Read Unsympathetic Magic Online
Authors: Laura Resnick
Unsympathetic Magic (2 page)
It was also a terrific role. Granted, my mother wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of my appearing on national television as a homeless bisexual junkie prostitute—but my mother is seldom thrilled about anything I do, so I let her oh-so-subtle comments about this job roll off my back. My father had declined to offer an opinion—though whether that was to avoid an argument with me or with my mother, I have no idea.
My parents live in Wisconsin and rarely visit New York—a city which, besides being an international epicenter for my profession, has the advantage of being eight hundred miles away from them.
However, parental dismay notwithstanding, Jilly C-Note (not her real name), was a challenging and satisfying character to play: tough, bold, ignorant but shrewd, impulsive, completely amoral, sometimes cruel, and prone to occasional moments of twisted compassion. The script for the episode was smart, tight, and full of well-crafted surprises. My costume was uncomfortable and a little embarrassing, but this wasn’t the first time I’d worked for long hours in tight clothes that left a lot of my character’s skin exposed (and thinking of my body as belonging to my character rather than to me is one of the ways I get comfortable in the strange array of costumes that I wear in the course of my profession).
This was a terrific job, and I was delighted to have it. Even though I couldn’t stand the regular cast member with whom Jilly had most of her scenes.
After five days on the same set with actor Michael Nolan, who played one of the dirtiest detectives in the Thirtieth Precinct, I’d already fantasized multiple times about stomping on his genitals with one of Jilly C-Note’s high-heeled boots.
Dating actors is an exercise in masochism, which is why I don’t do it. That’s a long-standing personal rule. But I normally like
working
with actors—indeed, I normally like it so much that it’s among the many reasons that I
am
one. Whatever their personal twitches and foibles, many actors, in the practice of their craft, are generous, engaging, and cooperative, and they care about doing what’s best for the overall production.
working
with actors—indeed, I normally like it so much that it’s among the many reasons that I
am
one. Whatever their personal twitches and foibles, many actors, in the practice of their craft, are generous, engaging, and cooperative, and they care about doing what’s best for the overall production.
Michael Nolan, however, was the
other
kind of actor. He was temperamental, narcissistic, rude, and primarily concerned with doing what was best for himself, and the rest of the production be damned. On the other hand, though it galled me to admit it, he was also talented, and the same qualities that made him so difficult to work with actually translated well to his
D30
role as Detective Jimmy Conway, an edgy, tightly wound, morally decayed cop struggling with alcoholism and (since getting shot in the first year’s season finale) post-traumatic stress disorder.
other
kind of actor. He was temperamental, narcissistic, rude, and primarily concerned with doing what was best for himself, and the rest of the production be damned. On the other hand, though it galled me to admit it, he was also talented, and the same qualities that made him so difficult to work with actually translated well to his
D30
role as Detective Jimmy Conway, an edgy, tightly wound, morally decayed cop struggling with alcoholism and (since getting shot in the first year’s season finale) post-traumatic stress disorder.
In this episode, Detective Conway was shaking down Jilly for sex and information in exchange for not arresting her on suspicion of murdering her pimp. The script didn’t reveal whether or not Jilly was actually the killer. Sticking with the dark tone that was typical of the show, the cops of the dirty Thirty didn’t care that a pimp had been murdered; they were just looking for ways to benefit from the killing—such as blackmailing the chief suspect, Jilly, for information about other criminals in the precinct. This might well get Jilly killed, and the cops didn’t particularly care about that, either.
Tonight was my final night of work on the episode, and despite how much I had enjoyed the script, the role, and the rest of the cast and crew, it was a relief to know I wouldn’t have to deal with Michael Nolan again after this.
We were preparing to shoot the most awkward scene in the script—for me, at least. I didn’t know if this scene’s shoot had been scheduled last as a courtesy to me or for other reasons entirely, but I was glad either way.
In this scene, Detective Conway was questioning Jilly about an illegal weapons deal while making her perform oral sex on him. The physical aspects of the scene would stay (just barely) within the boundaries of what could be shown on a commercial cable network, but it was the sort of scene that’s uncomfortable for two actors to perform the very first time they work together. By now, however, my fifth day of shooting, Nolan and I had already done a number of dialogue scenes together, as well as a grimly post-coital scene in a filthy outdoor stairwell. So, although I didn’t like him, I was accustomed to working with him and no longer anxious about kneeling before him with my face in his groin for a couple of hours.
Heigh-ho, the glamorous life of an actress.
To his credit, Nolan was very professional about this sort of thing—as I knew from the thirty minutes (on-and-off) that he’d spent pumping his hips against mine in a dank stairwell the night before. (Scenes that look embarrassingly intimate onscreen are usually technical and choreographed, and so it was in this case.) When the cameras were rolling, what Nolan wanted most was to be admired for his work, and that meant that he focused on doing it well; this, in turn, allowed me to focus on doing my work well, too.
We were shooting in the East 120s tonight. Although that’s in Harlem, like the Thirtieth Precinct, the neighborhood is not actually part of the Three-Oh. In fact, although I’d spent four of my five
D30
working days on location (since the death of her pimp, Jilly was homeless, and most of my scenes were filmed outdoors), we hadn’t gone anywhere near the Thirtieth. I gathered from the crew that this was because the cops of the Thirtieth unanimously hated the show. During its first season, they had tried (unsuccessfully) to prevent
D30
from getting any permits to film on location in their precinct, and there’d been some unpleasant incidents on the few occasions that the show had done location work there. So the producers decided it just best to film elsewhere thereafter. Since then, every episode contained some establishing shots filmed in the Thirtieth (which reputedly galled the real-life cops there), but no actual scenes were filmed in the precinct.
D30
working days on location (since the death of her pimp, Jilly was homeless, and most of my scenes were filmed outdoors), we hadn’t gone anywhere near the Thirtieth. I gathered from the crew that this was because the cops of the Thirtieth unanimously hated the show. During its first season, they had tried (unsuccessfully) to prevent
D30
from getting any permits to film on location in their precinct, and there’d been some unpleasant incidents on the few occasions that the show had done location work there. So the producers decided it just best to film elsewhere thereafter. Since then, every episode contained some establishing shots filmed in the Thirtieth (which reputedly galled the real-life cops there), but no actual scenes were filmed in the precinct.
The night before, we had filmed in another part of town, where the location scouts had found a filthy, urine-scented basement stairwell that they liked. In that scene, a quick bout of impersonal, fully-clothed coitus between Detective Conway and Jilly came to a sudden halt when Conway had a debilitating flashback to being shot the previous season. He then exchanged some confessional dialogue with Jilly in which he came close to treating her like a person. Jilly, slightly mellowed by sharing Conway’s flask of scotch, experienced an unexpected moment of compassion for the corrupt cop who was victimizing her. It was a great scene, and I had really enjoyed doing it despite the humid heat, Jilly’s uncomfortable clothes, the overwhelming odor of urine, and Nolan’s tantrum about the lighting.
Tonight’s scene contained more strong writing. Having opened up to Jilly (ever so slightly) in the previous scene, Conway now resented her for glimpsing his vulnerability. So in this scene, he would make her get on her knees before him in a darkened street; it was an attempt to put her back in her place as a hooker, a junkie, and his stooge. And while forcing her to pleasure him sexually, he would stay focused on asking questions about criminal business—in particular, questions that could get Jilly killed.
The characters’ previous scene had been a personal, even slightly touching encounter, in a grim, dreary setting. In tonight’s scene, by contrast, Conway’s deliberate attempt to demean Jilly would occur in attractive, romantically lighted surroundings. And in the final moments of the scene, Jilly would give as good as she got, humiliating Conway, in turn, with a few well chosen words, now that their previous encounter had given away his weakness.
Last night’s scene had probably been the most challenging one for me and Nolan, since it required us—two actors who didn’t like each other—to find an emotional connection between our characters, however brief and subtle it was. Tonight’s scene, by contrast, was ideally suited to the adversarial energy that existed between us as people (and that seemed to exist between Nolan and
most
people). While waiting for the crew to finish their lighting and sound checks, we were running lines together, and it was going well.
most
people). While waiting for the crew to finish their lighting and sound checks, we were running lines together, and it was going well.
The makeup artist touched up my face while I recited some dialogue about a pending sale of automatic weapons and cop killer bullets that was due to occur somewhere in the precinct. I looked in the mirror that the makeup artist handed me, then nodded to show that I was satisfied if she was. The pale skin, shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes, and good cheekbones were my own. The heavy, smudged eye makeup, the ill-advised lipstick color, and the stringy, unkempt hairdo were Jilly’s.
Then the makeup artist tried to touch up Nolan’s face. With an irritable scowl, he shoved her hand away and finished saying his line. Without glancing at her, he then grabbed the mirror from her and looked into it.
“Christ, I look so
red
,” he said. “What the fuck did you put on me?”
red
,” he said. “What the fuck did you put on me?”
“Actually, I’ve been trying to tone down the red ever since you got on set,” she said patiently. “Your color is really heightened tonight.”
She was right. It was. I realized I had unconsciously assumed they’d rouged him heavily for this scene—maybe to emphasize Conway’s emotional conflict.
“Of course, it’s heightened,” Nolan snapped. “It’s so goddamn
hot
out here tonight.” He said absently to me, “Aren’t you hot?”
hot
out here tonight.” He said absently to me, “Aren’t you hot?”
“Uh-huh.” It was early August, so it had been hot every night of the shoot. These were the dog days of summer.
Nolan dragged his forearm across his forehead, smudging his makeup. I saw that they had indeed powdered him quite a bit tonight in an attempt to tone down his heightened color.
“Jesus, I’m really sweating,” he said. “It’s like a steam bath out here. There’s no damn air.”
Actually, here in East Harlem, we were close enough to the river that a slight breeze was coming down the street to us from the water. And since we weren’t surrounded by the stench of urine tonight, I thought this was a distinct improvement over our previous night’s location.
But Nolan said, “I feel like I’m going to throw up. Have you got something for that?”
The makeup artist signaled to a production assistant, who in turn spoke into her walkie-talkie, asking someone to bring something to “Mr. Nolan” for his nausea. The makeup artist went back to trying to tone down the color of Nolan’s face, but he brushed aside her hand again, irritably insisting that she wait until he felt better.
I sighed and went to find a chair, since standing around in Jilly’s high heels for any length of time made my feet hurt.
As I expected, Nolan’s queasy stomach led to delays while he rejected various remedies offered to him, then threw a tantrum about the crew’s failure to have on hand the exact product he wanted. A production assistant was sent to 125th Street, a few blocks away, in search of an open shop where the correct item could be purchased for poor Mr. Nolan’s aching tummy. I resented the delay—especially after having been through numerous delays this week, always because of Nolan—but I also didn’t particularly want him vomiting while I was kneeling right in front of him. Besides, I was just a guest performer, and an unknown one, at that. So I sat quietly, the perfect picture of patience, and endured the lengthy wait that ensued before Nolan finally felt ready to work.
By then, I was pretty sweaty. The breeze from the Harlem River notwithstanding, it
was
a hot night, and Jilly wasn’t dressed for this weather. (Based on a line in the script about her needing to find someplace to stay before the weather turned cold, I assumed the episode was set in autumn.) I was wearing a low-cut leopard-patterned Lycra top with sleeves that came down to my elbows; an uncomfortably short, tight, red vinyl skirt with a studded belt; purple fishnet stockings; and black high-heeled boots. Completing Jilly’s ensemble was a curly lamb vest. Wearing that vest in this weather was unbearable, so it always stayed on the garment rack until just before I stepped in front of the cameras.
was
a hot night, and Jilly wasn’t dressed for this weather. (Based on a line in the script about her needing to find someplace to stay before the weather turned cold, I assumed the episode was set in autumn.) I was wearing a low-cut leopard-patterned Lycra top with sleeves that came down to my elbows; an uncomfortably short, tight, red vinyl skirt with a studded belt; purple fishnet stockings; and black high-heeled boots. Completing Jilly’s ensemble was a curly lamb vest. Wearing that vest in this weather was unbearable, so it always stayed on the garment rack until just before I stepped in front of the cameras.
Now that Nolan was pacing around in front of the cameras and revving up for the scene, I let the wardrobe mistress slip the pale, furry vest over my arms and onto my shoulders. A few minutes later, Jilly’s immense purse, containing all her worldly goods, was slung over my shoulder. A production assistant stood nearby with some knee pads, which I’d be using later; I would only have to kneel directly on bare cement in the master shots where my legs would be visible.
In the opening portion of the scene, Conway and Jilly would exchange a page of dialogue face- to-face before he’d rough her up and force her to her knees. We had already worked on the blocking for this, and now I joined Nolan in front of the cameras so the crew could verify all our marks. Television and film work tends to involve a lot of technical considerations, such as making sure you’re in focus, in the frame, audible, and correctly lit on every shot, as well as ensuring continuity from take to take of the same scene being filmed from multiple angles.
Finally ready for our first take—a mere ninety minutes behind schedule—Nolan and I now stood face-to-face, waiting for the director to call, “Action!”
I was close enough to see that, under his recently freshened layer of makeup, the actor looked even redder than before. But our lighting for this scene was so shadowy, I supposed it probably wouldn’t matter.
“Action!”
Nolan turned into Conway in a nanosecond. He grabbed me and shook me, his hot breath brushing my face as he demanded I tell him what I knew. I struggled and prevaricated, pretending I knew much less than he supposed, but I didn’t waste any breath trying to appeal to his compassion. My resistance infuriated him. He shoved me away—so hard that my heel caught in a crack on the sidewalk and I staggered sideways before I fell back against the wall. He pursued me, closing in on me. I knew we were off our marks now, as did he, but the scene was working so well that we kept playing it. As he leaned into me, though, I could see that he was even redder now, and sweating again.
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