2019 Writing Event Lights & camera

Trombone

All points, no quills, no pillows.
“Cut!” The smack of the clapperboard broke the set’s silence, shocking the stand-ins and surprising some actors severely. Their faces froze up in fierce flabbergastment, foiling their plans to fake fascination. So many of them, yet nobody dared to speak against the director, who, with his silver brows glanced the room thoroughly and devilishly sighed, disappointed.

“What you’re doing here is not acting!” He got up from his beloved chair that warmed his lower end many times. The elder trembled both from anger and old age. He remained hunched over as he, after grabbing his cane, tiptoed his way to Janice: the main actress. Her golden hair, polished by so many cosmetics shimmered in the limelight, taking all the attention from her mediocre face. “Acting is conveying emotion, intellect, and raw spirit! You all sound fake. Nobody will believe you.”

Janice glanced at Jeffrey and Jeffrey at Jordan. They all counted on John’s support, yet received only his turned back; even he was not able to counter the director’s rage. Janice looked like she wanted to say something but was interrupted by a waving finger.

“Oh, I know what you want to say! “But it’s written that way in the script.”. Bleh!” The man with the cane screeched to satirize Janice’s soprano. He fixed his glasses and pointed his stick at John. “And don’t you dare defend her! The script won’t read itself, and even if it tried it won’t convey emotions without you hopeless bunch.”

They all thought the old man has lost his mind.

“You all think I’ve lost my mind, right?!” They didn’t speak; they didn’t even move at that question. “For sixty years I’ve made movies! Why am I forced to work with amateurs after so many years?” Like a crazy person, even with his busted back, he started walking in a circle around the set, others watching dumbfounded. “And yet… I’ve never even come close to a magnum opus.” He took a deep breath and eyed his surroundings: a barely working camera with no automatic focus, made in the 90s, a green screen that at this point couldn’t even be called anything close to green, microphones that laid on the floor devoid of use, and of course, the actors; no passion, no emotion, no zest.

The set itself was in utter disarray. It was supposed to represent a room in a posh manor, where the scene took action. However, due to the lack of money, it turned into a sad parody of itself. The silverware and expensive china were replaced with cheap glass and steel substitutes or even cardboard cutouts. Actors would knock down or damage a piece of furniture many times a day, making it harder and harder to hide the pitifulness of the area. The particularly sorry-looking drawer was brought by the director itself, and its state would make him let out a small sigh every time he passed his eyes over it.

“I…” His words trembled as he revealed a locket hidden behind his necktie. It lustered with a metallic, silvery tint of a polished frying pan. “Used to have a son.” His hands slowly opened the metal piece, revealing a small photo of a young man inside, not older than thirty. Along him stood a picture-perfect replica of the old man, just a bit younger. They both had lush brown hair and smiled, and so did the present, older director. “I gather you all know him. You have to.” He took a stride to every one of the actors, showing them the necklace, albeit a little too close to their faces, almost poking them on the nose with his keepsake. They looked a bit uninterested, which made the man furrow his brows in irritation, yet he continued. “One of the greatest actors ever. Of course, I can be biased. But at the same time, nobody could deny his talent. It always happens to the great ones.” The tapping of the cane stopped. “I cannot bring him back, no matter how hard I claw at his grave. However, art is forever. That much he knew. And through that, he will be remembered.” A tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek. “So please, if not for me, do it for him… Make me remembered.”

The actors stood still, as they always did. They were not human, just human-shaped: mannequins made of wood and plastic with their cold exterior covered with cheap clothes and ruffled wigs. Each and every crew member placed delicately into his position, but stuck in it, unable to move its lifeless body. No words were uttered when the senile man sat down again, wiping off his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. The locked was put away.

“Again, from the top. Action!” The cracking, croaky cry re-echoed the empty hall, and the cycle began anew.​
 
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