this wasn’t… he wasn't in Burbank anymore. He was somewhere else entirely. An actual hotel room. The fake backdrop of San Francisco through the hotel window: it wasn’t fake. He could see a plane flying over the bridge, a skywriter, and then a pigeon landed on the windowsill and began pecking at the glass.
“Shit!” He jumped out of the bed. “Shit!” he said again, loud enough to wake Annalisa.
“What is it?” she asked, sitting up with the sheet modestly held over her breasts. The way they did in movies. “Are you OK?”
“We’re in San Francisco!” he said, opening the window as far as it’d go and scaring away the pigeon. He could see cars on the bridge and small boats in the bay. Yachts. He could see yachts.
“Where else would we be?” she said, getting out of bed with the sheet still wrapped round her – just like they did in the movies - and coming over to join him at the window.
“I’ve never been to San Francisco in my life!” he shouted. God, what had happened? What had he taken? The last thing he remembered was the shoot. The sex scene. He didn’t even remember leaving the set. Anything they’d done after that… whatever she’d got him to do, take, experience… it was all gone. Damn it, he’d been away on some insane night of debauchery with Annalisa Beaujolais
and he couldn’t remember any of it!
“What are you talking about?” she said, stroking his arm, trying to keep him calm. “You’ve been working here three weeks now. We called you in to help on the Baphomet case – the serial killer – don’t you remember? Greg?”
“Don’t call me…” He stepped away from her and banged his shoulder on the wall-mounted TV. “What is this? Method? I don’t do method, Annalisa. I just turn up and read the lines, then clock off at the end of the shoot. I’m sorry if that’s something you… but can we stop it now? This is freaking me out.”
“Greg, please,” she said, “please try to stay calm.” The worry on her face, he couldn’t deny it, it was a truly great performance. “Just take a deep breath and think. Oh god, I knew something like this would happen. The way you were last night… this case, it's really gotten to you, hasn’t it? And here’s me, taking advantage of that, getting my rocks off while you’re… Oh, Greg, what have I done?”
“Stop calling me Greg!" he screamed, backing away from her again. "I’m not... I'm Simon McQuarrie! I’m just an actor. Like you – OK, not like you, I mean you’re Annalisa Beaujolais, you’re like… like…” He suddenly realised he wasn’t wearing any clothes and grabbed a pair of crumpled pants from the floor, kicking his legs into them while he looked around the room for something, anything to anchor him to the reality he knew.
“I’m Kate, Greg, Kate Connors… We met three weeks ago in the Commissioner’s office, don't you--“
In the back of his pants, Simon could feel the weight of a wallet. His wallet. He grabbed it and pulled it out with a hammy “a-ha!” He was past caring about his reputation as a thespian. “See?” He said, flicking it open and holding it out before her. “Pick a card – pick any card! Check my driver’s license! Check—”
Her eyes said it all. He took back the wallet and saw for himself. Dr. G. W. Chappaquiddick. “Oh come on – come on, what is this? Am I being punk’d or—“
But the expression on her face said not. Annalisa was a pretty good actress… but not
that good. She actually looked a little scared… and then he remembered the script. How after sleeping with him, Det. Kate Connors made a disturbing discovery about her new lover. He couldn’t remember the exact details – in truth, he’d only really skimmed the scenes he wasn’t in – but it was something like an old typewriter in the wardrobe or an ice pick in the bedside table or…
Could the man she’d just slept with also be the killer they were hunting?
Over in the corner, on the dressing table, there was his laptop. Dr. Greg Chappaquiddick’s laptop. Just a prop when he’d seen it on the soundstage, but real enough now. It didn't matter. All this could soon be put to rest by the internet.
“What are you doing?” said Kate – Annalisa – behind him. She sounded scared now. Her character – her character sounded scared.
“I’m gonna prove to you this is all bullshit is what I’m… IMDb doesn’t lie, babe.” He typed in his name and hit return. No exact matches. The database made its suggestions.
(Approx Matches)
Simon Curry.
Simon Carriere.
Christina McQuarrie.
Christopher McQuarrie.
“No. No!” Whoever was doing this, they were taking it way too far. But he could still catch them out. He typed in her name now. Annalisa Beaujolais. His fingers stamping on the keyboard. Return.
(Approx Matches)
Roxy Beaujolais.
Annalisa Chamberlain.
“Greg…” said the woman behind him, “please…”
Fathomsby! he thought. The film that brought him here in the first place. Just a small budget Anglo-French production, Channel 4 Films and Studio Canal, but it was the one that got him noticed by Hollywood. Yeah, they might have somehow taken down a couple of the profile pages, but every film he’d ever appeared him? Would they really expect him to check them all?
The woman was putting on her clothes. She’d dropped the sheet onto the bed. For a moment she was naked, but he didn’t even glance her way.
“There!” he cried, finding the entry he’d been looking for. “Fathomsby! See! You’re not as smart as you…”
Colin Farrell.
The lead actor in Fathomsby was listed as Colin Farrell. Colin bastard Farrell – and according to this, he'd won an Oscar for it too! Simon hadn’t even been bloody nominated! No - this couldn't be happening!
"I'm Simon McQuarrie! I'm not - I'm not some crazed serial killer masquerading as a police... investigator... specialist... thingy. I'm Simon fucking McQuarrie! I played Hamlet at the Vic!"
“Greg… Please… I think you need to come with me now." Along with her clothes, Kate had picked up her gun in its holster. Only it wasn't in its holster any more. It was in her hand. In her hand, and pointing at him. "We can talk about this down the station. We can get you the help you need."
Simon wanted to protest but there was nothing left to say. Because the acting had stopped now, and everything was real.
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is another amusing, provocative collection of Klosterman articles, and as long as I skipped the chapters on sport, I found it damned near unputdownable.
