Biopic Pre-Production Item

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Biopic Pre-Production Item

The house contains a dizzying blend of decorative styles, with art and furniture pulled from the latest Instagram retro fads. Here an egg chair from the 60’s, there an art deco lamp. The carpet is red velvet, several times thicker than the carpet the diva has walked several times already in her budding acting career.

He finds it charming. It tells him she has not hired a decorator, that she picked the pieces herself. A bit of that small town charm still remains. She is not yet a product—not completely, anyway.

He passes posters for the pop starlet’s first few feature films. Musical, remake, sex comedy. A bit part in a megafranchise.

It’s a promising start to acting after the success of her second album. He’s a fan.

But the balance sheets have been run, and he’s been called. The next movie will be her biggest yet–but she won’t be in it. He loves movies, he hates movies. They’re all the same. Each time you hope you’ll see something new. Each time you’re disappointed. But the hope remains.

Now he’s a part of the problem. A fixer for the studio. He makes sure things go according to plan. Exactly according to plan. He’s the one who makes sure things never change.

The carpet muffles his footsteps as he reaches the door.

She lounges in a Victorian fainting chair, scrolling on her phone. A plate of chips sit on the floor, mostly as a prop, he thinks. But maybe not. Maybe her relatable girl image extends to junk food on breaks between red carpet appearances. The room, gazing out over her swimming pool and garden, reminds him strangely of Scarface.

“Oh, you can go home for the day.”

Then she sees the gun.

“Take whatever you want. Just leave me alone.”

“It’s okay. I work for the studio.”

“Oh. What do you want?” She sits up, wrapping her vintage nightgown around herself.

Reflexively, he feels sorry for seeing her like this. Defenseless. Minimal makeup, half-naked. She doesn’t have her armor on. But that’s why he’s here.

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“The good news is that you’re going to be a bigger star than you ever imagined.”

“What’s the bad news?”

He waggles the gun at her.

“But I’ve done everything they’ve told me, haven’t I? I’ve been good.”

She has. She’s fulfilled every request, bounced from pageant queen to child actor to teen pop sensation, and back to acting. She’s hit every career milestone with ease. But there’s a new scheme.

“I know. And you were good at it, too.” He walks up, grabs one of the chips off the plate.

“Do you mind?”

She shakes her head. Her eyes dart to the double glass doors overlooking the pool and garden. The first attempt is coming soon.

“For what it’s worth, I’m a fan.”

“Oh, great.”

“The thing is, the studio ran the numbers. And they think you’d be great in a biopic.”

“About who?”

“You don’t understand.” He finishes chewing. The plate lies forgotten by the couch.

“You’re the subject.”

“They want to make a movie about me?” She’s flattered.

“Well, here’s the problem. You’re not dead yet.”

She runs to the balcony doors–but he’s there first, snaking his arm around her and depositing her back on the couch, almost gently.

“My manager will hear about this.”

“She knows. She’ll get her percentage.”

She wriggles. He holds her down, gun point-blank.

“I’m gonna give you a choice. Either you can be murdered by a mystery killer, Black Dahlia style. Nothing wrong with that. It just doesn’t test as well.”

Another futile spasm.

“Or, and I hope you’ll like this one better–because it’ll be less painful for you and better for the movie–tragic overdose. A problem nobody knew you had.” It also means a bonus for him, but he leaves that part out.

“I have one question.”

“Anything.”

“Who’s gonna play me?”

“There are a few stars in the running...”

Suddenly, he’s stunned, and no longer sees her on the couch in front of him. China shards and nachos fall around him. At first, he thinks he’s seeing stars. Then he remembers the plate of chips.

He turns sluggishly. She’s gotten the doors open and stands on the balcony.

“Don’t.”

She jumps.

Son of a bitch. This isn’t the ending he had planned. The studio, either.

He advances to the balcony, gun drawn.

She’s twisted her ankle, not quite making the jump to the pool. She hobbles to the edge of her garden. It would be trivial to hunt her down now.

He raises his pistol. A silenced round shivers the leaves by her leg. Another busts the ear off a faux-Renaissance bust by her head.

Maybe he’s slipping. Maybe he pulled his shots.

He itches his head with the silencer, then presses it against his temple. It’s only a matter of time before the police find him, or worse, the studio.

Or maybe...

He’s got enough money saved up. Not for Hollywood. But maybe somewhere quieter. Enough old connections to secure an exit. If she can have a new ending, maybe he can too.

She reaches the hedge by the edge of the property. Looking up, she tries to figure a way to climb, wondering why she let the gardeners grow it so high.

As she thrusts her hands into the tearing thorns and prepares to climb, the second unit steps out from behind a hedge. He can snap her neck easily, like a 10-pound cable crossover.

Black Dahlia it is.

The second fixer will get the bonus as he does it, too–and likely report the first for his incompetence. The fixer raises his pistol once again.

It’s a clean shot. The starlet shudders as brains Jackson Pollock the leaves in front of her.

The second unit falls into the hedge, perfectly domed. Fly high, little birdie, he thinks. For all of us.

She begins to climb.

Samuel Bollen is a writer living in Los Angeles. His work has previously appeared in Grattan Street Press and Running Wild Press.