Rediscovery

GiaB prompt #13 — Cinema

There once was an actress who didn’t feel like she was really an actress anymore. It wasn’t because she hadn’t appeared in any films recently — on the contrary, her very gleeful agent often told her that her career was thriving. Indeed, she had various roles lined up for the next three years at least.

But she still felt as though the actress within her had disappeared.

There was a restaurant that the actress liked to visit sometimes. It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t expensive, and the only thing you could really order was chicken. But the actress loved it there. She would throw off the sparkling dresses worn for award ceremonies and fling away the high heels she had squeezed her size 7 feet into. She would dress like any other person would, a normal person, and conceal herself in a corner of the restaurant where she could watch the world go by. She was bothered by no one.

A long time after the actress had stopped feeling like an actress, somebody recognised her whilst she was picking at her chicken ’n’ chips. The man who had happened upon her was small and dark-haired, with an impish face. He respectfully introduced himself and told her he was a film producer, currently working on a film that was set in space.

Of course, he said not impolitely, a famous actress like you probably doesn’t have the time to even consider a little indie production like ours.

The actress was offended by his words. She was about to hit back with a haughty reply when she realised there was some truth to the man’s words. Years ago, when nobody knew her name, she had played minor characters in a few low-budget films. Then, she had been discovered by her agent and it had become all about red carpets and special effects costing millions.

She remembered those early days had been some of the best times of her life. The cast and crew had worked well as a group, often going for food together after filming had ended that day, or rehearsing for upcoming scenes, helping each other with the difficult-to-remember lines. She couldn’t remember the last time somebody had helped her with her lines. Or the last time she’d socialised with somebody from the cast or crew when she wasn’t on set.

A new resolve seized the actress and, after convincing the man in front of her that she was in fact interested in being involved in his production, she left the restaurant feeling somewhat revitalised.

When her agent had found out what she’d done, he was furious.

They probably can’t even pay you a quarter of what you got for your last film, he scoffed.

The actress shrugged.

The next day, the man she had met at the chicken restaurant was astounded to see the actress pull up to the filming location in a shining black SUV.

I didn’t think you’d actually come, he said.

The actress smiled.

Filming was already well underway, so the producer was only able to give the actress a small part at such a late stage. It meant she wouldn’t be needed until later in the day, but the actress was happy to walk around the set, watching and trying not to disturb anyone.

What she saw was some kind of veritable magic. Unable — and unwilling — to make use of costly computer graphics, the production crew had made splendid use of clever props, artful lighting, and eerie backdrops. It was also down to the cast, the performers themselves, to bestow the story with the gift of authenticity. It was their talent. Their belief.

Eventually, it was the actress’s turn. She stepped onto the set and caught her breath as she journeyed into the cosmos. She wondered at the celestial beauty that surrounded her, transfixed by twinkling constellations, bewitching nebulae, and the promise of faraway galaxies. Within an arm’s length, she saw the pale, cornflower blue of a lonely planet and she reached forward to brush it with her fingertips.

Her mind expelled all sound from her ears, and there was silence in the vacuum.

Then, she began to act.