Stars in Your Eyes(2)
I’d auditioned for the lead in Write Anything. Riley Mason is a great character, but he feels similar to the roles I’ve had before: upbeat, optimistic, the character audiences automatically love. I’m worried about being typecast so early in my career, and I wanted to push myself with Quinn Evans. Quinn is…more complicated. He messes up, hurts himself and others in his own attempts to grow. He’s the sort of character that’s more challenging for an actor. If I’d gotten the role, it would’ve been hard work to stay true to Quinn and the source material. It would’ve been difficult to find glimmers of sympathy for his character while delving into the pits of his self-loathing, all while trying to make him sympathetic to the viewer, too.
I was beside myself to get cast in a movie like this at all. Crying and jumping up and down with my mom and my sister is one of my happiest memories. I have to admit that I was also disappointed to lose the role out to Gray, though I can’t say I’m surprised. Gray’s been typecast as well. He’s the kind of actor who screams drugs and sex in a way I probably never will, no matter how much I try. “He has that edge,” my publicist said.
Gray is among the actors I admire. He’s got raw talent. I’ve studied him. I’ve watched interviews with him, trying to figure out a kernel of his magic. I’m amazed at how easily he scoffs at technique and process. He rolls his eyes at interviewers whenever he’s asked about craft, saying that it’s just a fancy word assholes made up as an excuse to say who is allowed to be nominated for awards and who is not.
And there was the other, more recent interview I’d seen with Gray, too, just two weeks before, right after I was cast. A bolt of anger flashes through me, but I remember what I’d decided: I’ll pretend I never saw the interview at all. That’s what I’ll have to do, if I’m going to be able to work with him.
Dave either doesn’t notice that Logan is fast asleep, or he’s used to this behavior. He invites me to grab a seat, and I sit down awkwardly in between Scott Anders (five-time Oscar award winner, one of the greatest actors of all time, I could watch and rewatch his brilliant performance in Duchess Down a thousand times, and I’m pretty sure I have) and Monica Meyers (nominated for Best Supporting Actress five times, though she has not yet won, clearly a coup, especially for her heart-wrenching performance in The Sky Cries). Scott grins and shakes my hand and says he’s a big fan of my performance in Love Me Dearly. I have to force the inner fanboy to calm down, while Monica purses her lips, probably miffed that I’m late.
Copies of the script with each actor’s name on the covers have already been passed around. This is technically the second table read, but since I was brought on so late in the process, it’s my first. Writers and assistants and a ton of other people sit in chairs along the wall of the conference room with copies of the script, pens ready and laptops open. More people to perform for.
Dave sits at the head of the table and adjusts his ball cap. “Someone wake up Sleeping Beauty,” he says, opening his script.
Samantha rushes forward. She clears her throat and taps Gray’s shoulder. He doesn’t stir. She tries again. “Mr. Gray…?”
He grunts something, sits up—looks around the room like he’s forgotten where he is, and maybe he has.
Dave opens his script. “Gray, if you don’t mind removing your sunglasses so that we can see those beautiful brown eyes of yours.”
Gray doesn’t move for one long second as he stares at Dave silently. I shift uncomfortably. Heat begins to radiate in the room. Dave, again, doesn’t seem to notice as he licks a finger and turns the page of the script, but it’s clear to everyone that we won’t begin until Gray does what he was asked.
Logan removes the shades. There are a few (okay, maybe a little melodramatic, we are actors after all) gasps around the room. I swallow thickly. A purple bruise flourishes over Gray’s swollen right eye.
Dave glances up. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
“Same old shit, right?” Gray says, voice hoarse.
“This isn’t a joke. God, fucking…” He twists in his seat to look at an assistant. “There isn’t any footage in the tabloids, is there?”
*
Video begins:
A crowd in a nightclub has formed. Streaks of light blur across the screen, but Logan Gray’s face is clear for one moment. Another man shouts unintelligibly. Derogatory slurs based on sexual identity are used. He is notably much larger than Logan. Logan only smiles, before he spits in the stranger’s face. There are gasps, the camera shakes. There is the distinct sound of a fist impacting skin.
Video ends.
*
From the awkward glances, it’s clear that there is footage in the tabloids. I haven’t seen it myself because I try to stay away from papers and gossip sites. That’s a one-way ticket into a weekend of self-pity and depression. Even the word tabloids makes certain phrases echo in my mind: “wannabe Tom Holland,” “Leonardo DiCaprio in his prime if Leo wasn’t as talented or cute.” Ouch.
Dave rubs his temples. “Damn it. Sam, set up a meeting with me and Logan’s manager. What’s her name again? Louise?”
“Audrey.”
“Let’s see if we can stop this man-child from ruining the film before it’s even begun.” Sam nods and excuses herself.