girl in the hat

(photo by ::fotorosso:: on flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/fotorosso/)

“My first impression is that you’re just too damn tan for the role.” Lang Westwood has her foot propped rudely up on the desk in front of her. It’s a real handmade boot made of stiff leather with dirt in the cracks and a well-worn sole. She displays it now for the popular young celebrity/actress as a sign.

But the girl doesn’t seem to mind. She answers, “You’re right. We’re done shooting my current project next week so I’ll be able to lose the tan by April.”

“Can you speak nineteenth century southern belle?”

“With some help.”

“Have you had plastic surgery?”

“What do you think?”

“What do I think, indeed.” Lang leans back in her chair.

In the journal Lang kept in grade school, she kept a list of things she found visually and spiritually interesting: deserts, wind patterns in sand, Bedouins, gypsies, flocks of birds, crows, nests, abandoned houses, ghettos, ghettos’ ghettoes, industrial waste, old churches, architecture, Gaudi, the faces of blind people, Beethoven , Miles Davis, dissonance, disease, scars, poor dental hygiene, defects, asymmetry, inconsistency, postmodernism, Pre 1950, black and white, old people, minimalism. If she were to add to that list today she would certainly include children, but not perfect children.

And she also wouldn’t include actors who aren’t actors. Even though the young woman sitting in front of her isn’t wearing makeup and looks more substantial than Lang had anticipated, the girl is completely wrong for this part. This is a part for a woman, after all, not a newborn fashion trend, and where is the challenge in making beautiful things beautiful? Lang twitches in her boots and rakes her fingers through her hair.

Because the producer likes her. Even though Lang Westwood is an authentic, autonomous, award-winning director who only uses unknown actors in untold stories in unfamiliar locations, but Jake the producer likes Mae Beacon. Of course he does. Just look at her. Even though Lang’s latest films have won all the awards the box office numbers fail to impress and she knows that if she wants a long, serious and well-funded career, her next project has to net at least $30 million domestically, maybe $50M. The only way to make that kind of money without compromising herself is to make a concession on either the story or the talent. Jake, who knows how to make films that make money, is set on Mae Beacon.

Lang’s stomach feels sour and hollow. This morning she fixed oatmeal for her daughter Eleanor, but she had only coffee herself. She had been too irritable to eat. As Eleanor spooned honey, she had looked up and said, “I’ve got just one question.”

“What’s that?”

“If you don’t like her then why are you going to hire her? I mean, what happened to all your staunch faithful philosophical opposition to compromising your artistic integrity?”

Lang had to laugh. Coming from a twelve year old, these words were absurd. “It’s complicated. Some day you’ll understand.”

“It’s about money, isn’t it?”

“I can’t hide anything from you, can I?” Eleanor stirred her oatmeal, waiting. “No, it’s not just the money. I don’t want the stinking money. I just want the freedom that money can give. Freedom isn’t free, you know. In fact, it can be quite expensive.”

“That’s a cliché.”

“You’re right, Elle.”

“Can’t you make money and make art, too?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you can. I hope you can.”

Through a mouthful of oatmeal Eleanor said, “When I grow up, I’m going to be stinking rich. I’ll give you all the money you need.”

That’s exactly the kind of thing Lang would have said at that age. When Lang was eleven, she and her four younger siblings moved closer to Sydney where her mother found work in a shoe factory on the edge of town. Lang’s father Vincent, a Koorie aboriginal, had recently left them and although her mother was white and fairly well educated, she had no work history and that was the only job she could find. When Lang discovered her mother all alone at the kitchen table one night crying into a plate of cold potatoes, Lang chucked her arm around her mother’s shoulders and solemnly promised to take care of Magali, who was still too young for school.

On the hottest days, while the other kids were all at primary school, Lang and Magali would walk or hitch a ride if they could to the nearest movie theater where they’d sneak in and hide in the balcony. The theater manager knew they were there but didn’t seem to mind, as long as they stayed out of sight and kept the theater tidy. 1966 was an excellent year for movies: They’re a Weird Mob, Born Free, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, Farenheit 451, The Group, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf , The Endless Summer. They’d watch all day, eating leftover popcorn and the crusts of meat pies or any other greasy bits they could find in paper bags left on the seats.

Lang told her mother she’d help and she did; Elle takes after Lang in that respect. But this actress doesn’t look like she’s ever helped anyone but herself.

Lang swings her foot to the floor and sits up in her chair. She tells Mae, “I must admit that I’ve seen your work, of course. You have panache but you’re not really my type.”

Mae doesn’t blink. “I know.”

Lang has to admire that Mae doesn’t seem to care if she’s liked. Or at least she knows how to act like it doesn’t matter. In Lang’s experience, real actors can’t care if you like them or not, and it’s the first indication that Mae might work out.

“I am going to be frank and tell you that if I had my way, you would not be here at all.”

“I know.”

“Well at least we understand each other. So we might as well run the pages. You ready?”

Lang calls everyone back in and Mae shakes hands with Ken the producer and an actor named Toby who might play the husband. Lang prepares the camera and describes the scene: “Please excuse this script. It will be rewritten. We start at the mansion in New Orleans. Remember that Edna has just returned from a long vacation during which she became aware of her discontent and her hunger for something more from life. In this scene, she is faced with reality. For those of you who don’t know” —she’s speaking to Mae, of course—“women were expected to sit in the house at least one day a week to make small-talk with visitors as a way of securing their family’s position in society. It was a tedious tradition. Today was Edna’s day.” The assistant sets up a table and chairs. Lang notes with interest that the actress looks flushed and seems to be having some trouble breathing. “Let’s start from the top. Nora, will you set us up?”

The assistant reads:

INT. ESPLANADE HOUSE- DINING ROOM- EVENING.

A rich, opulent room with high ceilings and large windows that let in the light of the sun setting on the garden. EDNA is seated at one end of a long mahogany dining table wearing a frothy tea dress. She sits straight-backed in her chair, unaccustomed to the formality of the city. LEONCE is at the opposite end of the table, wearing a dark suit. A maid is just finishing the task of lighting the sterling candelabras.

Toby starts. He puts his heart into it. He’s hoping to get the role:

LEONCE
Tired out, Edna? Did you have many visitors today?

EDNA
(cheery)
Yes, there were many… I found their cards when I got home.
(He looks up. She avoids his stare.)
I was out.

LEONCE
(flabbergasted)
Out! Why out? What did you have to do?

EDNA
(defiantly cheery)
Nothing. I simply felt like going out, and I went out.

Lang knows that until its end, this scene is really for the Leonce character and this is why she chose it, half hoping that Ken would change his mind about this actress when he saw her stumble. Toby gets to wag his finger and shake his fist and throw the calling cards while Mae must just sit there, emoting subtly. Lang doubts this actress will know what to do with herself during Toby’s long rant about reputation. This scene is guaranteed to turn an immature actress into a surly, pouting child and Lang watches closely, ready to add to her own mental list of the actress’s shortcomings.

But the girl is anything but inert. She sits there, corset-stiff, pushing the food across her plate with such forbearance, pressing a Kleenex to her lips to tamp a frown, and casting such spirited yet restrained looks up at Toby that soon, the director cannot take her eyes away. At one point, the girl even bites her napkin and manages to make the gesture authentic. She makes the plastic fork look like sterling silver and she makes Toby look like a histrionic fool.

LEONCE
(scandalized)
I am going to get my dinner at the club. Good night.
(He bows condescendingly and leaves the room.)

After the door slams, Lang clears her throat to speak but Mae is clearly still in character. She pushes her plate away and stands up to pace the room. Lang notices how the other people in the room dissolve into the shadows. Mae plays the scene like a maestro—first the ripping of the handkerchief, then the water bottle flung down, then the spastic wringing of the hands until the ring is finally tossed. At this point she is standing at the window right in front of Lang. She looks off into the distance and then down at herself and her tension breaks into a smile—the dawning perception of absurdity opens the face and the mouth simultaneously to reveal oddly prominent incisors, and she throws back her head and laughs.

Ken and the assistant applaud enthusiastically. Following Toby and the assistant out the door, Ken shoots Lang a loaded look.

Lang motions for Mae to sit down. “So. You’ve really prepared for this role, haven’t you?”

She smiles. “If I don’t take myself seriously, who will?”

“Indeed.” Lang takes a longer look at the pretty face, hair hanging loose, a cameo suspended at the base of the throat on a leather braid, faded jeans and the plain white t shirt which Lang had assumed was the young actress’s attempt to appear gender-neutral, if not lesbian-friendly, but now seems far more cunning, indeed. This kid is full of surprises, thinks Lang. Like an exploding cake. “Did you meet with the writer?”

“Yes. She’s very smart. I think we’ll work well together.”

Lang massages her scalp. “Tell me. How do you envision this film? Is it a romance or a drama or…?”

Mae looks up at the ceiling. “Well, it’s not like the fairy tale stories you usually see. It’s real. Girls should be seeing movies like this to prepare them for reality instead of fairy tales like Snow White or Sleeping Beauty. This is a real story about a real woman. I think I remember that you have a daughter?”

“Yes. She’s twelve and outgrew fairy tales long ago. But tell me, what do you make of the ending? Is it happy or sad?”

“Well, how do I say it?” The actress speaks haltingly, with childlike hesitations, as though she were unused to speaking without a prompter. “Edna is on her way to becoming a new kind of woman. But then she discovers that women can’t be free? So she has to choose between fitting into society or death. Or between slavery and art? So she kills herself.” Mae searches Lang’s face for a reaction, then leans forward across Lang’s desk to add, “Some might think she’s better off dead but only a Victorian or a prude could think that was a happy ending.”

And when Lang laughs, Mae smiles that smile again, as big and true as a child’s.

Question: I still worry that these characters might not be sympathetic enough. What do you think? Do you like any of these characters? Do you need to like them?