Billy sighed; the school uniform suited him remarkably well. He watched Cate Blanchett—a blonde still very much in her prime when it came to beauty. As for talent, she surpassed them all, or at least proved it through her method of acting. Everyone in that production were great actors, and they possessed a level of talent that exceeded Billy in every regard; perhaps only his Greek-cut jaw stood out among so many legends.
—Kid, you've got to do the bare minimum; your agent said you can play football—curious for an American, though your Latin blood shows— Scott Rudin remarked. —When you score, just open your shirt a little; your chest, your tattoo—it's a bit distracting, so you'll need to keep it hidden—
—Sure, all good— Billy replied, knowing the film followed a chronological shooting schedule and that he could use that to his advantage later.
The take is quick. As they adjust what he's meant to do or say, nothing particularly interesting happens—everything simply starts rolling, and he just plays football. It's trivial. He's facing a group of boys who seem to be his age. What could be worse? Sheba is the one assigned to patrol the football field, and she seems nervous standing in front of so many people—by sheer coincidence, as always.
The scene unfolds as follows, with narration by Judi Dench, who approaches like the watcher you know in this film as Barbara.
—Scene 6. Take 2.—
Sheba, on duty in the yard, wrapped in a coat, patrols among the children. Barbara lingers nearby.
Artificially disheveled. Her tweed coat is an abomination. It seems to say: "I'm just like you," but clearly she isn't.
Sheba steps in between two boys about to fight.
I suspect she is a magical person. Magical.
Suddenly, a roar from boys playing football. The goal-scorer—a sixteen-year-old—celebrates by pulling off his shirt and waving it with joy. Bare from the waist up, and though his back isn't shown in the shots, Billy's strong figure can be seen. Not quite that of a grown man, but his lean, well-defined muscles give shape to his character.
—Cut—
Billy sighs. After all, he isn't the star. He puts his shirt back on. Today he has seven scenes, and he hopes to do each of them as well as possible—even though they're all set at the school. That's why he likes these art directors; they make audiences go wild. To his surprise, Cate Blanchett is impersonal—her demeanor suggests she might already be focused on another project she's been called to. She has another film in mind. Everyone is giving their all to complete filming in less than a month—irrelevant, really. Maybe it'll take a little longer. But they've already been working ten days straight without rest, because when Billy gets involved in something, Warner invests—and when it does, everything accelerates. Even if they don't make money, they know firsthand he'll repay them later, even if he eventually yields to everything else.
…
—He's not bad at all— Patrick Marber whispered, watching the boy's striking face. He was a true gem—he had the right age, and more provocative scenes wouldn't be a problem. Now they just had to tell him.
—I think we should save our enthusiasm for later occasions, and even if we wanted to deny it outright—the spicier tone might ignite things; at the same time, it could steer the film off course— Richard Eyre whispered, now focused on how to make a bit more money from a film that would be rated for audiences over sixteen anyway. So what he needed to do now was figure out how to fit the character into the moral dilemma at its core.
—I think we could do a few short moments—small touches that push the film toward an edge. There are parts that could be shot with a bit of spice— Patrick Marber whispered, clearly finding a certain kind of excitement in it.
—It seems to me that, no matter how much we try to deny or impose our will over words, the lens will decide what must be done— Richard Eyre replied, now eager to shoot. It felt as though everything was beginning to wrap itself in something compelling.
…
Billy breathed in. He had already done three scenes in which he only acted for two or three minutes, barely even participating—just a passing presence, moving from the background to the foreground before fading into the simplest of exchanges. One that gave him memory—that was it. So, working for so little—one hundred thousand pounds—that was what it cost to maintain his house in London for a year. He would ask Jerry later if he would let him use the trust so everything could fall into place.
—The next scenes will be shot in ten to thirty minutes. Take a break— Chris Menges said to the crew as they went off for lunch. It wasn't a joke to say these people took everything calmly. He figured they had maybe ten to fifteen minutes of usable footage so far—perhaps a bit more. For what they'd done, no less than eleven days, and they still had to shoot another hundred minutes over the next stretch.
Billy nodded. Curiously, Mrs. G had sent him his own packed meal: strips of beef—four hundred grams—and one hundred grams of diced chicken, a bowl of salad, and a generous portion of rice with nuts.
—Mind if I sit here?— a man asked, someone Billy recognized as the director's right hand. Billy simply extended his hand and gestured for him to go ahead, as if he didn't really mind at all. In truth, he wanted the man to speak, remembering the words quid pro quo.
—Sure, go ahead— Billy replied.
—I've noticed for some time now—you have a certain pull on camera— the man said gently.
—Well, thank you— Billy replied.
All that remained was for the man's gaze to confirm it—and for what lay ahead to be an opportunity to continue acting in other films. It seemed the director had a certain flair for his projects, and Billy needed a campaign that would promote him strongly. For them to agree, all he needed was support.
...