Water. Rest—no, not at rest. I’m tired. The boat’s wet and the dock’s bowing, and we’re a million inches from dry land, and I’m teaching the human beings who I work with what it’s like to be at sea. You need to keep your right up. People always forget this. You need to keep your right up. Most people haven’t been deep sea diving, and that’s understandable: it’s hard, and it’s not fun, nor is it particularly rewarding. But, at the same time, it’s incredibly dangerous, which has its own appeal. I wouldn’t want to work in a submarine. I’ve only been on one once (visiting a friend), and it wasn’t fun. Like I said, you need to keep your right up, and I was flat-footed that day. Everything I said pissed off the superior officers and got me in trouble, so I decided to leave. The problem was that we were in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, and I had to go to the bathroom as well. It wasn’t a nice time, as they say (Canadians).
Quentin Tarantino and David Fincher are asking me to walk the plank and perform alongside Brad Pitt and an actress I won’t name because it hasn’t been released yet… although we’re reading from the script on a sound stage in Century City with medium grade catering and absolutely pimp level snacks, I am at sea. Tarantino’s into me and Fincher’s rolling his eyes. He’s already figuring out how to use me as a color in his paint set. I feel like Jake Gyllenhaal. Although Tarantino’s here now, he won’t be on the actual set, as he’ll be busy doing something else that I cannot disclose (movie or book project). Fincher will use me like a potato. I’m upset.
Then again, this is what I signed up for: 100 takes of a wide shot where nothing happens. “I just want to see what kind of options we have.” One option I haven’t told Fincher about yet is shredding his neck with my spur claw, but I’m sure that’ll come up on the first or second day. I’m an abrasive rooster. Challenging Hen—if I were born a girl, this would be my name. But in our world I am Bastard Bennington, one who saddles up and rides away from love, a rooster who sidles up to tempters and debtors in loose association with scum; a far from faint desire to be, or be considered, cool. I’m cool, just making sure you know that. It’s a matter of playing games. Games without frontiers, war without tears—this is a nonsense lyric, although I’m not sure if I’m remembering it correctly.
This is the kind of stuff that goes on in your head as you go through 100 takes of absolutely nothing, waiting for another brutalizing round of technically precise acting, removed (in bird opinion) of any emotion. What am I even supposed to do? “Do it better,” he says. I silently move from the top of the speedboat to the bottom, and I begin to pilot it away, coasting miles away from this insane director who won’t let up with shooting hundreds of takes of nothing just to punish his cast and crew. That’s the dream I had during the second shot of our day. I was R.E.M. cycling when Fincher said I gave my best performance, but I might’ve dreamed that too—in fact, I probably did, because I’ve never seen him compliment an actor, me or anyone else.
But he really is very talented. “We’ll keep going with the boat scene tomorrow.” I let go of the rudder and remember it’s the present. It’s time for breakfast. Dinner. Morning. The extremes: act it out. “Whatever makes it work for me, Ben.” Fincher and I are getting coffee now. The table read is over and I’m getting coffee with the director. This is getting crazy!
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