"Howard Waldrop - Occam's Ducks" - читать интересную книгу автора (Waldrop Howard)

It was easy to see Slavo wasn’t getting whatever it was that was keeping him
going.
The first morning of filming was a nightmare. Slavo was irritable. They shot
sequentially for the most part (with a couple of major scenes held back for the next
day). All the takes with the extras at the carnival were done early that morning, and
some of them let go, with enough remaining to cover the inserts with the principals.
The set itself was disorienting. The painted shadows and reflections were so
convincing Mantan found himself. squinting when moving away from a painted wall
because he expected bright light to be in his eyes there. There was no real light on
the set except that which came in from the old overhead glass roof of the studio, and
a few arc lights used for fill.
The walls were painted at odd angles; the merry-go-round was only 2 feet tall,
with people standing around it. The Ferris wheel was an ellipsoid of neon, with one
car with people (two Negro midgets) in it, the others diminishingly smaller, then
larger around the circumference. The tents looked like something out of a Jamaica
ginger extract-addict’s nightmare.
Then they filmed the scene of Dr. Killpatient at his sideshow, opening his giant
medicine cabinet. The front was a mirror, like in a hotel bathroom. There was a
crowd of extras standing in front of it, but what was reflected was a distant,
windswept mountain (and in Alabama, too). Mantan watched them do the scene. As
the cabinet opened, the mountain disappeared; the image revealed was of Mantan,
Pauline, Lorenzo, and the extras.
“How’d you do that, Mr. Slavo?” asked one of the extras.
“Fort Lee magic,” said Meister from his position on the catwalk above.
At last the morning was over. As they broke for lunch they heard loud voices
coming from Meister’s office. They all went to the drugstore across the street.
“I hear it’s snow,” said Arkady.
“Jake.”
“Morphine.”
“He’s kicking the gong around,” said another extra.
One guy who had read a lot of books said, “He’s got a surfeit of the twentieth
century.”
“Whatever, this film’s gonna scare the bejeezus out of Georgia, funny or not.”
Mantan said nothing. He chewed at his sandwich slowly and drank his cup of
coffee, looking out the window toward the cold facade of the studio. It looked just
like any other warehouse building.
Slavo was a different man when they returned. He moved very slowly, taking
his time setting things up.
“Okay . . . let’s . . . do this right. And all the extras can go home early.
Lafayette,” he said to the black giant, who was putting in his Ping-Pong ball eyes,
“Carry ... Pauline across to left. Out of sight around the pyramid. Then, extras.
Come on, jump around a lot. Shake your torches. Then off left. Simple. Easy.
Places. Camera. Action! That’s right, that’s right. Keep moving, Lafe, slow but
steady. Kick some more, Pauline. Good. Now. Show some disgust, people. You’re
indignant. He’s got your choir soloist from the A.M.E. church. That’s it. Take--”
“Stop it! Stop the camera thing. Cut!” yelled Meister from the catwalk.
“What?!” yelled Slavo.
“You there! You!” yelled Meister. “Are you blind?”
An extra wearing sunglasses pointed to himself. “Me?”
“If you ain’t blind, what’re you doing with sunglasses on? It’s night!”