On the gimballed replica of the tall ship
the director’s face is swallowed by a megaphone.
The cameras, correctly aligned, produce a seamless
waterline between the shooting tank and the Pacific
ocean behind it. Cloudy skies are ideal for this illusion.
Study the dailies, learn his moves. I am the mirror left
after the actor has used the mirrors up. The wide lens.
The scene requires the release of several thousand gallons
of siphoned sea water. Decommissioned jet engines
fill the sails on action. It will run fifteen onscreen seconds.
There’s a delicacy born of dangerous
moments the producers are desperate to capture.
View playback. The lead’s on-deck comportment
is casual, loaded with unrelinquished energies
cocked in slumped shoulders. Languid as a gorilla.
Tenderness confines its gestures to near misses, the use
of violence must always appear a life-saving measure.
Last looks. Final touches. An air horn blows.
The extras are miming. When the rubber sabre
strikes my arm I’ll react like it’s cleaved to bone.
Which has less to do with feeling pain
than understanding timing. Apply glycerine tear.
In the background all the British sailors
are Americans, all the French are Mexicans.
Esta muy contento de estar aquí. Back to the dailies.
They’re about to roll again. Pretend. Be unreal.
Be more real than I have ever imagined.
Now, when I’m alone I often act
as though someone else is watching.
Each take costs fifty grand.