Flash In The Pan - 11. Blood Sells

“And … Cut!” Jasmine Carter rubbed her eyes. It had been a long day, and they weren't finished yet. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. We'll take a short break to re-dress the set before we go again.”

She peered at the last few minutes of filming being replayed on her screen. It was OK – everyone was going through the motions, hitting their marks, but it lacked that visceral fear, the terror that should grab the audience by the throat.

Her cinematographer leaned over. “What d'you think?”

Jasmine remained staring at the screen. “Visually, great. Those images work for me, Steve.” She turned to look at her colleague. “I particularly like the palette you're using – makes the blood stand out.”

“Blood sells. And gore. Well, anything red really.”

“Yeah … Thanks, Steve. Now to get the cast to earn their fees. You'd be forgiven for thinking they were all out for a walk in the park.”

They looked at each other.

“Good luck with that one. That's your job, thank god.”

Jasmine grimaced as she reached for her ever-present mug of coffee.

Not for the first time, she shook her head. What was she doing, directing a low budget, schlock horror movie? It was hardly going to be her calling card to the Venice Film Festival. It was more likely to wind up on the virtual cutting room floor, with her reputation in tatters.

“Jas, my dear?”

Suppressing an eye roll, Jamine turned to see her male lead holding his hands out. They were dripping with stage blood.

“Yes, Antony?”

“Do I have to stay like this? I'd like to send out a tweet. Oh, and have a drink.”

She contained a sigh. “Yes, you do. It's only a quick break. Make-up'll be along shortly to remedy any deficiencies. Hugh?” A young man looked round. “A drink for Antony, please. With a straw. Thanks.”

And it would be a soft drink. She didn't allow alcohol on the set. They had enough money problems without losing shooting time because the star of the show was drunk. He appeared only partially mollified.

Jasmine tried again. “Antony, darling. I'm sure your fans won't mind waiting a little while longer. We'll run the scene through again and that'll be a wrap.” Hopefully.

He sighed noisily. “So I've got to go through all the business of murdering, butchering, and the rest of it yet again?”

“It's only the last part of the scene we need to do again. The point where you're packing the freshly-hacked limbs into the freezer? From there to the end.”

“Lovely.”

It was never his fault, of course. The camera, the lighting, the rest of the cast, special effects. Her, even. He as the star, should be inspiring the rest of the cast. Not dragging himself from point A to point B, as if every moment spent on the set pained him. When she'd made it to being a movie director, Jasmine had never imagined the role to envelop so many other things. She seemed to spend more time being a diplomat, negotiator, counsellor, massager of egos than she did actually being the director of the shoot.

She leaned back to talk to her cinematographer. “You know a representative of the US production company is coming to view the week's rushes?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I got the email.”

“I needed them to be as good as possible. … Well, as good as they can be given the circumstances.”

“I'm doing my job, and so's my department. We always deliver.”

“Yeah. I know you do. Thanks, Steve.”

So it was back to her. And the actors. Jasmine rubbed her forehead – their main line of credit depended on the verdict.

She turned back to her principal star. He was moodily slurping cola through a bright pink straw.

Some encouragement needed. “That last take was great. Really good. But I think you can do better, Antony. Live it. The violence, the loathing must be real. Palpable. The others on the set have to be genuinely terrified. It's all in the body language.”

She watched as her star slumped down into his chair. He was sulking.

“It's just not me, you know. This role. I can't be a sadistic, murderous thug.”

“Just one more take, Antony. That's all it needs.” Until it started again the following day.

Jasmine ran her fingers through her hair and rotated her neck. It wasn't her fault that the premise of the film was stale. Done to death would be a more accurate description. Now there was a pun. Like her, he needed the fee. Never a recipient of a top billing, her male lead was on his way down. A career heading off into the shadows.

Why had she taken the film on? Desperation. The urge to be doing something. Though, really, she should've given this one a miss. Bad advice from her agent hadn't helped. And why did she spend each day swimming so hard against the tide? To make the least worst movie that she could. All directors had a stinker or two on their CVs – she was too early in her career to have one as big as this heap of shit threatened to be.

“Everything OK over there, darling?”

Jasmine plastered a smile onto her face. “Yes, of course. It's been a long day.”

“You're telling me.” Antony stretched out his arms, inadvertently flicking fake blood over the make-up artist who'd just arrived. “Sorry, darling. You'll need to give me some more now.”

As she touched up his hair and make-up, he started doing his vocal warm-ups. Jasmine snorted. Why? He didn't say a word throught the whole scene. The odd grunt, and that was it. The blood did the talking. And the machete. Old show-off.

She looked at the clock. They would be losing the light soon. “Positions, everyone, thank you.”

A minute later, she checked the set-up. Was he dripping with enough blood? Yes, good. “And … Action!”